Villette
were well borne. More than once, too, they had to look on Him whose
face flesh scarce can see and live: they had to pay their tribute to
the King of Terrors. In the fulness of years, M. de Bassompierre was
taken: in ripe old age departed Louisa Bretton. Once even there rose a
cry in their halls, of Rachel weeping for her children; but others
sprang healthy and blooming to replace the lost: Dr. Bretton saw
himself live again in a son who inherited his looks and his
disposition; he had stately daughters, too, like himself: these
children he reared with a suave, yet a firm hand; they grew up
according to inheritance and nurture.
In short, I do but speak the truth when I say that these two lives of
Graham and Paulina were blessed, like that of Jacob’s favoured son,
with “blessings of Heaven above, blessings of the deep that lies
under.” It was so, for God saw that it was good.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
CLOUD.
But it is not so for all. What then? His will be done, as done it
surely will be, whether we humble ourselves to resignation or not. The
impulse of creation forwards it; the strength of powers, seen and
unseen, has its fulfilment in charge. Proof of a life to come must be
given. In fire and in blood, if needful, must that proof be written. In
fire and in blood do we trace the record throughout nature. In fire and
in blood does it cross our own experience. Sufferer, faint not through
terror of this burning evidence. Tired wayfarer, gird up thy loins;
look upward, march onward. Pilgrims and brother mourners, join in
friendly company. Dark through the wilderness of this world stretches
the way for most of us: equal and steady be our tread; be our cross our
banner. For staff we have His promise, whose “word is tried, whose way
perfect:” for present hope His providence, “who gives the shield of
salvation, whose gentleness makes great;” for final home His bosom, who
“dwells in the height of Heaven;” for crowning prize a glory, exceeding
and eternal. Let us so run that we may obtain: let us endure hardness
as good soldiers; let us finish our course, and keep the faith, reliant
in the issue to come off more than conquerors: “Art thou not from
everlasting mine Holy One? WE SHALL NOT DIE!”
On a Thursday morning we were all assembled in classe, waiting for the
lesson of literature. The hour was come; we expected the master.
The pupils of the first classe sat very still; the cleanly-written
compositions prepared since the last lesson lay ready before them,
neatly tied with ribbon, waiting to be gathered by the hand of the
Professor as he made his rapid round of the desks. The month was July,
the morning fine, the glass-door stood ajar, through it played a fresh
breeze, and plants, growing at the lintel, waved, bent, looked in,
seeming to whisper tidings.
M. Emanuel was not always quite punctual; we scarcely wondered at his
being a little late, but we wondered when the door at last opened and,
instead of him with his swiftness and his fire, there came quietly upon
us the cautious Madame Beck.
She approached M. Paul’s desk; she stood before it; she drew round her
the light shawl covering her shoulders; beginning to speak in low, yet
firm tones, and with a fixed gaze, she said, “This morning there will
be no lesson of literature.”
The second paragraph of her address followed, after about two minutes’
pause.
“It is probable the lessons will be suspended for a week. I shall
require at least that space of time to find an efficient substitute for
M. Emanuel. Meanwhile, it shall be our study to fill the blanks
usefully.
“Your Professor, ladies,” she went on, “intends, if possible, duly to
take leave of you. At the present moment he has not leisure for that
ceremony. He is preparing for a long voyage. A very sudden and urgent
summons of duty calls him to a great distance. He has decided to leave
Europe for an indefinite time. Perhaps he may tell you more himself.
Ladies, instead of the usual lesson with M. Emanuel, you will, this
morning, read English with Mademoiselle Lucy.”
She bent her head courteously, drew closer the folds of her shawl, and
passed from the classe.
A great silence fell: then a murmur went round the room: I believe some
pupils wept.
Some time elapsed. The noise, the whispering, the occasional sobbing
increased. I became conscious of a relaxation of discipline, a sort of
growing disorder, as if my girls felt that vigilance was withdrawn, and
that surveillance had virtually left the classe. Habit and the sense of
duty enabled me to rally quickly, to rise in my usual way, to speak in
my usual tone, to enjoin, and finally to establish quiet. I made the
English reading long and close. I kept them at it the whole morning. I
remember feeling a sentiment of impatience towards the pupils who
sobbed. Indeed, their emotion was not of much value: it was only an
hysteric agitation. I told them so unsparingly. I half ridiculed them.
I was severe. The truth was, I could not do with their tears, or that
gasping sound; I could not bear it. A rather weak-minded, low-spirited
pupil kept it up when the others had done; relentless necessity obliged
and assisted me so to accost her, that she dared not carry on the
demonstration, that she was forced to conquer the convulsion.
That girl would have had a right to hate me, except that, when school
was over and her companions departing, I ordered her to stay, and when
they were gone, I did what I had never done to one among them
before—pressed her to my heart and kissed her cheek. But, this impulse
yielded to, I speedily put her out of the classe, for, upon that
poignant strain, she wept more bitterly than ever.
I filled with occupation every minute of that day, and should have
liked to sit up all night if I might have kept a candle burning; the
night, however, proved a bad time, and left bad effects, preparing me
ill for the next day’s ordeal of insufferable gossip. Of course this
news fell under general discussion. Some little reserve had accompanied
the first surprise: that soon wore off; every mouth opened; every
tongue wagged; teachers, pupils, the very servants, mouthed the name of
“Emanuel.” He, whose connection with the school was contemporary with
its commencement, thus suddenly to withdraw! All felt it strange.
They talked so much, so long, so often, that, out of the very multitude
of their words and rumours, grew at last some intelligence. About the
third day I heard it said that he was to sail in a week; then—that he
was bound for the West Indies. I looked at Madame Beck’s face, and into
her eyes, for disproof or confirmation of this report; I perused her
all over for information, but no part of her disclosed more than what
was unperturbed and commonplace.
“This secession was an immense loss to her,” she alleged. “She did not
know how she should fill up the vacancy. She was so used to her
kinsman, he had become her right hand; what should she do without him?
She had opposed the step, but M. Paul had convinced her it was his
duty.”
She said all this in public, in classe, at the dinner-table, speaking
audibly to Zélie St. Pierre.
“Why was it his duty?” I could have asked her that. I had impulses to
take hold of her suddenly, as she calmly passed me in classe, to
stretch out my hand and grasp her fast, and say, “Stop. Let us hear the
conclusion of the whole matter. _Why_ is it his duty to go into
banishment?” But Madame always addressed some other teacher, and never
looked at me, never seemed conscious I could have a care in the
question.
The week wore on. Nothing more was said about M. Emanuel coming to bid
us good-by; and none seemed anxious for his coming; none questioned
whether or not he would come; none betrayed torment lest he should
depart silent and unseen; incessantly did they talk, and never, in all
their talk, touched on this vital point. As to Madame, she of course
could see him, and say to him as much as she pleased. What should _she_
care whether or not he appeared in the schoolroom?
The week consumed. We were told that he was going on such a day, that
his destination was “Basseterre in Guadaloupe:” the business which
called him abroad related to a friend’s interests, not his own: I
thought as much.
“Basseterre in Guadaloupe.” I had little sleep about this time, but
whenever I _did_ slumber, it followed infallibly that I was quickly
roused with a start, while the words “Basseterre,” “Guadaloupe,” seemed
pronounced over my pillow, or ran athwart the darkness round and before
me, in zigzag characters of red or violet light.
For what I felt there was no help, and how could I help feeling? M.
Emanuel had been very kind to me of late days; he had been growing
hourly better and kinder. It was now a month since we had settled the
theological difference, and in all that time there had been no quarrel.
Nor had our peace been the cold daughter of divorce; we had not lived
aloof; he had come oftener, he had talked with me more than before; he
had spent hours with me, with temper soothed, with eye content, with
manner home-like and mild. Kind subjects of conversation had grown
between us; he had inquired into my plans of life, and I had
communicated them; the school project pleased him; he made me repeat it
more than once, though he called it an Alnaschar dream. The jar was
over; the mutual understanding was settling and fixing; feelings of
union and hope made themselves profoundly felt in the heart; affection
and deep esteem and dawning trust had each fastened its bond.
What quiet lessons I had about this time! No more taunts on my
“intellect,” no more menaces of grating public shows! How sweetly, for
the jealous gibe, and the more jealous, half-passionate eulogy, were
substituted a mute, indulgent help, a fond guidance, and a tender
forbearance which forgave but never praised. There were times when he
would sit for many minutes and not speak at all; and when dusk or duty
brought separation, he would leave with words like these, “Il est doux,
le repos! Il est précieux le calme bonheur!”
One evening, not ten short days since, he joined me whilst walking in
my alley. He took my hand. I looked up in his face. I thought he meant
to arrest my attention.
“Bonne petite amie!” said he, softly; “douce consolatrice!” But through
his touch, and with his words, a new feeling and a strange thought
found a course. Could it be that he was becoming more than friend or
brother? Did his look speak a kindness beyond fraternity or amity?
His eloquent look had more to say, his hand drew me forward, his
interpreting lips stirred. No. Not now. Here into the twilight alley
broke an interruption: it came dual and ominous: we faced two bodeful
forms—a woman’s and a priest’s—Madame Beck and Père Silas.
The aspect of the latter I shall never forget. On the first impulse it
expressed a Jean-Jacques sensibility, stirred by the signs of affection
just surprised; then, immediately, darkened over it the jaundice of
ecclesiastical jealousy. He spoke to _me_ with unction. He looked on
his pupil with sternness. As to Madame Beck, she, of course, saw
nothing—nothing; though her kinsman retained in her presence the hand
of the heretic foreigner, not suffering withdrawal, but clasping it
close and fast.
Following these incidents, that sudden announcement of departure had
struck me at first as incredible. Indeed, it was only frequent
repetition, and the credence of the hundred and fifty minds round me,
which forced on me its full acceptance. As to that week of suspense,
with its blank, yet burning days, which brought from him no word of
explanation—I remember, but I cannot describe its passage.
The last day broke. Now would he visit us. Now he would come and speak
his farewell, or he would vanish mute, and be seen by us nevermore.