Villette (49 page)

‘And is that a Scotch reel you are dancing, you Highland fairy?’ asked her father. ‘Mrs. Bretton, there will be a green ring growing up in the middle of your kitchen shortly. I would not answer for her being quite cannie: she is a strange little mortal.’

‘Tell Lucy to dance with me, papa: there is Lucy Snowe.’

Mr. Home (there was still quite as much about him of plain Mr. Home as of proud Count de Bassompierre) held his hand out to me, saying kindly, ‘he remembered me well; and, even had his own memory been less trustworthy, my name was so often on his daughter’s lips, and he had listened to so many long tales about me, I should seem like an old acquaintance.’

Every one now had tasted the wassail-cup except Paulina, whose pas de fée, ou de fantaisie, nobody thought of interrupting to offer so profanatory a draught; but she was not to be overlooked, nor baulked of her mortal privileges.

‘Let me taste,’ said she to Graham, as he was putting the cup on the shelf of the dresser out of her reach.

Mrs. Bretton and Mr. Home were now engaged in conversation. Dr.John had not been unobservant of the fairy’s dance; he had watched it, and he had liked it. To say nothing of the softness and beauty of the movements, eminently grateful to his grace-loving eye, that ease in his mother’s house charmed him, for it set
him
at ease: again she seemed a child for him—again, almost his playmate. I wondered how he would speak to her; I had not yet seen him address her; his first words proved that the old days of ‘little Polly’ had been recalled to his mind by this evening’s child-like light-heartedness.

‘Your ladyship wishes for the tankard?’

‘I think I said so. I think I intimated as much.’

‘Couldn’t consent to a step of the kind on any account. Sorry for it, but couldn’t do it.’

‘Why? I am quite well now: it can’t break my collar-bone again, or dislocate my shoulder. Is it wine?’

‘No; nor dew.’

‘I don’t want dew; I don’t like dew: but what is it?’

‘Ale—strong ale—old October; brewed, perhaps, when I was born.’

‘It must be curious: is it good?’

‘Excessively good.’

And he took it down, administered to himself a second dose of this mighty elixir, expressed in his mischievous eyes extreme contentment with the same, and solemnly replaced the cup on the shelf.

‘I should like a little,’ said Paulina, looking up; ‘I never had any “old October:” is it sweet?’

‘Perilously sweet,’ said Graham.

She continued to look up exactly with the countenance of a child that longs for some prohibited dainty. At last the Doctor relented, took it down, and indulged himself in the gratification of letting her taste from his hand; his eyes, always expressive in the revelation of pleasurable feelings, luminously and smilingly avowed that it
was
a gratification; and he prolonged it by so regulating the position of the cup that only a drop at a time could reach the rosy, sipping lips by which its brim was courted.

‘A little more—a little more,’ said she, petulantly touching his hand with her forefinger, to make him incline the cup more generously and yieldingly. ‘It smells of spice and sugar, but I can’t taste it; your wrist is so stiff, and you are so stingy.’

He indulged her, whispering, however, with gravity: ‘Don’t tell my mother or Lucy; they wouldn’t approve.’

‘Nor do I,’ said she, passing into another tone and manner as soon as she had fairly assayed the beverage, just as if it had acted upon her like some disenchanting draught, undoing the work of a wizard: ‘I find it anything but sweet; it is bitter and hot, and takes away my breath. Your old October was only desirable while forbidden. Thank you, no more.’

And, with a slight bend—careless, but as graceful as her dance—she glided from him and rejoined her father.

I think she had spoken truth: the child of seven, was in the girl of seventeen.

Graham looked after her a little baffled, a little puzzled; his eye was on her a good deal during the rest of the evening, but she did not seem to notice him.

As we ascended to the drawing-room for tea, she took her father’s arm: her natural place seemed to be at his side; her eyes and her ears were dedicated to him. He and Mrs. Bretton were the chief talkers of our little party, and Paulina was their best listener, attending closely to all that was said, prompting the repetition of this or that trait or adventure.

‘And where were you at such a time, papa? And what did you say then? And tell Mrs. Bretton what happened on that occasion.’ Thus she drew him out.

She did not again yield to any effervescence of glee; the infantine sparkle was exhaled for the night: she was soft, thoughtful, and docile. It was pretty to see her bid good-night; her manner to Graham was touched with dignity: in her very slight smile and quiet bow spoke the Countess, and Graham could not but look grave, and bend responsive. I saw he hardly knew how to blend together in his ideas the dancing fairy and delicate dame.

Next day, when we were all assembled round the breakfast table, shivering and fresh from the morning’s chill ablutions, Mrs. Bretton pronounced a decree that nobody, who was not forced by dire necessity, should quit her house that day.

Indeed, egress seemed next to impossible; the drift darkened the lower panes of the casement, and, on looking out, one saw the sky and air vexed and dim, the wind and snow in angry conflict. There was no fall now, but what had already descended was torn up from the earth, whirled round by brief shrieking gusts, and cast into a hundred fantastic forms.

The Countess seconded Mrs. Bretton.

‘Papa shall not go out,’ said she, placing a seat for herself beside her father’s arm-chair. ‘I will look after him. You won’t go into town, will you, papa?’

‘Aye, and No,’ was the answer. ‘If you and Mrs. Bretton are very good to me, Polly—kind, you know, and attentive; if you pet me in a very nice manner, and make much of me, I may possibly be induced to wait an hour after breakfast and see whether this razor-edged wind settles. But, you see, you give me no breakfast; you offer me nothing: you let me starve.’

‘Quick! please, Mrs. Bretton, and pour out the coffee,’ entreated Paulina, ‘whilst I take care of the Count de Bassompierre in other respects: since he grew into a Count, he has needed so much attention.’

She separated and prepared a roll.

‘There, papa, are your “pistolets” charged,’ said she. ‘And there is some marmalade, just the same sort of marmalade we used to have at Bretton, and which you said was as good as if it had been conserved in Scotland—’

‘And which your little ladyship used to beg for my boy—do you remember that?’ interposed Mrs. Bretton. ‘Have you forgotten how you would come to my elbow and touch my sleeve with the whisper, “please ma’am, something good for Graham—a little marmalade, or honey, or jam?” ’

‘No, mama,’ broke in Dr. John, laughing, yet reddening; ‘it surely was not so: I could not have cared for these things.’

‘Did he or did he not, Paulina?’

‘He liked them,’ asserted Paulina.

‘Never blush for it, John,’ said Mr. Home, encouragingly. ‘I like them myself yet, and always did. And Polly showed her sense in catering for a friend’s material comforts: it was I who put her into the way of such good manners—nor do I let her forget them. Polly, offer me a small slice of that tongue.’

‘There, papa: but remember you are only waited upon with this assiduity, on condition of being persuadable, and reconciling yourself to La Terrasse for the day.’

‘Mrs. Bretton,’ said the Count, ‘I want to get rid of my daughter, to send her to school. Do you know of any good school?’

‘There is Lucy’s place—Madame Beck’s.’

‘Miss Snowe is in a school?’

‘I am a teacher,’ I said, and was rather glad of the opportunity of saying this. For a little while I had been feeling as if placed in a false position. Mrs. Bretton and son knew my circumstances; but the Count and his daughter did not. They might choose to vary by some shades their hitherto cordial manner towards me, when aware of my grade in society. I spoke then readily: but a swarm of thoughts, I had not anticipated nor invoked, rose dim at the words, making me sigh involuntarily. Mr. Home did not lift his eyes from his breakfast-plate for about two minutes, nor did he speak; perhaps he had not caught the words—perhaps he thought that on a confession of that nature, politeness would interdict comment: the Scotch are proverbially proud; and homely as was Mr. Home in look, simple in habits and tastes, I have all along intimated that he was not without his share of the national quality. Was his a pseudo pride? was it real dignity? I leave the question undecided in its wide sense. Where it concerned me individually I can only answer: then, and always, he showed himself a true-hearted gentleman.

By nature he was a feeler and a thinker; over his emotions and his reflections spread a mellowing of melancholy; more than a mellowing: in trouble and bereavement it became a cloud. He did not know much about Lucy Snowe; what he knew, he did not very accurately comprehend: indeed his misconceptions of my character often made me smile; but he saw my walk in life lay rather on the shady side of the hill; he gave me credit for doing my endeavour to keep the course honestly straight; he would have helped me if he could: having no opportunity of helping, he still wished me well. When he did look at me, his eye was kind; when he did speak, his voice was benevolent.

‘Yours,’ said he, ‘is an arduous calling. I wish you health and strength to win in it—success.’

His fair little daughter did not take the information quite so composedly: she fixed on me a pair of eyes wide with wonder—almost with dismay.

‘Are you a teacher?’ cried she. Then, having paused on the unpalatable idea, ‘Well, I never knew what you were, nor ever thought of asking; for me, you were always Lucy Snowe.’

‘And what am I now?’ I could not forbear inquiring.

‘Yourself, of course. But do you really teach here, in Villette?’

‘I really do.’

‘And do you like it?’

‘Not always.’

‘And why do you go on with it?’

Her father looked at, and, I feared, was going to check her; but he only said, ‘Proceed, Polly, proceed with that catechism—prove yourself the little wiseacre you are. If Miss Snowe were to blush and look confused, I should have to bid you hold your tongue; and you and I would sit out the present meal in some disgrace; but she only smiles, so push her hard, multiply the cross-questions. Well, Miss Snowe, why do you go on with it?’

‘Chiefly, I fear, for the sake of the money I get.’

‘Not then from motives of pure philanthropy? Polly and I were clinging to that hypothesis, as the most lenient way of accounting for your eccentricity.’

‘No-no, sir. Rather for the roof of shelter I am thus enabled to keep over my head; and for the comfort of mind it gives me to think that while I can work for myself, I am spared the pain of being a burden to anybody.’

‘Papa, say what you will, I pity Lucy.’

‘Take up that pity, Miss de Bassompierre: take it up in both hands, as you might a little callow gosling squattering out of bounds without leave; put it back in the warm nest of a heart whence it issued, and receive in your ear this whisper. If my Polly ever came to know by experience the uncertain nature of this world’s goods, I should like her to act as Lucy acts: to work for herself, that she might burden neither kith nor kin.’

‘Yes, papa,’ said she, pensively and tractably. ‘But poor Lucy! I thought she was a rich lady, and had rich friends.’

‘You thought like a little simpleton: I never thought so. When I had time to consider Lucy’s manner and aspect, which was not often, I saw she was one who had to guard and not be guarded; to act and not be served: and this lot has, I imagine, helped her to an experience for which, if she live long enough to realize its full benefit, she may yet bless Providence. But this school,’ he pursued changing his tone from grave to gay: ‘Would Madame Beck admit my Polly, do you think, Miss Lucy?’

I said, there needed but to try madame; it would soon be seen: she was fond of English pupils. ‘If you, sir,’ I added, ‘will but take Miss de Bassompierre in your carriage this very afternoon, I think I can answer for it that Rosine, the portress, will not be very slow in answering your ring; and madame, I am sure, will put on her best pair of gloves to come into the salon to receive you.’

‘In that case,’ responded Mr. Home, ‘I see no sort of necessity there is for delay. Mrs. Hurst can send, what she calls, her young lady’s “things” after her; Polly can settle down to her hornbook before night; and you, Miss Lucy, I trust, will not disdain to cast an occasional eye upon her, and let me know, from time to time, how she gets on. I hope you approve of the arrangement, Countess de Bassompierre?’

The Countess hemmed and hesitated. ‘I thought,’ said she, ‘I thought I had finished my education—’

‘That only proves how much we may be mistaken in our thoughts: I hold a far different opinion, as most of those will who have been auditors of your profound knowledge of life this morning. Ah, my little girl, thou hast much to learn; and papa ought to have taught thee more than he has done! Come, there is nothing for it but to try Madame Beck; and the weather seems settling, and I have finished my breakfast—’

‘But, papa!’

‘Well?’

‘I see an obstacle.’

‘I don’t at all.’

‘It is enormous, papa, it can never be got over; it is as large as you in your great coat, and the snowdrift on the top.’

‘And, like that snowdrift, capable of melting?’

‘No! it is of too—too solid flesh: it is just your own self. Miss Lucy, warn Madame Beck not to listen to any overtures about taking me, because, in the end, it would turn out that she would have to take papa too: as he is so teasing, I will just tell tales about him. Mrs. Bretton and all of you listen: About five years ago, when I was twelve years old, he took it into his head that he was spoiling me; that I was growing unfitted for the world, and I don’t know what, and nothing would serve or satisfy him, but I must go to school. I cried, and so on; but M. de Bassompierre proved hard-hearted, quite firm and flinty, and to school I went. What was the result? In the most admirable manner, papa came to school likewise: every other day he called to see me. Madame Aigredoux grumbled, but it was of no use; and so, at last, papa and I were both, in a manner, expelled. Lucy can just tell Madame Beck this little trait: it is only fair to let her know what she has to expect.’