Villette (72 page)

‘Does she? How? My little girl is not thought a beauty.’

‘Sir, Miss de Bassompierre is very beautiful.’

‘Nonsense!—begging your pardon, Miss Snowe, but I think you are too partial.
I
like Polly: I like all her ways and all her looks—but then I am her father; and even
I
never thought about beauty. She is amusing, fairy-like, interesting to me;—you must be mistaken in supposing her handsome?’

‘She attracts, sir: she would attract without the advantages of your wealth and position.’

‘My wealth and position! Are these any bait to Graham? If I thought so—’

‘Dr. Bretton knows these points perfectly, as you may be sure, M. de Bassompierre, and values them as any gentleman would—as
you
would yourself, under the same circumstances—but they are not his baits. He loves your daughter very much; he feels her finest qualities, and they influence him worthily.’

‘What! has my little pet “fine qualities?’”

‘Ah, sir! did you observe her that evening when so many men of eminence and learning dined here?’

‘I certainly was rather struck and surprised with her manner that day; its womanliness made me smile.’

‘And did you see those accomplished Frenchmen gather round her in the drawing-room?’

‘I did; but I thought it was by way of relaxation—as one might amuse one’s self with a pretty infant.’

‘Sir, she demeaned herself with distinction; and I heard the French gentlemen say she was “pétrie d’esprit et de graces.”
^iz
Dr. Bretton thought the same.’

‘She is a good, dear child, that is certain; and I
do
believe she has some character. When I think of it, I was once ill; Polly nursed me; they thought I should die; she, I recollect, grew at once stronger and tenderer as I grew worse in health. And as I recovered, what a sunbeam she was in my sick-room! Yes; she played about my chair as noiselessly and as cheerful as light. And now she is sought in marriage! I don’t want to part with her,’ said he, and he groaned.

‘You have known Dr. and Mrs. Bretton so long,’ I suggested, ‘it would be less like separation to give her to him than to another.’

He reflected rather gloomily.

‘True. I have long known Louisa Bretton,’ he murmured.

‘She and I are indeed old, old friends: a sweet, kind girl she was when she was young. You talk of beauty, Miss Snowe!
she
was handsome, if you will—tall, straight, and blooming—not the mere child or elf my Polly seems to me: at eighteen, Louisa had a carriage and stature fit for a princess. She is a comely and a good woman now. The lad is like her; I have always thought so, and favoured and wished him well. Now he repays me by this robbery! My little treasure used to love her old father dearly and truly. It is all over now, doubtless—I am an incumbrance.’

The door opened—his ‘little treasure’ came in. She was dressed, so to speak, in evening beauty; that animation which sometimes comes with the close of day, warmed her eye and cheek; a tinge of summer crimson heightened her complexion; her curls fell full and long on her lily neck; her white dress suited the heat of June. Thinking me alone, she had brought in her hand the letter just written—brought it folded but unsealed. I was to read it. When she saw her father, her tripping step faltered a little, paused a moment—the colour in her cheek flowed rosy over her whole face.

‘Polly,’ said M. de Bassompierre, in a low voice, with a grave smile, ‘do you blush at seeing papa? That is something new.’

‘I don’t blush—I never
do
blush,’ affirmed she, while another eddy from the heart sent up its scarlet. ‘But I thought you were in the dining-room, and I wanted Lucy.’

‘You thought I was with John Graham Bretton, I suppose? But he has just been called out: he will be back soon, Polly. He can post your letter for you; it will save Matthieu a “course,” as he calls it.’

‘I don’t post letters,’ said she, rather pettishly.

‘What do you do with them, then?—come here and tell me.’ Both her mind and gesture seemed to hesitate a second—to say ‘Shall I come?’—but she approached.

‘How long is it since you became a letter-writer, Polly? It only seems yesterday when you were at your pot-hooks, labouring away absolutely with both hands at the pen.’

‘Papa, they are not letters to send to the post in your letter-bag; they are only notes, which I give now and then into the person’s hand, just to satisfy.’

‘The person! That means Miss Snowe, I suppose?’

‘No, papa—not Lucy.’

‘Who then? Perhaps Mrs. Bretton?’

‘No, papa—not Mrs. Bretton.’

‘Who then, my little daughter? Tell papa the truth.’

‘Oh, papa!’ she cried with earnestness, ‘I will—I
will
tell you the truth—all the truth; I am glad to tell you—glad, though I tremble.’

She
did
tremble: growing excitement, kindling feeling, and also gathering courage, shook her.

‘I hate to hide my actions from you, papa. I fear you and love you above everything but God. Read the letter; look at the address.’

She laid it on his knee. He took it up and read it through; his hand shaking, his eyes glistening meantime.

He re-folded it, and viewed the writer with a strange, tender, mournful amaze.

‘Can
she
write so—the little thing that stood at my knee but yesterday? Can she feel so?’

‘Papa, is it wrong? Does it pain you?’

‘There is nothing wrong in it, my innocent little Mary; but it pains me.’

‘But, papa, listen! You shall not be pained by me. I would give up everything—almost’ (correcting herself): ‘I would die rather than make you unhappy; that would be too wicked!’

She shuddered.

‘Does the letter not please you? Must it not go? Must it be torn? It shall, for your sake, if you order it.’

‘I order nothing.’

‘Order something, papa; express your wish; only don’t hurt, don’t grieve Graham. I cannot,
cannot
bear that. I love you, papa; but I love Graham too, because—because—it is impossible to help it.’

‘This splendid Graham is a young scamp, Polly—that is my present notion of him: it will surprise you to hear that, for my part, I do not love him one whit. Ah! years ago I saw something in that lad’s eye I never quite fathomed—something his mother had not—a depth which warned a man not to wade into that stream too far; now, suddenly, I find myself taken over the crown of the head.’

‘Papa, you don’t—you have not fallen in; you are safe on the bank; you can do as you please; your power is despotic; you can shut me up in a convent, and break Graham’s heart to-morrow, if you choose to be so cruel. Now autocrat, now czar, will you do this?’

‘Off with him to Siberia, red whiskers and all; I say, I don’t like him, Polly, and I wonder that you should.’

‘Papa,’ said she, ‘do you know you are very naughty? I never saw you look so disagreeable, so unjust, so almost vindictive before. There is an expression in your face which does not belong to you.’

‘Off with him!’ pursued Mr. Home, who certainly did look sorely crossed and annoyed—even a little bitter; ‘but, I suppose, if he went, Polly would pack a bundle and run after him; her heart is fairly won—won, and weaned from her old father.’

‘Papa, I say it is naughty, it is decidedly wrong, to talk in that way. I am
not
weaned from you, and no human being and no mortal influence
can
wean me.’

‘Be married, Polly! Espouse the red whiskers. Cease to be a daughter; go and be a wife!’

‘Red whiskers! I wonder what you mean, papa. You should take care of prejudice. You sometimes say to me that all the Scotch, your countrymen, are the victims of prejudice. It is proved now, I think, when no distinction is to be made between red and deep nut-brown.’

‘Leave the prejudiced old Scotchman; go away.’

She stood looking at him a minute. She wanted to show firmness, superiority to taunts; knowing her father’s character, guessing his few foibles, she had expected the sort of scene which was now transpiring; it did not take her by surprise, and she desired to let it pass with dignity, reliant upon reaction. Her dignity stood her in no stead. Suddenly her soul melted in her eyes; she fell on his neck:—

‘I won’t leave you, papa; I’ll never leave you. I won’t pain you; I’ll never pain you!’ was her cry.

‘My lamb! my treasure!’ murmured the loving though rugged sire. He said no more for the moment; indeed, those two words were hoarse.

The room was now darkening. I heard a movement, a step without. Thinking it might be a servant coming with candles, I gently opened, to prevent intrusion. In the ante-room stood no servant; a tall gentleman was placing his hat on the table, drawing off his gloves slowly—lingering, waiting, it seemed to me. He called me neither by sign nor word; yet his eye said:—

‘Lucy, come here.’ And I went.

Over his face a smile flowed, while he looked down on me: no temper, save his own, would have expressed by a smile the sort of agitation which now fevered him.

‘Mr. de Bassompierre is there—is he not?’ he inquired, pointing to the library.

‘Yes.’

‘He noticed me at dinner? He understood me?’

‘Yes, Graham.’

‘I am brought up for judgment, then, and so is
she?’

‘Mr. Home’ (we now and always continued to term him Mr. Home at times) ‘is talking to his daughter.’

‘Ha! These are sharp moments, Lucy!’

He was quite stirred up; his young hand trembled; a vital (I was going to write
mortal,
but such words ill apply to one all living like him)—a vital suspense now held, now hurried, his breath: in all this trouble his smile never faded.

‘Is he
very
angry, Lucy?’

‘She
is very faithful, Graham.’

‘What will be done unto me?’

‘Graham, your star must be fortunate.’

‘Must it? Kind prophet! So cheerful, I should be a faint heart indeed to quail. I think I find all women faithful, Lucy. I ought to love them, and I do. My mother is good;
she
is divine; and
you
are true as steel. Are you not?’

‘Yes, Graham.’

‘Then give me thy hand, my little god-sister; it is a friendly little hand to me, and always has been. And now for the great venture. God be with the right! Lucy, say, Amen!’

He turned, and waited till I said ‘Amen!’—which I did to please him: the old charm, in doing as he bid me, came back. I wished him success; and successful I knew he would be. He was born victor, as some are born vanquished.

‘Follow me!’ he said; and I followed him into Mr. Home’s presence.

‘Sir,’ he asked, ‘what is my sentence?’

The father looked at him; the daughter kept her face hid.

‘Well, Bretton,’ said Mr. Home, ‘you have given me the usual reward of hospitality. I entertained you; you have taken my best. I was always glad to see you; you were glad to see the one precious thing I had. You spoke me fair; and, meantime, I will not say you
robbed
me, but I am bereaved, and what I have lost,
you,
it seems, have won.’

‘Sir, I cannot repent.’

‘Repent! Not you! You triumph, no doubt: John Graham, you descended partly from a Highlander and a chief, and there is a trace of the Celt in all you look, speak, and think. You have his cunning and his charm. The red—(Well, then, Polly, the
fair)
hair, the tongue of guile, and brain of wile, are all come down by inheritance.’

‘Sir, I
feel
honest enough,’ said Graham; and a genuine English blush covered his face with its warm witness of sincerity. ‘And yet,’ he added, ‘I won’t deny that in some respects you accuse me justly. In your presence I have always had a thought which I dared not show you. I did truly regard you as the possessor of the most valuable thing the world owns for me. I wished for it; I tried for it. Sir, I ask for it now.’

‘John, you ask much.’

‘Very much, sir. It must come from your generosity, as a gift; from your justice, as a reward. I can never earn it.’

‘Ay! Listen to the Highland tongue!’ said Mr. Home. ‘Look up, Polly! Answer this “braw
^ja
wooer;” send him away!’

She looked up. She shyly glanced at her eager, handsome suitor. She gazed tenderly on her furrowed sire.

‘Papa, I love you both,’ said she; ‘I can take care of you both. I need not send Graham away—he can live here; he will be no inconvenience,’ she alleged with that simplicity of phraseology which at times was wont to make both her father and Graham smile. They smiled now.

‘He will be a prodigious inconvenience to me,’ still persisted Mr. Home. ‘I don’t want him, Polly; he is too tall; he is in my way. Tell him to march.’

‘You will get used to him, papa. He seemed exceedingly tall to me at first—like a tower when I looked up at him; but, on the whole, I would rather not have him otherwise.’

‘I object to him altogether, Polly; I can do without a son-in-law. I should never have requested the best man in the land to stand to me in that relation. Dismiss this gentleman.’

‘But he has known you so long, papa, and suits you so well.’

‘Suits
me,
forsooth! Yes; he has pretended to make my opinions and tastes his own. He has humoured me for good reasons. I think, Polly, you and I will bid him good-bye.’

‘Till to-morrow only. Shake hands with Graham, papa.’

‘No: I think not: I am not friends with him. Don’t think to coax me between you.’

‘Indeed, indeed, you
are
friends. Graham, stretch out your right hand. Papa, put out yours. Now, let them touch. Papa, don’t be stiff, close your fingers; be pliant—there! But that is not a clasp—it is a grasp! Papa, you grasp like a vice. You crush Graham’s hand to the bone; you hurt him!’

He must have hurt him; for he wore a massive ring, set round with brilliants, of which the sharp facets cut into Graham’s flesh and drew blood: but pain only made Dr. John laugh, as anxiety had made him smile.