Villette (8 page)

‘Writing,’ said Graham.

‘Why don’t you come to take breakfast with your mama?’

‘Too busy.’

‘Do you want any breakfast?’

‘Of course.’

‘There then.’

And she deposited the cup on the carpet, like a jailer putting a prisoner’s pitcher of water through his cell-door, and retreated. Presently she returned.

‘What will you have besides tea—what to eat?’

‘Anything good. Bring me something particularly nice; that’s a kind little woman.’

She came back to Mrs. Bretton.

‘Please, ma’am, send your boy something good.’

‘You shall choose for him, Polly; what shall my boy have?’

She selected a portion of whatever was best on the table, and ere long, came back with a whispered request for some marmalade, which was not there. Having got it, however (for Mrs. Bretton refused the pair nothing), Graham was shortly after heard lauding her to the skies; promising that, when he had a house of his own, she should be his housekeeper, and perhaps—if she showed any culinary genius—his cook; and, as she did not return, and I went to look after her, I found Graham and her breakfasting
tête-à-tête
—she standing at his elbow, and sharing his fare: excepting the marmalade, which she delicately refused to touch; lest, I suppose, it should appear that she had procured it as much on her own account as his. She constantly evinced these nice perceptions and delicate instincts.

The league of acquaintanceship thus struck up was not hastily dissolved; on the contrary, it appeared that time and circumstances served rather to cement than loosen it. Ill-assimilated as the two were in age, sex, pursuits, &c., they somehow found a great deal to say to each other. As to Paulina, I observed that her little character never properly came out, except with young Bretton. As she got settled, and accustomed to the house, she proved tractable enough with Mrs. Bretton; but she would sit on a stool at that lady’s feet all day long, learning her task, or sewing, or drawing figures with a pencil on a slate, and never kindling once to originality, or showing a single gleam of the peculiarities of her nature. I ceased to watch her under such circumstances: she was not interesting. But the moment Graham’s knock sounded of an evening, a change occurred; she was instantly at the head of the staircase. Usually her welcome was a reprimand or a threat.

‘You have not wiped your shoes properly on the mat. I shall tell your mama.’

‘Little busybody! Are you there?’

‘Yes—and you can’t reach me: I am higher up than you’ (peeping between the rails of the bannister; she could not look over them).

‘Polly!’

‘My dear boy!’ (such was one of her terms for him, adopted in imitation of his mother.)

‘I am fit to faint with fatigue,’ declared Graham, leaning against the passage-wall in seeming exhaustion. ‘Dr. Digby’ (the head-master) ‘has quite knocked me up with over-work. Just come down and help me to carry up my book.’

‘Ah! You’re cunning!’

‘Not at all, Polly—it is positive fact. I’m as weak as a rush. Come down.’

‘Your eyes are quiet like the cat’s, but you’ll spring.’

‘Spring? Nothing of the kind: it isn’t in me. Come down.’

‘Perhaps I may—if you’ll promise not to touch—not to snatch me up, and not to whirl me round.’

‘I? I couldn’t do it!’ (sinking into a chair.)

‘Then put the books down on the first step, and go three yards off.’

This being done, she descended warily, and not taking her eyes from the feeble Graham. Of course her approach always galvanized him to new and spasmodic life: the game of romps was sure to be exacted. Sometimes she would be angry; sometimes the matter was allowed to pass smoothly, and we could hear her say as she led him up-stairs:

‘Now, my dear boy, come and take your tea—I am sure you must want something.’

It was sufficiently comical to observe her as she sat beside Graham, while he took that meal. In his absence she was a still personage, but with him the most officious, fidgetty little body possible. I often wished she would mind herself and be tranquil; but no—herself was forgotten in him: he could not be sufficiently well waited on, nor carefully enough looked after; he was more than the Grand Turk
^d
in her estimation. She would gradually assemble the various plates before him, and, when one would suppose all he could possibly desire was within his reach, she would find out something else:—

‘Ma’am,’ she would whisper to Mrs. Bretton,—‘perhaps your son would like a little cake—sweet cake, you know—there is some in there’ (pointing to the side-board cupboard). Mrs. Bretton, as a rule, disapproved of sweet cake at tea, but still the request was urged,—‘One little piece—only for him—as he goes to school: girls—such as me and Miss Snowe—don’t need treats, but
he
would like it.’

Graham did like it very well, and almost always got it. To do him justice, he would have shared his prize with her to whom he owed it; but that was never allowed: to insist, was to ruffle her for the evening. To stand by his knee, and monopolize his talk and notice, was the reward she wanted—not a share of the cake.

With curious readiness did she adapt herself to such themes as interested him. One would have thought the child had no mind or life of her own, but must necessarily live, move, and have her being in another: now that her father was taken from her, she nestled to Graham, and seemed to feel by his feelings: to exist in his existence. She learned the names of all his school-fellows in a trice; she got by heart their characters as given from his lips: a single description of an individual seemed to suffice. She never forgot, or confused identities: she would talk with him the whole evening about people she had never seen, and appear completely to realize their aspect, manners, and dispositions. Some she learned to mimic: an under-master, who was an aversion of young Bretton’s, had, it seems, some peculiarities, which she caught up in a moment from Graham’s representation, and rehearsed for his amusement; this, however, Mrs. Bretton disapproved and forbade.

The pair seldom quarrelled; yet once a rupture occurred, in which her feelings received a severe shock.

One day Graham, on the occasion of his birthday, had some friends—lads of his own age—to dine with him. Paulina took much interest in the coming of these friends; she had frequently heard of them; they were amongst those of whom Graham oftenest spoke. After dinner, the young gentlemen were left by themselves in the dining-room, where they soon became very merry and made a good deal of noise. Chancing to pass through the hall, I found Paulina sitting alone on the lowest step of the staircase, her eyes fixed on the glossy panels of the dining-room door, where the reflection of the hall-lamp was shining; her little brow knit in anxious meditation.

‘What are you thinking about, Polly?’

‘Nothing particular; only I wish that door was clear glass—that I might see through it. The boys seem very cheerful, and I want to go to them: I want to be with Graham, and watch his friends.’

‘What hinders you from going?’

‘I feel afraid: but may I try, do you think? May I knock at the door, and ask to be let in?’

I thought perhaps they might not object to have her as a playmate, and therefore encouraged the attempt.

She knocked—too faintly at first to be heard, but on a second essay the door unclosed; Graham’s head appeared; he looked in high spirits but impatient.

‘What do you want, you little monkey?’

‘To come to you.’

‘Do you indeed? As if I would be troubled with you! Away to mama and Mistress Snowe, and tell them to put you to bed.’ The auburn head and bright flushed face vanished,—the door shut peremptorily. She was stunned.

‘Why does he speak so? He never spoke so before,’ she said in consternation. ‘What have I done?’

‘Nothing, Polly; but Graham is busy with his school-friends.’

‘And he likes them better than me! He turns me away now they are here!’

I had some thoughts of consoling her, and of improving the occasion by inculcating some of those maxims of philosophy whereof I had ever a tolerable stock ready for application. She stopped me, however, by putting her fingers in her ears at the first words I uttered, and then lying down on the mat with her face against the flags; nor could either Warren or the cook root her from that position: she was allowed to lie, therefore, till she chose to rise of her own accord.

Graham forgot his impatience the same evening, and would have accosted her as usual when his friends were gone, but she wrenched herself from his hand; her eye quite flashed; she would not bid him good-night; she would not look in his face. The next day he treated her with indifference, and she grew like a bit of marble. The day after, he teazed her to know what was the matter; her lips would not unclose. Of course he could not feel real anger on his side: the match was too unequal in every way; he tried soothing and coaxing. ‘Why was she angry? What had he done?’ By-and-by tears answered him; he petted her and they were friends. But she was one on whom such incidents were not lost: I remarked that never after this rebuff did she seek him, or follow him, or in any way solicit his notice. I told her once to carry a book or some other article to Graham when he was shut up in his study.

‘I shall wait till he comes out,’ said she, proudly; ‘I don’t choose to give him the trouble of rising to open the door.’

Young Bretton had a favourite pony on which he often rode out; from the window she always watched his departure and return. It was her ambition to be permitted to have a ride round the court-yard on this pony; but far be it from her to ask such a favour. One day she descended to the yard to watch him dismount; as she leaned against the gate, the longing wish for the indulgence of a ride glittered in her eye.

‘Come, Polly, will you have a canter?’ asked Graham half carelessly. I suppose she thought he was too careless.

‘No thank you,’ said she, turning away with the utmost coolness.

‘You’d better;’ pursued he. ‘You will like it, I am sure.’

‘Don’t think I should care a fig about it,’ was the response.

‘That is not true. You told Lucy Snowe you longed to have a ride.’

‘Lucy Snowe is a
tatter-box,’
I heard her say: (her imperfect articulation was the least precocious thing she had about her), and with this, she walked into the house. Graham coming in soon after, observed to his mother,—

‘Mama, I believe that creature is a changeling: she is a perfect cabinet of oddities; but I should be dull without her: she amuses me a great deal more than you or Lucy Snowe.’

‘Miss Snowe,’ said Paulina to me (she had now got into the habit of occasionally chatting with me when we were alone in our room at night), ‘do you know on what day in the week I like Graham best?’

‘How can I possibly know anything so strange? Is there one day out of the seven when he is otherwise than on the other six?’

‘To be sure! Can’t you see? Don’t you know? I find him the most excellent on a Sunday; then we have him the whole day, and he is quiet, and, in the evening, so kind.’

This observation was not altogether groundless: going to church, &c., kept Graham quiet on the Sunday, and the evening he generally dedicated to a serene, though rather indolent sort of enjoyment by the parlour fireside. He would take possession of the couch, and then he would call Polly.

Graham was a boy not quite as other boys are; all his delight did not lie in action: he was capable of some intervals of contemplation; he could take a pleasure too in reading, nor was his selection of books wholly indiscriminate: there were glimmerings of characteristic preference and even of instinctive taste in the choice. He rarely, it is true, remarked on what he read, but I have seen him sit and think of it.

Polly, being near him, kneeling on a little cushion or the carpet, a conversation would begin in murmurs, not inaudible, though subdued. I caught a snatch of their tenor now and then; and, in truth, some influence better and finer than that of every day, seemed to soothe Graham at such times into no ungentle mood.

‘Have you learned any hymns this week, Polly?’

‘I have learned a very pretty one, four verses long. Shall I say it?’

‘Speak nicely, then: don’t be in a hurry.’

The hymn being rehearsed, or rather half-chanted, in a little singing voice, Graham would take exceptions at the manner, and proceed to give a lesson in recitation. She was quick in learning, apt in imitating; and, besides, her pleasure was to please Graham: she proved a ready scholar. To the hymn would succeed some reading—perhaps a chapter in the Bible; correction was seldom required here, for the child could read any simple narrative chapter very well; and, when the subject was such as she could understand and take an interest in, her expression and emphasis were something remarkable. Joseph cast into the pit; the calling of Samuel; Daniel in the lion’s den;—these were favourite passages: of the first especially she seemed perfectly to feel the pathos.