CHAPTER XXXII.
THE FIRST LETTER.
Where, it becomes time to inquire, was Paulina Mary? How fared myintercourse with the sumptuous Hotel Crecy? That intercourse had, foran interval, been suspended by absence; M. and Miss de Bassompierre hadbeen travelling, dividing some weeks between the provinces and capitalof France. Chance apprised me of their return very shortly after ittook place.
I was walking one mild afternoon on a quiet boulevard, wandering slowlyon, enjoying the benign April sun, and some thoughts not unpleasing,when I saw before me a group of riders, stopping as if they had justencountered, and exchanging greetings in the midst of the broad,smooth, linden-bordered path; on one side a middle-aged gentleman andyoung lady, on the other--a young and handsome man. Very graceful wasthe lady's mien, choice her appointments, delicate and stately herwhole aspect. Still, as I looked, I felt they were known to me, and,drawing a little nearer, I fully recognised them all: the Count Home deBassompierre, his daughter, and Dr. Graham Bretton.
How animated was Graham's face! How true, how warm, yet how retiringthe joy it expressed! This was the state of things, this thecombination of circumstances, at once to attract and enchain, to subdueand excite Dr. John. The pearl he admired was in itself of great priceand truest purity, but he was not the man who, in appreciating the gem,could forget its setting. Had he seen Paulina with the same youth,beauty, and grace, but on foot, alone, unguarded, and in simple attire,a dependent worker, a demi-grisette, he would have thought her a prettylittle creature, and would have loved with his eye her movements andher mien, but it required other than this to conquer him as he was nowvanquished, to bring him safe under dominion as now, without loss, andeven with gain to his manly honour, one saw that he was reduced; therewas about Dr. John all the man of the world; to satisfy himself did notsuffice; society must approve--the world must admire what he did, or hecounted his measures false and futile. In his victrix he required allthat was here visible--the imprint of high cultivation, theconsecration of a careful and authoritative protection, the adjunctsthat Fashion decrees, Wealth purchases, and Taste adjusts; for theseconditions his spirit stipulated ere it surrendered: they were here tothe utmost fulfilled; and now, proud, impassioned, yet fearing, he didhomage to Paulina as his sovereign. As for her, the smile of feeling,rather than of conscious power, slept soft in her eyes.
They parted. He passed me at speed, hardly feeling the earth heskimmed, and seeing nothing on either hand. He looked very handsome;mettle and purpose were roused in him fully.
"Papa, there is Lucy!" cried a musical, friendly voice. "Lucy, dearLucy--_do_ come here!"
I hastened to her. She threw back her veil, and stooped from her saddleto kiss me.
"I was coming to see you to-morrow," said she; "but now to-morrow youwill come and see me."
She named the hour, and I promised compliance.
The morrow's evening found me with her--she and I shut into her ownroom. I had not seen her since that occasion when her claims werebrought into comparison with those of Ginevra Fanshawe, and had sosignally prevailed; she had much to tell me of her travels in theinterval. A most animated, rapid speaker was she in such a tete-a-tete,a most lively describer; yet with her artless diction and clear softvoice, she never seemed to speak too fast or to say too much. My ownattention I think would not soon have flagged, but by-and-by, sheherself seemed to need some change of subject; she hastened to wind upher narrative briefly. Yet why she terminated with so concise anabridgment did not immediately appear; silence followed--a restlesssilence, not without symptoms of abstraction. Then, turning to me, in adiffident, half-appealing voice--"Lucy--"
"Well, I am at your side."
"Is my cousin Ginevra still at Madame Beck's?"
"Your cousin is still there; you must be longing to see her."
"No--not much."
"You want to invite her to spend another evening?"
"No... I suppose she still talks about being married?"
"Not to any one you care for."
"But of course she still thinks of Dr. Bretton? She cannot have changedher mind on that point, because it was so fixed two months ago."
"Why, you know, it does not matter. You saw the terms on which theystood."
"There was a little misunderstanding that evening, certainly; does sheseem unhappy?"
"Not she. To change the subject. Have you heard or seen nothing of, orfrom, Graham during your absence?"
"Papa had letters from him once or twice about business, I think. Heundertook the management of some affair which required attention whilewe were away. Dr. Bretton seems to respect papa, and to have pleasurein obliging him."
"Yes: you met him yesterday on the boulevard; you would be able tojudge from his aspect that his friends need not be painfully anxiousabout his health?"
"Papa seems to have thought with you. I could not help smiling. He isnot particularly observant, you know, because he is often thinking ofother things than what pass before his eyes; but he said, as Dr.Bretton rode away, Really it does a man good to see the spirit andenergy of that boy.' He called Dr. Bretton a boy; I believe he almostthinks him so, just as he thinks me a little girl; he was not speakingto me, but dropped that remark to himself. Lucy...."
Again fell the appealing accent, and at the same instant she left herchair, and came and sat on the stool at my feet.
I liked her. It is not a declaration I have often made concerning myacquaintance, in the course of this book: the reader will bear with itfor once. Intimate intercourse, close inspection, disclosed in Paulinaonly what was delicate, intelligent, and sincere; therefore my regardfor her lay deep. An admiration more superficial might have been moredemonstrative; mine, however, was quiet.
"What have you to ask of Lucy?" said I; "be brave, and speak out."
But there was no courage in her eye; as it met mine, it fell; and therewas no coolness on her cheek--not a transient surface-blush, but agathering inward excitement raised its tint and its temperature.
"Lucy, I _do_ wish to know your thoughts of Dr. Bretton. Do, _do_ giveme your real opinion of his character, his disposition."
"His character stands high, and deservedly high."
"And his disposition? Tell me about his disposition," she urged; "youknow him well."
"I know him pretty well."
"You know his home-side. You have seen him with his mother; speak ofhim as a son."
"He is a fine-hearted son; his mother's comfort and hope, her pride andpleasure."
She held my hand between hers, and at each favourable word gave it alittle caressing stroke.
"In what other way is he good, Lucy?"
"Dr. Bretton is benevolent--humanely disposed towards all his race, Dr.Bretton would have benignity for the lowest savage, or the worstcriminal."
"I heard some gentlemen, some of papa's friends, who were talking abouthim, say the same. They say many of the poor patients at the hospitals,who tremble before some pitiless and selfish surgeons, welcome him."
"They are right; I have witnessed as much. He once took me over ahospital; I saw how he was received: your father's friends are right."
The softest gratitude animated her eye as she lifted it a moment. Shehad yet more to say, but seemed hesitating about time and place. Duskwas beginning to reign; her parlour fire already glowed with twilightruddiness; but I thought she wished the room dimmer, the hour later.
"How quiet and secluded we feel here!" I remarked, to reassure her.
"Do we? Yes; it is a still evening, and I shall not be called down totea; papa is dining out."
Still holding my hand, she played with the fingers unconsciously,dressed them, now in her own rings, and now circled them with a twineof her beautiful hair; she patted the palm against her hot cheek, andat last, having cleared a voice that was naturally liquid as a lark's,she said:--
"You must think it rather strange that I should talk so much about Dr.Bretton, ask so many questions, take such an interest, but--".
"N
ot at all strange; perfectly natural; you like him."
"And if I did," said she, with slight quickness, "is that a reason whyI should talk? I suppose you think me weak, like my cousin Ginevra?"
"If I thought you one whit like Madame Ginevra, I would not sit herewaiting for your communications. I would get up, walk at my ease aboutthe room, and anticipate all you had to say by a round lecture. Go on."
"I mean to go on," retorted she; "what else do you suppose I mean todo?"
And she looked and spoke--the little Polly of Bretton--petulant,sensitive.
"If," said she, emphatically, "if I liked Dr. John till I was fit todie for liking him, that alone could not license me to be otherwisethan dumb--dumb as the grave--dumb as you, Lucy Snowe--you know it--andyou know you would despise me if I failed in self-control, and whinedabout some rickety liking that was all on my side."
"It is true I little respect women or girls who are loquacious eitherin boasting the triumphs, or bemoaning the mortifications, of feelings.But as to you, Paulina, speak, for I earnestly wish to hear you. Tellme all it will give you pleasure or relief to tell: I ask no more."
"Do you care for me, Lucy?"
"Yes, I do, Paulina."
"And I love you. I had an odd content in being with you even when I wasa little, troublesome, disobedient girl; it was charming to me then tolavish on you my naughtiness and whims. Now you are acceptable to me,and I like to talk with and trust you. So listen, Lucy."
And she settled herself, resting against my arm--resting gently, notwith honest Mistress Fanshawe's fatiguing and selfish weight.
"A few minutes since you asked whether we had not heard from Grahamduring our absence, and I said there were two letters for papa onbusiness; this was true, but I did not tell you all."
"You evaded?"
"I shuffled and equivocated, you know. However, I am going to speak thetruth now; it is getting darker; one can talk at one's ease. Papa oftenlets me open the letter-bag and give him out the contents. One morning,about three weeks ago, you don't know how surprised I was to find,amongst a dozen letters for M. de Bassompierre, a note addressed toMiss de Bassompierre. I spied it at once, amidst all the rest; thehandwriting was not strange; it attracted me directly. I was going tosay, 'Papa, here is another letter from Dr. Bretton;' but the 'Miss'struck me mute. I actually never received a letter from a gentlemanbefore. Ought I to have shown it to papa, and let him open it and readit first? I could not for my life, Lucy. I know so well papa's ideasabout me: he forgets my age; he thinks I am a mere school-girl; he isnot aware that other people see I am grown up as tall as I shall be;so, with a curious mixture of feelings, some of them self-reproachful,and some so fluttering and strong, I cannot describe them, I gave papahis twelve letters--his herd of possessions--and kept back my one, myewe-lamb. It lay in my lap during breakfast, looking up at me with aninexplicable meaning, making me feel myself a thing double-existent--achild to that dear papa, but no more a child to myself. After breakfastI carried my letter up-stairs, and having secured myself by turning thekey in the door, I began to study the outside of my treasure: it wassome minutes before I could get over the direction and penetrate theseal; one does not take a strong place of this kind by instantstorm--one sits down awhile before it, as beleaguers say. Graham's handis like himself, Lucy, and so is his seal--all clear, firm, androunded--no slovenly splash of wax--a full, solid, steady drop--adistinct impress; no pointed turns harshly pricking the optic nerve,but a clean, mellow, pleasant manuscript, that soothes you as you read.It is like his face--just like the chiselling of his features: do youknow his autograph?"
"I have seen it: go on."
"The seal was too beautiful to be broken, so I cut it round with myscissors. On the point of reading the letter at last, I once more drewback voluntarily; it was too soon yet to drink that draught--thesparkle in the cup was so beautiful--I would watch it yet a minute.Then I remembered all at once that I had not said my prayers thatmorning. Having heard papa go down to breakfast a little earlier thanusual, I had been afraid of keeping him waiting, and had hastened tojoin him as soon as dressed, thinking no harm to put off prayers tillafterwards. Some people would say I ought to have served God first andthen man; but I don't think heaven could be jealous of anything I mightdo for papa. I believe I am superstitious. A voice seemed now to saythat another feeling than filial affection was in question--to urge meto pray before I dared to read what I so longed to read--to deny myselfyet a moment, and remember first a great duty. I have had theseimpulses ever since I can remember. I put the letter down and said myprayers, adding, at the end, a strong entreaty that whatever happened,I might not be tempted or led to cause papa any sorrow, and mightnever, in caring for others, neglect him. The very thought of such apossibility, so pierced my heart that it made me cry. But still, Lucy,I felt that in time papa would have to be taught the truth, managed,and induced to hear reason.
"I read the letter. Lucy, life is said to be all disappointment. _I_was not disappointed. Ere I read, and while I read, my heart did morethan throb--it trembled fast--every quiver seemed like the pant of ananimal athirst, laid down at a well and drinking; and the well provedquite full, gloriously clear; it rose up munificently of its ownimpulse; I saw the sun through its gush, and not a mote, Lucy, no moss,no insect, no atom in the thrice-refined golden gurgle.
"Life," she went on, "is said to be full of pain to some. I have readbiographies where the wayfarer seemed to journey on from suffering tosuffering; where Hope flew before him fast, never alighting so near, orlingering so long, as to give his hand a chance of one realizing grasp.I have read of those who sowed in tears, and whose harvest, so far frombeing reaped in joy, perished by untimely blight, or was borne off bysudden whirlwind; and, alas! some of these met the winter with emptygarners, and died of utter want in the darkest and coldest of the year."
"Was it their fault, Paulina, that they of whom you speak thus died?"
"Not always their fault. Some of them were good endeavouring people. Iam not endeavouring, nor actively good, yet God has caused me to growin sun, due moisture, and safe protection, sheltered, fostered, taught,by my dear father; and now--now--another comes. Graham loves me."
For some minutes we both paused on this climax.
"Does your father know?" I inquired, in a low voice.
"Graham spoke with deep respect of papa, but implied that he dared notapproach that quarter as yet; he must first prove his worth: he addedthat he must have some light respecting myself and my own feelings erehe ventured to risk a step in the matter elsewhere."
"How did you reply?"
"I replied briefly, but I did not repulse him. Yet I almost trembledfor fear of making the answer too cordial: Graham's tastes are sofastidious. I wrote it three times--chastening and subduing the phrasesat every rescript; at last, having confected it till it seemed to me toresemble a morsel of ice flavoured with ever so slight a zest of fruitor sugar, I ventured to seal and despatch it."
"Excellent, Paulina! Your instinct is fine; you understand Dr. Bretton."
"But how must I manage about papa? There I am still in pain."
"Do not manage at all. Wait now. Only maintain no furthercorrespondence till your father knows all, and gives his sanction."
"Will he ever give it?"
"Time will show. Wait."
"Dr. Bretton wrote one other letter, deeply grateful for my calm, briefnote; but I anticipated your advice, by saying, that while mysentiments continued the same, I could not, without my father'sknowledge, write again."
"You acted as you ought to have done; so Dr. Bretton will feel: it willincrease his pride in you, his love for you, if either be capable ofincrease. Paulina, that gentle hoar-frost of yours, surrounding so muchpure, fine flame, is a priceless privilege of nature."
"You see I feel Graham's disposition," said she. "I feel that nodelicacy can be too exquisite for his treatment."
"It is perfectly proved that you comprehend him, and then--whatever Dr.Bretton's disposition,
were he one who expected to be more nearlymet--you would still act truthfully, openly, tenderly, with yourfather."
"Lucy, I trust I shall thus act always. Oh, it will be pain to wakepapa from his dream, and tell him I am no more a little girl!"
"Be in no hurry to do so, Paulina. Leave the revelation to Time andyour kind Fate. I also have noticed the gentleness of her cares foryou: doubt not she will benignantly order the circumstances, and fitlyappoint the hour. Yes: I have thought over your life just as you haveyourself thought it over; I have made comparisons like those to whichyou adverted. We know not the future, but the past has been propitious.
"As a child I feared for you; nothing that has life was ever moresusceptible than your nature in infancy: under harshness or neglect,neither your outward nor your inward self would have ripened to whatthey now are. Much pain, much fear, much struggle, would have troubledthe very lines of your features, broken their regularity, would haveharassed your nerves into the fever of habitual irritation; you wouldhave lost in health and cheerfulness, in grace and sweetness.Providence has protected and cultured you, not only for your own sake,but I believe for Graham's. His star, too, was fortunate: to developfully the best of his nature, a companion like you was needed: thereyou are, ready. You must be united. I knew it the first day I saw youtogether at La Terrasse. In all that mutually concerns you and Grahamthere seems to me promise, plan, harmony. I do not think the sunnyyouth of either will prove the forerunner of stormy age. I think it isdeemed good that you two should live in peace and be happy--not asangels, but as few are happy amongst mortals. Some lives _are_ thusblessed: it is God's will: it is the attesting trace and lingeringevidence of Eden. Other lives run from the first another course. Othertravellers encounter weather fitful and gusty, wild andvariable--breast adverse winds, are belated and overtaken by the earlyclosing winter night. Neither can this happen without the sanction ofGod; and I know that, amidst His boundless works, is somewhere storedthe secret of this last fate's justice: I know that His treasurescontain the proof as the promise of its mercy."