Villette by Charlotte Brontë (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📖

little girl’s age?”

“About eighteen, is it not, sir?”

“It seems so. This old pocket-book tells me she was born on the 5th of May, in the year 18—, eighteen years ago. It is strange; I had lost the just reckoning of her age. I thought of her as twelve—fourteen— an indefinite date; but she seemed a child.”

“She is about eighteen,” I repeated. “She is grown up; she will be no taller.”

“My little jewel!” said M. de Bassompierre, in a tone which penetrated like some of his daughter’s accents.

He sat very thoughtful.

“Sir, don’t grieve,” I said; for I knew his feelings, utterly unspoken as they were.

“She is the only pearl I have,” he said; “and now others will find out that she is pure and of price: they will covet her.”

I made no answer. Graham Bretton had dined with us that day; he had shone both in converse and looks: I know not what pride of bloom embellished his aspect and mellowed his intercourse. Under the stimulus of a high hope, something had unfolded in his whole manner which compelled attention. I think he had purposed on that day to indicate the origin of his endeavours, and the aim of his ambition. M. de Bassompierre had found himself forced, in a manner, to descry the direction and catch the character of his homage. Slow in remarking, he was logical in reasoning: having once seized the thread, it had guided him through a long labyrinth.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“She is upstairs.”

“What is she doing?”

“She is writing.”

“She writes, does she? Does she receive letters?”

“None but such as she can show me. And—sir—she—they have long wanted to consult you.”

“Pshaw! They don’t think of me—an old father! I am in the way.”

“Ah, M. de Bassompierre—not so—that can’t be! But Paulina must speak for herself: and Dr. Bretton, too, must be his own advocate.”

“It is a little late. Matters are advanced, it seems.”

“Sir, till you approve, nothing is done—only they love each other.”

“Only!” he echoed.

Invested by fate with the part of confidante and mediator, I was obliged to go on: “Hundreds of times has Dr. Bretton been on the point of appealing to you, sir; but, with all his high courage, he fears you mortally.”

“He may well—he may well fear me. He has touched the best thing I have. Had he but let her alone, she would have remained a child for years yet. So. Are they engaged?”

“They could not become engaged without your permission.”

“It is well for you, Miss Snowe, to talk and think with that propriety which always characterizes you; but this matter is a grief to me; my little girl was all I had: I have no more daughters and no son; Bretton might as well have looked elsewhere; there are scores of rich and pretty women who would not, I daresay, dislike him: he has looks, and conduct, and connection. Would nothing serve him but my Polly?”

“If he had never seen your ‘Polly,’ others might and would have pleased him—your niece, Miss Fanshawe, for instance.”

“Ah! I would have given him Ginevra with all my heart; but Polly!—I can’t let him have her. No—I can’t. He is not her equal,” he affirmed, rather gruffly. “In what particular is he her match? They talk of fortune! I am not an avaricious or interested man, but the world thinks of these things—and Polly will be rich.”

“Yes, that is known,” said I: “all Villette knows her as an heiress.”

“Do they talk of my little girl in that light?”

“They do, sir.”

He fell into deep thought. I ventured to say, “Would you, sir, think any one Paulina’s match? Would you prefer any other to Dr. Bretton? Do you think higher rank or more wealth would make much difference in your feelings towards a future son-in-law?”

“You touch me there,” said he.

“Look at the aristocracy of Villette—you would not like them, sir?”

“I should not—never a duc, baron, or vicomte of the lot.”

“I am told many of these persons think about her, sir,” I went on, gaining courage on finding that I met attention rather than repulse. “Other suitors will come, therefore, if Dr. Bretton is refused. Wherever you go, I suppose, aspirants will not be wanting. Independent of heiress-ship, it appears to me that Paulina charms most of those who see her.”

“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.’ 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 hands, 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 refolded 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 has 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 tomorrow, 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