Villette Charlotte Brontë (summer reads .txt) 📖

was dim; the room was long⁠—but as I live! I saw in the middle of that ghostly chamber a figure all black and white; the skirts straight, narrow, black; the head bandaged, veiled, white.

Say what you will, reader⁠—tell me I was nervous or mad; affirm that I was unsettled by the excitement of that letter; declare that I dreamed; this I vow⁠—I saw there⁠—in that room⁠—on that night⁠—an image like⁠—a nun.

I cried out; I sickened. Had the shape approached me I might have swooned. It receded; I made for the door. How I descended all the stairs I know not. By instinct I shunned the refectory, and shaped my course to Madame’s sitting-room: I burst in. I said⁠—

“There is something in the grenier; I have been there: I saw something. Go and look at it, all of you!”

I said, “All of you;” for the room seemed to me full of people, though in truth there were but four present: Madame Beck; her mother, Madame Kint, who was out of health, and now staying with her on a visit; her brother, M. Victor Kint, and another gentleman, who, when I entered the room, was conversing with the old lady, and had his back towards the door.

My mortal fear and faintness must have made me deadly pale. I felt cold and shaking. They all rose in consternation; they surrounded me. I urged them to go to the grenier; the sight of the gentlemen did me good and gave me courage: it seemed as if there were some help and hope, with men at hand. I turned to the door, beckoning them to follow. They wanted to stop me, but I said they must come this way: they must see what I had seen⁠—something strange, standing in the middle of the garret. And, now, I remembered my letter, left on the drawers with the light. This precious letter! Flesh or spirit must be defied for its sake. I flew upstairs, hastening the faster as I knew I was followed: they were obliged to come.

Lo! when I reached the garret-door, all within was dark as a pit: the light was out. Happily some one⁠—Madame, I think, with her usual calm sense⁠—had brought a lamp from the room; speedily, therefore, as they came up, a ray pierced the opaque blackness. There stood the bougie quenched on the drawers; but where was the letter? And I looked for that now, and not for the nun.

“My letter! my letter!” I panted and plained, almost beside myself. I groped on the floor, wringing my hands wildly. Cruel, cruel doom! To have my bit of comfort preternaturally snatched from me, ere I had well tasted its virtue!

I don’t know what the others were doing; I could not watch them; they asked me questions I did not answer; they ransacked all corners; they prattled about this and that disarrangement of cloaks, a breach or crack in the skylight⁠—I know not what. “Something or somebody has been here,” was sagely averred.

“Oh! they have taken my letter!” cried the grovelling, groping, monomaniac.

“What letter, Lucy? My dear girl, what letter?” asked a known voice in my ear. Could I believe that ear? No: and I looked up. Could I trust my eyes? Had I recognised the tone? Did I now look on the face of the writer of that very letter? Was this gentleman near me in this dim garret, John Graham⁠—Dr. Bretton himself?

Yes; it was. He had been called in that very evening to prescribe for some access of illness in old Madame Kint; he was the second gentleman present in the salle-à-manger when I entered.

“Was it my letter, Lucy?”

“Your own: yours⁠—the letter you wrote to me. I had come here to read it quietly. I could not find another spot where it was possible to have it to myself. I had saved it all day⁠—never opened it till this evening: it was scarcely glanced over: I cannot bear to lose it. Oh, my letter!”

“Hush! don’t cry and distress yourself so cruelly. What is it worth? Hush! Come out of this cold room; they are going to send for the police now to examine further: we need not stay here⁠—come, we will go down.”

A warm hand, taking my cold fingers, led me down to a room where there was a fire. Dr. John and I sat before the stove. He talked to me and soothed me with unutterable goodness, promising me twenty letters for the one lost. If there are words and wrongs like knives, whose deep-inflicted lacerations never heal⁠—cutting injuries and insults of serrated and poison-dripping edge⁠—so, too, there are consolations of tone too fine for the ear not fondly and for ever to retain their echo⁠—caressing kindnesses⁠—loved, lingered over through a whole life, recalled with unfaded tenderness, and answering the call with undimmed shine, out of that raven cloud foreshadowing Death himself. I have been told since that Dr. Bretton was not nearly so perfect as I thought him; that his actual character lacked the depth, height, compass, and endurance it possessed in my creed. I don’t know: he was as good to me as the well is to the parched wayfarer⁠—as the sun to the shivering jailbird. I remember him heroic. Heroic at this moment will I hold him to be.

He asked me, smiling, why I cared for his letter so very much. I thought, but did not say, that I prized it like the blood in my veins. I only answered that I had so few letters to care for.

“I am sure you did not read it,” said he; “or you would think nothing of it!”

“I read it, but only once. I want to read it again. I am sorry it is lost.” And I could not help weeping afresh.

“Lucy, Lucy, my poor little god-sister (if there be such a relationship), here⁠—here is your letter. Why is it not better worth such tears, and such tenderly exaggerating faith?”

Curious, characteristic manoeuvre! His quick eye had seen the letter on the floor where