Villette (Barnes & Noble Classics) - Charlotte Bronte [212]
‘You must think it rather strange that I should talk so much about Dr. Bretton, ask so many questions, take such an interest, but—’
‘Not at all strange; perfectly natural; you like him.’
‘And if I did,’ said she, with slight quickness, ‘is that a reason why I 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 here waiting for your communications. I would get up, walk at my ease about the 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 to do?’ 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 to die for liking him, that alone could not license me to be otherwise than dumb—dumb as the grave—dumb as you, Lucy Snowe—you know it—and you know you would despise me if I failed in self-control, and whined about some ricketty liking that was all on my side.’
‘It is true I little respect women or girls who are loquacious either in boasting the triumphs, or bemoaning the mortifications, of feeling. But as to you, Paulina, speak, for I earnestly wish to hear you. Tell me 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 was a little, troublesome, disobedient girl; it was charming to me then to lavish 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, not with honest Mistress Fanshawe’s fatiguing and selfish weight.
‘A few minutes since you asked whether we had not heard from Graham during our absence, and I said there were two letters for papa on business; this was true, but I did not tell you all.’
‘You evaded?’
‘I shuffled and equivocated, you know. However, I am going to speak the truth now; it is getting darker; one can talk at one’s ease. Papa often lets 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 to Miss de Bassompierre. I spied it at once, amidst all the rest; the handwriting was not strange; it attracted me directly. I was going to say, “Papa, here is another letter from Dr. Bretton;” but the “Miss” struck me mute. I actually never received a letter from a gentleman before. Ought I to have shown it to papa, and let him open it and read it first? I could not for my life, Lucy. I know so well papa’s ideas about me: he forgets my age; he thinks I am a mere school-girl; he is not 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 papa his twelve letters—his herd of possessions—and kept back my one, my ewe-lamb. It lay in my lap during breakfast, looking up at me with an inexplicable meaning, making me feel myself a thing double-existent—a child to that dear papa, but no more a child to myself. After breakfast I carried my letter up-stairs, and having secured myself by turning the key in the door, I began to study the outside of my treasure: it was some minutes before I could get over the direction and penetrate the seal; one does not take a strong place of this kind by instant storm—one sits down awhile before it, as beleaguers say. Graham’s hand is like himself, Lucy, and so is his seal—all clear, firm, and rounded—no slovenly splash of wax—a full, solid, steady drop—a distinct 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 you know his autograph?’
‘I have seen it: go on.’
‘The seal was too beautiful to be broken, so I cut it round with my scissors.