VILLETTE. Шарлотта Бронте
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the present residence, my mother’s house, appears to you a convenient place of abode?”
“Not par-tic-er-er-ly; I want to go home.”
“A natural and laudable desire, ma’am; but one which, notwithstanding,
I shall do my best to oppose. I reckon on being able to get out of you
a little of that precious commodity called amusement, which mamma and
Mistress Snowe there fail to yield me.”
“I shall have to go with papa soon: I shall not stay long at your mother’s.”
“Yes, yes; you will stay with me, I am sure. I have a pony on which you shall ride, and no end of books with pictures to show you.”
“Are you going to live here now?”
“I am. Does that please you? Do you like me?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I think you queer.”
“My face, ma’am?”
“Your face and all about you: You have long red hair.”
“Auburn hair, if you please: mamma, calls it auburn, or golden, and so do all her friends. But even with my ‘long red hair’” (and he waved his mane with a sort of triumph — tawny he himself well knew that it was, and he was proud of the leonine hue), “I cannot possibly be queerer than is your ladyship.”
“You call me queer?”
“Certainly.”
(After a pause), “I think I shall go to bed.”
“A little thing like you ought to have been in bed many hours since; but you probably sat up in the expectation of seeing me?”
“No, indeed.”
“You certainly wished to enjoy the pleasure of my society. You knew I was coming home, and would wait to have a look at me.”
“I sat up for papa, and not for you.”
“Very good, Miss Home. I am going to be a favourite: preferred before papa soon, I daresay.”
She wished Mrs. Bretton and myself goodnight; she seemed hesitating whether Graham’s deserts entitled him to the same attention, when he caught her up with one hand, and with that one hand held her poised aloft above his head. She saw herself thus lifted up on high, in the glass over the fireplace. The suddenness, the freedom, the disrespect of the action were too much.
“For shame, Mr. Graham!” was her indignant cry, “put me down!” — and when again on her feet, “I wonder what you would think of me if I were to treat you in that way, lifting you with my hand” (raising that mighty member) “as Warren lifts the little cat.”
So saying, she departed.
Chapter III.
The Playmates.
Mr. Home stayed two days. During his visit he could not be prevailed on to go out: he sat all day long by the fireside, sometimes silent, sometimes receiving and answering Mrs. Bretton’s chat, which was just of the proper sort for a man in his morbid mood — not over-sympathetic, yet not too uncongenial, sensible; and even with a touch of the motherly — she was sufficiently his senior to be permitted this touch.
As to Paulina, the child was at once happy and mute, busy and watchful.
Her father frequently lifted her to his knee; she would sit there till
she felt or fancied he grew restless; then it was — “Papa, put me down;
I shall tire you with my weight.”
And the mighty burden slid to the rug, and establishing itself on carpet or stool just at “papa’s” feet, the white workbox and the scarlet-speckled handkerchief came into play. This handkerchief, it seems, was intended as a keepsake for “papa,” and must be finished before his departure; consequently the demand on the sempstress’s industry (she accomplished about a score of stitches in half-an-hour) was stringent.
The evening, by restoring Graham to the maternal roof (his days were passed at school), brought us an accession of animation — a quality not diminished by the nature of the scenes pretty sure to be enacted between him and Miss Paulina.
A distant and haughty demeanour had been the result of the indignity put upon her the first evening of his arrival: her usual answer, when he addressed her, was — “I can’t attend to you; I have other things to think about.” Being implored to state what things:
“Business.”
Graham would endeavour to seduce her attention by opening his desk and displaying its multifarious contents: seals, bright sticks of wax, penknives, with a miscellany of engravings — some of them gaily coloured — which he had amassed from time to time. Nor was this powerful temptation wholly unavailing: her eyes, furtively raised from her work, cast many a peep towards the writing-table, rich in scattered pictures. An etching of a child playing with a Blenheim spaniel happened to flutter to the floor.
“Pretty little dog!” said she, delighted.
Graham prudently took no notice. Ere long, stealing from her corner, she approached to examine the treasure more closely. The dog’s great eyes and long ears, and the child’s hat and feathers, were irresistible.
“Nice picture!” was her favourable criticism.
“Well — you may have it,” said Graham.
She seemed to hesitate. The wish to possess was strong, but to accept would be a compromise of dignity. No. She put it down and turned away.
“You won’t have it, then, Polly?”
“I would rather not, thank you.”
“Shall I tell you what I will do with the picture if you refuse it?”
She half turned to listen.
“Cut it into strips for lighting the taper.”
“No!”
“But I shall.”
“Please — don’t.”
Graham waxed inexorable on hearing the pleading tone; he took the scissors from his mother’s work-basket.
“Here goes!” said he, making a menacing flourish. “Right through Fido’s head, and splitting little Harry’s nose.”
“No! No! NO!”
“Then come to me. Come quickly, or it is done.”
She hesitated, lingered, but complied.
“Now, will you have it?” he asked, as she stood before him.
“Please.”
“But I shall want payment.”
“How much?”
“A kiss.”
“Give the picture first into my hand.”
Polly, as she said this, looked rather faithless in her turn. Graham gave it. She absconded a debtor, darted to her father, and took refuge on his knee. Graham rose in mimic wrath and followed. She buried her face in Mr. Home’s waistcoat.
“Papa — papa — send him away!”
“I’ll not be sent away,” said Graham.
With face still averted, she held out her hand to keep him off
“Then, I shall kiss the hand,” said he; but that moment it became a miniature fist, and dealt him payment in