Villette - Charlotte Brontë (best fiction books of all time TXT) 📗

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 pothooks, 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 re-folded 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 won⁠—won, and weaned from her old father.”

“Papa, I say it is naughty, it is decidedly wrong, to talk in that way. I am not weaned from you, and no human being and no mortal influence can wean me.”

“Be married, Polly! Espouse the red whiskers. Cease to be a daughter; go and be a wife!”

“Red whiskers! I wonder what you mean, papa. You should take care of prejudice. You sometimes say to me that all the Scotch, your countrymen, are the victims of prejudice. It is proved now, I think, when no distinction is to be made between red and deep nut-brown.”

“Leave the prejudiced old Scotchman; go away.”

She stood looking at him a minute. She wanted to show firmness, superiority to taunts; knowing her father’s character, guessing his few foibles, she had expected the sort of scene which was now transpiring; it did not take her by surprise, and she desired to let it pass with dignity, reliant upon reaction. Her dignity stood her in no stead. Suddenly her soul melted in her eyes; she fell on his neck:⁠—“I won’t leave you, papa; I’ll never leave you. I won’t pain you! I’ll never pain you!” was her cry.

“My lamb! my treasure!” murmured the loving though rugged sire. He said no more for the moment; indeed, those two words were hoarse.

The room was now darkening. I heard a movement, a step without. Thinking it might be a servant coming with candles, I gently opened, to prevent intrusion. In the anteroom stood no servant: a tall gentleman was placing his hat on the table, drawing off his gloves slowly⁠—lingering, waiting, it seemed to me. He called me neither by sign nor word; yet his eye said:⁠—“Lucy, come here.” And I went.

Over his face a