CHAPTER II.
PAULINA.
Some days elapsed, and it appeared she was not likely to take much of afancy to anybody in the house. She was not exactly naughty or wilful:she was far from disobedient; but an object less conducive tocomfort--to tranquillity even--than she presented, it was scarcelypossible to have before one's eyes. She moped: no grown person couldhave performed that uncheering business better; no furrowed face ofadult exile, longing for Europe at Europe's antipodes, ever bore morelegibly the signs of home sickness than did her infant visage. Sheseemed growing old and unearthly. I, Lucy Snowe, plead guiltless ofthat curse, an overheated and discursive imagination; but whenever,opening a room-door, I found her seated in a corner alone, her head inher pigmy hand, that room seemed to me not inhabited, but haunted.
And again, when of moonlight nights, on waking, I beheld her figure,white and conspicuous in its night-dress, kneeling upright in bed, andpraying like some Catholic or Methodist enthusiast--some precociousfanatic or untimely saint--I scarcely know what thoughts I had; butthey ran risk of being hardly more rational and healthy than thatchild's mind must have been.
I seldom caught a word of her prayers, for they were whispered low:sometimes, indeed, they were not whispered at all, but put upunuttered; such rare sentences as reached my ear still bore the burden,”Papa; my dear papa!” This, I perceived, was a one-idea'd nature;betraying that monomaniac tendency I have ever thought the mostunfortunate with which man or woman can be cursed.
What might have been the end of this fretting, had it continuedunchecked, can only be conjectured: it received, however, a sudden turn.
One afternoon, Mrs. Bretton, coaxing her from her usual station in acorner, had lifted her into the window-seat, and, by way of occupyingher attention, told her to watch the passengers and count how manyladies should go down the street in a given time. She had satlistlessly, hardly looking, and not counting, when--my eye being fixedon hers--I witnessed in its iris and pupil a startling transfiguration.These sudden, dangerous natures--_sensitive_ as they are called--offermany a curious spectacle to those whom a cooler temperament has securedfrom participation in their angular vagaries. The fixed and heavy gazeswum, trembled, then glittered in fire; the small, overcast browcleared; the trivial and dejected features lit up; the sad countenancevanished, and in its place appeared a sudden eagerness, an intenseexpectancy. ”It _is_!” were her words.
Like a bird or a shaft, or any other swift thing, she was gone from theroom. How she got the house-door open I cannot tell; probably it mightbe ajar; perhaps Warren was in the way and obeyed her behest, whichwould be impetuous enough. I--watching calmly from the window--saw her,in her black frock and tiny braided apron (to pinafores she had anantipathy), dart half the length of the street; and, as I was on thepoint of turning, and quietly announcing to Mrs. Bretton that the childwas run out mad, and ought instantly to be pursued, I saw her caughtup, and rapt at once from my cool observation, and from the wonderingstare of the passengers. A gentleman had done this good turn, and now,covering her with his cloak, advanced to restore her to the housewhence he had seen her issue.
I concluded he would leave her in a servant's charge and withdraw; buthe entered: having tarried a little while below, he came up-stairs.
His reception immediately explained that he was known to Mrs. Bretton.She recognised him; she greeted him, and yet she was fluttered,surprised, taken unawares. Her look and manner were even expostulatory;and in reply to these, rather than her words, he said,--”I could nothelp it, madam: I found it impossible to leave the country withoutseeing with my own eyes how she settled.”
”But you will unsettle her.”
”I hope not. And how is papa's little Polly?”
This question he addressed to Paulina, as he sat down and placed hergently on the ground before him.
”How is Polly's papa?” was the reply, as she leaned on his knee, andgazed up into his face.
It was not a noisy, not a wordy scene: for that I was thankful; but itwas a scene of feeling too brimful, and which, because the cup did notfoam up high or furiously overflow, only oppressed one the more. On alloccasions of vehement, unrestrained expansion, a sense of disdain orridicule comes to the weary spectator's relief; whereas I have everfelt most burdensome that sort of sensibility which bends of its ownwill, a giant slave under the sway of good sense.
Mr. Home was a stern-featured--perhaps I should rather say, ahard-featured man: his forehead was knotty, and his cheekbones weremarked and prominent. The character of his face was quite Scotch; butthere was feeling in his eye, and emotion in his now agitatedcountenance. His northern accent in speaking harmonised with hisphysiognomy. He was at once proud-looking and homely-looking. He laidhis hand on the child's uplifted head. She said--”Kiss Polly.”
He kissed her. I wished she would utter some hysterical cry, so that Imight get relief and be at ease. She made wonderfully little noise: sheseemed to have got what she wanted--_all_ she wanted, and to be in atrance of content. Neither in mien nor in features was this creaturelike her sire, and yet she was of his strain: her mind had been filledfrom his, as the cup from the flagon.
Indisputably, Mr. Home owned manly self-control, however he mightsecretly feel on some matters. ”Polly,” he said, looking down on hislittle girl, ”go into the hall; you will see papa's great-coat lying ona chair; put your hand into the pockets, you will find apocket-handkerchief there; bring it to me.”
She obeyed; went and returned deftly and nimbly. He was talking to Mrs.Bretton when she came back, and she waited with the handkerchief in herhand. It was a picture, in its way, to see her, with her tiny stature,and trim, neat shape, standing at his knee. Seeing that he continued totalk, apparently unconscious of her return, she took his hand, openedthe unresisting fingers, insinuated into them the handkerchief, andclosed them upon it one by one. He still seemed not to see or to feelher; but by-and-by, he lifted her to his knee; she nestled against him,and though neither looked at nor spoke to the other for an hourfollowing, I suppose both were satisfied.
During tea, the minute thing's movements and behaviour gave, as usual,full occupation to the eye. First she directed Warren, as he placed thechairs.
”Put papa's chair here, and mine near it, between papa and Mrs.Bretton: _I_ must hand his tea.”
She took her own seat, and beckoned with her hand to her father.
”Be near me, as if we were at home, papa.”
And again, as she intercepted his cup in passing, and would stir thesugar, and put in the cream herself, ”I always did it for you at home;papa: nobody could do it as well, not even your own self.”
Throughout the meal she continued her attentions: rather absurd theywere. The sugar-tongs were too wide for one of her hands, and she hadto use both in wielding them; the weight of the silver cream-ewer, thebread-and-butter plates, the very cup and saucer, tasked herinsufficient strength and dexterity; but she would lift this, handthat, and luckily contrived through it all to break nothing. Candidlyspeaking, I thought her a little busy-body; but her father, blind likeother parents, seemed perfectly content to let her wait on him, andeven wonderfully soothed by her offices.
”She is my comfort!” he could not help saying to Mrs. Bretton. Thatlady had her own ”comfort” and nonpareil on a much larger scale, and,for the moment, absent; so she sympathised with his foible.
This second ”comfort” came on the stage in the course of the evening. Iknew this day had been fixed for his return, and was aware that Mrs.Bretton had been expecting him through all its hours. We were seatedround the fire, after tea, when Graham joined our circle: I shouldrather say, broke it up--for, of course, his arrival made a bustle; andthen, as Mr. Graham was fasting, there was refreshment to be provided.He and Mr. Home met as old acquaintance; of the little girl he took nonotice for a time.
His meal over, and numerous questions from his mother answered, heturned from the table to the hearth. Opposite where he had placedhimself was seated Mr. Home, and at his elbow, the child. When I say_child_ I use an inappropriate and undescriptive term--a termsuggesting any picture rather than that of the demure little person ina mourning frock and white chemisette, that might just have fitted agood-sized doll--perched now on a high chair beside a stand, whereonwas her toy work-box of white varnished wood, and holding in her handsa shred of a handkerchief, which she was professing to hem, and atwhich she bored perseveringly with a needle, that in her fingers seemedalmost a skewer, pricking herself ever and anon, marking the cambricwith a track of minute red dots; occasionally starting when theperverse weapon--swerving from her control--inflicted a deeper stabthan usual; but still silent, diligent, absorbed, womanly.
Graham was at that time a handsome, faithless-looking youth of sixteen.I say faithless-looking, not because he was really of a very perfidiousdisposition, but because the epithet strikes me as proper to describethe fair, Celtic (not Saxon) character of his good looks; his wavedlight auburn hair, his supple symmetry, his smile frequent, anddestitute neither of fascination nor of subtlety (in no bad sense). Aspoiled, whimsical boy he was in those days.
”Mother,” he said, after eyeing the little figure before him in silencefor some time, and when the temporary absence of Mr. Home from the roomrelieved him from the half-laughing bashfulness, which was all he knewof timidity---”Mother, I see a young lady in the present society towhom I have not been introduced.”
”Mr. Home's little girl, I suppose you mean,” said his mother.
”Indeed, ma'am,” replied her son, ”I consider your expression of theleast ceremonious: Miss Home _I_ should certainly have said, inventuring to speak of the gentlewoman to whom I allude.”
”Now, Graham, I will not have that child teased. Don't flatter yourselfthat I shall suffer you to make her your butt.”
”Miss Home,” pursued Graham, undeterred by his mother's remonstrance,”might I have the honour to introduce myself, since no one else seemswilling to render you and me that service? Your slave, John GrahamBretton.”
She looked at him; he rose and bowed quite gravely. She deliberatelyput down thimble, scissors, work; descended with precaution from herperch, and curtsying with unspeakable seriousness, said, ”How do youdo?”
”I have the honour to be in fair health, only in some measure fatiguedwith a hurried journey. I hope, ma'am, I see you well?”
”Tor-rer-ably well,” was the ambitious reply of the little woman andshe now essayed to regain her former elevation, but finding this couldnot be done without some climbing and straining--a sacrifice of decorumnot to be thought of--and being utterly disdainful of aid in thepresence of a strange young gentleman, she relinquished the high chairfor a low stool: towards that low stool Graham drew in his chair.
”I hope, ma'am, the present residence, my mother's house, appears toyou 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 youa little of that precious commodity called amusement, which mamma andMistress Snowe there fail to yield me.”
”I shall have to go with papa soon: I shall not stay long at yourmother's.”
”Yes, yes; you will stay with me, I am sure. I have a pony on which youshall 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 sodo all her friends. But even with my 'long red hair'” (and he waved hismane 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 queererthan 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 Iwas 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 beforepapa soon, I daresay.”
She wished Mrs. Bretton and myself good-night; she seemed hesitatingwhether Graham's deserts entitled him to the same attention, when hecaught her up with one hand, and with that one hand held her poisedaloft above his head. She saw herself thus lifted up on high, in theglass over the fireplace. The suddenness, the freedom, the disrespectof the action were too much.
”For shame, Mr. Graham!” was her indignant cry, ”put me down!”--andwhen again on her feet, ”I wonder what you would think of me if I wereto treat you in that way, lifting you with my hand” (raising thatmighty member) ”as Warren lifts the little cat.”
So saying, she departed.