The Complete Novels of Charlotte Brontë

by Charlotte Bronte

  “Papa, what is the matter?” she whispered.

  “You had better ask him, Polly.”

  “Is he hurt?” (groan second.)

  “He makes a noise as if he were,” said Mr. Home.

  “Mother,” suggested Graham, feebly, “I think you had better send for the doctor. Oh my eye!” (renewed silence, broken only by sighs from Graham.)

  “If I were to become blind — — ?” suggested this last.

  His chastiser could not bear the suggestion. She was beside him directly.

  “Let me see your eye: I did not mean to touch it, only your mouth; and

  I did not think I hit so very hard.”

  Silence answered her. Her features worked, — “I am sorry; I am sorry!”

  Then succeeded emotion, faltering; weeping.

  “Have done trying that child, Graham,” said Mrs. Bretton.

  “It is all nonsense, my pet,” cried Mr. Home.

  And Graham once more snatched her aloft, and she again punished him; and while she pulled his lion’s locks, termed him — “The naughtiest, rudest, worst, untruest person that ever was.”

  *

  On the morning of Mr. Home’s departure, he and his daughter had some conversation in a window-recess by themselves; I heard part of it.

  “Couldn’t I pack my box and go with you, papa?” she whispered earnestly.

  He shook his head.

  “Should I be a trouble to you?”

  “Yes, Polly.”

  “Because I am little?”

  “Because you are little and tender. It is only great, strong people that should travel. But don’t look sad, my little girl; it breaks my heart. Papa, will soon come back to his Polly.”

  “Indeed, indeed, I am not sad, scarcely at all.”

  “Polly would be sorry to give papa pain; would she not?”

  “Sorrier than sorry.”

  “Then Polly must be cheerful: not cry at parting; not fret afterwards.

  She must look forward to meeting again, and try to be happy meanwhile.

  Can she do this?”

  “She will try.”

  “I see she will. Farewell, then. It is time to go.”

  “Now? — just now?

  “Just now.”

  She held up quivering lips. Her father sobbed, but she, I remarked, did not. Having put her down, he shook hands with the rest present, and departed.

  When the street-door closed, she dropped on her knees at a chair with a cry — “Papa!”

  It was low and long; a sort of “Why hast thou forsaken me?” During an ensuing space of some minutes, I perceived she endured agony. She went through, in that brief interval of her infant life, emotions such as some never feel; it was in her constitution: she would have more of such instants if she lived. Nobody spoke. Mrs. Bretton, being a mother, shed a tear or two. Graham, who was writing, lifted up his eyes and gazed at her. I, Lucy Snowe, was calm.

  The little creature, thus left unharassed, did for herself what none other could do — contended with an intolerable feeling; and, ere long, in some degree, repressed it. That day she would accept solace from none; nor the next day: she grew more passive afterwards.

  On the third evening, as she sat on the floor, worn and quiet, Graham, coming in, took her up gently, without a word. She did not resist: she rather nestled in his arms, as if weary. When he sat down, she laid her head against him; in a few minutes she slept; he carried her upstairs to bed. I was not surprised that, the next morning, the first thing she demanded was, “Where is Mr. Graham?”

  It happened that Graham was not coming to the breakfast-table; he had some exercises to write for that morning’s class, and had requested his mother to send a cup of tea into the study. Polly volunteered to carry it: she must be busy about something, look after somebody. The cup was entrusted to her; for, if restless, she was also careful. As the study was opposite the breakfast-room, the doors facing across the passage, my eye followed her.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, pausing on the threshold.

  “Writing,” said Graham.

  “Why don’t you come to take breakfast with your mamma?”

  “Too busy.”

  “Do you want any breakfast?”

  “Of course.”

  “There, then.”

  And she deposited the cup on the carpet, like a jailor putting a prisoner’s pitcher of water through his cell-door, and retreated. Presently she returned.

  “What will you have besides tea — what to eat?”

  “Anything good. Bring me something particularly nice; that’s a kind little woman.”

  She came back to Mrs. Bretton.

  “Please, ma’am, send your boy something good.”

  “You shall choose for him, Polly; what shall my boy have?”

  She selected a portion of whatever was best on the table; and, ere long, came back with a whispered request for some marmalade, which was not there. Having got it, however, (for Mrs. Bretton refused the pair nothing), Graham was shortly after heard lauding her to the skies; promising that, when he had a house of his own, she should be his housekeeper, and perhaps — if she showed any culinary genius — his cook; and, as she did not return, and I went to look after her, I found Graham and her breakfasting tête-à-tête — she standing at his elbow, and sharing his fare: excepting the marmalade, which she delicately refused to touch, lest, I suppose, it should appear that she had procured it as much on her own account as his. She constantly evinced these nice perceptions and delicate instincts.

  The league of acquaintanceship thus struck up was not hastily dissolved; on the contrary, it appeared that time and circumstances served rather to cement than loosen it. Ill-assimilated as the two were in age, sex, pursuits, &c., they somehow found a great deal to say to each other. As to Paulina, I observed that her little character never properly came out, except with young Bretton. As she got settled, and accustomed to the house, she proved tractable enough with Mrs. Bretton; but she would sit on a stool at that lady’s feet all day long, learning her task, or sewing, or drawing figures with a pencil on a slate, and never kindling once to originality, or showing a single gleam of the peculiarities of her nature. I ceased to watch her under such circumstances: she was not interesting. But the moment Graham’s knock sounded of an evening, a change occurred; she was instantly at the head of the staircase. Usually her welcome was a reprimand or a threat.

  “You have not wiped your shoes properly on the mat. I shall tell your mamma.”

  “Little busybody! Are you there?”

  “Yes — and you can’t reach me: I am higher up than you” (peeping between the rails of the banister; she could not look over them).

  “Polly!”

  “My dear boy!” (such was one of her terms for him, adopted in imitation of his mother.)

  “I am fit to faint with fatigue,” declared Graham, leaning against the passage-wall in seeming exhaustion. “Dr. Digby” (the headmaster) “has quite knocked me up with overwork. Just come down and help me to carry up my books.”

  “Ah! you’re cunning!”

  “Not at all, Polly — it is positive fact. I’m as weak as a rush. Come down.”

  “Your eyes are quiet like the cat’s, but you’ll spring.”

  “Spring? Nothing of the kind: it isn’t in me. Come down.”

  “Perhaps I may — if you’ll promise not to touch — not to snatch me up, and not to whirl me round.”

  “I? I couldn’t do it!” (sinking into a chair.)

  “Then put the books down on the first step, and go three yards off”

  This being done, she descended warily, and not taking her eyes from the feeble Graham. Of course her approach always galvanized him to new and spasmodic life: the game of romps was sure to be exacted. Sometimes she would be angry; sometimes the matter was allowed to pass smoothly, and we could hear her say as she led him upstairs: “Now, my dear boy, come and take your tea — I am sure you must want something.”

  It
was sufficiently comical to observe her as she sat beside Graham, while he took that meal. In his absence she was a still personage, but with him the most officious, fidgety little body possible. I often wished she would mind herself and be tranquil; but no — herself was forgotten in him: he could not be sufficiently well waited on, nor carefully enough looked after; he was more than the Grand Turk in her estimation. She would gradually assemble the various plates before him, and, when one would suppose all he could possibly desire was within his reach, she would find out something else: “Ma’am,” she would whisper to Mrs. Bretton, — “perhaps your son would like a little cake — sweet cake, you know — there is some in there” (pointing to the sideboard cupboard). Mrs. Bretton, as a rule, disapproved of sweet cake at tea, but still the request was urged, — “One little piece — only for him — as he goes to school: girls — such as me and Miss Snowe — don’t need treats, but he would like it.”

  Graham did like it very well, and almost always got it. To do him justice, he would have shared his prize with her to whom he owed it; but that was never allowed: to insist, was to ruffle her for the evening. To stand by his knee, and monopolize his talk and notice, was the reward she wanted — not a share of the cake.

  With curious readiness did she adapt herself to such themes as interested him. One would have thought the child had no mind or life of her own, but must necessarily live, move, and have her being in another: now that her father was taken from her, she nestled to Graham, and seemed to feel by his feelings: to exist in his existence. She learned the names of all his schoolfellows in a trice: she got by heart their characters as given from his lips: a single description of an individual seemed to suffice. She never forgot, or confused identities: she would talk with him the whole evening about people she had never seen, and appear completely to realise their aspect, manners, and dispositions. Some she learned to mimic: an under-master, who was an aversion of young Bretton’s, had, it seems, some peculiarities, which she caught up in a moment from Graham’s representation, and rehearsed for his amusement; this, however, Mrs. Bretton disapproved and forbade.

  The pair seldom quarrelled; yet once a rupture occurred, in which her feelings received a severe shock.

  One day Graham, on the occasion of his birthday, had some friends — lads of his own age — to dine with him. Paulina took much interest in the coming of these friends; she had frequently heard of them; they were amongst those of whom Graham oftenest spoke. After dinner, the young gentlemen were left by themselves in the dining-room, where they soon became very merry and made a good deal of noise. Chancing to pass through the hall, I found Paulina sitting alone on the lowest step of the staircase, her eyes fixed on the glossy panels of the dining-room door, where the reflection of the hall-lamp was shining; her little brow knit in anxious, meditation.

  “What are you thinking about, Polly?”

  “Nothing particular; only I wish that door was clear glass — that I might see through it. The boys seem very cheerful, and I want to go to them: I want to be with Graham, and watch his friends.”

  “What hinders you from going?”

  “I feel afraid: but may I try, do you think? May I knock at the door, and ask to be let in?”

  I thought perhaps they might not object to have her as a playmate, and therefore encouraged the attempt.

  She knocked — too faintly at first to be heard, but on a second essay the door unclosed; Graham’s head appeared; he looked in high spirits, but impatient.

  “What do you want, you little monkey?”

  “To come to you.”

  “Do you indeed? As if I would be troubled with you! Away to mamma and Mistress Snowe, and tell them to put you to bed.” The auburn head and bright flushed face vanished, — the door shut peremptorily. She was stunned.

  “Why does he speak so? He never spoke so before,” she said in consternation. “What have I done?”

  “Nothing, Polly; but Graham is busy with his school-friends.”

  “And he likes them better than me! He turns me away now they are here!”

  I had some thoughts of consoling her, and of improving the occasion by inculcating some of those maxims of philosophy whereof I had ever a tolerable stock ready for application. She stopped me, however, by putting her fingers in her ears at the first words I uttered, and then lying down on the mat with her face against the flags; nor could either Warren or the cook root her from that position: she was allowed to lie, therefore, till she chose to rise of her own accord.

  Graham forgot his impatience the same evening, and would have accosted her as usual when his friends were gone, but she wrenched herself from his hand; her eye quite flashed; she would not bid him goodnight; she would not look in his face. The next day he treated her with indifference, and she grew like a bit of marble. The day after, he teased her to know what was the matter; her lips would not unclose. Of course he could not feel real anger on his side: the match was too unequal in every way; he tried soothing and coaxing. “Why was she so angry? What had he done?” By-and-by tears answered him; he petted her, and they were friends. But she was one on whom such incidents were not lost: I remarked that never after this rebuff did she seek him, or follow him, or in any way solicit his notice. I told her once to carry a book or some other article to Graham when he was shut up in his study.

  “I shall wait till he comes out,” said she, proudly; “I don’t choose to give him the trouble of rising to open the door.”

  Young Bretton had a favourite pony on which he often rode out; from the window she always watched his departure and return. It was her ambition to be permitted to have a ride round the courtyard on this pony; but far be it from her to ask such a favour. One day she descended to the yard to watch him dismount; as she leaned against the gate, the longing wish for the indulgence of a ride glittered in her eye.

  “Come, Polly, will you have a canter?” asked Graham, half carelessly.

  I suppose she thought he was too careless.

  “No, thank you,” said she, turning away with the utmost coolness.

  “You’d better,” pursued he. “You will like it, I am sure.”

  “Don’t think I should care a fig about it,” was the response.

  “That is not true. You told Lucy Snowe you longed to have a ride.”

  “Lucy Snowe is a tatter-box,” I heard her say (her imperfect articulation was the least precocious thing she had about her); and with this; she walked into the house.

  Graham, coming in soon after, observed to his mother, — “Mamma, I believe that creature is a changeling: she is a perfect cabinet of oddities; but I should be dull without her: she amuses me a great deal more than you or Lucy Snowe.”

  *

  “Miss Snowe,” said Paulina to me (she had now got into the habit of occasionally chatting with me when we were alone in our room at night), “do you know on what day in the week I like Graham best?”

  “How can I possibly know anything so strange? Is there one day out of the seven when he is otherwise than on the other six?”

  “To be sure! Can’t you see? Don’t you know? I find him the most excellent on a Sunday; then we have him the whole day, and he is quiet, and, in the evening, so kind.”

  This observation was not altogether groundless: going to church, &c., kept Graham quiet on the Sunday, and the evening he generally dedicated to a serene, though rather indolent sort of enjoyment by the parlour fireside. He would take possession of the couch, and then he would call Polly.

  Graham was a boy not quite as other boys are; all his delight did not lie in action: he was capable of some intervals of contemplation; he could take a pleasure too in reading, nor was his selection of books wholly indiscriminate: there were glimmerings of characteristic preference, and even of instinctive taste in the choice. He rarely, it is true, remarked on what he read, but I have seen him sit and think of it.

  Polly, being near him, kneeling on a little cushion or the carpet, a conversation would begin in murmurs, not inaudible,
though subdued. I caught a snatch of their tenor now and then; and, in truth, some influence better and finer than that of every day, seemed to soothe Graham at such times into no ungentle mood.

  “Have you learned any hymns this week, Polly?”

  “I have learned a very pretty one, four verses long. Shall I say it?”