CHAPTER XXVI.
A BURIAL.
From this date my life did not want variety; I went out a good deal,with the entire consent of Madame Beck, who perfectly approved thegrade of my acquaintance. That worthy directress had never from thefirst treated me otherwise than with respect; and when she found that Iwas liable to frequent invitations from a chateau and a great hotel,respect improved into distinction.
Not that she was fulsome about it: Madame, in all things worldly, wasin nothing weak; there was measure and sense in her hottest pursuit ofself-interest, calm and considerateness in her closest clutch of gain;without, then, laying herself open to my contempt as a time-server anda toadie, she marked with tact that she was pleased people connectedwith her establishment should frequent such associates as mustcultivate and elevate, rather than those who might deteriorate anddepress. She never praised either me or my friends; only once when shewas sitting in the sun in the garden, a cup of coffee at her elbow andthe Gazette in her hand, looking very comfortable, and I came up andasked leave of absence for the evening, she delivered herself in thisgracious sort:--
"Oui, oui, ma bonne amie: je vous donne la permission de coeur et degre. Votre travail dans ma maison a toujours ete admirable, rempli dezele et de discretion: vous avez bien le droit de vous amuser. Sortezdonc tant que vous voudrez. Quant a votre choix de connaissances, j'ensuis contente; c'est sage, digne, laudable."
She closed her lips and resumed the Gazette.
The reader will not too gravely regard the little circumstance thatabout this time the triply-enclosed packet of five letters temporarilydisappeared from my bureau. Blank dismay was naturally my firstsensation on making the discovery; but in a moment I took heart ofgrace.
"Patience!" whispered I to myself. "Let me say nothing, but waitpeaceably; they will come back again."
And they did come back: they had only been on a short visit to Madame'schamber; having passed their examination, they came back duly andtruly: I found them all right the next day.
I wonder what she thought of my correspondence? What estimate did sheform of Dr. John Bretton's epistolary powers? In what light did theoften very pithy thoughts, the generally sound, and sometimes originalopinions, set, without pretension, in an easily-flowing, spiritedstyle, appear to her? How did she like that genial, half humorous vein,which to me gave such delight? What did she think of the few kind wordsscattered here and there--not thickly, as the diamonds were scattered inthe valley of Sindbad, but sparely, as those gems lie in unfabled beds?Oh, Madame Beck! how seemed these things to you?
I think in Madame Beck's eyes the five letters found a certain favour.One day after she had _borrowed_ them of me (in speaking of so suave alittle woman, one ought to use suave terms), I caught her examining mewith a steady contemplative gaze, a little puzzled, but not at allmalevolent. It was during that brief space between lessons, when thepupils turned out into the court for a quarter of an hour's recreation;she and I remained in the first classe alone: when I met her eye, herthoughts forced themselves partially through her lips.
"Il y a," said she, "quelquechose de bien remarquable dans le caractereAnglais."
"How, Madame?"
She gave a little laugh, repeating the word "how" in English.
"Je ne saurais vous dire 'how;' mais, enfin, les Anglais ont des ideesa eux, en amitie, en amour, en tout. Mais au moins il n'est pas besoinde les surveiller," she added, getting up and trotting away like thecompact little pony she was.
"Then I hope," murmured I to myself, "you will graciously let alone myletters for the future."
Alas! something came rushing into my eyes, dimming utterly theirvision, blotting from sight the schoolroom, the garden, the brightwinter sun, as I remembered that never more would letters, such as shehad read, come to me. I had seen the last of them. That goodly river onwhose banks I had sojourned, of whose waves a few reviving drops hadtrickled to my lips, was bending to another course: it was leaving mylittle hut and field forlorn and sand-dry, pouring its wealth of watersfar away. The change was right, just, natural; not a word could besaid: but I loved my Rhine, my Nile; I had almost worshipped my Ganges,and I grieved that the grand tide should roll estranged, should vanishlike a false mirage. Though stoical, I was not quite a stoic; dropsstreamed fast on my hands, on my desk: I wept one sultry shower, heavyand brief.
But soon I said to myself, "The Hope I am bemoaning suffered and mademe suffer much: it did not die till it was full time: following anagony so lingering, death ought to be welcome."
Welcome I endeavoured to make it. Indeed, long pain had made patience ahabit. In the end I closed the eyes of my dead, covered its face, andcomposed its limbs with great calm.
The letters, however, must be put away, out of sight: people who haveundergone bereavement always jealously gather together and lock awaymementos: it is not supportable to be stabbed to the heart each momentby sharp revival of regret.
One vacant holiday afternoon (the Thursday) going to my treasure, withintent to consider its final disposal, I perceived--and this time witha strong impulse of displeasure--that it had been again tampered with:the packet was there, indeed, but the ribbon which secured it had beenuntied and retied; and by other symptoms I knew that my drawer had beenvisited.
This was a little too much. Madame Beck herself was the soul ofdiscretion, besides having as strong a brain and sound a judgment asever furnished a human head; that she should know the contents of mycasket, was not pleasant, but might be borne. Little Jesuitinquisitress as she was, she could see things in a true light, andunderstand them in an unperverted sense; but the idea that she hadventured to communicate information, thus gained, to others; that shehad, perhaps, amused herself with a companion over documents, in myeyes most sacred, shocked me cruelly. Yet, that such was the case I nowsaw reason to fear; I even guessed her confidant. Her kinsman, M. PaulEmanuel, had spent yesterday evening with her: she was much in thehabit of consulting him, and of discussing with him matters shebroached to no one else. This very morning, in class, that gentlemanhad favoured me with a glance which he seemed to have borrowed fromVashti, the actress; I had not at the moment comprehended that blue,yet lurid, flash out of his angry eye; but I read its meaning now._He_, I believed, was not apt to regard what concerned me from a fairpoint of view, nor to judge me with tolerance and candour: I had alwaysfound him severe and suspicious: the thought that these letters, merefriendly letters as they were, had fallen once, and might fall again,into his hands, jarred my very soul.
What should I do to prevent this? In what corner of this strange housewas it possible to find security or secresy? Where could a key be asafeguard, or a padlock a barrier?
In the grenier? No, I did not like the grenier. Besides, most of theboxes and drawers there were mouldering, and did not lock. Rats, too,gnawed their way through the decayed wood; and mice made nests amongstthe litter of their contents: my dear letters (most dear still, thoughIchabod was written on their covers) might be consumed by vermin;certainly the writing would soon become obliterated by damp. No; thegrenier would not do--but where then?
While pondering this problem, I sat in the dormitory window-seat. Itwas a fine frosty afternoon; the winter sun, already setting, gleamedpale on the tops of the garden-shrubs in the "allee defendue." Onegreat old pear-tree--the nun's pear-tree--stood up a tall dryadskeleton, grey, gaunt, and stripped. A thought struck me--one of thosequeer fantastic thoughts that will sometimes strike solitary people. Iput on my bonnet, cloak, and furs, and went out into the city.
Bending my steps to the old historical quarter of the town, whose hoaxand overshadowed precincts I always sought by instinct in melancholymoods, I wandered on from street to street, till, having crossed a halfdeserted "place" or square, I found myself before a sort of broker'sshop; an ancient place, full of ancient things. What I wanted was ametal box which might be soldered, or a thick glass jar or bottle whichmight be stoppered or sealed hermetically. Amongst miscellaneous heaps,I found and purchased the latter artic
le.
I then made a little roll of my letters, wrapped them in oiled silk,bound them with twine, and, having put them in the bottle, got the oldJew broker to stopper, seal, and make it air-tight. While obeying mydirections, he glanced at me now and then suspiciously from under hisfrost-white eyelashes. I believe he thought there was some evil deed onhand. In all this I had a dreary something--not pleasure--but a sad,lonely satisfaction. The impulse under which I acted, the moodcontrolling me, were similar to the impulse and the mood which hadinduced me to visit the confessional. With quick walking I regained thepensionnat just at dark, and in time for dinner.
At seven o'clock the moon rose. At half-past seven, when the pupils andteachers were at study, and Madame Beck was with her mother andchildren in the salle-a-manger, when the half-boarders were all gonehome, and Rosine had left the vestibule, and all was still--I shawledmyself, and, taking the sealed jar, stole out through the first-classedoor, into the berceau and thence into the "allee defendue."
Methusaleh, the pear-tree, stood at the further end of this walk, nearmy seat: he rose up, dim and gray, above the lower shrubs round him.Now Methusaleh, though so very old, was of sound timber still; onlythere was a hole, or rather a deep hollow, near his root. I knew therewas such a hollow, hidden partly by ivy and creepers growing thickround; and there I meditated hiding my treasure. But I was not onlygoing to hide a treasure--I meant also to bury a grief. That grief overwhich I had lately been weeping, as I wrapped it in its winding-sheet,must be interred.
Well, I cleared away the ivy, and found the hole; it was large enoughto receive the jar, and I thrust it deep in. In a tool-shed at thebottom of the garden, lay the relics of building-materials, left bymasons lately employed to repair a part of the premises. I fetchedthence a slate and some mortar, put the slate on the hollow, secured itwith cement, covered the hole with black mould, and, finally, replacedthe ivy. This done, I rested, leaning against the tree; lingering, likeany other mourner, beside a newly-sodded grave.
The air of the night was very still, but dim with a peculiar mist,which changed the moonlight into a luminous haze. In this air, or thismist, there was some quality--electrical, perhaps--which acted instrange sort upon me. I felt then as I had felt a year ago inEngland--on a night when the aurora borealis was streaming and sweepinground heaven, when, belated in lonely fields, I had paused to watchthat mustering of an army with banners--that quivering of serriedlances--that swift ascent of messengers from below the north star tothe dark, high keystone of heaven's arch. I felt, not happy, farotherwise, but strong with reinforced strength.
If life be a war, it seemed my destiny to conduct it single-handed. Ipondered now how to break up my winter-quarters--to leave an encampmentwhere food and forage failed. Perhaps, to effect this change, anotherpitched battle must be fought with fortune; if so, I had a mind to theencounter: too poor to lose, God might destine me to gain. But whatroad was open?--what plan available?
On this question I was still pausing, when the moon, so dim hitherto,seemed to shine out somewhat brighter: a ray gleamed even white beforeme, and a shadow became distinct and marked. I looked more narrowly, tomake out the cause of this well-defined contrast appearing a littlesuddenly in the obscure alley: whiter and blacker it grew on my eye: ittook shape with instantaneous transformation. I stood about three yardsfrom a tall, sable-robed, snowy-veiled woman.
Five minutes passed. I neither fled nor shrieked. She was there still.I spoke.
"Who are you? and why do you come to me?"
She stood mute. She had no face--no features: all below her brow wasmasked with a white cloth; but she had eyes, and they viewed me.
I felt, if not brave, yet a little desperate; and desperation willoften suffice to fill the post and do the work of courage. I advancedone step. I stretched out my hand, for I meant to touch her. She seemedto recede. I drew nearer: her recession, still silent, became swift. Amass of shrubs, full-leaved evergreens, laurel and dense yew,intervened between me and what I followed. Having passed that obstacle,I looked and saw nothing. I waited. I said,--"If you have any errand tomen, come back and deliver it." Nothing spoke or re-appeared.
This time there was no Dr. John to whom to have recourse: there was noone to whom I dared whisper the words, "I have again seen the nun."
* * * * *
Paulina Mary sought my frequent presence in the Rue Crecy. In the oldBretton days, though she had never professed herself fond of me, mysociety had soon become to her a sort of unconscious necessary. I usedto notice that if I withdrew to my room, she would speedily cometrotting after me, and opening the door and peeping in, say, with herlittle peremptory accent,--"Come down. Why do you sit here by yourself?You must come into the parlour."
In the same spirit she urged me now--"Leave the Rue Fossette," shesaid, "and come and live with us. Papa would give you far more thanMadame Beck gives you."
Mr. Home himself offered me a handsome sum--thrice my presentsalary--if I would accept the office of companion to his daughter. Ideclined. I think I should have declined had I been poorer than I was,and with scantier fund of resource, more stinted narrowness of futureprospect. I had not that vocation. I could teach; I could give lessons;but to be either a private governess or a companion was unnatural tome. Rather than fill the former post in any great house, I woulddeliberately have taken a housemaid's place, bought a strong pair ofgloves, swept bedrooms and staircases, and cleaned stoves and locks, inpeace and independence. Rather than be a companion, I would have madeshirts and starved.
I was no bright lady's shadow--not Miss de Bassompierre's. Overcastenough it was my nature often to be; of a subdued habit I was: but thedimness and depression must both be voluntary--such as kept me docileat my desk, in the midst of my now well-accustomed pupils in MadameBeck's fist classe; or alone, at my own bedside, in her dormitory, orin the alley and seat which were called mine, in her garden: myqualifications were not convertible, nor adaptable; they could not bemade the foil of any gem, the adjunct of any beauty, the appendage ofany greatness in Christendom. Madame Beck and I, without assimilating,understood each other well. I was not _her_ companion, nor herchildren's governess; she left me free: she tied me to nothing--not toherself--not even to her interests: once, when she had for a fortnightbeen called from home by a near relation's illness, and on her return,all anxious and full of care about her establishment, lest something inher absence should have gone wrong finding that matters had proceededmuch as usual, and that there was no evidence of glaring neglect--shemade each of the teachers a present, in acknowledgment of steadiness.To my bedside she came at twelve o'clock at night, and told me she hadno present for me: "I must make fidelity advantageous to the St.Pierre," said she; "if I attempt to make it advantageous to you, therewill arise misunderstanding between us--perhaps separation. One thing,however, I _can_ do to please you--leave you alone with your liberty:c'est-ce que je ferai." She kept her word. Every slight shackle she hadever laid on me, she, from that time, with quiet hand removed. Thus Ihad pleasure in voluntarily respecting her rules: gratification indevoting double time, in taking double pains with the pupils shecommitted to my charge.
As to Mary de Bassompierre, I visited her with pleasure, though I wouldnot live with her. My visits soon taught me that it was unlikely evenmy occasional and voluntary society would long be indispensable to her.M. de Bassompierre, for his part, seemed impervious to this conjecture,blind to this possibility; unconscious as any child to the signs, thelikelihoods, the fitful beginnings of what, when it drew to an end, hemight not approve.
Whether or not he would cordially approve, I used to speculate.Difficult to say. He was much taken up with scientific interests; keen,intent, and somewhat oppugnant in what concerned his favouritepursuits, but unsuspicious and trustful in the ordinary affairs oflife. From all I could gather, he seemed to regard his "daughterling"as still but a child, and probably had not yet admitted the notion thatothers might look on her in a different light: he would speak of wha
tshould be done when "Polly" was a woman, when she should be grown up;and "Polly," standing beside his chair, would sometimes smile and takehis honoured head between her little hands, and kiss his iron-greylocks; and, at other times, she would pout and toss her curls: but shenever said, "Papa, I _am_ grown up."
She had different moods for different people. With her father shereally was still a child, or child-like, affectionate, merry, andplayful. With me she was serious, and as womanly as thought and feelingcould make her. With Mrs. Bretton she was docile and reliant, but notexpansive. With Graham she was shy, at present very shy; at moments shetried to be cold; on occasion she endeavoured to shun him. His stepmade her start; his entrance hushed her; when he spoke, her answersfailed of fluency; when he took leave, she remained self-vexed anddisconcerted. Even her father noticed this demeanour in her.
"My little Polly," he said once, "you live too retired a life; if yougrow to be a woman with these shy manners, you will hardly be fittedfor society. You really make quite a stranger of Dr. Bretton: how isthis? Don't you remember that, as a little girl, you used to be ratherpartial to him?"
"_Rather_, papa," echoed she, with her slightly dry, yet gentle andsimple tone.
"And you don't like him now? What has he done?"
"Nothing. Y--e--s, I like him a little; but we are grown strange toeach other."
"Then rub it off, Polly; rub the rust and the strangeness off. Talkaway when he is here, and have no fear of him?"
"_He_ does not talk much. Is he afraid of me, do you think, papa?"
"Oh, to be sure, what man would not be afraid of such a little silentlady?"
"Then tell him some day not to mind my being silent. Say that it is myway, and that I have no unfriendly intention."
"Your way, you little chatter-box? So far from being your way, it isonly your whim!"
"Well, I'll improve, papa."
And very pretty was the grace with which, the next day, she tried tokeep her word. I saw her make the effort to converse affably with Dr.John on general topics. The attention called into her guest's face apleasurable glow; he met her with caution, and replied to her in hissoftest tones, as if there was a kind of gossamer happiness hanging inthe air which he feared to disturb by drawing too deep a breath.Certainly, in her timid yet earnest advance to friendship, it could notbe denied that there was a most exquisite and fairy charm.
When the Doctor was gone, she approached her father's chair.
"Did I keep my word, papa? Did I behave better?"
"My Polly behaved like a queen. I shall become quite proud of her ifthis improvement continues. By-and-by we shall see her receiving myguests with quite a calm, grand manner. Miss Lucy and I will have tolook about us, and polish up all our best airs and graces lest weshould be thrown into the shade. Still, Polly, there is a littleflutter, a little tendency to stammer now and then, and even, to lispas you lisped when you were six years old."
"No, papa," interrupted she indignantly, "that can't be true."
"I appeal to Miss Lucy. Did she not, in answering Dr. Bretton'squestion as to whether she had ever seen the palace of the Prince ofBois l'Etang, say, 'yeth,' she had been there 'theveral' times?"
"Papa, you are satirical, you are mechant! I can pronounce all theletters of the alphabet as clearly as you can. But tell me this you arevery particular in making me be civil to Dr. Bretton, do you like himyourself?"
"To be sure: for old acquaintance sake I like him: then he is a verygood son to his mother; besides being a kind-hearted fellow and cleverin his profession: yes, the callant is well enough."
"_Callant_! Ah, Scotchman! Papa, is it the Edinburgh or the Aberdeenaccent you have?"
"Both, my pet, both: and doubtless the Glaswegian into the bargain. Itis that which enables me to speak French so well: a gude Scots tonguealways succeeds well at the French."
"_The_ French! Scotch again: incorrigible papa. You, too, needschooling."
"Well, Polly, you must persuade Miss Snowe to undertake both you andme; to make you steady and womanly, and me refined and classical."
The light in which M. de Bassompierre evidently regarded "Miss Snowe,"used to occasion me much inward edification. What contradictoryattributes of character we sometimes find ascribed to us, according tothe eye with which we are viewed! Madame Beck esteemed me learned andblue; Miss Fanshawe, caustic, ironic, and cynical; Mr. Home, a modelteacher, the essence of the sedate and discreet: somewhat conventional,perhaps, too strict, limited, and scrupulous, but still the pink andpattern of governess-correctness; whilst another person, Professor PaulEmanuel, to wit, never lost an opportunity of intimating his opinionthat mine was rather a fiery and rash nature--adventurous, indocile,and audacious. I smiled at them all. If any one knew me it was littlePaulina Mary.
As I would not be Paulina's nominal and paid companion, genial andharmonious as I began to find her intercourse, she persuaded me to joinher in some study, as a regular and settled means of sustainingcommunication: she proposed the German language, which, like myself,she found difficult of mastery. We agreed to take our lessons in theRue Crecy of the same mistress; this arrangement threw us together forsome hours of every week. M. de Bassompierre seemed quite pleased: itperfectly met his approbation, that Madame Minerva Gravity shouldassociate a portion of her leisure with that of his fair and dear child.
That other self-elected judge of mine, the professor in the RueFossette, discovering by some surreptitious spying means, that I was nolonger so stationary as hitherto, but went out regularly at certainhours of certain days, took it upon himself to place me undersurveillance. People said M. Emanuel had been brought up amongstJesuits. I should more readily have accredited this report had hismanoeuvres been better masked. As it was, I doubted it. Never was amore undisguised schemer, a franker, looser intriguer. He would analyzehis own machinations: elaborately contrive plots, and forthwith indulgein explanatory boasts of their skill. I know not whether I was moreamused or provoked, by his stepping up to me one morning and whisperingsolemnly that he "had his eye on me: _he_ at least would discharge theduty of a friend, and not leave me entirely to my own devices. Myproceedings seemed at present very unsettled: he did not know what tomake of them: he thought his cousin Beck very much to blame insuffering this sort of fluttering inconsistency in a teacher attachedto her house. What had a person devoted to a serious calling, that ofeducation, to do with Counts and Countesses, hotels and chateaux? Tohim, I seemed altogether 'en l'air.' On his faith, he believed I wentout six days in the seven."
I said, "Monsieur exaggerated. I certainly had enjoyed the advantage ofa little change lately, but not before it had become necessary; and theprivilege was by no means exercised in excess."
"Necessary! How was it necessary? I was well enough, he supposed?Change necessary! He would recommend me to look at the Catholic'religieuses,' and study _their_ lives. _They_ asked no change."
I am no judge of what expression crossed my face when he thus spoke,but it was one which provoked him: he accused me of being reckless,worldly, and epicurean; ambitious of greatness, and feverishly athirstfor the pomps and vanities of life. It seems I had no "devouement," no"recueillement" in my character; no spirit of grace, faith, sacrifice,or self-abasement. Feeling the inutility of answering these charges, Imutely continued the correction of a pile of English exercises.
"He could see in me nothing Christian: like many other Protestants, Irevelled in the pride and self-will of paganism."
I slightly turned from him, nestling still closer under the wing ofsilence.
A vague sound grumbled between his teeth; it could not surely be a"juron:" he was too religious for that; but I am certain I heard theword _sacre_. Grievous to relate, the same word was repeated, with theunequivocal addition of _mille_ something, when I passed him about twohours afterwards in the corridor, prepared to go and take my Germanlesson in the Rue Crecy. Never was a better little man, in some points,than M. Paul: never, in others, a more waspish little despot.
* *
* * *
Our German mistress, Fraeulein Anna Braun, was a worthy, hearty woman,of about forty-five; she ought, perhaps, to have lived in the days ofQueen Elizabeth, as she habitually consumed, for her first and secondbreakfasts, beer and beef: also, her direct and downright Deutschnature seemed to suffer a sensation of cruel restraint from what shecalled our English reserve; though we thought we were very cordial withher: but we did not slap her on the shoulder, and if we consented tokiss her cheek, it was done quietly, and without any explosive smack.These omissions oppressed and depressed her considerably; still, on thewhole, we got on very well. Accustomed to instruct foreign girls, whohardly ever will think and study for themselves--who have no idea ofgrappling with a difficulty, and overcoming it by dint of reflection orapplication--our progress, which in truth was very leisurely, seemed toastound her. In her eyes, we were a pair of glacial prodigies, cold,proud, and preternatural.
The young Countess _was_ a little proud, a little fastidious: andperhaps, with her native delicacy and beauty, she had a right to thesefeelings; but I think it was a total mistake to ascribe them to me. Inever evaded the morning salute, which Paulina would slip when shecould; nor was a certain little manner of still disdain a weapon knownin my armoury of defence; whereas, Paulina always kept it clear, fine,and bright, and any rough German sally called forth at once its steellyglisten.
Honest Anna Braun, in some measure, felt this difference; and while shehalf-feared, half-worshipped Paulina, as a sort of dainty nymph--anUndine--she took refuge with me, as a being all mortal, and of easiermood.
A book we liked well to read and translate was Schiller's Ballads;Paulina soon learned to read them beautifully; the Fraeulein wouldlisten to her with a broad smile of pleasure, and say her voice soundedlike music. She translated them, too, with a facile flow of language,and in a strain of kindred and poetic fervour: her cheek would flush,her lips tremblingly smile, her beauteous eyes kindle or melt as shewent on. She learnt the best by heart, and would often recite them whenwe were alone together. One she liked well was "Des Maedchens Klage:"that is, she liked well to repeat the words, she found plaintive melodyin the sound; the sense she would criticise. She murmured, as we satover the fire one evening:--
Du Heilige, rufe dein Kind zurueck, Ich habe genossen das irdische Glueck, Ich habe gelebt und geliebet!
"Lived and loved!" said she, "is that the summit of earthly happiness,the end of life--to love? I don't think it is. It may be the extreme ofmortal misery, it may be sheer waste of time, and fruitless torture offeeling. If Schiller had said to _be_ loved, he might have come nearerthe truth. Is not that another thing, Lucy, to be loved?"
"I suppose it may be: but why consider the subject? What is love toyou? What do you know about it?"
She crimsoned, half in irritation, half in shame.
"Now, Lucy," she said, "I won't take that from you. It may be well forpapa to look on me as a baby: I rather prefer that he should thus viewme; but _you_ know and shall learn to acknowledge that I am verging onmy nineteenth year."
"No matter if it were your twenty-ninth; we will anticipate no feelingsby discussion and conversation; we will not talk about love."
"Indeed, indeed!" said she--all in hurry and heat--"you may think tocheck and hold me in, as much as you please; but I _have_ talked aboutit, and heard about it too; and a great deal and lately, anddisagreeably and detrimentally: and in a way you wouldn't approve."
And the vexed, triumphant, pretty, naughty being laughed. I could notdiscern what she meant, and I would not ask her: I was nonplussed.Seeing, however, the utmost innocence in her countenance--combined withsome transient perverseness and petulance--I said at last,--
"Who talks to you disagreeably and detrimentally on such matters? Whothat has near access to you would dare to do it?"
"Lucy," replied she more softly, "it is a person who makes me miserablesometimes; and I wish she would keep away--I don't want her."
"But who, Paulina, can it be? You puzzle me much."
"It is--it is my cousin Ginevra. Every time she has leave to visit Mrs.Cholmondeley she calls here, and whenever she finds me alone she beginsto talk about her admirers. Love, indeed! You should hear all she hasto say about love."
"Oh, I have heard it," said I, quite coolly; "and on the whole, perhapsit is as well you should have heard it too: it is not to be regretted,it is all right. Yet, surely, Ginevra's mind cannot influence yours.You can look over both her head and her heart."
"She does influence me very much. She has the art of disturbing myhappiness and unsettling my opinions. She hurts me through the feelingsand people dearest to me."
"What does she say, Paulina? Give me some idea. There may becounteraction of the damage done."
"The people I have longest and most esteemed are degraded by her. Shedoes not spare Mrs. Bretton--she does not spare.... Graham."
"No, I daresay: and how does she mix up these with her sentiment andher...._love_? She does mix them, I suppose?"
"Lucy, she is insolent; and, I believe, false. You know Dr. Bretton. Weboth know him. He may be careless and proud; but when was he ever meanor slavish? Day after day she shows him to me kneeling at her feet,pursuing her like her shadow. She--repulsing him with insult, and heimploring her with infatuation. Lucy, is it true? Is any of it true?"
"It may be true that he once thought her handsome: does she give himout as still her suitor?"
"She says she might marry him any day: he only waits her consent."
"It is these tales which have caused that reserve in your mannertowards Graham which your father noticed."
"They have certainly made me all doubtful about his character. AsGinevra speaks, they do not carry with them the sound of unmixed truth:I believe she exaggerates--perhaps invents--but I want to know how far."
"Suppose we bring Miss Fanshawe to some proof. Give her an opportunityof displaying the power she boasts."
"I could do that to-morrow. Papa has asked some gentlemen to dinner,all savants. Graham, who, papa is beginning to discover, is a savant,too--skilled, they say, in more than one branch of science--is amongthe number. Now I should be miserable to sit at table unsupported,amidst such a party. I could not talk to Messieurs A---- and Z----, theParisian Academicians: all my new credit for manner would be put inperil. You and Mrs. Bretton must come for my sake; Ginevra, at a word,will join you."
"Yes; then I will carry a message of invitation, and she shall have thechance of justifying her character for veracity."
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