Villette | Page 2

beside a certain pleasant stream, with "green trees on each
bank, and meadows beautified with lilies all the year round." The

charm of variety there was not, nor the excitement of incident; but I
liked peace so well, and sought stimulus so little, that when the latter
came I almost felt it a disturbance, and wished rather it had still held
aloof.
One day a letter was received of which the contents evidently caused
Mrs. Bretton surprise and some concern. I thought at first it was from
home, and trembled, expecting I know not what disastrous
communication: to me, however, no reference was made, and the cloud
seemed to pass.
The next day, on my return from a long walk, I found, as I entered my
bedroom, an unexpected change. In, addition to my own French bed in
its shady recess, appeared in a corner a small crib, draped with white;
and in addition to my mahogany chest of drawers, I saw a tiny
rosewood chest. I stood still, gazed, and considered.
"Of what are these things the signs and tokens?" I asked. The answer
was obvious. "A second guest is coming: Mrs. Bretton expects other
visitors."
On descending to dinner, explanations ensued. A little girl, I was told,
would shortly be my companion: the daughter of a friend and distant
relation of the late Dr. Bretton's. This little girl, it was added, had
recently lost her mother; though, indeed, Mrs. Bretton ere long
subjoined, the loss was not so great as might at first appear. Mrs. Home
(Home it seems was the name) had been a very pretty, but a giddy,
careless woman, who had neglected her child, and disappointed and
disheartened her husband. So far from congenial had the union proved,
that separation at last ensued--separation by mutual consent, not after
any legal process. Soon after this event, the lady having over-exerted
herself at a ball, caught cold, took a fever, and died after a very brief
illness. Her husband, naturally a man of very sensitive feelings, and
shocked inexpressibly by too sudden communication of the news, could
hardly, it seems, now be persuaded but that some over-severity on his
part--some deficiency in patience and indulgence--had contributed to
hasten her end. He had brooded over this idea till his spirits were
seriously affected; the medical men insisted on travelling being tried as

a remedy, and meanwhile Mrs. Bretton had offered to take charge of
his little girl. "And I hope," added my godmother in conclusion, "the
child will not be like her mamma; as silly and frivolous a little flirt as
ever sensible man was weak enough to marry. For," said she, "Mr.
Home is a sensible man in his way, though not very practical: he is
fond of science, and lives half his life in a laboratory trying
experiments--a thing his butterfly wife could neither comprehend nor
endure; and indeed" confessed my godmother, "I should not have liked
it myself."
In answer to a question of mine, she further informed me that her late
husband used to say, Mr. Home had derived this scientific turn from a
maternal uncle, a French savant; for he came, it seems; of mixed
French and Scottish origin, and had connections now living in France,
of whom more than one wrote de before his name, and called himself
noble.
That same evening at nine o'clock, a servant was despatched to meet
the coach by which our little visitor was expected. Mrs. Bretton and I
sat alone in the drawing-room waiting her coming; John Graham
Bretton being absent on a visit to one of his schoolfellows who lived in
the country. My godmother read the evening paper while she waited; I
sewed. It was a wet night; the rain lashed the panes, and the wind
sounded angry and restless.
"Poor child!" said Mrs. Bretton from time to time. "What weather for
her journey! I wish she were safe here."
A little before ten the door-bell announced Warren's return. No sooner
was the door opened than I ran down into the hall; there lay a trunk and
some band-boxes, beside them stood a person like a nurse-girl, and at
the foot of the staircase was Warren with a shawled bundle in his arms.
"Is that the child?" I asked.
"Yes, miss."
I would have opened the shawl, and tried to get a peep at the face, but it

was hastily turned from me to Warren's shoulder.
"Put me down, please," said a small voice when Warren opened the
drawing-room door, "and take off this shawl," continued the speaker,
extracting with its minute hand the pin, and with a sort of fastidious
haste doffing the clumsy wrapping. The creature which now appeared
made a deft attempt to fold the shawl; but the drapery was much too
heavy and