Villette | Page 3

large to be sustained or wielded by those hands and arms.
"Give it to Harriet, please," was then the direction, "and she can put it
away." This said, it turned and fixed its eyes on Mrs. Bretton.
"Come here, little dear," said that lady. "Come and let me see if you are
cold and damp: come and let me warm you at the fire."
The child advanced promptly. Relieved of her wrapping, she appeared
exceedingly tiny; but was a neat, completely-fashioned little figure,
light, slight, and straight. Seated on my godmother's ample lap, she
looked a mere doll; her neck, delicate as wax, her head of silky curls,
increased, I thought, the resemblance.
Mrs. Bretton talked in little fond phrases as she chafed the child's hands,
arms, and feet; first she was considered with a wistful gaze, but soon a
smile answered her. Mrs. Bretton was not generally a caressing woman:
even with her deeply-cherished son, her manner was rarely sentimental,
often the reverse; but when the small stranger smiled at her, she kissed
it, asking, "What is my little one's name?"
"Missy."
"But besides Missy?"
"Polly, papa calls her."
"Will Polly be content to live with me?"
"Not _always_; but till papa comes home. Papa is gone away." She
shook her head expressively.

"He will return to Polly, or send for her."
"Will he, ma'am? Do you know he will?"
"I think so."
"But Harriet thinks not: at least not for a long while. He is ill."
Her eyes filled. She drew her hand from Mrs. Bretton's and made a
movement to leave her lap; it was at first resisted, but she said-- "Please,
I wish to go: I can sit on a stool."
She was allowed to slip down from the knee, and taking a footstool, she
carried it to a corner where the shade was deep, and there seated herself.
Mrs. Bretton, though a commanding, and in grave matters even a
peremptory woman, was often passive in trifles: she allowed the child
her way. She said to me, "Take no notice at present." But I did take
notice: I watched Polly rest her small elbow on her small knee, her
head on her hand; I observed her draw a square inch or two of
pocket-handkerchief from the doll-pocket of her doll-skirt, and then I
heard her weep. Other children in grief or pain cry aloud, without
shame or restraint; but this being wept: the tiniest occasional sniff
testified to her emotion. Mrs. Bretton did not hear it: which was quite
as well. Ere long, a voice, issuing from the corner, demanded-- "May
the bell be rung for Harriet!"
I rang; the nurse was summoned and came.
"Harriet, I must be put to bed," said her little mistress. "You must ask
where my bed is."
Harriet signified that she had already made that inquiry.
"Ask if you sleep with me, Harriet."
"No, Missy," said the nurse: "you are to share this young lady's room,"
designating me.
Missy did not leave her seat, but I saw her eyes seek me. After some

minutes' silent scrutiny, she emerged from her corner.
"I wish you, ma'am, good night," said she to Mrs. Bretton; but she
passed me mute.
"Good-night, Polly," I said.
"No need to say good-night, since we sleep in the same chamber," was
the reply, with which she vanished from the drawing-room. We heard
Harriet propose to carry her up-stairs. "No need," was again her
answer--"no need, no need:" and her small step toiled wearily up the
staircase.
On going to bed an hour afterwards, I found her still wide awake. She
had arranged her pillows so as to support her little person in a sitting
posture: her hands, placed one within the other, rested quietly on the
sheet, with an old-fashioned calm most unchildlike. I abstained from
speaking to her for some time, but just before extinguishing the light, I
recommended her to lie down.
"By and by," was the answer.
"But you will take cold, Missy."
She took some tiny article of raiment from the chair at her crib side,
and with it covered her shoulders. I suffered her to do as she pleased.
Listening awhile in the darkness, I was aware that she still wept,--wept
under restraint, quietly and cautiously.
On awaking with daylight, a trickling of water caught my ear. Behold!
there she was risen and mounted on a stool near the washstand, with
pains and difficulty inclining the ewer (which she could not lift) so as
to pour its contents into the basin. It was curious to watch her as she
washed and dressed, so small, busy, and noiseless. Evidently she was
little accustomed to perform her own toilet; and the buttons, strings,
hooks and eyes, offered difficulties which she encountered with a
perseverance good to