Villette | Page 6

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 the
chairs.
"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 the
sugar, 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 they
were. The sugar-tongs were too wide for one of her hands, and she had
to use both in wielding them; the weight of the silver cream-ewer, the
bread-and-butter plates, the very cup and saucer, tasked her insufficient
strength and dexterity; but she would lift this, hand that, and luckily
contrived through it all to break nothing. Candidly speaking, I thought
her a little busy-body; but her father, blind like other parents, seemed
perfectly content to let her wait on him, and even wonderfully soothed
by her offices.
"She is my comfort!" he could not help saying to Mrs. Bretton. That
lady 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. I

knew this day had been fixed for his return, and was aware that Mrs.
Bretton had been expecting him through all its hours. We were seated
round the fire, after tea, when Graham joined our circle: I should rather
say, broke it up--for, of course, his arrival made a bustle; and then, 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 no notice
for a time.
His meal over, and numerous questions from his mother answered, he
turned from the table to the hearth. Opposite where he had placed
himself was seated Mr. Home, and at his elbow, the child. When I say
child I use an inappropriate and undescriptive term--a term suggesting
any picture rather than that of the demure little person in a mourning
frock and white chemisette, that might just have fitted a good-sized
doll--perched now on a high chair beside a stand, whereon was her toy
work-box of white varnished wood, and holding in her hands a shred of
a handkerchief, which she was professing to hem, and at which she
bored perseveringly with a needle, that in her fingers seemed almost a
skewer, pricking herself ever and anon, marking the cambric with a
track of minute red dots; occasionally starting when the perverse
weapon--swerving from her control--inflicted a deeper stab than 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 perfidious
disposition, but because the epithet strikes me as proper to describe the
fair, Celtic (not Saxon) character of his good looks; his waved light
auburn hair, his supple symmetry, his smile frequent, and destitute
neither of fascination nor of subtlety (in no bad sense). A spoiled,
whimsical boy he was in those days.
"Mother," he said, after eyeing the little figure before him in silence for
some time, and when the temporary absence of Mr. Home from the
room relieved him from the half-laughing bashfulness, which was all
he knew of timidity---"Mother, I see a young lady in the present society
to whom 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 the
least ceremonious: Miss Home I should certainly have said, in
venturing to speak of the gentlewoman to whom I allude."
"Now, Graham, I will not have that child teased. Don't flatter yourself
that 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 seems willing to render you and me that service? Your slave,
John Graham Bretton."
She looked at him; he rose and bowed quite gravely. She deliberately
put down thimble, scissors, work; descended with precaution from her
perch, and curtsying with unspeakable seriousness, said, "How do you
do?"
"I have the honour to be in fair health, only in some measure fatigued
with a hurried journey. I hope, ma'am, I see you well?"
"Tor-rer-ably well," was the ambitious reply of the little woman and
she now essayed to regain her former elevation, but