Villette | Page 9

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