Where, it becomes time to inquire, was Paulina Mary? How fared my intercourse with the sumptuous H?tel Crécy? That intercourse had, for an interval, been suspended by absence; M. and Miss de Bassompierre had been travelling, dividing some weeks between the provinces and capital of France. Chance apprised me of their return very shortly after it took place.
I was walking one mild afternoon on a quiet boulevard, wandering slowly on, enjoying the benign April sun, and some thoughts not unpleasing, when I saw before me a group of riders, stopping as if they had just encountered, and exchanging greetings in the midst of the broad, smooth, linden-bordered path; on one side a middle-aged gentleman and young lady, on the other — a young and handsome man. Very graceful was the lady’s mien, choice her appointments, delicate and stately her whole aspect. Still, as I looked, I felt they were known to me, and, drawing a little nearer, I fully recognised them all: the Count Home de Bassompierre, his daughter, and Dr. Graham Bretton.
How animated was Graham’s face! How true, how warm, yet how retiring the joy it expressed! This was the state of things, this the combination of circumstances, at once to attract and enchain, to subdue and excite Dr. John. The pearl he admired was in itself of great price and truest purity, but he was not the man who, in appreciating the gem, could forget its setting. Had he seen Paulina with the same youth, beauty, and grace, but on foot, alone, unguarded, and in simple attire, a dependent worker, a demi-grisette, he would have thought her a pretty little creature, and would have loved with his eye her movements and her mien, but it required other than this to conquer him as he was now vanquished, to bring him safe under dominion as now, without loss, and even with gain to his manly honour, one saw that he was reduced; there was about Dr. John all the man of the world; to satisfy himself did not suffice; society must approve — the world must admire what he did, or he counted his measures false and futile. In his victrix he required all that was here visible — the imprint of high cultivation, the consecration of a careful and authoritative protection, the adjuncts that Fashion decrees, Wealth purchases, and Taste adjusts; for these conditions his spirit stipulated ere it surrendered: they were here to the utmost fulfilled; and now, proud, impassioned, yet fearing, he did homage to Paulina as his sovereign. As for her, the smile of feeling, rather than of conscious power, slept soft in her eyes.
They parted. He passed me at speed, hardly feeling the earth he skimmed, and seeing nothing on either hand. He looked very handsome; mettle and purpose were roused in him fully.
“Papa, there is Lucy!” cried a musical, friendly voice. “Lucy, dear Lucy — do come here!”
I hastened to her. She threw back her veil, and stooped from her saddle to kiss me.
“I was coming to see you to-morrow,” said she; “but now to-morrow you will come and see me.”
She named the hour, and I promised compliance.
The morrow’s evening found me with her — she and I shut into her own room. I had not seen her since that occasion when her claims were brought into comparison with those of Ginevra Fanshawe, and had so signally prevailed; she had much to tell me of her travels in the interval. A most animated, rapid speaker was she in such a tête-à-tête, a most lively describer; yet with her artless diction and clear soft voice, she never seemed to speak too fast or to say too much. My own attention I think would not soon have flagged, but by-and-by, she herself seemed to need some change of subject; she hastened to wind up her narrative briefly. Yet why she terminated with so concise an abridgment did not immediately appear; silence followed — a restless silence, not without symptoms of abstraction. Then, turning to me, in a diffident, half-appealing voice —“Lucy —”
“Well, I am at your side.”
“Is my cousin Ginevra still at Madame Beck’s?”
“Your cousin is still there; you must be longing to see her.”
“No — not much.”
“You want to invite her to spend another evening?”
“No . . . I suppose she still talks about being married?”
“Not to any one you care for.”
“But of course she still thinks of Dr. Bretton? She cannot have changed her mind on that point, because it was so fixed two months ago.”
“Why, you know, it does not matter. You saw the terms on which they stood.”
“There was a little misunderstanding that evening, certainly; does she seem unhappy?”
“Not she. To change the subject. Have you heard or seen nothing of, or from. Graham during your absence?”
“Papa had letters from him once or twice about business, I think. He undertook the management of some affair which required attention while we were away. Dr. Bretton seems to respect papa, and to have pleasure in obliging him.”
“Yes: you met him yesterday on the boulevard; you would be able to judge from his aspect that his friends need not be painfully anxious about his health?”
“Papa seems to have thought with you. I could not help smiling. He is not particularly observant, you know, because he is often thinking of other things than what pass before his eyes; but he said, as Dr. Bretton rode away, ‘Really it does a man good to see the spirit and energy of that boy.’ He called Dr. Bretton a boy; I believe he almost thinks him so, just as he thinks me a little girl; he was not speaking to me, but dropped that remark to himself. Lucy. . . . ”
Again fell the appealing accent, and at the same instant she left her chair, and came and sat on the stool at my feet.
I liked her. It is not a declaration I have often made concerning my acquaintance, in the course of this book: the reader will bear with it for once. Intimate intercourse, close inspection, disclosed in Paulina only what was delicate, intelligent, and sincere; therefore my regard for her lay deep. An admiration more superficial might have been more demonstrative; mine, however, was quiet.
“What have you to ask of Lucy?” said I; “be brave, and speak out”
But there was no courage in her eye; as it met mine, it fell; and there was no coolness on her cheek — not a transient surface-blush, but a gathering inward excitement raised its tint and its temperature.
“Lucy, I do wish to know your thoughts of Dr. Bretton. Do, do give me your real opinion of his character, his disposition.”
“His character stands high, and deservedly high.”
“And his disposition? Tell me about his disposition,” she urged; “you know him well.”
“I know him pretty well.”
“You know his home-side. You have seen him with his mother; speak of him as a son.”
“He is a fine-hearted son; his mother’s comfort and hope, her pride and pleasure.”
She held my hand between hers, and at each favourable word gave it a little caressing stroke.
“In what other way is he good, Lucy?”
“Dr. Bretton is benevolent — humanely disposed towards all his race, Dr. Bretton would have benignity for the lowest savage, or the worst criminal.”
“I heard some gentlemen, some of papa’s friends, who were talking about him, say the same. They say many of the poor patients at the hospitals, who tremble before some pitiless and selfish surgeons, welcome him.”
“They are right; I have witnessed as much. He once took me over a hospital; I saw how he was received: your father’s friends are right.”
The softest gratitude animated her eye as she lifted it a moment. She had yet more to say, but seemed hesitating about time and place. Dusk was beginning to reign; her parlour fire already glowed with twilight ruddiness; but I thought she wished the room dimmer, the hour later.
“How quiet and secluded we feel here!” I remarked, to reassure her.
“Do we? Yes; it is a still evening, and I shall not be called down to tea; papa is dining out.”
Still holding my hand, she played with the fingers unconsciously, dressed them, now in her own rings, and now circled them with a twine of her beautiful hair; she patted the palm against her hot cheek, and at last, having cleared a voice that was naturally liquid as a lark’s, she said:—
“You must think it rather strange that I should talk so much about Dr. Bretton, ask so many questions, take such an interest, but —”.
“Not at all strange; perfectly natural; you like him.”
“And if I did,” said she, with slight quickness, “is that a reason why I should talk? I suppose you think me weak, like my cousin Ginevra?”
“If I thought you one whit like Madame Ginevra, I would not sit here waiting for your communications. I would get up, walk at my ease about the room, and anticipate all you had to say by a round lecture. Go on.”
“I mean to go on,” retorted she; “what else do you suppose I mean to do?”
And she looked and spoke — the little Polly of Bretton — petulant, sensitive.
“If,” said she, emphatically, “if I liked Dr. John till I was fit to die for liking him, that alone could not license me to be otherwise than dumb — dumb as the grave — dumb as you, Lucy Snowe — you know it — and you know you would despise me if I failed in self-control, and whined about some rickety liking that was all on my side.”
“It is true I little respect women or girls who are loquacious either in boasting the triumphs, or bemoaning the mortifications, of feelings. But as to you, Paulina, speak, for I earnestly wish to he............