Kabanata Kabanata 21 · Reaction

ACTION.

Yet three days, and then I must go back to the _pensionnat_. I almost

numbered the moments of these days upon the clock; fain would I have

retarded their flight; but they glided by while I watched them: they

were already gone while I yet feared their departure.

“Lucy will not leave us to-day,” said Mrs. Bretton, coaxingly at

breakfast; “she knows we can procure a second respite.”

“I would not ask for one if I might have it for a word,” said I. “I

long to get the good-by over, and to be settled in the Rue Fossette

again. I must go this morning: I must go directly; my trunk is packed

and corded.”

It appeared; however, that my going depended upon Graham; he had said

he would accompany me, and it so fell out that he was engaged all day,

and only returned home at dusk. Then ensued a little combat of words.

Mrs. Bretton and her son pressed me to remain one night more. I could

have cried, so irritated and eager was I to be gone. I longed to leave

them as the criminal on the scaffold longs for the axe to descend: that

is, I wished the pang over. How much I wished it, they could not tell.

On these points, mine was a state of mind out of their experience.

It was dark when Dr. John handed me from the carriage at Madame Beck’s

door. The lamp above was lit; it rained a November drizzle, as it had

rained all day: the lamplight gleamed on the wet pavement. Just such a

night was it as that on which, not a year ago, I had first stopped at

this very threshold; just similar was the scene. I remembered the very

shapes of the paving-stones which I had noted with idle eye, while,

with a thick-beating heart, I waited the unclosing of that door at

which I stood—a solitary and a suppliant. On that night, too, I had

briefly met him who now stood with me. Had I ever reminded him of that

rencontre, or explained it? I had not, nor ever felt the inclination to

do so: it was a pleasant thought, laid by in my own mind, and best kept

there.

Graham rung the bell. The door was instantly opened, for it was just

that period of the evening when the half-boarders took their

departure—consequently, Rosine was on the alert.

“Don’t come in,” said I to him; but he stepped a moment into the

well-lighted vestibule. I had not wished him to see that “the water

stood in my eyes,” for his was too kind a nature ever to be needlessly

shown such signs of sorrow. He always wished to heal—to relieve—when,

physician as he was, neither cure nor alleviation were, perhaps, in his

power.

“Keep up your courage, Lucy. Think of my mother and myself as true

friends. We will not forget you.”

“Nor will I forget you, Dr. John.”

My trunk was now brought in. We had shaken hands; he had turned to go,

but he was not satisfied: he had not done or said enough to content his

generous impulses.

“Lucy,”—stepping after me—“shall you feel very solitary here?”

“At first I shall.”

“Well, my mother will soon call to see you; and, meantime, I’ll tell

you what I’ll do. I’ll write—just any cheerful nonsense that comes into

my head—shall I?”

“Good, gallant heart!” thought I to myself; but I shook my head,

smiling, and said, “Never think of it: impose on yourself no such task.

_You_ write to _me_!—you’ll not have time.”

“Oh! I will find or make time. Good-by!”

He was gone. The heavy door crashed to: the axe had fallen—the pang was

experienced.

Allowing myself no time to think or feel—swallowing tears as if they

had been wine—I passed to Madame’s sitting-room to pay the necessary

visit of ceremony and respect. She received me with perfectly

well-acted cordiality—was even demonstrative, though brief, in her

welcome. In ten minutes I was dismissed. From the salle-à-manger I

proceeded to the refectory, where pupils and teachers were now

assembled for evening study: again I had a welcome, and one not, I

think, quite hollow. That over, I was free to repair to the dormitory.

“And will Graham really write?” I questioned, as I sank tired on the

edge of the bed.

Reason, coming stealthily up to me through the twilight of that long,

dim chamber, whispered sedately—“He may write once. So kind is his

nature, it may stimulate him for once to make the effort. But it

_cannot_ be continued—it _may_ not be repeated. Great were that folly

which should build on such a promise—insane that credulity which should

mistake the transitory rain-pool, holding in its hollow one draught,

for the perennial spring yielding the supply of seasons.”

I bent my head: I sat thinking an hour longer. Reason still whispered

me, laying on my shoulder a withered hand, and frostily touching my ear

with the chill blue lips of eld.

“If,” muttered she, “if he _should_ write, what then? Do you meditate

pleasure in replying? Ah, fool! I warn you! Brief be your answer. Hope

no delight of heart—no indulgence of intellect: grant no expansion to

feeling—give holiday to no single faculty: dally with no friendly

exchange: foster no genial intercommunion….”

“But I have talked to Graham and you did not chide,” I pleaded.

“No,” said she, “I needed not. Talk for you is good discipline. You

converse imperfectly. While you speak, there can be no oblivion of

inferiority—no encouragement to delusion: pain, privation, penury stamp

your language….”

“But,” I again broke in, “where the bodily presence is weak and the

speech contemptible, surely there cannot be error in making written

language the medium of better utterance than faltering lips can

achieve?”

Reason only answered, “At your peril you cherish that idea, or suffer

its influence to animate any writing of yours!”

“But if I feel, may I _never_ express?”

“_Never!_” declared Reason.

I groaned under her bitter sternness. Never—never—oh, hard word! This

hag, this Reason, would not let me look up, or smile, or hope: she

could not rest unless I were altogether crushed, cowed, broken-in, and

broken-down. According to her, I was born only to work for a piece of

bread, to await the pains of death, and steadily through all life to

despond. Reason might be right; yet no wonder we are glad at times to

defy her, to rush from under her rod and give a truant hour to

Imagination—_her_ soft, bright foe, _our_ sweet Help, our divine Hope.

We shall and must break bounds at intervals, despite the terrible

revenge that awaits our return. Reason is vindictive as a devil: for me

she was always envenomed as a step-mother. If I have obeyed her it has

chiefly been with the obedience of fear, not of love. Long ago I should

have died of her ill-usage her stint, her chill, her barren board, her

icy bed, her savage, ceaseless blows; but for that kinder Power who

holds my secret and sworn allegiance. Often has Reason turned me out by

night, in mid-winter, on cold snow, flinging for sustenance the gnawed

bone dogs had forsaken: sternly has she vowed her stores held nothing

more for me—harshly denied my right to ask better things…. Then,

looking up, have I seen in the sky a head amidst circling stars, of

which the midmost and the brightest lent a ray sympathetic and attent.

A spirit, softer and better than Human Reason, has descended with quiet

flight to the waste—bringing all round her a sphere of air borrowed of

eternal summer; bringing perfume of flowers which cannot fade—fragrance

of trees whose fruit is life; bringing breezes pure from a world whose

day needs no sun to lighten it. My hunger has this good angel appeased

with food, sweet and strange, gathered amongst gleaning angels,

garnering their dew-white harvest in the first fresh hour of a heavenly

day; tenderly has she assuaged the insufferable fears which weep away

life itself—kindly given rest to deadly weariness—generously lent hope

and impulse to paralyzed despair. Divine, compassionate, succourable

influence! When I bend the knee to other than God, it shall be at thy

white and winged feet, beautiful on mountain or on plain. Temples have

been reared to the Sun—altars dedicated to the Moon. Oh, greater glory!

To thee neither hands build, nor lips consecrate: but hearts, through

ages, are faithful to thy worship. A dwelling thou hast, too wide for

walls, too high for dome—a temple whose floors are space—rites whose

mysteries transpire in presence, to the kindling, the harmony of

worlds!

Sovereign complete! thou hadst, for endurance, thy great army of

martyrs; for achievement, thy chosen band of worthies. Deity

unquestioned, thine essence foils decay!

This daughter of Heaven remembered me to-night; she saw me weep, and

she came with comfort: “Sleep,” she said. “Sleep, sweetly—I gild thy

dreams!”

She kept her word, and watched me through a night’s rest; but at dawn

Reason relieved the guard. I awoke with a sort of start; the rain was

dashing against the panes, and the wind uttering a peevish cry at

intervals; the night-lamp was dying on the black circular stand in the

middle of the dormitory: day had already broken. How I pity those whom

mental pain stuns instead of rousing! This morning the pang of waking

snatched me out of bed like a hand with a giant’s gripe. How quickly I

dressed in the cold of the raw dawn! How deeply I drank of the ice-cold

water in my carafe! This was always my cordial, to which, like other

dram-drinkers, I had eager recourse when unsettled by chagrin.

Ere long the bell rang its _réveillée_ to the whole school. Being

dressed, I descended alone to the refectory, where the stove was lit

and the air was warm; through the rest of the house it was cold, with

the nipping severity of a continental winter: though now but the

beginning of November, a north wind had thus early brought a wintry

blight over Europe: I remember the black stoves pleased me little when

I first came; but now I began to associate with them a sense of

comfort, and liked them, as in England we like a fireside.

Sitting down before this dark comforter, I presently fell into a deep

argument with myself on life and its chances, on destiny and her

decrees. My mind, calmer and stronger now than last night, made for

itself some imperious rules, prohibiting under deadly penalties all

weak retrospect of happiness past; commanding a patient journeying

through the wilderness of the present, enjoining a reliance on faith—a

watching of the cloud and pillar which subdue while they guide, and awe

while they illumine—hushing the impulse to fond idolatry, checking the

longing out-look for a far-off promised land whose rivers are, perhaps,

never to be reached save in dying dreams, whose sweet pastures are to

be viewed but from the desolate and sepulchral summit of a Nebo.

By degrees, a composite feeling of blended strength and pain wound

itself wirily round my heart, sustained, or at least restrained, its

throbbings, and made me fit for the day’s work. I lifted my head.

As I said before, I was sitting near the stove, let into the wall

beneath the refectory and the carré, and thus sufficing to heat both

apartments. Piercing the same wall, and close beside the stove, was a

window, looking also into the carré; as I looked up a cap-tassel, a

brow, two eyes, filled a pane of that window; the fixed gaze of those

two eyes hit right against my own glance: they were watching me. I had

not till that moment known that tears were on my cheek, but I felt them

now.

This was a strange house, where no corner was sacred from intrusion,

where not a tear could be shed, nor a thought pondered, but a spy was

at hand to note and to divine. And this new, this out-door, this male

spy, what business had brought him to the premises at this unwonted

hour? What possible right had he to intrude on me thus? No other

professor would have dared to cross the carré before the class-bell

rang. M. Emanuel took no account of hours nor of claims: there was some

book of reference in the first-class library which he had occasion to

consult; he had come to seek it: on his way he passed the refectory. It

was very much his habit to wear eyes before, behind, and on each side

of him: he had seen me through the little window—he now opened the

refectory door, and there he stood.

“Mademoiselle, vous êtes triste.”

“Monsieur, j’en ai bien le droit.”

“Vous êtes malade de cœur et d’humeur,” he pursued. “You are at once

mournful and mutinous. I see on your cheek two tears which I know are

hot as two sparks, and salt as two crystals of the sea. While I speak

you eye me strangely. Shall I tell you of what I am reminded while

watching you?”

“Monsieur, I shall be called away to prayers shortly; my time for

conversation is very scant and brief at this hour—excuse——”

“I excuse everything,” he interrupted; “my mood is so meek, neither

rebuff nor, perhaps, insult could ruffle it. You remind me, then, of a

young she wild creature, new caught, untamed, viewing with a mixture of

fire and fear the first entrance of the breaker-in.”

Unwarrantable accost!—rash and rude if addressed to a pupil; to a

teacher inadmissible. He thought to provoke a warm reply; I had seen

him vex the passionate to explosion before now. In me his malice should

find no gratification; I sat silent.

“You look,” said he, “like one who would snatch at a draught of sweet

poison, and spurn wholesome bitters with disgust.”

“Indeed, I never liked bitters; nor do I believe them wholesome. And to

whatever is sweet, be it poison or food, you cannot, at least, deny its

own delicious quality—sweetness. Better, perhaps, to die quickly a

pleasant death, than drag on long a charmless life.”

“Yet,” said he, “you should take your bitter dose duly and daily, if I

had the power to administer it; and, as to the well-beloved poison, I

would, perhaps, break the very cup which held it.”

I sharply turned my head away, partly because his presence utterly

displeased me, and partly because I wished to shun questions: lest, in

my present mood, the effort of answering should overmaster

self-command.

“Come,” said he, more softly, “tell me the truth—you grieve at being

parted from friends—is it not so?”

The insinuating softness was not more acceptable than the inquisitorial

curiosity. I was silent. He came into the room, sat down on the bench

about two yards from me, and persevered long, and, for him, patiently,

in attempts to draw me into conversation—attempts necessarily

unavailing, because I _could_ not talk. At last I entreated to be let

alone. In uttering the request, my voice faltered, my head sank on my

arms and the table. I wept bitterly, though quietly. He sat a while

longer. I did not look up nor speak, till the closing door and his

retreating step told me that he was gone. These tears proved a relief.

I had time to bathe my eyes before breakfast, and I suppose I appeared

at that meal as serene as any other person: not, however, quite as

jocund-looking as the young lady who placed herself in the seat

opposite mine, fixed on me a pair of somewhat small eyes twinkling

gleefully, and frankly stretched across the table a white hand to be

shaken. Miss Fanshawe’s travels, gaieties, and flirtations agreed with

her mightily; she had become quite plump, her cheeks looked as round as

apples. I had seen her last in elegant evening attire. I don’t know

that she looked less charming now in her school-dress, a kind of

careless peignoir of a dark-blue material, dimly and dingily plaided

with black. I even think this dusky wrapper gave her charms a triumph;

enhancing by contrast the fairness of her skin, the freshness of her

bloom, the golden beauty of her tresses.

“I am glad you are come back, Timon,” said she. Timon was one of her

dozen names for me. “You don’t know how often I have wanted you in this

dismal hole.”

“Oh, have you? Then, of course, if you wanted me, you have something

for me to do: stockings to mend, perhaps.” I never gave Ginevra a

minute’s or a farthing’s credit for disinterestedness.

“Crabbed and crusty as ever!” said she. “I expected as much: it would

not be you if you did not snub one. But now, come, grand-mother, I hope

you like coffee as much, and pistolets as little as ever: are you

disposed to barter?”

“Take your own way.”

This way consisted in a habit she had of making me convenient. She did

not like the morning cup of coffee; its school brewage not being strong

or sweet enough to suit her palate; and she had an excellent appetite,

like any other healthy school-girl, for the morning pistolets or rolls,

which were new-baked and very good, and of which a certain allowance

was served to each. This allowance being more than I needed, I gave

half to Ginevra; never varying in my preference, though many others

used to covet the superfluity; and she in return would sometimes give

me a portion of her coffee. This morning I was glad of the draught;

hunger I had none, and with thirst I was parched. I don’t know why I

chose to give my bread rather to Ginevra than to another; nor why, if

two had to share the convenience of one drinking-vessel, as sometimes

happened—for instance, when we took a long walk into the country, and

halted for refreshment at a farm—I always contrived that she should be

my convive, and rather liked to let her take the lion’s share, whether

of the white beer, the sweet wine, or the new milk: so it was, however,

and she knew it; and, therefore, while we wrangled daily, we were never

alienated.

After breakfast my custom was to withdraw to the first classe, and sit

and read, or think (oftenest the latter) there alone, till the

nine-o’clock bell threw open all doors, admitted the gathered rush of

externes and demi-pensionnaires, and gave the signal for entrance on

that bustle and business to which, till five P.M., there was no relax.

I was just seated this morning, when a tap came to the door.

“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” said a pensionnaire, entering gently; and

having taken from her desk some necessary book or paper, she withdrew

on tip-toe, murmuring as she passed me, “Que mademoiselle est

appliquée!”

Appliquée, indeed! The means of application were spread before me, but

I was doing nothing; and had done nothing, and meant to do nothing.

Thus does the world give us credit for merits we have not. Madame Beck

herself deemed me a regular bas-bleu, and often and solemnly used to

warn me not to study too much, lest “the blood should all go to my

head.” Indeed, everybody in the Rue Fossette held a superstition that

“Meess Lucie” was learned; with the notable exception of M. Emanuel,

who, by means peculiar to himself, and quite inscrutable to me, had

obtained a not inaccurate inkling of my real qualifications, and used

to take quiet opportunities of chuckling in my ear his malign glee over

their scant measure. For my part, I never troubled myself about this

penury. I dearly like to think my own thoughts; I had great pleasure in

reading a few books, but not many: preferring always those on whose

style or sentiment the writer’s individual nature was plainly stamped;

flagging inevitably over characterless books, however clever and

meritorious: perceiving well that, as far as my own mind was concerned,

God had limited its powers and, its action—thankful, I trust, for the

gift bestowed, but unambitious of higher endowments, not restlessly

eager after higher culture.

The polite pupil was scarcely gone, when, unceremoniously, without tap,

in burst a second intruder. Had I been blind I should have known who

this was. A constitutional reserve of manner had by this time told with

wholesome and, for me, commodious effect, on the manners of my

co-inmates; rarely did I now suffer from rude or intrusive treatment.

When I first came, it would happen once and again that a blunt German

would clap me on the shoulder, and ask me to run a race; or a riotous

Labassecourienne seize me by the arm and drag me towards the

playground: urgent proposals to take a swing at the “Pas de Géant,” or

to join in a certain romping hide-and-seek game called “Un, deux,

trois,” were formerly also of hourly occurrence; but all these little

attentions had ceased some time ago—ceased, too, without my finding it

necessary to be at the trouble of point-blank cutting them short. I had

now no familiar demonstration to dread or endure, save from one

quarter; and as that was English I could bear it. Ginevra Fanshawe made

no scruple of—at times—catching me as I was crossing the carré,

whirling me round in a compulsory waltz, and heartily enjoying the

mental and physical discomfiture her proceeding induced. Ginevra

Fanshawe it was who now broke in upon “my learned leisure.” She carried

a huge music-book under her arm.

“Go to your practising,” said I to her at once: “away with you to the

little salon!”

“Not till I have had a talk with you, chère amie. I know where you have

been spending your vacation, and how you have commenced sacrificing to

the graces, and enjoying life like any other belle. I saw you at the

concert the other night, dressed, actually, like anybody else. Who is

your tailleuse?”

“Tittle-tattle: how prettily it begins! My tailleuse!—a fiddlestick!

Come, sheer off, Ginevra. I really don’t want your company.”

“But when I want yours so much, ange farouche, what does a little

reluctance on your part signify? Dieu merci! we know how to manœuvre

with our gifted compatriote—the learned ‘ourse Britannique.’ And so,

Ourson, you know Isidore?”

“I know John Bretton.”

“Oh, hush!” (putting her fingers in her ears) “you crack my tympanums

with your rude Anglicisms. But, how is our well-beloved John? Do tell

me about him. The poor man must be in a sad way. What did he say to my

behaviour the other night? Wasn’t I cruel?”

“Do you think I noticed you?”

“It was a delightful evening. Oh, that divine de Hamal! And then to

watch the other sulking and dying in the distance; and the old lady—my

future mamma-in-law! But I am afraid I and Lady Sara were a little rude

in quizzing her.”

“Lady Sara never quizzed her at all; and for what _you_ did, don’t make

yourself in the least uneasy: Mrs. Bretton will survive _your_ sneer.”

“She may: old ladies are tough; but that poor son of hers! Do tell me

what he said: I saw he was terribly cut up.”

“He said you looked as if at heart you were already Madame de Hamal.”

“Did he?” she cried with delight. “He noticed that? How charming! I

thought he would be mad with jealousy.”

“Ginevra, have you seriously done with Dr. Bretton? Do you want him to

give you up?”

“Oh! you know he _can’t_ do that: but wasn’t he mad?”

“Quite mad,” I assented; “as mad as a March hare.”

“Well, and how _ever_ did you get him home?”

“How _ever_, indeed! Have you no pity on his poor mother and me? Fancy

us holding him tight down in the carriage, and he raving between us,

fit to drive everybody delirious. The very coachman went wrong,

somehow, and we lost our way.”

“You don’t say so? You are laughing at me. Now, Lucy Snowe—”

“I assure you it is fact—and fact, also, that Dr. Bretton would _not_

stay in the carriage: he broke from us, and _would_ ride outside.”

“And afterwards?”

“Afterwards—when he _did_ reach home—the scene transcends description.”

“Oh, but describe it—you know it is such fun!”

“Fun for _you_, Miss Fanshawe? but” (with stern gravity) “you know the

proverb—‘What is sport to one may be death to another.’”

“Go on, there’s a darling Timon.”

“Conscientiously, I cannot, unless you assure me you have some heart.”

“I have—such an immensity, you don’t know!”

“Good! In that case, you will be able to conceive Dr. Graham Bretton

rejecting his supper in the first instance—the chicken, the sweetbread

prepared for his refreshment, left on the table untouched. Then——but it

is of no use dwelling at length on the harrowing details. Suffice it to

say, that never, in the most stormy fits and moments of his infancy,

had his mother such work to tuck the sheets about him as she had that

night.”

“He wouldn’t lie still?”

“He wouldn’t lie still: there it was. The sheets might be tucked in,

but the thing was to keep them tucked in.”

“And what did he say?”

“Say! Can’t you imagine him demanding his divine Ginevra,

anathematizing that demon, de Hamal—raving about golden locks, blue

eyes, white arms, glittering bracelets?”

“No, did he? He saw the bracelet?”

“Saw the bracelet? Yes, as plain as I saw it: and, perhaps, for the

first time, he saw also the brand-mark with which its pressure has

encircled your arm. Ginevra” (rising, and changing my tone), “come, we

will have an end of this. Go away to your practising.”

And I opened the door.

“But you have not told me all.”

“You had better not wait until I _do_ tell you all. Such extra

communicativeness could give you no pleasure. March!”

“Cross thing!” said she; but she obeyed: and, indeed, the first classe

was my territory, and she could not there legally resist a notice of

quittance from me.

Yet, to speak the truth, never had I been less dissatisfied with her

than I was then. There was pleasure in thinking of the contrast between

the reality and my description—to remember Dr. John enjoying the drive

home, eating his supper with relish, and retiring to rest with

Christian composure. It was only when I saw him really unhappy that I

felt really vexed with the fair, frail cause of his suffering.

A fortnight passed; I was getting once more inured to the harness of

school, and lapsing from the passionate pain of change to the palsy of

custom. One afternoon, in crossing the carré, on my way to the first

classe, where I was expected to assist at a lesson of “style and

literature,” I saw, standing by one of the long and large windows,

Rosine, the portress. Her attitude, as usual, was quite nonchalante.

She always “stood at ease;” one of her hands rested in her

apron-pocket, the other at this moment held to her eyes a letter,

whereof Mademoiselle coolly perused the address, and deliberately

studied the seal.

A letter! The shape of a letter similar to that had haunted my brain in

its very core for seven days past. I had dreamed of a letter last

night. Strong magnetism drew me to that letter now; yet, whether I

should have ventured to demand of Rosine so much as a glance at that

white envelope, with the spot of red wax in the middle, I know not. No;

I think I should have sneaked past in terror of a rebuff from

Disappointment: my heart throbbed now as if I already heard the tramp

of her approach. Nervous mistake! It was the rapid step of the

Professor of Literature measuring the corridor. I fled before him.

Could I but be seated quietly at my desk before his arrival, with the

class under my orders all in disciplined readiness, he would, perhaps,

exempt me from notice; but, if caught lingering in the carré, I should

be sure to come in for a special harangue. I had time to get seated, to

enforce perfect silence, to take out my work, and to commence it amidst

the profoundest and best trained hush, ere M. Emanuel entered with his

vehement burst of latch and panel, and his deep, redundant bow,

prophetic of choler.

As usual he broke upon us like a clap of thunder; but instead of

flashing lightning-wise from the door to the estrade, his career halted

midway at my desk. Setting his face towards me and the window, his back

to the pupils and the room, he gave me a look—such a look as might have

licensed me to stand straight up and demand what he meant—a look of

scowling distrust.

“Voilà! pour vous,” said he, drawing his hand from his waist-coat, and

placing on my desk a letter—the very letter I had seen in Rosine’s

hand—the letter whose fac