Kabanata Kabanata 24 · 第24章
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Those who live in retirement, whose lives have fallen amid the
seclusion of schools or of other walled-in and guarded dwellings, are
liable to be suddenly and for a long while dropped out of the memory of
their friends, the denizens of a freer world. Unaccountably, perhaps,
and close upon some space of unusually frequent intercourse—some
congeries of rather exciting little circumstances, whose natural sequel
would rather seem to be the quickening than the suspension of
communication—there falls a stilly pause, a wordless silence, a long
blank of oblivion. Unbroken always is this blank; alike entire and
unexplained. The letter, the message once frequent, are cut off; the
visit, formerly periodical, ceases to occur; the book, paper, or other
token that indicated remembrance, comes no more.
Always there are excellent reasons for these lapses, if the hermit but
knew them. Though he is stagnant in his cell, his connections without
are whirling in the very vortex of life. That void interval which
passes for him so slowly that the very clocks seem at a stand, and the
wingless hours plod by in the likeness of tired tramps prone to rest at
milestones—that same interval, perhaps, teems with events, and pants
with hurry for his friends.
The hermit—if he be a sensible hermit—will swallow his own thoughts,
and lock up his own emotions during these weeks of inward winter. He
will know that Destiny designed him to imitate, on occasion, the
dormouse, and he will be conformable: make a tidy ball of himself,
creep into a hole of life’s wall, and submit decently to the drift
which blows in and soon blocks him up, preserving him in ice for the
season.
Let him say, “It is quite right: it ought to be so, since so it is.”
And, perhaps, one day his snow-sepulchre will open, spring’s softness
will return, the sun and south-wind will reach him; the budding of
hedges, and carolling of birds, and singing of liberated streams, will
call him to kindly resurrection. _Perhaps_ this may be the case,
perhaps not: the frost may get into his heart and never thaw more; when
spring comes, a crow or a pie may pick out of the wall only his
dormouse-bones. Well, even in that case, all will be right: it is to be
supposed he knew from the first he was mortal, and must one day go the
way of all flesh, “As well soon as syne.”
Following that eventful evening at the theatre, came for me seven weeks
as bare as seven sheets of blank paper: no word was written on one of
them; not a visit, not a token.
About the middle of that time I entertained fancies that something had
happened to my friends at La Terrasse. The mid-blank is always a
beclouded point for the solitary: his nerves ache with the strain of
long expectancy; the doubts hitherto repelled gather now to a mass
and—strong in accumulation—roll back upon him with a force which
savours of vindictiveness. Night, too, becomes an unkindly time, and
sleep and his nature cannot agree: strange starts and struggles harass
his couch: the sinister band of bad dreams, with horror of calamity,
and sick dread of entire desertion at their head, join the league
against him. Poor wretch! He does his best to bear up, but he is a
poor, pallid, wasting wretch, despite that best.
Towards the last of these long seven weeks I admitted, what through the
other six I had jealously excluded—the conviction that these blanks
were inevitable: the result of circumstances, the fiat of fate, a part
of my life’s lot and—above all—a matter about whose origin no question
must ever be asked, for whose painful sequence no murmur ever uttered.
Of course I did not blame myself for suffering: I thank God I had a
truer sense of justice than to fall into any imbecile extravagance of
self-accusation; and as to blaming others for silence, in my reason I
well knew them blameless, and in my heart acknowledged them so: but it
was a rough and heavy road to travel, and I longed for better days.
I tried different expedients to sustain and fill existence: I commenced
an elaborate piece of lace-work, I studied German pretty hard, I
undertook a course of regular reading of the driest and thickest books
in the library; in all my efforts I was as orthodox as I knew how to
be. Was there error somewhere? Very likely. I only know the result was
as if I had gnawed a file to satisfy hunger, or drank brine to quench
thirst.
My hour of torment was the post-hour. Unfortunately, I knew it too
well, and tried as vainly as assiduously to cheat myself of that
knowledge; dreading the rack of expectation, and the sick collapse of
disappointment which daily preceded and followed upon that
well-recognised ring.
I suppose animals kept in cages, and so scantily fed as to be always
upon the verge of famine, await their food as I awaited a letter.
Oh!—to speak truth, and drop that tone of a false calm which long to
sustain, outwears nature’s endurance—I underwent in those seven weeks
bitter fears and pains, strange inward trials, miserable defections of
hope, intolerable encroachments of despair. This last came so near me
sometimes that her breath went right through me. I used to feel it like
a baleful air or sigh, penetrate deep, and make motion pause at my
heart, or proceed only under unspeakable oppression. The letter—the
well-beloved letter—would not come; and it was all of sweetness in life
I had to look for.
In the very extremity of want, I had recourse again, and yet again, to
the little packet in the case—the five letters. How splendid that month
seemed whose skies had beheld the rising of these five stars! It was
always at night I visited them, and not daring to ask every evening for
a candle in the kitchen, I bought a wax taper and matches to light it,
and at the study-hour stole up to the dormitory and feasted on my crust
from the Barmecide’s loaf. It did not nourish me: I pined on it, and
got as thin as a shadow: otherwise I was not ill.
Reading there somewhat late one evening, and feeling that the power to
read was leaving me—for the letters from incessant perusal were losing
all sap and significance: my gold was withering to leaves before my
eyes, and I was sorrowing over the disillusion—suddenly a quick
tripping foot ran up the stairs. I knew Ginevra Fanshawe’s step: she
had dined in town that afternoon; she was now returned, and would come
here to replace her shawl, &c. in the wardrobe.
Yes: in she came, dressed in bright silk, with her shawl falling from
her shoulders, and her curls, half-uncurled in the damp of night,
drooping careless and heavy upon her neck. I had hardly time to
recasket my treasures and lock them up when she was at my side her
humour seemed none of the best.
“It has been a stupid evening: they are stupid people,” she began.
“Who? Mrs. Cholmondeley? I thought you always found her house
charming?”
“I have not been to Mrs. Cholmondeley’s.”
“Indeed! Have you made new acquaintance?”
“My uncle de Bassompierre is come.”
“Your uncle de Bassompierre! Are you not glad?—I thought he was a
favourite.”
“You thought wrong: the man is odious; I hate him.”
“Because he is a foreigner? or for what other reason of equal weight?”
“He is not a foreigner. The man is English enough, goodness knows; and
had an English name till three or four years ago; but his mother was a
foreigner, a de Bassompierre, and some of her family are dead and have
left him estates, a title, and this name: he is quite a great man now.”
“Do you hate him for that reason?”
“Don’t I know what mamma says about him? He is not my own uncle, but
married mamma’s sister. Mamma detests him; she says he killed aunt
Ginevra with unkindness: he looks like a bear. Such a dismal evening!”
she went on. “I’ll go no more to his big hotel. Fancy me walking into a
room alone, and a great man fifty years old coming forwards, and after
a few minutes’ conversation actually turning his back upon me, and then
abruptly going out of the room. Such odd ways! I daresay his conscience
smote him, for they all say at home I am the picture of aunt Ginevra.
Mamma often declares the likeness is quite ridiculous.”
“Were you the only visitor?”
“The only visitor? Yes; then there was missy, my cousin: little
spoiled, pampered thing.”
“M. de Bassompierre has a daughter?”
“Yes, yes: don’t tease one with questions. Oh, dear! I am so tired.”
She yawned. Throwing herself without ceremony on my bed she added, “It
seems Mademoiselle was nearly crushed to a jelly in a hubbub at the
theatre some weeks ago.”
“Ah! indeed. And they live at a large hotel in the Rue Crécy?”
“Justement. How do _you_ know?”
“I have been there.”
“Oh, you have? Really! You go everywhere in these days. I suppose
Mother Bretton took you. She and Esculapius have the _entrée_ of the de
Bassompierre apartments: it seems ‘my son John’ attended missy on the
occasion of her accident—Accident? Bah! All affectation! I don’t think
she was squeezed more than she richly deserves for her airs. And now
there is quite an intimacy struck up: I heard something about ‘auld
lang syne,’ and what not. Oh, how stupid they all were!”
“_All!_ You said you were the only visitor.”
“Did I? You see one forgets to particularize an old woman and her boy.”
“Dr. and Mrs. Bretton were at M. de Bassompierre’s this evening?”
“Ay, ay! as large as life; and missy played the hostess. What a
conceited doll it is!”
Soured and listless, Miss Fanshawe was beginning to disclose the causes
of her prostrate condition. There had been a retrenchment of incense, a
diversion or a total withholding of homage and attention coquetry had
failed of effect, vanity had undergone mortification. She lay fuming in
the vapours.
“Is Miss de Bassompierre quite well now?” I asked.
“As well as you or I, no doubt; but she is an affected little thing,
and gave herself invalid airs to attract medical notice. And to see the
old dowager making her recline on a couch, and ‘my son John’
prohibiting excitement, etcetera—faugh! the scene was quite sickening.”
“It would not have been so if the object of attention had been changed:
if you had taken Miss de Bassompierre’s place.”
“Indeed! I hate ‘my son John!’”
“‘My son John!’—whom do you indicate by that name? Dr. Bretton’s mother
never calls him so.”
“Then she ought. A clownish, bearish John he is.”
“You violate the truth in saying so; and as the whole of my patience is
now spun off the distaff, I peremptorily desire you to rise from that
bed, and vacate this room.”
“Passionate thing! Your face is the colour of a coquelicot. I wonder
what always makes you so mighty testy à l’endroit du gros Jean? ‘John
Anderson, my Joe, John!’ Oh, the distinguished name!”
Thrilling with exasperation, to which it would have been sheer folly to
have given vent—for there was no contending with that unsubstantial
feather, that mealy-winged moth—I extinguished my taper, locked my
bureau, and left her, since she would not leave me. Small-beer as she
was, she had turned insufferably acid.
The morrow was Thursday and a half-holiday. Breakfast was over; I had
withdrawn to the first classe. The dreaded hour, the post-hour, was
nearing, and I sat waiting it, much as a ghost-seer might wait his
spectre. Less than ever was a letter probable; still, strive as I
would, I could not forget that it was possible. As the moments
lessened, a restlessness and fear almost beyond the average assailed
me. It was a day of winter east wind, and I had now for some time
entered into that dreary fellowship with the winds and their changes,
so little known, so incomprehensible to the healthy. The north and east
owned a terrific influence, making all pain more poignant, all sorrow
sadder. The south could calm, the west sometimes cheer: unless, indeed,
they brought on their wings the burden of thunder-clouds, under the
weight and warmth of which all energy died.
Bitter and dark as was this January day, I remember leaving the classe,
and running down without bonnet to the bottom of the long garden, and
then lingering amongst the stripped shrubs, in the forlorn hope that
the postman’s ring might occur while I was out of hearing, and I might
thus be spared the thrill which some particular nerve or nerves, almost
gnawed through with the unremitting tooth of a fixed idea, were
becoming wholly unfit to support. I lingered as long as I dared without
fear of attracting attention by my absence. I muffled my head in my
apron, and stopped my ears in terror of the torturing clang, sure to be
followed by such blank silence, such barren vacuum for me. At last I
ventured to re-enter the first classe, where, as it was not yet nine
o’clock, no pupils had been admitted. The first thing seen was a white
object on my black desk, a white, flat object. The post had, indeed,
arrived; by me unheard. Rosine had visited my cell, and, like some
angel, had left behind her a bright token of her presence. That shining
thing on the desk was indeed a letter, a real letter; I saw so much at
the distance of three yards, and as I had but one correspondent on
earth, from that one it must come. He remembered me yet. How deep a
pulse of gratitude sent new life through my heart.
Drawing near, bending and looking on the letter, in trembling but
almost certain hope of seeing a known hand, it was my lot to find, on
the contrary, an autograph for the moment deemed unknown—a pale female
scrawl, instead of a firm, masculine character. I then thought fate was
_too_ hard for me, and I said, audibly, “This is cruel.”
But I got over that pain also. Life is still life, whatever its pangs:
our eyes and ears and their use remain with us, though the prospect of
what pleases be wholly withdrawn, and the sound of what consoles be
quite silenced.
I opened the billet: by this time I had recognised its handwriting as
perfectly familiar. It was dated “La Terrasse,” and it ran thus:—
“DEAR LUCY,—It occurs to me to inquire what you have been doing with
yourself for the last month or two? Not that I suspect you would have
the least difficulty in giving an account of your proceedings. I
daresay you have been just as busy and as happy as ourselves at La
Terrasse. As to Graham, his professional connection extends daily: he
is so much sought after, so much engaged, that I tell him he will grow
quite conceited. Like a right good mother, as I am, I do my best to
keep him down: no flattery does he get from me, as you know. And yet,
Lucy, he is a fine fellow: his mother’s heart dances at the sight of
him. After being hurried here and there the whole day, and passing the
ordeal of fifty sorts of tempers, and combating a hundred caprices, and
sometimes witnessing cruel sufferings—perhaps, occasionally, as I tell
him, inflicting them—at night he still comes home to me in such kindly,
pleasant mood, that really, I seem to live in a sort of moral
antipodes, and on these January evenings my day rises when other
people’s night sets in.
“Still he needs keeping in order, and correcting, and repressing,
and I do him that good service; but the boy is so elastic there is
no such thing as vexing him thoroughly. When I think I have at last
driven him to the sullens, he turns on me with jokes for
retaliation: but you know him and all his iniquities, and I am but
an elderly simpleton to make him the subject of this epistle.
“As for me, I have had my old Bretton agent here on a visit, and
have been plunged overhead and ears in business matters. I do so
wish to regain for Graham at least some part of what his father
left him. He laughs to scorn my anxiety on this point, bidding me
look and see how he can provide for himself and me too, and asking
what the old lady can possibly want that she has not; hinting about
sky-blue turbans; accusing me of an ambition to wear diamonds, keep
livery servants, have an hotel, and lead the fashion amongst the
English clan in Villette.
“Talking of sky-blue turbans, I wish you had been with us the other
evening. He had come in really tired, and after I had given him his
tea, he threw himself into my chair with his customary presumption.
To my great delight, he dropped asleep. (You know how he teases me
about being drowsy; I, who never, by any chance, close an eye by
daylight.) While he slept, I thought he looked very bonny, Lucy:
fool as I am to be so proud of him; but who can help it? Show me
his peer. Look where I will, I see nothing like him in Villette.
Well, I took it into my head to play him a trick: so I brought out
the sky-blue turban, and handling it with gingerly precaution, I
managed to invest his brows with this grand adornment. I assure you
it did not at all misbecome him; he looked quite Eastern, except
that he is so fair. Nobody, however, can accuse him of having red
hair _now_—it is genuine chestnut—a dark, glossy chestnut; and when
I put my large cashmere about him, there was as fine a young bey,
dey, or pacha improvised as you would wish to see.
“It was good entertainment; but only half-enjoyed, since I was
alone: you should have been there.
“In due time my lord awoke: the looking-glass above the fireplace
soon intimated to him his plight: as you may imagine, I now live
under threat and dread of vengeance.
“But to come to the gist of my letter. I know Thursday is a
half-holiday in the Rue Fossette: be ready, then, by five in the
afternoon, at which hour I will send the carriage to take you out
to La Terrasse. Be sure to come: you may meet some old
acquaintance. Good-by, my wise, dear, grave little
god-daughter.—Very truly yours,
“LOUISA BRETTON.”
Now, a letter like that sets one to rights! I might still be sad after
reading that letter, but I was more composed; not exactly cheered,
perhaps, but relieved. My friends, at least, were well and happy: no
accident had occurred to Graham; no illness had seized his
mother—calamities that had so long been my dream and thought. Their
feelings for me too were—as they had been. Yet, how strange it was to
look on Mrs. Bretton’s seven weeks and contrast them with my seven
weeks! Also, how very wise it is in people placed in an exceptional
position to hold their tongues and not rashly declare how such position
galls them! The world can understand well enough the process of
perishing for want of food: perhaps few persons can enter into or
follow out that of going mad from solitary confinement. They see the
long-buried prisoner disinterred, a maniac or an idiot!—how his senses
left him—how his nerves, first inflamed, underwent nameless agony, and
then sunk to palsy—is a subject too intricate for examination, too
abstract for popular comprehension. Speak of it! you might almost as
well stand up in an European market-place, and propound dark sayings in
that language and mood wherein Nebuchadnezzar, the imperial
hypochondriac, communed with his baffled Chaldeans. And long, long may
the minds to whom such themes are no mystery—by whom their bearings are
sympathetically seized—be few in number, and rare of rencounter. Long
may it be generally thought that physical privations alone merit
compassion, and that the rest is a figment. When the world was younger
and haler than now, moral trials were a deeper mystery still: perhaps
in all the land of Israel there was but one Saul—certainly but one
David to soothe or comprehend him.
The keen, still cold of the morning was succeeded, later in the day, by
a sharp breathing from Russian wastes: the cold zone sighed over the
temperate zone, and froze it fast. A heavy firmament, dull, and thick
with snow, sailed up from the north, and settled over expectant Europe.
Towards afternoon began the descent. I feared no carriage would come,
the white tempest raged so dense and wild. But trust my godmother! Once
having asked, she would have her guest. About six o’clock I was lifted
from the carriage over the already blocked-up front steps of the
château, and put in at the door of La Terrasse.
Running through the vestibule, and up-stairs to the drawing-room, there
I found Mrs. Bretton—a summer-day in her own person. Had I been twice
as cold as I was, her kind kiss and cordial clasp would have warmed me.
Inured now for so long a time to rooms with bare boards, black benches,
desks, and stoves, the blue saloon seemed to me gorgeous. In its
Christmas-like fire alone there was a clear and crimson splendour which
quite dazzled me.
When my godmother had held my hand for a little while, and chatted with
me, and scolded me for having become thinner than when she last saw me,
she professed to discover that the snow-wind had disordered my hair,
and sent me up-stairs to make it neat and remove my shawl.
Repairing to my own little sea-green room, there also I found a bright
fire, and candles too were lit: a tall waxlight stood on each side the
great looking-glass; but between the candles, and before the glass,
appeared something dressing itself—an airy, fairy thing—small, slight,
white—a winter spirit.
I declare, for one moment I thought of Graham and his spectral
illusions. With distrustful eye I noted the details of this new vision.
It wore white, sprinkled slightly with drops of scarlet; its girdle was
red; it had something in its hair leafy, yet shining—a little wreath
with an evergreen gloss. Spectral or not, here truly was nothing
frightful, and I advanced.
Turning quick upon me, a large eye, under long lashes, flashed over me,
the intruder: the lashes were as dark as long, and they softened with
their pencilling the orb they guarded.
“Ah! you are come!” she breathed out, in a soft, quiet voice, and she
smiled slowly, and gazed intently.
I knew her now. Having only once seen that sort of face, with that cast
of fine and delicate featuring, I could not but know her.
“Miss de Bassompierre,” I pronounced.
“No,” was the reply, “not Miss de Bassompierre for _you!_” I did not
inquire who then she might be, but waited voluntary information.
“You are changed, but still you are yourself,” she said, approaching
nearer. “I remember you well—your countenance, the colour of your hair,
the outline of your face….”
I had moved to the fire, and she stood opposite, and gazed into me; and
as she gazed, her face became gradually more and more expressive of
thought and feeling, till at last a dimness quenched her clear vision.
“It makes me almost cry to look so far back,” said she: “but as to
being sorry, or sentimental, don’t think it: on the contrary, I am
quite pleased and glad.”
Interested, yet altogether at fault, I knew not what to say. At last I
stammered, “I think I never met you till that night, some weeks ago,
when you were hurt…?”
She smiled. “You have forgotten then that I have sat on your knee, been
lifted in your arms, even shared your pillow? You no longer remember
the night when I came crying, like a naughty little child as I was, to
your bedside, and you took me in. You have no memory for the comfort
and protection by which you soothed an acute distress? Go back to
Bretton. Remember Mr. Home.”
At last I saw it all. “And you are little Polly?”
“I am Paulina Mary Home de Bassompierre.”
How time can change! Little Polly wore in her pale, small features, her
fairy symmetry, her varying expression, a certain promise of interest
and grace; but Paulina Mary was become beautiful—not with the beauty
that strikes the eye like a rose—orbed, ruddy, and replete; not with
the plump, and pink, and flaxen attributes of her blond cousin Ginevra;
but her seventeen years had brought her a refined and tender charm
which did not lie in complexion, though hers was fair and clear; nor in
outline, though her features were sweet, and her limbs perfectly
turned; but, I think, rather in a subdued glow from the soul outward.
This was not an opaque vase, of material however costly, but a lamp
chastely lucent, guarding from extinction, yet not hiding from worship,
a flame vital and vestal. In speaking of her attractions, I would not
exaggerate language; but, indeed, they seemed to me very real and
engaging. What though all was on a small scale, it was the perfume
which gave this white violet distinction, and made it superior to the
broadest camelia—the fullest dahlia that ever bloomed.
“Ah! and you remember the old time at Bretton?”
“Better,” said she, “better, perhaps, than you. I remember it with
minute distinctness: not only the time, but the days of the time, and
the hours of the days.”
“You must have forgotten some things?”
“Very little, I imagine.”
“You were then a little creature of quick feelings: you must, long ere
this, have outgrown the impressions with which joy and grief, affection
and bereavement, stamped your mind ten years ago.”
“You think I have forgotten whom I liked, and in what degree I liked
them when a child?”
“The sharpness must be gone—the point, the poignancy—the deep imprint
must be softened away and effaced?”
“I have a good memory for those days.”
She looked as if she had. Her eyes were the eyes of one who can
remember; one whose childhood does not fade like a dream, nor whose
youth vanish like a sunbeam. She would not take life, loosely and
incoherently, in parts, and let one season slip as she entered on
another: she would retain and add; often review from the commencement,
and so grow in harmony and consistency as she grew in years. Still I
could not quite admit the conviction that _all_ the pictures which now
crowded upon me were vivid and visible to her. Her fond attachments,
her sports and contests with a well-loved playmate, the patient, true
devotion of her child’s heart, her fears, her delicate reserves, her
little trials, the last piercing pain of separation…. I retraced these
things, and shook my head incredulous. She persisted. “The child of
seven years lives yet in the girl of seventeen,” said she.
“You used to be excessively fond of Mrs. Bretton,” I remarked,
intending to test her. She set me right at once.
“Not _excessively_ fond,” said she; “I liked her: I respected her as I
should do now: she seems to me very little altered.”
“She is not much changed,” I assented.
We were silent a few minutes. Glancing round the room she said, “There
are several things here that used to be at Bretton! I remember that
pincushion and that looking-glass.”
Evidently she was not deceived in her estimate of her own memory; not,
at least, so far.
“You think, then, you would have known Mrs. Bretton?” I went on.
“I perfectly remembered her; the turn of her features, her olive
complexion, and black hair, her height, her walk, her voice.”
“Dr. Bretton, of course,” I pursued, “would be out of the question:
and, indeed, as I saw your first interview with him, I am aware that he
appeared to you as a stranger.”
“That first night I was puzzled,” she answered.
“How did the recognition between him and your father come about?”
“They exchanged cards. The names Graham Bretton and Home de
Bassompierre gave rise to questions and explanations. That was on the
second day; but before then I was beginning to know something.”
“How—know something?”
“Why,” she said, “how strange it is that most people seem so slow to
feel the truth—not to see, but _feel_! When Dr. Bretton had visited me
a few times, and sat near and talked to me; when I had observed the
look in his eyes, the expression about his mouth, the form of his chin,
the carriage of his head, and all that we _do_ observe in persons who
approach us—how could I avoid being led by association to think of
Graham Bretton? Graham was slighter than he, and not grown so tall, and
had a smoother face, and longer and lighter hair, and spoke—not so
deeply—more like a girl; but yet _he_ is Graham, just as _I_ am little
Polly, or you are Lucy Snowe.”
I thought the same, but I wondered to find my thoughts hers: there are
certain things in which we so rarely meet with our double that it seems
a miracle when that chance befalls.
“You and Graham were once playmates.”
“And do you remember that?” she questioned in her turn.
“No doubt he will remember it also,” said I.
“I have not asked him: few things would surprise me so much as to find
that he did. I suppose his disposition is still gay and careless?”
“Was it so formerly? Did it so strike you? Do you thus remember him?”
“I scarcely remember him in any other light. Sometimes he was studious;
sometimes he was merry: but whether busy with his books or disposed for
play, it was chiefly the books or game he thought of; not much heeding
those with whom he read or amused himself.”
“Yet to you he was partial.”
“Partial to me? Oh, no! he had other playmates—his school-fellows; I
was of little consequence to him, except on Sundays: yes, he was kind
on Sundays. I remember walking with him hand-in-hand to St. Mary’s, and
his finding the places in my prayer-book; and how good and still he was
on Sunday evenings! So mild for such a proud, lively boy; so patient
with all my blunders in reading; and so wonderfully to be depended on,
for he never spent those evenings from home: I had a constant fear that
he would accept some invitation and forsake us; but he never did, nor
seemed ever to wish to do it. Thus, of course, it can be no more. I
suppose Sunday will now be Dr. Bretton’s dining-out day….?”
“Children, come down!” here called Mrs. Bretton from below. Paulina
would still have lingered, but I inclined to descend: we went down.
CHAPTER 25. The Little Cou