第 一 章 · Bretton

. Bretton

BRETTON.

My godmother lived in a handsome house in the clean and ancient town of

Bretton. Her husband’s family had been residents there for generations,

and bore, indeed, the name of their birthplace—Bretton of Bretton:

whether by coincidence, or because some remote ancestor had been a

personage of sufficient importance to leave his name to his

neighbourhood, I know not.

When I was a girl I went to Bretton about twice a year, and well I

liked the visit. The house and its inmates specially suited me. The

large peaceful rooms, the well-arranged furniture, the clear wide

windows, the balcony outside, looking down on a fine antique street,

where Sundays and holidays seemed always to abide—so quiet was its

atmosphere, so clean its pavement—these things pleased me well.

One child in a household of grown people is usually made very much of,

and in a quiet way I was a good deal taken notice of by Mrs. Bretton,

who had been left a widow, with one son, before I knew her; her

husband, a physician, having died while she was yet a young and

handsome woman.

She was not young, as I remember her, but she was still handsome, tall,

well-made, and though dark for an Englishwoman, yet wearing always the

clearness of health in her brunette cheek, and its vivacity in a pair

of fine, cheerful black eyes. People esteemed it a grievous pity that

she had not conferred her complexion on her son, whose eyes were

blue—though, even in boyhood, very piercing—and the colour of his long

hair such as friends did not venture to specify, except as the sun

shone on it, when they called it golden. He inherited the lines of his

mother’s features, however; also her good teeth, her stature (or the

promise of her stature, for he was not yet full-grown), and, what was

better, her health without flaw, and her spirits of that tone and

equality which are better than a fortune to the possessor.

In the autumn of the year —— I was staying at Bretton; my godmother

having come in person to claim me of the kinsfolk with whom was at that

time fixed my permanent residence. I believe she then plainly saw

events coming, whose very shadow I scarce guessed; yet of which the

faint suspicion sufficed to impart unsettled sadness, and made me glad

to change scene and society.

Time always flowed smoothly for me at my godmother’s side; not with

tumultuous swiftness, but blandly, like the gliding of a full river

through a plain. My visits to her resembled the sojourn of Christian

and Hopeful beside a certain pleasant stream, with “green trees on each

bank, and meadows beautified with lilies all the year round.” The charm

of variety there was not, nor the excitement of incident; but I liked

peace so well, and sought stimulus so little, that when the latter came

I almost felt it a disturbance, and wished rather it had still held

aloof.

One day a letter was received of which the contents evidently caused

Mrs. Bretton surprise and some concern. I thought at first it was from

home, and trembled, expecting I know not what disastrous communication:

to me, however, no reference was made, and the cloud seemed to pass.

The next day, on my return from a long walk, I found, as I entered my

bedroom, an unexpected change. In addition to my own French bed in its

shady recess, appeared in a corner a small crib, draped with white; and

in addition to my mahogany chest of drawers, I saw a tiny rosewood

chest. I stood still, gazed, and considered.

“Of what are these things the signs and tokens?” I asked. The answer

was obvious. “A second guest is coming: Mrs. Bretton expects other

visitors.”

On descending to dinner, explanations ensued. A little girl, I was

told, would shortly be my companion: the daughter of a friend and

distant relation of the late Dr. Bretton’s. This little girl, it was

added, had recently lost her mother; though, indeed, Mrs. Bretton ere

long subjoined, the loss was not so great as might at first appear.

Mrs. Home (Home it seems was the name) had been a very pretty, but a

giddy, careless woman, who had neglected her child, and disappointed

and disheartened her husband. So far from congenial had the union

proved, that separation at last ensued—separation by mutual consent,

not after any legal process. Soon after this event, the lady having

over-exerted herself at a ball, caught cold, took a fever, and died

after a very brief illness. Her husband, naturally a man of very

sensitive feelings, and shocked inexpressibly by too sudden

communication of the news, could hardly, it seems, now be persuaded but

that some over-severity on his part—some deficiency in patience and

indulgence—had contributed to hasten her end. He had brooded over this

idea till his spirits were seriously affected; the medical men insisted

on travelling being tried as a remedy, and meanwhile Mrs. Bretton had

offered to take charge of his little girl. “And I hope,” added my

godmother in conclusion, “the child will not be like her mamma; as

silly and frivolous a little flirt as ever sensible man was weak enough

to marry. For,” said she, “Mr. Home _is_ a sensible man in his way,

though not very practical: he is fond of science, and lives half his

life in a laboratory trying experiments—a thing his butterfly wife

could neither comprehend nor endure; and indeed” confessed my

godmother, “I should not have liked it myself.”

In answer to a question of mine, she further informed me that her late

husband used to say, Mr. Home had derived this scientific turn from a

maternal uncle, a French savant; for he came, it seems; of mixed French

and Scottish origin, and had connections now living in France, of whom

more than one wrote _de_ before his name, and called himself noble.

That same evening at nine o’clock, a servant was despatched to meet the

coach by which our little visitor was expected. Mrs. Bretton and I sat

alone in the drawing-room waiting her coming; John Graham Bretton being

absent on a visit to one of his schoolfellows who lived in the country.

My godmother read the evening paper while she waited; I sewed. It was a

wet night; the rain lashed the panes, and the wind sounded angry and

restless.

“Poor child!” said Mrs. Bretton from time to time. “What weather for

her journey! I wish she were safe here.”

A little before ten the door-bell announced Warren’s return. No sooner

was the door opened than I ran down into the hall; there lay a trunk

and some band-boxes, beside them stood a person like a nurse-girl, and

at the foot of the staircase was Warren with a shawled bundle in his

arms.

“Is that the child?” I asked.

“Yes, miss.”

I would have opened the shawl, and tried to get a peep at the face, but

it was hastily turned from me to Warren’s shoulder.

“Put me down, please,” said a small voice when Warren opened the

drawing-room door, “and take off this shawl,” continued the speaker,

extracting with its minute hand the pin, and with a sort of fastidious

haste doffing the clumsy wrapping. The creature which now appeared made

a deft attempt to fold the shawl; but the drapery was much too heavy

and large to be sustained or wielded by those hands and arms. “Give it

to Harriet, please,” was then the direction, “and she can put it away.”

This said, it turned and fixed its eyes on Mrs. Bretton.

“Come here, little dear,” said that lady. “Come and let me see if you

are cold and damp: come and let me warm you at the fire.”

The child advanced promptly. Relieved of her wrapping, she appeared

exceedingly tiny; but was a neat, completely-fashioned little figure,

light, slight, and straight. Seated on my godmother’s ample lap, she

looked a mere doll; her neck, delicate as wax, her head of silky curls,

increased, I thought, the resemblance.

Mrs. Bretton talked in little fond phrases as she chafed the child’s

hands, arms, and feet; first she was considered with a wistful gaze,

but soon a smile answered her. Mrs. Bretton was not generally a

caressing woman: even with her deeply-cherished son, her manner was

rarely sentimental, often the reverse; but when the small stranger

smiled at her, she kissed it, asking, “What is my little one’s name?”

“Missy.”

“But besides Missy?”

“Polly, papa calls her.”

“Will Polly be content to live with me?”

“Not _always_; but till papa comes home. Papa is gone away.” She shook

her head expressively.

“He will return to Polly, or send for her.”

“Will he, ma’am? Do you know he will?”

“I think so.”

“But Harriet thinks not: at least not for a long while. He is ill.”

Her eyes filled. She drew her hand from Mrs. Bretton’s and made a

movement to leave her lap; it was at first resisted, but she

said—“Please, I wish to go: I can sit on a stool.”

She was allowed to slip down from the knee, and taking a footstool, she

carried it to a corner where the shade was deep, and there seated

herself. Mrs. Bretton, though a commanding, and in grave matters even a

peremptory woman, was often passive in trifles: she allowed the child

her way. She said to me, “Take no notice at present.” But I did take

notice: I watched Polly rest her small elbow on her small knee, her

head on her hand; I observed her draw a square inch or two of

pocket-handkerchief from the doll-pocket of her doll-skirt, and then I

heard her weep. Other children in grief or pain cry aloud, without

shame or restraint; but this being wept: the tiniest occasional sniff

testified to her emotion. Mrs. Bretton did not hear it: which was quite

as well. Ere long, a voice, issuing from the corner, demanded—“May the

bell be rung for Harriet!”

I rang; the nurse was summoned and came.

“Harriet, I must be put to bed,” said her little mistress. “You must

ask where my bed is.”

Harriet signified that she had already made that inquiry.

“Ask if you sleep with me, Harriet.”

“No, Missy,” said the nurse: “you are to share this young lady’s room,”

designating me.

Missy did not leave her seat, but I saw her eyes seek me. After some

minutes’ silent scrutiny, she emerged from her corner.

“I wish you, ma’am, good night,” said she to Mrs. Bretton; but she

passed me mute.

“Good-night, Polly,” I said.

“No need to say good-night, since we sleep in the same chamber,” was

the reply, with which she vanished from the drawing-room. We heard

Harriet propose to carry her up-stairs. “No need,” was again her

answer—“no need, no need:” and her small step toiled wearily up the

staircase.

On going to bed an hour afterwards, I found her still wide awake. She

had arranged her pillows so as to support her little person in a

sitting posture: her hands, placed one within the other, rested quietly

on the sheet, with an old-fashioned calm most unchildlike. I abstained

from speaking to her for some time, but just before extinguishing the

light, I recommended her to lie down.

“By and by,” was the answer.

“But you will take cold, Missy.”

She took some tiny article of raiment from the chair at her crib side,

and with it covered her shoulders. I suffered her to do as she pleased.

Listening awhile in the darkness, I was aware that she still wept,—wept

under restraint, quietly and cautiously.

On awaking with daylight, a trickling of water caught my ear. Behold!

there she was risen and mounted on a stool near the washstand, with

pains and difficulty inclining the ewer (which she could not lift) so

as to pour its contents into the basin. It was curious to watch her as

she washed and dressed, so small, busy, and noiseless. Evidently she

was little accustomed to perform her own toilet; and the buttons,

strings, hooks and eyes, offered difficulties which she encountered

with a perseverance good to witness. She folded her night-dress, she

smoothed the drapery of her couch quite neatly; withdrawing into a

corner, where the sweep of the white curtain concealed her, she became

still. I half rose, and advanced my head to see how she was occupied.

On her knees, with her forehead bent on her hands, I perceived that she

was praying.

Her nurse tapped at the door. She started up.

“I am dressed, Harriet,” said she; “I have dressed myself, but I do not

feel neat. Make me neat!”

“Why did you dress yourself, Missy?”

“Hush! speak low, Harriet, for fear of waking _the girl_” (meaning me,

who now lay with my eyes shut). “I dressed myself to learn, against the

time you leave me.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“When you are cross, I have many a time wanted you to go, but not now.

Tie my sash straight; make my hair smooth, please.”

“Your sash is straight enough. What a particular little body you are!”

“It must be tied again. Please to tie it.”

“There, then. When I am gone you must get that young lady to dress

you.”

“On no account.”

“Why? She is a very nice young lady. I hope you mean to behave prettily

to her, Missy, and not show your airs.”

“She shall dress me on no account.”

“Comical little thing!”

“You are not passing the comb straight through my hair, Harriet; the

line will be crooked.”

“Ay, you are ill to please. Does that suit?”

“Pretty well. Where should I go now that I am dressed?”

“I will take you into the breakfast-room.”

“Come, then.”

They proceeded to the door. She stopped.

“Oh! Harriet, I wish this was papa’s house! I don’t know these people.”

“Be a good child, Missy.”

“I am good, but I ache here;” putting her hand to her heart, and

moaning while she reiterated, “Papa! papa!”

I roused myself and started up, to check this scene while it was yet

within bounds.

“Say good-morning to the young lady,” dictated Harriet. She said,

“Good-morning,” and then followed her nurse from the room. Harriet

temporarily left that same day, to go to her own friends, who lived in

the neighbourhood.

On descending, I found