Villette

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-bye 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.
    »Do n'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-bye!«
    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