Villette

her expression and emphasis were something remarkable. Joseph cast into the pit; the calling of Samuel; Daniel in the lions' den; – these were favourite passages: of the first especially she seemed perfectly to feel the pathos.
    »Poor Jacob!« she would sometimes say, with quivering lips. »How he loved his son Joseph! As much,« she once added – »as much, Graham, as I love you: if you were to die« (and she re-opened the book, sought the verse, and read), »I should ›refuse to be comforted, and go down into the grave to you mourning.‹«
    With these words she gathered Graham in her little arms, drawing his long-tressed head towards her. The action, I remember, struck me as strangely rash; exciting the feeling one might experience on seeing an animal dangerous by nature, and but half-tamed by art, too heedlessly fondled. Not that I feared Graham would hurt, or very roughly check her; but I thought she ran risk of incurring such a careless, impatient repulse, as would be worse almost to her than a blow. On the whole, however, these demonstrations were borne passively: sometimes even a sort of complacent wonder at her earnest partiality would smile not unkindly in his eyes. Once he said: –
    »You like me almost as well as if you were my little sister, Polly.«
    »Oh! I
do
like you,« said she; »I
do
like you very much.«
     
    I was not long allowed the amusement of this study of character. She had scarcely been at Bretton two months, when a letter came from Mr. Home, signifying that he was now settled amongst his maternal kinsfolk on the Continent, that, as England was become wholly distasteful to him, he had no thoughts of returning thither, perhaps, for years; and that he wished his little girl to join him immediately.
    »I wonder how she will take this news?« said Mrs. Bretton, when she had read the letter.
I
wondered, too, and I took upon myself to communicate it.
    Repairing to the drawing-room – in which calm and decorated apartment she was fond of being alone, and where she could be implicitly trusted, for she fingered nothing, or rather soiled nothing she fingered – I found her seated, like a little Odalisque, on a couch, half shaded by the drooping draperies of the window near. She seemed happy; all her appliances for occupation were about her; the white wood work-box, a shred or two of muslin, an end or two of ribbon, collected for conversion into doll-millinery. The doll, duly night-capped and night-gowned, lay in its cradle; she was rocking it to sleep, with an air of the most perfect faith in its possession of sentient and somnolent faculties; her eyes, at the same time, being engaged with a picture-book, which lay open on her lap.
    »Miss Snowe,« said she in a whisper, »this is a wonderful book. Candace« (the doll, christened by Graham; for, indeed, its begrimed complexion gave it much of an Ethiopian aspect) – »Candace is asleep now, and I may tell you about it; only we must both speak low, lest she should waken. This book was given me by Graham; it tells about distant countries, a long, long way from England, which no traveller can reach without sailing thousands of miles over the sea. Wild men live in these countries, Miss Snowe, who wear clothes different from ours: indeed, some of them wear scarcely any clothes, for the sake of being cool, you know; for they have very hot weather. Here is a picture of thousands gathered in a desolate place – a plain, spread with sand – round a man in black, – a good,
good
Englishman, – a missionary, who is preaching to them under a palm-tree.« (She showed a little coloured cut to that effect.) »And here are pictures« (she went on) »more stranger« (grammar was occasionally forgotten) »than that. There is the wonderful Great Wall of China; here is a Chinese lady, with a foot littler than mine. There is a wild horse of Tartary; and here – most strange of all – is a land of ice and snow, without green fields, woods, or gardens. In this land, they found some mammoth bones: there are no mammoths now. You don't know what it was; but I can tell you, because Graham told me. A mighty, goblin creature, as high as this room, and as long as the hall; but not a fierce, flesh-eating thing, Graham thinks. He believes, if I met one in a forest, it would not kill me, unless I came quite in its way; when it would trample me down amongst the bushes, as I might tread on a grasshopper in a hay-field without knowing it.«
    Thus she rambled