Villette

there was a return. I am sure he came back – not for the paper, or card in his desk, which formed his ostensible errand – but to assure himself, by one more glance, that Paulina's aspect was really such as memory was bearing away: that he had not been viewing her somehow by a partial, artificial light, and making a fond mistake. No! he found the impression true – rather, indeed, he gained, than lost, by this return: he took away with him a parting look – shy, but very soft – as beautiful, as innocent, as any little fawn could lift out of its cover of fern, or any lamb from its meadow-bed.
    Being left alone, Paulina and I kept silence for some time; we both took out some work, and plied a mute and diligent task. The white-wood work-box of old days, was now replaced by one inlaid with precious mosaic, and furnished with implements of gold; the tiny and trembling fingers that could scarce guide the needle, though tiny still, were now swift and skilful: but there was the same busy knitting of the brow, the same little dainty mannerisms, the same quick turns and movements – now to replace a stray tress; and anon to shake from the silken skirt some imaginary atom of dust – some clinging fibre of thread.
    That morning I was disposed for silence: the austere fury of the winter-day, had on me an awing, hushing influence. That passion of January, so white and so bloodless, was not yet spent: the storm had raved itself hoarse, but seemed no nearer exhaustion. Had Ginevra Fanshawe been my companion in that morning-room, she would not have suffered me to muse and listened undisturbed. The presence just gone from us would have been her theme; and how she would have rung the changes on one topic! how she would have pursued and pestered me with questions and surmises – worried and oppressed me with comments and confidences I did not want, and longed to avoid.
    Pauline Mary cast once or twice towards me a quiet, but penetrating glance of her dark, full eye; her lips half opened, as if to the impulse of coming utterance: but she saw and delicately respected my inclination for silence.
    »This will not hold long,« I thought to myself, for I was not accustomed to find in women or girls any power of self-control, or strength of self-denial. As far as I knew them, the chance of a gossip about their usually trivial secrets, their often very washy and paltry feelings, was a treat not to be readily foregone.
    The little Countess promised an exception: she sewed, till she was tired of sewing, and then she took a book.
    As chance would have it, she had sought it in Dr. Bretton's own compartment of the book-case; and it proved to be an old Bretton book – some illustrated work of natural history. Often had I seen her standing at Graham's side, resting that volume on his knee, and reading to his tuition; and, when the lesson was over, begging, as a treat, that he would tell her all about the pictures. I watched her keenly: here was a true test of that memory she had boasted: would her recollections now be faithful?
    Faithful? It could not be doubted. As she turned the leaves, over her face passed gleam after gleam of expression, the least intelligent of which was a full greeting to the Past. And then she turned to the title- and looked at the name written in the schoolboy hand. She looked at it long; nor was she satisfied with merely looking: she gently passed over the characters the tips of her fingers, accompanying the action with an unconscious but tender smile, which converted the touch into a caress. Paulina loved the Past; but the peculiarity of this little scene was, that she
said
nothing: she could feel, without pouring out her feelings in a flux of words.
    She now occupied herself at the bookcase for nearly an hour; taking down volume after volume, and renewing her acquaintance with each. This done, she seated herself on a low stool, rested her cheek on her hand, and thought, and still was mute.
    The sound of the front door opened below, a rush of cold wind, and her father's voice speaking to Mrs. Bretton in the hall, startled her at last. She sprang up: she was down-stairs in one second.
    »Papa! Papa! you are not going out?«
    »My pet; I must go into town.«
    »But it is too –
too
cold, papa.«
    And then I heard M. de Bassompierre showing to her how he was well provided against the weather; and how he was going to have the carriage, and to be quite snugly sheltered; and, in short, proving that she need not fear