Villette

qualifications were not convertible, not adaptable; they could not be made the foil of any gem, the adjunct of any beauty, the appendage of any greatness in Christendom. Madame Beck and I, without assimilating, understood each other well. I was not
her
companion, nor her children's governess; she left me free: she tied me to nothing – not to herself – not even to her interests: once, when she had for a fortnight been called from home by a near relation's illness, and on her return, all anxious and full of care about her establishment, lest something in her absence should have gone wrong – finding that matters had proceeded much as usual, and that there was no evidence of glaring neglect – she made each of the teachers a present, in acknowledgement of steadiness. To my bedside she came at twelve o'clock at night, and told me she had no present for me. »I must make fidelity advantageous to the St Pierre,« said she; »if I attempt to make it advantageous to you, there will arise misunderstanding between us – perhaps separation. One thing, however, I
can
do to please you – leave you alone with your liberty: c'est ce que je ferai.«
    She kept her word. Every slight shackle she had ever laid on me, she, from that time, with quiet hand removed. Thus I had pleasure in voluntarily respecting her rules; gratification in devoting double time, in taking double pains with the pupils she committed to my charge.
    As to Mary de Bassompierre, I visited her with pleasure, though I would not live with her. My visits soon taught me that it was unlikely even my occasional and voluntary society would long be indispensable to her. M. de Bassompierre, for his part, seemed impervious to this conjecture, blind to this possibility; unconscious as any child to the signs, the likelihoods, the fitful beginnings of what, when it drew to an end, he might not approve.
    Whether or not, he would cordially approve, I used to speculate. Difficult to say. He was much taken up with scientific interests; keen, intent, and somewhat oppugnant in what concerned his favourite pursuits, but unsuspicious and trustful in the ordinary affairs of life. From all I could gather, he seemed to regard his ›daughterling‹ as still but a child, and probably had not yet admitted the notion that others might look on her in a different light: he would speak of what should be done when ›Polly‹ was a woman, when she should be grown up; and ›Polly,‹ standing beside his chair, would sometimes smile and take his honoured head between her little hands, and kiss his iron-gray locks; and, at other times, she would pout and toss her curls: but she never said, »Papa, I
am
grown up.«
    She had different moods for different people. With her father she really was still a child, or child-like, affectionate, merry, and playful. With me she was serious, and as womanly as thought and feeling could make her. With Mrs. Bretton she was docile and reliant, but not expansive. With Graham she was shy, at present very shy; at moments she tried to be cold; on occasion she endeavoured to shun him. His step made her start; his entrance hushed her; when he spoke, her answers failed of fluency; when he took leave, she remained self-vexed and disconcerted. Even her father noticed this demeanour in her.
    »My little Polly,« he said once, »you live too retired a life; if you grow to be a woman with these shy manners, you will hardly be fitted for society. You really make quite a stranger of Dr. Bretton: how is this? Don't you remember that, as a little girl, you used to be rather partial to him.«
    »
Rather,
papa,« echoed she, with her slightly dry, yet gentle and simple tone.
    »And you don't like him now? What has he done?«
    »Nothing. Y-e-s, I like him a little; but we are grown strange to each other.«
    »Then rub it off, Polly: rub the rust and the strangeness off. Talk away when he is here, and have no fear of him!«
    »
He
does not talk much. Is he afraid of me, do you think, papa?«
    »Oh, to be sure! What man would not be afraid of such a little silent lady?«
    »Then tell him some day not to mind my being silent. Say that it is my way, and that I have no unfriendly intention.«
    »Your way, you little chatter-box? So far from being your way, it is only your whim!«
    »Well, I'll improve, papa.«
    And very pretty was the grace with which, the next day, she tried to keep her word. I saw her make the effort to converse affably with Dr. John on general topics. The