Villette

sharp moments, Lucy!«
    He was quite stirred up; his young hand trembled; a vital (I was going to write
mortal,
but such words ill apply to one all living like him) – a vital suspense now held, now hurried, his breath: in all this trouble his smile never faded.
    »Is he
very
angry, Lucy?«
    »
She
is very faithful, Graham.«
    »What will be done unto me?«
    »Graham, your star must be fortunate.«
    »Must it? Kind prophet! So cheered, I should be a faint heart indeed to quail. I think I find all women faithful, Lucy. I ought to love them, and I do. My mother is good;
she
is divine; and
you
are true as steel. Are you not?«
    »Yes, Graham.«
    »Then give me thy hand, my little god-sister; it is a friendly little hand to me, and always has been. And now for the great venture. God be with the right! Lucy, say, Amen!«
    He turned, and waited till I said »Amen!« – which I did to please him: the old charm, in doing as he bid me, came back. I wished him success; and successful I knew he would be. He was born victor, as some are born vanquished.
    »Follow me!« he said; and I followed him into Mr. Home's presence.
    »Sir,« he asked, »what is my sentence?«
    The father looked at him; the daughter kept her face hid.
    »Well, Bretton,« said Mr. Home, »you have given me the usual reward of hospitality. I entertained you; you have taken my best. I was always glad to see you; you were glad to see the one precious thing I had. You spoke me fair; and, meantime, I will not say you
robbed
me, but I am bereaved, and what I have lost,
you,
it seems, have won.«
    »Sir, I cannot repent.«
    »Repent! Not you! You triumph, no doubt: John Graham, you descended partly from a Highlander and a chief, and there is a trace of the Celt in all you look, speak, and think. You have his cunning and his charm. The red –– (Well, then, Polly, the
fair
) hair, the tongue of guile, and brain of wile, are all come down by inheritance.«
    »Sir, I
feel
honest enough,« said Graham; and a genuine English blush covered his face with its warm witness of sincerity. »And yet,« he added, »I won't deny that in some respects you accuse me justly. In your presence I have always had a thought which I dared not show you. I did truly regard you as the possessor of the most valuable thing the world owns for me. I wished for it; I tried for it. Sir, I ask for it now.«
    »John, you ask much.«
    »Very much, sir. It must come from your generosity, as a gift; from your justice, as a reward. I can never earn it.«
    »Ay! Listen to the Highland tongue!« said Mr. Home. »Look up, Polly! Answer this ›braw wooer‹; send him away!«
    She looked up. She shyly glanced at her eager, handsome suitor. She gazed tenderly on her furrowed sire.
    »Papa, I love you both,« said she; »I can take care of you both. I need not send Graham away – he can live here; he will be no inconvenience,« she alleged with that simplicity of phraseology which at times was wont to make both her father and Graham smile. They smiled now.
    »He will be a prodigious inconvenience to me,« still persisted Mr. Home. »I don't want him, Polly; he is too tall; he is in my way. Tell him to march.«
    »You will get used to him, papa. He seemed exceedingly tall to me at first – like a tower when I looked up at him; but, on the whole, I would rather not have him otherwise.«
    »I object to him altogether, Polly; I can do without a son-in-law. I should never have requested the best man in the land to stand to me in that relation. Dismiss this gentleman.«
    »But he has known you so long, papa, and suits you so well.«
    »Suits
me,
forsooth! Yes; he has pretended to make my opinions and tastes his own. He has humoured me for good reasons. I think, Polly, you and I will bid him good bye.«
    »Till to-morrow only. Shake hands with Graham, papa.«
    »No: I think not: I am not friends with him. Don't think to coax me between you.«
    »Indeed, indeed, you
are
friends. Graham, stretch out your right hand. Papa, put out yours. Now, let them touch. Papa, don't be stiff; close your fingers; be pliant – there! But that is not a clasp – it is a grasp! Papa, you grasp like a vice. You crush Graham's hand to the bone; you hurt him!«
    He must have hurt him; for he wore a massive ring, set round with brilliants, of which the sharp facets cut into Graham's flesh and drew blood: but pain only made Dr. John laugh, as anxiety had made him smile.
    »Come with me into my study,« at last said Mr. Home to the