“Where is she?” he asked.
“She is upstairs.”
“What is she doing?”
“She is writing.”
“She writes, does she? Does she receive letters?”
“None but such as she can show me. And—sir—she—they have long wanted to consult you.”
“Pshaw! They don’t think of me—an old father! I am in the way.”
“Ah, M. de Bassompierre—not so—that can’t be! But Paulina must speak for herself: and Dr. Bretton, too, must be his own advocate.”
“It is a little late. Matters are advanced, it seems.”
“Sir, till you approve, nothing is done—only they love each other.”
“Only!” he echoed.
Invested by fate with the part of confidante and mediator, I was obliged to go on: “Hundreds of times has Dr. Bretton been on the point of appealing to you, sir; but, with all his high courage, he fears you mortally.”
“He may well—he may well fear me. He has touched the best thing I have. Had he but let her alone, she would have remained a child for years yet. So. Are they engaged?”
“They could not become engaged without your permission.”
“It is well for you, Miss Snowe, to talk and think with that propriety which always characterizes you; but this matter is a grief to me; my little girl was all I had: I have no more daughters and no son; Bretton might as well have looked elsewhere; there are scores of rich and pretty women who would not, I daresay, dislike him: he has looks, and conduct, and connection. Would nothing serve him but my Polly?”
“If he had never seen your ‘Polly,’ others might and would have pleased him—your niece, Miss Fanshawe, for instance.”
“Ah! I would have given him Ginevra with all my heart; but Polly!—I can’t let him have her. No—I can’t. He is not her equal,” he affirmed, rather gruffly. “In what particular is he her match? They talk of fortune! I am not an avaricious or interested man, but the world thinks of these things—and Polly will be rich.”
“Yes, that is known,” said I: “all Villette knows her as an heiress.”
“Do they talk of my little girl in that light?”
“They do, sir.”
He fell into deep thought. I ventured to say, “Would you, sir, think any one Paulina’s match? Would you prefer any other to Dr. Bretton? Do you think higher rank or more wealth would make much difference in your feelings towards a future son-in-law?”
“You touch me there,” said he.
“Look at the aristocracy of Villette—you would not like them, sir?”
“I should not—never a duc, baron, or vicomte of the lot.”
“I am told many of these persons think about her, sir,” I went on, gaining courage on finding that I met attention rather than repulse. “Other suitors will come, therefore, if Dr. Bretton is refused. Wherever you go, I suppose, aspirants will not be wanting. Independent of heiress-ship, it appears to me that Paulina charms most of those who see her.”
“Does she? How? My little girl is not thought a beauty.”
“Sir, Miss de Bassompierre is very beautiful.”
“Nonsense!—begging your pardon, Miss Snowe, but I think you are too partial. I like Polly: I like all her ways and all her looks—but then I am her father; and even I never thought about beauty. She is amusing, fairy-like, interesting to me;—you must be mistaken in supposing her handsome?”
“She attracts, sir: she would attract without the advantages of your wealth and position.”
“My wealth and position! Are these any bait to Graham? If I thought so—”
“Dr. Bretton knows these points perfectly, as you may be sure, M. de Bassompierre, and values them as any gentleman would—as you would yourself, under the same circumstances—but they are not his baits. He loves your daughter very much; he feels her finest qualities, and they influence him worthily.”
“What! has my little pet ‘fine qualities?’ ”
“Ah, sir! did you observe her that evening when so many men of eminence and learning dined here?”
“I certainly was rather struck and surprised with her manner that day; its womanliness made me smile.”
“And did you see those accomplished Frenchmen gather round her in the drawing-room?”
“I did; but I thought it was by way of relaxation—as one might amuse one’s self with a pretty infant.”
“Sir, she demeaned herself with distinction; and I heard the French gentlemen say she was ‘pétrie d’esprit et de graces.’ Dr. Bretton thought the same.”
“She is a good, dear child, that is certain; and I do believe she has some character. When I think of it, I was once ill; Polly nursed me; they thought I should die; she, I recollect, grew at once stronger and tenderer as I grew worse in health. And as I recovered, what a sunbeam she was in my sickroom! Yes; she played about my chair as noiselessly and as cheerful as light. And now she is sought in marriage! I don’t want to part with her,” said he, and he groaned.
“You have known Dr. and Mrs. Bretton so long,” I suggested, “it would be less like separation to give her to him than to another.”
He reflected rather gloomily.
“True. I have long known Louisa Bretton,” he murmured. “She and I are indeed old, old friends; a sweet, kind girl she was when she was young. You talk of beauty, Miss Snowe! she was handsome, if you will—tall, straight, and blooming—not the mere child or elf my Polly seems to me: at eighteen, Louisa had a carriage and stature fit for a princess. She is a comely and a good woman now. The lad is like her; I have always thought so, and favoured and wished him well. Now he repays me by this robbery! My little treasure used to love her old father dearly and truly. It is all over now, doubtless—I am an incumbrance.”
The door opened—his “little treasure” came in. She was dressed, so to speak, in evening beauty; that animation which sometimes
