CHAPTER XXI.

REACTION.

Yet three days, and then I must go back to the pensionnat. I almost numbered the moments of these days upon the clock; fain would I have retarded¹ their flight; but they glided² by while I watched them: they were already gone while I yet feared their departure.

“Lucy will not leave us to-day,” said Mrs. Bretton, coaxingly³ at breakfast; “she knows we can procure⁴ a second respite⁵.”

“I would not ask for one if I might have it for a word,” said I. “I long to get the good-by over, and to be settled in the Rue⁶ Fossette again. I must go this morning: I must go directly; my trunk is packed and corded.”

It appeared; however, that my going depended upon Graham; he had said he would accompany me, and it so fell out that he was engaged all day, and only returned home at dusk. Then ensued a little combat of words. Mrs. Bretton and her son pressed me to remain one night more. I could have cried, so irritated and eager was I to be gone. I longed to leave them as the criminal on the scaffold longs for the axe⁷ to descend⁸: that is, I wished the pang⁹ over. How much I wished it, they could not tell. On these points, mine was a state of mind out of their experience.

It was dark when Dr. John handed me from the carriage at Madame Beck’s door. The lamp above was lit; it rained a November drizzle¹⁰, as it had rained all day: the lamplight gleamed on the wet pavement. Just such a night was it as that on which, not a year ago, I had first stopped at this very threshold; just similar was the scene. I remembered the very shapes of the paving-stones which I had noted¹¹ with idle eye, while, with a thick-beating heart, I waited the unclosing of that door at which I stood—a solitary¹² and a suppliant¹³. On that night, too, I had briefly¹⁴ met him who now stood with me. Had I ever reminded him of that rencontre, or explained it? I had not, nor ever felt the inclination¹⁵ to do so: it was a pleasant thought, laid by in my own mind, and best kept there.

Graham rung the bell. The door was instantly opened, for it was just that period of the evening when the half-boarders took their departure—consequently, Rosine was on the alert.

“Don’t come in,” said I to him; but he stepped a moment into the well-lighted vestibule. I had not wished him to see that “the water stood in my eyes,” for his was too kind a nature ever to be needlessly shown such signs of sorrow. He always wished to heal—to relieve—when, physician as he was, neither cure nor alleviation¹⁶ were, perhaps, in his power.

“Keep up your courage, Lucy. Think of my mother and myself as true friends. We will not forget you.”

“Nor will I forget you, Dr. John.”

My trunk was now brought in. We had shaken hands; he had turned to go, but he was not satisfied: he had not done or said enough to content his generous impulses.

“Lucy,”—stepping after me—“shall you feel very solitary here?”

“At first I shall.”

“Well, my mother will soon call to see you; and, meantime, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll write—just any cheerful nonsense that comes into my head—shall I?”

“Good, gallant¹⁷ heart!” thought I to myself; but I shook my head, smiling, and said, “Never think of it: impose on yourself no such task. You write to me!—you’ll not have time.”

“Oh! I will find or make time. Good-by!”

He was gone. The heavy door crashed to: the axe had fallen—the pang was experienced.

Allowing myself no time to think or feel—swallowing tears as if they had been wine—I passed to Madame’s sitting-room¹⁸ to pay the necessary visit of ceremony and respect. She received me with perfectly¹⁹ well-acted cordiality—was even demonstrative, though brief, in her welcome. In ten minutes I was dismissed. From the salle-à-manger I proceeded to the refectory, where pupils and teachers were now assembled for evening study: again I had a welcome, and one not, I think, quite hollow. That over, I was free to repair to the dormitory.

“And will Graham really write?” I questioned, as I sank tired on the edge of the bed.

Reason, coming stealthily up to me through the twilight²¹ of that long, dim chamber²², whispered sedately—“He may write once. So kind is his nature, it may stimulate²³ him for once to make the effort. But it cannot be continued—it may not be repeated. Great were that folly²⁴ which should build on such a promise—insane that credulity which should mistake the transitory rain-pool, holding in its hollow one draught²⁵, for the perennial²⁶ spring yielding the supply of seasons.”

I bent²⁷ my head: I sat thinking an hour longer. Reason still whispered me, laying on my shoulder a withered²⁸ hand, and frostily touching my ear with the chill blue lips of eld.

“If,” muttered she, “if he should write, what then? Do you meditate²⁹ pleasure in replying? Ah, fool! I warn you! Brief be your answer. Hope no delight of heart—no indulgence of intellect: grant no expansion to feeling—give holiday to no single faculty³⁰: dally³¹ with no friendly exchange: foster no genial³² intercommunion….”

“But I have talked to Graham and you did not chide,” I pleaded.

“No,” said she, “I needed not. Talk for you is good discipline. You converse³³ imperfectly. While you speak, there can be no oblivion of inferiority—no encouragement to delusion³⁴: pain, privation, penury³⁵ stamp your language….”

“But,” I again broke in, “where the bodily presence is weak and the speech contemptible³⁶, surely there cannot be error in making written language the medium of better utterance³⁷ than faltering³⁹ lips can achieve?”

Reason only answered, “At your peril⁴⁰ you cherish that idea, or suffer its influence to animate⁴¹ any writing of yours!”

“But if I feel, may I never express?”

“Never!” declared Reason.

I groaned⁴² under her bitter sternness. Never—never—oh, hard word! This hag, this Reason, would not let me look up, or smile, or hope: she could not rest unless I were altogether crushed, cowed, broken-in, and broken-down. According to her, I was born only to work for a piece of bread, to await the pains of death, and steadily⁴³ through all life to despond. Reason might be right; yet no wonder we are glad at times to defy her, to rush from under her rod and give a truant⁴⁴ hour to Imagination—her soft, bright foe⁴⁵, our sweet Help, our divine Hope. We shall and must break bounds at intervals⁴⁶, despite the terrible revenge that awaits our return. Reason is vindictive⁴⁷ as a devil: for me she was always envenomed as a step-mother. If I have obeyed her it has chiefly been with the obedience⁴⁸ of fear, not of love. Long ago I should have died of her ill-usage her stint⁴⁹, her chill, her barren board, her icy bed, her savage⁵⁰, ceaseless blows; but for that kinder Power who holds my secret and sworn allegiance. Often has Reason turned me out by night, in mid-winter, on cold snow, flinging for sustenance⁵¹ the gnawed⁵² bone dogs had forsaken⁵⁴: sternly has she vowed⁵⁵ her stores held nothing more for me—harshly denied my right to ask better things…. Then, looking up, have I seen in the sky a head amidst circling stars, of which the midmost and the brightest lent a ray sympathetic and attent. A spirit, softer and better than Human Reason, has descended⁵⁶ with quiet flight to the waste—bringing all round her a sphere of air borrowed of eternal summer; bringing perfume of flowers which cannot fade—fragrance of trees whose fruit is life; bringing breezes pure from a world whose day needs no sun to lighten it. My hunger has this good angel appeased⁵⁷ with food, sweet and strange, gathered amongst gleaning⁵⁸ angels, garnering⁵⁹ their dew-white harvest in the first fresh hour of a heavenly day; tenderly has she assuaged⁶⁰ the insufferable fears which weep away life itself—kindly given rest to deadly weariness—generously lent hope and impulse to paralyzed despair. Divine, compassionate⁶¹, succourable influence! When I bend the knee to other than God, it shall be at thy white and winged feet, beautiful on mountain or on plain. Temples have been reared to the Sun—altars dedicated⁶³ to the Moon. Oh, greater glory! To thee neither hands build, nor lips consecrate⁶⁴: but hearts, through ages, are faithful to thy worship. A dwelling⁶⁵ thou hast, too wide for walls, too high for dome—a temple whose floors are space—rites whose mysteries transpire⁶⁶ in presence, to the kindling⁶⁷, the harmony of worlds!

Sovereign complete! thou hadst, for endurance, thy great army of martyrs⁶⁸; for achievement, thy chosen band of worthies⁶⁹. Deity⁷⁰ unquestioned, thine essence foils decay!

This daughter of Heaven remembered me to-night; she saw me weep, and she came with comfort: “Sleep,” she said. “Sleep, sweetly—I gild⁷¹ thy dreams!”

She kept her word, and watched me through a night’s rest; but at dawn Reason relieved the guard. I awoke with a sort of start; the rain was dashing against the panes⁷², and the wind uttering a peevish⁷⁴ cry at intervals; the night-lamp was dying on the black circular stand in the middle of the dormitory: day had already broken. How I pity those whom mental pain stuns⁷⁵ instead of rousing! This morning the pang of waking snatched me out of bed like a hand with a giant’s gripe. How quickly I dressed in the cold of the raw dawn! How deeply I drank of the ice-cold water in my carafe⁷⁶! This was always my cordial, to which, like other dram-drinkers, I had eager recourse when unsettled by chagrin⁷⁷.

Ere long the bell rang its réveillée to the whole school. Being dressed, I descended alone to the refectory, where the stove was lit and the air was warm; through the rest of the house it was cold, with the nipping severity of a continental⁷⁸ winter: though now but the beginning of November, a north wind had thus early brought a wintry blight⁷⁹ over Europe: I remember the black stoves pleased me little when I first came; but now I began to associate with them a sense of comfort, and liked them, as in England we like a fireside.

Sitting down before this dark comforter, I presently fell into a deep argument with myself on life and its chances, on destiny and her decrees. My mind, calmer and stronger now than last night, made for itself some imperious rules, prohibiting under deadly penalties all weak retrospect⁸⁰ of happiness past; commanding a patient journeying through the wilderness⁸¹ of the present, enjoining⁸² a reliance on faith—a watching of the cloud and pillar which subdue⁸³ while they guide, and awe⁵³ while they illumine—hushing the impulse to fond idolatry, checking the longing⁸⁵ out-look for a far-off promised land whose rivers are, perhaps, never to be reached save in dying dreams, whose sweet pastures are to be viewed but from the desolate⁸⁶ and sepulchral⁸⁷ summit of a Nebo.

By degrees, a composite feeling of blended strength and pain wound itself wirily round my heart, sustained, or at least restrained, its throbbings, and made me fit for the day’s work. I lifted my head.

As I said before, I was sitting near the stove, let into the wall beneath the refectory and the carré, and thus sufficing to heat both apartments. Piercing the same wall, and close beside the stove, was a window, looking also into the carré; as I looked up a cap-tassel, a brow, two eyes, filled a pane⁷³ of that window; the fixed⁸⁸ gaze of those two eyes hit right against my own glance: they were watching me. I had not till that moment known that tears were on my cheek, but I felt them now.

This was a strange house, where no corner was sacred from intrusion, where not a tear could be shed, nor a thought pondered, but a spy was at hand to note and to divine. And this new, this out-door, this male spy, what business had brought him to the premises⁸⁹ at this unwonted hour? What possible right had he to intrude⁹⁰ on me thus? No other professor would have dared to cross the carré before the class-bell rang. M. Emanuel took no account of hours nor of claims: there was some book of reference in the first-class library which he had occasion to consult; he had come to seek it: on his way he passed the refectory. It was very much his habit to wear eyes before, behind, and on each side of him: he had seen me through the little window—he now opened the refectory door, and there he stood.

“Mademoiselle, vous êtes triste.”

“Monsieur, j’en ai bien le droit.”

“Vous êtes malade de cœur et d’humeur,” he pursued. “You are at once mournful and mutinous⁹². I see on your cheek two tears which I know are hot as two sparks, and salt as two crystals of the sea. While I speak you eye me strangely. Shall I tell you of what I am reminded while watching you?”

“Monsieur, I shall be called away to prayers shortly; my time for conversation is very scant⁹³ and brief at this hour—excuse——”

“I excuse everything,” he interrupted; “my mood is so meek⁹⁴, neither rebuff nor, perhaps, insult could ruffle⁹⁵ it. You remind me, then, of a young she wild creature, new caught, untamed, viewing with a mixture of fire and fear the first entrance of the breaker-in.”

Unwarrantable accost⁹⁶!—rash and rude if addressed to a pupil; to a teacher inadmissible. He thought to provoke a warm reply; I had seen him vex⁹⁷ the passionate⁶² to explosion before now. In me his malice⁹⁸ should find no gratification; I sat silent.

“You look,” said he, “like one who would snatch at a draught of sweet poison, and spurn⁹⁹ wholesome¹⁰⁰ bitters with disgust.”

“Indeed, I never liked bitters; nor do I believe them wholesome. And to whatever is sweet, be it poison or food, you cannot, at least, deny its own delicious quality—sweetness. Better, perhaps, to die quickly a pleasant death, than drag on long a charmless life.”

“Yet,” said he, “you should take your bitter dose duly and daily, if I had the power to administer it; and, as to the well-beloved poison, I would, perhaps, break the very cup which held it.”

I sharply turned my head away, partly because his presence utterly¹⁰¹ displeased¹⁰² me, and partly because I wished to shun¹⁰³ questions: lest, in my present mood, the effort of answering should overmaster self-command.

“Come,” said he, more softly, “tell me the truth—you grieve at being parted from friends—is it not so?”

The insinuating¹⁰⁴ softness was not more acceptable than the inquisitorial curiosity. I was silent. He came into the room, sat down on the bench about two yards from me, and persevered¹⁰⁵ long, and, for him, patiently, in attempts to draw me into conversation—attempts necessarily unavailing, because I could not talk. At last I entreated¹⁰⁶ to be let alone. In uttering the request, my voice faltered¹⁰⁷, my head sank on my arms and the table. I wept bitterly, though quietly. He sat a while longer. I did not look up nor speak, till the closing door and his retreating step told me that he was gone. These tears proved a relief.

I had time to bathe my eyes before breakfast, and I suppose I appeared at that meal as serene¹⁰⁸ as any other person: not, however, quite as jocund-looking as the young lady who placed herself in the seat opposite mine, fixed on me a pair of somewhat small eyes twinkling gleefully, and frankly¹⁰⁹ stretched across the table a white hand to be shaken. Miss Fanshawe’s travels, gaieties, and flirtations agreed with her mightily¹¹⁰; she had become quite plump, her cheeks looked as round as apples. I had seen her last in elegant evening attire¹¹¹. I don’t know that she looked less charming now in her school-dress, a kind of careless peignoir of a dark-blue material, dimly and dingily¹¹² plaided with black. I even think this dusky wrapper gave her charms a triumph; enhancing by contrast the fairness of her skin, the freshness of her bloom, the golden beauty of her tresses.

“I am glad you are come back, Timon,” said she. Timon was one of her dozen names for me. “You don’t know how often I have wanted you in this dismal¹¹³ hole.”

“Oh, have you? Then, of course, if you wanted me, you have something for me to do: stockings to mend, perhaps.” I never gave Ginevra a minute’s or a farthing’s credit for disinterestedness¹¹⁴.

“Crabbed¹¹⁵ and crusty as ever!” said she. “I expected as much: it would not be you if you did not snub one. But now, come, grand-mother, I hope you like coffee as much, and pistolets as little as ever: are you disposed to barter¹¹⁶?”

“Take your own way.”

This way consisted in a habit she had of making me convenient. She did not like the morning cup of coffee; its school brewage not being strong or sweet enough to suit her palate; and she had an excellent appetite, like any other healthy school-girl, for the morning pistolets or rolls, which were new-baked and very good, and of which a certain allowance was served to each. This allowance being more than I needed, I gave half to Ginevra; never varying in my preference, though many others used to covet¹¹⁷ the superfluity; and she in return would sometimes give me a portion of her coffee. This morning I was glad of the draught; hunger I had none, and with thirst I was parched¹¹⁸. I don’t know why I chose to give my bread rather to Ginevra than to another; nor why, if two had to share the convenience of one drinking-vessel, as sometimes happened—for instance, when we took a long walk into the country, and halted for refreshment¹¹⁹ at a farm—I always contrived¹²⁰ that she should be my convive, and rather liked to let her take the lion’s share, whether of the white beer, the sweet wine, or the new milk: so it was, however, and she knew it; and, therefore, while we wrangled¹²¹ daily, we were never alienated¹²².

After breakfast my custom was to withdraw to the first classe, and sit and read, or think (oftenest the latter) there alone, till the nine-o’clock bell threw open all doors, admitted the gathered rush of externes and demi-pensionnaires, and gave the signal for entrance on that bustle¹²³ and business to which, till five P.M., there was no relax.

I was just seated this morning, when a tap came to the door.

“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” said a pensionnaire, entering gently; and having taken from her desk some necessary book or paper, she withdrew on tip-toe, murmuring as she passed me, “Que mademoiselle est appliquée!”

Appliquée, indeed! The means of application were spread before me, but I was doing nothing; and had done nothing, and meant to do nothing. Thus does the world give us credit for merits we have not. Madame Beck herself deemed me a regular bas-bleu, and often and solemnly used to warn me not to study too much, lest “the blood should all go to my head.” Indeed, everybody in the Rue Fossette held a superstition¹²⁴ that “Meess Lucie” was learned; with the notable exception of M. Emanuel, who, by means peculiar¹²⁵ to himself, and quite inscrutable to me, had obtained a not inaccurate¹²⁶ inkling of my real qualifications, and used to take quiet opportunities of chuckling¹²⁷ in my ear his malign¹²⁸ glee over their scant measure. For my part, I never troubled myself about this penury. I dearly like to think my own thoughts; I had great pleasure in reading a few books, but not many: preferring always those on whose style or sentiment the writer’s individual nature was plainly stamped; flagging inevitably¹²⁹ over characterless books, however clever and meritorious¹³⁰: perceiving well that, as far as my own mind was concerned, God had limited its powers and, its action—thankful, I trust, for the gift bestowed¹³¹, but unambitious of higher endowments, not restlessly eager after higher culture.

The polite pupil was scarcely gone, when, unceremoniously, without tap, in burst a second intruder. Had I been blind I should have known who this was. A constitutional reserve of manner had by this time told with wholesome and, for me, commodious¹³² effect, on the manners of my co-inmates; rarely did I now suffer from rude or intrusive¹³³ treatment. When I first came, it would happen once and again that a blunt German would clap me on the shoulder, and ask me to run a race; or a riotous¹³⁴ Labassecourienne seize me by the arm and drag me towards the playground: urgent proposals to take a swing at the “Pas de Géant,” or to join in a certain romping¹³⁵ hide-and-seek game called “Un, deux, trois,” were formerly¹³⁶ also of hourly occurrence; but all these little attentions had ceased some time ago—ceased, too, without my finding it necessary to be at the trouble of point-blank cutting them short. I had now no familiar demonstration¹³⁷ to dread¹³⁸ or endure, save from one quarter; and as that was English I could bear it. Ginevra Fanshawe made no scruple¹³⁹ of—at times—catching¹⁴⁰ me as I was crossing the carré, whirling me round in a compulsory¹⁴¹ waltz, and heartily¹⁴² enjoying the mental and physical discomfiture¹⁴³ her proceeding¹⁴⁴ induced. Ginevra Fanshawe it was who now broke in upon “my learned leisure.” She carried a huge music-book under her arm.

“Go to your practising,” said I to her at once: “away with you to the little salon¹⁴⁵!”

“Not till I have had a talk with you, chère amie. I know where you have been spending your vacation, and how you have commenced sacrificing to the graces, and enjoying life like any other belle¹⁴⁶. I saw you at the concert the other night, dressed, actually, like anybody else. Who is your tailleuse?”

“Tittle-tattle: how prettily¹⁴⁷ it begins! My tailleuse!—a fiddlestick! Come, sheer off, Ginevra. I really don’t want your company.”

“But when I want yours so much, ange farouche, what does a little reluctance¹⁴⁸ on your part signify? Dieu merci! we know how to manœuvre with our gifted compatriote—the learned ‘ourse Britannique.’ And so, Ourson, you know Isidore?”

“I know John Bretton.”

“Oh, hush⁸⁴!” (putting her fingers in her ears) “you crack my tympanums with your rude Anglicisms. But, how is our well-beloved John? Do tell me about him. The poor man must be in a sad way. What did he say to my behaviour the other night? Wasn’t I cruel?”

“Do you think I noticed you?”

“It was a delightful¹⁴⁹ evening. Oh, that divine de Hamal! And then to watch the other sulking and dying in the distance; and the old lady—my future mamma-in-law! But I am afraid I and Lady Sara were a little rude in quizzing her.”

“Lady Sara never quizzed her at all; and for what you did, don’t make yourself in the least uneasy: Mrs. Bretton will survive your sneer¹⁵⁰.”

“She may: old ladies are tough; but that poor son of hers! Do tell me what he said: I saw he was terribly cut up.”

“He said you looked as if at heart you were already Madame de Hamal.”

“Did he?” she cried with delight. “He noticed that? How charming! I thought he would be mad with jealousy¹⁵¹.”

“Ginevra, have you seriously done with Dr. Bretton? Do you want him to give you up?”

“Oh! you know he can’t do that: but wasn’t he mad?”

“Quite mad,” I assented¹⁵²; “as mad as a March hare.”

“Well, and how ever did you get him home?”

“How ever, indeed! Have you no pity on his poor mother and me? Fancy us holding him tight down in the carriage, and he raving¹⁵³ between us, fit to drive everybody delirious¹⁵⁴. The very coachman went wrong, somehow, and we lost our way.”

“You don’t say so? You are laughing at me. Now, Lucy Snowe—”

“I assure you it is fact—and fact, also, that Dr. Bretton would not stay in the carriage: he broke from us, and would ride outside.”

“And afterwards?”

“Afterwards—when he did reach home—the scene transcends¹⁵⁵ description.”

“Oh, but describe it—you know it is such fun!”

“Fun for you, Miss Fanshawe? but” (with stern gravity) “you know the proverb—‘What is sport to one may be death to another.’”

“Go on, there’s a darling Timon.”

“Conscientiously¹⁵⁶, I cannot, unless you assure me you have some heart.”

“I have—such an immensity, you don’t know!”

“Good! In that case, you will be able to conceive Dr. Graham Bretton rejecting his supper in the first instance—the chicken, the sweetbread prepared for his refreshment, left on the table untouched. Then——but it is of no use dwelling at length on the harrowing details. Suffice it to say, that never, in the most stormy fits and moments of his infancy¹⁵⁷, had his mother such work to tuck the sheets about him as she had that night.”

“He wouldn’t lie still?”

“He wouldn’t lie still: there it was. The sheets might be tucked in, but the thing was to keep them tucked in.”

“And what did he say?”

“Say! Can’t you imagine him demanding his divine Ginevra, anathematizing that demon²⁰, de Hamal—raving about golden locks, blue eyes, white arms, glittering bracelets¹⁵⁸?”

“No, did he? He saw the bracelet¹⁵⁹?”

“Saw the bracelet? Yes, as plain as I saw it: and, perhaps, for the first time, he saw also the brand-mark with which its pressure has encircled your arm. Ginevra” (rising, and changing my tone), “come, we will have an end of this. Go away to your practising.”

And I opened the door.

“But you have not told me all.”

“You had better not wait until I do tell you all. Such extra communicativeness could give you no pleasure. March!”

“Cross thing!” said she; but she obeyed: and, indeed, the first classe was my territory, and she could not there legally resist a notice of quittance from me.

Yet, to speak the truth, never had I been less dissatisfied with her than I was then. There was pleasure in thinking of the contrast between the reality and my description—to remember Dr. John enjoying the drive home, eating his supper with relish¹⁶⁰, and retiring to rest with Christian¹⁶¹ composure. It was only when I saw him really unhappy that I felt really vexed¹⁶² with the fair, frail¹⁶³ cause of his suffering.

A fortnight passed; I was getting once more inured¹⁶⁴ to the harness of school, and lapsing¹⁶⁵ from the passionate pain of change to the palsy of custom. One afternoon, in crossing the carré, on my way to the first classe, where I was expected to assist at a lesson of “style and literature,” I saw, standing¹⁶⁶ by one of the long and large windows, Rosine, the portress. Her attitude, as usual, was quite nonchalante. She always “stood at ease;” one of her hands rested in her apron-pocket, the other at this moment held to her eyes a letter, whereof Mademoiselle coolly perused¹⁶⁷ the address, and deliberately¹⁶⁸ studied the seal.

A letter! The shape of a letter similar to that had haunted my brain in its very core for seven days past. I had dreamed of a letter last night. Strong magnetism¹⁶⁹ drew me to that letter now; yet, whether I should have ventured to demand of Rosine so much as a glance at that white envelope, with the spot of red wax in the middle, I know not. No; I think I should have sneaked¹⁷⁰ past in terror of a rebuff from Disappointment: my heart throbbed¹⁷¹ now as if I already heard the tramp of her approach. Nervous mistake! It was the rapid step of the Professor of Literature measuring the corridor. I fled before him. Could I but be seated quietly at my desk before his arrival, with the class under my orders all in disciplined readiness, he would, perhaps, exempt¹⁷² me from notice; but, if caught lingering in the carré, I should be sure to come in for a special harangue¹⁷³. I had time to get seated, to enforce perfect silence, to take out my work, and to commence it amidst the profoundest and best trained hush, ere M. Emanuel entered with his vehement¹⁷⁴ burst of latch¹⁷⁵ and panel, and his deep, redundant¹⁷⁶ bow, prophetic of choler.

As usual he broke upon us like a clap of thunder; but instead of flashing lightning-wise from the door to the estrade, his career halted midway at my desk. Setting his face towards me and the window, his back to the pupils and the room, he gave me a look—such a look as might have licensed¹⁷⁷ me to stand straight up and demand what he meant—a look of scowling¹⁷⁸ distrust.

“Voilà! pour vous,” said he, drawing his hand from his waist-coat, and placing on my desk a letter—the very letter I had seen in Rosine’s hand—the letter whose face of enamelled white and single Cyclop’s-eye of vermilion-red had printed themselves so clear and perfect on the retina of an inward vision. I knew it, I felt it to be the letter of my hope, the fruition of my wish, the release from my doubt, the ransom¹⁷⁹ from my terror. This letter M. Paul, with his unwarrantably interfering¹⁸⁰ habits, had taken from the portress, and now delivered it himself.

I might have been angry, but had not a second for the sensation. Yes: I held in my hand not a slight note, but an envelope, which must, at least, contain a sheet: it felt not flimsy, but firm, substantial, satisfying. And here was the direction, “Miss Lucy Snowe,” in a clean, clear, equal, decided¹⁸¹ hand; and here was the seal, round, full, deftly¹⁸² dropped by untremulous fingers, stamped with the well-cut impress of initials, “J. G. B.” I experienced a happy feeling—a glad emotion which went warm to my heart, and ran lively through all my veins¹⁸³. For once a hope was realized. I held in my hand a morsel¹⁸⁴ of real solid joy: not a dream, not an image of the brain, not one of those shadowy chances imagination pictures, and on which humanity starves but cannot live; not a mess of that manna I drearily¹⁸⁵ eulogized awhile ago—which, indeed, at first melts on the lips with an unspeakable and preternatural sweetness, but which, in the end, our souls full surely loathe¹⁸⁶; longing deliriously¹⁸⁷ for natural and earth-grown food, wildly praying Heaven’s Spirits to reclaim¹⁸⁸ their own spirit-dew and essence—an aliment divine, but for mortals deadly. It was neither sweet hail nor small coriander-seed—neither slight wafer, nor luscious¹⁸⁹ honey, I had lighted on; it was the wild, savoury mess of the hunter, nourishing and salubrious meat, forest-fed or desert-reared, fresh, healthful, and life-sustaining. It was what the old dying patriarch demanded of his son Esau, promising¹⁹⁰ in requital¹⁹¹ the blessing¹⁹² of his last breath. It was a godsend; and I inwardly thanked the God who had vouchsafed¹⁹³ it. Outwardly I only thanked man, crying, “Thank you, thank you, Monsieur!”

Monsieur curled his lip, gave me a vicious glance of the eye, and strode to his estrade. M. Paul was not at all a good little man, though he had good points.

Did I read my letter there and then? Did I consume the venison at once and with haste, as if Esau’s shaft¹⁹⁵ flew every day?

I knew better. The cover with its address—the seal, with its three clear letters—was bounty¹⁹⁶ and abundance for the present. I stole from the room, I procured¹⁹⁷ the key of the great dormitory, which was kept locked by day. I went to my bureau; with a sort of haste and trembling lest Madame should creep up-stairs and spy me, I opened a drawer, unlocked a box, and took out a case, and—having feasted my eyes with one more look, and approached the seal with a mixture of awe and shame and delight, to my lips—I folded the untasted treasure, yet all fair and inviolate¹⁹⁸, in silver paper, committed it to the case, shut up box and drawer, reclosed, relocked the dormitory, and returned to class, feeling as if fairy tales were true, and fairy gifts no dream. Strange, sweet insanity¹⁹⁹! And this letter, the source of my joy, I had not yet read: did not yet know the number of its lines.

When I re-entered the schoolroom, behold²⁰⁰ M. Paul raging like a pestilence²⁰¹! Some pupil had not spoken audibly or distinctly enough to suit his ear and taste, and now she and others were weeping, and he was raving from his estrade, almost livid. Curious to mention, as I appeared, he fell on me.

“Was I the mistress of these girls? Did I profess⁹¹ to teach them the conduct befitting ladies?—and did I permit and, he doubted not, encourage them to strangle their mother-tongue in their throats, to mince²⁰² and mash²⁰³ it between their teeth, as if they had some base cause to be ashamed of the words they uttered? Was this modesty²⁰⁴? He knew better. It was a vile²⁰⁵ pseudo sentiment—the offspring or the forerunner²⁰⁶ of evil. Rather than submit to this mopping and mowing²⁰⁷, this mincing²⁰⁸ and grimacing²⁰⁹, this, grinding of a noble tongue, this general affectation and sickening stubbornness of the pupils of the first class, he would throw them up for a set of insupportable petites maîtresses, and confine himself to teaching the ABC to the babies of the third division.”

What could I say to all this? Really nothing; and I hoped he would allow me to be silent. The storm recommenced.

“Every answer to his queries²¹⁰ was then refused? It seemed to be considered in that place—that conceited²¹¹ boudoir of a first classe, with its pretentious²¹² book-cases, its green-baized desks, its rubbish of flower-stands, its trash of framed pictures and maps, and its foreign surveillante, forsooth!—it seemed to be the fashion to think there that the Professor of Literature was not worthy²¹³ of a reply! These were new ideas; imported, he did not doubt, straight from ‘la Grande Bretagne:’ they savoured of island insolence²¹⁴ and arrogance²¹⁵.”

Lull²¹⁶ the second—the girls, not one of whom was ever known to weep a tear for the rebukes²¹⁷ of any other master, now all melting like snow-statues before the intemperate^218<