Violette by Charlotte Bronte Red by Stephanie Poppins Music by John Myles Carter Chapter 2 Paulina Some days elapsed and it appeared Polly was not likely to take much of a fancy to anybody in the house.
She was not exactly naughty or willful.
She was far from disobedient.
But an object less conducive to comfort,
To tranquility even,
Than she presented,
It was scarcely possible to have before anyone's eyes.
She moped.
No grown person could have performed that uncheering business better.
No furrowed face of adult exile,
Longing for Europe at Europe's antipodes,
Ever bore more legibly the signs of homesickness than did her infant visage.
She seemed growing old and unearthly.
I,
Lucy Snow,
Pled guiltless of that curse,
An overheated and discursive imagination.
But whenever,
Opening a room door,
I found her seated in a corner alone,
Her head in her pygmy hand,
That room seemed to me not inhabited,
But haunted.
And again,
When of moonlight nights,
On waking,
I beheld Polly's figure,
White and conspicuous in its nightdress,
Kneeling upright in bed,
And praying like some Catholic or Methodist enthusiast,
Some precocious fanatic or untimely saint,
I scarcely know what thoughts I had.
But they ran risk of being hardly more rational and healthy than that child's mind must have been.
I seldom caught a word of her prayers,
For they were whispered low.
Sometimes,
Indeed,
They were not whispered at all,
But put up unuttered.
Such rare sentences as reached my ears still bore the burden.
Papa!
My dear Papa!
This,
I perceive,
Was a one-eyed nature,
Betraying that monomaniac tendency I've ever thought the most unfortunate with which man or woman can be cursed.
What might have been the end of this fretting,
Had it continued unchecked,
Can only be conjectured.
It received,
However,
A sudden turn.
One afternoon,
Mrs.
Breton,
Coaxing Polly from her usual station in the corner,
Had lifted her into the window seat,
And by way of occupying her attention,
Told her to watch the passengers,
And count how many ladies should go up and down the street in given time.
She had sadlistously,
Hardly looking and not counting,
When,
My eye fixed on hers,
I witnessed in its iris and pupil a startling transfiguration.
These sudden dangerous natures,
Sensitive as they are called,
Offer many curious spectacle to those whom a cooler temperament has secured from participation in their angular vagaries.
The fixed and heavy gaze swum,
Trembled,
Then glittered in fire.
The small overcast brow cleared,
The trivial and dejected features lit up,
The sad countenance vanished,
And in its place appeared a sudden eagerness.
It is,
Were her words.
Like a bird or a shaft,
Or any other swift thing,
Polly was gone from the room.
How she got the house door open I cannot tell,
Probably it might be a jar.
Perhaps Warren was in the way and obeyed her behest,
Which would be impetuous enough.
I,
Watching calmly from the window,
Saw her in her black frock and tiny braided apron,
Dart half the length of the street,
And as I was on the point of turning,
Quietly announcing to Mrs.
Breton the child was on the run,
Ought instantly to be pursued,
I saw her caught up and wrapped at once from my cool observation and from the wandering stare of the passengers.
A gentleman had done this good turn,
And now,
Covering her with his cloak,
He advanced to restore her to the house whence he'd seen her issued.
I concluded he would leave her in a servant's charge and withdraw,
But he entered,
Having tarried a little while below,
He came upstairs.
His reception immediately explained he was known to Mrs.
Breton.
She recognised him,
She greeted him,
And yet she was fluttered,
Surprised,
Taken unawares.
I could not help it,
Madam,
He said,
I found it impossible to leave the country without seeing with my own eyes how she settled.
But you will unsettle her?
I hope not,
And how is Papa's little Polly?
This question he addressed to Paulina as he sat down and placed her gently on the ground before him.
How is Polly's Papa?
Was the reply as she leaned on his knee and gazed up into his face.
It was not a noisy or a wordy scene,
For that I was thankful,
But it was a scene of feeling too brimful,
And which,
Because the cup did not foam up high or furiously overflow,
Only oppressed one the more.
On all occasions of vehement unrestrained expansion,
A sense of disdain or ridicule comes to the weary spectator's relief.
Whereas I have ever felt more burdensome,
That sort of sensibility which bends of its own will,
A giant slave under the sway of good sense.
Mr.
Holme was a stern-featured,
Perhaps I should rather say a hard-featured man.
His forehead was knotty and his cheekbones were marked and prominent.
The character of his face was quite scotch,
But there was a feeling in his eye and an emotion in his now agitated countenance.
His northern accent in speaking harmonised with his physiognomy.
He was at once proud-looking and homely-looking.
He laid his hand on the child's uplifted head.
She said,
Kiss Polly.
He kissed her.
I wish she would utter some hysterical cry so that I might get relief and be at ease.
But she made wonderfully little noise.
She seemed to have got what she wanted,
All she wanted,
And to be in a trance of content.
Neither in me nor in features was this creature like her sire,
And yet she was of his strain.
Her mind had been filled from his as the cup from the flagon.
Indisputably,
Mr.
Holme owned manly self-control.
However,
He might secretly feel on some matters.
Polly,
He said,
Looking down on his little girl.
Go into the hall.
You will see Papa's great coat lying on a chair.
Put your hand into the pockets.
You will find a pocket handkerchief there.
Bring it to me.
She obeyed,
Went and returned deftly and nimbly.
He was talking to Mrs.
Breton when she came back,
And she waited with the handkerchief in her hand.
It was a picture in its way to see her with her tiny stature and trim neat shape standing at his knee.
Seeing that he continued to talk,
Apparently unconscious of her return,
She took his hand,
Opened the unresisting fingers,
Insinuated into them the handkerchief,
And closed them thereupon,
One by one.
He still seemed not to see or to feel her,
But by and by he lifted her to his knee,
And she nestled against him.
Neither looked at nor spoke to the other,
But for an hour following,
I suppose both were satisfied.
During tea,
The minute thing's movements and behaviour gave,
As usual,
Full occupation to the eye.
First she directed Warren as he placed the chairs.
Put Papa's chair here and mine near it,
Between Papa and Mrs.
Breton,
I must hand his tea.
She took her own seat and beckoned with her hand to her father.
Be near me as if we were at home,
Papa.
And again as she intercepted his cup in passing,
And would stir the sugar and put in the cream herself.
I always did it for you at home,
Papa.
Nobody could do it as well,
Not even your own self.
Throughout the meal,
She continued her attentions.
Rather absurd they were.
The sugar tongs were too wide for one of her hands,
And she had to use both in wielding them.
The weight of the silver cream ooer,
The bread and butter plates.
The very cup and saucer tasked her insufficient strength and dexterity.
But she would lift this,
Hand that,
And luckily contrived through it all to break nothing.
Candidly speaking,
I thought her a little busybody,
But her father,
Blind like other parents,
Seemed perfectly content to let her wait on him,
And even wonderfully soothed by her offices.
She is my comfort,
He could not help saying to Mrs.
Breton.
That lady had her own comfort on a much larger scale,
And for the moment absent,
So she sympathised with his foible.
The second comfort came on the stage in the course of the evening.
I knew this day had been fixed for his return,
And was aware Mrs.
Breton had been expecting him through all its hours.
We were seated round the fire after tea,
When Graham joined our circle.
I should rather say broke it up,
For of course his arrival made a bustle,
And then,
As Mr.
Graham was fasting,
There was refreshment to be provided.
He and Mr.
Home met as old acquaintance,
Of a little girl he took no notice of for a time.
Then,
His meal over,
Numerous questions from his mother answered,
He turned from the table to the hearth.
Graham was at that time a handsome,
Faithless-looking youth of sixteen.
I say faithless-looking,
Not because he was really of a very perfidious disposition,
But because the epithet strikes me as proper to describe the fair,
Celtic character of his good looks.
His waved,
Light,
Auburn hair,
His supple symmetry,
His smile frequent,
And destitute neither of fascination nor of subtlety.
A spoiled,
Whimsical boy he was in those days.
Mother,
He said,
After eyeing the little figure before him,
I see a young lady in the present society to whom I have not been introduced.
Mr.
Home's little girl,
I suppose you mean,
Said his mother.
Indeed,
Mum,
Replied her son.
Miss Paulina Home,
Pursued Graham,
Might I have the honour to introduce myself,
Since no one else seems willing to render you and me that service?
Your slave,
John Graham Breton.
Polly looked at him.
He rose and bowed quite gravely.
She deliberately put down her thindle-scissors work,
And descended with precaution from her perch.
How do you do?
A little thing like you ought to have been in bed many hours since,
Said Graham,
But you probably sat up in the expectation of seeing me.
No,
Indeed.
You certainly wish to enjoy the pleasure of my society.
You knew I was coming home and would wait to have a look at me.
I sat up for Papa and not for you.
Very good,
Miss Home.
I'm going to be a favourite,
Preferred before Papa soon,
I dare say.
Then Polly wished Mrs.
Breton and myself good night,
And she seemed hesitating whether Graham's desserts entitled him to the same attention when he caught her up with one hand,
And with that one hand held her poised aloft above his head.
The suddenness,
The freedom,
The disrespect of the action were too much.
For shame,
Mr.
Graham,
Was her indignant cry.
Put me down.
And when again on her feet,
I wondered what she would think of me if I were to treat you in that way,
Lifting you with my hand,
As Warren lifts the little cat.
And so saying,
Paulina departed.
