CHAPTER XXXVII.
SUNSHINE.
It was very, well for Paulina to decline further correspondence withGraham till her father had sanctioned the intercourse. But Dr. Brettoncould not live within a league of the Hotel Crecy, and not contrive tovisit there often. Both lovers meant at first, I believe, to bedistant; they kept their intention so far as demonstrative courtshipwent, but in feeling they soon drew very near.
All that was best in Graham sought Paulina; whatever in him was noble,awoke, and grew in her presence. With his past admiration of MissFanshawe, I suppose his intellect had little to do, but his wholeintellect, and his highest tastes, came in question now. These, likeall his faculties, were active, eager for nutriment, and alive togratification when it came.
I cannot say that Paulina designedly led him to talk of books, orformally proposed to herself for a moment the task of winning him toreflection, or planned the improvement of his mind, or so much asfancied his mind could in any one respect be improved. She thought himvery perfect; it was Graham himself, who, at first by the merestchance, mentioned some book he had been reading, and when in herresponse sounded a welcome harmony of sympathies, something, pleasantto his soul, he talked on, more and better perhaps than he had evertalked before on such subjects. She listened with delight, and answeredwith animation. In each successive answer, Graham heard a music waxingfiner and finer to his sense; in each he found a suggestive,persuasive, magic accent that opened a scarce-known treasure-housewithin, showed him unsuspected power in his own mind, and what wasbetter, latent goodness in his heart. Each liked the way in which theother talked; the voice, the diction, the expression pleased; eachkeenly relished the flavour of the other's wit; they met each other'smeaning with strange quickness, their thoughts often matched likecarefully-chosen pearls. Graham had wealth of mirth by nature; Paulinapossessed no such inherent flow of animal spirits--unstimulated, sheinclined to be thoughtful and pensive--but now she seemed merry as alark; in her lover's genial presence, she glanced like some soft gladlight. How beautiful she grew in her happiness, I can hardly express,but I wondered to see her. As to that gentle ice of hers--that reserveon which she had depended; where was it now? Ah! Graham would not longbear it; he brought with him a generous influence that soon thawed thetimid, self-imposed restriction.
Now were the old Bretton days talked over; perhaps brokenly at first,with a sort of smiling diffidence, then with opening candour and stillgrowing confidence. Graham had made for himself a better opportunitythan that he had wished me to give; he had earned independence of thecollateral help that disobliging Lucy had refused; all hisreminiscences of "little Polly" found their proper expression in hisown pleasant tones, by his own kind and handsome lips; how much betterthan if suggested by me.
More than once when we were alone, Paulina would tell me how wonderfuland curious it was to discover the richness and accuracy of his memoryin this matter. How, while he was looking at her, recollections wouldseem to be suddenly quickened in his mind. He reminded her that she hadonce gathered his head in her arms, caressed his leonine graces, andcried out, "Graham, I _do_ like you!" He told her how she would set afootstool beside him, and climb by its aid to his knee. At this day hesaid he could recall the sensation of her little hands smoothing hischeek, or burying themselves in his thick mane. He remembered the touchof her small forefinger, placed half tremblingly, half curiously, inthe cleft in his chin, the lisp, the look with which she would name it"a pretty dimple," then seek his eyes and question why they pierced so,telling him he had a "nice, strange face; far nicer, far stranger, thaneither his mamma or Lucy Snowe."
"Child as I was," remarked Paulina, "I wonder how I dared be soventurous. To me he seems now all sacred, his locks are inaccessible,and, Lucy, I feel a sort of fear, when I look at his firm, marble chin,at his straight Greek features. Women are called beautiful, Lucy; he isnot like a woman, therefore I suppose he is not beautiful, but what ishe, then? Do other people see him with my eyes? Do _you_ admire him?"
"I'll tell you what I do, Paulina," was once my answer to her manyquestions. "_I never see him_. I looked at him twice or thrice about ayear ago, before he recognised me, and then I shut my eyes; and if hewere to cross their balls twelve times between each day's sunset andsunrise, except from memory, I should hardly know what shape had goneby."
"Lucy, what do you mean?" said she, under her breath.
"I mean that I value vision, and dread being struck stone blind."
It was best to answer her strongly at once, and to silence for ever thetender, passionate confidences which left her lips sweet honey, andsometimes dropped in my ear--molten lead. To me, she commented no moreon her lover's beauty.
Yet speak of him she would; sometimes shyly, in quiet, brief phrases;sometimes with a tenderness of cadence, and music of voice exquisite initself; but which chafed me at times miserably; and then, I know, Igave her stern looks and words; but cloudless happiness had dazzled hernative clear sight, and she only thought Lucy--fitful.
"Spartan girl! Proud Lucy!" she would say, smiling at me. "Graham saysyou are the most peculiar, capricious little woman he knows; but yetyou are excellent; we both think so."
"You both think you know not what," said I. "Have the goodness to makeme as little the subject of your mutual talk and thoughts as possible.I have my sort of life apart from yours."
"But ours, Lucy, is a beautiful life, or it will be; and you shallshare it."
"I shall share no man's or woman's life in this world, as youunderstand sharing. I think I have one friend of my own, but am notsure; and till I _am_ sure, I live solitary."
"But solitude is sadness."
"Yes; it is sadness. Life, however; has worse than that. Deeper thanmelancholy, lies heart-break."
"Lucy, I wonder if anybody will ever comprehend you altogether."
There is, in lovers, a certain infatuation of egotism; they will have awitness of their happiness, cost that witness what it may. Paulina hadforbidden letters, yet Dr. Bretton wrote; she had resolved againstcorrespondence, yet she answered, were it only to chide. She showed methese letters; with something of the spoiled child's wilfulness, and ofthe heiress's imperiousness, she _made_ me read them. As I readGraham's, I scarce wondered at her exaction, and understood her pride:they were fine letters--manly and fond--modest and gallant. Hers musthave appeared to him beautiful. They had not been written to show hertalents; still less, I think, to express her love. On the contrary, itappeared that she had proposed to herself the task of hiding thatfeeling, and bridling her lover's ardour. But how could such lettersserve such a purpose? Graham was become dear as her life; he drew herlike a powerful magnet. For her there was influence unspeakable in allhe uttered, wrote, thought, or looked. With this unconfessedconfession, her letters glowed; it kindled them, from greeting to adieu.
"I wish papa knew; I _do_ wish papa knew!" began now to be her anxiousmurmur. "I wish, and yet I fear. I can hardly keep Graham back fromtelling him. There is nothing I long for more than to have this affairsettled--to speak out candidly; and yet I dread the crisis. I know, Iam certain, papa will be angry at the first; I fear he will dislike mealmost; it will seem to him an untoward business; it will be asurprise, a shock: I can hardly foresee its whole effect on him."
The fact was--her father, long calm, was beginning to be a littlestirred: long blind on one point, an importunate light was beginning totrespass on his eye.
To _her_, he said nothing; but when she was not looking at, or perhapsthinking of him, I saw him gaze and meditate on her.
One evening--Paulina was in her dressing-room, writing, I believe, toGraham; she had left me in the library, reading--M. de Bassompierrecame in; he sat down: I was about to withdraw; he requested me toremain--gently, yet in a manner which showed he wished compliance. Hehad taken his seat near the window, at a distance from me; he opened adesk; he took from it what looked like a memorandum-book; of this bookhe studied a certain entry for several minutes.
"Miss Snowe," said he, l
aying it down, "do you know my little girl'sage?"
"About eighteen, is it not, sir?"
"It seems so. This old pocket-book tells me she was born on the 5th ofMay, in the year 18--, eighteen years ago. It is strange; I had lostthe just reckoning of her age. I thought of her as twelve--fourteen--anindefinite date; but she seemed a child."
"She is about eighteen," I repeated. "She is grown up; she will be notaller."
"My little jewel!" said M. de Bassompierre, in a tone which penetratedlike some of his daughter's accents.
He sat very thoughtful.
"Sir, don't grieve," I said; for I knew his feelings, utterly unspokenas they were.
"She is the only pearl I have," he said; "and now others will find outthat she is pure and of price: they will covet her."
I made no answer. Graham Bretton had dined with us that day; he hadshone both in converse and looks: I know not what pride of bloomembellished his aspect and mellowed his intercourse. Under the stimulusof a high hope, something had unfolded in his whole manner whichcompelled attention. I think he had purposed on that day to indicatethe origin of his endeavours, and the aim of his ambition. M. deBassompierre had found himself forced, in a manner, to descry thedirection and catch the character of his homage. Slow in remarking, hewas logical in reasoning: having once seized the thread, it had guidedhim through a long labyrinth.
"Where is she?" he asked.
"She is up-stairs."
"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 longwanted 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 speakfor 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 wasobliged to go on: "Hundreds of times has Dr. Bretton been on the pointof appealing to you, sir; but, with all his high courage, he fears youmortally."
"He may well--he may well fear me. He has touched the best thing Ihave. Had he but let her alone, she would have remained a child foryears 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 proprietywhich always characterizes you; but this matter is a grief to me; mylittle girl was all I had: I have no more daughters and no son; Brettonmight as well have looked elsewhere; there are scores of rich andpretty women who would not, I daresay, dislike him: he has looks, andconduct, and connection. Would nothing serve him but my Polly?"
"If he had never seen your 'Polly,' others might and would have pleasedhim--your niece, Miss Fanshawe, for instance."
"Ah! I would have given him Ginevra with all my heart; but Polly!--Ican'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 offortune! I am not an avaricious or interested man, but the world thinksof 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, thinkany one Paulina's match? Would you prefer any other to Dr. Bretton? Doyou think higher rank or more wealth would make much difference in yourfeelings 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. Independentof heiress-ship, it appears to me that Paulina charms most of those whosee 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 toopartial. I like Polly: I like all her ways and all her looks--but thenI am her father; and even I never thought about beauty. She is amusing,fairy-like, interesting to me;--you must be mistaken in supposing herhandsome?"
"She attracts, sir: she would attract without the advantages of yourwealth and position."
"My wealth and position! Are these any bait to Graham? If I thoughtso----"
"Dr. Bretton knows these points perfectly, as you may be sure, M. deBassompierre, and values them as any gentleman would--as _you_ wouldyourself, under the same circumstances--but they are not his baits. Heloves your daughter very much; he feels her finest qualities, and theyinfluence him worthily."
"What! has my little pet 'fine qualities?'"
"Ah, sir! did you observe her that evening when so many men of eminenceand 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 thedrawing-room?"
"I did; but I thought it was by way of relaxation--as one might amuseone's self with a pretty infant."
"Sir, she demeaned herself with distinction; and I heard the Frenchgentlemen say she was 'petrie d'esprit et de graces.' Dr. Brettonthought the same."
"She is a good, dear child, that is certain; and I _do_ believe she hassome 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 andtenderer as I grew worse in health. And as I recovered, what a sunbeamshe was in my sick-room! Yes; she played about my chair as noiselesslyand as cheerful as light. And now she is sought in marriage! I don'twant to part with her," said he, and he groaned.
"You have known Dr. and Mrs. Bretton so long," I suggested, "it wouldbe 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 areindeed 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. Sheis a comely and a good woman now. The lad is like her; I have alwaysthought so, and favoured and wished him well. Now he repays me by thisrobbery! My little treasure used to love her old father dearly andtruly. It is all over now, doubtless--I am an incumbrance."
The door opened--his "little treasure" came in. She was dressed, so tospeak, in evening beauty; that animation which sometimes comes with theclose of day, warmed her eye and cheek; a tinge of summer crimsonheightened her complexion; her curls fell full and long on her lilyneck; her white dress suited the heat of June. Thinking me alone, shehad brought in her hand the letter just written--brought it folded butunsealed. I was to read it. When she saw her father, her tripping stepfaltered a little, paused a moment--the colour in her cheek flowed rosyover her whole face.
"Polly," said M. de Bassompierre, in a low voice, with a grave smile,"do you blush at seeing papa? That is something new."
"I don't blush--I never _do_ blush," affirmed she, while another eddyfrom the heart sent up its scarlet. "But I thought you were in thedining-room, and I wanted Lucy."
"You thought I was with John Graham Bretton, I suppose? But he has justbeen called out: he will be back soon, Polly. He can post your letterfor you; it will save Matthieu a 'course,' as he calls it."
"I don't post letters," said she, rather pettishly.
"What do you do with them, then?--come
here and tell me."
Both her mind and gesture seemed to hesitate a second--to say "Shall Icome?"--but she approached.
"How long is it since you became a letter-writer, Polly? It only seemsyesterday when you were at your pot-hooks, labouring away absolutelywith both hands at the pen."
"Papa, they are not letters to send to the post in your letter-bag;they are only notes, which I give now and then into the person's hands,just to satisfy."
"The person! That means Miss Snowe, I suppose?"
"No, papa--not Lucy."
"Who then? Perhaps Mrs. Bretton?"
"No, papa--not Mrs. Bretton."
"Who, then, my little daughter? Tell papa the truth."
"Oh, papa!" she cried with earnestness, "I will--I _will_ tell you thetruth--all the truth; I am glad to tell you--glad, though I tremble."
She _did_ tremble: growing excitement, kindling feeling, and alsogathering courage, shook her.
"I hate to hide my actions from you, papa. I fear you and love youabove everything but God. Read the letter; look at the address."
She laid it on his knee. He took it up and read it through; his handshaking, his eyes glistening meantime.
He re-folded it, and viewed the writer with a strange, tender, mournfulamaze.
"Can _she_ write so--the little thing that stood at my knee butyesterday? Can she feel so?"
"Papa, is it wrong? Does it pain you?"
"There is nothing wrong in it, my innocent little Mary; but it painsme."
"But, papa, listen! You shall not be pained by me. I would give upeverything--almost" (correcting herself); "I would die rather than makeyou unhappy; that would be too wicked!"
She shuddered.
"Does the letter not please you? Must it not go? Must it be torn? Itshall, for your sake, if you order it."
"I order nothing."
"Order something, papa; express your wish; only don't hurt, don'tgrieve Graham. I cannot, _cannot_ bear that. I love you, papa; but Ilove Graham too--because--because--it is impossible to help it."
"This splendid Graham is a young scamp, Polly--that is my presentnotion of him: it will surprise you to hear that, for my part, I do notlove him one whit. Ah! years ago I saw something in that lad's eye Inever quite fathomed--something his mother has not--a depth whichwarned a man not to wade into that stream too far; now, suddenly, Ifind myself taken over the crown of the head."
"Papa, you don't--you have not fallen in; you are safe on the bank; youcan do as you please; your power is despotic; you can shut me up in aconvent, and break Graham's heart to-morrow, if you choose to be socruel. Now, autocrat, now czar, will you do this?"
"Off with him to Siberia, red whiskers and all; I say, I don't likehim, Polly, and I wonder that you should."
"Papa," said she, "do you know you are very naughty? I never saw youlook so disagreeable, so unjust, so almost vindictive before. There isan expression in your face which does not belong to you."
"Off with him!" pursued Mr. Home, who certainly did look sorely crossedand annoyed--even a little bitter; "but, I suppose, if he went, Pollywould pack a bundle and run after him; her heart is fairly won--won,and weaned from her old father."
"Papa, I say it is naughty, it is decidedly wrong, to talk in that way.I am _not_ weaned from you, and no human being and no mortal influence_can_ wean me."
"Be married, Polly! Espouse the red whiskers. Cease to be a daughter;go and be a wife!"
"Red whiskers! I wonder what you mean, papa. You should take care ofprejudice. You sometimes say to me that all the Scotch, yourcountrymen, are the victims of prejudice. It is proved now, I think,when no distinction is to be made between red and deep nut-brown."
"Leave the prejudiced old Scotchman; go away."
She stood looking at him a minute. She wanted to show firmness,superiority to taunts; knowing her father's character, guessing his fewfoibles, she had expected the sort of scene which was now transpiring;it did not take her by surprise, and she desired to let it pass withdignity, reliant upon reaction. Her dignity stood her in no stead.Suddenly her soul melted in her eyes; she fell on his neck:--"I won'tleave you, papa; I'll never leave you. I won't pain you! I'll neverpain you!" was her cry.
"My lamb! my treasure!" murmured the loving though rugged sire. He saidno more for the moment; indeed, those two words were hoarse.
The room was now darkening. I heard a movement, a step without.Thinking it might be a servant coming with candles, I gently opened, toprevent intrusion. In the ante-room stood no servant: a tall gentlemanwas placing his hat on the table, drawing off his glovesslowly--lingering, waiting, it seemed to me. He called me neither bysign nor word; yet his eye said:--"Lucy, come here." And I went.
Over his face a smile flowed, while he looked down on me: no temper,save his own, would have expressed by a smile the sort of agitationwhich now fevered him.
"M. de Bassompierre is there--is he not?" he inquired, pointing to thelibrary.
"Yes."
"He noticed me at dinner? He understood me?"
"Yes, Graham."
"I am brought up for judgment, then, and so is _she_?"
"Mr. Home" (we now and always continued to term him Mr. Home at times)"is talking to his daughter."
"Ha! These are sharp moments, Lucy!"
He was quite stirred up; his young hand trembled; a vital (I was goingto write _mortal_, but such words ill apply to one all living likehim)--a vital suspense now held, now hurried, his breath: in all thistrouble 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 toquail. 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 assteel. Are you not?"
"Yes, Graham."
"Then give me thy hand, my little god-sister: it is a friendly littlehand to me, and always has been. And now for the great venture. God bewith 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 bornvanquished.
"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 ofhospitality. I entertained you; you have taken my best. I was alwaysglad to see you; you were glad to see the one precious thing I had. Youspoke me fair; and, meantime, I will not say you _robbed_ me, but I ambereaved, and what I have lost, _you_, it seems, have won."
"Sir, I cannot repent."
"Repent! Not you! You triumph, no doubt: John Graham, you descendedpartly from a Highlander and a chief, and there is a trace of the Celtin 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, andbrain of wile, are all come down by inheritance."
"Sir, I _feel_ honest enough," said Graham; and a genuine English blushcovered his face with its warm witness of sincerity. "And yet," headded, "I won't deny that in some respects you accuse me justly. Inyour presence I have always had a thought which I dared not show you. Idid truly regard you as the possessor of the most valuable thing theworld owns for me. I wished for it: I tried for it. Sir, I ask for itnow."
"John, you ask much."
"Very much, sir. It must come from your generosity, as a gift; fromyour 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. Shegazed tenderly on her furrowed sire.
"Papa, I love you both," said s
he; "I can take care of you both. I neednot send Graham away--he can live here; he will be no inconvenience,"she alleged with that simplicity of phraseology which at times was wontto 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. Tellhim to march."
"You will get used to him, papa. He seemed exceedingly tall to me atfirst--like a tower when I looked up at him; but, on the whole, I wouldrather not have him otherwise."
"I object to him altogether, Polly; I can do without a son-in-law. Ishould never have requested the best man in the land to stand to me inthat 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 andtastes his own. He has humoured me for good reasons. I think, Polly,you and I will bid him good-by."
"Till to-morrow only. Shake hands with Graham, papa."
"No: I think not: I am not friends with him. Don't think to coax mebetween you."
"Indeed, indeed, you _are_ friends. Graham, stretch out your righthand. 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 agrasp? Papa, you grasp like a vice. You crush Graham's hand to thebone; you hurt him!"
He must have hurt him; for he wore a massive ring, set round withbrilliants, of which the sharp facets cut into Graham's flesh and drewblood: 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 doctor. Theywent. Their intercourse was not long, but I suppose it was conclusive.The suitor had to undergo an interrogatory and a scrutiny on manythings. Whether Dr. Bretton was at times guileful in look and languageor not, there was a sound foundation below. His answers, I understoodafterwards, evinced both wisdom and integrity. He had managed hisaffairs well. He had struggled through entanglements; his fortunes werein the way of retrieval; he proved himself in a position to marry.
Once more the father and lover appeared in the library. M. deBassompierre shut the door; he pointed to his daughter.
"Take her," he said. "Take her, John Bretton: and may God deal with youas you deal with her!"
* * * * *
Not long after, perhaps a fortnight, I saw three persons, Count deBassompierre, his daughter, and Dr. Graham Bretton, sitting on oneseat, under a low-spreading and umbrageous tree, in the grounds of thepalace at Bois l'Etang. They had come thither to enjoy a summerevening: outside the magnificent gates their carriage waited to takethem home; the green sweeps of turf spread round them quiet and dim;the palace rose at a distance, white as a crag on Pentelicus; theevening star shone above it; a forest of flowering shrubs embalmed theclimate of this spot; the hour was still and sweet; the scene, but forthis group, was solitary.
Paulina sat between the two gentlemen: while they conversed, her littlehands were busy at some work; I thought at first she was binding anosegay. No; with the tiny pair of scissors, glittering in her lap, shehad severed spoils from each manly head beside her, and was nowoccupied in plaiting together the grey lock and the golden wave. Theplait woven--no silk-thread being at hand to bind it--a tress of herown hair was made to serve that purpose; she tied it like a knot,prisoned it in a locket, and laid it on her heart.
"Now," said she, "there is an amulet made, which has virtue to keep youtwo always friends. You can never quarrel so long as I wear this."
An amulet was indeed made, a spell framed which rendered enmityimpossible. She was become a bond to both, an influence over each, amutual concord. From them she drew her happiness, and what sheborrowed, she, with interest, gave back.
"Is there, indeed, such happiness on earth?" I asked, as I watched thefather, the daughter, the future husband, now united--all blessed andblessing.
Yes; it is so. Without any colouring of romance, or any exaggeration offancy, it is so. Some real lives do--for some certain days oryears--actually anticipate the happiness of Heaven; and, I believe, ifsuch perfect happiness is once felt by good people (to the wicked itnever comes), its sweet effect is never wholly lost. Whatever trialsfollow, whatever pains of sickness or shades of death, the gloryprecedent still shines through, cheering the keen anguish, and tingingthe deep cloud.
I will go farther. I _do_ believe there are some human beings so born,so reared, so guided from a soft cradle to a calm and late grave, thatno excessive suffering penetrates their lot, and no tempestuousblackness overcasts their journey. And often, these are not pampered,selfish beings, but Nature's elect, harmonious and benign; men andwomen mild with charity, kind agents of God's kind attributes.
Let me not delay the happy truth. Graham Bretton and Paulina deBassompierre were married, and such an agent did Dr. Bretton prove. Hedid not with time degenerate; his faults decayed, his virtues ripened;he rose in intellectual refinement, he won in moral profit: all dregsfiltered away, the clear wine settled bright and tranquil. Bright, too,was the destiny of his sweet wife. She kept her husband's love, sheaided in his progress--of his happiness she was the corner stone.
This pair was blessed indeed, for years brought them, with greatprosperity, great goodness: they imparted with open hand, yet wisely.Doubtless they knew crosses, disappointments, difficulties; but thesewere well borne. More than once, too, they had to look on Him whoseface flesh scarce can see and live: they had to pay their tribute tothe King of Terrors. In the fulness of years, M. de Bassompierre wastaken: in ripe old age departed Louisa Bretton. Once even there rose acry in their halls, of Rachel weeping for her children; but otherssprang healthy and blooming to replace the lost: Dr. Bretton sawhimself live again in a son who inherited his looks and hisdisposition; he had stately daughters, too, like himself: thesechildren he reared with a suave, yet a firm hand; they grew upaccording to inheritance and nurture.
In short, I do but speak the truth when I say that these two lives ofGraham and Paulina were blessed, like that of Jacob's favoured son,with "blessings of Heaven above, blessings of the deep that liesunder." It was so, for God saw that it was good.
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