Whenever she did this, Dr. Bretton smiled. Gradually, as they conversed, the restraint on each side slackened; might the conference have but been prolonged, I believe it would soon have become genial. Already to Paulina’s lip and cheek returned the wreathing, dimpling smile; she lisped once, and forgot to correct herself. And Dr. John, I know not how he changed, but change he did. He did not grow gayer—no raillery, no levity sparkled across his aspect; but his position seemed to become one of more pleasure to himself, and he spoke his augmented comfort in readier language, in tones more suave. Ten years ago this pair had always found abundance to say to each other. The intervening decade had not narrowed the experience or impoverished the intelligence of either; besides, there are certain natures of which the mutual influence is such that the more they say the more they have to say. For these out of association grows adhesion, and out of adhesion, amalgamation.
Graham, however, must go. His was a profession whose claims are neither to be ignored nor deferred. He left the room; but before he could leave the house there was a return. I am sure he came back, not for the paper or card in his desk, which formed his ostensible errand, but to assure himself, by one more glance, that Paulina’s aspect was really such as memory was bearing away—that he had not been viewing her somehow by a partial, artificial light, and making a fond mistake. No; he found the impression true—rather, indeed, he gained than lost by this return. He took away with him a parting look—shy, but very soft—as beautiful, as innocent, as any little fawn could lift out of its cover of fern, or any lamb from its meadow-bed.
Being left alone, Paulina and I kept silence for some time. We both took out some work, and plied a mute and diligent task. The white wood work-box of old days was now replaced by one inlaid with precious mosaic, and furnished with implements of gold. The tiny and trembling fingers that could scarce guide the needle, though tiny still, were now swift and skilful. But there was the same busy knitting of the brow, the same little dainty mannerisms, the same quick turns and movements—now to replace a stray trees, and anon to shake from the silken skirt some imaginary atom of dust, some clinging fibre of thread.
That morning I was disposed for silence. The austere fury of the winter day had on me an awing, hushing influence. That passion of January, so white and so bloodless, was not yet spent. The storm had raved itself hoarse, but seemed no nearer exhaustion. Had Ginevra Fanshawe been my companion in that drawingroom, she would not have suffered me to muse and listen undisturbed. The presence just gone from us would have been her theme; and how she would have rung the changes on one topic! How she would have pursued and pestered me with questions and surmises—worried and oppressed me with comments and confidences I did not want, and longed to avoid.
Paulina Mary cast once or twice towards me a quiet but penetrating glance of her dark, full eye; her lips half opened, as if to the impulse of coming utterance; but she saw and delicately respected my inclination for silence.
“This will not hold long,” I thought to myself, for I was not accustomed to find in women or girls any power of self-control or strength of self-denial. As far as I knew them, the chance of a gossip about their usually trivial secrets, their often very washy and paltry feelings, was a treat not to be readily forgone.
The little countess promised an exception. She sewed till she was tired of sewing, and then she took a book.
As chance would have it, she had sought it in Dr. Bretton’s own compartment of the bookcase, and it proved to be an old Bretton book—some illustrated work of natural history. Often had I seen her standing at Graham’s side, resting that volume on his knee, and reading to his tuition, and, when the lesson was over, begging, as a treat, that he would tell her all about the pictures. I watched her keenly. Here was a true test of that memory she had boasted. Would her recollections now be faithful?
Faithful? It could not be doubted. As she turned the leaves, over her face passed gleam after gleam of expression, the least intelligent of which was a full greeting to the past. And then she turned to the titlepage, and looked at the name written in the schoolboy hand. She looked at it long. Nor was she