shall choose for him, Polly; what shall my boy have?’
She selected a portion of whatever was best on the table, and ere long, came back with a whispered request for some marmalade, which was not there. Having got it, however (for Mrs. Bretton refused the pair nothing), Graham was shortly after heard lauding her to the skies; promising that, when he had a house of his own, she should be his housekeeper, and perhaps—if she showed any culinary genius—his cook; and, as she did not return, and I went to look after her, I found Graham and her breakfasting tête-à-tête —she standing at his elbow, and sharing his fare: excepting the marmalade, which she delicately refused to touch; lest, I suppose, it should appear that she had procured it as much on her own account as his. She constantly evinced these nice perceptions and delicate instincts.
The league of acquaintanceship thus struck up was not hastily dissolved; on the contrary, it appeared that time and circumstances served rather to cement than loosen it. Ill-assimilated as the two were in age, sex, pursuits, &c., they somehow found a great deal to say to each other. As to Paulina, I observed that her little character never properly came out, except with young Bretton. As she got settled, and accustomed to the house, she proved tractable enough with Mrs. Bretton; but she would sit on a stool at that lady’s feet all day long, learning her task, or sewing, or drawing figures with a pencil on a slate, and never kindling once to originality, or showing a single gleam of the peculiarities of her nature. I ceased to watch her under such circumstances: she was not interesting. But the moment Graham’s knock sounded of an evening, a change occurred; she was instantly at the head of the staircase. Usually her welcome was a reprimand or a threat.
‘You have not wiped your shoes properly on the mat. I shall tell your mama.’
‘Little busybody! Are you there?’
‘Yes—and you can’t reach me: I am higher up than you’ (peeping between the rails of the bannister; she could not look over them).
‘Polly!’
‘My dear boy!’ (such was one of her terms for him, adopted in imitation of his mother.)
‘I am fit to faint with fatigue,’ declared Graham, leaning against the passage-wall in seeming exhaustion. ‘Dr. Digby’ (the head-master) ‘has quite knocked me up with over-work. Just come down and help me to carry up my book.’
‘Ah! You’re cunning!’
‘Not at all, Polly—it is positive fact. I’m as weak as a rush. Come down.’
‘Your eyes are quiet like the cat’s, but you’ll spring.’
‘Spring? Nothing of the kind: it isn’t in me. Come down.’
‘Perhaps I may—if you’ll promise not to touch—not to snatch me up, and not to whirl me round.’
‘I? I couldn’t do it!’ (sinking into a chair.)
‘Then put the books down on the first step, and go three yards off.’
This being done, she descended warily, and not taking her eyes from the feeble Graham. Of course her approach always galvanized him to new and spasmodic life: the game of romps was sure to be exacted. Sometimes she would be angry; sometimes the matter was allowed to pass smoothly, and we could hear her say as she led him up-stairs:
‘Now, my dear boy, come and take your tea—I am sure you must want something.’
It was sufficiently comical to observe her as she sat beside Graham, while he took that meal. In his absence she was a still personage, but with him the most officious, fidgetty little body possible. I often wished she would mind herself and be tranquil; but no—herself was forgotten in him: he could not be sufficiently well waited on, nor carefully enough looked after; he was more than the Grand Turk d in her estimation. She would gradually assemble the various plates before him, and, when one would suppose all he could possibly desire was within his reach, she would find out something else:—
‘Ma’am,’ she would whisper to Mrs.
She selected a portion of whatever was best on the table, and ere long, came back with a whispered request for some marmalade, which was not there. Having got it, however (for Mrs. Bretton refused the pair nothing), Graham was shortly after heard lauding her to the skies; promising that, when he had a house of his own, she should be his housekeeper, and perhaps—if she showed any culinary genius—his cook; and, as she did not return, and I went to look after her, I found Graham and her breakfasting tête-à-tête —she standing at his elbow, and sharing his fare: excepting the marmalade, which she delicately refused to touch; lest, I suppose, it should appear that she had procured it as much on her own account as his. She constantly evinced these nice perceptions and delicate instincts.
The league of acquaintanceship thus struck up was not hastily dissolved; on the contrary, it appeared that time and circumstances served rather to cement than loosen it. Ill-assimilated as the two were in age, sex, pursuits, &c., they somehow found a great deal to say to each other. As to Paulina, I observed that her little character never properly came out, except with young Bretton. As she got settled, and accustomed to the house, she proved tractable enough with Mrs. Bretton; but she would sit on a stool at that lady’s feet all day long, learning her task, or sewing, or drawing figures with a pencil on a slate, and never kindling once to originality, or showing a single gleam of the peculiarities of her nature. I ceased to watch her under such circumstances: she was not interesting. But the moment Graham’s knock sounded of an evening, a change occurred; she was instantly at the head of the staircase. Usually her welcome was a reprimand or a threat.
‘You have not wiped your shoes properly on the mat. I shall tell your mama.’
‘Little busybody! Are you there?’
‘Yes—and you can’t reach me: I am higher up than you’ (peeping between the rails of the bannister; she could not look over them).
‘Polly!’
‘My dear boy!’ (such was one of her terms for him, adopted in imitation of his mother.)
‘I am fit to faint with fatigue,’ declared Graham, leaning against the passage-wall in seeming exhaustion. ‘Dr. Digby’ (the head-master) ‘has quite knocked me up with over-work. Just come down and help me to carry up my book.’
‘Ah! You’re cunning!’
‘Not at all, Polly—it is positive fact. I’m as weak as a rush. Come down.’
‘Your eyes are quiet like the cat’s, but you’ll spring.’
‘Spring? Nothing of the kind: it isn’t in me. Come down.’
‘Perhaps I may—if you’ll promise not to touch—not to snatch me up, and not to whirl me round.’
‘I? I couldn’t do it!’ (sinking into a chair.)
‘Then put the books down on the first step, and go three yards off.’
This being done, she descended warily, and not taking her eyes from the feeble Graham. Of course her approach always galvanized him to new and spasmodic life: the game of romps was sure to be exacted. Sometimes she would be angry; sometimes the matter was allowed to pass smoothly, and we could hear her say as she led him up-stairs:
‘Now, my dear boy, come and take your tea—I am sure you must want something.’
It was sufficiently comical to observe her as she sat beside Graham, while he took that meal. In his absence she was a still personage, but with him the most officious, fidgetty little body possible. I often wished she would mind herself and be tranquil; but no—herself was forgotten in him: he could not be sufficiently well waited on, nor carefully enough looked after; he was more than the Grand Turk d in her estimation. She would gradually assemble the various plates before him, and, when one would suppose all he could possibly desire was within his reach, she would find out something else:—
‘Ma’am,’ she would whisper to Mrs.
Similar Books
