CHAPTER XXI. REACTION.

dbemadwithjealousy. “Ginevra,haveyouseriouslydonewithDr.Bretton?Doyouwanthimtogiveyouup?” “Oh!youknowhecan’tdothat:butwasn’themad?” “Quitemad,”Iassented“asmadasaMarchhare.” “Well,andhoweverdidyougethimhome?” “However,indeed!Haveyounopityonhispoormotherandme?Fancyusholdinghimtightdowninthecarriage,andheravingbetweenus,fittodriveeverybodydelirious.Theverycoachmanwentwrong,somehow,andwelostourway.” “Youdon’tsayso?Youarelaughingatme.Now,LucySnowe—” “Iassureyouitisfact—andfact,also,thatDr.Brettonwouldnotstayinthecarriage:hebrokefromus,andwouldrideoutside.” “Andafterwards?” “Afterwards—whenhedidreachhome—thescenetranscendsdescription.” “Oh,butdescribeit—youknowitissuchfun!” “Funforyou,MissFanshawe?but”(withsterngravity)“youknowtheproverb—‘Whatissporttoonemaybedeathtoanother.’” “Goon,there’sadarlingTimon.” “Conscientiously,Icannot,unlessyouassuremeyouhavesomeheart.” “Ihave—suchanimmensity,youdon’tknow!” “Good!Inthatcase,youwillbeabletoconceiveDr.GrahamBrettonrejectinghissupperinthefirstinstance—thechicken,thesweetbreadpreparedforhisrefreshment,leftonthetableuntouched.Then——butitisofnousedwellingatlengthontheharrowingdetails.Sufficeittosay,thatnever,inthemoststormyfitsandmomentsofhisinfancy,hadhismothersuchworktotuckthesheetsabouthimasshehadthatnight.” “Hewouldn’tliestill?” “Hewouldn’tliestill:thereitwas.Thesheetsmightbetuckedin,butthethingwastokeepthemtuckedin.” “Andwhatdidhesay?” “Say!Can’tyouimaginehimdemandinghisdivineGinevra,anathematizingthatdemon,deHamal—ravingaboutgoldenlocks,blueeyes,whitearms,glitteringbracelets?” “No,didhe?Hesawthebracelet?” “Sawthebracelet?Yes,asplainasIsawit:and,perhaps,forthefirsttime,hesawalsothebrand-markwithwhichitspressurehasencircledyourarm.Ginevra”(rising,andchangingmytone),“come,wewillhaveanendofthis.Goawaytoyourpractising.” AndIopenedthedoor. “Butyouhavenottoldmeall.” “YouhadbetternotwaituntilIdotellyouall.Suchextracommunicativenesscouldgiveyounopleasure.March!” “Crossthing!”saidshebutsheobeyed:and,indeed,thefirstclassewasmyterritory,andshecouldnottherelegallyresistanoticeofquittancefromme. Yet,tospeakthetruth,neverhadIbeenlessdissatisfiedwithherthanIwasthen.Therewaspleasureinthinkingofthecontrastbetweentherealityandmydescription—torememberDr.Johnenjoyingthedrivehome,eatinghissupperwithrelish,andretiringtorestwithChristiancomposure.ItwasonlywhenIsawhimreallyunhappythatIfeltreallyvexedwiththefair,frailcauseofhissuffering. AfortnightpassedIwasgettingoncemoreinuredtotheharnessofschool,andlapsingfromthepassionatepainofchangetothepalsyofcustom.Oneafternoon,incrossingthecarré,onmywaytothefirstclasse,whereIwasexpectedtoassistatalessonof“styleandliterature,”Isaw,standingbyoneofthelongandlargewindows,Rosine,theportress.Herattitude,asusual,wasquitenonchalante.Shealways“stoodatease”oneofherhandsrestedinherapron-pocket,theotheratthismomentheldtohereyesaletter,whereofMademoisellecoollyperusedtheaddress,anddeliberatelystudiedtheseal. Aletter!Theshapeofalettersimilartothathadhauntedmybraininitsverycoreforsevendayspast.Ihaddreamedofaletterlastnight.Strongmagnetismdrewmetothatletternowyet,whetherIshouldhaveventuredtodemandofRosinesomuchasaglanceatthatwhiteenvelope,withthespotofredwaxinthemiddle,Iknownot.NoIthinkIshouldhavesneakedpastinterrorofarebufffromDisappointment:myheartthrobbednowasifIalreadyheardthetrampofherapproach.Nervousmistake!ItwastherapidstepoftheProfessorofLiteraturemeasuringthecorridor.Ifledbeforehim.CouldIbutbeseatedquietlyatmydeskbeforehisarrival,withtheclassundermyordersallindisciplinedreadiness,hewould,perhaps,exemptmefromnoticebut,ifcaughtlingeringinthecarré,Ishouldbesuretocomeinforaspecialharangue.Ihadtimetogetseated,toenforceperfectsilence,totakeoutmywork,andtocommenceitamidsttheprofoundestandbesttrainedhush,ereM.Emanuelenteredwithhisvehementburstoflatchandpanel,andhisdeep,redundantbow,propheticofcholer. Asusualhebrokeuponuslikeaclapofthunderbutinsteadofflashinglightning-wisefromthedoortotheestrade,hiscareerhaltedmidwayatmydesk.Settinghisfacetowardsmeandthewindow,hisbacktothepupilsandtheroom,hegavemealook—suchalookasmighthavelicensedmetostandstraightupanddemandwhathemeant—alookofscowlingdistrust. “Voilà!pourvous,”saidhe,drawinghishandfromhiswaist-coat,andplacingonmydeskaletter—theveryletterIhadseeninRosine’shand—theletterwhosefaceofenamelledwhiteandsingleCyclop’s-eyeofvermilion-redhadprintedthemselvessoclearandperfectontheretinaofaninwardvision.Iknewit,Ifeltittobetheletterofmyhope,thefruitionofmywish,thereleasefrommydoubt,theransomfrommyterror.ThisletterM.Paul,withhisunwarrantablyinterferinghabits,hadtakenfromtheportress,andnowdeliveredithimself. Imighthavebeenangry,buthadnotasecondforthesensation.Yes:Iheldinmyhandnotaslightnote,butanenvelope,whichmust,atleast,containasheet:itfeltnotflimsy,butfirm,substantial,satisfying.Andherewasthedirection,“MissLucySnowe,”inaclean,clear,equal,decidedhandandherewastheseal,round,full,deftlydroppedbyuntremulousfingers,stampedwiththewell-cutimpressofinitials,“J.G.B.”Iexperiencedahappyfeeling—aglademotionwhichwentwarmtomyheart,andranlivelythroughallmyveins.Foronceahopewasrealized.Iheldinmyhandamorselofrealsolidjoy:notadream,notanimageofthebrain,notoneofthoseshadowychancesimaginationpictures,andonwhichhumanitystarvesbutcannotlivenotamessofthatmannaIdrearilyeulogizedawhileago—which,indeed,atfirstmeltsonthelipswithanunspeakableandpreternaturalsweetness,butwhich,intheend,oursoulsfullsurelyloathelongingdeliriouslyfornaturalandearth-grownfood,wildlyprayingHeaven’sSpiritstoreclaimtheirownspirit-dewandessence—analimentdivine,butformortalsdeadly.Itwasneithersweethailnorsmallcoriander-seed—neitherslightwafer,norluscioushoney,Ihadlightedonitwasthewild,savourymessofthehunter,nourishingandsalubriousmeat,forest-fedordesert-reared,fresh,healthful,andlife-sustaining.ItwaswhattheolddyingpatriarchdemandedofhissonEsau,promisinginrequitaltheblessingofhislastbreath.ItwasagodsendandIinwardlythankedtheGodwhohadvouchsafedit.OutwardlyIonlythankedman,crying,“Thankyou,thankyou,Monsieur!” Monsieurcurledhislip,gavemeaviciousglanceoftheeye,andstro