Villette

re to tread its calm old streets — I betook myself home, having been absent six months. It will be conjectured that I was of course g

ther, in a harbour still as glass — the steersman stretched on the little deck, his face up to heaven, his eyes closed: buried, if you

eck at last. I too well remember a time — a long time — of cold, of danger, of contention. To this hour, when I have the nightmare, it repeats the rush and saltness of briny waves in my throat, and their icy pressure on my lungs. I even know there was a storm, and th

, and which had been chiefly invested in some joint-stock undertaking, had melted, it was said, to a fraction of its original amount. Graham, I learned from incidental rumours, had adopted a profession; both he and his mother were gone from Bretton, and were understood to be now in London. Thus, there remained no possibility of dependence on others;

, and of her peculiarities (she had the character of being very eccentric), but till now had never seen her. I found her a furrowed, grey-haired woman, grave with solitude, stern with long affliction, irritable also, and perhaps exacting. It seemed that a maid, or r

d deal of attention, and you will be much confined; yet, perhaps, cont

her of suffering — sometimes, perhaps, the butt of temper — through all that was to come of my youth; while all that was gone had passed, to say the least, not blissfu

ould have strength for th

,” said she; “for you l

low-eyed vision. Yet I thought little of the wan spectacle. The blight,

ve you in vie

s yet: but I may

d, then; and if it does not succeed, test mine. The chance

iscovered that she could influence my sympathies (such as they were). She sent for me the next day; for five or six successive days she claimed my company. Closer acquaintance, while it developed both faults and eccentricities, opened, at the same time, a view of a character I could respect. Stern and even morose as she sometimes was, I could wait on her and sit beside her with that calm which always blesses us when we are sensible that our manners, presence, contact, please and soothe the persons we serve. Even when she scolded

an ever-changing sky outside the steam-dimmed lattice of this sick chamber; I was almost content to forget it. All within me became narrowed to my lot. Tame and still by habit, disciplined by destiny, I demanded no walks in the fresh air; my appetite needed no more than the tin

ng, forced to energy. My little morsel of human affection, which I prized as if it were a solid pearl, must melt in my fingers and slip thence like a dissolving hailstone. My small adopted duty must be snatched from my easily contented conscie

er, storms were ushering in the spring. I had put Miss Marchmont to bed; I sat at the fireside sewing. The wind was wailing at the windows; it had wailed all day; but,

less cry — denote a coming state of the atmosphere unpropitious to life. Epidemic diseases, I believed, were often heralded by a gasping, sobbing, tormented, long-lamenting east wind. Hence, I inferred, arose the legend of the Banshee. I fancied, too, I had noticed — but was not philosopher enough to know whether there was any connection between the circumstances — that w

trembled; Miss

en burning dead, glowed up vividly. I felt the air change, and become keen. Raising bl

ss Marchmont awake, lifting her head from the pi

ine night?

in the a

-night,” she continued: “young, light-hearted, and happy. What if my complaint be a

hear her talk so. She went on directing her conversation to the past, and see

object; which, in its single self, was dear to me, as to the majority of men and women, are all the unnumbered points on which they dissipate their regard. While I loved, and while I was loved, what an existence I enjoyed! What a glorious year I can recall — how bright it comes back to me! What a living spring — what a warm, glad summer — what soft moonlight, silvering the autumn evenings — what strength of hope under the ice-bound waters and frost-hoar fields of that year’s winter! Through that year my heart lived with Frank’s heart. O my noble Frank — my faithful Frank — my good Fran

I can say with sincerity, what I never tried to say before, Inscrutable God, Thy will be done! A

en?” I inquired

I designed to watch him ride up the white walk; I see and feel the soft firelight warming me, playing on my silk dress, and fitfully showing me my own young figure in a glass. I see the moon of a calm winter night, float full, clear, and cold, over the inky mass of shrubbery, and the silvered turf of my groun

this: I will tell you it is my neck you are putting in peril; for whatever is yours is, in a dearer and tenderer sense, mine.’ There he was: I saw him; but I think tears were in my eyes, my sight was so confused. I saw the horse; I heard it stam

k’s black horse — stood trembling, panting, snortin

ad seen dragged along the ground — something that sighed, that groaned on my breast, as I lifted and drew it to ms. He was not dead; he was not quite unconscious. I had him carried in; I refused to be ordered about and thrust from him. I was quite collected enough, not only to be my own mistress but the mistress of others. They had begun by trying to t

his last breath in faithful words for me. When the d

best use of all my calamities. Soft, amiable natures they would have refined to saintliness; of strong,

I said; for she was noted

ter frame of mind, to prepare myself for reunion with Frank. You see I still think of Frank more than of God; and unless it be counted that in thus loving the creature so much,

: I had no words. It seemed as i

t? Well, to-morrow I will begin by trying to make you happy. I will endeavour to do something for you, Lucy: something that will benefit you when I am dead. My head aches now with talking too muc

have come: peacefully and painlessly: in the morning she was found without life, nearly cold, but all calm and undisturbed. Her previous excitement of spi