The door opened--his "little treasure" came in. She was dressed, so to speak, in evening beauty; that animation which sometimes comes with the close of day, warmed her eye and cheek; a tinge of summer crimson heightened her complexion; her curls fell full and long on her lily neck; her white dress suited the heat of June. Thinking me alone, she had brought in her hand the letter just written--brought it folded but unsealed. I was to read it. When she saw her father, her tripping step faltered a little, paused a moment--the colour in her cheek flowed rosy over 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 eddy from the heart sent up its scarlet. "But I thought you were in the dining-room, and I wanted Lucy."
"You thought I was with John Graham Bretton, I suppose? But he has just been called out: he will be back soon, Polly. He can post your letter for 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 I come?"--but she approached.
"How long is it since you became a letter-writer, Polly? It only seems yesterday when you were at your pot-hooks, labouring away absolutely with 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 the truth--all the truth; I am glad to tell you--glad, though I tremble."
She did tremble: growing excitement, kindling feeling, and also gathering courage, shook her.
"I hate to hide my actions from you, papa. I fear you and love you above 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 hand shaking, his eyes glistening meantime.
He re-folded it, and viewed the writer with a strange, tender, mournful amaze.
"Can she write so--the little thing that stood at my knee but yesterday? Can she feel so?"
"Papa, is it wrong? Does it pain you?"