It was with much difficulty and after several pressing intreaties that she was prevailed on to come up into the room;and when she did,she stood at the door,cold,distant,averse;and when at length she was persuaded by my repeated remonstrances to come and take my hand,and I offered to touch her lips,she turned her head and shrunk from my embraces,as if quite alienated or mortally offended.I asked what it could mean?What had I done in her absence to have incurred her displeasure?Why had she not written to me?I could get only short,sullen,disconnected answers,as if there was something labouring in her mind which she either could not or would not impart.I hardly knew how to bear this first reception after so long an absence,and so different from the one my sentiments towards her merited;but I thought it possible it might be prudery (as I had returned without having actually accomplished what I went about)or that she had taken offence at something in my letters.She saw how much I was hurt.I asked her,"If she was altered since I went away?"--"No.""If there was any one else who had been so fortunate as to gain her favourable opinion?"--"No,there was no one else.""What was it then?Was it any thing in my letters?Or had I displeased her by letting Mr.P----know she wrote to me?"--"No,not at all;but she did not apprehend my last letter required any answer,or she would have replied to it."All this appeared to me very unsatisfactory and evasive;but I could get no more from her,and was obliged to let her go with a heavy,foreboding heart.I however found that C----was gone,and no one else had been there,of whom I had cause to be jealous.--"Should I see her on the morrow?"--"She believed so,but she could not promise."The next morning she did not appear with the breakfast as usual.At this I grew somewhat uneasy.The little Buonaparte,however,was placed in its old position on the mantelpiece,which I considered as a sort of recognition of old times.
I saw her once or twice casually;nothing particular happened till the next day,which was Sunday.I took occasion to go into the parlour for the newspaper,which she gave me with a gracious smile,and seemed tolerably frank and cordial.This of course acted as a spell upon me.
I walked out with my little boy,intending to go and dine out at one or two places,but I found that I still contrived to bend my steps towards her,and I went back to take tea at home.While we were out,I talked to William about Sarah,saying that she too was unhappy,and asking him to make it up with her.He said,if she was unhappy,he would not bear her malice any more.When she came up with the tea-things,I said to her,"William has something to say to you--I believe he wants to be friends."On which he said in his abrupt,hearty manner,"Sarah,I'm sorry if I've ever said anything to vex you"--so they shook hands,and she said,smiling affably--"THEN I'll think no more of it!"Iadded--"I see you've brought me back my little Buonaparte"--She answered with tremulous softness--"I told you I'd keep it safe for you!"--as if her pride and pleasure in doing so had been equal,and she had,as it were,thought of nothing during my absence but how to greet me with this proof of her fidelity on my return.I cannot describe her manner.Her words are few and ******;but you can have no idea of the exquisite,unstudied,irresistible graces with which she accompanies them,unless you can suppose a Greek statue to smile,move,and speak.Those lines in Tibullus seem to have been written on purpose for her--Quicquid agit quoquo vestigil vertit,Componit furtim,subsequiturque decor.
Or what do you think of those in a modern play,which might actually have been composed with an eye to this little trifler---"See with what a waving air she goes Along the corridor.How like a fawn!Yet statelier.No sound (however soft)Nor gentlest echo telleth when she treads,But every motion of her shape doth seem Hallowed by silence.So did Hebe grow Among the gods a paragon!Away,I'm grown The very fool of Love!"The truth is,I never saw anything like her,nor I never shall again.
How then do I console myself for the loss of her?Shall I tell you,but you will not mention it again?I am foolish enough to believe that she and I,in spite of every thing,shall be sitting together over a sea-coal fire,a comfortable good old couple,twenty years hence!But to my narrative.--I was delighted with the alteration in her manner,and said,referring to the bust--"You know it is not mine,but yours;I gave it you;nay,I have given you all--my heart,and whatever I possess,is yours!She seemed good-humouredly to decline this carte blanche offer,and waved,like a thing of enchantment,out of the room.False calm!--Deceitful smiles!--Short interval of peace,followed by lasting woe!I sought an interview with her that same evening.
I could not get her to come any farther than the door."She was busy--she could hear what I had to say there."Why do you seem to avoid me as you do?Not one five minutes' conversation,for the sake of old acquaintance?Well,then,for the sake of THE LITTLE IMAGE!"The appeal seemed to have lost its efficacy;the charm was broken;she remained immoveable."Well,then I must come to you,if you will not run away."I went and sat down in a chair near the door,and took her hand,and talked to her for three quarters of an hour;and she listened patiently,thoughtfully,and seemed a good deal affected by what I said.I told her how much I had felt,how much I had suffered for her in my absence,and how much I had been hurt by her sudden silence,for which I knew not how to account.I could have done nothing to offend her while I was away;and my letters were,I hoped,tender and respectful.I had had but one thought ever present with me;her image never quitted my side,alone or in company,to delight or distract me.Without her I could have no peace,nor ever should again,unless she would behave to me as she had done formerly.
