Chapter Eleven.
Memory the Eleventh—A Catastrophe.
I used to get quite vexed with the tiresome old place, even if it was pretty, and you could sit at your open window and hear the nightingales singing; and even though some other bird had made me hear its singing, too, and found its way right to my poor heart. There was so much tiresome formality and niggling; and if one spoke in a way not according to rule, there was a fine or imposition, or something of that kind. We never went to bed, we never got up—we retired to rest, and arose from slumber; we were summoned to our lessons, dinner was always announced, we pursued or resumed our studies, we promenaded daily, or else took recreation in the garden; and did everything, in short, in such a horrible, stiff, starchy way, that we all seemed to be in a constant state of crackle; and every variation was looked upon as so much rumpling, while I’m sure our lady principal could not have been more vulgar if she had tried.
The meeting appointed in the last chapter was repeated again and again at the end of the conservatory; for we had only to slip down into the drawing-room quietly, open the shutters, pass through the French window in among the geraniums, draw the shutters after us or not, and then raise one of the sash windows at the end, where we could stand and talk. For the gentlemen never once came in, for fear that their footsteps should show upon the beautiful, clean, white stones. One meeting was so much like another, that it is hardly worth while to describe them; while no incident worthy of notice occurred until one night. And oh! how well can I recall everything in connection with that disastrous occasion!
We had been for a walk that evening, and I had been most terribly scandalised by the encounter we had had with a policeman. We were just outside the town, when all at once I felt my cheeks flush, as they always do now at the sight of a constable; for there was one coming along the road in front, and something seemed to whisper that we had met before. It was misery and ruin to be recognised, and I set my teeth hard, and tried not to see him; but do what I would, my eyes seemed determined to turn towards the wretch; and they did, too, just as we were passing, and it was he—and the odious creature knew me directly, and pushed his tongue into his cheek in the most vulgar way imaginable. Clara saw it, and gave me a push with her elbow; but, fortunately, I do not think any one else saw the dreadful fellow.
We had to hurry back, too, for a storm came on, and the big drops were plashing heavily upon our parasols before we reached the Cedars; while just as we were safely housed, the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled incessantly.
I was not afraid of the storm, for I was humming over the “Tempest of the Heart,” and wondering whether it would be over soon enough to allow of our assignation being kept; while I grew quite nervous and fidgety as the evening wore on. However, the rain ceased at last, and the thunder only muttered in the distance, where the pale summer lightning was glancing; and when at last we retired to our rooms, and looked out of the open window, the fresh scent which came up from the garden was delicious. The moon shone, but with a pale, misty, and sobered light; while the distant lightning, which played fitfully at intervals, seem to make the scene quite sublime.
After sitting looking out for a while, we closed the windows with a sigh, for we knew we should be reported to Mrs Blunt if our lights were not out; and then, as we had often done before, we pretended to undress, listening all the while to the senseless prattle of Patty Smith, which seemed to us quite childish and nonsensical.
“I wonder your mars,” she said, “don’t send you each a cake sometimes. It would be so nice if they did; and I always do give you a piece of mine.”
“There, don’t talk so, pray, Patty,” I said, after listening to her hungry chatter for ever so long.
“Pray be quiet, and I will give you a shilling to buy a cake.”
“No, you won’t,” said Patty. “Yes, I will indeed,” I said, “if you will be a good girl, and go to sleep.”
“Give it me now, then,” said the stupid thing. And I did give her one, and if she did not actually take it, though I believe she was quite as old as Clara or I; but all the while so dreadfully childish, anyone, from her ways, would have taken her for nine or ten—that is, if they could have shut their eyes to her size. However, at last she fell asleep, and we sat waiting for the trysting-hour, “Do you know,” said Clara, in a whisper, “I begin to get tired of spoiling one’s night’s rest for the sake of meeting them. It was all very well at first, but it’s only the same thing over and over again. I know all about beautiful Italy now, and its lakes and vineyards, and the old tyrant Austrian days, and the Pope, and patriotism, and prisons, and all that sort of thing; while he seems to like to talk about that more than about you know what, and one can’t help getting a little too much of it sometimes.”
“Oh, for shame, Clara!” I said; “how can you talk so? It is not loyal. What would some one say if he knew?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t—”
“Oh, hush! you sha’n’t say so,” I exclaimed; “for you do care—you know you do.”
And then I sat silent and thinking for some time; for it was as though something began to ask me whether I also was not a little tired of hearing about “ma patrie” and “la belle France” and whether I liked a man any the better for being a patriot, and mixed up with plots for restoring the Orleans family, and who made a vow to spit—cracher—on Gambetta’s grave.
I should not have thought anything of the kind if it had not been for those words of Clara, and I soon crushed it down; for I was not going to harbour any such cruel, faithless thoughts as that I had told Achille again and again that I loved him very dearly; and of course I did, and there was an end of it. But still, though I bit my lips very hard, and tried not to think of such things, it did seem tiresome, I must own, to have to sit up waiting so long; and, like Clara, I did begin to long for a change. If we could have met pleasantly by day, or had a quiet evening walk, and all on like that, it would have been different; but, after the first flush of the excitement and romance, it began to grow a little tame.
“Heigh—ho!—ha!—hum!” said Clara, interrupting my reverie by a terrible yawn, so that had it been daylight I’m sure any one might have seen down her throat, for she never attempted to put her hand before her mouth.
But I could not tell her of it; since I had only the minute before been yawning so terribly myself that I was quite ashamed. For really there seemed to be so little romance about it.
“Let’s go to bed in real earnest,” said Clara. “I’m sure I will, if you’ll agree.”
“For shame!” I exclaimed. “What would they say?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Clara; “they’ve disappointed us before now.”
“But then they could not help it,” I replied.
“No, nor I can’t help it now,” said Clara; “for I’m so sleepy.”
“But it would look so,” I said, repressing another yawn; for I, too, was dreadfully tired.
“I don’t care,” said Clara. “I don’t want to hear about the revolution to-night, and what Garibaldi once did. I don’t care. Red shirts are becoming, but one gets tired of hearing about them. It is such dull work, all four of us being together, and watching every movement. It isn’t as if we were alone.”
“I do declare I’m quite ashamed of you,” I said. “Why, it would not be prudent for us to go alone.”
“Oh, no, of course not,” said Clara, mockingly. “Nobody you know ever went down to the elms all alone by herself.”
“But you knew of it,” I said.
“No thanks to you, miss, if I did; so come, now,” replied Clara.
I saw that it was of no use to dispute with her, so I let the matter drop; and then, opening the window, I leaned out, when I heard voices whispering in what seemed to be the shrubbery, just beyond the conservatory cistern; and, withdrawing my head, I hastily told Clara.
“Why, they are soon to-night,” she whispered, as, carefully closing the window, I then opened the door, and we stood at the top of the great staircase, after going on tiptoe past the Fraülein’s room.
We listened patiently for some time, as we stood hand in hand; while neither of us now seemed disposed to yawn. Then we quickly and quietly descended; but before we reached the bottom I recollected that I had left our door open, and it would be a great chance if some one did not hear Patty snoring.
“Go back and shut it, there’s a dear,” I said, in a whisper.
“No, you go, dear,” said Clara. “I’ll wait for you.”
But I did not like going alone; neither did she. So we went together and shut it; and at last we stood listening at the foot of the stairs, for I half fancied I heard the click of a door-handle. But it was not repeated; and feeling sure that it was only fancy, we quietly unlocked the drawing-room door, glided in, closed it after us, and then unfastened the shutters of the French window, when we stood in the conservatory, at the end of which was the sash, giving, as Achille called it, upon the rain water tank—whose very broad edge was covered with ivy, upon which they used to climb from the low terrace wall that ran down to the little fountain of which I have spoken before, and then stand in the empty cistern.
“I always put on my old sings when I come, chère Laure,” poor Achille used to say to me, which of course was not very complimentary; but, then, all his estates had been confiscated, and my Lady Blunt was too fond of money to part with much for her teachers.
When we peeped out of our window there was no one there; so we pulled up the sash very gently, and stood waiting till, in each of our cases, Romeo came.
It had turned out a lovely night, rather dark, for the moon had sunk into a bank of vapour in the far west, while the varied scents of nature seemed sweeter than ever; but one could not help thinking how wet the gentlemen would get amongst the ivy, and I quite shivered as I thought about the great cistern being quite full with the heavy rain. For if they did not recollect this, as they had generally stood upon the lead bottom, how shocking would be the result!
Once again I fancied that I heard a slight noise; but this time it was from the leads by the back staircase window; and upon whispering to Clara, she called me a stupid, nervous thing, and I heard it no more; but directly after, the rustling we heard told who were coming.
Five minutes passed and there was more rustling amongst the leaves—an ejaculation in French—an expression in Italian—and a loud splash, as if a leg had fallen into the water; while directly after we could see them quite plainly, crawling along like two great tom-cats upon the edge of the lead cistern, till they were close under the window, in dreadfully awkward positions; for the big cistern had never had water in before all through the summer, on account of a little leak, and now—though, doubtless, the great place would be quite empty next day, it was brimful in consequence of the storm.
Yes, I remember perfectly fancying that they looked like cats, and I felt ashamed of myself for thinking so disrespectfully of them, and determined to be extra kind to Achille so as to mentally apologise—poor fellow! Of course they could not stand up to their waistcoats in soft water, so they had to stay on the edge, and, as we found out afterwards, they did come off so black—oh, so terribly black!—upon us, just as if we had had visits from the sweeps.
It was poor Achille who put his leg in the tank; and every time he moved I could hear the water make such a funny noise in his boot, just as if it was half full; and, oh, poor fellow, he was obliged to move every minute, and hold on by the window-sill as he knelt there, or else he would have had to stand up, and, being so much higher than where we where, I should have had to talk to his knees. It was just as bad for the poor Signor and Clara; and I certainly should have been imprudent enough to have asked them in, if I had not known how Achille would have dripped on the stones, and so betrayed us.
I could not help thinking about what Clara had said that evening, and it really did seem so tiresome; for there we all four were, if anything more close together than ever, and it grew thoroughly puzzling sometimes to know who was meant when Pazzoletto whispered “Cava mia,” or “Bellissima,” or “Fanciullina,” or “Carissima;” or Achille murmured “Mon amie,” “Ma petite,” or “Beaux yeux;” and I often started, and so did Clara, at such times.
But there, who could expect to enjoy the roses of love without the thorns? And yet, I don’t know how it was, there seemed to be something wrong altogether that night; for I heard Clara gape twice, and I had to cover my mouth to stay more than one yawn, while I’m sure the gentlemen both wanted to go; though, of course, I could make plenty of excuses for poor Achille—he must have been so wet and uncomfortable—though I did offer to lend him my handkerchief to wipe away some of the water.
I should think that we had been carrying on a whispered conversation for about a quarter of an hour, when all at once I exclaimed in a deep whisper—
“Hush!—what was that?” We all started; for as I spoke, startled by the click as of a window fastening, there was the sound of an opening sash. A light flashed out above our heads, and shone upon the skylight, the leads, and the back staircase window, when if there, quite plain, was not a policeman standing by a figure at the latter. Then there was a hurrying scramble, and the shutting of a sash; and we could hear voices, while we all stood in the shade, silent as mice, and trembling so that the gentlemen had to hold us tightly.
“Von sbirro veseet de maiden,” said the Signor, in a whisper.
“Oh! what shall we do?” gasped Clara.
“Taisez!” hissed Achille, who seemed to come out nobly in the great trouble—“taisez, and all shall be well; my faith, yes—it is so.”
“They will us not see,” whispered the Signor.
“Mais non!” ejaculated Achille. “But that police? What of him? We must wait.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, “pray do not move. It is one of the servants who has been discovered. I am sure that we shall be safe if we keep quite still.”
But the words were no sooner out of my mouth than there was a burst of light through the half-closed shutters behind us, a buzz of voices, and Lady Blunt, the four teachers, and several of the pupils, hurried into the drawing-room; and then, seeing the partly closed shutters, stood for a moment as if afraid to come any further.
I darted from pauvre Achille, giving him a sharp jerk at the same moment; and, as my elbow crashed through a pane of glass, and I slipped behind the great green blind in the corner, I heard an exclamation in French. There was a great splash, followed by a noise as of some large body snorting and floundering in the great tank; and my blood ran cold, as I wanted to run out, but felt chained to the spot where I was concealed.
“I have murdered him, I know!” I gasped.
At the very same moment there was a fearful scream from poor Clara, as the light of half-a-dozen candles shone upon her smutty face, where there was the mark of a hand all down one cheek. And, frightened though I was, I seemed to notice everything, as if my senses were all sharpened; and, at one and the same time, I saw my own trouble, Clara, and my poor Achille drowning in the great tank.
Poor Clara covered her face in an instant, and a loud rustling of the ivy on the edge of the cistern, the sound of a body falling, and then came retreating feet along the gravel.
“Escaped,” I muttered; and then a sigh came with a great gasp, as I exclaimed, “Oh! if Clara will only not betray me, I shall be safe, too.”
But, oh, what a tableau was there!—night-caps, dressing-gowns, flannel garments, every token of hurried half-dressing; while the light from candle after candle streamed down upon poor Clara, prone upon the white stones of the conservatory.
“Good heavens!” I heard Mrs Blunt exclaim, “that it should have come to this!—that my establishment should be debased by the presence of such a creature. Abandoned, lost girl, what will become of you?”
Oh, how my poor teeth did chatter!
“Dreadful!” squeaked Miss Furness.
“Shocking!” echoed Miss Sloman.
“Ach ten, bad madchen” croaked the Fraülein; while Miss Murray and the pupils present sighed in concert.
“Lost one!” began Mrs Blunt again.
Crish! crash! crash! came the sound of breaking glass upon the leads; the girls shrieked, and, in an agony of fear, the whole party dashed back to the drawing-room door; while, in the dim light given by a fallen candle, I saw poor Clara slowly raise her head and look towards the open window—our window.
But there was no other sound; and at last, after quite five minutes’ pause, came the lady principal’s voice from the drawing-room, in awful tones—
“Miss Fitzacre; come in directly, and close the window after you.”
“For goodness’ sake, don’t fasten it,” I whispered; “and oh, Clara, pet, don’t—pray, don’t—betray me!”
“Hush!” whispered the poor darling, rising up like a pale ghost.
And as I stood, squeezed up in the corner, trembling ever so, she closed the conservatory window, looking out as she did so; then entered the drawing-room, clattered the shutters to; and then, by the sound, I knew that they had all entered the breakfast-room, so I stole out of my hiding-place, and tried the window.
At first my heart sank, for I thought it was fastened; but, no, it yielded to my touch, and as I pushed, the shutters slowly swung open, to show me the room all in darkness. Stepping quickly in, I closed window and shutters, and then stole over to reach the door where I could hear the buzz of voices, and Mrs Blunt scolding fearfully.
I crossed the room as quietly as I could, feeling my way along in the darkness—for Clara had trampled out the fallen candle—when all at once I gave myself up for lost I had knocked over one of the wretched little drawing-room chairs; and I stood trembling and stooping down, meaning to creep under the large ottoman if I heard any one coming.
But they did not hear the noise; and, after waiting awhile, I ventured to open the door, when I could hear plainly poor Clara sobbing bitterly in the breakfast-room; and I was filled with remorse, as I felt how that I ought to be there to take my share of the blame. But I could not—no, I could not, I must own—summon up courage enough to go in and avow my fault.
I had hardly closed the drawing-room door, when I heard a hand rattle the door of the breakfast-room, as if some one was about to open it, so I bounded along the hall to the back staircase; and hardly in time, for the breakfast-room door opened just as I was out of sight, and I heard Mrs Blunt’s voice, in loud tones, to the teachers, I suppose—
“Ladies, be kind enough to see that the drawing-room window is properly secured.”
Up I darted to reach my own room, and it was well that I made for the back staircase; for there, regularly fringing the balustrade of the best staircase, were all the younger pupils and the servants looking down and listening; while I could hear the sounds coming up from the hall, as my Lady Blunt and the teachers began again to storm at the poor silent girl, who never, that I could hear, answered them one single word, and in the act of slipping into my room, I nearly brushed the dress of one of the pupils.
And now, if Clara would only be a martyr, I felt safe, as I stood inside our room, and listened for a few moments to the words which came up quite plainly in the still night.
“Once more, I insist upon knowing who it was,” shrieked Mrs Blunt, while her satellites added their feeble echoes.
“Tell, directly!” screamed Miss Sloman.
“Bad gell—bad gell!” croaked the Fraülein.
“You must confess,” cried Miss Furness, in shrill, treble tones.
“Who was it, Miss Fitzacre?” cried Mrs Blunt.
And then there was a stamp upon the floor, but not a word from Clara; and I dared stay for no more, but closed the door, listened to Patty snoring more loudly and ever, and then dashed to the washstand, recalling poor Clara’s smutty face, and sponged my own quickly. Then I slipped on my bonnet de nuit, and undressed quicker than I ever before did in my life. Then just as I had finished, I heard them coming up the stairs—scuffling of feet and shutting of doors as the pupils hurried into their rooms, some skirmishing at a terrible rate past my door; so I slipped into bed with my head turned towards the window, and lay there with my heart beating tumultuously.
“Now, if they only did not come here first, I’m safe,” I muttered.
I felt how exceedingly fortunate it was for me that Patty slept so soundly: for not only had she not seen me enter, but if she had slept all through the disturbance, and had not heard Clara go, why should I not have done the same? And I felt that it would help to remove suspicion from me.
They seemed a terribly long time coming, but I kept telling myself that Clara would not betray me; and I recalled with delight now that I had suffered punishment for her trick, when she moved the lady principal’s chair to her fall.
“But there,” I said to myself, “they shall tear me in pieces before they know anything I don’t, want to tell. But, oh, did poor Achille escape? and what was that fearful crash? I do hope it was the Signor, for poor Achille’s sake. But how wet whoever it was must have been!”
“And you will prepare your things for leaving early in the morning, Miss Fitzacre,” exclaimed Mrs Blunt, angrily, as she opened the door of the bedroom, and the light shone in. “Now, go to bed immediately. Is Miss Bozerne here?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, just raising my head from the pillow.
“Oh! that is right,” said her ladyship; “and Miss Smith?”
There was no answer.
“Miss Smith! where is Miss Smith?” shrieked Lady Blunt from the door, evidently thinking that poor Patty was in the plot. “Miss Smith! Miss Smith!” she shrieked again.
“D-o-o-o-n’t—Be quiet!” muttered the sleepy-headed little thing.
“Oh! that will do,” said Mrs Blunt. “Don’t wake her. Miss Bozerne, you must excuse me for locking you in during the rest of the night; but if you object, perhaps Fraülein Liebeskinden will allow you to sleep with—”
“Oh no, thank you, ma’am,” I said, hastily; “I shall not mind.”
“Good night, then, Miss Bozerne,” she said, very shortly; while I felt such a hypocrite that I hardly knew what to do. “Lost girl!” she continued, as she shut the door, and turned the key, which she took away with her, leaving poor Clara standing, pale and motionless, in the centre of the room; but no sooner had the light disappeared, and shone no more in beneath the crack at the bottom of the door, than she gave one great sob—
“Oh! Laura,” she exclaimed; and then, throwing herself into my arms, she cried and sobbed so wildly and hysterically, that I was quite frightened.
For she was now giving vent to the pent-up feelings of the last quarter of an hour; but after awhile she calmed down, and with only a sob now and then to interrupt us—for, of course, I too could not help crying—we quietly talked the matter over.
“No; not a word,” said the poor girl, in answer to a question of mine—which, of course, you can guess—“not a word; they may send me away and punish me as they like, but not a word will I ever say about it.”
“Then they know nothing at all about me, or—” I stammered and stopped.
“You ought to have more confidence in me than to ask such a thing,” cried Clara, passionately, as she began to sob again. “You would not have betrayed me if you had been in my position; now, would you?”
I did not know. While, being naturally nervous, I was afraid perhaps I might, if put to the test; but I did not say so.
“What could have made that horrible crashing noise?” said Clara at last; “do you think it was the policeman, dear?”
“Perhaps it was,” I said; “but I know poor Achille went into the cistern. I pushed him in; and I’m afraid he must have been drowned, for I’m not sure that I heard him crawl out. Oh, dear! oh, dear!” I said at last, “what a passion is this love! I feel so old, and worn, and troubled I could die.”
“It would be ruin to the poor Signor to be found out,” murmured Clara—thinking more of her tiresome, old, brown Italian than of poor Achille. “Oh me! I know it was all my fault; but then how odd that the policeman should have had a meeting too! Or was he watching? Poor Giulio! would that I had never let him love me. I declared that I did not like him a bit to-night when we were together, and I had quite made up my mind never to meet him any more without he would talk of something else than beautiful Italy. Bother beautiful Italy! But now I half think I love him so dearly that I would dare anything for him. That I would.”
Poor girl! she grew so hysterical again, that I quite grieved for her, and told her so; and then, poor thing, she crept up close to me; and really it did seem so noble of her to take all the blame and trouble upon herself, while she was so considerate over it, that I could not help loving her very, very, very much for it all. But at last we both dropped off soundly asleep, just as the birds were beginning to twitter in the garden; and, feeling very dull and low-spirited, I was half wishing that I was a little bird myself, to sit and sing the day long, free from any trouble; no lessons to learn, no exercises to puzzle one’s brain, no cross lady principal or teachers, no mamma to send me to be finished. And it was just as I was half feeling that I could soar away into the blue arch of heaven, that I went into the deep sleep wherein I was tortured by seeing those eyes again—always those eyes—peering at me; but this time out of the deep black water of the cistern. By that I knew that I had drowned poor Achille, and that was to be my punishment—always to sit, unable to tear myself away, and be gazed at by those dreadful eyes from out of the deep, black water of the tank.
