Chapter Ten.
Memory the Tenth—The Language of Love.
The first thing that Clara and I did was to tear up the brown paper wrappers into tiny little bits, all but where the directions were written, and those we chewed up quite small, to throw out of the window with the other pieces. And oh, how nasty brown paper is to chew!—all tarry and bitter, like cold sailors must be when they eat one another in those dreadful boats that have not enough provisions, and when there’s “water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.” Then I tore open the tiny note, and Clara did the same; and I had just read two lines, when I felt that I was watched, and looking up, there stood that horrid Miss Furness, just like some basilisk, or gorgon, or cockatrice, or dreadful thing of that kind.
Of course Miss Furness couldn’t have been a cockatrice, but we were so badly taught at that wretched Mrs Blunt’s, that I have not the most remote idea what is the feminine of the extinct fabulous creature, and henatrice sounds so horribly-absurd. Anyhow, she was a wretch—a nasty despicable, hateful, horrible wretch, whom it could not be a sin to hate.
“The bell has rung for dinner, young ladies,” she said, with her eyes devouring my note.
How I did tremble! but I knew that if I was not careful I should betray poor Achille; while, fortunately, Clara had been sitting so that she was not visible from the door, and had time to slip her note into her pocket, while she pretended to have one of her boots off.
For a moment or two I was so scared that I did not know what to do. If I tried to hide the note, I knew that she would suspect that there was something wrong, while she would have been well aware whether there was a letter for me from home, since she always had the opening of the bag. What could I do? For a moment, I was about to crumple the paper up in my hand; but fortunately I restrained myself, and holding the paper boldly in my hand, I pretended that I had been writing out the aliquot parts of a shilling; and, as I doubled the note up slowly, I went on saying,—
“Coming directly, ma’am—one farthing is one forty-eighth; one halfpenny is one twenty-some-thingth—oh, fourth. Oh, dear! oh, dear! how hard it is, to be sure.”
“You seem to have grown very industrious, Miss Bozerne,” said Miss Furness, looking very doubtfully at the paper; and I was afraid that she would smell it, for it was quite strong of that same scent that Achille always used.
“Yes, isn’t she?” said Clara, coming to the rescue; “but I do not think it will last, ma’am.”
I could have hugged her for that; for I knew that the tiresome old thing suspected something to be wrong, and was mixing it up with the morning’s adventure. But nothing more was said, and we descended to dinner, and there I was with that note burning in my pocket, and not a chance could I get to read it; for so sure as I tried to be alone, go where I would, there was that Miss Furness’s favourite, Celia Blang, after me to see what I was doing.
At last, during the afternoon lessons, I could bear it no longer; so I went and sat down by the side of Clara.
“What does he say, dear?” I whispered.
“Wants me to meet him to-night,” she wrote on her slate, and rubbed it out directly. For we actually used common slates—noughts-and-crosses slates—just like charity-school children. But I had my revenge, for I dropped and cracked no less than ten of the nasty things, though I am afraid papa had to pay.
And then again she wrote, “What does he say, dear?”
“I have not had a chance to see yet,” I dolefully replied. “There’s the raging Furnace watching me, so pray don’t look up. She suspects something, and I can’t move without being spied.”
“Poor old darling!” wrote Clara on her slate.
“I’m going to trust you, my dear,” I said. “When I push my Nugent’s Dictionary over to you, take it quietly, for my note will be inside. And I want you to take it, and go away somewhere and read it, and then come and tell me what he says; for the old thing is so suspicious, and keeps looking in my direction—and I dare not attempt it myself.”
So I managed to pass the note to Clara, who left the room; and then I wrote down the aliquot parts of a pound, and folded it ready so as to pull out next time. I saw Miss Furness watching me; and there I sat, with my cheeks burning, and wondering what was in my note, and whether, after all, I had done foolishly. For was Clara to be trusted?
“But she is so mixed up with it herself,” I thought, “she dare not play me false.”
So there I sat on and on, pretending to be studious, and wondering what kept Clara so long, would have gone after her, only I knew that Miss Furness was keeping an eye upon me; and sometimes I half thought that she must know something about the night when I went down to the elms; but directly after I felt that she did not, or she would have told my Lady Blunt directly. But the fact of the matter was, she felt suspicious about the note, and all because I was so clumsy in trying to throw dust in her eyes.
Five minutes—ten minutes—a quarter of an hour had passed, and still no Clara. Then another quarter of an hour, and still she did not come. “Whatever shall I do?” I thought to myself—“surely she is not deceiving me?” And then, just as my spirits were regularly boiling over, heated as they were by impatience and vexation, in she came, with the note in her hand; and I saw her laugh maliciously, and cross over to Patty Smith.
“Oh,” I said to myself, “I shall die of shame.”
And I’m sure no one can tell what agony I suffered while the creature was reading something to Patty, when they both had a hearty laugh; after which Clara began to double the note up, as, with eyes flashing fire, I sat watching that deceitful creature, not daring to move from my seat.
“Miss Fitzacre, bring me that piece of paper you have in your hand,” squeaked Miss Furness, who had been watching her like a cat does a mouse.
Oh, if I could but have screamed out, or fainted, or seized the paper, and fled away! But I could not move, only sit suffering—suffering horribly, while Clara gave me another of her malicious smiles, as she crossed sulkily over to Miss Griffin’s table, drew the paper from her pocket, laid it down, and then our chère institutrice laid a paper-weight upon it, for she had a soul far above curiosity, while Clara came and sat down by me—poor me, who trembled so with fear and rage that my teeth almost chattered; for I could think of nothing else but Mrs Blunt and the Furness reading poor Achille’s note.
I did not know how to be angry enough with myself, for being so simple as to trust Clara; and I’m sure I should not, only I fancied her truthful and worthy; but now, I could have killed her—I could, I was so enraged.
“You horribly treacherous, deceitful thing!” I whispered; “when, too, I trusted you so fully.”
“Why, what is the matter?” she said, quite innocently.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I whispered. “How could you be so false?”
“Oh, that’s what you mean, is it?” she said. “Serve you right for not trusting me fully from the first, as I did you.”
“Worthy of trust, are you not?” I said angrily.
“Will you be quite open with me for the future, then?” she said.
“Open!” I hissed back. “I’ll go to Mrs Blunt, and tell everything, I will—everything; and won’t spare myself a bit, so that you may be punished, you wicked, good-for-nothing, bad-behaved, deceitful and treacherous thing, you!”
“Take breath now, my darling,” she said, tauntingly.
“Breath,” I said—“I wish I had none. I wish I was dead, I do.” And I could not help a bit of a sob coming.
“Poor Achille!” she whispered. “What would he do then?”
“Oh, don’t talk to me—don’t,” I said, bending down my burning face over a book, not a word in which could I see.
“It did tease you, then, did it?” said Clara, laughing.
“Tease me, you heartless thing you,” I said. “Hold your tongue, do! I’ll never forgive you—never, Clara!”
“Less talking there,” said Miss Furness—the Griffin.
“Ugh! you nasty old claw-puss,” said Clara, in an undertone.
After a few minutes’ silence, I began again. “I did not give you credit for it, Clara,” I said. “Thought you were not going to speak to me any more,” she said.
“Oh, it’s too bad,” I whispered; “but you will be sorry for it some day.”
“No, I sha’n’t, you little goose you. It was not your note at all,” she said. “I only did it to tease you, and serve you out for trying to deceive me, who have always tried to be a friend to you from the very first.”
“Oh, my own, dear, darling Clara,” I cried, in a whisper, “is this true? Then I’ll never, never do anything without you again, and tell you everything; and am not cross a bit.”
“But I am,” she cried; “see what names you have been calling me.”
“Ah, but see how agonising it was, dear,” I whispered. “Only think of what you made me suffer. I declare I shall burst out into a fit of hysterical crying directly.”
“No, no, don’t do that,” said Clara. “Then make haste, and tell me what he said, so as to change my thoughts.”
“Guess,” said Clara, sliding my own dear little note into my hand once again.
“Oh, pray, pray tell me,” I whispered. “Don’t, whatever you do, don’t tease me any more. I shall die if you do.”
“No, don’t,” she said, mockingly, “for poor Achille’s sake.”
“I would not serve you so, Clara,” I said, humbly, the tears the while gathering in my eyes.
And then she began to tell me that the note was very long, and stated how he had been interrupted by the policeman, and had not ventured since; but that he and the Signor had arranged to come that night, and they would be under the end of the conservatory at eleven, if we could contrive to meet them there.
“And of course we can,” said Clara. “How they must have been plotting together!”
“But we never can manage it,” I whispered, with a strange fluttering coming over my heart.
“I can, I can,” whispered Clara, squeezing my hand; “but be careful, for here comes the Griffin, and she’s as suspicious as can be.”
We were supposed to be busy preparing lessons all this time; for this was one of the afternoons devoted to private study, two of which we had every week, instead of what Mrs Blunt called the vulgar institution of half-holidays.
“If I have to speak again about this incessant talking, Miss Fitzacre, your conduct will be reported to the lady principal,” said Miss Furness. “And as for you, Miss Bozerne, be kind enough to take a seat in another part of the room. There is a chair vacant by Miss Blang.”
Miss Furness did not hear what Clara said in an undertone, or she would have hurried off posthaste to make her report. But as she did not, she returned to her seat, and soon after we were summoned to our tea—I mean anti-nervous infusion.