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.