“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.