No sooner did the gate-bell announce the arrival of Miss Wewitz and her pupil, than the Frenchmen, who could just distinguish the bonnets of the ladies above the top of the boards before the railings, began whistling, and making that peculiar noise with the lips which is supposed to be especially agreeable to birds and babies.
This was more than the discreet schoolmistress could tolerate; she thought all the eyes of all the mothers of Europe were directed towards Parthenon House at that moment; so, before the gate could be opened, she commenced shaking the end of her parasol between the railings with considerable violence at the Frenchmen, who appeared to be mightily taken with the mysterious lady’s menaces, for no sooner did they perceive the mystic parasol waggling about, apparently by itself, between the railings, than they—one and all—set up a loud roar of laughter, while the more they laughed, the more the parasol shook with rage—the one merely serving to increase the excitement of the other.
Now, Miss Wewitz was a lady of almost Roman virtue. She was, or rather she had been, in the heyday of her youth, what little men delight to term a remarkably fine woman; that is to say, she stood so near the “regulation height,” and her upper lip was shaded with so delicate a moustache, that, in male attire, she would have found little difficulty in ’listing in the Life Guards, had she felt so inclined. She was, however, one of those ladies upon whom food is said to be thrown away; for, though she made a special point of taking the most nourishing things—little and good, and often, was her dietetic rule of life—still, eat as she would, her figure remained as long, as thin, and as angular at all the joints, as a Dutch doll. At an early age—as the lady herself delighted to tell her pupils—she had made a resolution never to marry, but to dedicate her life to study and her dear mother; for, soon after she had turned up her back hair, she formed so bad an opinion of the male sex, that not if Plutus himself, with all the gold that Lemprière tells he was possessed of, had come and thrown himself at her feet, would she have condescended to have become the partner of his handsome fortune. But, if Miss Wewitz was not exactly a Venus in her “outward woman,” (as she termed it,) at least she was very nearly a Minerva within; and, as if to label herself “a woman of mind,” she dressed in the approved costume of feminine genius. Her hair was turned back à la Chinoise, as if to stretch her forehead up as high as possible, and behind each ear there dangled a solitary ringlet, that a discarded cook had been heard to declare was “never her own.” And, to be candid, there certainly was an intensity in the blackness of Miss Wewitz’ raven tresses, coupled with a ruddy rustiness at the roots, that raised up before you a vivid picture of the lady’s head done up in cabbage-leaves once a month; while, as she smiled, and showed her front teeth, which she was a little proud of, there might occasionally be seen a small prong of gold twinkling at the corner of her mouth; but this was only when the lady forgot herself, and was foolish enough to smile with unfeigned pleasure. Her invariable dress was black satin, and this of the glossiest description, so that she shone as if done up in court-plaster. But though the lady looked as dry and stiff as schoolmistresses usually are, she was not without her genial qualities; and many a tale was told of girls educated and put out in the world by her, whose parents had placed them under her charge, and disappeared shortly afterwards. Moreover, it was whispered that her father, having squandered a large property, had died suddenly in his chair after dinner, leaving her mother and herself to fight their way through life, without resources and without friends. The young girl, so the story ran, had first gone as teacher, and afterwards become partner, in the school, of which, by the death of the late mistress, she was now sole proprietress.
Immediately the gate was opened, Miss Wewitz took Miss Chutney by the arm and hurried into the house, where the smell of stale tobacco nearly overpowered her, while the thought of her hard-earned reputation being sacrificed in so cruel a manner made the tears rush in a flood to her eyes. The house never could be got sweet again—that was certain; and what would the mothers think on bringing their daughters back to an establishment, reeking of tobacco smoke worse than a common taproom! and, in the excitement of her feelings, she upbraided her mother bitterly for her indiscretion, telling her that she had brought ruin upon their heads.
Then suddenly recollecting that she was giving way to her feelings before Miss Chutney, she retired with that young lady to the music-room, and gave her strict injunctions on no account whatever to stir from the spot.
After this, she begged her mother to make her acquainted with the entire transaction, from beginning to end; and when that lady had confided to her the whole of the circumstances. Miss Wewitz, who had by that time resumed the natural calmness of her temper, observed, that it was no time for bickering, and that before taking off her bonnet, she would just step on to that remarkably civil young man, the inspector at the police station, and ascertain from him what she had better do, situated as she was.
Miss Wewitz had no sooner closed the outer gate, than the Count de Sanschemise, who had all the time been leaning over the banisters, end watching every movement of the ladies below, crept softly down the stairs, and moved on tiptoe towards the room in which he had seen Miss Chutney placed.
Opening the door, he entered the music-room, as though he was unaware of any one being in it, and pretended to start back with surprise on finding it occupied by a stranger.
The Frenchman bowed, and apologized with all the superlative gallantry of a Parisian, and said in broken English, that he had come to seek a piece of music which he had mislaid.
Miss Chutney could hardly speak for the first few minutes after the gentleman’s entrance—she was lost, half in terror and half in admiration of the Count’s moustachios—he was the very image of that love of a brigand that she had worked, “last half,” on a kettle-holder! At length she did manage to stammer out a request that he would leave her that instant; for if Miss Wewitz were to return and find him there alone with her, she would never forgive her.