Then, to relieve her tedium and appease her hunger, came another packet from the Count, filled with affection and “goodies,” in the shape of a slice of a German sausage, a petit pain, and a small dab of mortar-like Pâte de Guimauve, accompanied by a tender epistle, informing her that all was progressing most favourably; that he and his friends had come to terms with Miss Wewitz, and had consented to take £20 as a small compensation for the inconvenience they would be put to in leaving, and that they intended to quit the establishment early the next morning: concluding by entreating her to be discreet, and carry out to the letter the instructions he had given her.
The Pâte de Guimauve—to which Miss Chutney was particularly partial—was a fresh force brought to bear against the heart and stomach of the susceptible young lady; and as she devoured the sugared words, and sucked the sweetmeat, she had a twofold reason for thinking the Count the kindest and most polite person she had ever known.
Still, the notion of leaving on the morrow was far from being agreeable to her. She wished the Count had made it a day or two later. And yet, how stupid she was; there was not the least chance of her being able to get out of the house—so, of course, it would be all the same to her;—and, perhaps, after all, it would be better, as it would put an end to a very silly transaction on her part: not that she wished to break off her acquaintance with the Count, but the misfortune was, she had not been formally introduced to him. And people did make such a fuss if a girl even looked at a stranger. On that account alone she knew she never could be happy with him.
At this juncture, the key again sounded in the door, and again Miss Chutney hastily threw her apron over her head, and hid her face in her hands.
This time, the visitor was Mrs. Wewitz; for the old lady, hearing that the dry bread still remained untouched, had grown alarmed at the fancied stubbornness of the girl, and had come to see whether she could not prevail upon her to comply with her daughter’s injunctions.
But Mrs. Wewitz had what is called an unfortunate way with her, and although, as usual, she did everything for the best, she unluckily dwelt so long and so forcibly on the coming of Miss Chutney’s guardian, that the girl grew more sulky than ever, and maintained a solemn silence, notwithstanding the old lady’s entreaties and threats; so that, on her quitting the room, Miss Chutney, who before had felt inclined to waver in the course she was pursuing with the Frenchman, was now most anxious to embrace any opportunity that presented itself of avoiding an interview, which, as the time drew near, she got positively to dread.
Thus matters progressed until dusk, and then came a letter from the Count, informing her that on her retiring to rest that night, she would find secreted between the mattresses of her bed the garb of a Sister of Charity—(it would become her admirably, he said)—and requesting that she would favour him with her own clothes in exchange for the others. He would be in the playground after dark, and construe the extinguishing of her candle as a signal that she was about to drop them from her window, when he would place himself immediately below the balcony ready to receive them.
“Dear! dear!” exclaimed the anxious Miss Chutney, “how mysterious he is. What ever is he going to do! If it wasn’t for the dress of the Sister of Charity, I’m sure I should never consent to do what he asks me; but everybody tells me I look well in black, and I do think the costume of those dear good creatures is so interesting, and, what’s more, so very becoming to persons of a dark complexion.”
Then she thought it would be a good bit of fun, and how the other girls in her class would laugh over it when they came to hear of it; besides, she assured herself nobody could kill her for doing it: and she seemed to derive no little consolation from the assurance. But why was she dressed up in such an odd way? that was what she wanted to know; and though Miss Chutney amused herself by framing many reasons for the masquerading, none, upon reflection, seemed sufficient to account for the strange proposal.
The remainder of the evening she passed in considerable suspense, anxious for the arrival of Miss Wewitz to conduct her to her bed-room—for she was longing to make her first appearance as a Sister of Charity; and to while away the time, she kept turning back her hair, and making a cap of a pocket-handkerchief, by way of trying how her new costume would suit her.