“But if Misfortune’s han?
We plunge an’ feel her smartin’ wan’,
Let us wi’ fortitude withstan’,
The lash extended.
As a’ things come by Heaven’s comman’,
An’ whea can mend it.”
_A New Year’s Epistle, by John Stagg._
ALREADY had the customary advertisement in the daily papers announced to
the world that—
THE YOUNG LADIES OF PARTHENON HOUSE, WIMBLEDON
COMMON, will resume their studies on the 1st of
August, 1851,—
and still, to Mrs. Wewitz’s great horror, those “filthy, hairy monsters
of Frenchmen” remained located in the best bed-room. She had tried
entreaties, threats, compliments, and abuse—everything by turns, and
nothing long—but still all her efforts had been in vain. Unfortunately,
she had, in an unguarded moment, revealed to the Count de Sanschemise
(who had returned to Parthenon House after a short mysterious absence),
that she required the room which he and his friends occupied, as the
young ladies of the school would arrive in the course of a few days; but
the Count no sooner heard the news than he declared, in as good English
as he was master of, that he always understood the apartment had been
let to him and his friends for a twelvemonth, and that he could not
think of leaving under a quarter’s notice.
This so terrified the poor old lady, that knowing the partiality of the
younger members of her own sex for those “impudent wretches of
Frenchmen,” and having had proof positive, in the case of Ann Lightfoot
and her mistress, “poor dear Mrs. Sandboys,” that the Frenchmen were
similarly inclined towards the ladies, she thought it would be better,
under all the circumstances, to acquaint her daughter with the worst.
Now, it so happened that Miss Wewitz was at this period on a visit with
Miss Chutney (an East Indian pupil, who had been sent over from Quilon
by her parents to be educated in England) to one of her dear, good
girls, a parlour boarder, who loved Miss Chutney with “something more
than a sister’s love.” Miss Wewitz was partaking of a dish of macaroni
boiled in milk, by way of a slight lunch, when the letter from her
respected parent arrived, informing her of what had happened. The lady,
so that her macaroni might not grow cold while she read the epistle,
placed it by her side on the table, and swallowed a spoonful and a
sentence at one and the same time. She was in the act of swallowing one
of the long, limp, white tubes that she had fished out of the basin with
her spoon, when her eye fell upon the passage which informed her that
the bed-room of her first class was occupied by a colony of Frenchmen,
and that they had resolutely refused to quit the premises. In the horror
of the moment, she gave a gasp, and instantly the long slippery tube was
hurried down her throat so rapidly and unexpectedly, that what with her
anguish and the macaroni, she was nearly choked on the spot. Her two
“dear girls,” seeing Miss Wewitz turn a light plum colour in the face,
immediately flew to her aid, and by dint of several severe thumps on the
back, ultimately succeeded in shaking the macaroni down the lady’s
throat.
It was in vain that the young ladies requested to be apprised of the
cause of her sudden alarm, for Miss Wewitz knew well enough that it
would not be safe to make them acquainted with the real state of the
case; accordingly, she excused herself by saying that she was called
home suddenly, and begged that Miss Chutney would prepare to return to
Parthenon House as soon as possible.
During the whole of the journey home. Miss Wewitz was arranging in her
own mind what course of action she should adopt—that her mother had been
imprudent enough to act as she had, hardly surprised her, for she was
continually doing the most peculiar things “for the best,” as she called
it, which invariably turned out for the worst. A few months back, she
had consented to receive the daughter of a neighbouring milkman, as a
pupil on the “reciprocal system;” and no sooner was it discovered by the
attorney’s daughter that there was what they were pleased to call a
milkmaid in the establishment, than she lost no less than six of her
pupils, and “all carriage people,” the very next vacation; and now Mrs.
Wewitz had let off “one of her wings” to a swarm of dirty Frenchmen, in
the hopes, as she said, of getting the taxes out of them.
What was to be done with Chutney, thought Miss Wewitz to herself, under
the distressing circumstances, was more than she could tell; she only
knew _that_ girl’s morals had cost her more trouble than all her other
pupils put together. To trust her out of her sight was more than she
dare do, or else she certainly would have left her at her schoolfellow’s
until the Frenchman had been got out of the house. But while the girl
was under her own eye no harm could possibly come to her, though, with a
swarm of horrid Frenchmen on the premises, it would be as much as she
could do to look after her, she was such a giddy, weak thing, ready to
fall in love with the first man who looked at her. However, Miss Wewitz
had made up her mind to one thing—and that was, to keep her in the
music-room so long as these men were in the house.
Thus ruminating, Miss Wewitz passed the journey. On reaching Wimbledon
Common, she was horrified to find that, in front of her best bed-room
windows, immediately above the long board which stretched across the
entire length of the house, and on which was inscribed, in large gilt
letters,
“ESTABLISHMENT FOR YOUNG LADIES,”
there dangled some dozen of newly-washed shirt-collars, and about half
the number of dickeys, while, lolling out of the windows, appeared two
or three long-bearded Frenchmen, puffing away huge meerschaum pipes, and
enveloped in clouds of smoke, as they amused themselves by spitting at
the sun-dial.
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.
The words were barely uttered, before a loud and impatient ring at the
gate-bell assured Miss Chutney that it could be none other than Miss
Wewitz herself come back, and again she hurriedly entreated the
Frenchman to be gone.
The cunning foreigner, however, told her it was impossible for him to
escape unseen, alleging that the servant had already opened the
hall-door on her way to the gate, so that for him even to attempt to
cross the passage now, would be to publish that which she was so anxious
to keep secret.
“But you cannot remain here, sir!” exclaimed the terrified girl—“Miss
Wewitz will be sure to look into this room, and if she catches you with
me—oh, dear!—oh, dear! Please _do_ go; there’s a good man—do, please.”
“_N’ayez pas peur, mon ange! ma déesse!_” cried the hyperbolic _Natif de
Paris_, kissing the tips of his fingers as he spoke; and then, as he
heard the gate close, he looked hurriedly round the room, exclaiming,
“Vere vill I go—vere vill I go? Mese, vere vill I go?”
But there was not in the whole apartment a cupboard, nor a screen,
within or behind which the Count could secrete himself; and he flew
round the room, as he looked wildly about, like a cat in a strange
house. “Vat vill I do?” he cried again and again; and then, as he heard
the footsteps in the passage approaching the music-room, he suddenly
raised the stiff leathern cover from off one of the large globes that
stood at opposite corners of the room, and, hastily putting it over his
head and shoulders, knelt down beneath it, so that it concealed his
whole body.
The Frenchman had scarcely had time to settle himself under the huge
cover when Miss Wewitz entered the apartment hastily—saying, “A thought
has just struck me, my love. You know, my dear Chutney, you are not a
child, and I can speak to you as I would to a sister. Mine, my good
girl, is a delicate position. You are far away from your parents, and an
orphan, as it were, placed under my charge; and if anything were to
happen to you your papa and mamma would never forgive me, and I’m sure I
should never be able to hold my head up again. Now you know, my love,
mamma has been imprudent enough to admit a number of those horrid
foreigners under our roof, and you must really be aware how necessary it
is, both for your and my sake, that I should take every precaution, so
that there may be no possibility of your being insulted by the
creatures. Now promise me, dear Miss Chutney, you’ll keep this door
locked until I return. Directly it struck me that I had left you alone
here, with all those men on the premises, I couldn’t go a step further
until I had assured myself of your perfect safety. Now you’ll lock
yourself in the moment I’ve quitted you, and not open the door again
till I come back to any one, under any pretence. You’ll promise me,
now—won’t you, there’s a dear girl?”
Miss Chutney stood close in front of the globe, trembling lest the cover
should move and discover one of the much-dreaded foreigners to be hidden
beneath, and stammered out, as well as she was able under the
circumstances, that she would be “sure and do as Miss Wewitz desired.”
Miss Wewitz was about to take her departure, and, indeed, had closed the
music-room door after her, when she suddenly opened it again, as the
affrighted Miss Chutney jumped once more in front of the heavenly
sphere.
“Oh!” exclaimed the schoolmistress, “upon second thoughts, my dear
child, I should be far more easy and comfortable in my mind, if I were
to lock you in myself, and take the key with me in my pocket; for then,
you know, my love, I should be sure no harm _could_ come to you.”
Chutney turned as pale as a young lady of East Indian extraction could
turn, and replied: “I’m sure—it’s—a—very good of you, ma’am—a—to take
care of me, but—a—I can assure you I shall be safe—a—indeed I shall,
ma’am.”
“No, no, my dear child!” returned Miss Wewitz, with her blandest smile,
“you think so, I dare say—giddy, foolish thing as you are; for how can
_you_ be expected to know the ways of the world at your time of life.
But I shall not be gone above half-an-hour at the utmost, so you can
easily find something to amuse yourself for so short a time. You can
play over some of your pieces, you know; and you’re far from perfect in
your Battle of Prague, as yet. Your ‘cries of the wounded’ were anything
but well marked, the last time I heard you——”
Suddenly the schoolmistress’ eye caught the uncovered globe in the
corner of the room, and, advancing towards the spot, she said: “Why,
there’s the cover off the celestial globe, I declare, my dear! It will
be all scratched, and covered with dust. What ever have you been doing
with it?”
Miss Chutney was ready to drop with fright; for a minute she was so
confused that she could make no answer, and only sought to interpose
herself between Miss Wewitz and the leathern case.
“What ever have you been doing with it, child?” inquired the
schoolmistress, once more.
“Oh, if you please, ma’am,” stammered out the terrified girl, “I was
studying the position of the ‘Great Bear’ when you came in.”
“Oh, indeed! Well, I don’t want to interfere with your studies; but I
had no idea you had any taste that way,” returned the schoolmistress,
delighted in the belief that her pupil was astronomically given, and
that she could henceforth lengthen the list of her extras by the item of
“the use of the globes.”
“Well, proceed! proceed! I shall be back in less than half-an-hour, and
then I’ll come and sit with you—for I dare say you will feel it lonely
here for awhile. Now, I know you’ll excuse me, my dear; but really I
_do_ think it would break my heart if I were to know that one of those
horrid, horrid foreigners had been saying a word to you;” and then,
having hastily arranged her bonnet at the pier-glass, she simpered, and
withdrew once more.
Miss Chutney stood still, horror-stricken, for a few minutes, and when
she heard the key turned in the door with a sharp snap, it sounded as
awful to her as the click of the trigger of a highwayman’s pistol.
Her first impulse was to rush to the door and assure herself that it was
really locked, and when, after pulling impatiently at it, she became
impressed with a full sense of the awkwardness of her position, Miss
Chutney thought at first that she would stand still and scream; but
then, it struck her immediately afterwards, that by so doing, the whole
would be discovered, and Miss Wewitz would be certain to believe that it
was all her doing, especially as she had been silly enough not to
acquaint her with what had happened directly she entered the room. She
had it on the tip of her tongue two or three times, but _that_ Miss
Wewitz was so severe, and took such strange views of things; then,
again, she always expected the young ladies to be so discreet and
circumspect, as she called it, in their behaviour, though she dare say
she liked to have a bit of fun as well as they did, in her younger days;
“only,” she added to herself, as she grew half vexed at her position,
“perhaps that’s so long ago, that it’s quite slipped the old thing’s
memory.”
Then, throwing herself into the easy chair, she put her hands up before
her face, and indulged in what young ladies are pleased to call “a good
cry.”
The sound of the young lady’s sobs no sooner reached the ears of the
secreted Count, than he started up, with the leathern cover still over
his head and shoulders, and stood for a few minutes vainly endeavouring
to extricate himself from beneath it.
Miss Chutney hearing the smothered exclamations of “tonnère!” and
“parbleu!” that involuntarily escaped from the struggling Count,
suddenly ceased her sobs, and turned round to see what was the matter,
and no sooner did she set eyes on the ludicrous figure of the Frenchman,
with his legs alone showing beneath the yellow cover, than she could not
refrain from bursting, half hysterically, into a loud fit of laughter;
and so irresistible was the impulse upon her—for the more the foreigner
struggled and swore, the louder she laughed—that it was not until a
sense of her position had forced itself upon her, and she had half
bitten her lips through in dread of Mrs. Wewitz overhearing her, that
the young lady was in any way able to control herself.
At length, however, by dint of much struggling, the Count succeeded in
ridding himself of the leathern extinguisher, and then followed a
“love-making” scene between the artful and bombastic Frenchman and the
simple, credulous school-girl, that may easily, and, for the matter of
that, must be imagined.
The Frenchman of course flattered the poor girl, who, too ready to think
well of herself, like the best of us, and wanting the worldly skill to
detect his motive for the adulation, drank in at her burning and
tingling ears every word of his honied phrases, till, liking the words,
she grew gradually to like the wretch that uttered them; and it was not
long before she got to think the Count de Sanschemise one of the most
polite and amiable gentlemen she had ever met with. Once or twice the
Frenchman, pretending to be struck with the exquisite beauty of her
hand, seized it, and was about to press it in feigned admiration to his
lips, when a sense of the impropriety of her conduct burst upon the
girl, and she indignantly snatched it from him; but the expert trickster
soon knew how to heal the wound he had inflicted, and in a few minutes,
by some dexterous mode of pleasing—by some infallible appeal to her
self-love—had made himself appear to her the same charming, agreeable
man as ever. Thus matters progressed, until, at the expiration of the
half-hour that was to constitute the term of Miss Wewitz’s absence, the
weak-minded and warm-hearted school-girl had told him, the Frenchman, in
approved maiden language, that she certainly must confess she liked him
a little bit; but it was impossible for her to say she loved him, when
she had only known him for so short a time. She shouldn’t wonder but he
only wanted to make a silly of her, after all; and then to go and tell
all the other gentlemen up stairs what a simpleton she was, and how she
had believed all the many fine things and the soft nonsense he had been
whispering in her ear—though, for the matter of that, she had not paid
the least attention to a single word he had said—it had all gone in at
one ear and out at the other, she could tell him; for she knew well
enough what a pack of deceitful things the French gentlemen were,—they
were all general lovers; and she dare say that he’d go and repeat the
very same things—silly things—that he’d been telling her, to the first
poor girl he met after leaving.
Of course, M. le Comte de Sanschemise threw his eyes up to the ceiling,
and gazed steadfastly at the pink, pickled-looking Cupid that was
painted in the centre of it, and supposed to be supporting, while in the
act of flying, the heavy ormolu lamp that dangled from his hand; then he
whispered, in subdued recitative, an impassioned French “roman,”
commencing,—
“Vous le savez! je vous adore!”
all the while gesticulating in the most theatrical manner: now he
extended his arms out, and leaned far forward towards her; now he
suddenly threw back the lapel of his surtout, and tapped quickly and
repeatedly the left side of his embroidered waistcoat; then, as the
sentiment of the “chanson” grew more desperate, he clasped his forehead
with his two hands, and rolled himself backwards and forwards,
exclaiming,—
“Un seul mot pour me satisfaire!
Dites le moi (ange du ciel), je vous en pr-r-r-ie! dites le
moi!”
after which he tore his wig for a few minutes, and then dropped,
exhausted, into the nearest chair. Unfortunately, however, for the
pathos of the Count, the nearest chair happened to be a “devotional,”
and the seat being lower, and the back less substantial than those of
the ordinary style, and the Frenchman, being unprepared for the extra
distance that he had to descend, fell with such force on the cushion,
that the back gave way with a crash, while M. le Comte himself was
thrown with his head backwards, and his legs up in the air, with such
violence, that the buttons of his braces and straps were heard to burst
with a loud explosion.
At this particular juncture, the gate-bell was again heard to sound in
the same authoritative manner as that in which Miss Wewitz was known to
delight by way of announcing her advent.
The Count was instantly on his feet, while the terrified Miss
Chutney—suffering the double fright of the Frenchman’s fall and the
schoolmistress’s return—begged and prayed of him, if he really _did_
adore her only half as much as he had been making such a noise about,
that he’d return that minute to his former hiding-place.
M. le Comte was busy in trying to shake his trousers down over his
patent-leather half-boots, so that the stockingless state of his feet
might not be discovered, and he stamped on the floor, apparently with
the energy of his devotion, but really in the hope of forcing down his
pantaloons; he exclaimed that he was her slave for life, and, hearing
the gate close, proceeded, with all possible haste, to ensconce himself
once more beneath the leathern cover of the celestial globe, kissing his
hand passionately several times to the young lady before finally
disappearing from her sight.
Miss Chutney had only time enough to place the devotional close against
the wall, and to arrange the back so that it would not immediately
appear to have been broken, when she heard the key placed in the door,
and in a minute afterwards Miss Wewitz made her appearance.
To Chutney’s great horror, on looking at her a second time, she
discovered that Miss Wewitz had positively brought her work, and had
evidently made up her mind to sit with her the whole time.
What ever should she do? The poor dear Count would be smothered, even if
he could remain quiet in his hiding-place all that time. Would it not be
better to tell her all that had occurred—but then she would be sure to
scold so—besides, it never would be possible to tell her all that the
Count had said—and really she’d have to make up so many fibs, if she
confessed, that perhaps, after all, it would be more honest of her to
keep the whole affair secret from her.
Miss Wewitz merely observing that she thought she had not exceeded her
half-hour by many minutes, and that Miss Chutney had not been very
lonely during her absence, sat herself down in the easy chair, saying
that she had ordered the servant to bring the tea in there, and that
they would have a nice long evening’s chat together.
As soon as Miss Wewitz had settled herself fairly down to her work—she
was busy fresh trimming one of her old last year’s bonnets for her dear
mother—she commenced informing Miss Chutney, in the most confidential
manner, as to the issue of her visit to the inspector. That
gentleman—and a perfect gentleman he certainly was—for he was always
exceedingly civil to her, though, for the life of her, she couldn’t tell
why—well, that gentleman had been kind enough to advise her to get rid
of the Frenchmen as rapidly as she could, saying that they were all a
pack of swindlers together, and that there was one whom the Detectives
had traced to her house—a Count de Sangshimmy, the inspector called him,
and whom they well knew to be nothing more nor less than a _Chevalier
d’Industrie_, or, in plain English, a common pickpocket.
Here the cover of the celestial globe betrayed evident symptoms of
internal uneasiness, and Miss Chutney, attracted by the motion of the
cover, could not help casting a side glance towards the spot.
Miss Wewitz, however, was too deeply concerned in what she was relating
to pay any attention to other matters; and though her pupil kept
continually interjecting “Indeed!” and “Dear me!” and “Really, you don’t
say so!” it was evident that her thoughts were otherwise occupied, and
that she had really not the slightest idea of what Miss Wewitz was
talking about.
“And would you believe it, my love?” continued the schoolmistress; “the
inspector tells me I have no means of getting quit of the wretches but
by an action of ejectment, and that will take a year at least; so, do
you know, he advises me”—and here the lady looked towards the door, to
satisfy herself that no one was within hearing—“do you know, my dear, he
advises me, I say”—but, to satisfy herself that the communication she
was about to make could not be overheard, the lady rose from her seat,
and opened the music-room door to see whether any one were in the
passage listening—“he advises, I repeat, if I find I cannot get them out
of the house by any other means, to offer them, first, ten pounds to go,
and even to go as high as fifty, rather than allow them to continue
under the roof; though of course, my love, for obvious reasons, I don’t
want this to be known to a soul beside ourselves, for, if it should get
to the ears of any of the gang, why of course they wouldn’t stir a foot
until I had given them the whole fifty. And you’d hardly credit it, my
dear, but the inspector—he really is a very nice, agreeable man, and the
poor fellow lost his wife last Easter holidays—he tells me that the
wretches of Frenchmen might, if they chose, open a show in my best
bed-room. Oh! my dear child, think of that! So pray, for gracious sake!
do be cautious not to let a word of this escape your lips; for, should
they but come to hear, by any accident, what lengths the law will allow
them to go to, they would never leave the place until they had succeeded
in draining me of my last penny.”
Here again the cover of the celestial globe was seen to shake its side
violently, as if internally convulsed with laughter—when Miss Wewitz,
observing the glances of her pupil to be turned in that direction,
suddenly perceived that the globe still remained uncovered.
“My dear Miss Chutney!” she exclaimed, “how forgetful you are—do you see
that you have left the case off the globe; and are you aware that those
things cost a great deal of money.”
“Oh, if you please, ma’am,” stammered the East Indian, “a—a—I
was—em—a—waiting for you just to show to me which was the dragon that is
so near the bear, if you please, ma’am.”
“That will do another time, Miss Chutney,” answered the schoolmistress,
pettishly; “for really I have something else to think of just now—so
pray put the cover on—there’s a good child.”
“But I shall only want to be taking it off again directly, if you
please; for as to-night promises to be very fine, I’m going to see if I
can learn the stars by the aid of this globe,” exclaimed Miss Chutney,
starting from her seat, so as to be ready to prevent Miss Wewitz going
towards the cover.
“Very well, my dear girl, just as you like,” added the schoolmistress;
“but as it wants some hours yet till night, it will surely be as well to
cover it up. Are you aware that those globes cost me £15 at Miss
Peabody’s sale, just after her bankruptcy; and that if by accident they
got scratched, they would not be worth one penny. Now pray don’t let me
have to speak again, but _do_ put on the case immediately.”
“Yes, ma’am; but really it is so heavy, that I shall only be obliged to
come and trouble you to take it off for me again in an hour or two; and
you needn’t be alarmed, I will see that no harm comes to the celestial
globe;” and then, perceiving Miss Wewitz about to get up from her chair,
Miss Chutney hurried towards her, and leaned over, with pretended regard
for her, but really and truly to keep her close fixed to her seat.
Miss Wewitz was too shrewd a woman not to perceive, by her pupil’s
manner, that she had some secret motive for wishing the globe to remain
uncovered; so, laying her work down, she said, in her most dignified
manner, “If Miss Chutney has not strength enough to put the case on the
globe, after having had quite strength enough to take it off, why Miss
Wewitz must do it for her, I suppose;” so saying, the lady made an
effort to rise; whereupon Miss Chutney clung round her neck more tightly
than ever, and the tighter she clung, the harder Miss Wewitz struggled
to get from her. At length, however, she succeeded in freeing herself
from her embraces, when the terrified girl gave a loud shriek, and
immediately, to Miss Wewitz’s inexplicable horror, she beheld the
dome-like cover of the globe heave and heave, and finally rise up and
rush out of the room, with a pair of black pantaloons dangling beneath
it.
It was now Miss Wewitz’s turn to scream, which she did louder and
sharper than Miss Chutney had screamed before her—crying frantically,
“There’s a man in the house!—there’s a man!—there’s a man!—there’s a
man!” and then, determined to solve the mystery, she set off after the
two-legged cover of the globe as fast as her own legs would carry her.
The first object of M. le Comte de Sanschemise was to make for the
stairs that led to his bed-room; but with the huge leathern cover of the
globe over his head, and reaching nearly to his knees, it was impossible
for him to tell the direction in which he was going. In his eagerness to
escape detection, he ran towards the top of the kitchen stairs, instead
of the bottom of those that led to the upper part of the house; and Miss
Wewitz had just reached the music-room door when she saw him
precipitated headlong down the flight; and heard him afterwards, as he
got near to the bottom, go bump, bump—rolling heavily from stair to
stair, almost like the globe whose place he had taken.
Miss Wewitz shrieked involuntarily at the sight of the catastrophe—Miss
Chutney shrieked sympathetically—and Mrs. Wewitz, who came rushing from
the housekeeper’s room—and the servants, who came hurrying from the
kitchen—all shrieked, they hardly knew why or wherefore, but principally
because they heard the others shriek.
Then came all the Frenchmen, tearing down the stairs—two and three at a
time—some with their hair in paper, and a silk handkerchief thrown
hastily over their heads—others with the curling-tongs still in their
hands, and half their locks curled, and the other half hanging in matted
hanks about their faces—while others had one of their moustachios and
whiskers bright red, and the other jet black—others, again, were in
their paper collars, and others in embroidered slippers and no socks.
When Miss Wewitz saw the human avalanche descending from the first
landing, she uttered a piercing “Oh!” and, suddenly closing the door,
turned the key, so that she and Chutney at least might be safe. Then she
threw herself into the _fauteuil_, and buried her face in her
handkerchief—first tittering and then sobbing, and ultimately screaming,
and pattering her feet upon the carpet like two drum-sticks doing the
“roll” upon a drum.
The alarmed Chutney threw herself upon her neck, and begged her not to
“give way” so, for that she’d be sure to make herself ill—and that her
eyes would be red and swollen for hours afterwards.
“Indeed! indeed! Miss Wewitz, if you’ll only believe—it was no fault of
mine—indeed—and _indeed_ it wasn’t.”
Miss Wewitz “came to” for a moment, and exclaimed—“Oh, you bad, bad,
base girl—after all the attention I’ve paid to your morals, too! How you
dare stand there and say such a thing, and not expect the floor to open
under you, is a mystery to me! Oh, you wicked, wicked story, you! Where
do you expect to go to, Miss? But you’ll write out the first chapter of
Telemachus before you have any supper to-night—and it’s that cold
rice-pudding that you’re remarkably fond of.”
Then Miss Chutney, in her turn, gave vent to her feelings. “I’m sure,
ma’am, it wasn’t my fault,” sobbed the girl—“it was you yourself that
would lock him in the room with me, though I begged of you not to lock
the door—but you would do it, and what could I do?”
“Do!” retorted the angry Miss Wewitz—“_Do!_” (and this she pitched at
least two octaves higher)—“you could have screamed, couldn’t you—or you
could have pulled the bell—or even broken the windows,—it wouldn’t have
mattered to you, they would have all gone down in the bill, you know.
Don’t you think I would have raised the whole house, and the whole
neighbourhood, indeed, if I had been, in your place. I’d have torn all
the beard off the creature’s face by handfuls, that I would;—but you, of
course, must hide the wretch away from your best friends, and pretend
you had been looking out for the Great Bear—the Great Bear, you might
well say, indeed—and the impudent monkey, too. But you’ll bring a
scandal upon my school, you will—you wicked, wicked girl.”
“Well, I don’t care how much I’m punished for it, Miss Wewitz—but I’m
not to blame. If you were to stop my puddings for the whole of next
“half,” it wouldn’t make me think otherwise. I didn’t want to be shut up
with the man, but _you_ would do it.”
“How dare you say I did it, Miss,” asked the schoolmistress, in her most
authoritative manner, “when I didn’t?”
“I’m sure you did, Miss Wewitz.”
“How often am I to tell you not to contradict, Miss? I tell you I
didn’t.”
“I’m sure I don’t wish to contradict, ma’am, but I’m quite certain you
did.”
“There, you are contradicting again, Miss,—for I say, once for all, I
didn’t.”
“Well, then, I say you did.”
“Hold your tongue, Miss Chutney, and remember whom you’re speaking to.
Have I not informed you, Miss, that I did no such thing?”
“Well, I don’t care, but I’ll stand to it as long as I’ve got a word to
say—you _did_ lock me up alone with the Frenchman,—so there!” cried the
headstrong East Indian.
Miss Wewitz drew herself up as erect as she could, and said, in her very
mildest tones, as if she were in no way annoyed by what the young lady
had spoken, though inwardly she could scarcely contain herself for
passion,—“Very well, Miss; we will see who is mistress in this
establishment; so, if you please, you will come with me, and I shall
lock you up in the linen-room at the top of the house until you are
willing to acknowledge your fault, and beg my pardon. There, go along
with you, do! I’m quite astonished at your bad behaviour,—and after all
I’ve done for you!” And with these words Miss Wewitz pushed the sobbing
and muttering girl up the stairs before her.
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