“Of a’ the scenes in leyfe’s lang round;
Sweet youth! leyke thee nin can be found;
With plizzer thou dost meast abound—
Threyce happy teymes!
Wi’ joys wheyte parfit fair an’ sound,
Unclogg’d by creymes.
“Or when of luive the kittlin’ dart
Furst whithers i’ th’ unconscious heart,
Wi’ a’ the pleasin’ painfu’ smart
See passions awn;
An raptures dirl thro’ every part,
Befwore unknown.”
_A New Year’s Epistle, by Stagg._
WHILE Master Jobby Sandboys is on his road back to his parents at the
Police Station, we will avail ourselves of the uninteresting interval,
and continue our narrative of the course of events at Parthenon House.
We left Miss Chutney, with Miss Wewitz, in the linen-room, at the top of
the Establishment for Young Ladies.
The key had no sooner been turned upon the young East Indian, than the
pride which had borne her up till then gave way in her solitude; and,
now that nobody could see her, she sat down on the inverted
clothes-basket, and indulged in a “good cry.” This, however, served but
little to mollify the stubbornness of her spirit; for in a few minutes
she started up again from her seat, and biting her lips, as if annoyed
with herself for her weakness, said between her teeth, as she tossed her
head till her ringlets shook again—“Beg her pardon, indeed!—no! not if
she was to starve me to death up here, I wouldn’t!—and, what’s more, _I_
wont be the first to make it up, I can tell her. I’ll let her see I can
sulk as well as she can.” And then suddenly she burst out singing,
ascending and descending the “chromatic scale” in as loud a voice as she
possibly could, till the whole house seemed to echo again with the
notes.
Presently she stopped abruptly, and said, as she laughed to herself,
half in triumph, “There! that will just let the old thing know I’m not
very miserable!” After this, she amused herself by thinking how nice and
savage Wewitz would be to hear she was so happy—and how she would scold
the maids.
The next moment, to pass the time, she pulled all her hair down, and
began plaiting it in a series of tails, to see how she would look with
it “crimped” in the morning; but, in a few minutes, the thought struck
her that she would wear it like that affected old thing, Wewitz—just to
tease her. “She would let her see,” she murmured, as she passed her comb
through her long tresses, “that other people had got foreheads as well
as herself.”
At last, by dint of pulling all her front hair nearly from the roots,
and tying it back tight with the ribbon from her collar, she managed to
make it keep as she wished. Whereupon she went to the window, and looked
into one of the panes, to see how it became her.
“Ha!” she exclaimed, as she caught a faint sight of a reflection of her
face, “it makes me look just like a cockatoo. I declare to goodness,
too, it quite hurts me to shut my eyes, and my nostrils are both drawn
up, for all the world as if I’d got under them a cup of that filthy
senna and prunes that Miss Wewitz will force us to take once a month—to
sweeten our blood, as she calls it, though it’s only to make us eat
less. I’m sure!”
As there was no bearing the torture of what Miss Chutney termed the
cockatoo-style of _coiffure_, she proceeded forthwith to arrange her
locks in a series of those hairy black puddings, which are known by the
name of sausage curls;—this done, she threw up the window, and looked
out into the gravelly and deserted playground, her arms resting on the
sill. In a few minutes she began singing, or rather humming to herself
thoughtlessly, the finale to “La Cenerentola,” and immediately, to her
great alarm, she saw the head of the Count de Sanschemise thrust from
one of the lower windows, and his face turned up towards her. Miss
Chutney stopped in the middle of one of her runs, and started back from
where she was standing. “Well, if that isn’t the French gentleman! and
he’ll be sure to fancy I did it on purpose,” she inwardly exclaimed.
“Oh, what ever will he think of me! I’d have given anything rather than
it should have occurred. It will be putting such silly notions in the
man’s head; making him think, I dare say, that one’s quite taken with
him, and _that_ I’m sure I’m not. He’s got very fine expressive eyes of
his own, certainly—but, oh dear! Frenchmen are so deceitful! His
countenance is the very image of that love of a head that Miss Tatting
did in crayons last ‘half.’ I wonder if he’s gone in yet.”
The latter remark Miss Chutney uttered in a half whisper, as if afraid
to let herself hear it; and then she crept softly back towards the
window, where she stood beside the shutters, stretching herself forward
by degrees, and raising herself on tiptoe, so that she might look down
without thrusting her head so far out as to be visible. Unfortunately,
however, just as she had got to the point of seeing the tassel of the
Count’s smoking cap, she lost her balance, and, tipping suddenly
forward, was thrust, head and shoulders, half out of the window. In the
fright of the moment she uttered a suppressed scream, and immediately
disappeared. “Gracious! gracious! and it’s impossible to let him know I
didn’t mean it,” she cried;—“it must have seemed to him for all the
world like as if I was calling to him. Oh dear! oh dear! oh dear!? and,
in the flurry of her emotions, she sat herself down on the top of the
screw-press for the table-cloths, that stood in the extreme corner of
the room, and hiding her face in her hands, beat a tattoo with her feet
on the floor in vexation at what had happened.
In this position she remained, thinking over her past conduct with the
Frenchman. Perhaps she had been too forward with him from the first. He
must think her a very bold, rude girl,—oh, yes, that he must. She ought
never to have been a party to his secreting himself in the music-room.
Yes! yes! she had behaved very imprudently and wrong all through, though
she would never acknowledge as much to Miss Wewitz;—no! not if she was
to be torn to pieces by a thousand wild horses. Then the young lady only
wished she could go over it all again; she’d be as cold and distant with
him as ever that prosy old methodist preacher of a Mentor, in that
horrid Telemachus, could have desired any young lady to be.
Suddenly, she was awakened from her reflections by a gentle tapping at
the window. Had the noise been louder, Miss Chutney would have favoured
the inmates of Parthenon House with one of her best shrieks; but as it
was, the sound was so slight, that it was not until repeated several
times that the young lady even noticed it. It was like the beak of a
bird pecking against the glass, or the twig of an adjacent tree blown
against the window,—and yet there was nothing to be seen.
Miss Chutney rose from her seat and moved a few steps towards the
casement, when there suddenly appeared outside the top joint of a
fishing-rod. Instinctively she drew back, and, still watching the
mysterious implement, she saw it swing to and fro, while presently the
line which dangled from the tip of it was jerked into the room, and
deposited on the floor a three-cornered pink note, fastened to the hook.
Without a thought, and almost mechanically, as it were, Miss Chutney ran
forward and put her foot upon the letter, when, the line being detained,
the top joint of the rod outside was seen to bend, until at last the
hook tore its way through the paper, and being suddenly released sprung
back again out of the window.
For some little time Miss Chutney stood still, looking at the epistolary
triangle, half afraid to raise it. It was from the Frenchman, she felt
assured, and she ought to have nothing to do with it; it would only be
encouraging him. She’d send it back to him—but how? thought she, the
moment afterwards. If she threw it from the window, it must fall into
the playground, that was certain; and then Wewitz, with her hawk’s eyes,
would get hold of it, and be sure to blame her all the more; and if she
went to the window and made signs to the man that she wanted him to take
the letter back, of course he’d pretend he didn’t understand her, and
would be certain to get kissing his hand to her, and all that nonsense;
so it would be better to let it lie where it was—and lie there it might
for her, for she wasn’t going to read it, she was sure.
Accordingly, she resumed her seat on the edge of the inverted
clothes-basket, and, taking her crochet needles out of her pocket, set
to work at the pincushion-cover she had half finished, with the view of
dismissing the subject entirely from her mind. She had, however, made
but half-a-dozen loops when she paused, and, stretching out her foot,
drew the letter towards her along the boards; then she made two or three
more loops—all wrong—and then looked down sideways, like a bird, at the
note, to read the address on the floor; but, unluckily, the letter was
face downwards, so, upon second thoughts, she began to think that, as
the thing was there, she might as well see what was in it; for, whether
she read it or not, the Frenchman, of course, would make certain that
she _had_,—and so would Miss Wewitz, for the matter of that, if she came
to find out anything about it; so, as she wasn’t going to be suspected
unjustly, she’d just have a peep, and see what ever he could want in
writing to her?
Miss Chutney took up the letter—read it—and, as she did so, the blood
mounted to her cheeks, suffusing her ears with her blushes. It was
filled with the same high-flown and voluptuous sentiment, and the same
exaggerated terms of admiration, as the Count de Sanschemise had poured
into her ear only a few hours before. It was grateful, nevertheless, to
the weak girl to think she was so much admired; she contrasted in her
own mind the difference of the terms in which the Frenchman addressed
her from those in which Miss Wewitz had spoken of her, and it was no
little consolation to her, in her punishment, to believe that there was
one who thought well of her. But still he could not possibly mean all he
said. How could he know enough of her to tell what kind of a girl she
was in so a short time? Oh, it was merely what every Frenchman said to
every girl, and she was foolish, very foolish, to fancy otherwise.
As this varying train of reflections was passing through Miss Chutney’s
mind, the fishing-rod again appeared at the window, and again, after the
same movements had been gone through, the hook was jerked into the room,
with a slip of paper attached, on which was written, in large French
characters—
_“Repondez vite, mon souris adorable!”_
Miss Chutney could not help ejaculating, “Well, what impudence! Besides,
I’ve got nothing to say to the man,” she added; “and even if I had, I’m
sure I’ve got nothing to say it with up here.” Then the thought suddenly
struck her, that if she were to give the gentleman to understand as
much, he might remain quiet, for he’d soon get tired of writing to her
when he found that he could get no answer; “and if he goes on in this
way, with that fishing-rod continually being poked up to my window,” she
added, “old Wewitz is sure, before long, to find it out somehow, for I
do believe she’s got eyes in her back hair.”
Accordingly, she went to the window, and made signs to the Frenchman
that she had no writing materials at her command. This she expressed by
first moving her fingers, as if engaged in a rapid act of penmanship;
and then, shaking her head and lifting up her hands, expressed, in the
most intelligible pantomime she was mistress of, that it was impossible
for her to perform the operation—after which, she smiled, bowed, and
withdrew.
She had, however, scarcely settled down to crochet again, when the
fishing-rod once more made its appearance at the window, and immediately
afterwards a pencil and a sheet of paper were whisked into the room.
“Well, I never!” cried Chutney, though by no means so displeased at the
circumstance as she tried to persuade herself she was—“though I
certainly must say he’s very persevering. But I’ll offend him—I’ll scold
him well for daring to send me such things. No, I wont; it would look so
unkind after all the trouble he’s taken. Oh, no! I’ll tell him I’m
locked up here, and beg of him to desist, as it’s all through him that
I’ve been punished.” So, seizing the paper and pencil, she hastily
proceeded to indite a communication to the gentleman to that effect.
In a few minutes after the fishing-rod had disappeared with her note, it
returned, carrying a letter of intense condolence, and a cornichon of
chocolate drops.
Now, if one thing in the world could have made Miss Chutney think more
highly of the Frenchman than another, it would have been the present he
had chosen—for, of all the young ladies in the “first class,” she was
the most renowned for her love of “sweeties.” So she immediately
proceeded to devour the love-letter and the _bonbons_ at the same time,
and both with all the ardour of a boarding-school miss.
“Oh, how kind of him!” she exclaimed, as she crunched between her teeth
the little white sugar-plums that ornamented the top of the drops—“and
it’s really so thoughtful. Well, I _do_ think he’s one of the
nicest-mannered Frenchmen I’ve ever known. He must be very
good-tempered—and he writes such beautiful letters, and sympathises with
me so warmly. Oh, how glad I am I paid such attention to my French last
‘half.’”
Having finished the drops, she tore off the back of the letter last
conveyed to her, and scribbled, with the paper on her knee, a brief
expression of thanks for his commiseration and confectionery.
This, of course, was followed by a third epistle—still more impassioned
than the last—and with it a long stick of candied angelica, both of
which were so extremely gratifying to the young lady, that she was
puzzled in her mind to know which pleased her the most.
Thus matters went on till long past dusk, so that, when her supper of
bread and water was brought to her by Miss Wewitz’s orders, Miss Chutney
had already had such a feast of sweetmeats and gingerbread, that she
felt delighted her appetite would allow her to tell the maid to take the
supper back to Miss Wewitz, with her compliments, and say, that as her
parents paid for something a _little_ better than bread and water, she
would rather go without food altogether than submit to be imposed upon;
this message the maid, who had suffered from the schoolmistress’s
ill-humour, was only too glad to have it in her power to deliver
faithfully—and the consequence was, that Miss Wewitz felt herself called
upon to pay a visit to the young lady.
On entering the linen-room, the schoolmistress, who had carried the
bread and water back with her, placed it on one of the shelves, in her
most dignified manner, and, telling Miss Chutney that she was utterly
astounded at her bad, bad behaviour, begged to inform the young lady
that she would get nothing else in that establishment, until she had
partaken of the wholesome, though frugal meal that had been provided for
her; adding, that if she went on in the way she was now going, it would
not be long ere she would jump to have a meal of good white bread and
water before retiring to rest. There was not a more proud, dainty girl
in the whole establishment, she regretted to say, than Miss Chutney, nor
one that left more orts on her plate. Miss Wewitz had long thought she
wanted a good lesson on this point, and now she should have one that she
would carry with her through life. And then the schoolmistress proceeded
to narrate to the young lady how her dear, dear mother had once had
occasion to punish her for her daintiness; for that, in her early days,
boiled rice-pudding was not good enough for her; and how her dear mother
had locked her up in her bed-room, for three whole days, with the plate
of boiled rice pudding by her side; at the end of which time she was
glad enough to eat up every scrap of it, and had really enjoyed it so
much, that now she verily believed she preferred that kind of pudding to
any other, and never partook of it without blessing her parent for the
wholesome lesson she had taught her.
Miss Chutney said not a word, but tossed her head haughtily, and smiled,
as she mentally contrasted the story with the schoolmistress’s total
abstinence from her favourite dish on their “horrid rice-pudding days.”
Miss Wewitz, finding that her moral lecture on the beauties of boiled
rice-pudding did not produce that solemn impression on the young lady’s
mind which she had been induced to expect, requested to be informed
whether Miss Chutney meant to partake of the repast that had been
provided for her, or not?
Miss Wewitz paused for a reply, but Miss Chutney condescended to make no
answer, and proceeded with the crimping of the lace round the edge of
her apron, as if she had not even heard the question.
Miss Wewitz smiled, as she bit her lips with suppressed anger, and,
bowing in her politest manner, said, perhaps Miss Chutney would wish her
to go down on her _bended_ knees, and beg of her to partake of some
nourishment; adding, that of course _she_ was nobody in that
establishment—and there was not the least respect due to _her_—oh, no!
to be sure not!—she wasn’t even worthy of being answered, not _she_—it
wouldn’t make the slightest difference to _her_ if Miss Chutney was
seriously to injure her health by her perverse conduct—no! not the
slightest in the world!—and here she simpered sarcastically, as if the
bare idea of her want of sympathy with one of her parlour-boarders was
an excellent joke.
The irony of the schoolmistress, however, was wholly lost upon Miss
Chutney; for though Miss Wewitz continued simpering for some few
minutes, the young lady did not so much as turn her head, but went on
measuring the border of her apron over her middle finger.
Miss Wewitz could endure the _nonchalance_ of Miss Chutney no longer;
so, seizing her by the arm, she desired her to be off to bed that
moment; and, as she dragged the young lady up from the inverted
clothes-basket on which she was seated, she bade her take her bread and
water with her; for long before daylight she knew she would be only too
glad to have it, and feel thankful for it, too.
Miss Chutney walked as leisurely as she possibly could towards the shelf
on which the tray was placed, and had just raised it in her hand, when
the exasperated Wewitz seized her by the arm, and began shaking her,
saying, “Do move, girl, as if you had some little life in you, _do_!” In
the warmth of her indignation, however, she agitated the young lady so
violently, that the contents of the tray—bread, plate, glass, water and
all—were dashed to the floor and deposited at her feet, splashing the
front breadths of Miss Wewitz’s black satin dress, much to the annoyance
of the schoolmistress, and the amusement of the pupil.
As the pedagogue in petticoats stooped down to wipe the liquid from the
bottom of her skirt, she vowed all kinds of vengeance against the
delighted Chutney, and among other threats she declared that, before she
laid her head down on her pillow that night, she would pen a letter to
the young lady’s guardian, and desire him to fetch her from the school
immediately, or she would be sure to destroy her hard-earned reputation.
In this manner Miss Wewitz continued to threaten and rail at Miss
Chutney, as she followed her down the stairs to her bed-room.
The young East Indian, however, said not a word in reply; all that
passed her lips was an occasional sarcastic simper; and though Miss
Wewitz begged to assure her, on leaving her bed-room, that she would
have no breakfast in that establishment on the morrow, provided the
slice of bread that she had picked up and brought with her down stairs
remained uneaten, Miss Chutney merely bowed in answer, for she was
determined not to give way. She had said at the beginning that she would
not be the first to make it up, and she would let the sour old thing see
that she was no longer a child, to be kept under lock and key, indeed.
When the enraged schoolmistress had quitted the apartment, slamming the
door after her, and Miss Chutney was left alone, she could not help
thinking how desolate and friendless she was, without a soul near her to
share or soothe her sorrows. As her head lay upon the pillow, she
thought how all her schoolfellows were with their friends at home,
enjoying themselves, while she was thousands of miles away from every
one that cared for her. The only kind word she had received all that day
was from a stranger, and if it hadn’t been for the sweetmeats he had
given her, she really didn’t know what would have happened to her. All
she _did_ know was, she would have starved before she had touched that
horrid bread and water. Still, she could not help thinking how odd it
was that the French gentleman should trouble himself so much about her!
what could he see in her? His whole manner had been so strange, and he
had seemed so anxious to make her acquaintance from the very first! Of
course, she could tell very well that all he had said about the piece of
music he had lost was a little white fib, just as an excuse to introduce
himself to her. It was very impudent of him, though, and she ought to be
very much vexed with him for daring to take such a liberty with her,
but—she knew not how it was—she really couldn’t.
Then she wondered _who_ he was. She had heard he was a French Count, and
he himself had told her he was single. He’d make a very good husband,
whoever had him; for if he could be so good to one whom he scarcely knew
at all, what wouldn’t he do for one whom he had sworn at the altar to
“love and cherish.” (Miss Chutney, and the whole of the first class, had
the marriage-service by heart, it being their usual custom to pass the
time in church by reading it during the sermon.)
Thus the school-girl continued ruminating and ruminating upon the more
pleasant part of her day’s adventures, until she gradually glided into
sleep.
In the morning, the self-willed Miss Chutney woke as determined as ever,
and though the first thing that met her sight was the piece of dry bread
on the chair at her bedside, she chuckled triumphantly, as she said, “I
wonder which of us will be tired out first?” Then, as she once more
turned over in her mind all the occurrences of the previous evening, and
remembered Miss Wewitz’s threat of sending for her guardian, she grew
red in the face, and bit her lips with vexation, for he’d be sure to
read her one of his long prosy lectures, and write a solemn account of
the whole affair to her papa, by the very next mail to India. The moment
after this, however, she was laughing the threat to scorn, and saying to
herself, that old Wewitz was too fond of parlour-boarders to think of
expelling one—and especially one who remained at the school all the
holidays, as she did.
All of a sudden it struck her that, just to let Wewitz see she didn’t
mind about being locked up, she’d dress herself that minute, and be off
up into the linen-room, so that when the old thing got up, she would
find that she had gone up there of her own accord, and then she’d be
ready to bite her fingers off with vexation—which would be such fun.
Accordingly, the young lady “slipped on her things” as rapidly as she
could, and, having done so, crept stealthily up to her place of
confinement. Then it struck her that she would open the window, and just
let Wewitz know that she was already in the linen-room, and, what was
more, that she wasn’t breaking her heart about it either, by singing
over that lovely—
_“Tyrant! soon I’ll burst thy chains.”_
To tell the truth, too, though Miss Chutney did not dare confess as much
to herself, and would doubtlessly have shrieked had any one ventured to
hint as much to her—the young lady had a secret wish to let the kind
French gentleman know that she was still incarcerated at the top of the
house.
Miss Chutney had just got to “chains,” and was inwardly congratulating
herself on the excellent quality of her lower notes that morning, when
the head of M. le Comte de Sanschemise, done up in a Bandana silk
neckerchief, bobbed suddenly out of the best bed-room window.
The head of Miss Chutney bobbed as suddenly in; and then she went
through the same course of timid doubts and fears as she had indulged in
on the preceding day. Again she felt satisfied that the Count would
fancy she had commenced singing only to attract his attention; again she
asked herself, for about the hundredth time, “What ever would he think
of her?” and again her girlish reveries were put to flight by the
appearance of the fishing-rod, which the Count used as the postal
arrangement for “dropping her a line.”
The billet that it now conveyed was, if possible, penned in a more
superlative strain than those of the preceding day, and Miss Chutney,
after having read it, her ears burning with her blushes the while,
scribbled a hasty reply with the pencil that accompanied it—thanking the
Count for his tender inquiries, saying she was afraid she was unworthy
of the high eulogiums he was kind enough to heap upon her, and informing
him that she was undergoing a short term of solitary confinement, and
bread and water, for having been imprudent enough to permit him to
secrete himself in the music-room during the absence of her
schoolmistress.
The reply had not been despatched many minutes, when the piscatorial
post brought back a second communication from the Count, and this time
it bore _substantial_ proofs of the Frenchman’s sympathy for the tender
prisoner, for attached to one of the hooks that dangled at the end of
the line was a _petit pain_, while hanging to another was a bunch of
grapes. The bread and fruit alone would have been sufficient to make a
deep and lasting impression on the very impressionable Miss Chutney,
even had they been unaccompanied by any verbal expression of
commiseration or attachment; but when she found, on breaking the roll in
two, a letter secreted in the crumb, vowing everlasting affection, and
protesting that he would be her slave for life if she would but fly with
him to _La belle France_, her delight knew no bounds.
Miss Chutney had only just finished perusing the proposal, when she
heard the sound of Miss Wewitz’s foot upon the stairs. Hastily dashing
the line out of the window, she ran to her accustomed seat on the edge
of the inverted clothes-basket, and, pushing the roll and grapes and
letter under her apron, sat there, waiting the coming of her tyrant, as
calm, and almost as lifeless, as a vegetarian.
Miss Wewitz was lost in astonishment to find Miss Chutney so utterly
hardened, as she termed it. However, she had written to her guardian,
and the tone of her letter was such, that she felt confidently he would
be with them the next day, so Miss Chutney could do as she pleased; from
that moment Miss Wewitz washed her hands of her—though she could not
help observing that, after the unremitting attention she had paid to her
morals, such conduct was a most heart-rending return. With this pathetic
sentiment she closed the door, and, having turned the key, descended the
stairs with it in her pocket.
Miss Chutney could hardly contain herself for passion when she found
that the cross, spiteful old thing, as she termed Miss Wewitz, had
_really_ sent for her guardian. She never thought she would have carried
matters to that length. She had half a mind to, and it would just serve
Miss Wewitz right if she _did_, accept the French gentleman’s offer, and
place herself under his protection. “_Then_,” she added, exultingly,
“how nicely Miss Clever would be caught in her own trap, when Miss
Chutney’s guardian _did_ come down, and find that that young lady had
eloped with a Frenchman to the Continent. Where would her trumpery
hard-earned reputation, that she was always making such a fuss about, be
then, she would like to know?—for of course,” continued Miss Chutney to
herself, “the news wouldn’t be very long in travelling to all the
mothers’ ears, who would be sure to take fright, and leave her without a
pupil in the house.”
“Oh, wouldn’t it be a game!” she exclaimed, “and I should so like to do
it, just to be revenged upon her; for if there’s one thing I can bear
less than another, it is for persons to show their ill-temper, as she
has been doing to me for these last two days. And I’m sure that nice,
good-tempered creature of a Count would behave so differently to me.
It’s quite evident, from all he says and does, that he would go down on
his knees to be allowed to gratify my slightest wish; and, after all his
kindness, it really would seem quite cruel to reject him. Besides,” she
said to herself, “he was just the kind of man to take it seriously to
heart, and perhaps commit some rash act; for it was evident that he was
quite smitten with her—though she was sure she couldn’t tell why; and if
anything were to occur to the poor man, she felt convinced she should
end her days in a madhouse.”
While Miss Chutney was ruminating after this fashion, the postal
fishing-rod again made its appearance, bearing a small slip of paper, on
which were printed the well-known epistolary initials—
R V S V P.
At the sight of the request for a reply, the young lady’s courage failed
her; and after some little reflection, she decided in her own mind that
the best course to adopt would be to put it to the Count’s own good
sense as to how it would be possible for her to quit the house with him,
when she was kept in that room all day under lock and key. This, she
said, would not be a positive refusal to the poor man, but it would be a
nice gentle way of breaking to him what she felt he would take as a very
severe disappointment.
Accordingly, having written as much, she threw the line out of the
window, and sat down once more to reflect on what had occurred.
An answer was quickly returned, entreating the young lady, in the
warmest possible language, to trust to the Frenchman’s honour and
ingenuity, promising, that if she would but faithfully follow his
directions, he would not only liberate her from her confinement on the
morrow, but ensure her boundless happiness for ever after.
Miss Chutney’s curiosity was piqued. However was it possible for the
Count to get her out of that room—much less the house—with Wewitz’s eyes
continually watching both him and her: and then she ran over several of
the best means of escape among heroines similarly situated. She thought
of secret doors and sliding panels; but in that unromantic linen-room
she felt satisfied that charming pieces of mechanism were hopeless; then
she fixed her mind for a moment on a rope; but, on looking cautiously
out of the window, she soon convinced herself that even if she could get
down one, it would be utterly impossible for him to get one up such a
height; next she turned her attention to tying Wewitz’s clean sheets
together, and descending from the attic, as she had read of young ladies
doing by means of their scarves; but, oh dear! that would never suit
her, and she would much prefer a fire-escape, if there were such a thing
handy. After this, her thoughts took a higher flight, and she dwelt for
a moment on the delightful convenience of signet-rings, and of
flinty-hearted keepers mollified by pathetic appeals, together with
pampered menials, bribed by “purses of gold;” but these were all equally
hopeless; and as she saw no other mode of escape but through the door,
the windows, or the panels, and had exhausted every possible method of
making her exit by any such means, she felt satisfied that the Count
spoke without weighing the difficulties of the task that he proposed.
However, as it was certain that there was no chance of his succeeding in
such a project, why there _could_ be no harm in just letting the poor
man have a try—besides, it would save her the unpleasantness of telling
him that she could not listen to his request.
Accordingly, after some little cogitation. Miss Chutney wrote in pencil
on the blank leaf of the Count’s note—
_“I will do as you direct;”_
and hooking it on to the line, flung it from the window.
In less than five minutes there was another delivery by the piscatorial
post, bringing instructions for the young lady as to how she was to
proceed.
For the present she was not to speak a word to a living creature, but to
feign sulkiness with everybody, and return no answer to any question
that might be put to her. Upon this the success of the whole plan
depended.
Moreover, it would aid the plot greatly if, when any one entered her
place of confinement, she appeared sitting with her face buried in her
hands, and her apron thrown over her head, as if in deep grief.
What could it all mean?
She really began to feel half frightened. The instructions were so very
odd—to pretend to be in the sulks, and to hide her face! Where _could_
be the good of that? How could that get her out of the room? She had
tried the sulks ever since yesterday evening, and she was not a bit
nearer the other side of the door than when she was first locked up, she
was sure. However, as that was all the Count required her to do, and she
felt just in the humour to carry out that part of the instructions to
the letter—for she had declared from the very beginning that she
wouldn’t be the first to make advances, and she wasn’t going either—why,
she didn’t mind acting as the Count desired, if it was only just to see
what would come of it all.
Shortly after Miss Chutney had come to the above determination, she
heard the key turned in the door; and immediately, in compliance with
the Frenchman’s directions, she threw her black silk apron over her
head, and buried her face in her hands.
Miss Wewitz, as she saw the girl’s figure bent down, her head almost
resting on her knees, apparently overcome with sorrow, smiled with
satisfaction, regarding the assumed attitude as evidence of that
penitence which she was so anxious to bring about.
Finding that her presence was unheeded by her pupil, the schoolmistress
gave one or two slight coughs, to apprise the young lady that she was in
the room, and fidgeted rather noisily about the “presses,” pretending
she had come up to put out some linen.
Miss Wewitz, however, was too gratified with what she was pleased to
call a great alteration for the better, to think of interfering with the
natural workings of Miss Chutney’s better nature, as she termed it; and
accordingly stole out of the room again, satisfied that everything was
going on so well, that when she again visited her pupil, she would find
the piece of dry bread had been eaten, and the young lady dissolved in
tears of shame and repentance.
Immediately the schoolmistress had quitted the apartment, Miss Chutney
burst into as loud a titter as she felt it safe to give vent to under
the circumstances, and again began wondering whatever would come of it
all.
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.
Nor did Miss Chutney utter one word to Miss Wewitz when that lady
unlocked the door, previous to escorting her to her bed-chamber; for the
girl had now made up her mind to quit the house, if possible, before the
coming of her guardian, and was desirous of strictly fulfilling the
instructions of the Count.
The schoolmistress, who was growing alarmed at what appeared to her the
extraordinary firmness of the young lady, but nevertheless, too proud to
think for one moment of giving way to her, as she descended the stairs
did not forget to tell Miss Chutney that, on the morrow, her guardian
would take her under _his_ care.
On being left alone, the first act of Miss Chutney was to lock the door,
and look between the mattresses for the promised dress, and, to her
great delight, there it was, rosary and all. She was not long in
exchanging her own for that of the _“chère sœur”_ and as she put on each
fresh portion of the costume, she stood for several minutes before the
_cheval_ glass, examining the effect of it, and laughing to herself at
the novel appearance it gave her; and when she had finally arranged the
cap and veil, she placed the candle on the ground, the better to see
herself from head to foot, remaining no little time in front of the
glass, now kneeling down and crossing her hands upon her bosom, and now
telling her beads, with upturned eyes, with all the affectation of
excessive devotion.
Suddenly, as she heard the rain-drops pattering like shot against the
window-panes, she thought of the poor Count, whom she was keeping out in
the wet all the while she was admiring herself; so, putting the
extinguisher hastily on the candle, she seized the clothes she had
recently discarded, and making them into a bundle, she opened the window
as noiselessly as possible, and dropped them into his arms.
She had no sooner closed the sash than she began to look with
considerable trepidation on what she had done, and proceeded to divest
herself of the disguise, lest Miss Wewitz should return and discover
all. Nor was it until she began to take off the clothes she had so
imprudently received in exchange for her own, that she thought to
inquire what she was to do with them on the morrow. To be seen by any
one but the Count in them, would be to “let out” the whole affair. “What
a great big silly she was!”
The exclamation had barely escaped her lips, when her fingers ran
against the sharp point of a pin inside the bosom of the dress, and she
discovered fastened there a three-cornered note. This was some little
relief to her; but in the dark, as she was, how was it possible for her
to know what was in it? It was just like her thoughtlessness—why didn’t
she examine the dress well before putting it on?—she might have known
the Count, after all the consideration he had shown, would never have
dreamt of leaving her in such a predicament. And thus she went on
talking to herself—reflecting and imagining the future—now regretting
her imprudence, and now viewing the coming adventure as a “good bit of
fun”—then glorying in the discomfiture of the schoolmistress when her
flight was found out—and then thinking over all the Count’s kindnesses
to her, and assuring herself of his extreme goodness, until sleep put an
end to her reveries.
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