That dreadful man had pronounced me to be decidedly better, and had been
and gone for the last time, while I felt quite sorry as I thought of the
expense, and of how it would figure in the account along with the books
and extras. The creature had rubbed his hands and smiled, and
congratulated me upon my improved looks and rapid return to health. But
really I did feel decidedly better, though it was not his doing; and if
any prescription at all had done me good, it was a tiny one written in
French. And now, somehow, I did seem to find the Cedars a little more
bearable, and my spirits were brighter and better; but not one drop of
the odious medicine had I taken.
Clara had more than once seen me throw it away, and had said "Oh!" and
"My!" and "What a shame!" but I had thrown it away all the same, except
twice or three times when I got Patty Smith to take it for me, which she
did willingly, upon my promising to do her exercises; and I really think
she would have taken quarts of the odious stuff on the same conditions,
for she could eat and drink almost anything, and I believe that she was
all digestive apparatus instead of brains. Pasty wasters, fat, sour
gooseberries, vinegar pippins, it was all the same to her; and she used
to be always having great dry seed-cakes sent to her from home, to sit
voraciously devouring at night when we went to bed; and then out of
generosity, when I had helped her with her exercises--which I often did
as I grew more contented--she would cut me off wedges of the nasty,
branny stuff with her scissors, which was a lucky thing for the
sparrows, who used to feast upon seed-cake crumbs from morning to night,
for I never ate any.
And now I began to pay more attention to the lessons: singing with the
Signor or the Fraulein, who had one of the most croaky voices I ever
heard, though she was certainly a most brilliant pianiste. Her name was
Gretchen, but we used to call her Clarionette, for that seemed to suit
best with her horrid, reedy, croaky voice. Then, too, I used to
practise hard with my instrumental music; but such a jangly piano we had
for practice, though there was a splendid Collard in the drawing-room
that it was quite a treat to touch. But only fancy working up Brinley
Richards, or Vincent Wallace, or Czerny upon a horrible skeleton-keyed
piano that would rattle like old bones, while it was always out of tune,
had a dumb note somewhere, and was not even of full compass. Then I
tried hard to take to the dancing, and to poor little Monsieur de
Kittville--droll little man!--who always seemed to have two more arms
than belonged to him; and there they were, tight in his coat sleeves,
and hung out, one on each side, as if he did not know where to put them;
and he a master of deportment!
I had quite taken the turn now, and was trying to bear it all, and put
up with everything as well as I could, even with the horribly regular
meals which we used to sit down to at a table where all the knives and
forks were cripples--some loose in their handles, some were cracked,
some were bent, and others looked over their shoulders. One horrid
thing came out one day, and peppered my dinner with rosiny dust; and
there it was--a fork--sticking upright in a piece of tough stewed steak,
although two of the prongs were bent; and when some of the girls
tittered, Miss Furness said that I ought to have known better, and that
such behaviour was most unladylike and unbecoming.
But there, she was naturally an unpleasant, crabby old thing, and never
hardly opened her lips to speak without saying words that were all
crooked and full of corners. She once told Celia Blang--the pupil she
petted, and who used to tell her tales--that she had been considered
very handsome, and was called the "flower of the village;" but if she
was, they must have meant the flower of the vinegar plant--for it is
impossible to conceive a more acid old creature. In church, too, it was
enough to make one turn round and slap her; for if she did not copy from
the vicar, and take to repeating the responses out quite terribly loud,
and before the officiating priest, so as to make believe how devout she
was, when it really seemed to me that it was only to make herself
conspicuous. And then, to see the way in which the vain old thing used
to dress her thin, straggley hair! I do not laugh at people because
their hair is not luxuriant or is turning grey, but at their vanity,
which I am sure deserves it; and anybody is welcome to laugh at mine.
As for Miss Furness's hair, there was a bit of false here and another
bit there, and so different in shade and texture to her own that it was
quite shocking to see how artificial she looked; while, to make matters
ten times worse, she could not wear her hair plain, but in that
old-fashioned Eugenie style, stretching the skin of her face out so
tightly that her red nose shone, and she was continually on the grin.
And yet I've caught her standing before the glass in the drawing-room,
to simper and smile at herself, as if she were a goddess of beauty.
After a time the Eugenie style was dismissed to make way for a great
pad; when, very soon, her light silk dress was all over pomatumy marks
between the shoulders, though she rubbed it well with bread-crumbs every
night. I was so annoyed that I curled my hair all round, and next day
wore it hanging in ringlets; and this was the day upon which I received
the prescription written in French, which did me so much good. It was
French lesson day, and while my exercise was being corrected and I was
trying to translate, I felt something pressed into my hand; and somehow
or another--though I knew how horribly wicked it was--I had not the
heart to refuse it, but blushed, and trembled, and stood there with my
face suffused, blundering through the translation, until the lesson was
ended, and without daring to look at the giver, I rushed away upstairs
and devoured those two or three lines hastily scribbled upon a piece of
exercise paper.
No! never, never, never will I divulge what they were! Enough that I
say how they made my cheeks burn, my heart throb, and the whole place
turn into an abode of bliss. Why, I could have kissed Mrs Blunt and
all the teachers that evening; and when, at tea-time, as I sat
thoughtful and almost happy--I think that I was quite happy for a little
while--Miss Furness said something spiteful and cross, I really don't
think I minded it a bit.
It did not last long--that very bright rose-colour medium; but there was
something of it henceforth to make lessons easy, and the time to pass
less dolefully. I did not answer the first note, nor the second, nor
yet the third; but I suppose he must have seen that I was not
displeased, or he would not have written so many times; but at last I
did dare to give him a look, which brought note after note for me to
devour again and again in solitude. I quite tremble now I write, when I
think of the daring I displayed in receiving them; but I was brave then,
and exultant over my conquest in holding for slave that noble-looking
French refugee, whose private history must, I felt, be such a romance,
that I quite felt as if I grew taller with importance.
Every note I received was written in his own sweet, sparkling,
champagne-like language; and, oh! what progress I made in the tongue,
though I am afraid I did not deserve all the praise he bestowed upon me.
Times and times he used to pray for an interview, that I would meet him
somewhere--anywhere; but of course I could not yield to any such
request, but told him to be content with the replies I gave him to his
notes. But still, plan after plan would he propose, and all of them so
dreadfully imprudent, and wild, and chivalrous, that nothing could be
like it. I know that he would have been a knight or a cavalier had he
lived earlier; while as to his looks!--ah, me! I fear that there must
be truth in mesmerism, for I felt from the first that he had some
terrible power over me, and could--what shall I say?--there, I cannot
think of a better simile--turn me, as it were, round his finger; and
that is really not an elegant expression. But then, he was so calm, so
pensive-looking, and noble, that he might have been taken for one of
Byron's heroes--Lara, or Manfred, or the Giaour. Either or all of these
must have been exactly like him; while to find out that I, Laura
Bozerne, was the sole object of his worship--Oh! it was thrilling.
I do not know how the time went then, for to me there seemed to be only
one measurement, and that was the space between Monsieur Achille's
lessons. As to the scoldings that I was constantly receiving, I did not
heed them now in the least; for my being was filled by one sole thought,
while the shadowy, reproachful face of Theodore Saint Purre grew more
faint day by day. It must have been weeks--I cannot tell; months,
perhaps--after my entrance as pupil at the Cedars that I retired on some
excuse one afternoon to my dormitory, with a little, sharp,
three-cornered note, and tremblingly anxious I tore it open, and read
its contents.
And those contents? I would not even hint at them, if it were not that
they are so necessary to the progress of my confessions.
He said that he had implored me again and again to meet him, and yet I
was relentless and cruel; and now he had come to the determination to
wait night by night under the great elm-trees by the side wall, when,
even if I would not meet him, he would still have the satisfaction of
stilling the beatings of his aching heart by folding his arms about it,
leaning against some solitary, rugged trunk, and gazing upon the casket
which contained his treasure. I might join him, or I might leave him to
his bitter solitude; but there he would be, night after night, as a
guardian to watch over my safety.
It was a beautiful note, and no amount of translating could do it
justice; for after the glowing French in which it was written, our
language seems cold and blank.
What could I do? I could not go, and yet it was impossible to resist
the appeal. How could I rest upon my pillow, knowing him to be alone in
the garden watching, with weary, waiting eyes, for my coming?--for him
to be there hour after hour, till the cold dawn was breaking, and then
to turn away, with Tennyson, slightly altered, upon his lips,--
"_She_ cometh not, _he_ said."
It was too much! I fought as I had fought before, over and over again,
thinking of how it would be wicked, wrong, imprudent, unmaidenly. Oh,
what dozens of adjectives I did slap my poor face with that afternoon,
vowing again and again that I would not heed his note. But it was
unbearable; and at last, with flushed cheeks and throbbing pulses, I
plunged the note beneath the front of my dress, exclaiming,--
"Come what may, I will be there!"