The first thing that Clara and I did was to tear up the brown paper
wrappers into tiny little bits, all but where the directions were
written, and those we chewed up quite small, to throw out of the window
with the other pieces. And oh, how nasty brown paper is to chew!--all
tarry and bitter, like cold sailors must be when they eat one another in
those dreadful boats that have not enough provisions, and when there's
"water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink." Then I tore open
the tiny note, and Clara did the same; and I had just read two lines,
when I _felt_ that I was watched, and looking up, there stood that
horrid Miss Furness, just like some basilisk, or gorgon, or cockatrice,
or dreadful thing of that kind.
Of course Miss Furness couldn't have been a cockatrice, but we were so
badly taught at that wretched Mrs Blunt's, that I have not the most
remote idea what is the feminine of the extinct fabulous creature, and
henatrice sounds so horribly-absurd. Anyhow, she was a wretch--a nasty
despicable, hateful, horrible wretch, whom it could not be a sin to
hate.
"The bell has rung for dinner, young ladies," she said, with her eyes
devouring my note.
How I did tremble! but I knew that if I was not careful I should betray
poor Achille; while, fortunately, Clara had been sitting so that she was
not visible from the door, and had time to slip her note into her
pocket, while she pretended to have one of her boots off.
For a moment or two I was so scared that I did not know what to do. If
I tried to hide the note, I knew that she would suspect that there was
something wrong, while she would have been well aware whether there was
a letter for me from home, since she always had the opening of the bag.
What could I do? For a moment, I was about to crumple the paper up in
my hand; but fortunately I restrained myself, and holding the paper
boldly in my hand, I pretended that I had been writing out the aliquot
parts of a shilling; and, as I doubled the note up slowly, I went on
saying,--
"Coming directly, ma'am--one farthing is one forty-eighth; one halfpenny
is one twenty-some-thingth--oh, fourth. Oh, dear! oh, dear! how hard it
is, to be sure."
"You seem to have grown very industrious, Miss Bozerne," said Miss
Furness, looking very doubtfully at the paper; and I was afraid that she
would smell it, for it was quite strong of that same scent that Achille
always used.
"Yes, isn't she?" said Clara, coming to the rescue; "but I do not think
it will last, ma'am."
I could have hugged her for that; for I knew that the tiresome old thing
suspected something to be wrong, and was mixing it up with the morning's
adventure. But nothing more was said, and we descended to dinner, and
there I was with that note burning in my pocket, and not a chance could
I get to read it; for so sure as I tried to be alone, go where I would,
there was that Miss Furness's favourite, Celia Blang, after me to see
what I was doing.
At last, during the afternoon lessons, I could bear it no longer; so I
went and sat down by the side of Clara.
"What does he say, dear?" I whispered.
"Wants me to meet him to-night," she wrote on her slate, and rubbed it
out directly. For we actually used common slates--noughts-and-crosses
slates--just like charity-school children. But I had my revenge, for I
dropped and cracked no less than ten of the nasty things, though I am
afraid papa had to pay.