I wrote and told Achille all my plans, using the top of the drawers for
a writing desk, and letting Patty Smith think that I was doing an
exercise; for I was so horribly deceitful, writing upon exercise paper,
and referring now and then to dictionary and grammar, as if for
different words. I told him he was to get hooks made that would fit
over the inside of the window-sill, and he was to buy a rope ladder, and
I would let down a string and draw it up, and hook it on, when he could
easily run up and stand upon the great, wide ledge beneath the second
floor windows--a large, ornamental cornice that ran nearly round the
house--and there stop and talk to me whenever it was a dark night.
I soon managed, through Clara, for him to have the note; and the next
time he came he was quite radiant with joy, and praised all the girls'
exercises, though some of them were really execrable I would not look at
him, but soon after he was gone Clara slipped a note into my hand, which
said that he would be under the window that night at half-past twelve,
and that I was to be sure and have a ball of string ready to let down
and draw up the ladder, which he had been obliged to make himself; for
though he could buy cord enough everywhere in London, there was not such
a thing as a rope ladder to be got.
"There, I told you so," said Clara, laughing. "Rope ladder, indeed. I
don't believe people ever did sell such things; and you see now if he
don't stick halfway up, like a great fly in a spider's web, till Lady
Blunt comes, as the spider, and sticks a great knitting needle into his
body to kill him. And then she'll call all the other spiders, and all
four of them will set to and devour your poor Achille--for they are
almost ready to eat him every day, as it is."
"Don't talk such stuff," I said pettishly, though I could not help
thinking of Miss Furness and her penchant for Achille, though I knew he
hated her.
It did sound so romantic and chivalrous, in spite of Clara's ill-natured
prattle, having one's lover coming up a ladder of ropes in the stilly
midnight hour, when all were dreaming around. It put me in mind of
ladies' bowers, and knights, and cavaliers, and elopements; and
dreaming, as I did, I almost began to fancy myself a damsel in distress
about to be rescued. I stood there, in our room, in such a sweet, rapt
meditation--such a blissful, dreamy, musing fit--when that Clara brought
me right down out of the I don't know how manyeth heaven, by saying--
"And where's your string?"
I had not thought of that, and it was a puzzle. I had plenty of crochet
cotton, and bobbin, and Berlin wool; but then, they were none of them
strong enough. Time to buy any there was none; for he was coming that
night loaded with his dear ladder; while if I tried to get any from the
kitchen, some one would be sure to ask what it was wanted for, then what
could I say? And, besides, I had told so many dreadful stories already,
and prevaricated so much, that I was quite ashamed.
The first thing I determined upon was to make a long plait of my
coloured wools; but I soon found that there would not be one quarter
enough; then I thought of the girls' slate strings, which held the
sponges, and determined to make a raid into the schoolroom and cut them
all off, though I felt sure they would not be enough. If I could only
have gone out and bought a ball, or sent James, it would have been all
right; but that was impossible without first asking Mrs Blunt. Only
the week before, a stupid boy's kite came flapping over into the garden,
with no end of string, which I might have cut off with my scissors; but
I never imagined then that I should want any.
However, I did what I generally do when I want to think deeply, I took
some eau de Cologne and bathed my temples, and then sat down before the
glass, with my hair all thrown back, and my head resting upon my hand,
trying to solve the problem, and wondering what Achille could see in me
to like; while just then I remember wondering what had become of poor
Mr Saint Purre.
What was I to do? that was the question. I might have cut ever so many
strings off my clothes, but then I was sure they would not make half
enough; and, after boring my poor brains all sorts of ways, I was quite
in despair--for it did seem too bad to be put off by such a beggarly
little trifle as a bit of string, when two or three of those little,
cheating penny balls, that are made so big by winding a very little
string round a very big hole would have set me up for good. I wanted
Clara to smuggle the clothes line from the laundry, which would have
done admirably; but the nasty thing would not, and tried to make fun of
it all by declaring that it was in use; and she would not stir a peg. I
could not go myself to see if what she said was true--at least, I dare
not; and, there, if it was not tea-time, and we should be rung down in a
few minutes. Once I thought of tearing up something into long shreds,
and tying them together; and it seemed at last that that would be the
plan, and I should have put it into execution, if all at once I had not
had a bright thought flash through my head, and felt disposed to call
out "Excelsior?" like mamma did when she saw Mrs Blunt's horrid
advertisement, and meant "Eureka" all the time.
And what do you think the happy thought was? Why, the lumber-room,
where the girls' school boxes were put, along with their cords; and I
was just going to hurry off and collect a number, when clatter went the
tea-bell, and we were obliged to go down.
I could not eat any of their odious bread and butter--thick and patchy--
while the tea was as weak as weak. I declare I was so nervous that I
never felt the place to be so vexatious before; and for the least
provocation I should have burst out crying. I couldn't help there being
nothing to cry about--all I know is, that I felt in a regular crying
fit; and the more of the nasty, mawkish warm tea I drank, the worse I
was, for it all seemed changed into tears directly, and to be flooding
my head; when, if it had been proper tea, of course my poor nerves would
have been solaced.
Clara saw how put out I was, and kept treading on my foot, wanting me to
look at Mrs Blunt's front, which was all put on sideways; but I declare
I could not have laughed if she had put it on backwards. Then that
stupid Miss Sloman must go, seeing that I did not eat anything, and tell
Mrs Blunt; and, of course, when she asked me, I was obliged to say I
was not quite well, when the tiresome old thing must promise to send for
Dr Boole if I were not better in the morning. A stupid old thing: she
did not know that a dozen yards of good stout string would have made me
feel quite in ecstasy.
Bed-time at last; and, as a matter of course, because we wanted her to
go to sleep soon, Patty Smith began to write a letter home for another
cake and a bottle of currant wine; but Miss Furness must come prowling
about and see the light, and she soon put a stop to that; when poor
simple Patty did get such a scolding that she sobbed, and cried, and
boo-ood, and said it was only for a cake she was writing. Then Miss
Furness--a nasty, aggravating old puss--must turn round and scold Clara
and me, as she said, for encouraging her, so as to get part of the cake
ourselves. Couldn't I have given her a shaking, that's all! Why, it
was enough to make anyone feel vicious.
At last, we lay there, listening to the different noises dying out in
the house; and I could do nothing but cry for poor Achille's
disappointment--for the way to the lumber-room was through the one in
which the cook slept, and of course it was impossible to get any cord;
and I dare not throw a note out of the window to Achille, for fear that
he might not find it in the dark, and if it fell into wrong hands all
would have been made known. So there I lay, crying for some time, till
the noises in the house one by one died out, and all was still, when I
pictured poor Achille watching and waiting, and accusing me of perfidy
and cruelty, for making him come and then disappointing him--for he
never would imagine that I had been stopped for want of a piece of
string. Then came the sound of an owl, hooting and screeching as if in
contempt of me for going to bed; and I declare, at last, I was about to
creep away to the empty room, and add to the poor fellow's
disappointment by opening the window and whispering to him--though I'm
sure he could not have heard; when a strong feeling of stupor seemed to
creep over me--a feeling that I could not fight against--while soon all
was, as it were, a blank.
The next morning when I talked about it to Clara, she said it showed how
much I cared for him to fall asleep. Just as if it was sleep, and I did
not know the difference. But there, she always was so absurd! And poor
Achille was disappointed, and we had to make another assignation.