For a few moments after I woke I could not make out what made me feel so
heavy and dull. Of course, it was partly owing to their ringing that
stupid bell down in the hall so early, for fear we should have a morsel
too much sleep; but all at once, as upon other occasions, I remembered
about the previous night and poor Achille; when, of course, the first
thing I did was to rush to the window and throw it up, to try and catch
a glimpse of the scene of the last night's peril, when the first thing
my eyes rested upon was that horrid Miss Furness taking her
constitutional, and, of course, as soon as she saw me she must shake her
finger angrily, because I appeared at the window with my hair all
tumbled. I never saw anything like that woman. I always did compare
her to an old puss, for she seemed as if she could do without sleep, and
always got up at such unnatural hours in the morning, even when the
weather was cold and dark, and wet, when it seemed her delight to go out
splashing and puddling about in her goloshes; and somehow, or another,
she never seemed to catch cold as anybody else would if she had acted in
the same way. It must have cost her half her salary for green silk
umbrellas; for James generally managed to spoil every one's umbrella
when they were given him to dry, and Miss Furness never would use any
but the neatest and most genteel-looking parapluies, being the only
thing in which she displayed good taste.
Of course I had a good look out as soon as I was quite ready to go down,
when I could see that the flower bed was a great deal trampled, one of
the bushes was quite crushed, so that I knew there would be a terrible
to do about it as soon as it was noticed.
"Well, is he there?" said Clara, "or is it only his pieces? Do make
haste down, and run and secure his heart, before they pick it up, and
put it on a barrow to wheel away."
"La!" said wide-open-mouthed Patty, staring; "he would not break, would
he?"
"Oh, yes," replied Clara. "French gentlemen are very fickle and
brittle, so I should not at all wonder if he broke."
"Better break himself than the jam pots," I said, spitefully, when Clara
coloured up terribly, as she always did when the Signor was in any way
alluded to; for though I did not like to hurt her feelings about the jam
when she was shut up, of course, she had not been at liberty long before
she heard all about it I know it was mean on my part to retaliate as I
did, but then she had no business to speak in that way; for it was too
bad to make fun out of such trouble. Then, of course, she must turn
quite huffy and cross, and go down without speaking; for some people
never can bear to be joked themselves, even when their sole delight
consists in tormenting other people.
I could not but think that poor Achille had escaped unhurt, though at
times I went through the same suffering as I did on the morning after
the discovery in the conservatory;--and really, when one comes to think
of it, it is wonderful that no suspicion ever attached to either Achille
or myself over that dreadful set-out. Breakfast over, I seemed to
revive a little; though I must confess that what roused me more than
anything was Miss Furness finding out that I looked pale and red-eyed,
and saying that she thought I required medicine.
"For you know, Miss Bozerne, a little foresight is often the means of
arresting a dangerous illness; so I think I shall call Mrs de Blount's
attention to your state."
"Oh, please, don't, ma'am," I said. "I assure you that I feel
particularly well this morning."
But she only gave one of her self-satisfied smiles and bows; when in
came the tall footman to say that the gardener wished to speak with
"missus."
"Missus" was not there, so the footman went elsewhere to find her; but
the very mention of that gardener brought my heart to my mouth, as
people say; though I really wonder whether that is true--I should like
to know. Then I had a fit of trembling, for I made sure that he had
found poor Achille, lying where he had crawled, with all his bones
broken, in some out-of-the way corner of the garden; perhaps, possibly,
to slake his fevered thirst in my favoured spot, close by the ferns, and
the miserable fountain that never played, green and damp beneath the
trees.
But I could not afford to think; for just then the door was opened, and
Mrs Blunt stood with it ajar, talking to the gardener in the hall, and
of course I wanted to catch what he said; when, just as if out of
aggravation, the girls made a terrible buzzing noise. But I heard
enough to tell me that it was all about the past night, and I caught a
word here and there about bushes broken, and big footsteps, and
trampled, and so on; while, as a conclusion to a conversation which had
roused my spirits by telling me that poor Achille had not been found,
Mrs Blunt placed a terrible damper upon all by saying--
"It must have been the policeman, gardener; and he shall be spoken to
respecting being more careful. But for the future we'll have a big dog,
and he shall be let loose in the garden every night."
I could have rained down tears upon my exercises, and washed out the ink
from the paper, when I heard those words; for in imagination, like some
gladiator of old, in the brutal arena, gazed upon by Roman maids and
matrons, when battling with some fierce wild beast of the forest, I saw
poor Achille struggling with a deep-mouthed, fang-toothed, steel-jawed
bloodhound, fighting valiantly to have but a minute's interview with me;
while, dissolving-view-like, the scene seemed to change, and I saw him,
torn and bleeding, expiring fast, and blessing me with his last words as
his eyes closed. Then I was planting flowers upon his grave, watering
them with my tears, and plaiting a wreath of immortelles to hang upon
one corner of the stone that bore his name, ere I departed for Guisnes
to take the veil and shut myself for ever from a world that had been to
me one of woe and desolation.
"Oh, Achille! beloved, martyred Achille!" I muttered, with my eyes
closed to keep in the tears, when I was snatched back to the realities
of the present by the voice of Miss Furness, who snappishly exclaimed--
"Perhaps you had better go and lie down for an hour, Miss Bozerne, if
you cannot get on with your exercise without taking a nap in between the
lines."
I sighed--oh, so bitter and despairing a sigh!--and then went on with my
task, sadly, sorrowfully, and telling myself that all was indeed now
lost, and 'twere vain to battle with fate, and I must learn to sit and
sorrow till the sun should shine upon our love.
The dog came.
Such a wretch! I'm sure no one ever before possessed such a horrible,
mongrel creature. Instead of being a large, noble-looking mastiff or
hound, or Newfoundland dog, it was a descendant, I feel convinced, of
the celebrated Snarleyyow that used to bite poor Smallbones, and devour
his dinner. It was one of those dogs that you cannot pet for love,
because they are so disagreeable, nor from fear, because they will not
let you; for every advance made was met by a display of teeth; while if
you bribed it with nice pieces of bread, they were snapped from your
hand, and the escapes of your fingers were miraculous. I should have
liked to have poisoned the nasty, fierce thing; but, of course, I dared
not attempt such a deed. And what surprised me was Mrs Blunt being
able to get one so soon, though the reason was plain enough--the wretch
had belonged to a neighbour who was only too glad to get rid of it, and
hearing that Mrs Blunt wanted a dog, jumped at the chance, and I know
he must have gone away laughing and chuckling. We used to call the
horrid wretch Cyclops, for he had only one eye; but such an eye! a fiery
red orb, that seemed to burn, while the wretch was as big almost as a
calf. I knew that poor Achille would never dare any more adventures now
for my sake; and it did seem such cruel work, for a whole fortnight had
passed since I had heard from or seen him, for when the lesson was due
after our last adventure, there came a note from Mrs Jackney's, saying
that Monsieur de Tiraille had been taken ill the night before, and was
now confined to his bed.
Only think! confined to his bed, and poor Laura unable to go to him to
tend him, to comfort him, and smooth his pillow, at a time when he was
in such a state of suffering, and all through me--all for my sake! I'm
sure I was very much to be pitied, though no one seemed to care; while
as for Clara, she grew unbearable, doing nothing but laugh.
Oh, yes, I knew well enough what was the matter, and so did two more;
but, to make matters ten hundred times more aggravating, that lean Miss
Furness must go about sighing, and saying that it was a bilious attack,
and that England did not agree with Monsieur Achille like la belle
France; and making believe that she was entirely in his confidence, when
I don't believe that he had done more than send word to Mrs Blunt
herself. And then, as if out of sympathy, Miss Furness must needs make
a fuss, and get permission to take the French class--she with her
horrid, abominable accent, which was as much like pure French as a penny
trumpet is like Sims Reeves's G above the stave.
"Oh, yes," she said, "she should be only too happy to take the class
while poor Monsieur Achille was ill."
And one way and another, the old fright made me so vexed that I should
have liked to make her jealous by showing her one of Achille's letters.
So, as I said before we had a dog in the place; and, oh, such a wretch!
I'm sure that no one ever before saw such a beast, and there it was
baying and howling the whole night through.
The very first day he came to inhabit the smart green kennel that Mrs
Blunt had had bought, he worked his collar over his ears and got loose,
driving the gardener nearly mad with the pranks he played amongst the
flowers; when who should come but poor meek, quiet, innocent, tame
Monsieur de Kittville. The wretch made at him, seizing him by the leg
of his trousers; but how he ever did it without taking out a bit of his
leg I can't make out, for his things were always dreadfully tight; and
there was the wretch of a dog hanging on and dragging back, snarling the
while, and the poor little dancing master defending himself with his
fiddle, and shrieking out--
"Brigand! Cochon! Diable de chien! Hola, ho! Au secours! I shall be
dechire! Call off te tog!"
And at every word he banged the great beast upon the head with the
little fiddle, till it was broken all to bits; but still the dog held
on, until the gardener and James ran to his assistance.
"He won't hurt you, sir," said the great, tall, stupid footman,
grinning.
"But he ayve hurt me, dreadful," cried the poor dancing master, capering
about upon the gravel, and then stooping to tie his handkerchief over
his leg, to hide the place where the dog had taken out a piece of the
cloth, and was now coolly lying down and tearing it to pieces. "I am
hurt! I am scare--I am fright horrible!" cried poor Monsieur de
Kittville; "and my nerves and strings--oh, my nerves and strings--and my
leetle feetle shall be broken all to pieces. Ah, Madame Bloont, Madame
Bloont, why you keep such monster savage to attack vos amis? I shall
not dare come for give lessons. I am ver bad, ver bad indeed."
"Oh, dear, oh, dear! how can I sufficiently apologise?" exclaimed Mrs
Blunt, who had hurried up, and now began tapping the great dog upon the
head with her fan. "I am so extremely sorry, Monsieur de Kittville.
Naughty dog, then, to try and bite its mistress's friends."
"Aha, madame," said the poor little man, forgetting his trouble in his
excessive politeness and gallantry--"mais ce n'est rien; just nosing at
all; but I am agitate. If you will give me one leetle glass wine, I
shall nevare forget your bonte."
"Oh, yes, yes--pray come in," said Mrs Blunt.
And then we all came round the poor, trembling little martyr; and
although we could not help laughing, yet all the while we pitied the
good-tempered, inoffensive little man, till he had had his glass of wine
and gone away; for, of course, he gave no lesson that day, and I must
chronicle the fact that Mrs Blunt gave him a guinea towards buying a
new instrument.
"But, oh, Clara," I said, when we were alone, "suppose that had been
poor Achille?"
"Oh, what's the good of supposing?" said Clara, pettishly. "It was not
him, and that ought to be enough."
"But it might have been, though," I said; "and then, only think!"
"Think," said Clara, "oh, yes, I'll think. Why, he is sure to have him
some day."
"Don't dear, pray," I said.
"And then," continued Clara, "he'll fight the dog, and kill him as King
Richard did the lion."
"Oh, please, don't tease," I said humbly; "I wonder how he is."
"Miss Furness says he is better," said Clara.
"How dare Miss Furness know?" I cried, indignantly.
"Dear me! How jealous we are!" she said, in her vulgar, tantalising
way. "How should I know?"
And, for the daughter of a titled lady, it was quite disgusting to hear
of what common language she made use.
"I don't believe that she knows a single bit about it at all," I said,
angrily; for it did seem so exasperating and strange for that old thing
to know, while somebody else, whom he had promised to make--but there, I
am not at liberty to say what he had promised.
"You may depend upon one thing," said Clara, "and that is that your
Achille will not be invulnerable to dogs' bites; though, even if he is,
he will be tender in the heel, which is the first part that he will show
Mr Cyclops, if he comes. But you will see if he does not take good
care not to come upon these grounds after dark--that is, as soon as he
knows about the dog. By-the-by, dear, what a dislike the dog seems to
have to anything French."
"I'd kill the wretch if it bit him," I said.
Clara laughed as if she did not believe me.
"I would," I said; "but I'll take care somehow to warn him, so that he
shall run no such risks. For I would not have him bitten for the
world."
"Of course not--a darling?" said Clara, mockingly.
And then no more was said.
But matters went unfortunately, and I had no opportunity for warning
poor Achille, who was attacked in his turn by the wretch of a dog--who
really seemed, as Clara said, to have a dislike to everything French;
while, by a kind of clairvoyance, the brute must have known that poor
Achille was coming. For, by a strange coincidence--not the first either
that occurred during my stay at the Cedars--the creature managed to get
loose, and lay in wait just outside the shrubbery until _he_ came, when
he flew at him furiously, as I will tell.