"I can't think how mammas can be so silly as to believe all that is said
by these lady principals," said Clara. "And so there's another new girl
coming, just my age? I wonder how she will like Cedar mutton--all
gristle and tiff-taff. I wish I was out of it, I do! And so it's all
off between you and Monsieur Achille, is it, dear? Well, I'm very glad,
for it had got to be dreadfully tiring, really. Now, tell the truth,
ain't you glad yourself?"
"N-n-no, I don't think I am," I said. "It will be so dull now, with
nothing to look forward to; and--heigho!--who would have thought that he
would be so false?"
"Anybody, everybody," said Clara; "and yet you were highly offended
because I said French gentlemen were fickle and brittle. Never mind,
dear, there will be some one else some day, and I shall be bridesmaid,
after all."
"Don't talk such stuff," I said, dolefully; while from the far distant
past there seemed to rise up the reproachful countenance of Mr Saint
Purre, as I had seen him last, and I could not help sighing; while if
any one had asked me whether I was sighing about Monsieur de Tiraille or
Theodore Saint Purre, I really don't think that I could have told them.
Time slipped on--I can hardly tell you how, but it really did pass. I
had been home for the Christmas vacation, and tried hard to keep from
going back to the Cedars, but in vain. Mamma declared that it was all
for my good, and was what she called inflexible. So, after a regular
round of gaiety, I was back at the hateful place once more, with the old
routine wheel going round, and round, and round, and seeming to grind
all the skin off my temper, so that I grew cross, and fretful, and
peevish. Forming our minds, indeed! They did form our minds there, and
a very bad shape they made them into. I know I was one of the most
amiable of girls when I went down there; while at home now I am
melancholy, and irritable, and--and--well, I don't know what.
Time went on--cold winterly days, when we could hardly smell the fire;
and as to warming ourselves, we had better have been guilty of high
treason. Mrs Blunt was better, and loved a good fire, getting quite
close to it; but Miss Furness had a theory that too much warmth was
unwholesome, and that after coals had been put on, a fire ought never to
be poked; and I declare if that tiresome old thing used not to lock up
the fire-irons in the book cupboard when she left the room, so that we
should not touch the grate; and there we used to be, poking it with
pieces of slate pencil till they broke, or burning the end of the big
ruler by hammering the burning coals with that.
Wet days, when there was no walking. Northeasterly windy days, when
Miss Furness's nose turned more red than ever, and her eyes watered with
the bleak breezes that she would face. Health was everything, she used
to say, and perhaps she was right; but I know I would rather be poorly
and comfortable than healthy and always in misery and pain.
Dull, dreary days, with lessons from this one and lessons from that one.
Italian I made some progress with, and music I always did love; but as
for French, of late that had been sadly neglected. I really blushed at
times to take up my exercises to Monsieur de Tiraille; but he never
uttered a word of praise or blame, but always sighed softly as he looked
over them, while I was stern and obdurate as fate itself. No, I could
not forgive him; and note after note that he would have had me take I
pretended not to see, while as to those which he sent by Clara, I
returned them unopened. I repeat I could not forgive; for he had
wounded me deeply, and in my tenderest sensibilities, and I showed him
always that I was entirely changed. I was sorry for him, for he looked
very unhappy. Yes, I pitied him, and pitied his weakness that had
tempted him to forsake me for Miss Furness. I could have suffered
anything else at his hands--neglect, scorn, contempt; but to forsake me
for her--oh, it was too bad! But I was resigned: might they be happy!
Yes, I said so; and then I smiled in bitter mockery, as I looked upon
Miss Furness's vinegary aspect, thought of her early morning walks, and
cold, uncomfortable ways, and asked myself what there was in her to make
a man happy, when, like a flash, the answer came--_money_! For I
recollected the hints I had heard dropped of Mrs Blunt being sometimes
in pecuniary difficulties, and borrowing of Miss Furness, who had been
very saving, and had had one or two legacies left her; so that really,
and truly, the establishment was more hers than Mrs Blunt's; and if she
had liked she could have laid claim to the concern, but perhaps was
waiting her time. Yes, that must be the secret; and Achille must know
it. Why, of course she had told him, and they had made their plans
together. I had quite given him up; but somehow the idea of those two
scheming and plotting for their future angered me terribly, and whenever
I had such thoughts I used to be obliged to shed a few bitter tears; so
that I grew quite to sympathise with Mrs Blunt, and could see plainly
enough now why Miss Furness was allowed to assume so much, and to sleep
on the first floor, besides being taken into consultation upon every
important occasion, when the other teachers were nowhere, or only
admitted upon sufferance.
How the romance of one's life seemed to have passed away, while one was
really living under a cloud!--and I knew now the meaning of the
expression. And yet there was something resigned in my feelings, and I
did not mind it so very much; for I was waiting for the end of my
sojourn here. I had learned the truth of there being something pleasant
in melancholy, and I was always repeating the words of the old song--
"Go! You may call it madness, folly,
You shall not chase my grief away;
There's such a charm in Melancholy,
I would not, if I could, be gay."
I'm not sure whether that is quite right, but it is as I recollect from
very, very long--ages ago; and it was about this time that I began to
feel--oh, so old, and worn, and weary.
Yes, Achille tried hard to obtain my forgiveness; but I would not
notice. He whispered to me more than once, over the lessons, that it
was from motives of policy that he had so acted; but I would not hear
him. And it was about this time that mamma began to send me word of how
frequently Theodore Saint Purre used to call at Chester Square, and how
kindly he always inquired after me; and it really was very kind of him,
and almost looked as if he took an interest in me. But then, what
interest could he feel in the poor, weak school-girl that I was? So I
only sighed when mamma wrote, and tried, by being good friends with the
new pupil, Euphemia Campanelle Brassey, to keep from being miserable
about Monsieur de Tiraille--for I made a vow never to call him Achille
any more. Then he must try to pique me by taking more notice of Clara
and Euphemia; but he gained nothing by that movement, for I saw Miss
Furness look crochet needles at him--which, I mean to say, is a far
better simile than daggers, for they are old, exploded things that have
gone off without noise; while crochet needles are things of the present,
equally sharp, and more vicious, from being barbed. And then, too, I
told Euphemia all about his treatment of me, while Clara already knew
it, and laughed in his face, making him look so ashamed, when he had
been trying to be so--so--so--well, what's that word?--empresse; whilst
the next time he came, Euphemia, who had felt a little flattered,
regularly turned up her nose at him. Of course, I am speaking
metaphorically, for Patty Smith was the only big girl who really could
do that literally, but then it came natural to her. And it was such a
good thing that we had got rid of Patty; for, as I have said before, I
think, I never could look upon her, big as she was, as anything but a
child; while she acted as a regular check upon all our little chats.
No, Monsieur de Tiraille gained nothing by that movement, only the
holding of himself up to the scorn of the three eldest girls in the
establishment; and after that it was that he took to sighing softly, and
assuming the martyr, for he attacked the citadel of my poor heart in
every conceivable way. But I fortified it with thoughts of the past,
and regularly set him at defiance, my only regret--I think, I will not
be sure upon that point--my only regret being that the poor exiles of
whom he had written to me would suffer from this estrangement, for I
knew that he could not do a great deal for them. And when I wondered
whether Miss Furness would be generous, and help them out of her store,
my heart whispered No, and I felt so pained and sorry, that I enclosed
two sovereigns, all I had saved up, in a piece of paper, with the
words--"For the poor exiles," written inside, and gave it to him in that
dear old, dog's-eared, thumbed Nugent--dear to me from a thousand
recollections!
The next time he came he was radiant with hope, but the arrows of his
dark eyes glanced from the cold mail of pride with which I was armed
now. I was as iron itself, while he seemed perfectly astounded. But he
was mistaken: for the money sent was not in token of reconciliation, but
so that others who were deserving should not suffer from our
estrangement; and I can assure you that I felt very proud of my ability
to crush down the love that, I am afraid, still burned in my breast.
In other respects matters went on very quietly at the Cedars; from being
so fierce and snappish, Miss Furness was now quiet, and amiable, and
smiling; and though I hated her most horribly, I tried to crush all my
dislike down, and make the best of things. I found, too, now, that I
was invited occasionally to take tea in the drawing-room, when Mrs
Blunt had a few particular friends; and, altogether, they seemed to
treat me differently to the way from which I suffered when I first came.
Then, too, Euphemia Campanelle Brassey being in our room made it a
little better; but, for all that, I was dull, and wretched, and
miserable. You know, it was so tiresome in the old days with Patty; we
did not want to be always drinking Spanish liquorice water, and eating
sour apples, and cakes, and gooseberries in bed--it was so childish. It
was all very well sometimes; but then Patty was so ravenous, thinking of
nothing else but eating, and always wanting to have what she called a
feast, and making the room smell horribly of peppermint--which, in its
way, is really as bad as onions. But Effie Campanelle Brassey really
was a nice girl, and sensible; and, of course, as we were allowed no
suppers, it was nice to have a little in our bedrooms; so we had one box
that we used to call the larder, and took it in turns to keep it
replenished. Sometimes we used to have sausage rolls, sometimes pork
pies, and little tartlets that there was an old woman in the town used
to make so nicely. But our greatest difficulty used to be about
something to drink; for though we could bring home a paper bag in one
hand and a parasol in the other, of course we could not carry a bottle,
and you may be sure that we did not care for Spanish liquorice water,
nor yet for lemonade. I should have liked bottled stout, though I did
take almost a dislike to it after Patty Smith proposed to give me a
Seidlitz powder, for the effervescence put me in mind of it. But, as a
rule, we used to have wine--sherry or claret--in a dear, nice,
champagney-looking bottle, with a silvery top, and a blue heraldic
dragon sitting in a castle, with his head out of the top and his tail
sticking out of the bottom--a scaly-looking dragon, like Richard Coeur
de Lion's legs in the old pictures; while the tail was all barbed like a
crochet needle tied back to back to another crochet needle. And, oh, it
was such fun! I believe those were the only merry times we had. The
new servant always got the wine for us from a man in the town, and we
used to lend her the key to put the bottle in the larder when she went
up to make the beds; and I'm afraid to tell you how many bottles we
drank, for it would be too shocking.
Effie Campanelle Brassey was a really dear girl, and could enter into
matters so much better than Patty Smith, and it was a pleasure to sit in
the dusk of a night and tell her all about our disappointments--for, of
course, they were disappointments, the poor Signor being found out, and
Achille proving so utterly lost to all proper feeling, and acting as he
did with Miss Furness.