A Fluttered Dovecote

Chapter Thirteen.

Memory the Thirteenth – So very Wicked

It was such a relief to know that the Signor was gone, and that, too, without betraying any one. I could see, too, that Achille revived, now that he felt that he was safe for the present, and redoubled his attentions to Mrs Blunt. I declare I believe he would have stood there holding her for an hour, and she letting him, if Miss Furness had not very officiously lent her aid as well; when the lady principal grew better at once, and allowed herself to be assisted into the breakfast-room, where, after much pressing, she consented to partake of a glass of sherry.

“Oh, Monsieur Achille,” she gasped, “such a serious matter – reputation of my establishment! You will be silent? Oh, dear me, what a dreadful upset.”

“Silent? Ma foi, oui, Madame Bloont. I will be close as box,” and he gave his shoulders a shrug, put his fingers to his lips, half-shut his eyes, and nodded his head a great many times over.

“I knew you would,” murmured Mrs Blunt; “and as to my lady assistants, I feel assured that I can depend upon them.”

“Oh, yes,” cried all these, in chorus.

“And you had better now return to the classroom, Miss Bozerne,” said Miss Furness, who had seemed in a fidget ever since I had followed them into the place.

“Ah, yes – please leave us now, Miss Bozerne,” said Mrs Blunt. “Of course we can depend upon you, my child?”

I promised all they wished, and was going across the hall, when I met James, with a piece of paper in his hand.

“Please, miss, where’s Monser Tirrel? – a boy just brought this for him.”

“I’ll take it in to him,” I said, with the blood seeming to run in a torrent to my heart; and there I stood, with the piece of a leaf of a pocket-book in my hand. It was not doubled up, and as I glanced down upon it I could see that it was scribbled over, evidently hastily, in pencil. I was about to carry it into the breakfast-room, when a word caught my eye; and telling myself it was not dishonourable, and that I had some right to know the secrets of Achille, I felt that I must read it through.

“He says that I am his own, so that I have a right to see his correspondence,” I said to myself, trying to find an excuse for the deceitful act; and then trembling all over, I read, hastily scrawled —

“Monsieur, – Vous m’avez insulté affreusement. Si vous n’êtes pas poltrone, vous serez, sans ami, dans les prairies au moulin à une heure.

“Giulio Pazzoletto.”

“Oh, horror!” I ejaculated, “it is a challenge; and if I give it to him, that horrid Italian will shoot or stab to death my poor Achille! What shall I do – what shall I do?”

There I stood, racked with anguish, till I heard footsteps approaching, when I fled into the schoolroom, where there was such a noise, and all the pupils flocked round me directly, to ask no end of questions; but I was so agitated that I could not speak. However, the first thing I did was to spitefully bite the wicked, murderous note into fragments, and scatter them about the place; and then, recalling Mrs Blunt’s last words, I was so retentive of the information the girls were all eager to acquire, that they one and all sided against me, and said I was “a proud, stuck-up, deceitful crocodile.”

“I don’t care, children,” I said, haughtily – for I was more at ease now that I knew he would not get the note – “I don’t care, children, Mrs Blunt said that I was not to talk about it.”

“Children, indeed!” exclaimed little pert Celia Blang – “why, that’s the very thing that would make you tell us all! ’Tisn’t that: it’s because you are so stuck-up, you and Clara Fitzy; but she’s shut up now, and is going to be sent away, and a good thing too; and now you’ll only have Patty Fatty to talk to, and I hope you’ll like it.”

“Hold your tongue, you pert, ill-natured thing,” I said; “I don’t believe that she will be sent away.”

“She will, though,” said Celia; “you see if she isn’t. But we don’t want you to tell us anything – we know all about it, don’t we, girls?”

“Know all about what?” I said, very coolly and contemptuously – for they all seemed quite girlish and childish to me, now that I was the repository of all that secrecy.

“Why all about it” said Celia – “about Ann, and some one at the window. Molly told me, and ever so much more that she heard from Ann before she went; and Ann was going to tell her something about some one in the garden – Clara Fitzy, or some one else – only she had not time before they bundled her off. But, there: I sha’n’t tell you any more.”

My ears tingled, as they say, when I heard that latter part about the garden. What an escape it seemed, to be sure! But I passed it all off, and took not a mite of notice; and just then, who should come in but Miss Furness, as I heard a well-known step go crunching along the gravel. Then it was lessons, lessons, till dinner-time; and lessons, lessons, till tea-time; and then lessons again, for the weather was too wet for a walk.

I only saw Clara of a night after that, and, poor thing, she was kept upon prison fare; for a letter came down from Lady Fitzacre, saying that she was too ill to travel at present, and that she left the punishment of the foolish, disobedient child entirely in the hands of Mrs Blunt. So there wasn’t a word said more about expelling her, for Mrs B. was too fond of the high terms and extras she was able to charge for parlour boarders. But they kept the poor thing a close prisoner upstairs for a week; and, to make her position more bearable, I bought her a cheap edition of “Moths,” and smuggled it up. Then I managed “In Maremma;” and whenever I went out, and could get to the pastrycook’s, I filled my pockets full of queen cakes, and sausage rolls, and raspberry jam tarts, and got the inside of my pocket of my silk dress in such a sticky mess, that I declare every time I put my hand in, it made me think of the poor Signor.

Of course, I told Clara everything that happened downstairs as soon as Patty was asleep, though she frightened me terribly by almost going into hysterics the first night, when I told her about the Signor being in the store-room; but I did not mention the jam then, for fear of hurting her feelings. She said I did quite right about the note; for she could never have been happy again if the Signor had killed Achille – just as if Achille was not a deal more likely to have killed the Signor!

I don’t know how the maids knew, but Molly told us that the Signor had quite left the place, and had not paid his lodging nor yet his washing bill; though I don’t want to be spiteful, but I don’t think that last could have been much, for I never caught sight of anything washable but a tiny bit of turn-down collar. And Molly knew – for James told her when he took the packet – that Mrs Blunt sent what salary was owing the same day, while I afterwards learned from Achille that they never met again; and really it was a very good thing for all parties concerned that the poor man went.

Yes! No! Let me see – yes, he told me upon the day I enclosed him the half-sovereign for the poor refugee family whose troubles in London Achille used to paint so vividly I remember he told me, too, that Signor Pazzoletto had gone away in his debt too, and that he was afraid the Signor was not an honourable man.

My poor Achille was very charitable, and kept himself terribly poor that way; but I could not help admiring his generosity towards his fellow exiles, and I used to give him, regularly, all I could from my pocket-money, after he had called my attention to these poor people’s condition; and I must say that papa was very liberal to me in that way, and I could always have a sovereign or two for the asking. Achille used to tell me that he added all he could, and that the poor people were so grateful, and used to write of me to him as “la belle ange.” He said that the mother was going to write and thank me some day, but she never did; while, I suppose from motives of delicacy, Achille never told me their names.

He was really exceedingly charitable, and was often finding out cases where a little money would be well bestowed; and once or twice I wanted to call myself, and see the poor creatures; but his diffidence was so great, that he would not tell me of their places of abode, for he would not be seen moving in such matters, preferring to perform his acts of kindness in secret.

Poor Clara was down and amongst us once more; while, as I before said, there was no more talk of her being expelled, for since the Signor had gone, Mrs Blunt thought that all would be right, and she would have no more trouble. And I must say that, for a long time Clara would never help me a bit in any way, now that she had lost her Giulio, but moped terribly, and seemed quite an altered girl – even going so far as to say bitter, cruel things. One day she quite upset me by declaring that Achille only wanted the money for himself, and that I had better be like her – give up all such folly and love-making: a most cruel, unjust, sour-grapey speech; for as to giving up her black-bearded, Italian-organ looking man, there was little giving up in the case.

At last, down came Lady Fitzacre, and there was such a to-do in the drawing-room; but Clara was so penitent that she was quite forgiven. And then I was had in to be introduced, and, of course, I expected that a lady with such a name would take after her daughter or that her daughter took after her – it don’t matter which – and be tall, aristocratic, and imposing; but, instead, she was a little, screwy, pale, squeezy body, with her upper teeth sticking out quite forward, so as to make her look ugly. But she was very pleasant and good-tempered, and made a great fuss over me, and told Mrs Blunt that she would sooner keep a powder magazine than have a troop of such man-killers to manage.

Then she kissed Clara, and said she was afraid that the poor thing was “a naughty, naughty girl,” and that it was “so shocking.”

“But very natural, Mrs de Blount,” I heard her whisper, and it set me thinking about what mamma would say when she found me out.

For I was not going to break with Achille just because there were obstacles thrown in our way. Of course, there were no more meetings to be held in the conservatory, and for a long time, a very long time, we had to be content with notes, and they could not always be delivered. As I hinted before, Clara would not help me a bit. She said she had promised her mamma that she would not engage in anything of the kind again, and she did not mean to break her word. Certainly, she said, she might perhaps come with me some night, or perhaps aid me a little; but it would not be at present, until she had quite got over her late shock. And then the stupid, romantic girl used to talk about her heart being a desert, and asked all sorts of questions about the convent at Guisnes, just as if she had serious thoughts of entering, and turning nun altogether; for she said there seemed no hope for her in the future.

There certainly was not much temptation for her to break her word to her mamma with the new Italian master, Signor Pompare. For of all the frights – oh, dear me! A great, overgrown, stuffy, fat pig; and instead of being dark-eyed, and with beautiful, glossy, black hair, he was actually quite sandy – bird-sandy – and very bald-headed; while his face, where the beautiful, silky, black beard should have been, was all close shaved, and soapy and shiny. And then, too, he used to take such lots of snuff; and there was a crinkly little hole in his upper lip, where he could not shave, and this was always half full of brown powder, so that we decided to call it the reservoir. When he breathed, you used to see the snuff puff out of the place in little tiny, tiny clouds, and fall in a brown bloom over his closely-shaven chin. Not much fear of any of the pupils taking a fancy to him, you would have thought; though I declare if Patty Smith did not say he was a very nice-looking man. But not that that meant anything, for the highest love to which Patty could ascend was love for something tasty to eat.

Actually, two months had passed since we had had an interview, and not one plan could I hit upon, though I had tortured my poor head until I grew quite desperate. Of course, I saw Achille every week for lessons, and twice on Sundays. But, then, all that seemed to count for nothing; and once more I was beginning to grow so miserable and dejected, a state from which his letters hardly seemed to revive me.

Any disloyal thoughts I may have had were thoroughly chased away by the difficulties we had encountered. But, still, leading such a quiet, regular life as we lived, it seemed very hard work to find words and remarks with which to fill up one’s notes. I declare that if they did not grow to be as difficult to write as Miss Furness’s essays; and I had to use the same adjectives over and over and over again, till I was quite ashamed of them, and almost wondered that they did not turn sour even though they were meant to be sweet and endearing. As for Achille’s notes – heigho! I could excuse him, knowing how difficult it was to find words myself; but towards the latter part of our dear intimacy, his letters grew to be either political, or else full of the sorrows of the poor people whose cause he espoused, and whose sufferings he tried, to use his own words, “to make a little softer.”

Of course it was too bad to gape, and keep his notes in one’s pocket until they grew quite worn before I opened them, and then to feel that I knew by heart all that he was going to say; but I could not help it, though I tried hard to love and appreciate the things which interested him, and pinched myself terribly to send him half-sovereigns for his “chèrs pauvres.” But, I don’t mind owning to it, I did not care a single button or pen nib for the French Royal family, though I did not like to tell him so when he asked me to subscribe for the poor descendants of the noblest of “la belle France.” I’m afraid I was not so patriotic as I should have been. I could not help it.

I did try; and no doubt in time I should have grown to have loved the same things as he did; but I did wish that he would have made his notes a little more – more – well, what shall I say? – there, less matter of fact and worldly, when I wanted them to be tender, and sympathising, and ethereal.

Yes – I grew quite disgusted, in spite of Clara’s nasty badinage; for she had recovered her spirits as I lost mine, and used to tell me to try her recipe, and I should soon be well again. But, of course, I treated her remarks as they deserved; and grew paler every day in spite of the pleasant country walks, though they were totally spoiled by our having to tramp along like a regiment of soldiers.

For my part, I should have liked to go wandering through the woods, spending ten minutes here and ten minutes there; now stopping to pluck a flower, and now to sit down upon some mossy fallen tree; or else to have lost myself amongst the embowering leaves. In short, I should have liked to do just as I pleased; while all the time the rule seemed to be that we should do just as some one else liked; and “some one else” was generally that detestable, screwy, old Miss Furness, with her “Keep together, young ladies,” or “Now, a little faster,” or “Straightforward,” or “To the right” Oh! it was so sickening, I declare that I would rather have sat up in the dormitory – pooh, such nonsense! – in the bedroom, and watched and envied the birds in the long, wavy boughs of the beautiful cedars. I know I could have contrived several meetings if it had not been for Miss Furness, who was always prying and peering about, as suspiciously as possible, though half of that was on purpose to annoy me, and because she knew that I did not like it.

But though Clara had at one time vowed that she would not help me, she never, in the slightest degree, went against any of my plans; but even went so far as to allow herself to be turned into a passive post-office – if I may use the expression – by holding a note for Achille in her French grammar, and bringing back another when she had had her regular scolding – for she certainly was very stupid over her French, though at one time she had manifested considerable ability over her Italian, while she sketched beautifully.

I managed the place for a meeting, at last; though, after all, it was but a very tiresome place, but, under the circumstances, better than nothing. There was no going out of a night now, even if we had felt so inclined; and, really and truly, after what we had gone through, I felt very little disposed to attempt such a thing again; for Miss Furness used to collect regularly every night all the downstairs keys in a basket, and then take them up to Mrs Blunt’s room; and I feel convinced that those four old tabbies used to have something hot in one of the bedrooms. Clara used to say that she could smell it; and yet they would all make a fuss at dinner about never touching ale or porter. All I know is, that Miss Furness’s nose never would have looked so red if she only drank water always. They used to think that we did not know of their sitting up of a night; but Clara and I soon found that out, for we began to lie and listen, and could tell well enough that the Fraülein was not in her own room; while every now and then, from some other part, we could hear her blowing her nose with a noise loud enough to alarm the whole house. There never was such a woman before for blowing noses, I’m sure. Why, she could blow her nose as loud as a churchwarden, or a Poor Law guardian, who, as it is well known, can, after county magistrates on the bench, make more noise than any one upon that particular organ. It was quite dreadful to hear the Fraülein trumpeting about, like one of those horrid brass things the soldiers play in the bands – stretching out, and pulling in, and working about, and looking so dangerous.

And now I am going to tell you about my plan for an interview; though I might have spared my poor brains all the trouble, for it never did either of us a bit of good, in spite of all my scheming and management I told you that the downstairs doors were always locked now of a night, and that Miss Furness collected all the keys, so that it was quite out of the question to think of trying to get into either of the lower rooms to talk out of the window; so I thought, and thought, and thought, and puzzled, and puzzled, and puzzled, and bored my poor brains, till at last I remembered the empty room at the end of the passage.

“Well, but how ever could he get up there to talk to you?” said Clara; “it’s a second floor window.”

“Why, come up a ladder, of course,” I said.

“But how is he to get one there?” said Clara. “Bring some bricklayers and scaffold poles, and have a scaffold made on purpose?”

“Why, a rope ladder, goosey,” I said. “Don’t you see?”

But Clara said she could not see, and that she believed that, excepting in ships, there were no such things as rope ladders, and all those that you read of in books were manufactured in people’s brains, and never helped anybody yet up to a window; while as to ladies eloping down them, that was all nonsense, for she did not think the woman was living who could get either up or down one of the swingle-swangle things. And then she said that it would not be safe; but I knew better, and told her so, for I was not going to have my plan set aside for a trifle. So then I set to and wrote a letter to Achille.

Since Clara had laughed so terribly, I had not liked to send money in the notes by her; and poor Achille had sent me such a despairing note, telling me how that he must see me – one of the most grievous, broken-hearted notes possible. I declare I don’t know what he did not say he would do if he could not see me soon.

Chapter Fourteen.

Memory the Fourteenth – Anticipated Joys

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.