CHAPTER XIX.

“Of a’ the scenes in leyfe’s lang round;Sweet youth! leyke thee nin can be found;With plizzer thou dost meast abound—Threyce happy teymes!Wi’ joys wheyte parfit fair an’ sound,Unclogg’d by creymes.“Or when of luive the kittlin’ dartFurst whithers i’ th’ unconscious heart,Wi’ a’ the pleasin’ painfu’ smartSee passions awn;An raptures dirl thro’ every part,Befwore unknown.”A New Year’s Epistle, by Stagg.

“Of a’ the scenes in leyfe’s lang round;

Sweet youth! leyke thee nin can be found;

With plizzer thou dost meast abound—

Threyce happy teymes!

Wi’ joys wheyte parfit fair an’ sound,

Unclogg’d by creymes.

“Or when of luive the kittlin’ dartFurst whithers i’ th’ unconscious heart,Wi’ a’ the pleasin’ painfu’ smartSee passions awn;An raptures dirl thro’ every part,Befwore unknown.”A New Year’s Epistle, by Stagg.

“Or when of luive the kittlin’ dart

Furst whithers i’ th’ unconscious heart,

Wi’ a’ the pleasin’ painfu’ smart

See passions awn;

An raptures dirl thro’ every part,

Befwore unknown.”

A New Year’s Epistle, by Stagg.

WhileMaster Jobby Sandboys is on his road back to his parents at the Police Station, we will avail ourselves of the uninteresting interval, and continue our narrative of the course of events at Parthenon House.

We left Miss Chutney, with Miss Wewitz, in the linen-room, at the top of the Establishment for Young Ladies.

The key had no sooner been turned upon the young East Indian, than the pride which had borne her up till then gave way in her solitude; and, now that nobody could see her, she sat down on the inverted clothes-basket, and indulged in a “good cry.” This, however, served but little to mollify the stubbornness of her spirit; for in a few minutes she started up again from her seat, and biting her lips, as if annoyed with herself for her weakness, said between her teeth, as she tossed her head till her ringlets shook again—“Beg her pardon, indeed!—no! not if she was to starve me to death up here, I wouldn’t!—and, what’s more,Iwont be the first to make it up, I can tell her. I’ll let her see I can sulk as well as she can.” And then suddenly she burst out singing, ascending and descending the “chromatic scale” in as loud a voice as she possibly could, till the whole house seemed to echo again with the notes.

Presently she stopped abruptly, and said, as she laughed to herself, half in triumph, “There! that will just let the old thing know I’m not very miserable!” After this, she amused herself by thinking how nice and savage Wewitz would be to hear she was so happy—and how she would scold the maids.

The next moment, to pass the time, she pulled all her hair down, and began plaiting it in a series of tails, to see how she would look with it “crimped” in the morning; but, in a few minutes, the thought struck her that she would wear it like that affected old thing, Wewitz—just to tease her. “She would let her see,” she murmured, as she passed her comb through her long tresses, “that other people had got foreheads as well as herself.”

At last, by dint of pulling all her front hair nearly from the roots, and tying it back tight with the ribbon from her collar, she managed to make it keep as she wished. Whereupon she went to the window, and looked into one of the panes, to see how it became her.

“Ha!” she exclaimed, as she caught a faint sight of a reflection of her face, “it makes me look just like a cockatoo. I declare to goodness, too, it quite hurts me to shut my eyes, and my nostrils are both drawn up, for all the world as if I’d got under them a cup of that filthy senna and prunes that Miss Wewitz will force us to take once a month—to sweeten our blood, as she calls it, though it’s only to make us eat less. I’m sure!”

As there was no bearing the torture of what Miss Chutney termed the cockatoo-style ofcoiffure, she proceeded forthwith to arrange her locks in a series of those hairy black puddings, which are known by the name of sausage curls;—this done, she threw up the window, and looked out into the gravelly and deserted playground, her arms resting on the sill. In a few minutes she began singing, or rather humming to herself thoughtlessly, the finale to “La Cenerentola,” and immediately, to her great alarm, she saw the head of the Count de Sanschemise thrust from one of the lower windows, and his face turned up towards her. Miss Chutney stopped in the middle of one of her runs, and started back from where she was standing. “Well, if that isn’t the French gentleman! and he’ll be sure to fancy I did it on purpose,” she inwardly exclaimed. “Oh, what ever will he think of me! I’d have given anything rather than it should have occurred. It will be putting such silly notions in the man’s head; making him think, I dare say, that one’s quite taken with him, andthatI’m sure I’m not. He’s got very fine expressive eyes of his own, certainly—but, oh dear! Frenchmen are so deceitful! His countenance is the very image of that love of a head that Miss Tatting did in crayons last ‘half.’ I wonder if he’s gone in yet.”

The latter remark Miss Chutney uttered in a half whisper, as if afraid to let herself hear it; and then she crept softly back towards the window, where she stood beside the shutters, stretching herself forward by degrees, and raising herself on tiptoe, so that she might look down without thrusting her head so far out as to be visible. Unfortunately, however, just as she had got to the point of seeing the tassel of the Count’s smoking cap, she lost her balance, and, tipping suddenly forward, was thrust, head and shoulders, half out of the window. In the fright of the moment she uttered a suppressed scream, and immediately disappeared. “Gracious! gracious! and it’s impossible to let him know I didn’t mean it,” she cried;—“it must have seemed to him for all the world like as if I was calling to him. Oh dear! oh dear! oh dear!? and, in the flurry of her emotions, she sat herself down on the top of the screw-press for the table-cloths, that stood in the extreme corner of the room, and hiding her face in her hands, beat a tattoo with her feet on the floor in vexation at what had happened.

In this position she remained, thinking over her past conduct with the Frenchman. Perhaps she had been too forward with him from the first. He must think her a very bold, rude girl,—oh, yes, that he must. She ought never to have been a party to his secreting himself in the music-room. Yes! yes! she had behaved very imprudently and wrong all through, though she would never acknowledge as much to Miss Wewitz;—no! not if she was to be torn to pieces by a thousand wild horses. Then the young lady only wished she could go over it all again; she’d be as cold and distant with him as ever that prosy old methodist preacher of a Mentor, in that horrid Telemachus, could have desired any young lady to be.

Suddenly, she was awakened from her reflections by a gentle tapping at the window. Had the noise been louder, Miss Chutney would have favoured the inmates of Parthenon House with one of her best shrieks; but as it was, the sound was so slight, that it was not until repeated several times that the young lady even noticed it. It was like the beak of a bird pecking against the glass, or the twig of an adjacent tree blown against the window,—and yet there was nothing to be seen.

Miss Chutney rose from her seat and moved a few steps towards the casement, when there suddenly appeared outside the top joint of a fishing-rod. Instinctively she drew back, and, still watching the mysterious implement, she saw it swing to and fro, while presently the line which dangled from the tip of it was jerked into the room, and deposited on the floor a three-cornered pink note, fastened to the hook. Without a thought, and almost mechanically, as it were, Miss Chutney ran forward and put her foot upon the letter, when, the line being detained, the top joint of the rod outside was seen to bend, until at last the hook tore its way through the paper, and being suddenly released sprung back again out of the window.

For some little time Miss Chutney stood still, looking at the epistolary triangle, half afraid to raise it. It was from the Frenchman, she felt assured, and she ought to have nothing to do with it; it would only be encouraging him. She’d send it back to him—but how? thought she, the moment afterwards. If she threw it from the window, it must fall into the playground, that was certain; and then Wewitz, with her hawk’s eyes, would get hold of it, and be sure to blame her all the more; and if she went to the window and made signs to the man that she wanted him to take the letter back, of course he’d pretend he didn’t understand her, and would be certain to get kissing his hand to her, and all that nonsense; so it would be better to let it lie where it was—and lie there it might for her, for she wasn’t going to read it, she was sure.

Accordingly, she resumed her seat on the edge of the inverted clothes-basket, and, taking her crochet needles out of her pocket, set to work at the pincushion-cover she had half finished, with the view of dismissing the subject entirely from her mind. She had, however, made but half-a-dozen loops when she paused, and, stretching out her foot, drew the letter towards her along the boards; then she made two or three more loops—all wrong—and then looked down sideways, like a bird, at the note, to read the address on the floor; but, unluckily, the letter was face downwards, so, upon second thoughts, she began to think that, as the thing was there, she might as well see what was in it; for, whether she read it or not, the Frenchman, of course, would make certain that shehad,—and so would Miss Wewitz, for the matter of that, if she came to find out anything about it; so, as she wasn’t going to be suspected unjustly, she’d just have a peep, and see what ever he could want in writing to her?

Miss Chutney took up the letter—read it—and, as she did so, the blood mounted to her cheeks, suffusing her ears with her blushes. It was filled with the same high-flown and voluptuous sentiment, and the same exaggerated terms of admiration, as the Count de Sanschemise had poured into her ear only a few hours before. It was grateful, nevertheless, to the weak girl to think she was so much admired; she contrasted in her own mind the difference of the terms in which the Frenchman addressed her from those in which Miss Wewitz had spoken of her, and it was no little consolation to her, in her punishment, to believe that there was one who thought well of her. But still he could not possibly mean all he said. How could he know enough of her to tell what kind of a girl she was in so a short time? Oh, it was merely what every Frenchman said to every girl, and she was foolish, very foolish, to fancy otherwise.

As this varying train of reflections was passing through Miss Chutney’s mind, the fishing-rod again appeared at the window, and again, after the same movements had been gone through, the hook was jerked into the room, with a slip of paper attached, on which was written, in large French characters—

“Repondez vite, mon souris adorable!”

Miss Chutney could not help ejaculating, “Well, what impudence! Besides, I’ve got nothing to say to the man,” she added; “and even if I had, I’m sure I’ve got nothing to say it with up here.” Then the thought suddenly struck her, that if she were to give the gentleman to understand as much, he might remain quiet, for he’d soon get tired of writing to her when he found that he could get no answer; “and if he goes on in this way, with that fishing-rod continually being poked up to my window,” she added, “old Wewitz is sure, before long, to find it out somehow, for I do believe she’s got eyes in her back hair.”

Accordingly, she went to the window, and made signs to the Frenchman that she had no writing materials at her command. This she expressed by first moving her fingers, as if engaged in a rapid act of penmanship; and then, shaking her head and lifting up her hands, expressed, in the most intelligible pantomime she was mistress of, that it was impossible for her to perform the operation—after which, she smiled, bowed, and withdrew.

She had, however, scarcely settled down to crochet again, when the fishing-rod once more made its appearance at the window, and immediately afterwards a pencil and a sheet of paper were whisked into the room.

“Well, I never!” cried Chutney, though by no means so displeased at the circumstance as she tried to persuade herself she was—“though I certainly must say he’s very persevering. But I’ll offend him—I’ll scold him well for daring to send me such things. No, I wont; it would look so unkind after all the trouble he’s taken. Oh, no! I’ll tell him I’m locked up here, and beg of him to desist, as it’s all through him that I’ve been punished.” So, seizing the paper and pencil, she hastily proceeded to indite a communication to the gentleman to that effect.

In a few minutes after the fishing-rod had disappeared with her note, it returned, carrying a letter of intense condolence, and a cornichon of chocolate drops.

Now, if one thing in the world could have made Miss Chutney think more highly of the Frenchman than another, it would have been the present he had chosen—for, of all the young ladies in the “first class,” she was the most renowned for her love of “sweeties.” So she immediately proceeded to devour the love-letter and thebonbonsat the same time, and both with all the ardour of a boarding-school miss.

“Oh, how kind of him!” she exclaimed, as she crunched between her teeth the little white sugar-plums that ornamented the top of the drops—“and it’s really so thoughtful. Well, Idothink he’s one of the nicest-mannered Frenchmen I’ve ever known. He must be very good-tempered—and he writes such beautiful letters, and sympathises with me so warmly. Oh, how glad I am I paid such attention to my French last ‘half.’”

Having finished the drops, she tore off the back of the letter last conveyed to her, and scribbled, with the paper on her knee, a brief expression of thanks for his commiseration and confectionery.

This, of course, was followed by a third epistle—still more impassioned than the last—and with it a long stick of candied angelica, both of which were so extremely gratifying to the young lady, that she was puzzled in her mind to know which pleased her the most.

Thus matters went on till long past dusk, so that, when her supper of bread and water was brought to her by Miss Wewitz’s orders, Miss Chutney had already had such a feast of sweetmeats and gingerbread, that she felt delighted her appetite would allow her to tell the maid to take the supper back to Miss Wewitz, with her compliments, and say, that as her parents paid for something alittlebetter than bread and water, she would rather go without food altogether than submit to be imposed upon; this message the maid, who had suffered from the schoolmistress’s ill-humour, was only too glad to have it in her power to deliver faithfully—and the consequence was, that Miss Wewitz felt herself called upon to pay a visit to the young lady.

On entering the linen-room, the schoolmistress, who had carried the bread and water back with her, placed it on one of the shelves, in her most dignified manner, and, telling Miss Chutney that she was utterly astounded at her bad, bad behaviour, begged to inform the young lady that she would get nothing else in that establishment, until she had partaken of the wholesome, though frugal meal that had been provided for her; adding, that if she went on in the way she was now going, it would not be long ere she would jump to have a meal of good white bread and water before retiring to rest. There was not a more proud, dainty girl in the whole establishment, she regretted to say, than Miss Chutney, nor one that left more orts on her plate. Miss Wewitz had long thought she wanted a good lesson on this point, and now she should have one that she would carry with her through life. And then the schoolmistress proceeded to narrate to the young lady how her dear, dear mother had once had occasion to punish her for her daintiness; for that, in her early days, boiled rice-pudding was not good enough for her; and how her dear mother had locked her up in her bed-room, for three whole days, with the plate of boiled rice pudding by her side; at the end of which time she was glad enough to eat up every scrap of it, and had really enjoyed it so much, that now she verily believed she preferred that kind of pudding to any other, and never partook of it without blessing her parent for the wholesome lesson she had taught her.

Miss Chutney said not a word, but tossed her head haughtily, and smiled, as she mentally contrasted the story with the schoolmistress’s total abstinence from her favourite dish on their “horrid rice-pudding days.”

Miss Wewitz, finding that her moral lecture on the beauties of boiled rice-pudding did not produce that solemn impression on the young lady’s mind which she had been induced to expect, requested to be informed whether Miss Chutney meant to partake of the repast that had been provided for her, or not?

Miss Wewitz paused for a reply, but Miss Chutney condescended to make no answer, and proceeded with the crimping of the lace round the edge of her apron, as if she had not even heard the question.

Miss Wewitz smiled, as she bit her lips with suppressed anger, and, bowing in her politest manner, said, perhaps Miss Chutney would wish her to go down on herbendedknees, and beg of her to partake of some nourishment; adding, that of courseshewas nobody in that establishment—and there was not the least respect due toher—oh, no! to be sure not!—she wasn’t even worthy of being answered, notshe—it wouldn’t make the slightest difference toherif Miss Chutney was seriously to injure her health by her perverse conduct—no! not the slightest in the world!—and here she simpered sarcastically, as if the bare idea of her want of sympathy with one of her parlour-boarders was an excellent joke.

The irony of the schoolmistress, however, was wholly lost upon Miss Chutney; for though Miss Wewitz continued simpering for some few minutes, the young lady did not so much as turn her head, but went on measuring the border of her apron over her middle finger.

Miss Wewitz could endure thenonchalanceof Miss Chutney no longer; so, seizing her by the arm, she desired her to be off to bed that moment; and, as she dragged the young lady up from the inverted clothes-basket on which she was seated, she bade her take her bread and water with her; for long before daylight she knew she would be only too glad to have it, and feel thankful for it, too.

Miss Chutney walked as leisurely as she possibly could towards the shelf on which the tray was placed, and had just raised it in her hand, when the exasperated Wewitz seized her by the arm, and began shaking her, saying, “Do move, girl, as if you had some little life in you,do!” In the warmth of her indignation, however, she agitated the young lady so violently, that the contents of the tray—bread, plate, glass, water and all—were dashed to the floor and deposited at her feet, splashing the front breadths of Miss Wewitz’s black satin dress, much to the annoyance of the schoolmistress, and the amusement of the pupil.

As the pedagogue in petticoats stooped down to wipe the liquid from the bottom of her skirt, she vowed all kinds of vengeance against the delighted Chutney, and among other threats she declared that, before she laid her head down on her pillow that night, she would pen a letter to the young lady’s guardian, and desire him to fetch her from the school immediately, or she would be sure to destroy her hard-earned reputation. In this manner Miss Wewitz continued to threaten and rail at Miss Chutney, as she followed her down the stairs to her bed-room.

The young East Indian, however, said not a word in reply; all that passed her lips was an occasional sarcastic simper; and though Miss Wewitz begged to assure her, on leaving her bed-room, that she would have no breakfast in that establishment on the morrow, provided the slice of bread that she had picked up and brought with her down stairs remained uneaten, Miss Chutney merely bowed in answer, for she was determined not to give way. She had said at the beginning that she would not be the first to make it up, and she would let the sour old thing see that she was no longer a child, to be kept under lock and key, indeed.

When the enraged schoolmistress had quitted the apartment, slamming the door after her, and Miss Chutney was left alone, she could not help thinking how desolate and friendless she was, without a soul near her to share or soothe her sorrows. As her head lay upon the pillow, she thought how all her schoolfellows were with their friends at home, enjoying themselves, while she was thousands of miles away from every one that cared for her. The only kind word she had received all that day was from a stranger, and if it hadn’t been for the sweetmeats he had given her, she really didn’t know what would have happened to her. All shedidknow was, she would have starved before she had touched that horrid bread and water. Still, she could not help thinking how odd it was that the French gentleman should trouble himself so much about her! what could he see in her? His whole manner had been so strange, and he had seemed so anxious to make her acquaintance from the very first! Of course, she could tell very well that all he had said about the piece of music he had lost was a little white fib, just as an excuse to introduce himself to her. It was very impudent of him, though, and she ought to be very much vexed with him for daring to take such a liberty with her, but—she knew not how it was—she really couldn’t.

Then she wonderedwhohe was. She had heard he was a French Count, and he himself had told her he was single. He’d make a very good husband, whoever had him; for if he could be so good to one whom he scarcely knew at all, what wouldn’t he do for one whom he had sworn at the altar to “love and cherish.” (Miss Chutney, and the whole of the first class, had the marriage-service by heart, it being their usual custom to pass the time in church by reading it during the sermon.)

Thus the school-girl continued ruminating and ruminating upon the more pleasant part of her day’s adventures, until she gradually glided into sleep.

In the morning, the self-willed Miss Chutney woke as determined as ever, and though the first thing that met her sight was the piece of dry bread on the chair at her bedside, she chuckled triumphantly, as she said, “I wonder which of us will be tired out first?” Then, as she once more turned over in her mind all the occurrences of the previous evening, and remembered Miss Wewitz’s threat of sending for her guardian, she grew red in the face, and bit her lips with vexation, for he’d be sure to read her one of his long prosy lectures, and write a solemn account of the whole affair to her papa, by the very next mail to India. The moment after this, however, she was laughing the threat to scorn, and saying to herself, that old Wewitz was too fond of parlour-boarders to think of expelling one—and especially one who remained at the school all the holidays, as she did.

All of a sudden it struck her that, just to let Wewitz see she didn’t mind about being locked up, she’d dress herself that minute, and be off up into the linen-room, so that when the old thing got up, she would find that she had gone up there of her own accord, and then she’d be ready to bite her fingers off with vexation—which would be such fun.

Accordingly, the young lady “slipped on her things” as rapidly as she could, and, having done so, crept stealthily up to her place of confinement. Then it struck her that she would open the window, and just let Wewitz know that she was already in the linen-room, and, what was more, that she wasn’t breaking her heart about it either, by singing over that lovely—

“Tyrant! soon I’ll burst thy chains.”

To tell the truth, too, though Miss Chutney did not dare confess as much to herself, and would doubtlessly have shrieked had any one ventured to hint as much to her—the young lady had a secret wish to let the kind French gentleman know that she was still incarcerated at the top of the house.

Miss Chutney had just got to “chains,” and was inwardly congratulating herself on the excellent quality of her lower notes that morning, when the head of M. le Comte de Sanschemise, done up in a Bandana silk neckerchief, bobbed suddenly out of the best bed-room window.

The head of Miss Chutney bobbed as suddenly in; and then she went through the same course of timid doubts and fears as she had indulged in on the preceding day. Again she felt satisfied that the Count would fancy she had commenced singing only to attract his attention; again she asked herself, for about the hundredth time, “What ever would he think of her?” and again her girlish reveries were put to flight by the appearance of the fishing-rod, which the Count used as the postal arrangement for “dropping her a line.”

The billet that it now conveyed was, if possible, penned in a more superlative strain than those of the preceding day, and Miss Chutney, after having read it, her ears burning with her blushes the while, scribbled a hasty reply with the pencil that accompanied it—thanking the Count for his tender inquiries, saying she was afraid she was unworthy of the high eulogiums he was kind enough to heap upon her, and informing him that she was undergoing a short term of solitary confinement, and bread and water, for having been imprudent enough to permit him to secrete himself in the music-room during the absence of her schoolmistress.

The reply had not been despatched many minutes, when the piscatorial post brought back a second communication from the Count, and this time it boresubstantialproofs of the Frenchman’s sympathy for the tender prisoner, for attached to one of the hooks that dangled at the end of the line was apetit pain, while hanging to another was a bunch of grapes. The bread and fruit alone would have been sufficient to make a deep and lasting impression on the very impressionable Miss Chutney, even had they been unaccompanied by any verbal expression of commiseration or attachment; but when she found, on breaking the roll in two, a letter secreted in the crumb, vowing everlasting affection, and protesting that he would be her slave for life if she would but fly with him toLa belle France, her delight knew no bounds.

Miss Chutney had only just finished perusing the proposal, when she heard the sound of Miss Wewitz’s foot upon the stairs. Hastily dashing the line out of the window, she ran to her accustomed seat on the edge of the inverted clothes-basket, and, pushing the roll and grapes and letter under her apron, sat there, waiting the coming of her tyrant, as calm, and almost as lifeless, as a vegetarian.

Miss Wewitz was lost in astonishment to find Miss Chutney so utterly hardened, as she termed it. However, she had written to her guardian, and the tone of her letter was such, that she felt confidently he would be with them the next day, so Miss Chutney could do as she pleased; from that moment Miss Wewitz washed her hands of her—though she could not help observing that, after the unremitting attention she had paid to her morals, such conduct was a most heart-rending return. With this pathetic sentiment she closed the door, and, having turned the key, descended the stairs with it in her pocket.

Miss Chutney could hardly contain herself for passion when she found that the cross, spiteful old thing, as she termed Miss Wewitz, hadreallysent for her guardian. She never thought she would have carried matters to that length. She had half a mind to, and it would just serve Miss Wewitz right if shedid, accept the French gentleman’s offer, and place herself under his protection. “Then,” she added, exultingly, “how nicely Miss Clever would be caught in her own trap, when Miss Chutney’s guardiandidcome down, and find that that young lady had eloped with a Frenchman to the Continent. Where would her trumpery hard-earned reputation, that she was always making such a fuss about, be then, she would like to know?—for of course,” continued Miss Chutney to herself, “the news wouldn’t be very long in travelling to all the mothers’ ears, who would be sure to take fright, and leave her without a pupil in the house.”

“Oh, wouldn’t it be a game!” she exclaimed, “and I should so like to do it, just to be revenged upon her; for if there’s one thing I can bear less than another, it is for persons to show their ill-temper, as she has been doing to me for these last two days. And I’m sure that nice, good-tempered creature of a Count would behave so differently to me. It’s quite evident, from all he says and does, that he would go down on his knees to be allowed to gratify my slightest wish; and, after all his kindness, it really would seem quite cruel to reject him. Besides,” she said to herself, “he was just the kind of man to take it seriously to heart, and perhaps commit some rash act; for it was evident that he was quite smitten with her—though she was sure she couldn’t tell why; and if anything were to occur to the poor man, she felt convinced she should end her days in a madhouse.”

While Miss Chutney was ruminating after this fashion, the postal fishing-rod again made its appearance, bearing a small slip of paper, on which were printed the well-known epistolary initials—

R V S V P.

At the sight of the request for a reply, the young lady’s courage failed her; and after some little reflection, she decided in her own mind that the best course to adopt would be to put it to the Count’s own good sense as to how it would be possible for her to quit the house with him, when she was kept in that room all day under lock and key. This, she said, would not be a positive refusal to the poor man, but it would be a nice gentle way of breaking to him what she felt he would take as a very severe disappointment.

Accordingly, having written as much, she threw the line out of the window, and sat down once more to reflect on what had occurred.

An answer was quickly returned, entreating the young lady, in the warmest possible language, to trust to the Frenchman’s honour and ingenuity, promising, that if she would but faithfully follow his directions, he would not only liberate her from her confinement on the morrow, but ensure her boundless happiness for ever after.

Miss Chutney’s curiosity was piqued. However was it possible for the Count to get her out of that room—much less the house—with Wewitz’s eyes continually watching both him and her: and then she ran over several of the best means of escape among heroines similarly situated. She thought of secret doors and sliding panels; but in that unromantic linen-room she felt satisfied that charming pieces of mechanism were hopeless; then she fixed her mind for a moment on a rope; but, on looking cautiously out of the window, she soon convinced herself that even if she could get down one, it would be utterly impossible for him to get one up such a height; next she turned her attention to tying Wewitz’s clean sheets together, and descending from the attic, as she had read of young ladies doing by means of their scarves; but, oh dear! that would never suit her, and she would much prefer a fire-escape, if there were such a thing handy. After this, her thoughts took a higher flight, and she dwelt for a moment on the delightful convenience of signet-rings, and of flinty-hearted keepers mollified by pathetic appeals, together with pampered menials, bribed by “purses of gold;” but these were all equally hopeless; and as she saw no other mode of escape but through the door, the windows, or the panels, and had exhausted every possible method of making her exit by any such means, she felt satisfied that the Count spoke without weighing the difficulties of the task that he proposed. However, as it was certain that there was no chance of his succeeding in such a project, why therecouldbe no harm in just letting the poor man have a try—besides, it would save her the unpleasantness of telling him that she could not listen to his request.

Accordingly, after some little cogitation. Miss Chutney wrote in pencil on the blank leaf of the Count’s note—

“I will do as you direct;”

and hooking it on to the line, flung it from the window.

In less than five minutes there was another delivery by the piscatorial post, bringing instructions for the young lady as to how she was to proceed.

For the present she was not to speak a word to a living creature, but to feign sulkiness with everybody, and return no answer to any question that might be put to her. Upon this the success of the whole plan depended.

Moreover, it would aid the plot greatly if, when any one entered her place of confinement, she appeared sitting with her face buried in her hands, and her apron thrown over her head, as if in deep grief.

What could it all mean?

She really began to feel half frightened. The instructions were so very odd—to pretend to be in the sulks, and to hide her face! Wherecouldbe the good of that? How could that get her out of the room? She had tried the sulks ever since yesterday evening, and she was not a bit nearer the other side of the door than when she was first locked up, she was sure. However, as that was all the Count required her to do, and she felt just in the humour to carry out that part of the instructions to the letter—for she had declared from the very beginning that she wouldn’t be the first to make advances, and she wasn’t going either—why, she didn’t mind acting as the Count desired, if it was only just to see what would come of it all.

Shortly after Miss Chutney had come to the above determination, she heard the key turned in the door; and immediately, in compliance with the Frenchman’s directions, she threw her black silk apron over her head, and buried her face in her hands.

Miss Wewitz, as she saw the girl’s figure bent down, her head almost resting on her knees, apparently overcome with sorrow, smiled with satisfaction, regarding the assumed attitude as evidence of that penitence which she was so anxious to bring about.

Finding that her presence was unheeded by her pupil, the schoolmistress gave one or two slight coughs, to apprise the young lady that she was in the room, and fidgeted rather noisily about the “presses,” pretending she had come up to put out some linen.

Miss Wewitz, however, was too gratified with what she was pleased to call a great alteration for the better, to think of interfering with the natural workings of Miss Chutney’s better nature, as she termed it; and accordingly stole out of the room again, satisfied that everything was going on so well, that when she again visited her pupil, she would find the piece of dry bread had been eaten, and the young lady dissolved in tears of shame and repentance.

Immediately the schoolmistress had quitted the apartment, Miss Chutney burst into as loud a titter as she felt it safe to give vent to under the circumstances, and again began wondering whatever would come of it all.

Then, to relieve her tedium and appease her hunger, came another packet from the Count, filled with affection and “goodies,” in the shape of a slice of a German sausage, apetit pain, and a small dab of mortar-likePâte de Guimauve, accompanied by a tender epistle, informing her that all was progressing most favourably; that he and his friends had come to terms with Miss Wewitz, and had consented to take £20 as a small compensation for the inconvenience they would be put to in leaving, and that they intended to quit the establishment early the next morning: concluding by entreating her to be discreet, and carry out to the letter the instructions he had given her.

ThePâte de Guimauve—to which Miss Chutney was particularly partial—was a fresh force brought to bear against the heart and stomach of the susceptible young lady; and as she devoured the sugared words, and sucked the sweetmeat, she had a twofold reason for thinking the Count the kindest and most polite person she had ever known.

Still, the notion of leaving on the morrow was far from being agreeable to her. She wished the Count had made it a day or two later. And yet, how stupid she was; there was not the least chance of her being able to get out of the house—so, of course, it would be all the same to her;—and, perhaps, after all, it would be better, as it would put an end to a very silly transaction on her part: not that she wished to break off her acquaintance with the Count, but the misfortune was, she had not been formally introduced to him. And people did make such a fuss if a girl even looked at a stranger. On that account alone she knew she never could be happy with him.

At this juncture, the key again sounded in the door, and again Miss Chutney hastily threw her apron over her head, and hid her face in her hands.

This time, the visitor was Mrs. Wewitz; for the old lady, hearing that the dry bread still remained untouched, had grown alarmed at the fancied stubbornness of the girl, and had come to see whether she could not prevail upon her to comply with her daughter’s injunctions.

But Mrs. Wewitz had what is called an unfortunate way with her, and although, as usual, she did everything for the best, she unluckily dwelt so long and so forcibly on the coming of Miss Chutney’s guardian, that the girl grew more sulky than ever, and maintained a solemn silence, notwithstanding the old lady’s entreaties and threats; so that, on her quitting the room, Miss Chutney, who before had felt inclined to waver in the course she was pursuing with the Frenchman, was now most anxious to embrace any opportunity that presented itself of avoiding an interview, which, as the time drew near, she got positively to dread.

Thus matters progressed until dusk, and then came a letter from the Count, informing her that on her retiring to rest that night, she would find secreted between the mattresses of her bed the garb of a Sister of Charity—(it would become her admirably, he said)—and requesting that she would favour him with her own clothes in exchange for the others. He would be in the playground after dark, and construe the extinguishing of her candle as a signal that she was about to drop them from her window, when he would place himself immediately below the balcony ready to receive them.

“Dear! dear!” exclaimed the anxious Miss Chutney, “how mysterious he is. What ever is he going to do! If it wasn’t for the dress of the Sister of Charity, I’m sure I should never consent to do what he asks me; but everybody tells me I look well in black, and Idothink the costume of those dear good creatures is so interesting, and, what’s more, so very becoming to persons of a dark complexion.”

Then she thought it would be a good bit of fun, and how the other girls in her class would laugh over it when they came to hear of it; besides, she assured herself nobody could kill her for doing it: and she seemed to derive no little consolation from the assurance. But why was she dressed up in such an odd way? that was what she wanted to know; and though Miss Chutney amused herself by framing many reasons for the masquerading, none, upon reflection, seemed sufficient to account for the strange proposal.

The remainder of the evening she passed in considerable suspense, anxious for the arrival of Miss Wewitz to conduct her to her bed-room—for she was longing to make her first appearance as a Sister of Charity; and to while away the time, she kept turning back her hair, and making a cap of a pocket-handkerchief, by way of trying how her new costume would suit her.

Nor did Miss Chutney utter one word to Miss Wewitz when that lady unlocked the door, previous to escorting her to her bed-chamber; for the girl had now made up her mind to quit the house, if possible, before the coming of her guardian, and was desirous of strictly fulfilling the instructions of the Count.

The schoolmistress, who was growing alarmed at what appeared to her the extraordinary firmness of the young lady, but nevertheless, too proud to think for one moment of giving way to her, as she descended the stairs did not forget to tell Miss Chutney that, on the morrow, her guardian would take her underhiscare.

On being left alone, the first act of Miss Chutney was to lock the door, and look between the mattresses for the promised dress, and, to her great delight, there it was, rosary and all. She was not long in exchanging her own for that of the“chère sœur”and as she put on each fresh portion of the costume, she stood for several minutes before thechevalglass, examining the effect of it, and laughing to herself at the novel appearance it gave her; and when she had finally arranged the cap and veil, she placed the candle on the ground, the better to see herself from head to foot, remaining no little time in front of the glass, now kneeling down and crossing her hands upon her bosom, and now telling her beads, with upturned eyes, with all the affectation of excessive devotion.

Suddenly, as she heard the rain-drops pattering like shot against the window-panes, she thought of the poor Count, whom she was keeping out in the wet all the while she was admiring herself; so, putting the extinguisher hastily on the candle, she seized the clothes she had recently discarded, and making them into a bundle, she opened the window as noiselessly as possible, and dropped them into his arms.

She had no sooner closed the sash than she began to look with considerable trepidation on what she had done, and proceeded to divest herself of the disguise, lest Miss Wewitz should return and discover all. Nor was it until she began to take off the clothes she had so imprudently received in exchange for her own, that she thought to inquire what she was to do with them on the morrow. To be seen by any one but the Count in them, would be to “let out” the whole affair. “What a great big silly she was!”

The exclamation had barely escaped her lips, when her fingers ran against the sharp point of a pin inside the bosom of the dress, and she discovered fastened there a three-cornered note. This was some little relief to her; but in the dark, as she was, how was it possible for her to know what was in it? It was just like her thoughtlessness—why didn’t she examine the dress well before putting it on?—she might have known the Count, after all the consideration he had shown, would never have dreamt of leaving her in such a predicament. And thus she went on talking to herself—reflecting and imagining the future—now regretting her imprudence, and now viewing the coming adventure as a “good bit of fun”—then glorying in the discomfiture of the schoolmistress when her flight was found out—and then thinking over all the Count’s kindnesses to her, and assuring herself of his extreme goodness, until sleep put an end to her reveries.

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