A Fluttered Dovecote Part 8

Though, after all, I was not so sure about the last part, for I did not feel half satisfied concerning my _affaire de coeur_, and was strolling somewhat listlessly along, when Clara pinched my arm.

"Here they come," she whispered.

And sure enough, there were Achille and the Signor coming towards us; when, I could not help it, all my ill-humour seemed to dart out of my eyes in a moment, and I could do nothing but sigh, and feel that I was a hopeless captive.

As I said before, I could not help it, and was obliged to close my eyes, when a horrible jerk brought me to myself; when there, if Clara had not let me step right into the ditch beside the path--a dreadful stinging-nettley place--instead of quietly guiding me, when she might have known that my eyes were shut; while before I could extricate myself, if Achille was not at my side, helping me out and squeezing my hand, so that really, out of self-defence, I was obliged to return the pressure.

"Miss Bozerne!" exclaimed Lady Blunt, pressing up to me, "how could you?"

I did not know, so I could not reply; while there were Miss Furness and the Fraulein--fat, hook-nosed old owl--looking as spiteful as could be.

"She did it on purpose," I heard Miss Furness whisper; while the Fraulein nodded her head ever so many times, so that she looked like a bird pecking with a hooked beak.

"Mademoiselle is not hurt, _I hope_?" said Achille, in his silkiest, smoothest tones; and there was so much feeling in the way he spoke, that I quite forgave him.

"Oh, no, not at all, Monsieur Achille," said Lady Blunt.

And then, after a great deal of bowing, we all fell into our places again.

"Won't there be a scolding for this!" whispered Clara. "We shall both have impositions."

"I don't care," I said, recklessly. "I should not mind if I slipped again."

"Slipped!" said Clara, satirically; "that was a pretty slip, certainly.

I never saw so clumsy a one, but it answered capitally."

"What do you mean?" I said, innocently.

"Oh, of course, you don't know, dear," said Clara, growing more and more satirical. "But there, never mind, I have both the notes."

"What notes?" I e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, with my heart beginning to beat--oh, so fast!

"Now, don't be a little stupid," said Clara, "when you know all the time. The Signor dropped them into my parasol, as I held it down half shut, and there they are--for I have not dared to take them out yet."

And there, sure enough, were two tiny brown paper squares, looking for all the world like packets of garden seeds, so as not to catch any one's eye when they were delivered--tied up, too, with little bits of string, so as not to be in the least like what they were. Though, really, it was too bad to try and make out that the whole thing was planned, and that I had slipped on purpose. Now, was it not?

"Why, what dear, lovable ingenuity," I could not help exclaiming. "And is one for you then, dear?"

"And why not, pray?" exclaimed Clara; "why should not I have notes as well as somebody, who has her meetings as well?"

"I'm sure I don't," I exclaimed. "How can you say so? Why, you know I did not meet him."

"Not your fault, my dear," said Clara, sarcastically. "But there, I'm not complaining; but when I am so open and confidential, I'm sure you need not be so close."

"Now, did you not promise to forget all that?" I said.

"Well, yes, so I did," she replied; "and I won't say any more about it.

But this was clever, wasn't it; and I'm sure I give you every credit for managing that slip so well."

"Indeed--indeed--indeed--indeed!" I said, "it was an accident."

But it was no use whatever; and the more I protested, the more the tiresome thing would not believe me; till I grew so cross I could have pinched her, only that I could not afford to quarrel just then.

By means of changing parasols, I obtained possession of my note; and then, how long the time did seem before we received our orders to turn back! But I learnt, though, from Clara, that Achille had made quite a confidante of the Signor, and that they were both planning together for us to have a long meeting.

"But how do you get to know all this?" I said.

"Do you suppose, miss, that no one else but you can manage to pa.s.s and receive notes so cleverly?" she replied.

I could not make any answer, for somehow or another Clara generally managed to get the better of me.

What would I not have given to have been alone for one five minutes beneath the deep green shady trees, for it seemed ages since I had had a letter from Achille. But it was of no use to wish; and I'm sure that it was quite three-quarters of an hour before Clara and I were up in our bedroom together, trying to get rid of Patty Smith.

She was such a stupid girl, and the more you gave her hints to go the more she would persist in stopping, for she was as obstinate as she was stupid; and I'm sure, if that's true about the metempsychosis, Patty Smith, in time to come, will turn into a lady donkey, like those grey ones that are led round Chester Square of a morning, and are owned by one of the purveyors of a.s.ses' milk. We tried all we could to get rid of her, but it was of no use; and at last, when we were ready to cry with vexation, and about to give it up and go down to dinner without reading our notes, some one called out--

"A letter for Miss Smith."

And then away ran the tiresome thing, and we were quite alone.

CHAPTER TEN.

MEMORY THE TENTH--THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE.

The first thing that Clara and I did was to tear up the brown paper wrappers into tiny little bits, all but where the directions were written, and those we chewed up quite small, to throw out of the window with the other pieces. And oh, how nasty brown paper is to chew!--all tarry and bitter, like cold sailors must be when they eat one another in those dreadful boats that have not enough provisions, and when there's "water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink." Then I tore open the tiny note, and Clara did the same; and I had just read two lines, when I _felt_ that I was watched, and looking up, there stood that horrid Miss Furness, just like some basilisk, or gorgon, or c.o.c.katrice, or dreadful thing of that kind.

Of course Miss Furness couldn't have been a c.o.c.katrice, but we were so badly taught at that wretched Mrs Blunt's, that I have not the most remote idea what is the feminine of the extinct fabulous creature, and henatrice sounds so horribly-absurd. Anyhow, she was a wretch--a nasty despicable, hateful, horrible wretch, whom it could not be a sin to hate.

"The bell has rung for dinner, young ladies," she said, with her eyes devouring my note.

How I did tremble! but I knew that if I was not careful I should betray poor Achille; while, fortunately, Clara had been sitting so that she was not visible from the door, and had time to slip her note into her pocket, while she pretended to have one of her boots off.

For a moment or two I was so scared that I did not know what to do. If I tried to hide the note, I knew that she would suspect that there was something wrong, while she would have been well aware whether there was a letter for me from home, since she always had the opening of the bag.

What could I do? For a moment, I was about to crumple the paper up in my hand; but fortunately I restrained myself, and holding the paper boldly in my hand, I pretended that I had been writing out the aliquot parts of a s.h.i.+lling; and, as I doubled the note up slowly, I went on saying,--

"Coming directly, ma'am--one farthing is one forty-eighth; one halfpenny is one twenty-some-thingth--oh, fourth. Oh, dear! oh, dear! how hard it is, to be sure."

"You seem to have grown very industrious, Miss Bozerne," said Miss Furness, looking very doubtfully at the paper; and I was afraid that she would smell it, for it was quite strong of that same scent that Achille always used.

"Yes, isn't she?" said Clara, coming to the rescue; "but I do not think it will last, ma'am."

I could have hugged her for that; for I knew that the tiresome old thing suspected something to be wrong, and was mixing it up with the morning's adventure. But nothing more was said, and we descended to dinner, and there I was with that note burning in my pocket, and not a chance could I get to read it; for so sure as I tried to be alone, go where I would, there was that Miss Furness's favourite, Celia Blang, after me to see what I was doing.

At last, during the afternoon lessons, I could bear it no longer; so I went and sat down by the side of Clara.

"What does he say, dear?" I whispered.

"Wants me to meet him to-night," she wrote on her slate, and rubbed it out directly. For we actually used common slates--noughts-and-crosses slates--just like charity-school children. But I had my revenge, for I dropped and cracked no less than ten of the nasty things, though I am afraid papa had to pay.