The Project Gutenberg EBook of Turquoise and Ruby, by L.T. Meade
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Title: Turquoise and Ruby
Author: L.T. Meade
Release Date: July 8, 2013 [EBook #43146]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TURQUOISE AND RUBY ***
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Turquoise and Ruby
By L.T. Meade
Published by Grosset and Dunlap, New York.
This edition dated 1906.
Turquoise and Ruby, by L.T. Meade.
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TURQUOISE AND RUBY, BY L.T. MEADE.
CHAPTER ONE.
GREAT REFUSAL.
"Nora, Nora! Where are you?" called a clear, girlish voice, and Cara
Burt dashed headlong into a pretty bedroom all draped in white, where a
tall girl was standing by an open window. "Nora!" she cried, "what are
you doing up in your room at this hour, when we are all busy in the
garden preparing our tableaux? Mrs Hazlitt says that she herself will
recite `A Dream of Fair Women,' and by unanimous consent you are to be
Helen of Troy. Did any one ever suit the part so well? `Divinely tall,
and most divinely fair.' Why, what is the matter, Honora? Why have you
that frown between your pretty brows, and why aren't you just delighted?
There is not a girl in the school who does not envy you the part. Why
are you staying here, all by yourself, instead of joining in the fun
downstairs? It's a heavenly evening, and Mrs Hazlitt is in the best of
humours, and we are all choosing our parts and our dresses for the grand
scene. Oh, do come along, they are all calling you! There's that
tiresome little Deborah Duke--Mrs Hazlitt's right hand, as we call
her--shouting your name now, downstairs. Why _don't_ you come; what is
the matter?"
"There is this the matter!" said Honora Beverley, and she turned and
flashed two dark brown eyes out of a marvellously fair face full at her
companion. "I won't take the part of Helen of Troy; she was not a good
woman, and I will have nothing to do with her. I will be Jephtha's
daughter, or Iphigenia, or anything else you like, but I will not be
Helen of Troy."
"Oh, how tiresome you are, Nora! What does the character of Helen
matter? Besides, we are not supposed to know whether she is good or
bad. Tennyson speaks of her--oh, so beautifully; and we have just to
listen to his words, and the audience won't know, why should they? All
you have to do is just to steal out of the dusky wood and stand for a
minute with the limelight falling all over you, and then go back again.
It's the simplest thing in the world, and there's no one else in the
school who can take the part, for there's no one else tall enough, or
fair enough. Now, don't be a goose; come along, this minute."
"It's just because I won't be a goose that I have determined not to act
Helen of Troy," replied Honora. "Leave me alone, Cara; take the part
yourself, if you wish."
"I?" said Cara, with a laugh. "Just look at me, and see if I should
make a worthy Helen of Troy!"
Now, Cara was exceedingly dark, not to say sallow, and was slightly
below middle height and also rather thickly built, and even Nora laughed
when she saw how unsuited her friend would be to the part.
"Well, I won't be it, anyhow," she said, with a shrug of her shoulders.
"I don't want to take part in the tableaux, at all."
"Then you will disappoint Mrs Hazlitt very cruelly," said Cara, her
voice changing. "Ah, and here comes Deborah. Dear old Deb! Now,
Deborah, I am going to leave this naughty girl in your hands. She is
the most obstreperous person in the entire school, and the most beloved,
for that matter. Just say a few words of wisdom to her and bring her
down within five minutes to join the rest of us in the garden. I will
manage to make an excuse for her non-appearance until then."
As Cara spoke, she waved her hand lightly towards Nora, who was still
standing by the open window, and then vanished from the room as quickly
as she had entered it. After she had gone, there was a moment's
silence.
Nora Beverley was close on seventeen years of age. She was practically
the head girl of the school of Hazlitt Chase--so-called after its
mistress, who was adored by her pupils and was one of the best
headmistresses in England. Mrs Hazlitt possessed all the
qualifications of a first-rate high-school mistress, with those gentle
home attributes and that real understanding of the young, which is given
to but few. She had married, and had lost her only child; husband and
child had both been taken from her. But she did not mourn as one
without hope. Her endeavour was to help girls to be good, and true, and
noble in the best sense. Her education was, therefore, threefold,
embracing body, mind, and soul. Her school was not an especially large
one, never consisting of more than thirty girls, but the time spent at
Hazlitt Chase was one unlikely to be forgotten by any of them in after
life, so noble was the teaching, so systematic the complete training.
Mrs Hazlitt knew quite well that, to make a school really valuable to
her young scholars, she must be exceedingly careful with regard to the
girls who came there. She admitted no girl within the school under the
age of fourteen, and allowed no girl to stay after she had reached
eighteen years of age. The girl who came need not necessarily belong to
the aristocracy, but she must be a lady by birth, and must have brought
from her former schools or teachers the very highest recommendations for
honour, probity, and good living. She must, besides, be intellectual
above the average. With those recommendations, Mrs Hazlitt--who
happened to be exceedingly well off--made the money part a secondary
consideration, taking many a girl for almost nominal fees, although, on
the other hand, those who could pay were expected to do so generously.
So great, did the reputation of this school become that girls' names
were on the books often for years before they were old enough to be
admitted, and, in after years, to have belonged to that select academic
group who walked the old cloisters at Hazlitt Chase and played happily
in the ancient grounds was in itself a distinction.
It was now early in June. The school would break-up in about five
weeks--for Mrs Hazlitt never kept to the usual high-school dates--and
all the girls were deeply interested in those guests who were to
assemble to witness the distribution of prizes, to see an old play of
the time of Queen Elizabeth acted in the Elizabethan garden, and, in
especial, to behold the tableaux of that masterpiece of Tennyson--"A
Dream of Fair Women."
Mrs Hazlitt was remarkable for her gifts as a reciter, and had arranged
to tell the story herself in Tennyson's immortal words and to allow
those girls who were best suited to the parts to appear in the tableaux
during the recitation.
By common consent, to Nora Beverley was assigned the part of Helen of
Troy. Nora had been at the school almost since she was fourteen, and
had grown up in its midst a gentle, reserved, dignified girl, who never
gave her heart especially to any one particular person, but was admired
and respected by all. She was clever, without being ingenious; very
beautiful in appearance, and was known to be rich.
Cara Burt was supposed to be her special friend, and was sent to her now
on this occasion to desire her to come at once to Mrs Hazlitt, who was
seated in the old Elizabethan garden, and was choosing the different
girls who were to take part in the coming tableaux. Cara returned
somewhat slowly up the box walk and stood before Mrs Hazlitt with
downcast eyes.
"Well," said that good lady; "and where is Honora? You were some time
away, Cara; why has she not come with you?"
"I don't know whether she will come at all," said Cara. "She seems
very--I don't mean undecided, but decided against taking the part."
A swift red passed over Mrs Hazlitt's cheeks. She was evidently quite
unaccustomed to the slightest form of insubordination.
"Did you tell Nora that I desired her to be present?" was her remark.
"Yes--of course I did, Mrs Hazlitt. Oh, may I sit near you, Mary?"
Cara seated herself cosily beside Mary L'Estrange.
"I told her, Mrs Hazlitt, that you wanted her immediately, and where we
were all to be found, and that she was to be Helen of Troy."
"Well--and--?" said Mrs Hazlitt.
"She said she did not want to be Helen of Troy--that Helen of Troy was a
wicked woman, and that she would not take the part."
Again the colour swept across Mrs Hazlitt's face. "We must regard
Helen as visionary," she said, "a vision of womanly beauty. There is no
one in the school who can take her, except Honora, but I override no
one's scruples. I presume, however, that she will be gracious enough to
give me an answer."
The headmistress was too calm ever to allow her real feelings to be
seen, but the girls who knew her well, and who clustered round her now
in pretty groups, watched her face with anxiety. Jephtha's daughter did
not wish to be deprived of her part, nor did Cleopatra, nor did Fair
Rosamond, nor did Iphigenia. How dreadful of Helen of Troy if she upset
all the arrangements and made the pretty tableaux impossible!
"Oh, of course she will yield," said Mary L'Estrange. But Cara Burt
shook her head.
"Nobody knows Honora well, do they?" she said, in a semi-whisper to her
companion.
"Perhaps not," replied Mary; "and yet, she has been in the school for
years."
"I consider her exceedingly conceited," remarked Cara again, dropping
her voice. "But, oh! here comes Deborah--dear old Deborah--and no
Honora, as I am alive! Now I wonder what is going to happen."
Deborah Duke was the English teacher and general factotum in the school.
All the girls adored her. It was not necessary to worship her. She
was the sort of person round whose neck you could hang, whose waist you
could clasp, whose cheeks you could kiss, whom you could shake, if you
liked, if she were in a bad humour--but, then, Deborah was never in a
bad humour--whom you could go to in all sorts of troubles and get to
intercede for you. She was plain, and dumpy, and freckled.
Nevertheless, she was Deborah, the darling of the school. As to her
knowledge of English, it is very much to be doubted whether it was
specially extensive; but, at any rate, she knew how to coddle a girl who
was not quite well and how to put a bad-tempered girl into a good
humour, and how, on all and every occasion, to come between Mrs Hazlitt
and the children whom she taught. The girls all owned that they could
be afraid of Mrs Hazlitt, but of Deborah--never.
"Here you are, Deborah!" called out Cara. "Take this seat, won't you?
There is plenty of room between Mary and me. Sit down, and tell us when
Helen of Troy intends to put in her appearance."
"Why does not Honora Beverley come when I request her presence?" said
Mrs Hazlitt, speaking in that tone of majesty which always impressed
the girls.
"Honora is coming in one minute, Mrs Hazlitt, and she will explain
matters to you herself. I am very sorry," continued poor little
Deborah, whispering her latter remark to Mary and Cara. "She must have
a bee in her bonnet; no one else could object to represent Tennyson's
beautiful lines."
Just at that moment there came a slow step down the centre walk of the
Elizabethan garden. Its edges of box, which were clipped very close and
thick, slightly rustled as a white dress trailed against them, and then
a very slim girl, with the fairest of fair faces and a head of thick and
very pale golden hair stood in their midst. She was taller than all the
other girls, and slimmer, and there was a wonderful darkness in her
eyes. She was out of the common, for the soft brown of her eyes was
rare to find in so fair a face.
"You have sent for me, Mrs Hazlitt," said Honora, "and I have come."
"You have been very slow in obeying my summons, Honora," said Mrs
Hazlitt, in her gentlest tones.
"I am sorry," replied Nora.
She came a step nearer, and stood before her mistress. She slightly
lowered her eyes. The girls, who looked on in extreme wonder and
interest, hardly breathed while waiting for the conversation which they
knew was about to ensue.
"I am very sorry, indeed," repeated Honora, "but I was detained. I had
made up my own mind, but your messenger sought to unmake it."
"Well, Honora," said Mrs Hazlitt, briskly, "you know, dear, that we
have decided, amongst the other interesting events of the eighth of
July, that Tennyson's `Dream of Fair Women' shall be recited by myself,
and that, in order to give meaning and depth to the wonderful poem, I
mean to present a series of tableaux to our guests. This will be
nothing more nor less than that the `fair women' who are represented in
the poem shall appear just when their names are mentioned, and,
surrounded by limelight and suitably dressed in character, shall give
point to my recitation. By unanimous consent, you, Honora, are elected
to take the part of Helen of Troy. I have sent for you, dear, to tell
you this. I shall study the dress of the period and will write to-night
to a friend of mine at the British Museum, in order to be sure of good
and suitable costumes. You will have nothing to do but simply to stand
before the audience for a few minutes. I think I have got all the other
characters, and I have sent for you mainly to express my desire. You,
Honora, will be Helen, you understand?"
"I understand what you wish," replied Honora.
There was a question in her voice, which caused the other girls to look
at her attentively. Mrs Hazlitt paused; she did not speak at all for a
minute; then she rose slowly.
"Being my scholar," she said then, "is but to know and to obey. You
will be Helen of Troy. Now, girls, I think our pleasant meeting can
come to an end, and it is supper time. Deborah, go into the house and
see if supper is prepared in the north parlour. Good-night, girls; I
may not see any of you again this evening." But, before Mrs Hazlitt
could retire, Honora came a step forward and laid her hand on her arm.
"You are mistaken," she said. "You must listen. Another girl must be
found to take the part of Helen of Troy, for I refuse to act."
The light was growing dim, for it was getting on to nine o'clock, but
again the girls perceived that Mrs Hazlitt's cheek was flushed, and
that her eyes looked almost angry.
"What do you mean?" she said, coldly.
"I don't like the character, and I won't appear in the tableau as the
character, that is all."
"But, when I desire you to be the character--"
"I don't think you will force me against my conscience. This is a case
of conscience: I will not be Helen of Troy."
"Do you quite know what you are saying?"
"Quite."
"She spoke to me very explicitly," said Deborah. "It is, I think, a
matter of conscience."
"She gave me her mind, also," called out Cara. "Hush, Deborah. Cara;
when it is time for you to speak, I will call upon you to do so. Do you
clearly understand, Honora, what this means?"
"I don't know what it means, except that I will not be Helen of Troy."
"Then who is to be Helen of Troy?"
"Anybody who is sufficiently indifferent to take the part."
"I want to put things quite clearly before you, Honora. You understand
that, on the day when the parents of my pupils arrive here to see their
children, when relations and friends cluster in the old garden, it must
be a member of the school who takes part in all the tableaux and all the
different events."
"Yes, I understand that."
"Will you have the goodness to point out to me amongst my thirty girls
who else could be Helen, `divinely tall, and most divinely fair'?"
Honora's dark eyes seemed to sweep her companions for a moment. Then
she said, slowly:
"That is for you to discover; not for me."
"It means this, then," said Mrs Hazlitt, very slowly. "That because
you pretend to know more than I know, we are to give up the tableaux
altogether, for there is no one else in the school to take the part."
Honora shrugged her shoulders.
"I am sorry," she said.
"You won't yield?"
"I will not."
"You have displeased me extremely. You talk of this as a case of
conscience. I declare that it is nothing of the sort. Helen of Troy
was the symbol of all that is beautiful in woman. Her name has come
down through the ages because of her loveliness and gracious character.
When a schoolgirl like you attempts to override her mistress' maturer
judgment, she acts with wilfulness and ungraciousness, to say the least
of it."
"I am sorry," said Honora.
She turned aside. There was a lump in her throat. After a minute, she
continued:
"But I will not act Helen of Troy."
"That being the case, girls," said Mrs Hazlitt, who had quite resumed
her usual calm of manner, "we must forego the tableaux--that is unless a
suitable Helen of Troy can be found within twenty-four hours. I will
now wish you good-night. I am disappointed in you, Honora, very much
disappointed."
CHAPTER TWO.
FOR HELEN OF TROY.
The excitement of the school knew no bounds. Hazlitt Chase was not a
house divided against itself. All the girls loved all the other girls.
Hitherto, there had never been a split in the camp. This was partly
caused by the fact that there were no really very young girls in the
school. A girl must have passed her fourteenth birthday before she was
admitted. Thus it was easy to enlist the sympathies, to ensure the
devotion of the young scholars. They worked for an aim; that aim was to
please Mrs Hazlitt. She wanted to prepare them for the larger school
of life. She took pains to assure them that the sole and real object of
education was this. Mere accomplishments were nothing in her eyes, but
she desired her girls to find a place among the good women of the
future. They must not be slatternly; they must not be vain,
worldly-minded, but they must be beautiful--that is, as beautiful as
circumstances would permit. Each gift was to be polished like a weapon
for use in the combat which lay before them; for the battle they had to
fight was this: they had, in their day and generation, to resist the
evil and choose the good.
Now, Mrs Hazlitt very wisely chose heroes and heroines from the past to
set before her girls, and she felt very much annoyed now that Nora
Beverley should object to take the part of Helen of Troy--Helen, who,
belonging to her day and generation, had been much tried amongst
beautiful women, badly treated, harshly used; sighed for, longed for,
fought over, died for by thousands. That this Helen, so marvellous,
so--in some senses of the word--divine, should be criticised by a mere
schoolgirl and considered unworthy to be represented by her, even for a
few minutes, was, to the headmistress, nothing short of ridiculous.
Nevertheless, she was the last person to wound any one's conscience.
She retired to her private sitting-room, and then quite resolved to give
up "A Dream of Fair Women," and to substitute some other tableaux for
the pleasure of her guests.
Meanwhile, in the school, there was great excitement. Cleopatra,
Jephtha's daughter, the gracious Queen Eleanor, and the other characters
represented by Tennyson in that dim wood before the dawn, were
exceedingly distressed at not being allowed to take their parts.
"I have written home about it, already," said Mary L'Estrange. "I have
asked my father--who knows a great deal about antiquity, and the Greek
story in particular--to send me sketches of the most suitable dress for
Iphigenia. I have no scruples whatever in taking the part, and I cannot
see why Nora should. Oh, Nora, there you are--won't you change your
mind?"
"My mind is my own, and I won't alter it for any one living," said Nora.
"Now, don't disturb me, please, Mary; I want to recite over the first
six stanzas of `In Memoriam' before I go to bed."
She began whispering to herself, a volume of Tennyson lying concealed in
her lap. Mary shrugged her shoulders and went to another part of the
school-room. Here was to be found a girl of the name of Penelope. She
was a comparatively new comer, and had not entered the school until just
before her sixteenth birthday. Some pressure had been brought to bear
to secure her admission, and the girls were none of them sure whether
they liked her or not. Mrs Hazlitt, however, took a good deal of
notice of her, was specially kind to her, and often invited her to have
supper with herself in the old summer parlour, where Queen Elizabeth was
said, at one time, to have feasted.
Penelope Carlton was not at all a pretty girl, but she was fair, with
very light blue eyes, and an insipid face. Now, as Cara and Mary looked
at her, it seemed to dart simultaneously into both their brains that,
rather than lose the tableaux altogether, they might persuade Penelope
to take the part of Helen. Penelope was not especially an easily
persuaded young woman; she was somewhat dour of temper, and could be
very disagreeable when she liked. Honora was a universal favourite, but
no one specially cared for Penelope. Some of her greatest friends were
the younger girls in the school, over whom she seemed to have an uncanny
influence.
"Listen, Penelope," said Mary, on this occasion. "You were in the
arbour just now?"
"Yes," said Penelope; "I was."
"And you heard what Nora said?"
"Not being stone-deaf, I heard what she said," responded Penelope.
"You thought her, perhaps, a little goose?" said Cara. "Well," said
Penelope, "I don't know that I specially applied that epithet to her. I
suppose she had her reasons. I think, on the whole, I respected her.
Few girls would give up the chance of taking the foremost position and
looking remarkably pretty, just for the sake of a scruple."
"And such a scruple!" cried Cara. "For, of course, Helen was
visionary--nothing else."
Penelope shrugged her shoulders.
"I have not studied the character," she said. "I have purposely avoided
learning anything about Greek heroines. I know about Jephtha's
daughter; for I happen to have read the Book of Judges; and I also know
the story of our Queen Eleanor; for I was slapped so often by my
governess when I was learning that part of English history that I'm not
likely to forget it. The great Queen Eleanor and going to bed
supperless are associated in my mind together. Well, what do you want,
girls? `A Dream of Fair Women' is at an end, is it not? I suppose
we'll have something else--`Blue Beard,' or scenes from `Jane Eyre.' Oh
dear--I wish there was not such a fuss about breaking-up day; you are
all in such ludicrous spirits!"
"And are not you?" said Mary L'Estrange, colouring slightly.
"I?" said Penelope. "Why should I be? I stay on here all alone.
Deborah sometimes stays with me, or sometimes it's Mademoiselle, or
sometimes Fraulein. When it's Deborah, I get her to read foolish
stories aloud to me by the yard. When it's Mademoiselle, she insists on
chattering French to me, and, perforce, I learn a few phrases; and when
it's Fraulein, I equally benefit by the German tongue. But you don't
suppose it's anything but _triste_."
"You must long for the time when you will leave school," said Cara. "It
is very selfish of me," she added, "but I have such delightful holidays,
and I do look forward to them so. Picture to yourself a great place,
and many brothers and sisters and cousins of all sorts and degrees, and
uncles and aunts; and father and mother, and grandfather and
grandmother; and great-grandfather and great-grandmother; and we take
expeditions to one place and another every day; and sometimes
great-grandfather hires a hotel by the sea and takes every one of us
there for a week. That's my sort of holiday," continued Cara, "and the
days fly, and when night comes I am so sleepy that they are all too
short. Oh dear! but how I do run on! I am sorry for you, of course,
Penelope."
"Don't be sorry," said Penelope; "I am not sorry for myself: I don't
want the days to fly; for, when I have passed my eighteenth birthday, I
must leave here and go somewhere to teach. It entirely depends on what
sort of a character Mrs Hazlitt gives me whether I get a good position
or not. But, up to the present, I have managed to please her, and I
always take the little ones, who will do anything for me, off her hands.
By the way, I have promised to play with Juliet and Agnes this evening.
They ought to be in bed, but they are sitting up because I have
promised them one wild game of hide-and-seek in the garden. I must go
and fulfil my promise now."
As Penelope spoke, she rose.
"She's not so very short, after all," thought Cara. "But how plain she
is," thought Mary.
"She's wonderfully fair, all things considered," pursued Cara, in her
own mind. "She might do--she could never be like Honora, who is ideal--
but she might do."
Aloud she said:
"You can't go to the children for a minute, or, rather, you had better
let Deborah go, and tell them that you will play with them to-morrow
night."
"What do you mean?"
Penelope's dull, pale blue eyes stared with an ugly sort of glimmer.
Then they resumed their usual, apathetic expression.
"I don't like to break my word to children," she said. Mary jumped up
and came towards her.
"You know what is happening," she said. "Our wonderful, beautiful
tableaux are in danger of coming to grief. They will fall to the ground
completely, unless we can get some girl belonging to the school to take
the part of Helen."
"Well, Nora Beverley refuses; I don't know who else can do it."
"You can do it, Penelope."
"And you must!" exclaimed Mary. "Deborah, go and tell those silly
children to get into bed."
A wave of astonished colour swept over Penelope Carlton's cheeks. She
had been seated, but now she rose. She walked restlessly towards the
window. There was within her breast undeveloped, but very strong,
ambition. She saw herself quite truly, for she was not the sort of girl
to be self-deceived. But she had always hoped that her opportunity
might come. She had always known that she possessed possibilities. She
was young; she was clever. That she was born plain, she admitted with
scathing frankness. She called herself hideous and took little pains
with her appearance. She hoped that her brain, however, might bring her
laurels. She was strong, and young, and certainly clever. Against
these advantages lay the disadvantages of extreme poverty, absolute
friendlessness, and of a very plain face. There is, perhaps, no plainer
woman than a very fair woman when she is plain, for she seems to have
nothing to relieve the insipidity of her appearance. This was
Penelope's case. But now, all of a sudden, a chance was given to her.
She--Helen of Troy! It would be taking her out of her place. She would
not be able to do the part at all. Nevertheless, there was such a thing
as a make-up, and that could be employed in her behalf. She looked
eagerly at the three girls and said, in a low voice:
"Do send Deborah to the children: I will play with them another night;
and tell her to take them some chocolates from the school store and to
give them my love, and let us go into the garden."
It took but a few minutes to fulfil all these requests, and Penelope,
Mary, and Cara were soon pacing up and down on the front lawn. Other
girls were also walking about in groups. The one subject of
conversation was Tennyson's "Dream of Fair Women." It was so
interesting, so beautiful, so suited to the school. It seemed so
ridiculous and unreasonable of the one girl who could be Helen of Troy
not to take the part.
"Well," said Mary, eagerly, to her companion--"will you, or will you
not?"
"But I am so ugly," began Penelope.
"Yes--there is no doubt of it, you are very plain," said Cara.
"Poor and ugly," quoted Penelope, half under her breath. "What possible
chance have I? Then I am not even tall; I am just fair--that is all."
"Your height can be magnified by your coming a little more forward,"
said Cara, "and, of course, Mrs Hazlitt manages the dresses. Yours
will be severity itself, and it won't matter whether you have a good
figure or not. Oh, surely you can do it; you have got the main
characteristic--great fairness."
Penelope laughed.
"`A daughter of the gods'!" she quoted.
The other girls also laughed.
"Why do you want me to do this thing?" said Penelope, glancing around.
"You have never taken any special notice of me until now. Why are you,
all of a sudden, so--so--civil? I don't understand."
"We had best be frank," said Cara.
"Tea, of course, that is what I wish. In the world, no one will be
frank; each person will disguise his or her true feelings; but at school
one expects frankness. So say what you like."
"Well," said Cara, "we do not want to give up our own parts, and, next
to Nora, you are the fairest girl in the school. In fact, all the
others are mediocre, except the dark ones."
"I am very dark," said Mary, "and the part allotted to me is that of
Jephtha's daughter."
"Who will be Fair Rosamond?" suddenly asked Penelope.
"Oh, we've got a girl for her--Annie Leicester. She is nothing
remarkable, but can be done up for the occasion. But, you see, Helen
comes first of all the fair women, and the lines about her are far more
beautiful than about anybody else. Special pains must be taken with
regard to her entrance on the scene. You will do all right: I don't
pretend that you will be as good as Honora, but as she refuses--if you
only would consent--"
"You want this very much, indeed," said Penelope, her eyes sparkling
once again with that queer, by no means pleasant, light in them.
"You will consent," said Mary. "We have to let Mrs Hazlitt know within
twenty-four hours, and the sooner she is acquainted with the fact that
we have found a Helen of Troy, the better."
"Oh, I can't consent all in a hurry," replied Penelope. "I must take
the night to think it over. This is exceedingly important to both of
you--that I can see--and I have few, very few, chances. I must make the
most of all that come in my way. I think I know just what you want.
Good-night, girls."
She went slowly back into the house. Mary and Cara looked at each
other.
"Do I like her?" said Cara, suddenly.
Mary gave a laugh.
"I detest her," she said. "I never could understand why she came
amongst us. Honora Beverley has her cranks, but she is aboveboard, and
honest to the core. I don't believe this girl is honest--I mean, I
don't think, in her heart of hearts, she would mind a dishonourable
action. From the very first she has been different from the rest of us:
I often wish she had never come to the school."
"Why so?" asked Cara. "She doesn't interfere with you."
"But she interferes with Molly, my younger sister. Molly is devoted to
her--most of the fourteen-year-old girls are. I can't imagine why a
woman like Mrs Hazlitt should have such a girl in the school."
Cara laughed.
"We can't fathom Mrs Hazlitt," she remarked. "Of course, we love her,
every one does; and there isn't such a school as ours in the length and
breadth of England. Everything that is necessary for a girl's education
is attended to, and yet there is no pressure, no over-study, no strain
on the nerves. A girl who leaves Hazlitt Chase and goes into society,
or to Newnham, or Girton, is equally well-fitted for the career which
lies before her."
"Well, come in now," said Mary, sleepily. "I am dead tired. I only
hope that ugly Penelope will take the part of Helen of Troy."
CHAPTER THREE.
A STARTLING CONDITION.
During the night that followed, most of the girls at Hazlitt Chase slept
soundly. The day through which they had just lived was conducive to
healthy slumber. There was nothing to weigh on their young hearts.
They were tired, healthily tired, from a judicious mixture of exercise
and work--of mental interest, moral stimulus, and the best physical
exercise.
But one girl lay awake all night. She tossed from side to side of her
restless pillow. Now, this girl was not Honora Beverley, who, having
clearly stated her mind, had felt no further compunction. She had a
brother--a clergyman--to whom she was devoted, and she did not think
that he would like her to act Helen of Troy. Be that as it may, she had
made her decision, and would abide by it. She therefore, although sorry
she had upset the arrangements of the school, and in particular had
annoyed Mrs Hazlitt, slept the sleep of the just.
The girl who lay awake was Penelope Carlton.
Now, Penelope, being poorer than the others, was not in any way
subjected on that account to severer rules or to poorer accommodation.
Each girl in the old Chase had a bedroom of her own, and Penelope, who
paid nothing a year, but who was taken altogether out of good will and
kindness, had just as pretty a room as Honora Beverley, whose father
paid two hundred and fifty pounds per annum for her education in this
select establishment. No one in the school knew that Penelope was
really taken out of a sort of charity. That would, indeed, have been to
ruin the girl: so thought Mrs Hazlitt. Her room was small, but
perfectly decorated, and although in winter there were dark red curtains
to all the windows, and bright fires in the grates, and electric light
to make the place bright and cheerful: yet in summer every schoolgirl's
special apartment was draped in virgin white.
Penelope now lay down on as soft a bed as did her richer sisters, and
had just as good a chance as they of peaceful slumber. But alack--and
alas! she could not sleep! Penelope's mind was upset, and a possibility
of doing a kindness to the one creature who in all the world she truly
loved, flashed before her mind. Poor Penelope had no father, and no
mother; but she had one sister, to whom she was devoted. This sister
was as poor as herself. Her name was Brenda, and she had been a
governess in different families for some years. She used to write to
Penelope at least once a week, and her letters were always complaining
of the hardships of her lot. She assured Penelope that the office of
teacher was the most to be dreaded of any in the wide world, and again
and again begged of her sister to think of some other mode of earning
money. A pupil of Mrs Hazlitt's, however, had no other career open to
her, and Penelope was resigned to her fate. She had eighteen more
months to stay at Hazlitt Chase, and during that time she resolved to
bring her remarkable talents--for such she felt them to be--well to the
front.
Now, as she tossed from side to side of her bed, she recalled a letter
she had received from Brenda that morning. In the letter, Brenda had
assured her that if she could but find twenty pounds, she would be--as
she expressed it--a made woman.
"I want exactly that sum," she represented, "to go with my pupils to the
seaside. You don't know how terribly shabby my wardrobe is; I am simply
in despair. A great deal hangs on this visit. There is a man whom I
know and who, I believe, cares for me; and if I had twenty pounds to
spend on beautifying my wardrobe, I might secure him, and so end the
miseries of my present lot. I cannot help confiding in you, Penelope,
although, of course, you can't help me. Oh, how I wish you could! for
if I were once married, I might see about you, and get you to come and
stay with me, and give you a chance in life, instead of continuing this
odious teaching."
The letter rambled on for some time, as was the case with most of
Brenda's epistles. But, in the postscript, it once again alluded to the
subject of the needful twenty pounds.
"Oh, it is such a little sum," wrote Brenda,--"so easily acquired, so
quickly spent. Why, my eldest pupil had far more than that spent on her
wardrobe last spring, and yet she looks nothing in particular. Whereas
I--well, dear--I am sorry to have to take all the good looks--but I
flatter myself that I am a very pretty young person; and if I had only a
few linen tennis skirts and jackets and a white frock for garden
parties, and a few hats, ribbons, frills, etc, etc, why--I would do
fine. But, oh dear--where's the use of worrying you! You can't get me
the money, and there's no one else to do it. So I shall always be your
pretty Brenda Carlton to the end of the chapter."
That special letter had arrived on the morning of the day when this
story opens, and its main idea was so absolutely impossible to Penelope
that she had not worried much about it. Brenda was always talking in
that fashion--always demanding things she could not possibly get--always
hoping against hope that her beauty would win her a good match in the
matrimonial market. But now Penelope thought over the letter with very
different feelings. If she could, by any possibility, gratify Brenda,
she thought that happiness might not be unknown to her. She loved
Brenda: she admired her very great beauty. She hated to see her
shabbily dressed. She hated to think of her as going through insult and
disagreeable times. She felt that, if she had the ordering of the
world, she would shower riches and blessings and love and devotion on
her sister, and be happy in her happiness. If ever she had golden
dreams, the dreams turned in the direction of Brenda. If ever her
talents brought forth fruit, the fruit should be for Brenda.
But all these things were for the future. She was now sixteen and a
half years of age. She had been at Hazlitt Chase for exactly six
months. She had not found any special niche in the school, but her
teacher spoke fairly well of her, and she resolved to devote herself to
those accomplishments which might make her valuable by-and-by, and not
for a single instant to trouble her head about either moral or religious
training.
"My place in this world is quite hard enough, and I cannot bother about
any other," thought Penelope. "I must enjoy the present and get strong,
and do right, because otherwise Mrs Hazlitt won't give me a character
of any use to me: and then I must get the best salary I can and save
money for Brenda. At least, we could spend our holidays together."
These were Penelope's thoughts until that evening. But now all was
changed; for the daring idea had come into her head to ask Mary
L'Estrange and Cara Burt to give her twenty pounds to send to her
sister. They wanted her, Penelope, to take the part of Helen of Troy,
and why should she not be rewarded for her pains?
"Their wishes are on no account because of me," thought the girl, "they
are all for themselves, because that silly Mary thinks she will look
well as Jephtha's daughter, and Cara as Iphigenia. Neither of them will
look a bit well. There is only one striking-looking girl in the school,
and that is Honora Beverley, and why she is not Helen is more than I can
make out. This will be a horrid piece of work, but where's the good of
sacrificing yourself for nothing? and poor old Brenda would be so
pleased. I wonder if, whoever the present man is, he is really fond of
her? But whether that is the case or not, I am sure that she wants the
money, and she may as well have it. I was never up to much; but if I
can help Brenda, I will fulfil some sort of destiny, anyway."
These thoughts were quite sufficient to keep Penelope awake until the
early hours of the morning. Then she did drop asleep, and was not
aroused until she heard Deborah's good-natured voice in her ears.
"Why--my dear Penelope,"--she said--"didn't you hear the first bell?
You will be late for prayers, unless you are very quick indeed."
Up jumped Penelope out of bed. A minute later she had plunged her head
and face into a cold bath, and in an incredibly short space of time she
had run downstairs and joined her companions just as they were trooping
into the centre hall for prayers.
This hall was a great feature of Hazlitt Chase. It was quite one of the
oldest parts of the house. The girls' dormitories were quite neat and
fresh with every modern convenience, but the hall must have stood in its
present position for long centuries, and was the pride and delight of
Mrs Hazlitt herself, and of all those girls who had any aesthetic
tastes.
Prayers were read as usual that morning, and immediately afterwards the
routine of the school began. The girls drifted away into their several
classes. The special teachers who lived in the house performed their
duties. The music masters and drawing masters, who came from some
little distance, arrived in due course. Morning school passed like a
flash. Then came early dinner, and then that delightful time known as
"recess." It was during that period that Cara and Mary had resolved to
ask Penelope Carlton to give her decision. Penelope knew perfectly well
that they would approach her then. She had been, as she said, present
in the arbour on the previous night, and knew that Mrs Hazlitt had made
up her mind to give up the idea of Tennyson's "Dream of Fair Women," if
a suitable Helen was not to be found within twenty-four hours. It was
essential, therefore, for Penelope to declare her purpose during the
recess.
She had by no means faltered in that purpose. During morning school she
had worked rather better than usual, had pleased her teacher--as indeed
she always did--by the correctness of her replies and the sort of quaint
originality of her utterances.
She was a girl who by no means as yet had come to her full powers, but
these powers were stirring within her, dimly perhaps, perhaps
unworthily. But, nevertheless, they were most assuredly there, and in
themselves they were of no mean order.
Penelope now walked slowly in the direction of the old Queen Anne
parterre. This had not been touched since the days when that monarch
held possession of the throne. It was a three-cornered, lozenge-like
piece of ground, with the most lovely turf on it--that soft, very soft
green turf which can only come after the lapse of ages. Mrs Hazlitt
was very proud of the Queen Anne parterre, and never allowed the girls
to walk on the turf, insisting on their keeping to the narrow gravel
walk which ran round it. There were high, red brick walls to the
parterre on three sides, but the fourth was open and led away into a dim
forest of trees of all sorts and descriptions, and these trees made the
place shady and comparatively cool, even on the hottest days.
Penelope, wearing a very shabby brown holland skirt and a white muslin
blouse of at least three years of age, looked neither picturesque nor
interesting as she strolled towards the parterre. She had not troubled
herself to put on a hat. Her complexion was of the dull, fair sort
which does not sunburn. She was destitute of any particle of colour;
even her lips were pale; her eyes were of the lightest shade of blue;
her eyelashes and eyebrows were also nearly white. As she walked along
now, slightly hitching her shoulders, there came a whoop of delight from
the younger children, and, amongst several others, Juliet L'Estrange
leaped towards her.
"Here you are! I am so glad! Why did you not come to us last night?
We'd got such a glorious place to hide in--you couldn't possibly have
found us. What is the matter, Penelope? Does your head ache?"
"Penelope's head aches, I know it does," said Agnes, turning to her
small companion as she spoke. "What is the matter, Penelope dear?"
"I am quite all right," replied Penelope; "but I can't talk to you just
now, Juliet, for I've something important to say to your sister Mary,
and also to say to Cara Burt."
"But I thought you hated the older girls," said Juliet, puckering her
pretty brows in distress. "You have always belonged to us, and that was
one reason why we loved you so much. You were always gay and bright and
jolly with us. Why can't you play with us now?"
"Yes--why can't you?" asked Agnes. "It won't be a bit too hot to play
hide-and-seek in the wood, and we have an hour and a half before we need
go back to horrid lessons."
"Yes--aren't the lessons detestable?" said Penelope. One of her
greatest powers amongst the younger girls was the manner in which she
could force them to dislike their lessons, judging that there would be
no surer way of making them her friends than by pretending to dislike
the work they had got to do. She thus bred a spirit of mischief in the
school, which no one in the least suspected, not even the girls over
whom she reigned supreme.
She said a few words now to Juliet L'Estrange, and then walked on to the
entrance of the wood, where she felt certain she would find Mary and
Cara waiting for her. She was right: they were there, and so also, to
her surprise, were the other girls who were to take part in "A Dream of
Fair Women."
It was arranged, after all, that only Helen of Troy, Iphigenia,
Jephtha's daughter, Cleopatra, and Fair Rosamond were to act. Queen
Eleanor was not essential, she might come in or not, as the mistress
decided later on. But five principal actors there must be, and there
stood four of them looking anxiously, full into Penelope Carlton's face.
Annie Leicester was to take the part of Fair Rosamond. She was a
thoroughly unremarkable looking girl, but had a certain willowy grace
about her, and could put herself into graceful poses. The girl who was
to take the part of Cleopatra was dark--almost swarthy. Her name was
Susanna Salmi; and it needed but a glance to detect her Jewish origin.
Her brow was very low; she had masses of thick, black hair, a large
mouth, and a somewhat prominent chin. Her face, on the whole, was
strong, and there were possibilities about her of future beauty, but
that would greatly depend on whether she grew tall enough, and whether
her buxom figure toned down to lines of beauty.
The four girls, such as they were, looked indeed in no way remarkable or
suited to their parts. But what will not judicious make-up and
limelight and due attention to artistic effect achieve? Mrs Hazlitt
would not have despaired of the four, if only she had secured the
coveted fifth. If the girl she wished to be Helen of Troy could only
stand forth in her exquisite beauty in the midst of this group, the
tableaux would be a marked success.
The girls now surrounded Penelope, each of them looking at her with
fresh eyes. Hitherto, she had been quite unnoticed in the school. She
was a nobody--a very plain, uninteresting, badly dressed creature. But
now she was to be--in a measure--their deliverer; for they felt certain
that under Mrs Hazlitt's clever manipulations she could be transformed
into a Helen of Troy. They all surrounded her eagerly.
"So glad you've come!" said Annie Leicester. "Thought you would; of
course, you're going to help us. Oh dear--how much fairer you look than
any of the rest of us--you will make a great contrast to the rest of
Tennyson's `Fair Women'; won't she, Mary?"
Mary smiled.
"Penelope will do quite well," she said. "As Honora has been such a
fool as to refuse to play, we must take the second-best. You have
thought it all over, haven't you, Penelope, and you are going to yield?"
"Well,"--said Penelope--"I have thought it over, and I am--"
"Oh, yes--dear creature!" said Cara. "You will yield, won't you? Say
yes, at once--say that you will do what we wish. We can then find Mrs
Hazlitt and tell her that her heroines will be forthcoming, and she can
go forward with her arrangements. The date is not so very far off now,
and of course there will be a great many rehearsals."
"Five pounds apiece," murmured Penelope to herself. She looked eagerly
from one face to another. She had not been six months at the school
without finding out that most of her companions were rich. They could
each afford to gratify their special whim, even to the tune of a
five-pound note; and even if they did not, why--it didn't matter: she
would not play; the thing would fall to the ground. Of course, they
would never repeat what she was going to say--that was the first point
she must assure herself of.
"You are going to--yes--why don't you speak?" enquired Mary.
"Because I have something to say to you," replied Penelope. "You all
want very much to take the different parts of these heroines, don't
you?"
"Why, of course--"
"And I shall be a most lovely Cleopatra," said Susanna, in a gleeful
tone. "I see myself in the dress, and mother will be delighted!"
She laughed: and her jet-black eyes twinkled merrily.
"Then _you_ want to be Cleopatra?" said Penelope.
"Of course I do."
"And you, Mary, you want to be Jephtha's daughter?"
"Yes--of course."
"And you," she continued, turning to Cara, "you are equally desirous to
be Iphigenia?"
"Of course--of course," replied Cara.
To each girl Penelope put the same question in turn. She saw eagerness
in their eyes and strong desire in their whole manner. They wished to
show themselves off. They wanted to appear in the wonderful dresses--to
attract the attention of the crowd of spectators, to be petted and made
much of afterwards by their fathers and mothers and relations generally.
In short, that moment of their lives would be a golden one. Penelope
remarked these feelings, which shone out of each pair of eyes, with
intense satisfaction.
"But you could," she said, after a pause, "take the parts in some other
tableaux. There are heaps of tableaux in English history and in the
plays of Shakespeare. There's the `Vicar of Wakefield,' too. You could
be one of his daughters--Olivia, for instance, and the other girl--I am
sure I forget her name."
"No, no--no!" said Mary. "I will be nothing, if I am not Jephtha's
daughter."
"Very well. That is all I want to know. This, I take it, is the
position." She moved a little further into the shade of the wood as she
spoke. "One might almost think one was back again in that wood where
Tennyson himself seemed to wander when he had his dream," she said, and
her light blue eyes gave a curious glance--a flicker of feeling which
did not often animate them.
She was quite still for a minute. Then she said, gravely:
"But the whole thing falls through, unless _I_ am Helen of Troy?"
"Yes--but you _will_ be--of course you will be; dear, dear Penelope!"
said Mary L'Estrange.
"You never called me dear Penelope before," remarked Penelope, turning
round at that moment and addressing Mary.
Mary had the grace to blush.
"I never especially knew you until now," she said, after an awkward
pause.
"And you know me now," continued Penelope, who felt bitterness at that
moment, "because you want to know me--because I can help you to fulfil a
desire which, is very strong within you. Now, I wish to say quite
plainly that I am in no way anxious to be Helen of Troy. Except by the
mere accident of having a fair skin and light hair, I am as little like
that beauty of ancient times as any one woman can be like another. I am
in no sense an ideal Helen of Troy. Nevertheless, I know quite well
that there is the rouge pot, and the eyes can be made to look darker,
and the flash of the limelight may give animation to my face; and I can
wear shoes with very high heels and come forward a little on the canvas
of the picture. And so--all things considered--I may be made just
presentable."
"As you will be--why, you will look quite beautiful," said Cara.
"And you ask me to do this for your sakes?"
"Well, of course--and for your own, too."
This remark was made by Annie Leicester, who did not know why, but who
felt certain that something very disagreeable was coming.
"But, then, you see," continued Penelope, "it is by no means my wish to
take any part in this tableau and, in short, I positively refuse to have
anything whatever to do with your Helen of Troy, unless you make it
worth my while to become one of the heroines in the tableaux." Penelope
spoke very quietly now. Her whole soul was in her words. Was she not
thinking of Brenda, and of what might happen to Brenda should she
succeed, and of the golden life that might be Brenda's were she to be
clever enough to get these four stupid rich girls to accede to her
request?
"I will tell you quite plainly,"--she said--"there is no use beating
about the bush. I want twenty pounds." They all backed away from her
in amazement.
"I don't want it for myself, but for another. There are four of you
here most anxious to take part in the tableaux. It would be perfectly
easy for you four to get five pounds each from your respective parents,
and to give me the money. On the day when I get the money, or when I
receive your promise that you will pay it me, I will do whatever is
necessary for the perfection of Helen's tableau, on the condition that
you never breathe to a soul that I want that money, that on no future
occasion do you bring it up to me, that you never blame me for having
asked for it, nor enquire why I wanted it. For, girls, I, too, am
ambitious, but not with your ambition; and I want just that sum of
money, not to help myself, but another. For her sake, I will make a
fool of myself on the day of the breaking-up, but I won't do it for any
other reason. You can let me know whether you can manage this or not
before the evening, for I understand that you are going to give Mrs
Hazlitt your decision then. If you say no--there is an end of the
matter, and we are no worse off than we were. If you say yes--why, I
will do my very best for you--that is all. Good-bye, girls, for the
present. I am going to walk in the wood with some of the children;
Mary, your sister amongst them. Think of me what you like; I trust you
not to tell on me. Good-bye, for the present."
Penelope disappeared in her untidy linen dress with her old-fashioned
blouse and, walking down the path, was soon lost to view. The girls she
had left behind stared at each other without speaking.
CHAPTER FOUR.
AGREED.
"If there ever was an extraordinary thing--" began Mary.
"Preposterous!" echoed Cara.
"Impossible!" said Annie.
"Five pounds, indeed, from me because she gets the very best part in the
tableaux!" exclaimed Susanna. "Well, girls: this ought to settle us.
We had best give up `A Dream of Fair Women' on the spot."
Each girl looked at the other. Then, arm in arm, they began slowly to
pace the wood.
Give it up? That meant a good deal. For had not Cara written home
about it and told her father and mother what a delightful and original
part she was taking? And had not Mary L'Estrange delighted her mother
with the story? that she was to be--she--Mary--Jephtha's daughter? that
noblest maid of ancient story. And had not Cara's brothers and sisters
and father and mother and grandfather and grandmother and
great-grandfather and great-grandmother all been interested at the
thought of the girl appearing as Iphigenia in the play? For the thing
had been settled, and nobody for a single moment had supposed that the
ideal Helen of Troy would refuse to take her part.
Now, with great difficulty, they had found a possible Helen; but, lo--
and behold! the little cat that she was--she meant to blackmail them!
They must pay her for it. They must do it secretly; then she would act.
All the rest of her life she would be a sort of little reptile, not
worth touching. But, if they wanted her to help them on that crucial
evening, they must each hand her a five-pound note. Oh, well--they
could get it. Susanna's mother had never yet refused her darling
anything in the way of money; and Cara's great-grandfather was rather
pleased than otherwise when his favourite great-grandchild approached
him on the subject of gold. And Mary L'Estrange was rich, too, and so
was Annie Leicester. It was but to write a note each to that member of
the family who was most easily gulled, and the money would be in
Penelope's possession.
But then it was such a horrid thing to do! and they had to keep it a
secret from Mrs Hazlitt; for Mrs Hazlitt would be furious, if she
thought any girl in her school could act like Penelope, or could have
confederates like Mary and Cara and Annie and Susanna.
"I, for one, will have nothing to do with it," repeated Cara, many
times.
At first, as she uttered these words, her companions agreed with her,
and considered that they, too, could not and would not speak on the
subject to any of their relations. But, strange as it may seem, as the
swift minutes of recess rolled by, they became silent--for each girl
was, in her heart, composing the letter she would write to parent or
guardian or great-grandfather, in order to secure the money.
"There is no doubt," said Susanna, at last, "that she is awfully clever
and can throw herself into it, if she pleases. For Nora Beverley might
look somewhat like a stick, but no one could ever accuse Penelope of
looking like that. She is so awfully wicked, you know--that is the way
I should describe her face--so wicked and so untamed, and--oh, there! if
we gave her the money, she would do it, but I never did hear of a girl
trying to blackmail her companions before."
The upshot of all this whispering and consultation, of all these pros
and cons, was, that that evening, immediately after tea, a note was
flung into Penelope Carlton's lap. It was written in the cipher
employed by the school, and was to the effect that, if she chose to
present herself as Helen of Troy, and if Mrs Hazlitt was willing to
accept her as a substitute for Honora Beverley, she would receive four
five-pound notes within a week from the present day.
"Dear old Brenda!" whispered Penelope to herself.
She crushed up the note and tore it into a thousand fragments and wrote
a reply to it--also in cipher--in which she employed the one word:
"Agreed." This note found its way to Mary L'Estrange in the course of
afternoon school.
In the evening Mrs Hazlitt again entered the arbour in the Elizabethan
garden. She had quite given up the idea of Tennyson's "Dream of Fair
Women," and had thought out two or three insignificant tableaux for her
girls to represent. She was surprised, therefore, when the girls who
had been already selected for the principal parts in the piece, namely:
Mary, Cara, Annie, and Susanna, entered the arbour. They were
accompanied by the fifth girl, who was no other than Penelope Carlton.
"Penelope, my dear--what are you doing here?" said Mrs Hazlitt, when
she saw her pupil.
She did not like this pupil, although she tried to. But she was
systematically just in all she did, and said, and thought; and would not
for the world be unkind to the girl.
"But do listen, please, Mrs Hazlitt," said Mary. "We have found Helen
of Troy! Penelope will take the part."
"Excuse me," said Mrs Hazlitt. There was a tone of astonishment in her
voice. She looked critically at the girl; then, taking her hand, drew
her into the light. "You know quite well," she said, after a pause,
"that you are not suited to the part, Penelope Carlton, or, failing
Honora, I should have asked you to undertake it."
Penelope's eyes had been lowered, but now she raised them and gave Mrs
Hazlitt a quick glance. There was something beseeching and quite new in
the expression of her light eyes. They seemed, just for the minute, to
grow almost dark, and there was a passionate longing in them. Mrs
Hazlitt had to confess to herself that she never saw Penelope with that
expression before. The other girls stood around in an anxious group.
"We know she is not quite tall enough," said Mary, then.
"Nor--nor quite beautiful enough," said Susanna. "But there is rouge,
and powder, and--oh, surely, it can be managed!"
"Can you feel within you, even for a minute or two, the true spirit of
Helen of Troy?" said Mrs Hazlitt, then--"that divine woman who turned
all men's hearts?"
Penelope fidgeted and sighed. Mrs Hazlitt returned to the bower. She
sat down; she was still holding Penelope's hand, but was unconscious
that she was doing so.
"I will speak quite freely to you, girls," she said. "I should
particularly like to present `A Dream of Fair Women' to our audience on
the eighth. There is nothing else that would please me quite so well.
But I would rather it were not presented at all than that it were
presented unworthily. The principal figure, and the most important, is
that of Helen of Troy. The candidate who presents herself for the part
has neither sufficient height nor beauty to undertake it. But what you
say, Susanna, is quite true--that a great deal can be done by external
aids, and, although I dislike artificial aids to beauty, yet on the
stage they are necessary. We shall have our stage and our audience.
Perhaps, Penelope, if you will come to me to-morrow, and will allow me
to experiment a little on your face and figure, and put you into a
suitable dress, I may be able to decide whether it will be worth while
to go on with these tableaux. More I cannot say. I had intended to
propose other tableaux, but, as you have appeared on the scene and
offered yourself most unexpectedly, I will give you a chance. Girls,
what do you say?"
"We can only say that we are delighted!" replied all four in a breath.
Mrs Hazlitt immediately afterwards left the arbour. Mary went up, and
whispered in Penelope's ears: "You mustn't expect us to write for the
money until it is decided whether you are to be Helen of Troy or not;
but when once that is settled we will write immediately and get it for
you."
"And," said Penelope, trembling a little--"you will let me feel assured
that this transaction never transpires--never gets beyond ourselves. I
am a poor girl, and I should be ruined, if it did."
"We do it for ourselves as much as you. It would disgrace us as much as
you," said Mary. "Yes; I think you may rest quite assured."
CHAPTER FIVE.
FIVE IMPORTANT LETTERS.
On the following evening five girls might have been seen all busily
employed writing to their respective friends. These girls were the five
who had been elected to take the parts of the heroines in Tennyson's
"Dream of Fair Women." Penelope Carlton was writing to her sister
Brenda. She had passed her test sufficiently well to induce Mrs
Hazlitt to alter her resolution and to determine that "A Dream of Fair
Women" should be represented on the little stage in the old Elizabethan
garden of Hazlitt Chase.
The girl was full of deficiencies, but she was also full of
capabilities. There was, in short, a soul somewhere within her. Those
light blue eyes of hers could at will darken and flash fire. Those
insipid lips could curve into a smile which was almost dangerous. There
was an extraordinary witchery about the face, which Mrs Hazlitt felt,
although she had never noticed it before. She blamed herself for
considering--at least for the time being--that in some respects Penelope
Carlton outshone Honora Beverley. Honora, with her stately grace, her
magnificent young physique, could never go down into the very depth of
things as could this queer, this poor, this despised Penelope. Mrs
Hazlitt decided to give in to the girls, and, that being decided, the
necessary letters were written.
Penelope wrote briefly to her sister, but with decision:
"Dearest Brenda: Don't ask me why I have done it, but accept the fact
that your desires are accomplished. I have sunk very low for your
sake, and I feel absolutely despicable; but the less you know of the
why and the wherefore of my deed, the better. All that really
concerns you is this: that within the next week or so you will receive
twenty pounds which you can do exactly what you like with. You will
owe this gift to your sister, who will have made herself--but no
matter. You know, for I have told you already, how truly I love you.
I don't think it would be quite frank not to say that I don't care for
any one in all the world like you, Brenda. I am only sixteen, and you
twenty-one--or is it twenty-two--and all my life I have adored you
from the time when I used to cry because you were so beautiful and I
so ugly, and from the time also when you used to take me in your arms
and pet me, and kiss me and call me your own little girl.
"It takes a great deal to get me to love anybody, but I do love you,
Brenda, and I think I prove my love when I disgrace myself now in the
school for your sake and do something which, if it were found out--but
there--how nearly I trenched on ground which I must not touch in your
presence; for if you knew, and if you were in the least worthy of what
I think you, darling, you would not take the money. You would not,
because you could not.
"I hope whoever the man is who cares for you and who wants to see you
in your fine dress and your pretty hat and ruffles, that he will not
take the little affection you have for me away. But, even if that
happens, my love for you is so true, and so very, very deep, that I
think I would not change my purpose, even though I knew, by so doing,
I should lose the little love you give me. For, Brenda,--I must say
it now--I read you quite truly--you have got a lovely face and a
beautiful manner and all people are attracted to you. But it is I--
your sister--who have got the heart; and the one who has the heart
suffers. I accept the position. I know quite well that no one will
ever care for me in the way people will care for you; but so great is
my love for you, that I am satisfied even to do what is wrong for your
sake. It is all dreadful, but it can't be helped.
"Your affectionate sister,--
"Penelope Carlton."
Having finished her letter, Penelope addressed it to: Miss Brenda
Carlton, c/o Rev Josiah Amberley, The Rectory, Harroway; and, leaving
her room, she ran with it into the hall, where it was deposited in the
post box in sufficient time to go out with the evening letters.
The four girls who had promised to get the money for Penelope had been
equally busy with their pens, and each had written the sort of letter
which would assuredly bring back five pounds in its train. Cara Burt
wrote briefly and decidedly. She wanted plenty of pocket money just
now, and wouldn't darling great-grand-dad supply her? and would he
promise to keep it dark from grandfather and grandmother and father and
mother and from every one else at home, and just let it be a secret
between his own Cara and himself; and if he did this, would not she
reward him by a special walk, and a special button-hole, which she would
make for him on the day of the break-up?
Cara knew her man to a nicety, and was assured of the dear little crisp
five-pound note that arrived by return of post. Annie Leicester also
wrote with calm assurance to her parents. She wanted a little extra
money. She knew she had been a trifle extravagant with regard to
chocolates and suchlike things. If she could have a five-pound note to
see her safely to the end of term, it would put her into such excellent
spirits that she could act Fair Rosamond to perfection. She wanted the
money, and by return of post, and of course it would be forthcoming.
Mary L'Estrange found more difficulty with her letter; for, although her
people were rich, they were careful; but she managed to write such a
letter as would make her mother deny herself a summer ruffle or some
such luxury for the sake of supplying her little daughter with what that
daughter considered necessary. Susanna was the only one who had any
real difficulty in penning her letter.
Now, Susanna's people were much richer than the parents of any other
girls in the school. They counted their money by tens of thousands; for
Susanna's father was, in his way, a sort of Rothschild and he was fond
of saying that everything he touched turned into gold. But if what he
touched turned to gold, he was very fond of that said metal and did not
at all like to part with it, and Susanna knew that it would be perfectly
useless to apply to her mother on the subject, for Mrs Salmi had always
to go to her husband for every penny she spent. Great lady as she
supposed herself to be, she was not favoured with a separate banking
account; but her bills were paid off with loud protestations by her lord
and master. Susanna, however, was perhaps more anxious than the others
to take the part of Cleopatra. She felt that she could do the swarthy
queen of Egypt full justice. Her blood tingled at the thought of what
her appearance would be, decked in the jewels which her own mother would
lend her for the occasion. How her eyes would flash! how striking would
be her appearance! Not for twenty-five five-pound notes would she give
up so delightful a part.
Accordingly, she wrote straight to her father and, after many
cogitations with herself, this was her letter:
"My Dear Old Dad: I am sending this straight to your office in the
City, for I don't want the mum-mum to know anything about it. There
are times when a girl has to apply straight to her dad to put things
right for her.
"Now, dad, darling; I want five pounds. I am having a little
speculation on my own account in the school. You know from whom I
have inherited the spirit of speculation. It is from no one else than
the dear dad himself--that wealthy delightful creature, who turns
everything he touches into gold. Well, your own Susanna has inherited
your peculiarities, and when I leave school, there is no saying but I
may be able to give you some points. Anyhow, if you will trust me
with the money and not say a single word about it to mummy, you may
have it back again double, some day--I don't exactly say when. Don't
refuse me, like a dear, for my heart is really set on this, or I would
not apply to you; and what use is it to be the only daughter of the
richest dad in England if he can't grant me such a small whim? Five
pounds, therefore, please, daddie mine, by return of post, and no
questions asked.
"Your loving daughter,--
"Susanna.
"P.S. You and mother will be sure to come to Hazlitt Chase on the day
of the break-up, and then I think you will see what will surprise you,
namely: your own girl in a very prominent and exalted position.
Breathe not this to the mummy, or to anybody, but be your Susanna's
best of friends."
Susanna was decidedly under the impression that this letter would do the
business, and she was right. For she had taken the great City merchant
by surprise, and although most men would be shocked to think that a
schoolgirl daughter was engaged in money speculations, this man only
laughed and shook from side to side in his merriment and, opening a
drawer on the spot, took a crisp five-pound note from a certain recess
and popped it into an envelope with the words: "Go it, Susanna." The
money reached Susanna accordingly by the first post on the following
morning. The other girls received their five-pound notes at different
times during the day, and Penelope was in possession of twenty pounds
that very evening.
But now arose an unlooked-for and unexpected difficulty. Mrs Hazlitt
was not so unobservant as her pupils supposed her to be. She trusted
them, it is true; but she never absolutely gave them her full
confidence. Their letters were supposed to be under her jurisdiction;
but she was not the sort of woman to open a letter addressed to a parent
or guardian, although at the same time she clearly gave the said
guardians and parents to understand that, if necessity arose, she would
feel obliged to open letters.
She had not opened any one of the five letters which left her house on a
certain evening, but she did observe the excited appearance of Penelope,
the change from dull apathy into watchfulness; the manner, too, in which
Susanna absolutely neglected all her lessons, Mary L'Estrange's anxious
face, Annie Leicester's want of appetite, and Cara Burt's headache.
Cara Burt was, indeed, so overpowered that she could neither attend to
her lessons, nor appear at the mid-day meal.
Now, all these symptoms--strange in themselves as only assailing the
five girls who were to take part in "A Dream of Fair Women"--could not
but arouse the headmistress' suspicions; but when they unaccountably
vanished on the arrival of the post on the following morning, and when
each girl seemed happy and relieved once more, Mrs Hazlitt felt sure
that something had occurred which she ought to know about. She
accordingly spoke to Deborah, who was her factotum in the school.
Deborah has been mentioned hitherto as the English governess. She held
that position, but not in its entirety. It is true that she taught the
young girls English history and literature, helped them with their
spelling, and attended to their writing. But there was also a very
special, highly educated woman to give lessons in English literature and
English composition to all the elder girls, and, besides this, Mrs
Hazlitt herself taught English as no one else could, for she was a
profound scholar and had a mind of the highest order. Deborah, however,
was indispensable for the simple reason that she was honest, exceedingly
unselfish, and could do those thousand and one things for the girls
which only a person who never thought of herself could achieve. Mrs
Hazlitt, therefore, determined to speak to Deborah now on the subject of
the girls.
It was the pleasant hour of recess. What a beautiful calm rested over
the place! The sun shone forth from a cloudless sky; the trees were in
their full summer green; there were shadow and sunlight intermingled all
over the lovely old place. The house itself was so old and the walls so
thick that great heat could never penetrate; and Mrs Hazlitt chose as
her place of confidence her own tiny oak parlour where she sat when she
wanted to rest and did not wish to be intruded upon.
"Deborah," she said on this occasion, "will you come with me into the
parlour? I suppose the children are all right, and you need not trouble
about them. That good-natured girl, Penelope Carlton, will look after
them if you ask her."
"I don't know," replied Deborah; "she is up in her room writing. She
said she had a special letter she wanted to write, but I have no doubt
they won't get into any mischief. I will just go and talk to them for a
minute and put them on their honour."
"Do, Deborah," said Mrs Hazlitt, "and then come back to me. Don't tell
any one what you are specially doing; just come here; I shall be waiting
for you."
The governess withdrew, to return in the course of a few minutes.
"It's all right," she said. "I went first of all to Penelope, but she
seemed rather fluttered at being disturbed and said that she always did
suppose that recess was at her own disposal. But the children will be
quite good; they will play in the woods and keep out of the sunshine."
"Then that is all right," said Mrs Hazlitt. "And what is Penelope
doing in her room, Deborah?"
"She is writing a letter."
"A letter?" said Mrs Hazlitt. "Did you see her writing one?"
"Oh, yes--at least I think so."
Deborah coloured, for she knew that Penelope had hastily put a sheet of
paper over the letter when the English teacher had entered the bedroom.
Deborah never would tell tales of the pupils whom she loved, nor did
Mrs Hazlitt expect her to. Nevertheless, that good woman gazed now
intently at the English governess.
"Deborah," she said, "I cannot help confiding in you. There is a spirit
at present abroad in this school which I feel, without being able to
differentiate. It is an unholy and a mischievous spirit and it has
never been in our midst before. There are certain girls in the school
who are acting in a sort of conspiracy. I cannot tell why, but I feel
assured on that point, and I believe that the head of the conspiracy is
no less a person than Penelope Carlton."
"Now, my dear Mrs Hazlitt," said Deborah Duke, "I never did hear you
give way to such unchristian sentiments before. You will forgive me, my
dear friend, my best friend--but why should you accuse poor little
Penelope of anything so base?"
"I accuse her of nothing, but I have a feeling about her. I know for a
fact that five letters left this house a couple of days ago--on the
evening of the day when it was decided that Penelope was to take the
part of Helen of Troy. I also know that five letters in reply were
received this morning, and that they gave universal satisfaction.
During the time of suspense between the departure of the letters and
their replies four of my pupils were absolutely good for nothing--
uneasy, incapable of work; in short, quite unlike themselves. It is my
rule not to open my pupils' letters; nevertheless, I am full of
suspicions, and my suspicions particularly centre round the girl who is
to take the part of Helen of Troy. Why did she volunteer for the part?
I can put up with her, but she is not suitable. Do you know anything
about it, Deborah?"
"All I know is this," replied Deborah--"that Honora Beverley would not
take the part because she was full of horror with regard to the
character. I thought `A Dream of Fair Women' was practically at an end
when Penelope--of all people--came forward. I believe she was very much
pressed by the other girls to do this. They thought of her because she
is fair."
Mrs Hazlitt looked full at Miss Duke. After a minute, she said
abruptly:
"You say that Penelope is at present writing a letter?"
"That is true."
"When she has finished it, she will drop it into the post box, will she
not?"
"Yes; that is true also."
"I shall do something which I am not accustomed to doing, but I must do
it for the sake of the school," said Mrs Hazlitt. "I shall open
Penelope's letter before it goes, and acquaint myself with the
contents."
Miss Duke gave a start.
"You will not do that," she said. "It would distress Penelope very
much."
"She need never know. If the letter is straightforward and above board,
nothing will occur. If the spirit of mischief--nay, more, of intrigue--
is abroad, the sooner I can nip it in the bud, the better. I sent for
you to consult you. I am within my rights in this matter. Don't say a
word to any one. I think that is all."
"I am very much distressed," said Deborah. "I wish you would not do
this thing."
"I have made up my mind, dear friend; we will not argue the point. I
will read the contents of the letter, and it shall reach its destination
if there is nothing in it. No harm will be done. If there is mischief
in it, I shall at least know where I stand."
Deborah sighed profoundly and left the room.
Now, upstairs a girl, who had hastily finished a hasty scrawl and had
thrust it into its envelope, was busily engaged putting on her hat and
drawing some cotton gloves over her hands.
"I daren't put the letter into the post box," she said. "I wish Deborah
hadn't come into my room; she saw quite well that I was writing. I must
manage somehow to get to the village and will post the letter myself."
She flew downstairs. A minute later, she was out of doors. She looked
swiftly round her; there was not a soul in sight. The children, who
were her constant companions, were playing happily in the distant woods.
The girls whom she trusted were in the Queen Anne parterre or in the
Queen Elizabeth garden. All the world seemed still and sleepy.
Penelope made a hasty calculation. Mrs Hazlitt's oak parlour looked
out on the Queen Anne parterre. There was no one to see her. The
village was a mile away; yes, she could get there; she would get there.
By running fast she would accomplish this feat and yet be back just
within time for afternoon school.
Outside Hazlitt Chase was just the reverse of peace and quietude. There
was a wide and dusty road over which motors flew at intervals; and heavy
carts, drawn, some by horses and some by oxen, toiled over the road;
carriages, pony traps, governess carts also traversed the King's
highway, and amongst them, flying in and out, ran a girl in a dusty
brown holland dress, her fair face suffused by ugly colour, her eyes
full of dust, her lips parched.
All in good time she reached the village and dropped the letter, which
she had already stamped, into the post box. She was safe. She drew a
long breath of relief. Nothing would induce the village postmistress to
give up her letter; all was right now; Brenda would be happy to-morrow
morning and she--she could perform her task with a light heart.
She had done a great deal for her beloved sitter. Deborah had given the
whole show away by coming to visit her in her room. Penelope was quick
enough, to be certain that there was something up, or the English
teacher would not have come in looking so _distraite_ and unlike
herself. Deborah was the last person in the world ever to ask Penelope
to take care of the younger children. Yes; it was all too plain; Mrs
Hazlitt's suspicions were aroused. Well, they would never be verified,
for the letter was posted. If only Penelope could get back in safety--
could creep up to her own room without being observed, she might snap
her fingers at the enemy; all would, all must be--well.
She returned to the school by the same dusty highway, entered by a back
door, went to her room, threw herself on her bed for five minutes, then
washed her face and hands and went downstairs for afternoon school. Not
a soul had seen her go; not a soul had witnessed her return.
Mrs Hazlitt watched her as she took her place in class--her face
flushed, her lips dry. Miss Duke raised a guilty and startled face when
the girl--whose secret, if she had one, was so soon to be exposed--took
her usual place and went through her usual tasks with that skill and
ability which always characterised her. Mrs Hazlitt was more
determined than ever to take steps to discover what she felt was wrong;
but she looked in vain in the letter box. Childish productions from
more than one member of the school were there, but there was no letter
addressed to Miss Brenda Carlton--no letter of any sort in Penelope
Carlton's upright and somewhat remarkable handwriting. What could have
happened? Had the girl dared to go to that extreme of disobedience?
Had she posted her letter herself?
CHAPTER SIX.
PREPARATIONS FOR THE VISIT.
For a few days Mrs Hazlitt examined the post box, but there was no
letter of any sort from Penelope. In the end, she was obliged to
confess to Deborah that she had been--she supposed--quite mistaken in
the girl.
"I am distressed about her," she said; "for she doesn't look well or
happy. But there is no doubt that she has not written anything which I
ought to see. Do not make yourself unhappy therefore, Deborah dear, but
let us continue our usual pleasant life and trust that my suspicions
have not been justified."
"Oh, I am certain they have not," said Deborah. "Meanwhile," continued
Mrs Hazlitt, "we are exceedingly busy; I find the tableaux are going to
be much better than I expected. The little plays too, and the garden of
roses--an extravaganza--will be quite sweet. But I am really putting
all my strength and energy into Tennyson's poem; I am only vexed that
Honora Beverley cannot be Helen of Troy."
"But what do you think of the present Helen?" enquired Miss Duke.
"She is much more remarkable than I thought it possible she could be. I
am most anxious to see her to-night, when we have a dress rehearsal and
she will wear her costume for the first time. She is a queer girl, and
not a happy one. I wonder what sort of creature that sister of hers
is."
"By the way," said Miss Duke, "she came to me this morning with a
petition. She wants to know if she may invite her sister to the
performance. It seems that Miss Brenda Carlton could take an early
train from where she is now staying and reach here in time for the day's
festivities; and Penelope would take it as a great favour if she might
sleep in her room that night."
"No," replied Mrs Hazlitt with decision. "That I do not allow. Were I
to accede to Penelope's wish, the same request would be presented to me
by each of my pupils. The girls will especially require their night's
rest after the excitement of the day. I don't know anything about Miss
Brenda, but I am quite willing to invite her here as Penelope's
relation, only she cannot sleep in the house."
"I will speak to Penelope and tell her what you say," remarked Miss
Duke.
She moved away rather sadly. She was fully convinced, in spite of
herself, that there was something not quite right in the school, but not
for worlds would she give hint to Mrs Hazlitt with regard to the
matter.
She found Penelope, as usual, surrounded by some of the younger girls.
She dismissed them with a playful word and then, taking her pupil's
hand, led her into the oak parlour where such a serious conversation had
taken place between herself and the headmistress.
"What in the world is it, Deborah?" said Penelope.
She had a sort of defiant manner in these days--quite different from her
old way which, although languid, provokingly so at times, was at least
downright and matter-of-fact.
"What is it?" she said. "Why are you so mysterious?"
"I thought you wanted your sister to come to see the tableaux."
"Oh, Brenda--yes, she says she will come; I heard from her only this
morning. Is Mrs Hazlitt agreeable?"
"Quite agreeable."
"And may she share my room and bed?"
"That is just the point that I want to speak to you about, Penelope.
She may not do so. Mrs Hazlitt's ideas on that subject are quite fixed
and cannot by any possibility be altered. If your sister comes, we must
find a room for her in the village."
"It doesn't much matter whether she comes or not," said Penelope,
shrugging her shoulders. "I don't suppose she will care to go to the
expense of a room in the village. She is very young too, and can't
sleep alone at a hotel."
"But you would like her to see you as Helen of Troy?"
"Like it!" said Penelope--"yes, perhaps I should. I hate the whole
thing as I never hated anything in all my life before, but it might be a
sort of satisfaction to have Brenda there. I'd do a good deal--yes, a
good deal for Brenda; but I don't think she will stay in the village."
"You want to write to her to-day about it, don't you?"
"I may as well write to-day. She is making her plans; she is going to
the seaside with her pupils, but could come to me on her way. But don't
let us fuss about it, please. I don't really--greatly care."
"But _I_ care that you should have pleasure," said little Miss Duke.
"You know well how much I care. Wait a second until I get the
time-table."
She flew out of the room, returning in a few minutes with a Bradshaw.
By dint of careful searching, she discovered that a train could be found
which would take Miss Brenda Carlton back to her rectory about midnight
on the day of the break-up. Penelope condescended to seem pleased.
"Thank you," she said, "I will let her know. She may not care to come,
for I think her principal reason was to have a chat with me; but there
is no saying. I will tell her the train, anyhow."
Penelope did write to Brenda, giving her full particulars with regard to
the train.
"My Dear Brenda," she wrote: "Your sleeping with me and having--as you
express it--a cosy chat, is out of the question. Cause why:
headmistress doesn't allow cosy chats between schoolgirls and their
sisters. Reason for this: can't say--excites bad motives, in my
opinion. Anyhow, if you want to see Helen of Troy in all her pristine
splendour, you must take the train which leaves Harroway at nine in
the morning; that will get you here by noon. You will have a hearty
welcome and will mingle with the other guests, and I find there is a
train back to Harroway at ten o'clock, which gets there sharp at
twelve. Don't come if you don't want to: that's the best I can do for
you.
"Your affectionate sister,--
"Penelope."
Now this letter reached Miss Brenda Carlton on a certain morning when
she was pouring out very weak coffee for the small daughters of the
Reverend Josiah Amberley. There were three Misses Amberley, and they
wore about as commonplace young ladies as could be found in the length
and breadth of England. Their manners were atrocious; their learning
very nearly nil, and their power of self-control nowhere. Why Brenda
Carlton, of all people under the sun, had been deputed governess to
these three romps, must remain a puzzle to any thoughtful reader. But
the Reverend Josiah was always pleased to see a pretty face; was always
taken with a light and agreeable manner; and, knowing nothing whatever
about the bringing up of children, was glad to find a girl who would
undertake the duty for the small sum of thirty pounds per annum. This
money Brenda Carlton received quarterly. She also had a month's holiday
some time in the year--not in the summer, for that would be specially
inconvenient to the Reverend Josiah, who wished his young people to
enjoy the benefit of the sea breezes and could not possibly take them to
any seaside resort himself.
He was a little sandy-haired man of over fifty years of age; devoted,
after a fashion, to his work, and absolutely easy-going as regarded his
establishment.
Mrs Amberley had died when Nina, the youngest of the three sisters, was
five years old. Nina was now ten; Josephine, the next girl, was between
eleven and twelve; and Brenda's eldest pupil, Fanchon--as for some
extraordinary reason she was called--would soon be fourteen. The three
sisters resembled their father. They were short in stature, thickset,
with very sandy hair and small blue eyes. They had no special
capabilities, nor any gifts which took them out of the ordinary line.
But they were all fond of Brenda, who could do with them exactly what
she willed. She made them her confidantes, but taught them little or
nothing.
On the day when she received her letter from Penelope, she continued to
pour out the coffee until the whole family were supplied. Then she sat
down, and deliberately read it. As she did so, three pairs of eyes were
fixed on her face.
Nina, whose privilege it was always to sit near her governess, looked
mysterious and full of mischief. The other girls showed by their faces
that they were devoured by curiosity. But the Reverend Josiah required
to be humoured. To talk nonsense or of such frivolities as dress in his
presence was not to be thought of. Brenda had taught her pupils to
respect his scruples in that matter. In reality, poor man, they did not
exist; but she thought it well to keep her pupils in a certain awe of
him--so she was fond of saying:
"As a clergyman, my dears, your father must condemn the dress that makes
a woman look pretty; and if you talk about it in his presence, I shall
never be able to get your nice frocks for our seaside jaunt, for he will
not give me the money."
This was a terrible thought to the three Misses Amberley, and, in
consequence, they seemed as innocent with regard to the muslins and
chiffons and voile as though these materials did not exist.
The Reverend Josiah believed that dresses were divided into two
categories: cotton dresses for the morning, and silk dresses for the
afternoon. He had not the faintest idea that any other textures could
be procured. It grieved him sometimes to think that his little
daughters did not wear silk on those rare occasions when his
parishioners came to visit him, but as he couldn't afford it, he did not
give the matter another thought. Brenda read her letter, folded it up,
and put it into her pocket. The Reverend Mr Amberley, having eaten an
excellent meal, rose to leave the room. As he was doing so, Brenda
raised her voice:
"I am very sorry to interrupt you, Mr Amberley, but can I see you
presently in your study?"
The rector signified his assent to this proposition. He was always glad
to have an interview with Miss Carlton, for he considered himself in
rare luck to have such a nice stylish girl with his little orphans--as
he was fond of calling them.
"I shall be in my study at eleven o'clock," he said, "and quite at your
service, Miss Carlton."
Brenda smiled, showing her brilliant teeth and starry blue eyes, and the
rector went away thinking what a dazzling creature she was, and how
lucky it was for Fanchon and Josephine and Nina to have such a nice
governess to instruct them.
"How my sainted wife--could she speak--would bless that girl!" was his
thought. "How happy she makes my dear little ones, and how nice she
always manages to look herself!"
"Now, please--please, Brenda!" said Nina, catching her governess by the
sleeve the moment the door had closed behind the rector. "That letter--
we want to know all about it."
"Yes, of course we do," said Josephine.
"Out with the news!" exclaimed Fanchon.
"There isn't a great deal of news to relate," replied Brenda. "I am
invited to spend the eighth of July with my dear sister at that
celebrated school, Hazlitt Chase. She has simply written me an
itinerary of trains. I fear I shall have to leave here very early in
the morning, and you--my dear _petites_--will be deprived of your
governess for the entire day, for I shall not be home until midnight."
"Oh dear!" cried Nina. "We thought you were going to spend the night
away!"
She looked slightly disappointed and glanced at her sisters.
"Any little fun on?" asked Brenda, interpreting the glances between the
three according to her own sweet will.
"No, no--nothing in particular--nothing at all in particular; only we
thought you would have so much to tell us when you came back again."
"I shall have a good deal to tell you. Do you know; that my wonderful
young sister is to be Helen of Troy?"
"Whoever is she?" yawned Fanchon.
"Never heard of her, and never want to," cried Nina.
"Is she one of the dead-and-gones?" exclaimed Josephine. "I hate all
dead-and-gones, don't you, girls?"
"Yes--loathe them!" exclaimed the other sisters.
Brenda laughed.
"Look here," she said. "I must have a special dress, and a very, very
pretty one to go to Hazlitt Chase. I was thinking of getting a pale
blue silk--"
"Blue--silk!" exclaimed all three.
"Silk, Brenda? But surely your money--I mean your salary, poor darling,
doesn't run to that!" cried Nina, who had a more caressing way than her
sisters.
"Whether my salary runs to it or not, I mean to get it," said Brenda--"a
very pale shade and plenty of white lace with it, and a white lace
scarf, such as is worn so much now, on my shoulders. Ah, your governess
will look one of the prettiest girls at the fete, and won't you be
pleased, _mes enfants_?"
Brenda scarcely knew a word of French, but was fond of interlarding her
conversation with a few simple sentences. These had an excellent effect
as far as the Reverend Josiah was concerned, but the girls had no
respect for them, being well aware of the shallowness of their darling
Brenda's pretensions with regard to the French tongue.
"Well," said Nina--"and how are you going to get the dress?"
"I am going now--in a few minutes--to see your father, and will ask him
to let us have the pony and trap. Then we can all drive to Rocheford,
where there is a very good draper's shop. There I will buy a silk and
get Madame Declasse, in the High Street, to make it for me in time."
"But father won't know you in blue silk."
"I don't want him to. Do you suppose, for a minute, you little geese,
that I am going to tell him it is on my account I want the pony and
trap? Is it likely he would accede to the wishes of a poor little
governess? Not I, _mes enfants_--not I. You three dear things are to
be the innocent cause of our drive to Rocheford. Don't you suppose that
you want any cotton frocks for the seaside?"
"Oh, yes--yes!" said Nina, "we want frocks, but not cotton ones."
"Muslins are quite as cheap," said Brenda. "I shall call them cotton to
your father, and will buy muslin dresses for you--a pale pink muslin
each--how will they look, _cheries_?"
"Sweet, sweet!" said Josephine.
"Entrancing!" exclaimed Nina; while Fanchon smacked her lips in
anticipation of her own appearance in pink muslin.
Now Brenda knew quite well that these sandy-haired young people with
freckled faces and flat features would by no means look their best in
pink, be it muslin or cotton, but as she meant them to be foils to
herself, she decided to leave them in crass ignorance on this point.
The very name, pink muslin, had a delicious sound, and, as there was
little time to waste, she told the girls that she would excuse lessons
that morning and go upstairs to the school-room to make some mental
calculations. Then, having estimated the exact amount of money which
the different dresses would cost, she would invade the Reverend Josiah
at the hour named.
That good man was busy preparing his sermon when Brenda's gentle but
distinct knock was heard at the door.
"I am so sorry to disturb you, sir," she said on entering, and she
dropped the prettiest imaginable little curtsey. It was quite
old-fashioned, and delighted the rector.
"Please don't apologise, Miss Carlton," he said. "You want to speak to
me, and I am prepared to listen. What is it all about? I hope my dear
girl is not dissatisfied in any way. I know your life here must be a
little--a little--dull; but I trust that you are not thinking of leaving
us."
"Leaving you--my dear kind sir?" replied Brenda. "Far indeed are such
ideas from my thoughts. I am nothing but a dependent, and lonely at
that. Dear Mr Amberley, have I not heard you talk of your sweet
children as orphans? Well, am I not an orphan, too?"
"Alas--that it should be the case!" said Mr Amberley.
"It is the case. My darling sister and I were left without parents when
she was a very little child and I was a young girl. She has been
fortunate enough to be admitted into one of the best schools anywhere in
this part of England, or indeed, I may say in England at all. I allude
to Hazlitt Chase. You must have heard of the name, sir."
"Hazlitt Chase?" said Mr Amberley. "Of course I know the name. Lady
Sophia L'Estrange has two daughters there--Mary and Juliet. Sweet young
girls. Lady Sophia lives about four miles from here. I had not the
slightest idea that you had a sister at such a distinguished school,
Miss Carlton."
"I have that privilege," said Brenda, dropping her eyelids so that her
long, curly, black eyelashes could rest in the most becoming manner
against her peach-bloomy cheeks.
The rector looked at her with admiration.
"She certainly is a very sweet creature," he thought.
"What is the name of your sister?" he asked, after a moment's pause.
"She is called Penelope."
"How quaint and old-fashioned!"
"She is about to take a somewhat old-fashioned part," continued Brenda.
"I don't pretend to know the old stories as I ought to; you, sir, who
are such a good Greek scholar, must have heard of the character of Helen
of Troy."
"Beautiful Helen!" whispered Mr Amberley, under his breath.
"My sister is to take part in some tableaux which Mrs Hazlitt is
presenting of Tennyson's `Dream of Fair Women.' She wants me to see it,
and I am anxious to go. I think that if I leave here by an early train,
I can spend the greater part of the day at Hazlitt Chase and return here
soon after midnight."
"That will be a late hour to ask the servants to sit up."
"But if you will entrust me with a latch-key--"
"No, no, my dear girl: I will sit up for you myself with pleasure. Of
course you shall go."
"Thank you," said Brenda: "you are more than kind." She fidgeted a
little, then continued: "It will be a very gay party, and people from
many parts of England will assemble there to witness the different
events of the day. Tennyson's `Dream of Fair Women' is, I believe, to
take the most distinguished place in the day's proceedings and, in
short, sir--I want to be suitably dressed."
"Of course--of course," said Mr Amberley, looking a little confused, as
he always was when the subject of money was even approached. "Eh--a
neat cotton, eh?"
"Well, sir--it must be something rather better on this occasion; but if
I might ask for my quarter's salary, I have no doubt I can manage."
"My poor, dear girl! have I forgotten it? How long is it due?"
"It won't be due for a fortnight, sir; but I thought, under the
circumstances, that you might--I mean that you would be so kind--"
"You shall have a cheque immediately. Let me see--your salary is thirty
pounds a year, that means seven pounds ten a quarter. I will write you
a cheque for the amount; you can cash it at the bank. Get a pretty
cool-looking cotton, my dear Miss Carlton--something with rosebuds on
it: you are--so like a rosebud yourself."
"One minute please, sir. I cannot get the sort of dress I want at
Harroway. I must go to Rocheford to make my purchase and I think it
would be a good opportunity to get the girls' dresses for the seaside at
the same time."
"Oh dear, dear, dear!" said Mr Amberley. "Haven't they got enough
dresses from last year?"
"Oh, no!" said Brenda, shaking her head. "They are growing so quickly;
you quite forget that."
"I only know that my funds are very low and that there are a great many
sick people in the parish," said the rector.
"Still your children must be clothed," said Brenda, putting on a severe
air. "You have taken lodgings for them at the sea, and I can't walk
about with girls who are not presentable. I would rather, painful as it
seems, resign my post--though of course I don't really mean to do it,
but--"
The rector looked really terrified.
"You must not neglect my poor orphans! What would my children do
without you? But what is necessary? What do you think each will
require?"
"I can manage with three pounds for each: that is, nine pounds for the
three and seven pounds ten for myself. I know it seems a great deal of
money, but you cannot imagine how careful I will be."
"I am sure--I am certain you will."
Mr Amberley drew a cheque for the amount. He could not help sighing
more than once as he did so. It represented a very large sum to him,
and would preclude the possibility of his taking any holiday himself;
for little Joe Hoskins and Mary Miller must go to the seaside at any
cost. Nevertheless, the picture of his home without Brenda Carlton, and
his three orphans neglected and forsaken, was greater than his patience
could abide; and he made up his mind to do what Brenda wished, let the
consequences be what they might. She had her way also with regard to
the horse and trap and returned to her pupils with a cheque in her hand
for sixteen pounds ten and a most triumphant expression on her pretty
face.
Not the most remote idea had she of spending three pounds on each girl;
but she could get them a flimsy muslin each, some brown shoes to wear on
the sands, and a cheap hat for each sandy-covered head, which would
delight their small minds. The rest of the money would be her own.
Thus she would be able to make herself look distinguished, and yet not
touch the twenty pounds which Penelope had sent her from school.
"Hurrah!" she cried, as she joined her pupils. "The good little papa
has come up to the scratch. You shall have your pink muslins, and hats,
and gloves, and shoes besides. Only the muslins must be made at home,
and I myself will trim the hats. Now then--prepare for a happy holiday.
The pony trap will be at the door by twelve o'clock. Nina, run to
cook, and tell her to make up some sandwiches for us and a bottle of
lemonade. We need not spend our precious fairings at the confectioner's
if we take home-made provisions with us."
Nina, in rapture at the happy time which she felt was before her, flew
off to obey Brenda's behests and, sharp at twelve, the little party left
the old rectory and drove down through the shady village street.
Brenda drove. She was a capital whip, and never looked better than when
she was so employed. More than one person turned to gaze with
admiration at the handsome showy girl, and her heart swelled within her
with pride and satisfaction as she noticed this fact. At the bank she
changed the cheque, taking care that her pupils did not see the amount
which swelled her little purse.
They arrived at Rocheford in about an hour, and there a silk of the
palest shade of blue was chosen with soft French lace for trimming.
Nina was absolutely open-mouthed with admiration as she saw the
exquisite fabric being told off in yards by the shopman. After the
dress was bought, Brenda purchased very pretty pink muslins for her
pupils, and white hats which she meant to trim with cheap white muslin.
They then went to a shoemaker's where they got shoes, and to another
shop for gloves, and finally to interview that modiste of great fame, as
Madame Declasse described herself. But here disappointment awaited the
little girls, for Brenda insisted on entering the apartment all alone.
"You, Fanchon," she said, "must hold the pony's reins. Don't hold them
too tight--just like this; see, _mon enfant_--do attend to my
directions. Now then, I shan't be very long."
"But may not two of us come with you?" asked Josephine. "We should love
to see the pretty things in Madame Declasse's show-room."
"No, no; I must see her alone; she will do it cheaper for me if I am
alone."
Brenda skipped away, and the girls were left in charge of the dull,
over-worked little pony with the western sun beating down upon them.
They had certainly passed an exciting day, but, on the whole, they were
not quite satisfied. There was a mutinous feeling in each small breast
which only needed the match of suspicion to set it on fire. It was Nina
who, in the most casual voice, applied that match.
"I am looking at myself," she said, "in the mirror let into the pony
trap just facing us; and I am awfully red."
"Of course you are, Nina," laughed both her sisters.
"My face is red," continued Nina, "and so is my hair; and my eyes are
not at all big. Do you think I am really pretty, or am I ugly?"
She gave an anxious glance at Josephine and Fanchon.
"Ugly--of course," laughed Fanchon.
"Very ugly--a little fright," said Josephine.
"Then if I am a fright," said Nina, becoming a more vivid crimson, "so
are you, too, for you are red also, and your hair is sandy, and you have
very small eyes."
"Oh, do shut up," said Fanchon.
Nina turned restlessly on her hot seat. "I wish I was like Brenda," she
said, after a minute's pause.
"Well, you are not, and all the wishing in the world won't make you so,"
was Josephine's answer.
"I suppose she is quite beautiful," said Fanchon, with a sigh.
"Oh, yes--there isn't a doubt of it," continued Nina. "How the men do
stare at her."
"It's very rude of men to stare," said Josephine. "It is not at all to
be admired."
"But Brenda likes it, all the same," said Nina. "I know she does, for
she nudges me sometimes as we are on the way to church. What a long
time she is with Madame Declasse!"
"Nina," said Fanchon, "if you don't sit still, you will startle Rob, and
he may take it into his head to run away."
"Rob run away! He knows better," answered Nina. "Why, he has hardly a
kick in him--poor old dear! You wouldn't run away, would you, Rob?"
Rob flicked his ears, and gave a slight movement to his tail. This he
considered sufficient answer to Nina's tender enquiry.
"I wish Brenda was not quite so long," she said. "Why, of course she is
a long time. She has got to have her lovely blue silk made up. Fancy
Brenda in silk! How astonished father will be! Silk is the dream of
his life. He said when he married mother, she wore silk. She never,
never wore it since--he said--she could not afford it, only very rich
people could. There was a time when I thought of keeping silkworms, and
winding off the silk from the cocoons until I had enough to make a
dress; but Brenda laughed me out of that."
"Well--she's got her deserts. She must have spent a lot of money on the
dress," said Fanchon.
"She didn't spend much on ours, that I know," said Nina. "Those pink
muslins were only sixpence three farthings the yard, and she wouldn't
get an extra yard for me, although I did so want mine to have little
flounces--I think little flounces are so stylish. Oh dear, dear! I
wish she would come!"
Here Nina took up a carefully folded parcel which contained the material
for the girls' pink muslin dresses.
"Let's look at it," she said--"let's see it in the broad light. It'll
be something to amuse us."
"Oh, but we never can pack it up again," exclaimed Josephine.
"Have you got your pocket knife with you, Fanchon?" asked Nina.
Fanchon declared that she had.
"Well, give it to me, and I will cut a wee hole in the paper, just
enough for us to see our darling gowns."
This was too fascinating a proposal to be lightly refused, and in the
end the girls had removed enough of the brown paper wrapping to disclose
a certain portion of the delicate pink muslin which lay folded beneath.
"I wonder now," said Nina--she raised her flushed face and looked at her
red little person in the tiny square of glass--"I wonder why she makes
us wear pink. Do you think, Fanchon--do you think, Josephine, that it
suits us?"
The two elder girls were quite silent, but a horrified expression crept
over Fanchon's face. She was older than the others, and had once heard
it said that a girl with red hair--however pretty she might be--ought
not to wear pink. A sense of revolt filled her soul.
"Why don't you speak?" said Nina.
"I--I am thinking," she said, crossly. "Don't worry me."
She was thinking to good purpose. The other two seemed to divine her
thoughts. They all sat silent and moody.
"I shall do a sum in arithmetic to-night," thought Josephine. "I know
exactly how many yards of that horrid pink muslin she bought and what
the hats cost, and those little cheap shoes, and those gloves."
But Josephine did not say the words aloud. After a little time Nina
said:
"I saw a quantity of gold in Brenda's purse. It seems so odd that she
should spend a lot of father's money on herself, and so very, very
little on us--doesn't it? I don't understand it--do you, girls?"
But before the girls could reply, Brenda, looking fresh and captivating,
as usual, appeared by their side.
"Now, then,"--she said--"home we go. Oh, I am glad to get out of this
heat. I think we'll have supper in the garden to-night. It will be
lovely under the mulberry tree. What do you say, _petites_? What dear,
pretty little darlings you are!"
But the pretty little darlings were not in the best of tempers, and
Brenda had some trouble in getting them back to good humour. She
herself was in excellent spirits, for she had employed Madame Declasse
not only to make the dress in a way so sweet as to take the hearts of
all who saw her by storm, but was she not also to make her a long white
serge dust coat, very fashionable looking and very, very smart, and a
little white hat, which would exactly finish off the pale blue costume?
and was not Madame Declasse to supply a parasol and gloves, all suited
to that distinguished looking young lady, Miss Brenda Carlton?
But these small matters Brenda kept to herself. It would never do for
the sandy-haired daughters of the Reverend Josiah Amberley to know about
them. Her object was to humour them to the very top of their bent until
she got them away with her to the seaside, and then--behold! what twenty
pounds still quite unspent might not achieve! For the blue silk dress
was paid for, and Madame Declasse would not charge for the making up,
nor for the parasol, nor the white serge coat, nor the pretty white hat,
for a long, long time. It really did not matter to Madame when her
little bills were paid. She was quite willing and ready to accommodate
her customers.
As the little party were driving in by the tumble-down gates, Nina,
however, made a remark. She raised her light blue eyes and looked full
at Brenda and said, in a tone of question and some alarm:
"Do you really, really think, Brenda, that pink muslin is the most
suitable sort of dress for red girls like us?"
"Of course she doesn't," said Fanchon.
Josephine was silent. Brenda looked hastily from one of her pupils to
the other.
"Listen," she said, "I have considered the subject of your toilettes
with the utmost care. Your good father can allow very little for your
clothes. He imagines that you will wear stout cotton dresses during
your sojourn at Marshlands-on-the-Sea, but I do not intend you to appear
in anything so _gauche_. I have, therefore, bought delicate muslin,
which will be made up to suit you. Of course pink muslin will suit you;
it is _the_ colour for blondes like yourselves."
"Blondes, are we?" said Nina--"I thought we were reds!"
"You little goose!" exclaimed Brenda, bending forward and kissing Nina
with affection. "Haven't you just the darlingest little face, and who
loves you if your own Brenda does not? But talk to your father on the
subject if you wish, and I will change the pink muslins for cottons
to-morrow--I can easily do so."
"Oh, no--no," said Fanchon.
Josephine shut her lips. Nina nestled up to her governess in an ecstasy
of love and affection. If indeed she was a blonde--that lovely word--
why, the pink muslin _must_ suit her!
CHAPTER SEVEN.
LIGHT BLUE SILK.
During the days that elapsed between the purchase of the pale blue silk
and the grand fete at Mrs Hazlitt's school, it may well be supposed
that Brenda Carlton was very busy. Not Penelope at school, not any of
those girls who were to take the characters of Tennyson's "Dream of Fair
Women," were as much occupied as this young woman. She had so much to
think of and to do; for she had not only to see about her own toilette,
which meant frequent visits to Madame Declasse's, at Rocheford, and
therefore frequent demands for the pony trap, but she had also to help
the girls to make up their pink muslins.
She was sorry to have to dress her pupils in a colour she knew in her
heart of hearts could not possibly suit them, but she argued with her
own conscience that no possible dress that she could devise would make
the Misses Amberley look well and, that being the case, they might just
as soon be frightful as not. She had no pricks of conscience with
regard to this matter. The little red-haired girls were useful to her
for the time being. She intended to have a delightful outing at the
seaside and, in order to effect this, she must keep the Reverend Josiah
in the best of humours until her grand month was over.
This was quite easy to accomplish as long as the girls themselves were
pleased. But Brenda was by no means a fool, and she judged by certain
remarks of Nina's, who was the most innocent of the confiding three,
that already a few ugly little suspicions with regard to their governess
were animating their small breasts. In short, they were the sort of
girls who would very soon discover for themselves the wickedness of this
wicked world. They were not specially amiable; there was nothing
whatever attractive about them. When once they discovered Brenda, as
Brenda really was, her position in the Reverend Josiah's establishment
would come to an end.
Well, she intended to secure another home before then. There was a
certain rich young man whom she hoped to attract while at
Marshlands-on-the-Sea. When once engaged to him, it mattered little to
her what any of the Amberleys thought about her. Still, the present
fortnight must be used to the best advantage, and Brenda took great care
how she trimmed the white hate. She made them look exceedingly pretty
and stylish, for she had wonderful fingers which could contrive and
arrange the very simplest materials as though by magic. The pink muslin
frocks were also made to suit each girl. It did not matter if they were
a little skimpy; the girls were all young, and Nina, in particular,
ought still to wear very short skirts.
"No, Nina," said her governess, "I am not going to give you flounces,
but I shall put a couple of false tucks upon the muslin skirt."
"I'd much rather have flounces," said Nina, who was nearly in tears. "I
like little tiny frills, they are so pretty, and you have given them to
Fanchon and to Josephine."
"That is the very reason, _cherie_, why you must not have them," was
Brenda's remark. "The washing will be altogether too expensive. Your
poor, dear papa, who is taking no holiday himself, cannot possibly
afford the laundry bills which I shall have to send him if all your
dresses are flounced."
This argument seemed conclusive, and Nina had to be satisfied--that is,
she pretended to be, but there was her little scheme of vengeance
working up in her small brain, and she intended to talk it over with her
sisters on the eighth of July, that long, long, wonderful day when
beautiful Brenda would not be with them, and when they could do exactly
as they liked.
Clever as she was, Brenda could not guess the thoughts which filled her
little pupil's brain, and she was too much interested in her own affairs
just then to trouble herself much about so insignificant a young person.
Meanwhile, time flew as it always does when one is busy, and Brenda's
own delicate and beautiful dress arrived at the rectory two days before
she was to wear it. Now, Brenda did not want any of her pupils to see
her in this dress, and above all things, she did not wish the Reverend
Josiah to perceive that she--that absolutely dependent orphan--could
leave his establishment attired in pale blue silk. She trusted much to
the white serge coat, which she had ordered, to cover the silk.
Nevertheless, she knew she must run some dangers. As a matter of fact,
she had only spent about thirty shillings on each of her pupils, and
had, therefore, purloined from the sum which had been given her for
their clothes four pounds ten wherewith to line her own pockets. This
she hoped would never be discovered, nor would it have been, had Nina
not been quite so sharp, and Fanchon so really discontented with the
quality of the muslin dress she was to wear at Marshlands-on-the-Sea.
"Please, please, Brenda," said Fanchon, on the day before the great
fete, "won't you put on your pale blue silk, and let us see you in it?
It has come, I know, for I was in the garden when the carrier arrived
with that great box from Madame Declasse's. Father was with us, and he
asked what could be in the box."
"And what did you say, dear?"
"I said it was a box full of pots for making jam--that you had bought
the pots the day we were at Rocheford, as you thought it would be such a
good thing for cook to turn all the gooseberries into jam while we were
at the seaside."
"What a very clever little Fanchon you are!" said Brenda, looking very
attentively at her pupil. "And what did papa say--dear innocent papa?"
"Oh, he was ever so pleased--he loves gooseberry jam, and said that we
must on no account strip the trees beforehand, so as to leave plenty for
cook to boil down to put into the pots."
"What a mercy he didn't feel the box!" was Brenda's remark. "I do
think, Fanchon, you are very clever--very wicked, of course, and I
suppose you ought to be punished. But there--you meant well, didn't
you?"
"I suppose I did," said Fanchon, raising her pale blue eyes and fixing
them on her governess' face.
Brenda looked back at the girl. She heartily wished that Fanchon was
two years younger and five years stupider, and even a little more ugly;
but, such as she was, she must make the best of her.
"Of course," continued Fanchon, who seemed to divine her governess'
thoughts, "if you really think that I told a wicked story, I can go to
father now and tell him that I made a mistake, and that the box
contained your blue silk dress, and--and--other things of yours--and not
the jam pots. Shall I, Brenda? shall I?"
"You goosey! you goosey!" said Brenda. She squeezed Fanchon's arm and
began to pace up and down the terrace walk with her pupil by her side.
"You know," she said, lowering her voice and speaking in the most
confiding and enthralling way, "you are older than the others, and I can
confide in you. It is wrong to tell lies--very, very wrong--and
whatever possessed you, you silly girl, to think of jam pots? I am sure
nothing was further from our heads on that auspicious day. But I don't
want your dear father to see the dress that I am going to the fete in,
and I will tell you why."
"Please do," said Fanchon, "for to tell the truth, Brenda, neither Nina,
nor Josephine, nor I understand you always."
"Well, dears, is it likely that you should? I am, let me see, between
twenty-two and twenty-three years of age, although I don't look it by
any means."
"I don't know what that age looks like, so can't say," was Fanchon's
remark.
"Well, dear--it is a very beautiful age, and very young. It is the age
when a girl comes--so to speak--to her prime, and when she thinks of--
of,"--Brenda lowered her voice--"getting married."
"Oh!" said Fanchon, colouring crimson. "You don't mean to say--"
"I don't mean to say anything at all, I have nothing to confide, so
don't imagine it for a single moment. But at the seaside, where the gay
people will be, and the band will play, and there'll be no end of tea
out of doors and all sorts of fun of one sort and another, it may happen
that--that--somebody _may_ see your Brenda and--oh, Fanchon, need I say
any more!"
"I don't suppose you need," was Fanchon's answer. She felt immensely
flattered.
"Think what it would mean to me," continued Brenda. "A prince might
come along, who would fall in love with the beggar maid."
"But you--with your blue silk dress, to be called a beggar maid! That
name might suit poor Nina, who can't have flounces, even, to her pink
muslin dress that only cost sixpence three farthings a yard."
Brenda was startled at Fanchon's memory with regard to the price of the
muslin.
"No," continued that young lady, "you're not a bit like the beggar
maid."
"Ah, but--my dear girl--I am the beggar maid, and I am waiting for the
king to come along who will raise me to sit on his throne, and--in
fact--I am going to whisper a _great_ secret to you, Fanchon--"
"What is it?" said Fanchon, who was at once fretful and disgusted,
overpowered with curiosity, and yet heartily wishing that Brenda would
not confide in her.
"Well--I will tell you," said Brenda. "I have been left a little
money--just the _merest_ little trifle, and I am spending a little of it
on my blue silk, and I don't want any one to know but just my own
darling Fanchon; my eldest pupil--who loves me so well! Perhaps, my
_cherie_, I may buy you a pretty gift out of some of the money. What do
you say to a little gold bracelet--a bangle, I mean?"
Brenda remembered that she could get a silver gilt bracelet for a couple
of shillings at a shop she knew of at Rocheford, and that it would be
worth her while to purchase Fanchon's sympathy at that price.
"Oh--but I should love it!" said the young lady, looking at her sunburnt
and badly formed wrist.
"The bangle would give you good style," said Brenda. "Well, we'll say
nothing about it now--but--well, as I have given you my confidence, you
won't repeat it."
"I suppose not, but I do want to see your blue silk."
"All right, you shall, but not the others--I draw the line at the
others. You can slip out of bed to-night and come to me, and I will put
it on and show myself. I am going away early in the morning before any
of you are up."
"But I am certain father will be up, for he said so, and he's going to
let you in afterwards."
Brenda considered for a moment--
"I can't help his letting me in, but he shan't see me off," she
said--"no one need do that. Well, now--go and join your sisters. Go to
bed at the usual hour, and come to me at ten o'clock; then I will put on
the dress and you shall judge of the effect."
The thought of seeing the wonderful dress and of possessing a real gold
bangle were two circumstances enough to turn the slight brain of Fanchon
Amberley. She did not confide to her sisters what her conversation had
been, and managed that evening to elude them and to present herself at
Brenda's door as the clock struck ten. The other two were sound asleep,
so she had little difficulty in getting away from them, and, as Brenda
was on the watch, she let her pupil in at once, immediately locking the
door as soon as Fanchon got inside.
"Now then," she said, "you just hop on to my bed, for I don't want you
to catch cold. See--here's the dress."
Madame Declasse was really an excellent dressmaker, and the pale blue
silk would have looked lovely to any eyes, but the unaccustomed ones of
Fanchon Amberley fairly blinked as they gazed at it.
"I never imagined anything so lovely!" she cried. "But you must put it
on--you promised."
Brenda obeyed. She was gratified by the curious mixture of vanity and
greed, envy and admiration which filled poor Fanchon's face, and she
attired herself, not only in the dress, which gave her little figure
such a "chic" appearance, but also put on the white hat and the dainty
white lace scarf, and drew the long white gloves upon her slender arms.
Finally, she slipped into the white serge coat which was to cover the
finery, lest the Reverend Josiah should catch sight of it.
"He won't see me to-morrow morning," she said, "and when I come back in
the evening, he'll think that I am wearing a cotton dress underneath the
serge. There now, Fanchon, you have seen everything, and you may rest
satisfied that I shall have plenty to tell you when I return."
"I am bewildered," said Fanchon. "Of course you look beautiful; of
course the prince or the king, whenever either of them comes along, will
fall in love with you, for you look like a princess or a queen yourself!
I wish I were beautiful too. I hate--yes--I _hate_ being ugly!" and
the poor child gave a sob of pain and disappointment.
"Now listen, Fanchon. You won't be ugly when you are grown up. It
doesn't matter a bit how you look now, for you are only a little girl.
What you have to do now is to help me all you can, and then, when you
come to be eighteen or nineteen years of age--I will help you, _petite_,
and get you a good husband, and drew you in the colours that will make
you look--oh--marvellous! Keep me as your friend and you will be a wise
little girl: do the reverse, and you will rue it."
Fanchon shed a few more tears, but finally yielded to Brenda's
seductions and clasped her arms round her neck and kissed that young
person's cool cheek with her own hot lips; then went to bed to dream of
that wonderful vision in blue silk and the prince who was surely going
to find her.
The next morning, at a very early hour, Brenda took her departure,
having successfully avoided the Reverend Josiah, who had gone to bed
with the full intention of getting up to see his dear young governess
off and to tell her that he would assuredly sit up and have something
hot for supper when she came back in the evening. He had not yet
thanked her for her consideration in buying the jam pots.
"The dear girl must have got them out of her own money," he said to
himself. "She really is a treasure, and I am so fond of gooseberry jam.
One can have so few indulgences--what with the sick of the parish and
my very small stipend. But when I think of that poor young creature,
and of what she is doing for me and my children, I cannot be too
thankful. I will certainly thank her in suitable words when she
returns, and I will see her off in the morning."
But, alack and alas! the Reverend Josiah was tired, for he had had a
very long and fatiguing day, and Brenda's footsteps were light as the
falling of snow, and she had left the house and gone out to the stables
and got the pony put to the cart. She had also awakened Jock--
universally known as "the boy," and had given him fourpence to drive her
to Harroway station. All these things had been done, and Brenda was
away--yes, away for her day's holiday before the Reverend Josiah opened
his eyes on that summer morning.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
BREAK-UP DAY.
Nothing at all happened to Brenda of the least importance during her
journey to Hazlitt Chase. She went second-class as far as Rocheford.
There she changed for first-class, for she had every intention of doing
the thing in style.
When she arrived at the little station, she saw several smart-looking
carriages waiting to take guests up to The Chase and, going up to the
driver of one, requested him immediately to convey her there. He looked
at the very smart lady, admired her blue eyes and the radiant and truly
natural colour in her cheeks, and signified to her that if she would
enter the low victoria, he would take her to The Chase. She did so,
wrapping her white serge cloak daintily round her, and leaning back in
her seat with evident enjoyment.
She was reaching her goal--the goal she had been aspiring to for so many
long weeks now; and that twenty pounds--yes, and a little more besides,
some of the Reverend Josiah Amberley's money (that money which he had
given her to clothe his own little daughters)--reposed snugly in her
purse at home. Her conscience did not trouble her, for Brenda had never
cultivated that excellent monitor. It lay quiet and asleep within her
breast. Her whole nature was full of anticipation and ripe for
mischief. She was anxious to see her sister and the school, and to make
a first-rate impression there.
As she sat leaning back in the little victoria, her white and dainty
parasol unfurled, her white gloves gleaming in the summer sunshine, a
lady, considerably older than herself, came out of the station and,
going up to the driver, asked if she could have a seat also up to The
Chase. This lady's name was Mrs Hungerford, and she had two young
daughters at the school. She was a fashionable woman, beautifully
dressed, and when she took her seat by Brenda's side, Brenda felt that
she could not do better than make her her friend. Accordingly, she
entered into what she considered a very delightful conversation. She
talked simply, and yet suitably, with regard to herself, and did what
she could to add to Mrs Hungerford's comfort. For instance, the astute
young woman proposed that her white parasol should shade both of them
from the sun. Mrs Hungerford was a dark-complexioned woman and she
immediately agreed to the offer. As a matter of fact, she did not much
mind whether the sun's rays fell on her face and neck or not. She
noticed, although she made no remark at the time, that Brenda did not
greatly care either; for she was absorbed in shading herself from the
slightest fleck of undue light.
At last they reached The Chase. The little carriage drew up daintily at
the front door, where a number of pupils were assembled and where Mrs
Hazlitt herself stood to welcome her visitors. The girls in the school
were all dressed in white--some in white washing silk, some in white
lace, some only in white muslin. But whatever the dress, they looked
neat and fresh and, in Brenda's eyes, were elegant.
She looked anxiously around for Penelope, who was not immediately in
sight. Mrs Hungerford got quickly out of the carriage, for she saw her
own two little girls, who rushed to her with cries of delight. As she
did so, something glittered at Brenda's feet. She was stepping out when
she saw it. It was a little gold bangle with a blue turquoise clasp.
It was very pretty and dainty, and altogether the sort of thing which a
girl like Brenda would covet. She had no immediate idea, however, of
stealing it. She stooped to pick it up immediately, to avoid its being
stepped upon, and was about to give it to Mrs Hungerford, whose
property she supposed it to be, when that lady went straight into the
house, without taking the slightest notice of her. With trembling
fingers, Brenda slipped the gold bangle into her pocket. She longed
most earnestly to be able to wear it. It was of beautiful workmanship,
and the turquoise which clasped it together was of unusual size and
purity of colour. It was quite a girlish-looking thing and would be,
Brenda felt sure, most unsuitable for dark, stately Mrs Hungerford.
All these thoughts with regard to it rushed through her mind as she
stood for a minute, unnoticed, on the green sward which swept up to the
house at each side of the principal entrance.
Other carriages had immediately followed the little victoria, which
rolled swiftly away out of sight, and, for a minute, no one spoke to
Brenda. Then Mrs Hazlitt herself came up to her.
"Ah, how do you do, my dear?" she said. "You are--"
"I am Brenda Carlton," said Brenda, raising those lovely melting blue
eyes to the good lady's face. "It is _so_ kind of you to invite me
here. And where is Penelope?"
Mrs Hazlitt looked around. She was annoyed at Penelope not being in
sight, and immediately called Honora Beverley to take her place.
"Honora," she said--"this is Miss Carlton. I suppose Penelope has not
finished dressing; will you kindly take Miss Carlton to her sister's
room? I am sorry, my dear, that I have not a corner to offer you to
sleep in to-night; but on break-up days we are always overfull."
Brenda made a becoming reply, and followed in the wake of beautiful,
fair Honora. Her own dress, it seemed to her, was most stylish--most
absolutely all that any girl could desire, until she noticed Honora's
white lace robe. It clung softly to her lissom young figure, and had an
indescribable air about it which not even Madame Declasse could achieve.
In short, it bore the hall-mark of Paris, for Honora Beverley was one
of the richest girls in the school. She had always been accustomed to
being well dressed, and had, therefore, never given the matter a
thought.
She was a most kind-hearted, high-principled girl, and was anxious to do
what she could for Brenda, whom she, in her heart of hearts, could not
help dubbing as second-class, notwithstanding the girl's real beauty.
"I am so sorry," she said, "that Penelope was not present when you
arrived; but she always does take a long time over her toilette. We
must all assemble in the hall, however, in a quarter of an hour, so you
will probably find her fully dressed. That is the way to her room.
Have you come from a distance, Miss Carlton?"
Brenda mentioned the obscure village where the Reverend Josiah lived.
Honora had never heard of it, neither was she deeply interested. She
chatted in a pleasant voice of the different events of the day, and said
how delightful everything was, and how singularly kind she thought it of
Penelope to take the part of Helen of Troy.
"For I couldn't do it," she said. "It is just a case of conscience."
There was something in her tone and in her gentle look which made Brenda
gaze at her, not only with envy, but with dislike.
"Why should your conscience be more tender than my sister's?" was her
answer. "And who was Helen of Troy? I never heard of her."
Honora opened her brown eyes. She had not believed that any one existed
in the wide world who had not, at one time or another, made the
acquaintance of this celebrated woman.
"Penelope will tell you about her," she said gently. "Of course you
know, Miss Carlton, what is wrong for one need not be necessarily wrong
for another. We have each to answer for our own conscience, have we
not? Ah, and this is Penelope's room." She knocked at the door.
"Penelope, your sister has come."
Hurried steps were heard inside the chamber. The door was flung open
and Penelope, all in white and looking almost pretty, stood on the
threshold. Honora immediately withdrew, and the two sisters found
themselves for a few minutes alone.
"Do take off your cloak and let me look at you," said Penelope. "I have
been telling the girls so much about you, and most of them are all agog
to see you. Dear, dear! pale blue silk! Well, it is rather pretty,
only I wish you had been in white; but you look very nice all the same,
dear."
"You ate highly dissatisfied, Penelope; and I'm sure I've done all that
mortal could to oblige you," said Brenda.
"And I to oblige you," retorted Penelope. "I can tell you, I had
trouble about those five-pound notes, but you got them safely, didn't
you?"
"Yes, of course I did: I only wish you could have managed more. This
dress is much prettier than your insipid white. White is all very well
for schoolgirls, but I am grown up, remember."
"Yes, yea--and you look very nice," said Penelope. "It's more than you
do, Penelope; you're not a bit pretty," said frank Brenda.
"I know it--and it seems so highly ridiculous that I should be forced to
take the part of Helen of Troy. Of course, Honora was the girl
absolutely made on the very model, but she refused."
"Who is Honora?" asked Brenda.
"Why, that lovely girl in the white lace--(it's all real, I can tell
you, and was sent to her from Paris)--who brought you to my door."
"Oh--_that_ girl!" said Brenda. "I don't think her at all remarkable."
"Don't you? Well, most people do--she's quite the belle of the school."
"And what does the belle of the school signify?" said Brenda, who was
feeling decidedly cross. "If a girl could be called the belle of the
season, that might be something to aspire to--but the belle of a school!
Who cares about that?"
"Well, the schoolgirls do, and while we are at school, it is our world,"
said Penelope. "But now I must bring you downstairs, and put you into
your place. You must get a seat on one of the benches near the front,
or you won't see one half that is going on. Come along, you may be sure
I will fly to you whenever I have a second, but I shall be very busy all
day."
"Will there be gentlemen present?" asked Brenda.
"Oh--certainly. The brothers and cousins and fathers and uncles of the
pupils."
"I don't care anything at all about the fathers and uncles, but I should
like to be introduced to some of the brothers and cousins."
"Well, I daresay that can be managed--"
"Penelope--do come!" called Cara's voice in the distance, and Penelope,
accompanied by her sister, had to fly downstairs.
A few minutes later, Brenda found herself in the wide, open court. She
was partly sheltered by a great awning. Here the prizes were to be
given away, a few speeches were to be made, and a few recitations given
by some of the most accomplished girls and teachers.
No one took any special notice of her, and this acute young person
discovered that if she did not play her own cards well and immediately,
she would be out of the fun. Now, this was the last thing she wished.
The slight feeling of discomfort which had arisen in her breast when she
saw Honora Beverley in her simple and exquisite dress had vanished: the
colour brightened in her cheeks; she felt assured that she looked well,
and assuredly she was pretty, although second-class.
She deliberately took a seat near two young men who were brothers of two
of the older girls. She asked one of them quite an innocent question,
to which he replied. She decided that he was good-looking and that she
could have a pleasant day in his company, and immediately requested him,
in that simple and pathetic voice which always so strongly appealed to
the Reverend Josiah, to tell her all about the company--who was who, and
what was what. She said that she herself was a lonely girl who had come
from a distance to behold her dear sister in that exquisite creation,
Helen of Troy. She talked of Helen as though she had been that good
woman's intimate friend from her youth up, and managed to impress both
young men with a lively sense of her pleasantness and her frank, daring
sort of beauty.
Presently, one of the little Hungerford girls came along. She belonged
to the smaller girls of the school. She came straight up to the young
man who was talking to Brenda, and, leaning against him, said in a
disconsolate voice:
"It is quite lost; mother did promise that I should have it. Pauline
has got hers--hers has a ruby clasp, but mine with the blue turquoise
can't be found anywhere!"
"Why, what is it, Nelly?" said the young man. "Nelly, may I introduce
you to this young lady."
"My name is Carlton--Brenda Carlton. I am the sister of your friend
Penelope, who is to be Helen of Troy," said Brenda. "Is anything wrong,
dear?" she continued, speaking kindly, and bending forward so as almost
to caress the child by her manner.
Young Hungerford's dark face quite flushed, and he made room for his
little sister to sit between him and Brenda for a minute.
"Tell her--perhaps she will know. Now that I remember, she drove up in
the victoria with mother from the station."
"It is my bangle!" said Nelly. "Mother brought one for me, and the
other for Pauline. Mine had a turquoise clasp. She got them from Paris
and they are so very, very, very pretty; and Pauline is wearing hers,
and mine is gone!"
"Oh, but--how provoking! It must be found, of course," said Brenda,
putting on an air of great sympathy, and wondering how she could get it
out of her own pocket without suspicion being directed to her.
Her first impulse was simply to say to the child: "I wonder if I know
anything about it," and then to tell how she had picked it up. But
Nellie Hungerford's next remark prevented her doing so.
"Mother is quite certain that she lost it in the train, for she
remembers taking the parcel out when she was looking for some sandwiches
in her bag; she noticed then that the string was loose. Mother is
convinced that she lost it in the train. Oh dear! oh dear! I should
not mind quite so badly if Pauline was not wearing hers. There, Fred--
do you see her?" continued the little girl. "It is shining on her arm,
and that horrid ruby is gleaming like a bit of fire. I am miserable
without mine and, although mother will get me another, it won't be at
all the same thing not wearing it on break-up day."
"Well, dear--it cannot be helped now," said the brother, "and I see one
of the teachers calling you. I suppose you must take your place. You
look very nice indeed, Nellie, and no one will miss the bangle."
"Do I really look nice?" asked Nellie, fixing her pretty eyes on her
brother's face.
"Of course you do," he answered.
"You look charming, Miss Hungerford," suddenly interposed Brenda, "and
if I may venture to give an opinion, I prefer little girls without
bangles."
This was a remark which at once pleased young Hungerford and displeased
his sister.
"I suppose my mamma knows what little girls ought to wear," she said
with great dignity, and then she moved off to take her seat amid the
other girls.
When she was gone, Brenda felt a curious flutter at her heart. If Mrs
Hungerford was sure that she had lost her bangle in the train, why need
wicked Brenda ever return it to her? Surely, she might keep it as her
own delightful possession. She might wear it at Marshlands-on-the-Sea,
and attract the attention of that most desirable youth whom she hoped to
secure as her future husband.
"Do you know--I quite agree with you," said a voice in her ear.
She turned to confront the dark eyes of Fred Hungerford.
"What about?" she asked, forgetting herself for the moment.
"I would rather my little sisters did not wear ornaments while they are
so young, but mother was specially anxious to please them, and insisted
on buying the bangles when we were in Paris a fortnight ago. They were
very pretty and simple of their kind, and, I know, good too. The
turquoise one, strange to say, was the more expensive of the two.
Mother would have liked to get a turquoise for each, but they are such
an untidy pair she felt certain one would get lost, and so decided that
Pauline should be responsible for the ruby, and dear little Nellie for
the turquoise. Then, I wanted her to have them sent to the children by
registered post, instead of bringing them to-day, but she wouldn't. She
wouldn't even bring them in boxes, but just slipped them into a piece of
tissue paper the last moment, and, of course, one of them has got lost!"
"Do you think it is likely to be found?" asked Brenda.
"I should say most unlikely; unless one of the officials happened to see
it before somebody else got into the carriage. It is exactly the sort
of thing which an unscrupulous person would pick up and keep."
"An unscrupulous person!" echoed Brenda.
"Well--yes. Of course you look so innocent and so--so--young, that of
course you cannot be a bit aware of the fact that there are lots of
dishonest persons in the world. Poor, dear little Nell! Well, she will
cheer up in a minute, and forget all about it."
Brenda leaned back in her seat. She had now quite made up her mind to
keep the bracelet. All she had to do was never to wear it in the
presence of the Hungerfords, whom she was scarcely likely to see again,
or in the presence of her sister, Penelope. But she could make good use
of it at Marshlands-on-the-Sea.
The events of the day began and continued, and Brenda enjoyed herself
vastly. Young Mr Hungerford introduced her to one or two friends of
his, and during the entire day she hardly spoke to a schoolgirl or to a
woman of any sort. The ladies who were present by no means admired her.
The schoolgirls themselves had no time to give her a thought. The
crowning scene of the day was to be "A Dream of Fair Women," which was
put on with exquisite effect; the scene being a dusky wood, with the
moonlight shining through. Even Brenda felt moved as she watched the
curtain rise over the little act, and observed, for the first time, with
particular attention Mrs Hazlitt's noble face and figure as she stood
in the shadowy part of the background and began to recite Tennyson's
words:
"At last methought that I had wandered far
In an old wood: fresh wash'd in coolest dew
The maiden splendours of the morning star
Shook in the steadfast blue.
"...
"And from within a clear undertone
Thrilled through mine ears in that unblissful clime,
`Pass freely thro': the wood is all thine own,
Until the end of time.'
"At length I saw a lady within call,
Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing there;
A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,
And most divinely fair."
There was a stir of surprise from the audience, as the girlish figure
was dimly discernible: the hair glittering in its fairness, the eyes
soft, and yet full of hidden fire, the whole attitude one of extreme
grace. For Penelope's soul had been fired with the music of that great
song of songs; and the arrangement of the stage, the simplicity of the
dress, the marvellous effects of light and shade had produced what--in
very truth--seemed to be that very Helen who had driven men mad with
love and longing so many centuries ago. Even Brenda held her breath.
Wonder filled her soul, an emotion quite new to her stirred in her
breast. She could not take her eyes from the figure at once so stately,
so serene, so unlike that little Penelope whom she had always somewhat
despised. Great, indeed, was Penelope's success when Brenda, the most
matter-of-fact person in the world, forgot that she was her sister at
that moment and realised within her breast and through that frail and
fickle heart of hers something of the greatness of immortal love.
The other figures dimly moved forward in their order: Cleopatra in her
swarthy greatness; Jephtha's daughter, who so gladly obeyed her father's
behest and died for the cause of Jehovah; Fair Rosamond, Iphigenia, the
rest of that great group. But Brenda could only think of Helen.
At last, the mistress' voice died away. The passionate words no longer
filled the air. The young actors rushed out of sight, some to change
their dresses, some to be congratulated by their friends. The last
event of all the events was over. Congratulation and enthusiasm rose to
a great height. Mrs Hazlitt was surrounded by friends who assured her
that they had seldom seen anything finer in its way. Helen of Troy
stood for a minute apart. There was a swelling lump in her throat. She
had been the success of the evening. But for her, the tableaux might
almost have been ridiculous. It was just because she forgot, and did
the thing; just because for the time she was no longer Penelope--poor,
plain, a girl who had to earn her bread by-and-by--but some other soul
had inspired her--that Tennyson's "Dream of Fair Women" had become
something to talk of in all the future days of the old school. But the
enthusiasm which had filled her breast faded now. She was puzzled and
frightened at her own emotions. She wandered a little way into the wood
and, leaning her head against the trunk of a tree, burst into tears.
It was there that Honora Beverley found her.
"Why, surely, Helen--I mean Penelope," she said--
"Oh, leave me," said Penelope, turning swiftly. "Something is hurt in
my heart--I don't know what it is, and yet--yes--I do know."
"You did it splendidly! I couldn't have believed it of you--no one
could."
"It wasn't me," replied Penelope. "I did it because I couldn't help
myself. Just for a minute I was raised into something else. Perhaps it
was Mrs Hazlitt's voice; wasn't she wonderful?"
"Yes," said Honora, "but I am thinking of you as you are. Come and be
congratulated: you are the heroine of the evening."
"No, I cannot: I don't want them to see me; I would rather just creep
away and put on my plain dress and say good-bye to Brenda; I have hardly
seen her all day."
"Oh, but your sister has been quite happy: she has not been neglected, I
can assure you."
"Still, I must talk to her for a minute or two, and she has to catch her
train. Let me go, Honora. Don't tell any one that I cried. I am
rather ashamed of myself: I don't--I don't quite know why."
Honora bent down. She was taller than Penelope, and much more slim.
She kissed the girl on her forehead. Penelope suddenly clung to her.
"Why didn't you do it--you who could?"
"That is just it: I couldn't. I don't pretend that I am not more
beautiful than you in face, but that has nothing to do with one's
personating the part. If you really feel it, you take the character of
the part until it grows into your face. I could never have been Helen.
You did it splendidly, no one could have looked more lovely. Just
remember that you have had a great triumph and be happy and, Penelope--
one minute--"
"Yes," said Penelope, pausing.
"I want to have a talk with you to-morrow."
"Very well."
"We shall all leave during the course of the day, but you are staying at
the school."
"I am."
"Come to my room at ten o'clock. Good-bye for the present."
Penelope flew out of sight. She rushed upstairs, changed her Greek
dress for a pretty, simple white one, in which she had been apparelled
during the early part of the day and, after considerable searching,
found her sister. Brenda was refreshing herself with cake and claret
cup when Penelope came up to her.
"Oh--good gracious!" she said, when she saw Penelope's face very pale
now, with her eyes looking lighter and more faded than usual because of
the sudden tears she had shed. "I do wish to goodness I had not seen
you again to-night."
"What a fearfully unkind thing to say, Brenda, when I have been just
longing to be with you."
"I could have gone home and dreamt all night that I had a beautiful
sister," continued Brenda--"but now--"
Just then young Mr Hungerford appeared.
"Ah,"--he said to Brenda--"you have found your sister. May I
congratulate you!" he said; and he looked at poor, dowdy little Penelope
with that wonder which his honest eyes could not but reflect. For how
was it possible that she had ever been got to present one of the most
majestic figures in ancient story!
Penelope murmured something and then turned to her sister.
"I must get out of this," she said. "I simply can't stand their
congratulations. I ought never to have done it--I only wish I hadn't."
"Well, come with me to the station; I don't suppose Mrs Hazlitt will
mind. You should have worn your Greek costume for the rest of the
evening; these people would have gone on admiring you."
"No, they wouldn't. Helen with the limelight and the dark wood and the
voice talking above her was not me. She was something quite foreign to
me: somebody else got into me just for a minute."
"Oh, how wildly and impossibly you do talk, Penelope! I see you're
going to be queer as well as plain. Well, unless you wish to say
good-bye at once, come to the station with me."
"I will--I should like to," said Penelope.
She rushed upstairs and came down in her hat and jacket. The same
little victoria which had brought Brenda from the station was waiting to
convey her back. Penelope was feeling dead tired.
"I shall have a sickening time," she said, "during the holidays all
alone with Mademoiselle in this great place and nothing whatever to do.
I don't love books and I don't care for work and--oh dear--I envy you;
you can go to the seaside and have a good time. I hope you will get use
out of your twenty pounds."
"I should think so, indeed."
"But you must have spent a lot of it over that dress, and I don't think
I admire it."
"Never mind what use I have made of the money. When I write to tell you
that I am engaged, and can, perhaps, offer you a home in the future,
then you will understand how useful it has been."
Penelope was silent for a minute or two. Then, just as they were
approaching the station, she said to her sister:
"Did you hear about the lost bangle?--it does seem so queer. The
Hungerfords will make a great fuss about it, that I am sure of."
"Oh, no, they won't," said Brenda.
"Why--have you heard anything?"
"I was talking to that nice boy who came here with his mother. They
seemed quite certain that it slipped out of her hand in the train. They
can't blame anybody at the school."
"Of course not," said Penelope. "What _do_ you mean?"
Brenda was glad that the night was dark enough to prevent her sister
seeing the colour which flew to her cheeks.
"I meant nothing at all," she said. "Only of course when things are
lost, everybody gets suspected. In this case, suspicion falls upon the
passengers on the line and the railway officials, so we are well out of
it. Good night, Helen of Troy. Oh, to think that you--you little
insignificant creature--should ever have represented her!"
The whistle of the train was heard as it approached the station. Brenda
sprang from the carriage, waved a kiss to her sister, and hurried on to
the platform. A minute later, she was borne out of sight, the gold
bangle with its turquoise clasp lying securely in the pocket of her
dress.
CHAPTER NINE.
THREE SISTERS CONSULT TOGETHER.
Meanwhile, at the old rectory at Harroway, the girls who were left
behind were passing a day not without a certain interest. It was Nina
who began all the excitement. Their father, having been disappointed at
not seeing Brenda off, had gone early on a long round of parochial
visits, and the three girls had the breakfast table to themselves.
Josephine insisted on pouring out tea. Fanchon quarrelled with her over
this privilege and managed, in the dispute, to spill the contents of the
milk jug. Nina sat quiet and thoughtful, making up a little plan in her
small brain. She was really a very precocious child for her ten years.
"First come, first served!" cried Josephine in her somewhat rasping
voice. "I was down first, and I took possession of the tea tray. If
you don't behave yourself, Fanchon, I shall put so much water in your
tea that you won't be able to drink it. See what a horrid mess you have
made! Nina--get up and ring the bell this minute."
"No, I won't," said Nina. "Get up and ring it yourself."
"Well--how horrid!" cried Josephine, who knew that if she left her
coveted post of tea-maker, it would be immediately secured by Fanchon.
"I suppose we must stand this mess, and there's only a little milk in
the other jug."
"You're quite detestable!" said Fanchon, snapping her fingers with
passion. "What a mercy it is that dear Brenda is with us on other days,
or what a frightful mess we'd get into!"
"_Dear_ Brenda, indeed!" cried Nina, in a scornful tone.
"Yes, you do make a fuss about her at times," said Josephine. "But she
is gone for a day--and a good thing, too. You know how cross you are
often with her dictatorial ways and the silly manner in which she
manages to take in poor papa."
"I know something that you don't know," said Fanchon, resigning herself
as passively as she could to a humble seat at the side of the breakfast
table.
"What do you know, Fanchon? Oh, do tell us!" cried Nina.
"Well--I saw _the_ dress last night!"
"What--the dress that Brenda went away in?"
"Yes."
"You _didn't_ see it--she positively refused to let any of us look at
it--and I thought it so beastly churlish of her!" said Nina.
"Well, she showed it to me," said Fanchon carelessly, helping herself to
a piece of bread and jam as she spoke, "and it was--oh, I tell you,
girls, it was just ripping! I never saw such a beautiful creature as
Brenda looked in it. I will describe it to you presently, outside in
the garden, but not now. When I have a bit of fun, and a secret to
tell, I like to make as much of it as possible. I suppose we'll have a
good time ourselves some day, although not at present."
"I have something to talk about too in the garden," said Nina; "but
first I want to have a little chat with papa."
She looked very mysterious and the other girls glanced at her, not
particularly, however, troubling themselves with regard to her
appearance. It was Nina's _role_ to be sometimes the mere baby--the
most kittenish, babyish thing on earth--and at other times to be
inscrutable like the Sphinx. But these things did not really matter to
her sisters, who, as they expressed it, saw through her little games.
On this occasion, she suddenly darted from her seat and ran out of the
room. She had caught sight of the somewhat greasy coat of the Reverend
Josiah, who had returned unexpectedly and was passing the window on his
way to his study.
"There's papa!" screamed Nina--"the very man I want. I'll be back
by-and-by."
"What can she be up to now? Little minx!" said Fanchon. "Dear, dear!
do you like those pink muslins, Josie? I can't say that I do."
"I don't think about them," said Josephine. "Whatever we wear, we look
frights."
"Well, sometimes--sometimes I think that dear Brenda rather likes us to
look frights," said Fanchon. "I ought not to say it, for she really has
been very good to me--particularly last night--and I believe our best
policy at present is to humour her up to the top of her bent. Then if
she could get engaged, and were married--"
"Engaged! and married!" cried Josephine. "What _do_ you mean, Fanchon?"
"Well--that is what she expects. There's a _he_ somewhere in the world
who seems to want her, and she thinks he'll be at Marshlands-on-the-Sea,
and--and--it _will_ be fun to watch them together. Little Nina shall
creep into the bushes behind them in the evening and listen to what they
are saying--what a joke that'll be!"
"Yes, of course," said Josephine, brightening up very much, "it'll tell
us the sort of thing that goes on and prepare us for our own turns," she
added.
Fanchon laughed.
"Girls like us sometimes have no turns," she continued, "that's the
worst of it. Red hair and freckles _are_ so hopeless--you can never
dress up to them; everything depends on how you dress, and somehow, it
can't be done--at least, that is what Brenda says."
"Would you really be glad if Brenda were to leave us?" asked Josephine.
"I think I should--_I_ should be mistress here then, and of course papa,
who is so devoted to her, would give her a good wedding and that _would_
be sport--and we'd have to have nice frocks for that, and that would be
sport too!"
"Oh, yes--on the whole it would be nice for Brenda to go, only some one
else horrid might take her place."
"Well, don't let's sit here any longer in this choking hot room. Let us
go into the garden: we have no lessons of any sort to-day. We can get
out the frills of our muslins and continue hemming them."
"I do wonder what is keeping Nina," said Josephine. But Nina herself
had forgotten her sisters, so great was the interest of this important
occasion. To begin with--she had caught dear papa. She took dear papa
by the button-hole and, slipping her hand through his arm, led him into
his study. The Reverend Josiah was very hot, and the study was cool.
Nina was well aware which was dearest papa's most comfortable chair, and
she placed him in it, put a pillow to his head and brought him some cold
water to drink, and then sat down by him without talking.
She had a little shock head of very carroty hair. That hair neither
waved nor curled. It stood in stubborn awkwardness round her small
face; for it was thick and short and decidedly jagged. Her face was
pale, except for its freckles, and her features had the appearance of
being put on by the wide palm of a very flat hand. Her eyes were
minute, and she was nearly destitute of eyelashes and eyebrows. Her
mouth was a little slit without much colour, but, notwithstanding her
decided plainness, there was a great deal of knowingness in Nina, and
she might be as dangerous a woman by-and-by as was pretty Brenda herself
at the present moment.
"Father,"--she said now--"why did you come back? I thought you were
going out for the whole livelong day."
"So I did, my dear; but I had not gone a mile before I discovered that
Bess had cast a shoe and I was obliged to take her to the forge to be
put right. The day is uncommonly hot, and I doubt if I shall begin to
call on my parishioners until the evening."
"I wouldn't if I were you, papa darling," said Nina. "The parishioners
don't care to be bothered in the morning--do they, papa?"
"That is not the question, my dear," said the Reverend Josiah. "A
clergyman's visits ought not to be spoken of as bothers. The people
ought to be truly glad to have spiritual ministrations offered to them."
"I do not understand what that means," said Nina, patting the devoted
Josiah's decidedly fat leg. "But I do know that, if I were cooking
dinner, or gardening, or any of the sort of things that poor folks do, I
would be frightfully flustered if you came to see me; and I suppose,
papa, what I feel, the parishioners feel."
"No, they don't. They hold me in much too great respect," said Mr
Amberley, looking with some displeasure at his little daughter.
"Well--p'r'aps so," said Nina, who really didn't care a pin about the
parishioners, and whose object in sitting with her father at that moment
was not concerned in the very least with them. "Papa," she said, after
a pause, "I thought when I saw you passing the window how glad you would
be to have your little Nina with you."
"And so I am, child--so I am. You are having a holiday to-day on
account of--of Miss Carlton's being away--Brenda, I mean. You must miss
her terribly, my dear."
"Oh, no, papa--I don't miss her at all."
"Nina--I am _shocked_ to hear you speak in that tone! When I consider
the expense I go to, to give you the luxury of _such_ an excellent
governess--such a friend--such a companion, I am _amazed_ at your
remarks!"
"Oh, well,"--said Nina, who did not wish to speak against Miss Carlton,
for that would not do at present--"a holiday is a change to any girl,
and we're going to sit out in the garden and hem the flounces of those
little cheap frocks you gave us to wear at the seaside."
"What little cheap frocks, my dear? I am not aware that I gave you any
frocks."
"But that precious Brenda bought them for us out of your money."
"Oh, you mean your nice cottons that you are to wear at
Marshlands-on-the-Sea. Well, child, I did the best I could, and I think
it is unkind of you to talk to me about cheap frocks; for when I allowed
the sum of three pounds for each of my daughters, I could not afford
more. It was a great, great deal of money, Nina, and so you will find
yourself when you come to earn it." Nina had just got the information
she desired. But all she said was--raising solemn eyes to her father's
face:
"The frocks _are_ cheap--they cost sixpence three farthings a yard!"
Mr Amberley got up impatiently.
"I have got to study a passage from Josephus," he said, "which has
puzzled me for some little time; and I don't care a penny piece whether
your frocks cost six-and-sixpence or sixpence halfpenny a yard. I don't
know what a yard means. Leave me now, Nina. I am quite cool, and shall
set to work to write a specially good sermon for Sunday. The
parishioners want a new sermon, for I have given them the old ones for
over a year and I am in the mood to-day. Dear Brenda sometimes helps me
with my sermons, but of late I have not found her amenable in that
respect. She has a most lively imagination and often throws a fresh
light on a text which I myself do not perceive. But go away and hem
your frills, and be thankful that you have a good father who can allow
you a nice sum each to buy clothes, and an excellent--most excellent
governess, who devotes herself to you."
"She will be home at twelve to-night: are you going to sit up for her?"
said Nina.
"Of course I am--poor girl. Do you think I wouldn't do what I could to
show how I appreciate her--how we all appreciate her? I am going to
make her a Welsh rabbit for her supper: it is the one dainty that I can
make to perfection."
"Oh, papa!" said Nina, bursting out laughing; "I don't believe there's a
scrap of cheese in the house!"
The Reverend Josiah made no response to this, but a slightly knowing
expression crossed his sandy face, and Nina had to leave him. In truth,
she did not want to stay any longer, for she had got the information she
desired.
The rectory at Harroway was by no means well furnished. It was a large,
rambling old house. What carpets there were bore traces of wear and
tear. The sofas were covered with untidy and torn chintzes. The
landings had many of them bare boards destitute of any covering
whatsoever; the bedrooms were _en suite_ with the rest of the house.
But the garden, neglected as it was, was nevertheless a source of
unfailing delight. It was an old garden, and had once been dearly loved
and carefully tended by a rector who cared more for his flowers than for
the souls committed to his care. In his day, roses had bloomed to
perfection in this old-world garden, and all sorts of plants and flowers
and shrubs had adorned the alleys and had cast their shade over the
walks.
This was some time ago, and the Reverend Josiah only employed a man once
a week to give the garden just a sort of outside semblance of order.
Nevertheless, Nature did not quite forsake the old spot. The unpruned
roses still threw out luxuriant blossom, and the shrubs still bloomed
and every sort of perennial flower--poppies, sweet peas, jasmine,
mignonette sowed themselves and blossomed again and yet again.
Now, the children cared nothing about flowers; they regarded them as
little better than weeds, for anything that could be secured without
money was to them simply worthless. Neither did they care for pets.
There was no dog, nor even a cat, at the rectory. But they liked to sit
under the shade of the old trees and, in particular, to invade the
summerhouse, which stood back in deepest shade at the far corner of the
grounds.
Here, on this hot day, Nina found her two sisters with their pink muslin
frills in a cloud about them, while they themselves were bending over
the work. Nina appeared, severely armed with a pencil and paper.
"Now,"--she said--"here I am."
"Well, that is very evident," remarked Fanchon. "Why don't you sit down
and do some work?" said Josephine.
"My frock hasn't got any flounces."
"Oh--how you will harp on that tiresome theme again!"
"I won't--at least not for much longer," remarked the tiresome child;
"but I've got something to say--I mean to do a little sum."
"A sum!--you?"
"Yes--and if I am wrong, Fanchon can help me--or you can, Josephine."
"Not I," said Josephine, "my head aches too badly."
"Well, well," said Nina, "let's begin--I know you will help me when I
ask you. We were all with Brenda, were we not, when she bought the pink
muslins?"
"Why, of course we were, you stupid," said Fanchon. "Pass me that reel
of cotton, please, Josephine." Josephine did so. Nina placed herself
on a low stool and put her sheet of paper and pencil cosily on her knee.
"I know exactly," she said, "how much muslin was bought: five yards for
me, because I was not to have flounces; and seven yards for Josephine
and eight yards for you, Fanchon, because you are the tallest."
"Well, yes--I suppose that is all right," said Fanchon; but she began,
as she said afterwards, to see some method in her sister's present
madness.
"Now," continued Nina, "I want to cast up a sum. Five--and seven--and
eight. Fanchon, do tell me how much five and seven and eight make."
"Twenty," was Fanchon's immediate reply. "Dear, dear! now I can't find
my thimble!"
"Oh, Fanchon--it's rolled away into that corner."
"Pick it up, Nina."
"No," said Nina--"not yet. How much, please, does twenty yards of
muslin, at sixpence halfpenny a yard, come to?"
The sum was made up by Fanchon, who was quite quick at arithmetic.
"Ten shillings and ten-pence," she replied.
"Yes, I thought so--and there were no linings of any kind got; for dear
Brenda said that we could use up some of the frocks we had outgrown, for
that purpose. So our three muslin frocks cost exactly ten shillings and
ten-pence. It doesn't seem much for three girls, does it, Fanchon?"
"I don't know," said Fanchon, crossly. "Why will you bother us in this
queer way, Nina?"
"Well--I am thinking," said Nina; "you will see my meaning after a bit.
After Brenda had got the frocks and paid for them--only she did it so
quickly, I can't make out how much money she put down--she bought the
hats. The hats untrimmed were one shilling each, she bought a yard of
white muslin to trim each and the white muslin was eight-pence a yard.
She grumbled at the price. Three times eight is--"
"Oh--two shillings, two shillings!" said Josephine.
"Well, yes--that is quite right," said Nina. "Our three hats, trimmed,
came to five shillings. Add five shillings to ten and ten-pence--that
makes fifteen and ten-pence. Then there were our sand shoes--one and
eleven-pence each--_they_ came to five and nine-pence; and our gloves;--
white washing gloves--don't you remember what a fuss Brenda made about
them, and said that she would wash them herself for us at night, so that
they would be clean every day? and I know they were only sixpence. Now
then--let us count up the whole sum."
The other two girls were now immensely interested. They did count the
sum, doing it wrong once or twice, but finally producing a total which
could not be gainsaid, and which came out precisely at one pound, three
shillings, and a penny. Nina's little white face was flushed when this
great task had been accomplished.
"Can you remember any other single thing?" she asked of her sisters.
"No, there was nothing else," said Josephine.
"And did Brenda say, or did she not, that she had spent a lot of money
on us, and that we must do with it, whether we liked it or not, because
there was not a farthing more that could be produced?"
"Well, yes, she did," said Fanchon, "and it seemed a lot at the time--at
least, I thought so."
Nina rose solemnly now from her little stool. "Girls,"--she said--"I
have something to say to you. I have found Brenda out. She spent one
pound--three shillings--and one penny--on _us_, and do you know how much
money father gave her to spend upon us?"
"_No_," said Fanchon.
"No," echoed Josephine. "What _do_ you mean, Nina? you extraordinary
child!"
"Well--he told me this morning quite simply; I didn't ask him, he just
mentioned it. You won't guess--it is really awful--it will put you
out--it gives me a sort of lumpy, throaty feeling. He gave Brenda nine
pounds! three pounds for each of us! and she must have kept back--oh, I
can't make it out--it makes my head turn round--she must have bought her
own _lovely blue silk_, and all her own _lovely_ clothes out of our
money! Oh dear! oh dear! I wouldn't have thought it of her. And to
think that I am not even to have frills to my muslin frock!"
"And to think that the frocks must be pink for us!" said Fanchon. "Oh,
I can't believe it."
"It is true, though," said Josephine. "She has kept back--oh dear, oh
dear--how much is it? I wonder!"
Again three puzzled heads bent over the piece of paper, and at last the
full enormity of the beloved Brenda's conduct was revealed to the
children. She had, of their money--yes, their own money--given to them
by their own father--seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence
to account for!
"We might have been dressed like duchesses," said Nina. She burst out
crying. "Oh--this _horrid_ frock!" she said, and she kicked the
offending pink muslin to the opposite side of the summerhouse. "I'll
never wear it--_that_ I won't!" she cried. "I'll disgrace her, that I
will--horrid _thief_ of a thing!"
As to Fanchon--she walked deliberately out of the summerhouse. With
steady steps this young lady, who was very wise for her years,
approached her father's study. The Reverend Josiah was supposed to be
busy with his sermon. At such times, it was considered exceedingly
ill-advised to molest him. Brenda would never do it. She said that all
muses ought to be respected--the sacred muse most of all. But there was
no respect in Fanchon's heart just then. She opened the door with
violence and--alas!--it must be owned--aroused Josiah out of a profound
sleep. His head had been bent down on the historic pages of old
Josephus, and sweet slumber had there visited him.
He started up angrily when detected in his nap by his eldest daughter.
He would have forgiven Brenda, but Fanchon had not at all charming ways.
"My dear," he said, "you know when I am busy with my sermon that I will
not be disturbed."
"Yes, papa--of course, papa," said Fanchon. "I just wanted to ask you a
question, and I will go away again. How much money do you give Brenda
every year to spend on clothes for us?"
"What a funny question to ask me, my dear. I have no stated sum; I give
just what I can afford."
"And are you satisfied with the way your daughters are clothed, papa?"
said Fanchon, kicking out a long leg as she spoke and showing an
untidily shod and very large foot.
"Oh, my dear--my dear! I know nothing about ladies' dress. I can't
afford silk--I wish I could; I should love to see you in silk; but in my
present state, and with my poor stipend, it has to be cotton. I told
dear Brenda so, and she agreed with me. Cotton in summer, and a sort of
thick stuff--I think they call it linsey-woolsey, but I am not sure--for
the cold days. I cannot do better, Fanchon--there is no use in your
scolding me."
"I am not scolding you, papa. You gave Brenda three pounds for each of
us--didn't you--the other day, to get our things for the seaside?"
"Yes, of course I did: that was the very least she said she could
possibly have. I gave it to her with her own quarter's salary, which
the dear girl required a fortnight in advance; there was nothing in
that. Her quarter's salary was seven pounds ten, and the money for you
three--nine pounds. Brenda said it was very little, but it really
seemed a great lot to me, and I regret it when I think of my poor
parishioners. But there's nothing cheaper than cotton--at least, I have
never heard of it; of course, if there were, it would be my duty to
clothe you in it."
"Did you ever hear of art muslin, papa?" asked Fanchon. "That is
cheaper, but I won't disturb you any more." She went up to him and gave
him a kiss. Then she left the room.
Having obtained her information, Fanchon went deliberately into the
filbert walk. There she paced about for some time, her eyes fixed on
the ground, her hands locked tightly together in front of her. She was
not exactly depressed, but she was troubled. She was old enough to see
the advantage of the revelation being arrived at which little Nina had
so cleverly accomplished, and she was determined to make it in every way
available for her own purposes. But to do this, she must put her
sisters off the scent. At dinner time, she ate a very scanty meal. She
hardly spoke to them, but, after dinner, she had a long conference with
them both.
"Now, look here, Nina," she said.
"Yes," said Nina.
"I want you to make me a promise."
"Oh, I do hate promises," said Nina.
"I don't," said Josephine, "they're rather interesting; nothing cheerful
ever comes in our way, and even to make a promise seems better than
nothing."
"Well, the promise I want you two to make to me is this: that you won't
breathe a word of what I have said to you, either to father or Brenda--
that you will keep it entirely to yourselves and allow _me_ to manage
Miss Brenda. I think I can promise that if you do this you will both
have rather pretty frocks at the seaside, and that Nina shall have her
flounces. Go on finishing the pink muslins, girls, for they'll be a
help, and certainly better than nothing, and let me approach Brenda
to-morrow morning."
"Oh dear!" said Nina, "how clever you are! I am sure I, for my part,
will be only too delighted. But how dare you?" she added. "Does it
mean that you would go--and--put her in prison?"
"_I_ put her in prison--you little goose! What _do_ you mean? No, no!
But she'll buy our clothes for us out of father's own money or--there!
don't let's talk any more about it."
Josephine hesitated for a moment, then she flew to her sister's side,
flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her heartily.
"I think we ought to be awfully pleased with Nina," was Fanchon's
response, "for she's quite a little brick, and I tell you what it is,
girls--we'll go and pick some fruit for tea and I shall send Molly for
two-pennyworth of cream to eat with it; we may as well enjoy ourselves.
Brenda has left a few pence with me in case of necessities. She warned
me to be awfully careful, but I think she won't scold us much about the
cream when I have said a few things to her I mean to say."
"Mightn't we have some currant buns?" said Nina. "I was so hungry at
lunch--there didn't seem to be a scrap of meat on that bone."
"Yes--we'll have currant buns, too. She left me eleven-pence. You can
run to the village, Nina, if you like, and get the buns. Mrs Simpson
must have them out of the oven by now."
Off scampered Nina. Josephine and Fanchon had a little further
conversation, and, by the time Nina returned, the whole matter with
regard to Brenda and her shortcoming: was left in the elder sister's
hands.
CHAPTER TEN.
A COSY LITTLE SUPPER.
Mr Amberley was one of the most unsuspicious of men, but he, too, had
his own slightly cunning ways. He allowed Brenda so much money each
week for housekeeping, and it must be said that she kept the family on
short commons. There were even times when the Reverend Josiah was
slightly hungry. This being the case, and as he, in reality, held the
purse-strings, he was wont to provide himself with bread, butter, and
cheese and some bottles of ale which he kept in a private cupboard in
his study. By the aid of these, he managed to quell his rising appetite
and to sleep soundly at nights.
But Brenda knew nothing of the delicate cheese supply by this reverend
gentleman, of the butter which he himself brought home from the nearest
dairy, nor of the dainty bread which he slipped into his pocket on his
way home from his parochial rounds. Now, however, his intention was to
give the pretty little governess a charming surprise when she returned
that evening. She should have that rarest of all dainties--in his
opinion--Welsh rabbit, made from a receipt handed down to him by his
grandmother. Accordingly, by his own clever hands, as the hour
approached midnight, he put everything into preparation--the little
stove on which the dainty was to be prepared (he regretted much that
they must eat it on bread, not on toast), a bottle of the very best ale
that could be purchased: in short, a charming little meal for two.
He had missed Brenda sorely during the day. In her presence the girls
were quite delightful, but without her they were tiresome, plain, rather
disagreeable girls. It was too late to take the pony to the station,
but he himself would walk there in order that Brenda should come home
under his safe convoy. This plan of his Brenda had not counted on. He
took the precaution, indeed, not to appear on the platform, but met her
just as she was emerging out of the shade of a thick wood just beyond
the village. He thought how charming she looked in her white serge
coat--how different from his own unruly girls. But Brenda herself was
snappish and by no means inclined to respond to his kind attentions.
"I wish you had not come out, Mr Amberley. It really is ridiculous to
suppose that a woman of my age,"--(Brenda was very fond of making
herself appear old when she spoke to Josiah)--"a woman of my age," she
continued, "cannot walk the short distance from the station to your
house."
"But at midnight--my dear girl," protested Josiah, "I really could not
hear of it. I hope I know what is due to any girl whom I respect, and
it is only a pleasure to serve you--you know that."
"Dreadful old goose!" thought Brenda to herself.
But she saw that she must humour him. She had had, on the whole, a good
day and, although she had not excited the admiration she had expected,
she was the richer by a very valuable gold bangle. So she chatted as
lightly and airily as she could and, when they entered the house, she
even assisted to cat a tiny portion of the Welsh rabbit and to sip a
little of the sparkling beer. She asked no questions, too, with regard
to the manner in which Josiah got these dainties into the house. But
although she said nothing, she thought a good deal and resolved to feed
the good clergyman slightly better in future and not to save quite so
much of the housekeeping money for her own purposes.
When she had finished supper, she yawned profoundly, protested that she
could not keep her eyes open a minute longer, and, giving Josiah a scant
"good-night," ran off to bed.
When she left him, he sat for a little time musing. Brenda had managed
that he should not even get a glimpse of her blue silk dress, but he had
noticed the dainty hat with its perfect trimmings, the white serge coat
which covered the governess' pretty person from head to foot, and the
neat and lovely white gloves. He had thought how wonderful it was that
she could wear such nice things. That coat, in particular, took his
fancy. It was of a wonderful material which he did not think that he
recognised. Silk it was not; cotton it was not; linsey-woolsey it was
not. What was it made of? It must be cheap, or poor little Brenda
could not afford it. Brenda had so often and so pathetically told him
how necessary it was that she should save almost every penny of her
income. She used to say to him with those sweet blue eyes of hers, so
different from the eyes of his own daughters, looking into his face:
"It is my duty to prepare for the rainy day. It may come, you know, and
if I have not saved money, where shall I be?"
He had smiled at her on these occasions and once had even gone the
length of patting her little white hand and had said that he wished all
other girls were so wise. Yes, dear Brenda was saving up her poor
little salary; and that nicely made white coat--of course she must have
made it herself--must be composed of a very cheap material. He wondered
if dresses of the same material could be got for his poor orphans. He
always spoke of his children to himself as his poor orphans. They had
been very tiresome orphans on the day that had just gone by--Nina in the
morning, Fanchon later on. They had, it seemed to him, almost
complained with regard to their clothes--those clothes which he so
laboured to get them. It was annoying, very; but if they might have
coats, or frocks, or whatever the article of dress was called, of the
material which Brenda wore, he would feel that he had done his duty by
them.
He went to bed at last, resolved to speak to the governess on the
subject by-and-by. When Brenda reached her room, she first of all
proceeded to lock her door. She then carefully removed her white serge
coat, shook it, brushed it over tenderly, and folded it up, with tissue
paper between the folds. She then laid this elegant garment in the
bottom drawer of her wardrobe. It must not be seen again until she was
safe at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. Having removed the coat, she stood for a
time surveying her own reflection in the cracked mirror, which, after
all, was the best looking-glass the rectory could afford. She moved her
head slightly to right, slightly to left; she pushed her hat in
different positions, and contemplated herself with great admiration.
Then, putting her hand into her pocket, she took out the beautiful
little bangle and clasped it on her wrist. The bangle really gave her
great finish. It seemed to raise her in the social scale. It was so
absolutely good--not the least bit jim-crack. That gold was at least
eighteen carat, and that exquisite turquoise must have cost a mint of
money; it was just the right size for her, too. She held up her arm,
and contemplated the effect of the bangle in this position. She laid
her hand across her knee, and looked at it from that point of view. She
arranged it and rearranged it, and loved it more and worshipped it more
deeply the longer she looked at it.
At last, with a deep sigh of satisfaction, she took it off, folded it
softly in some tissue paper, and, opening her purse, took from it the
key of a drawer which she always kept locked. The people who surrounded
the rectory, the few domestics who worked there, were all honest as the
day. Had this not been the case, Brenda's drawer in her wardrobe might
have been found worth robbing before now. For in it were those savings
which she had secured from the housekeeping money, and that seven
pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence which still belonged to the
girls' wardrobes and the four five-pound notes which Penelope had sent
her. In short, Brenda felt that she was quite a wealthy girl. She had
not an idea of any Nemesis at hand.
She laid the stolen bracelet in a little box which had held hitherto
some mock jewellery, and having locked her drawer, proceeded to take off
her pale blue dress, to fold it up, put it away, to do ditto with her
hat and gloves, and finally to undress and get into bed.
Brenda Carlton slept soundly that night, for she was really very tired.
She was also quite hopeful and happy. But towards morning, she was
disturbed by a dream. The dream was a curious mixture of Helen of Troy
as she had appeared--silent and stately in the dusky wood--of Penelope,
with her eyes red from crying, of her pupils and their clothes, and,
last but not least, the Reverend Josiah.
It seemed to her in her dream that Josiah was exceedingly angry, that
all that gentleness and suavity of manner which, as a rule,
characterised him, had departed; that he was looking at her--yes, at
her--with little angry eyes, and that he was accusing her of something
which was very terrible and, which, try as she would, she could not
disprove. She awoke from this dream trembling and with the dews of
perspiration on her forehead. She started up in bed to wipe them away
and, as she did so, she was aware of the fact that some one was thumping
at her bedroom door.
"Yes--what is it?" she called out crossly.
"It is only me," answered the voice of her eldest pupil. "I thought you
would be tired and have brought you your breakfast."
"Oh, thank you so much," said Brenda, relieved and gratified, for she
really was intensely thirsty.
She sprang out of bed, unlocked the door, then, running across the room,
got into bed once more and sat up, looking exceedingly pretty with her
slightly flushed cheeks and befrilled nightdress of fine lawn. Fanchon
entered with the breakfast tray, which was quite common, being made of
iron that had once been japanned; but this decorative process had
gradually been removed by the fingers of time, and Brenda was far too
careful with regard to the laundry to allow extra cloths for breakfast
trays or any such little dainties.
Fanchon placed the tray on a table close to Brenda's bed; then having,
as she considered, performed her duty, she jumped up on the side of the
bed and sat gazing at her governess. Fanchon had made all her
preparations. Brenda should have food before the thunder clap fell on
her devoted head. Accordingly, Fanchon Amberley began by making
friendly enquiries with regard to the governess' success on the previous
day.
"Drink your tea and eat your toast," she said. "There's no butter in
the house--you didn't leave us money to buy any, and that egg is, I am
afraid, stale. But it is the last one left from your purchases of last
week. You must make the best of it, I am afraid. But never mind,"
continued the young lady, swinging her foot backwards and forwards, "you
must have gorged so on the good things of life yesterday, that I don't
suppose you are overpowered with an appetite."
"I didn't gorge," said Brenda gently. "I never gorge, as you know,
Fanchon. But I am thirsty, and it is very thoughtful and kind of you,
dear, to bring me up my breakfast."
Fanchon made no reply to this. Brenda poured herself out a cup of tea.
She drank it off thirstily and then looked at her pupil.
"How untidy you are, my dear child."
"Am I? That doesn't matter," said Fanchon. "Tell me, Brenda, how you
enjoyed yourself. Was it quite as wonderful as you expected?"
"Oh, quite, quite," said Brenda, who had no idea but of making the very
best of things to her pupil.
"It was really worth your pale blue silk dress and your serge coat, and
your hat, and your gloves, and your new parasol?" pursued Fanchon.
"I wish, Fanchon," said the governess, "that you would not give me an
inventory of my clothes whenever you speak to me. I suppose I must be
dressed like other people, mustn't I?"
"Of course," said Fanchon. "Well, let us leave the dress alone. How
did you get on with your sister? was she as nice as that dead-and-gone
body--whatever her name is?"
"Oh, she was wonderful!" said Brenda, with real enthusiasm. "She has a
real gift for acting, there's no doubt of that."
"I suppose you'll tell us about it sometime, won't you?"
"I am telling you now--what do you mean by sometime?"
"I mean," said Fanchon, "that Nina and Joey and I want all the
particulars, not just a few bare facts, but every little tiny incident
made as full as possible; and in especial, we are anxious to know if you
met any _he's_, and if you did meet one special _he_; and in that case,
what _he_ said to you, and what you said to him--a sort of `consequence'
game, you understand. And in particular, we want to learn the
compliments he paid you; for some day, when we three are dressed like
you in pale blue silk, etc, we may have similar compliments ourselves.
That is what we want to know."
"What _is_ the matter with you, Fanchon?" said her governess.
"Do you like your breakfast, Brenda?" was Fanchon's response.
"Not much," answered Brenda crossly. "The bread is stale; there is no
butter, and the egg is uneatable. I must jump up at once in order to
attend to the housekeeping."
"You needn't, really, Brenda. Joey went round to the shops this morning
and ordered things in. We're going to have a couple of ducks for
dinner, and green peas--"
"What _do_ you mean?" said Brenda, her eyes flashing. "A couple of
ducks and green peas! You know how expensive ducks are."
"I don't," said Fanchon calmly--"all I know about them is that they are
good to eat and Joey has ordered them. Oh--and we're going to have
raspberry and currant pie too, and a lot of cream with it--"
"And you expect _me_ to pay for these luxuries out of the housekeeping
money?"
"Of course we do, Brenda--who else would pay for them?"
"But I tell you I can't--you don't understand how little your father
gives me; it is absolutely impossible--you must countermand that order
_at once_, Fanchon--go and do it this minute while I get up. I shall
send cook out presently for a bit of steak, and potatoes from the garden
will do; there are no peas, and it is the height of extravagance to buy
them."
"You'll be a great deal too late, for they are all in the house; and I
think cook has put the ducks in the oven. Anyhow," continued Fanchon,
suddenly changing her tone, "I don't mean to stop either Joey or Nina.
They're buying food--proper food--for us, and you've got to pay for it."
"I don't understand you--you are exceedingly impertinent. I must speak
to your father."
"You can of course, if you like," answered Fanchon, with great calmness,
"but all the same, I don't think you will; I've got something to say to
you, Brenda, and it is something rather dreadful."
"What?" said Brenda.
She longed to rouse herself into a towering passion, but she had the
memory of her dream still over her, and the thought of Mr Amberley's
face with its changed and quite awful expression. She was more tired,
too, than she cared to own. She found her eyes fixed upon those of her
eldest pupil. What a dreadful-looking girl she was--so singularly plain
and ungainly--all legs and arms, and with that truly disagreeable face!
Brenda contrasted her with a girl she had seen at Hazlitt Chase, and
wondered how she had endured her own position so long. And now this
girl was actually bullying her--a girl not fifteen years of age!
Fanchon seemed to read some of her governess' discomfiture and
amazement; in short, she was enjoying herself mightily. It was
delightful to turn the tables; it was delicious for the slave to be,
even for a short time, the master. She, therefore, continued in a calm
voice:
"I'd best tell you everything, and then you will know what is to be
done. To begin with: I think you partly owe the discovery we have made
to the fact that you, in your spirit of parsimony, would not give poor
little Nina flounces to her dress."
Brenda gasped, but was speechless.
"And," continued Fanchon, "Nina, although she is not yet eleven years of
age, is no fool, and so yesterday, when you were out of the way--you
know the old proverb, `When the cat's away, the mice will play,'--well,
that poor little mouse, Nina, thought she would have a gambol on her own
account yesterday, and Joey and I joined in. We quizzed father with
great dexterity and--in short, Madam Cat!--we found you out!"
These last words were quite terrible. From Fanchon's pale eyes a steely
fire shot forth. It seemed to scorch the miserable Brenda, who shrank
lower on her pillows and longed for the ceiling to fall on her.
"I,"--she began tremblingly--"I think you are quite the most
impertinent--and I wish--I wish--you would go. I shall speak--to--to
your dear father. I'll just get dressed and go to him."
Here Brenda burst into tears.
"Your tears won't do any good, Madam Cat," said Fanchon, "and I am not a
bit impertinent, and as to telling father, why, you can tell him
anything you like, after you have listened to me. The girls know that I
am talking to you, so we won't be disturbed. Now then--stop crying--
you're in my power, and you're in Joey's power, and you're in Nina's
power, and the sooner you realise that fact, the better for you."
Brenda uttered a deep sigh. She thought she saw a loop-hole of hope.
The girls, after all, did not matter--not greatly--whatever those
impertinent little creatures had discovered. It was the Reverend Josiah
whom she really dreaded, and if she were in his power, he would not have
given her Welsh rabbit on the previous night, nor been so very, very
kind, nor have looked at her so admiringly. If Fanchon had not gone too
far, there was still hope. She, therefore, wiped her eyes and sat up.
"What is it?" she said meekly. "I am a poor prisoner at your bar,
Fanchon--out with the indictment--tell the prisoner of what offence she
is guilty."
"I'll tell you first of all what we suspect, and afterwards I will tell
you what we know," said Fanchon.
"You terrible, impertinent child--how dare you suspect me of anything!"
"We three suspect that you don't spend all the money papa gives you for
housekeeping, on the housekeeping. Cause why: We are always so
dreadfully hungry and the meals are so shocking poor--and--cause why: We
know that you save money for yourself in other quarters--"
"Do you think I would steal a _farthing_--of your dear papa's money, you
dreadful, dreadful--horrible child!" said Brenda.
"I don't _think_ about what I know," replied Fanchon. "Now listen.
Look at that sum." Here she thrust a carefully made out account into
Brenda's hand. Brenda read the items, tears rushing back to her eyes
and her heart palpitating wildly. The grand total of one pound, three
shillings, and a penny stared her in the face. "And now," continued
Fanchon, "having discovered that this was exactly what you spent on our
poor little clothes, we should like to know what you propose to do with
the balance."
"The balance, child!" said Brenda. "I haven't a penny--not a penny
over. In fact, although I wouldn't trouble your father, you are a
little bit in debt to me--I mean the gloves--I couldn't tell you, and
you had to have gloves--but _I_ paid for the gloves."
"Oh--you wicked Brenda!" said Fanchon--"you intolerably wicked woman!
Nina talked to father yesterday, and father told her that he gave you
three pounds for each of us, in order to clothe us for the seaside. So
you have still in your possession seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and
eleven-pence of our money. It's my belief that you have spent it on
your own clothes! There--you can't deny it--we know what the things you
bought cost--the miserable--horrid--_mean_ things you bought! and we
know what poor papa gave you, for he told Nina and afterwards I went and
asked him and he told me too."
"And does he--does he know--anything else?" asked Brenda.
"Nothing else at present, but he will soon."
Brenda lay very still and thoughtful on her bed. After a minute she
said:
"Fanchon--you are quite mistaken in me."
"I know you thoroughly," said Fanchon; "I always believed you to be
intensely conceited, frightfully--appallingly vain, and--not too
honourable. But now I also know that you are nothing more nor less than
a common thief! How long do you think father would keep you in the
house if he knew?"
"But--he doesn't know, dear, dear Fanchon!"
"Not yet. We thought we'd tell you first--it seemed only fair to give
you that chance."
"How sweet of you, Fanchon."
"But I have told you now, and I shall go straight to him this very
minute and show him this little sum unless you confess the truth to me."
"I--I--" said Brenda--"what truth?"
"Have you got seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence of our
money in your possession? If you say no--I go immediately to father.
If you say yes--why, perhaps I will wait an hour or so."
Brenda almost smiled when Fanchon made use of the last words.
"Then," she said in a gentle tone, "I have still got the money,
for you--for you. I thought we could spend it best at
Marshlands-on-the-Sea."
"Oh, no, you didn't," said Fanchon--"those sort of lies won't go down
any longer with us. But as you have made a sort of confession, you may
dress yourself. You won't grumble, I think, when you come downstairs
and enjoy our good dinner, and after dinner I'll have another talk with
you. It is my turn to dictate terms now, and I mean to enjoy myself."
With this last remark Fanchon marched out of the room, wrenching the
door open noisily and banging it after her. Her two little sisters were
waiting on the landing.
"The cat has confessed," she said, "and so the poor little mice may play
as much as they like. Not a word to dad--we'd have no fun if he knew--
we can do exactly what we like with her now."
Josephine clapped her hands. Nina enquired if the ducks and green peas
and raspberry and currant tart, with unlimited cream, had been
mentioned.
"Oh, yes; and we shall enjoy our dinner--poor starved creatures," said
Fanchon.
The three girls tripped downstairs. The old rectory was already full of
the odorous smell of roast duck. Mr Amberley perceived it in his
study. He slightly sniffed, and thought of toasted cheese. He felt
pangs of hunger which, as a rule, he was not accustomed to. The girls
were flying about: they seemed in high spirits.
"What a delightful day it is," thought the rector to himself, and he
shut up the musty old Josephus with a bang and decided to give an old
sermon for the sixth time of hearing to his parishioners on Sunday, and
not to worry any more about a new one until the hot weather was over.
He even went to the length of standing by the open study window and
looking across the sun-flecked garden.
Presently, he saw his daughters entering the house with trailing flowers
of all sorts and descriptions in their arms. He wondered what could be
up. Josephine, who had a certain knack for the arrangement of dinner
tables, was laying a white cloth on the board. In the centre she placed
billowy piles of green art muslin which she had bought that morning in
the village--or rather, put down to the housekeeping account. Rows of
sweet peas and carnations were then placed in bowls in the centre of the
table and, this handiwork having been completed, Josie rushed up to her
room to put on the best dress she possessed. In short, the entire place
wore a festive air.
"It's because dear Brenda has returned," thought the rector.
He felt the difference without observing it. But when sharp little
Fanchon appeared and led him into the dining-room and he beheld with his
own eyes two plump birds waiting to be carved, and saw the green peas,
and the new potatoes, and the apple sauce, and the different
accompaniments of young ducks, he forgot everything in the joy of
gratifying his appetite.
The three girls were waiting--no servant ever attended at meals,--their
faces were flushed with delight. The rector did not even ask, "Where is
Brenda?" He flopped down into his seat, said grace, and began to carve
the birds.
Brenda entered in a pale green cotton dress, which suited her lissom
young figure to perfection. She took her seat meekly. The girls did
not speak to her, but the rector addressed her with enthusiasm.
"My dear,"--he said--"what a delicious feast we are having, and how very
good of you to manage it out of the housekeeping money. I know--my dear
Brenda--that I give you far too little; but my stipend, my dear, is so
small, and the needs of my poor so considerable--"
"There's raspberry tart and cream coming on," said Nina, "so let's hurry
up with the ducks."
The rector placed the first delicious morsel between his lips. Brenda
made a gentle remark to the effect that she was glad she had pleased
him. Nina gave a groan; Joey kicked her sister's foot; Fanchon tried to
look stately, but failed. Notwithstanding all these things, however,
the three girls and their father thoroughly enjoyed the excellent
dinner.
"I feel a new man," said Mr Amberley, when it was over. "It is
wonderful how supporting really tasty food is. My dear Brenda, I thank
you."
She bowed to him--a mocking light in her eyes which he did not observe.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
REACTION.
It was after dinner that Fanchon approached her governess.
"I hope you enjoyed your dinner," she said.
"Yes; it was very good," said Brenda.
"When do you feel inclined to have a chat with me?" pursued Fanchon.
"Not just at present," answered Brenda.
"But you'd better be quick about it, for we mean always to live well in
the future. Joey and I think that we might order a crab for supper
to-night--papa loves crabs."
Brenda was silent.
"When can we have our talk?" continued Fanchon.
"Well, I don't think just at present; will you give me until evening?
Order what you wish to-day, but don't be too extravagant, you'll only
have an illness. I give you plain food, for it is really best from
every point of view, and your father's allowance of housekeeping money
is very limited."
"I can ask him, of course, what he does give," said Fanchon.
"No, no; don't do that--"
"And," continued Fanchon, as though she had not heard the last remark,
"I can find out what the butcher's bills, and the green grocer's, and
the grocer's come to per week. I shall be rather clever about these
things in future."
Brenda made no reply. After a minute's pause, she said:
"Would you really like me to leave you?"
"I think, on the whole, I should very much."
"You would wish to give up going to Marshlands-on-the-Sea?"
"No--that would be a disappointment."
"You can't go there without me."
"Oh--I suppose we could get some one else."
"There is no one else whom your father would trust."
Fanchon was silent and a little thoughtful.
"I have a plan to propose to you, Fanchon," said her governess suddenly;
"but I shall not propose it now--I will keep it until to-night.
To-night, at ten o'clock, come to my room and I will talk to you. In
the meantime, tell the other girls that for to-day, just for to-day,
they may do as they please. Now let me be alone; I have a headache."
Fanchon danced off to communicate this news to her sisters.
"The cat's caving in like anything," she said. "We shall have a jolly,
jolly time in future!"
"What can we have to eat at tea-time?" was Nina's remark.
"Oh--you little goose," exclaimed Fanchon, "you can't possibly be hungry
yet."
"But I shall be hungry when tea-time comes."
"Well, get what you like, both of you."
"Let's go to the shops this blessed minute," said Nina, turning to
Josephine.
They started off arm in arm. They did not mind the fact that they were
wearing their only white frocks--their Sunday-go-to-meeting frocks, and
that Nina's was already sadly stained with some juice from the raspberry
tart. They did not mind the fact also that they had outgrown these
frocks, and that the people stared at the rector's daughters when they
were at all respectably attired. They were too excited to think of
anything but the victory they were having over old pussy-cat--which was
their present name for their hitherto beloved Brenda.
They went to the shops where Brenda dealt, and ordered rich plum cake
for tea, two sorts of jam, some more fruit and some more cream; and for
supper they ordered crabs--two crabs to be sent up dressed, from the
fishmonger's, also a lobster, and also a large plate of prawns. Having
thus wilfully expended money which might have kept the rectory on its
ordinary _regime_ for weeks, they returned home in the best of spirits.
'Tis a little sad to relate that even mice, in their moments of triumph
over their legendary foe--the domestic cat--may sometimes overdo things.
For two of these little mice felt decidedly ill that night from the
direful effects of overeating. Nina spent that night, which she had
felt would be of such triumph, rolling from side to side in bed and
crying out with pain, and Josephine had the most appalling succession of
nightmares. But Fanchon was more moderate in her eating and, therefore,
did not suffer. She had her work cut out for her; and that evening, at
the appointed hour--regardless of Nina's cries and Josephine's
frightened exclamations in her sleep--she went off to interview her
governess in her bedroom.
Brenda was waiting for her, and was quite ready. She had been
frightened, terribly frightened, in the morning, but she was alarmed no
longer. She had been given time to think, to consider, to form her
plans. The discovery which those tiresome children had made was
altogether most unpleasant. Had it been made by older people, it would
almost have been dangerous. But Brenda felt that she could manage the
children. She must sacrifice something, it is true, but she need not
sacrifice everything.
The girls had never been trained in high principles. They had been
brought up anyhow. The rector was not a specially admirable man. It is
true, he lived according to his lights, but these did not carry him far.
His children were motherless, and it did not occur to him to suspect
the girl into whose care he placed them. He was devoted to his poorer
parishioners, and was kindness itself to them, denying himself many
things for their benefit. But it was his object in life to do what he
could for his orphans, and he thought he had done so when he put such a
pretty, charming girl as Brenda Carlton over their heads. He believed
fully in Brenda, and admired her immensely. He thought her a truly
Christian young woman; for she was regular in her attendance at church,
and always looked--he considered--so sweet and interested when he
preached to her. It was wonderful how he found himself preaching
directly to her, Sunday after Sunday, suiting his words to her need and
thinking of her as he addressed, or was supposed to address, his
congregation.
As to the children's education, he expected them to go to Sunday school;
but as their teacher there was no other than Brenda herself, it cannot
be said that they gained much by this special instruction.
Brenda looked very pretty when she taught her class. Most of the time
she told them good little stories, which they listened to when they were
not too restless, and when Brenda herself was not too charmingly
attired. On the whole, the girls were ripe for a fall, and Brenda had
no compunction in saving herself at their expense. These three girls
had, however, a considerable amount of character, and, strange as it may
seem, the one the governess most dreaded was the youngest. For Nina was
exceedingly fearless, and also rather cunning, and Brenda was not quite
certain that if she gave her word she would keep it. The governess felt
pretty sure that she could manage Fanchon and Josephine, but Nina was
different. All things considered, however, she had to make the best of
a bad job, and if she could only get through that happy time at
Marshlands-on-the-Sea, she felt convinced that all would be well with
her in the future. She, accordingly, welcomed Fanchon now with a smile,
and immediately took the lead.
"Just for all the world," repeated Fanchon afterwards when she gave her
sisters a partial account of this interview, "as if _she_ were in the
right and I was her little culprit at the bar!"
"Sit down, dear Fanchon," said Brenda. "Take this cosy seat by the open
window--isn't the night very warm?"
"Yes--very," said Fanchon.
She took the proffered seat and the governess placed herself on the
window ledge near by.
"We shall enjoy our time at the sea," said Brenda, "shall we not?"
Fanchon did not answer. She was gazing in surprise at Brenda, who,
prettily dressed in soft white muslin, looked more charming even than
usual.
"The cool sea breezes will be so refreshing," continued the
governess--"I am picturing the whole scene. I am going to be, of
course, very particular with regard to Josie and Nina; but you, Fanchon,
who are so tall for your age, can come out with me in the evening and
listen to the band and--and--partake of any sort of fun that is going
on."
"Can I really?" said Fanchon, her eyes sparkling, and, for a minute, she
forgot that she was really the judge and Brenda the criminal.
"Of course you can, dear; I mean you to have a good time."
"But can't we settle that afterwards?" said Fanchon. "The other thing
has to be arranged first, hasn't it?"
"What other thing, my dear?"
"Oh, Brenda--you know--don't pretend that you forget. I gave you a
fright--a big fright--this morning, and you--you cried. What are you
going to do about the money? you have it--you know, and it isn't yours,
it's ours."
"I have it, of course," said Brenda, "I have not denied it. I told you
that I thought of spending it at Marshlands; there'll be sure to be nice
shops there, and we can see the things that'll be suitable. You don't
suppose, you poor children, that you can manage with only those pink
muslin dresses--that would never, never do--I had no such thought, I
assure you."
"But," persisted Fanchon, "you said this morning that you had spent all
the money on us, and that we owed you for the gloves. Oh, how knowing
you are, Brenda, but you have overstepped the mark this time, and poor
papa, if he knew--"
Brenda lowered her eyes. She had very thick and very curling jet-black
lashes, and they looked sweet as they rested against her blooming
cheeks. Fanchon could not help noticing them and, further, she could
not help observing the gentle smile that played round her lips.
"Now, listen," said Brenda. "I want to confide in you. You can believe
in me or not--just as you please. I cannot possibly force your belief,
nor can I force you to do anything but what you wish. I am, to a
certain extent, in your power, and in the power of the other two girls.
You can tell your father, and he will dismiss me, and--I shall be
ruined--"
"Oh, I don't suppose papa will be so very hard with you. He's quite
fond of you, you know," said Fanchon.
"He would be terribly severe," said Brenda. "He is a dear good man, but
he would be terrible, fearful, if you told him--you three--what you have
found out. I tell you, Fanchon, why he would be so fearful. Because I
have done what I have done entirely for the sake of deceiving him."
"Oh dear! dear! Then you are even more wicked than I thought," said
Fanchon.
"Listen--the position is a very strange one. I seem to forget, as I am
talking to you, that I am your governess, and that you and your sisters
are my little pupils, but the facts are those: I look upon you, Fanchon,
as very much older than your years. You have, in many ways, the mind of
a grown-up woman. Of course you are very young, quite unformed, but you
will be grown up sooner than most girls; and you have an understanding
way, and I think you will follow me now if I try hard to explain
myself."
"I wish you would begin," said Fanchon then, restlessly, "you do so beat
about the bush. You said this morning that you hadn't a penny over, and
that we owed you for the gloves; and then, afterwards, you confessed
that you had something over--an awful lot over--and that you meant to
spend it at Marshlands. You told one lie, anyway."
"Yes, I told one lie, anyway," responded Brenda, intense sadness in her
tone. "I told one dreadful, wicked lie, and I am very, _very_ sorry--"
"Oh, I wonder if you are!"
"Yes, I am--I am; that was why I cried that time."
"It wasn't--you cried because you were in a funk."
"Fanchon, my dear child, your blunt words hurt me exceedingly."
"Well, well," said Fanchon, kicking one leg against the wainscoting as
she spoke--"do go on, hurry up--won't you? We'll forget about the lie
number one, and remember that you have confessed to having the money.
We'll even try to believe that you meant to spend it on us at
Marshlands. Go on from that point, do."
"I will explain things to you," said Brenda. "You know your dear father
is very ignorant with regard to dress. His simplicity on these matters
is most sweet, but at times it almost provokes a smile. Now, if I had
spent three pounds on each of you in the little shops at Rocheford; and
if Nina, and Josephine, and you--my dear Fanchon, in your silly way--had
lost your heads over the pretty things I had bought, he would have been
dreadfully startled and would have accused himself of great extravagance
in giving you so much money, and when the next occasion came when my
dear little pupils wanted pretty clothes, I should have had nothing like
as much to spend on you. So your Brenda was--well--cunning, if you
choose to call it so, and determined to outwit dear papa; and quite
resolved that her little pupils should be charmingly attired at a place
where he was not likely to see them." Fanchon did not speak at all for
a minute. After a pause, she said:
"And _that_ was your reason for keeping back the money?"
"Certainly--just to deceive your poor papa; for _his_ good, dear--for
his good, and for yours."
"You're awfully clever, Brenda," was Fanchon's next remark.
Brenda coloured.
"Why do you say that?" she asked.
"Because--because--I know it. You made up that story to-day when you
were by yourself, and it's wonderfully clever--it really is. I suppose
you think that we girls believe you."
"You'll believe in your pretty frocks, and nice hats, and nice shoes and
charming gloves, and also in the little treats at the different tea
shops which I mean to give you all out of dear papa's money--"
"That is, of course, if we don't tell," said Fanchon. "Oh, you can
please yourself about that," said Brenda. "You can tell, and everything
will be at an end. I shall go away from here; I will give him back the
money--I have it in that drawer--and he will take my poor little
character as well, and I'll wander forth into the world, a desolate and
ruined girl. You won't go to the sea--you'll stay at home. You'll have
your victory. In a few weeks a horrid, elderly governess with
spectacles, and perhaps with a squint, will come here. I'm sure your
father will be afraid to get any one young and--and--pretty--again.
When _she_ comes, she will give you--"
"Beans!" said Fanchon. "I know the sort--I--I don't want a horrible
thing like that in the house."
"No--poor Brenda is better than that, isn't she?"
"Oh, Brenda, you _are_ so clever," laughed Fanchon. When Brenda heard
that laugh, she knew that her victory was assured.
"My dear girl," she said, "believe me or not; that was my real reason
for keeping back the money, and your terrible little Nina can keep an
account of all that I spend at Marshlands, and satisfy her wise,
_odious_ little head with the fact that I am not holding back one penny
for myself. She can do that, and you can all have a good time. Now--
what do you say?"
"It sounds--if you had not told that first lie--it sounds almost as if
it could just be believed," said Fanchon.
"It can be acted on, whether it is believed or not," remarked Brenda.
Fanchon was silent. Brenda watched her narrowly. "I have something to
say to you," she remarked, all of a sudden. "Of course you won't speak
to your papa and get me dismissed, and lose all your own fun--no three
girls would be so mad. But I have something more to say. I want _you_,
Fanchon, to be my friend."
"Oh--I!" said Fanchon--"but mice are never friendly with cats, are
they?"
"You mustn't think of me as a cat, dear, nor of yourself as a mouse.
The simile is very painful, and you know how I have talked to you about
the pleasant time I trust to have at Marshlands; and you shall help me,
and look very, very smart when you come out with me in the evenings. Do
you remember my telling you that if you are my friend, I might get you a
little bangle to wear?"
"Oh, yes--but I am certain it would be a horrid gilt thing not worth
anything."
"Fanchon--you _are_ unkind! I told you in the utmost confidence that I
had been left a tiny legacy--a little, _little_ sum of money, very
precious to poor me, but very small. Well, I did not forget my pupil,
and I have bought her a bangle."
"Oh, Brenda, _have_ you?"
"Yes, dear; and it is made of the _best gold_ for the purpose--_eighteen
carat gold_! You must on no account tell the others a single _word_
about it; but I will give it you sometimes to wear when you and I go out
by ourselves in the evenings. It shall shine on your little wrist then,
Fanchon, and--how _sweet_ you will look in it!"
"Oh--but may I see it?" said Fanchon, her lips trembling as she spoke.
"Not until you most faithfully promise that you will not say a word
about it to the other girls. There are, occasionally, times when I may
even want to wear it myself. But it will belong to you--it will be
_your_ property, and when we come back from the sea, I will present it
to you absolutely. Make me a faithful promise that you will say nothing
about the bangle, and you shall constantly wear it when the others are
not looking on--and--when we return, it shall be _yours_!"
"Oh, I promise," said Fanchon. "I expect I was a sort of a brute this
morning--I didn't understand you could be _so_ kind. Are you making a
fool of me, Brenda--do you mean what you say?"
"Of course I mean what I say. You faithfully promise?"
"I _do_--indeed--indeed; and I will explain things to the others, and
I'll force them to believe me--they generally do everything that I wish.
You _will_ buy us all the lovely clothes, won't you, _darling_ Brenda!"
"I have said so, Fanchon."
"And you _will_ take me out in the evenings when the other two are in
bed?"
"Most certainly I will."
"Then I _will_ promise _everything_--I will be your friend through thick
and thin, and I'm awfully sorry I was cross to you and--and disbelieved
you. Of course, I see that dear papa has to be managed; he is so funny
about our dress--so different from other men."
"Your father is a most saint-like man, and you must never say that he is
funny, for that is not right. But saint-like men have to be managed in
this unsaintlike world, that is all, dear--every woman understands that,
she wouldn't be worth her salt if she didn't."
"Please, please show me the bracelet," said Fanchon. Then Brenda went
to the drawer where her treasures were and took out the little old box
where her false jewellery had reposed, and where now the beautiful
bangle lay in all its pristine freshness. She hated beyond words to see
Fanchon even touch it, but she felt that she had to pay this price to
secure her own safety, and she even permitted the girl to clasp it round
her wrist, and to look at it with the colour flaming into her cheeks and
the light of longing in her dull eyes.
"Oh--isn't it just--_too_ perfect!" said Fanchon.
"Be my friend and it shall be yours when we return from the sea. I
bought it for you--for _you_; real, real gold too, of the best quality--
and such an exquisite turquoise! You needn't be ashamed to wear this
_wherever_ you appear--even when, by-and-by, you are married to some
rich, great man, you can still wear the little bracelet--the very best
of its kind. See, I will write your name now before your eyes on the
little box." Brenda took up a pencil and hastily wrote the following
words on the back of the box: "Fanchon Amberley's gold and turquoise
bracelet."
"Why don't you say that you have given it to me?" said Fanchon.
"No, no--I can add that by-and-by. If people happen to ask you the
story about it, it may not be wise for it to appear that such a
beautiful thing was given to you by a poor governess. Well now, here it
is back again in the drawer, and you can go to bed, Fanchon. You are a
very rich girl, and I am not quite as bad as you painted me, am I?"
"No, no!" said Fanchon, who was completely won over, "you're a darling!"
"Not a cat," whispered Brenda--"not a horrid pussy-cat?"
"No--a darling, and my friend," said Fanchon and then she left the room
a little giddily, for the thought of the bracelet seemed to weigh her
down with uncontrollable bliss; she scarcely understood her own
sensations.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
A TERRIBLE ALTERNATIVE.
Nina was very poorly the next day and was forced to stay in bed. She
could not eat any of the good things which had been provided for
breakfast, and thought of herself as a much abused little martyr.
Brenda's conduct to this naughty, greedy child was all that was
exemplary. She gave her proper medicines and saw that her bedroom was
made comfortable, and came in and out of the room like a ministering
angel--as Mr Amberley said.
Soon after noon, Nina was better, and as she had not the slightest idea
what had taken place between Fanchon and her governess the night before,
she said somewhat rudely to that pretty young woman, who was hemming
some of the Reverend Josiah's handkerchiefs as she sat by the bedside:
"Do go away please, Brenda, and send Fanchon to me."
Brenda gave an angelic smile and immediately complied. A few minutes
later Fanchon entered the room accompanied by Josephine.
"Oh, you are better, are you?" said Fanchon, regarding her younger
sister with small favour. "Well--I hope you have received your lesson
and won't eat unlimited plum cake again, and finish off with lobster and
crabs."
"I hate l-lobsters and crabs!" moaned the victim. "They make me so
s-sick--horrid things!"
"Well, you're better now, so forget about them," said Fanchon.
"Yes--I am better; _she_--the cat--she says that I am to have gruel for
dinner! I _don't_ want it--horrid thing!"
"Serves you right, say I!" cried Fanchon.
"Oh, please, Fanchon," said Nina, whose tears had trickled weakly forth,
for she had really been rather bad, "don't scold me, but tell me what
you have arranged with Cat last night."
"She's not a cat--we made a mistake about that," said Fanchon.
"What on earth do you mean now, Fanchon?" exclaimed Josie.
"She explained things to me. She's very good-natured, and very wise."
"Very ill-natured and only _self_-wise!" exclaimed Josie.
"No, no--you don't know!" and then Fanchon proceeded to explain to both
her sisters all about that wonderful point of view which Brenda, in her
cleverness, had managed to impress on her mind. The money was kept back
on purpose. It was on account of dear papa and dear papa's
eccentricity. The money would be spent at Marshlands, and Nina, if she
liked, could keep accounts.
"She cried about it, poor thing!" said Fanchon. "She admits, of course,
that the money is there for us, and she will buy us just what we want
and give us a good time, and some treats besides in the different tea
shops. She really was awfully nice about it."
"Oh, Fanchon," said Josephine, "you are taken in easily."
"No, I'm not--I didn't believe her myself at first."
"You mean to say you do now?" said Nina.
"Y-yes, I do now."
Notwithstanding her weakness, Nina laughed.
"Well, then--I don't--do you, Joey?"
"I?" said Josephine. "I believe her less than ever. She is found out,
and she means to save herself by spending the money on us. She's a
worse old cat than ever--that's what _I_ call her."
"Well--of course," said Fanchon, "you can tell papa--she told me last
night that I could."
"It's the right thing to do," said Nina.
"Well, I don't think so. I believe her--I really and truly do. She
confesses she told that lie about not having money, for she wished to
have the thing a secret until we got to the seaside; but that is the
whole of her offending. Of course you, girls, can tell papa, but it'll
be very serious, particularly as that awful Miss Juggins has come home
to live with her mother."
"What in the wide world has Miss Juggins to do with it?" exclaimed both
sisters.
"Well--she's out of a situation, and papa is safe and certain to get her
to come to us. It was Brenda herself who spoke of her last night. She
did not mention her name, but she must have had her in her mind. She is
between forty and fifty if she's a day, and she wears spectacles and has
a cast in her eye and she's a perfect terror. If we get poor Brenda
away, we don't go to the sea, and Juggins comes. It's because of
Juggins that I believe in Brenda--it is really."
This frank avowal of the cause of her belief had a great influence on
the other girls. Josephine sat quite still, evidently in deep thought.
Nina lay back against her pillows.
"It would be awful to have Juggins!" she said, after a pause, "she would
be worse than Brenda."
"She would be honest, though," said Josephine.
"Oh, yes--that she would. But think of our fun and--and--we know enough
about Brenda now to force her to give us a good time."
"I think, girls, we had best accept the situation," was Fanchon's final
judgment.
Whatever the other girls might have remarked, and whatever their resolve
would have been, must be left partly to conjecture. But something
occurred at that moment to cause them to come altogether to Fanchon's
point of view; for, just at that instant, there was a tap at Nina's
door, and who should walk in but--Miss Jemima Juggins herself!
She came close up to Nina's bedside, and asked abruptly where the
Reverend Josiah was.
"Why are you lying in bed, you lazy child?" she said. "What is the
matter?"
Now certainly Miss Juggins made a great contrast to pretty Brenda, and,
when she removed her blue glasses and fixed her rather crooked eyes on
Nina, Nina made up her mind on the spot to believe in Brenda, in
Marshlands, in the pretty clothes which were yet to be bought, in a good
time by the sea.
"I will go and find papa," said Fanchon. "I know he'll be glad to see
you, Miss Juggins."
"I hope he will, indeed," said Miss Juggins. "I have come to speak to
him on business. I want a new situation. How untidy your room is,
girls! Shameful, I call it--three great hulking lasses like you not to
be able to keep your own bedroom straight! But get your father at once,
please, Fanny."
"My name is Fanchon," said that young lady. "Fanny--I prefer to call
you; I hate French names." Fanchon withdrew. The Reverend Josiah was
discovered, and was borne up to little Nina's room. Miss Juggins was
seated by the bed.
"How do you do!" she said when the rector entered. "You don't mind my
finding my way about this house, I hope, Mr Amberley, seeing that I
knew your sainted wife so well. I came to ask you if you could find me
a situation. This child is a little ill from overeating, and ought to
get up and take a good walk. I will go down with you to your study, Mr
Amberley, for I must have a private talk. Good-bye, children. Take my
advice, and tidy up your room. Really, Rector, you don't bring your
girls up at all in the way their dear mother would have liked."
The door slammed behind Miss Juggins. The girls looked at each other.
"We mustn't get rid of Pussy-cat," said Nina then. "_She_ would be
fifty times worse. Well, I'll keep the sums awfully carefully, and
I'll--"
"You'll have to believe in her, you know, and try to be agreeable," said
Fanchon.
"Oh--any fate in preference to Juggins!" was Josephine's remark.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
A SURPRISE INVITATION.
On the morning after the prize-giving day at Hazlitt Chase, Penelope
rose with a headache. There was a great deal of bustle and excitement
in the school, for nearly all the girls were going to their several
homes on that special morning. Penelope and Mademoiselle d'Etienne
would have the beautiful old house to themselves before twenty-four
hours were over.
Penelope did not in the least care for Mademoiselle; she was not
especially fond of her school life, but she detested those long and
endless holidays which she spent invariably at Hazlitt Chase.
To-day all was in disorder. The usual routine of school life was over.
The children were some of them beside themselves with the thought of the
railway journey and the home-coming in the evening. Somebody shouted to
Penelope to hurry with her dressing, in order to help to get off the
little ones. The smaller children, including the two little
Hungerfords, were to go in a great omnibus to the station and be
conducted by a governess to their different homes in various parts of
England.
Pauline Hungerford suddenly rushed into the room where Penelope was
standing.
"Helen of Troy," she said.
"Oh, please don't!" said Penelope. "I am _not_ Helen of Troy--I don't
wish to be called by that odious name."
"But you _were_ so beautiful!" said little Pauline. "Do you know that
while we were looking at you, even Nellie forgot about her bracelet; but
she's crying like anything over the loss of it this morning. It is
quite too bad."
"Yes, indeed it is," said Penelope. "I do trust your mother will take
steps to get it back. I hear that some of the railway officials were
supposed to have stolen it."
"Oh dear," said Pauline, "how wicked of them! What awful people they
must be! Who told you that, Penelope?"
"Well, it was mentioned to me by my sister, who came here yesterday.
You saw her, of course?"
"Yes--she was talking a lot to my brother. She is very pretty; of
course--of course I saw her. And she says it was the railway people who
stole it? I will tell mother that the very instant I get back. But oh,
please, Penelope, Honora wants you; she said you promised to go to her
room before ten, and she would be so glad if you would go at once--will
you?"
"Yes, I will go," said Penelope.
She had forgotten Honora's words, being absorbed in her own melancholy
thoughts. It now occurred to her, however, that she might as well keep
her promise to the pretty girl who ought to have been Helen of Troy.
She went slowly down the passage, tapped at Honora's door, and entered
her bedroom. The young lady was just dressed for her journey. She wore
dainty white pique and a pretty hat to match. She looked fair and fresh
and charming.
"I am just off--I have hardly a minute," she said. "I want to ask a
great favour of you, Penelope."
"What is that?" said Penelope.
She spoke ill-naturedly. She felt the contrast between them. She
almost disliked Honora for her beauty on this occasion.
"It is this," said Honora. "I have been asking mamma--and she says I
may do it. Will you come and stay with us for part of the holidays?"
"I!" said Penelope--amazement in her face.
"Yes. We live at Castle Beverley: it is not very far from
Marshlands-on-the-Sea."
"Oh dear!" exclaimed Penelope, clasping her hands. "Why, it is there my
sister is going."
"Then of course you can see her; that will be nice. But will you come?
I will write to fix the day after I get home. I _should_ like you to
have a good time with us. We shall be quite a big party--boys and
girls, oh,--a lot of us, and I think there'll be no end of fun. The
little Hungerfords are coming, and Fred. Fred is such a nice boy. Will
you come, Penelope? Do say `Yes.'"
Penelope's eyes suddenly filled with tears.
"Will I come!" she said. "Why, I'd just love it beyond anything. Oh,
you _are_ good! Do you ask me because you pity me?"
"Well--yes, perhaps a little," said Honora, colouring at this direct
question--"but also because I want to like you. I know you are worth
liking. No one who could look as you did last night could be unworthy.
It was after I saw you that I asked mamma; and she said: most certainly
you should come. It will probably be next week: I will write you fixing
the day as soon as ever I get home. And now, I must be off. Good-bye,
dear. You may be certain I will do my very utmost to give you a really
happy time."
Honora bent her stately head, pressed a little kiss on Penelope's
forehead, and the next minute had left her. Penelope's first impulse
had been to rush downstairs; but she restrained herself. She sat down
on Honora's vacant bed and pressed her hand to her forehead.
"Fun for me,"--she thought--"for me! I shan't have lonely holidays. I
shall go to one of the nicest houses in England, and be with nice
people, good people, true people. There's Brenda--of course I wish--I
do wish Brenda were _not_ at Marshlands; but I suppose I _can't_ have
everything. I wish--I wish I could understand Brenda. Why did she
force me to get all that money for her? I wonder if any of the girls
who gave it me will be there. Well, well--I won't be disagreeable--I am
going to have a jolly time--I, who never have any fun. Oh, I am glad--I
am very glad!"
About an hour later, the great house of Hazlitt Chase seemed quite
silent and empty. Except for some housemaids who went to the different
rooms in order to fold up the sheets and put away the blankets and take
the curtains down from the windows and generally reduce the spotless,
dainty chambers to the immaculate order of holiday times, Penelope did
not see any one. She was glad that Mademoiselle d'Etienne was not in
sight. She thought she could endure her holiday now that she had
something to look forward to, if only Mademoiselle were not with her.
But she could not stand the housemaids: they were so full of gossip and
noise. Their accustomed reverence for the young ladies was not extended
to the lonely girl who always spent vacation at Hazlitt Chase.
Penelope put on her hat, seized the first book she could find, and went
out into the open air. The grounds still bore traces of yesterday's
revels. There was the wood--dark, cool, and beautiful--which had been
used for that scene in which she took so distinguished a part.
Penelope's first desire was to get within the shade of the wood; but
then she remembered how many things had happened there; how it was there
that she had made terms with the girls with regard to the conditions on
which she would act Helen of Troy. It was there, too, that Honora
Beverley had found her when the play was over--when she was feeling so
wrought up, so desolate, and, somehow, so ashamed of herself. She did
not want to go into the wood. She walked, therefore, down one of the
sunny garden paths, and at last came to a grassy sward with a huge
elm-tree in the middle. There was shade under the elm. She eat down on
the grass and opened her book. But she was not inclined to read.
Penelope was never a reader. She had no special nor strong tastes. She
could have been made a very nice, all-round sort of girl; her brain
could have been well developed, but she would never be a genius or a
specialist of any sort. Nevertheless, she had one thing which some of
those girls who despised her did not possess; that was, a real,
vibrating, suffering, longing, and passionate soul. She longed
intensely for love, and she would rather be good than bad--that was
about all.
She sat with her book open and her eyes fixed on the flickering sunlight
and shade of the lawn just in front of her. After all she, Penelope,
would have a good time--just like the other girls. She would come back
to school able, like the other girls, to talk of her holidays, to
describe where she went and what companions she found and what friends
she made; to talk as the others talked of this delightful day and that
delightful day. Oh, yes--she would have a good time! She pressed her
hand to her eyes and her eyelids smarted with tears. It had been a very
long time since Penelope had cried. Now, notwithstanding her sudden and
unlooked-for bliss, there was a pain within her breast. She was
terribly--most terribly disappointed in Brenda. She had not seen Brenda
for a long time, and she had always rather worshipped her sister. When
a little child, she had thoroughly revelled in Brenda's beauty. When
the time came that she and Brenda must part, little Penelope had sobbed
hard in her elder sister's arms--had implored and implored her not to
leave her, and afterwards, when the separation had taken place, had been
sullen and truly miserable for a long time.
Then she had been admitted to Mrs Hazlitt's school on those special
conditions which came to a few girls and had been arranged by those
governors who put a certain number on the foundation terms of the
school. The foundation girls were never known to be such by any of
their companions. They were treated exactly like the others. In fact,
if anything, they had a few more indulgences. Not for worlds would Mrs
Hazlitt have given these children of poverty so cruel a time as to make
their estate known to their companions.
But, it so happened that Penelope was obliged always to spend her
holidays at the school. That was the only difference made between her
and the others. She had not seen Brenda for years. But Brenda had
written to her little sister and had made all use possible of that
sister's affection. She had worked up her feelings with regard to her
own dreadful poverty and, in short, had got Penelope to blackmail four
girls of the school for her sake.
"It was a dreadful thing to do," thought Penelope to herself, as she sat
now under the shade of the elm-tree. "I don't think I'd have done it if
I'd known. I wonder if she really wanted the money so very badly.
There's some one who loves her, and she must look nice for his sake.
But all the same--I wish I hadn't done it, and I wish she were not going
to Marshlands-on-the-Sea. For she is just the sort to make it
unpleasant for me, and to expect the Beverleys to ask her to Beverley
Castle; and oh--I am disappointed in her!"
Again Penelope cried, not hard or much, for this was not her nature, but
sufficiently to relieve some of the load at her heart. Then, all of a
sudden, she started to her feet. Mademoiselle d'Etienne was coming down
the central lawn to meet her. Mademoiselle was in many respects an
excellent French governess, but had the usual faults of the proverbial
Frenchwoman. She was both ugly and vain. She could not in the least
read character, but she had the knack of discovering which was the girl
whose acquaintance was most worth cultivating.
Mrs Hazlitt had made a mistake in introducing this woman into the
school. She had not interviewed her in advance, and was altogether
disappointed when she arrived. It was her intention to get another
French governess to take her place at the beginning of next term.
Mademoiselle had, in fact, received notice to this effect and was
exceedingly annoyed. She was in that state when she must vent her
spleen on some one, and, as Penelope was the only girl now at Hazlitt
Chase, she went up to her crossly.
"What are you doing here, _mon enfant_?" she cried. "You leave the poor
French mademoiselle all alone--it is sad--it is strange--it is wrong.
Come this minute into the house. I have my woes to relate, and I want
even a _petite_ like you to listen. Come at once, and sit no longer
under this shade, but make of yourself a use."
Penelope rose, looking more grim and forbidding than usual. She
followed Mademoiselle up the garden, past the wood, and into the house.
"Behold the desolation!" cried Mademoiselle, when they got indoors. She
spread out her two fat, short arms and looked around her. "Not a
_petite_ in sight--not a sound--the whole mansion empty, and Madame
gone--gone with venom! She have left me my dismissal; she say, `You
teach no more _les enfants_ in this school.' She gave no reason, but
say, `I find another and you teach no more!' Who was that spiteful and
most _mechant enfant_ who reveals secrets of poor Mademoiselle to
Madame?"
"I don't know," said Penelope. "I hadn't an idea you were going. I
know nothing about it," she continued. "Aren't we going to have any
lunch? I am so hungry."
"And so am I," cried Mademoiselle, who was exceedingly greedy. "I
starve--I ache from within. _Sonnez, mon enfant_--I entreat; let us
have our _dejeuner_--my vitals can stand the strain no longer."
Penelope rang the bell, and presently a towsled-looking housemaid
appeared, to whom Mademoiselle spoke in a volley of bad English and
excellent French.
"Get us something to eat," said Penelope, "that is what we want. Isn't
Patience here to wait on us as usual?"
Patience was one of the immaculate parlour maids.
"No," said the girl; "Patience has gone on her holiday."
She withdrew, however, quickly after making this remark, for
Mademoiselle's eyes flashed fire.
"I suffer not these tortures," she cried, "and the insolence of English
_domestiques_! I return to my own adorable land and partake of the
_ragouts_ so delicate and the _bouillon_ so fragrant and the _omelettes_
so adorable. I turn my back on your cold England. It loves not the
stranger--and the stranger loves it not!"
A meal was hastily prepared in another room, and Penelope and the
governess went there together.
"What I dread," said Mademoiselle, "what I consider so _triste_ and
execrable--is that I should remain here in this so gloomy climate, far,
far from my beloved land, with you--the most _ennuyeuse_ of all my
pupils during the time of holiday. I call it shameful! I rebel!"
"Then why do you stay?" said Penelope.
Again Mademoiselle extended her fat hands and arms.
"Would I lose that little character which is to me the breath of
existence?" she enquired. "Were Madame to know that I had left you, my
_triste_ pupil, all alone during these long days and weeks, would she
give me a paper with those essential qualifications written on it which
secure for me employment elsewhere?"
"I am going away myself next week," said Penelope, bluntly.
"Next week!" cried Mademoiselle, much startled and delighted at this
news. "But is that indeed so? for Madame say nothing of it. She say to
me this morning: `You take excellent care of my pupil, Penelope Carlton,
and give her of the food sufficient, and of the mental food also, that
she will digest.'"
"I won't digest any of it," said Penelope, bluntly.
"That was my thought, but I dared not express it. I knew well the
dulness of your intellect, and although last night you did soar into a
different world--_ma foi_, you did take me by surprise!--you are
yourself a very _triste_ little girl--an _enfant_ indistinguishable,
with neither the gifts of beauty nor of genius."
"Well--I am going--it is arranged. Mrs Hazlitt will doubtless be
written to."
"And where do you go, _pauvre petite_?" asked the governess.
"I am going to stay with Honora Beverley, at Castle Beverley," replied
Penelope, with even a touch of arrogance in her small voice.
Mademoiselle opened her eyes wide.
"With her!--my pupil _magnifique_, and so beautiful! She has the air
distinguished and the manner noble. She belongs to the rich and to the
great. _She_ takes _you_ up--but _pourquoi_?"
"Kindness--I suppose," said Penelope. "I am lonely, and they have a big
house; I am going there."
"It is wonderful," said Mademoiselle, "you of all people. Honora is one
with thoughts the most lofty, and she signifies a preference for you!
It is strange--it gives me _mal a la tete_ even to think of it!"
"Why should it?" asked Penelope.
"Do I not know some of your ways, _mon enfant_--and that little, little
transaction in the wood?"
"What in the world do you mean?" said Penelope, turning ghastly white.
"Ah! I mean no wrong. I have eaten enough of your odious English
cookery; let us rise from table. I am glad to feel that you are going
to that friend so unsuitable--to that lady so _superieure_. Would she
ask you if she knew what I know?--"
"I can't tell, I am sure, what you do know," said Penelope; "but what I
feel at present is that I want rest--you're not obliged to follow me
about all the afternoon--may I stay by myself until supper time?"
"Ungrateful!" cried Mademoiselle. "But I shall go--I need you not. I
have myself to attend to, and my affairs so sombre to settle. I will
meet you again at the hour of supper, when I have put matters in train
for myself."
Penelope left her. How much did Mademoiselle know? She disliked her
heartily, and did not want to trouble her head too much over the
circumstance. She felt certain that the four girls who had given her
the money would not confide their secrets to any one, far less to
Mademoiselle, whom they distrusted. Nevertheless, the governess was
scarcely likely to speak as she had done without reason. She was
evidently jealous of Penelope's invitation to Beverley Castle, and was
very angry at being dismissed from Hazlitt Chase.
"She can't by any possibility know the truth," thought the girl, "and I
won't fret about it. I will just humour her as best I can until next
week arrives, and then say good-bye to her for ever. I am heartily glad
she is leaving the school; I never liked her so little as I do now."
Now, Mademoiselle D'Etienne and Brenda Carlton would have made their
fortunes by ways that deceived. There was a great deal of affinity in
their insincere natures. With Mademoiselle, it was truly bred in the
bone; but she was not altogether ill-natured, and, after considering
matters for a short time, decided that, unless special circumstances
turned up, she would not disturb Penelope's chance of having a good time
at Castle Beverley. Her jealousy of the girl died down and she thought
of herself and her own circumstances. Then it occurred to her that she
would perhaps make some use of her pupil's unexpected absence from
Hazlitt Chase. If Penelope went to Castle Beverley for several weeks of
the holidays, it would surely not be necessary for Mademoiselle to stay
in that mansion so _triste_, so desolate. Mrs Hazlitt was the soul of
kindness. Mademoiselle was in her employ, and earning a considerable
salary until the middle of September. It might be possible that Mrs
Hazlitt could find some amusement for the poor lonely girl who was
banished from her native land. Where could she go? what could she do to
relieve the heavy air of England, to take the oppression from her heart?
It would be more than delightful if she, too, could have an invitation
to Castle Beverley, and, just for a minute, it entered her head that she
might manage this by means of that little secret which she held over
Penelope.
But, after all, the secret was not so intensely valuable. What she knew
was simply this. She had observed Cara Burt opening a letter on a
certain morning and taking an unexpected five-pound note out of it.
Mademoiselle was avaricious. The sight of the money had awakened
desires within her. What could a girl like Cara want with anything so
precious as a five-pound note in term time? She resolved to question
her.
"How good your people are to you!" she said.
Cara had asked the governess what she meant, and the governess had
prettily replied in her broken English that she had seen the "note so
valuable" in Cara's hand when she opened the letter.
"Oh, that is for a purpose--an important one," answered Cara. Then she
bit her lips, for she was sorry she had said so much. But other girls
had received their money on the very same day and Mademoiselle, alert
and auspicious, had crept to the _rendezvous_ where they all met. Poor
Penelope! When Penelope received the five-pound Bank of England notes,
Mademoiselle's dark, wicked face was peering from behind the shade of a
magnificent oak tree. The girls themselves did not perceive her. She
was much elated with her discovery and resolved to enfold it, as she
said, within her breast for future use.
Now, it occurred to her that she might simply relate to Penelope what
she had done, or rather tell her pupil enough to show her that she was
in the secret. That very evening, when the two had finished their
supper she began her confidence. She told the girl that she had not
wished to injure her, but at the same time that she knew for a fact that
she had received four five-pound notes from four different girls of the
school.
"To me it is extraordinary," she said, "why they should give to you the
precious money, but that they have done so is beyond doubt. I go by the
evidence of these eyes at once piercing and true! Do you deny it, _mon
enfant_? Do you dare to be so _mechante_?"
"I admit nothing and deny nothing," said Penelope, as calmly as she
could speak.
Mademoiselle laughed. After a long pause, she said:
"I am a nature the most generous, and I would not hurt a hair of the
head of my pupil. You will go and enjoy the festival and the time so
gay and the friends so kind at Castle Beverley, and that _enfant_ so
_magnifique_, Honora Beverley, will be your companion. I could prevent
it, for she is, with all her nobleness, fanatical in her views, and of
principles the most severe."
"I will never ask you to keep anything back," said Penelope. "You can
write to Honora if you wish: I don't know how you can say anything about
me without maligning yourself."
"Ah--mademoiselle I do you think I could so injure you?" said the
governess. "That would indeed be far from my thoughts. But if I have
the consideration the very deepest for you, will you not assist me to
have a less _triste_ time than in this lonely house with even you away?"
"What can I do?" asked Penelope, in surprise. "I am a rather friendless
girl, how can I possibly assist you to have a gay time? I never yet had
a gay time myself, this is the first occasion."
"And it fills you with so great delight?"
"I am very glad," said Penelope.
"I write this evening," said Mademoiselle, "to Madame, and I mention to
her the fact that my one pupil departs on the quest of pleasure, and I
ask her to liberate me from my _solitaire_ position here and to perhaps
do me a little kindness by assisting me to spend the holiday by the gay,
bright, and charming sea. A little word thrown in from you, too,
mademoiselle, might do much to influence Madame to think of the poor
governess. Will you not write that word?"
Penelope hesitated for a minute. Then she said, bluntly:
"I will mention the fact that you will be quite alone, and I will write
myself to Mrs Hazlitt to-night."
As she spoke, she got up, and left the room. Penelope hated herself for
having to write the letter. She longed more than ever for the moment
when she would be free to go to Castle Beverley. She was not really
afraid of Mademoiselle. She would rather all the girls in the school
knew what she had done than be, in any respect, in Mademoiselle's power.
In fact, such a strange revulsion of feeling had come over her, that
she would have told the truth but for Brenda. But, although she was
deeply disappointed in Brenda, it was the last wish in her heart to do
anything to injure or to provoke her.
Accordingly, she wrote a careful and really nice letter to her
headmistress, telling her what Honora had said, and begging of her to
allow her to accept the invitation, when it arrived. She also said that
Mademoiselle d'Etienne would be quite alone, and seemed put out at the
fact of her going. At the same time, she begged that the thought of
Mademoiselle would not prevent Mrs Hazlitt's allowing her to accept the
invitation.
Penelope's letter was duly put into the post, accompanied by one of much
persuasiveness from the French governess. The result of these two
letters was, that as soon as the post could bring replies, replies came.
Mrs Hazlitt said that she would be delighted to allow Penelope to go
to Castle Beverley, and that as she knew the house would be full of gay
young people, she enclosed her a five-pound note out of a fund which she
specially possessed for the purpose, to allow the girl to get a few nice
things.
"Mademoiselle will help you to purchase these," she said, "and you can
have all your school frocks nicely washed and done up in the school
laundry. I am afraid I cannot spend more on your dress, Penelope, but I
think you can manage with the money I send you."
Mademoiselle's cheeks were flushed when she devoured the contents of her
own letter; for enclosed in it was a cheque so generous that her eyes
blazed with pleasure.
"Madame is of the most mean, and yet of the most generous!" she cried.
"She allows me to go when you go, _petite_, and she gives me a little
sum to spend on myself, so that I make a holiday the best that I can. I
knew where I will reside. I will go to that place near Castle
Beverley--I forget its long name--but it is gay, sad on the sea."
"You're not going to Marshlands?" cried Penelope, in some alarm.
"That is the place that I will go to," said Mademoiselle. "I have
looked it out on the map, and it is far off, but not too far off. There
I can watch over you, although it is the distant view that I will
obtain, and I can, from time to time, see my other most beloved pupil,
and perhaps go to Castle Beverley, and wish them adieu before I depart
to that land of sun--_la belle France_."
Penelope did not at all like the idea of Mademoiselle's going to
Marshlands. She hoped she would not come across Brenda, and she trusted
sincerely that she would not be invited to Castle Beverley. But, as
Mademoiselle was determined to have her own way, Penelope resolved to
take the good which lay at hand, and not to trouble herself too much
about the future.
Mademoiselle was now extremely good-natured, and helped Penelope to
renovate her very simple wardrobe and, in short, made herself as
charming as a Frenchwoman of her character knew how. All in good time,
Honora's delightful letter of invitation arrived, and Mademoiselle
resolved to travel with her pupil as far as Marshlands.
"I part from you," she said, "at the railway station where you will meet
your friends so distinguished; and I, the governess, the foreigner, will
go to search for _appartements_ that are cheap. You will bid me
farewell, and permit me to shake the hand once again of my pupil Honora.
Ah! but I am kind to you--am I not?"
"Yes," murmured Penelope, feeling all the time that Mademoiselle was
unbearably trying. The joys, however, of going to Castle Beverley
should not be damped even by this incident.
The girl and the Frenchwoman travelled second-class together, and
arrived at the somewhat noisy station of Marshlands-on-the-Sea between
six and seven o'clock on a glorious evening in August Penelope had not
beheld the blue, blue sea since she was quite a little girl, and her
eyes sparkled now with delight. She looked quite different from the
limp and somewhat uninteresting girl she had appeared to every one at
Hazlitt Chase. The anticipation of happiness was working marvels in her
character. Penelope had taken good care not to inform Brenda of the day
of her arrival. She was quite sure she would have to meet her sister;
but she would at least give herself a little rest before the encounter
took place. She rejoiced, too, in the knowledge that up to the present
Mademoiselle d'Etienne and Brenda did not know each other.
As soon as the train drew up to the platform, Mademoiselle poked out her
head and uttered a little shriek when she beheld Pauline and Nellie
Hungerford, as well as Honora herself and a tall footman waiting on the
platform. Mademoiselle rushed up to Honora, taking both her hands and
shaking them up and down while she burst into an eager volley of French,
in which she informed that "pupil best beloved" that the desire to be
near her had brought her to Marshlands-on-the-Sea, and that she was even
now going with her humble belongings to seek apartments appropriate to
her means.
"I meet you, my pupil," she said, "with a joy which almost ravishes my
breast, for sincere and true are my feelings towards you. And now I
stay not, but perhaps some day you will think of the governess in her
humble _appartements_ by the lone sea, and allow her to pay you a little
visit."
Honora murmured something which scarcely amounted to an invitation.
Mademoiselle turned to the little girls, and Honora ran to Penelope's
side.
"I am so glad to see you! I hope you are not frightfully tired. Oh,
you do look hot and dusty, but we shall have a delicious drive up to the
Castle. My home is quite outside the town, which is somewhat noisy.
Ah, I see Dan has collected your luggage; shall we come at once?
Good-bye, Mademoiselle. I hope you will secure nice rooms."
Mademoiselle was flattering, and full of charm to the end. She insisted
on marching down the platform with Pauline's hand clasped in one of
hers, and her humble little bag in the other. She did not part from her
pupils until she saw them all ensconced in the luxurious carriage which
was to bear them rapidly into the pleasant country. But, when that same
carriage had turned the corner and she found herself alone, an ugly
expression crossed her face.
"It is not good to have these feelings," she murmured to herself. "I
like not the jealousies when they come to devour; but why should
Penelope with her schemes and her behaviour the most strange be taken to
the very heart of the best of all my pupils? I will see into this
by-and-by. Meanwhile--_ma foi_--how hot it is!"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
THE CASTLE.
Castle Beverley was even a more delightful place than Penelope had the
least idea of before she arrived at it. She had her own vivid
imagination, and had pictured the old castle, its suites of apartments,
its crowds of servants, its stately guests, many and many a time before
the blissful hour of her arrival. But when she did get to Castle
Beverley, she found that all her pictures had been wrong.
It is true, there was an old castle, and a tower at one end of an
irregular pile of building; but the modern part of the house, while it
was large, was also unpretentious and simple.
The children who ran to meet the carriage were many of them Penelope's
schoolfellows. Mrs Beverley had a charming and placid face and a
kindly manner. Mr Beverley was a round-faced, rubicund country squire,
who made jokes about every one, and was as little alarming as human
being could be. In short, it was impossible for Penelope not to feel
herself at home. Her old schoolfellows welcomed her almost with
enthusiasm. They had not cared for her greatly when at Hazlitt Chase,
but they were just in the mood to be in the best temper with everything,
and had been in raptures with her rendering of Helen of Troy. Honora,
too, had pictured, very pathetically, the scene of the lonely girl
afterwards weeping by herself in the wood, and the delightful
inspiration which had come over her to give her some weeks' holiday at
Castle Beverley. Perhaps Cara Burt would have preferred her not being
there, but Mary L'Estrange, who was also a visitor at the Castle, had
quite forgiven Penelope for her desire to obtain five pounds. She put
it down altogether, now, to the poor thing's poverty, and hoped that the
transaction would never be known. Annie Leicester had not yet arrived,
but was expected. Susanna, the most to be feared, perhaps, of the four
girls who had given Penelope the money, had gone abroad for the
holidays.
Thus, all was sunshine on this first evening, and when Penelope found
herself joking and repeating little bits of school news and some of the
funny things which had occurred between herself and Mademoiselle, the
others laughed heartily. Yes, that first evening was a golden one, long
to be remembered by the somewhat lonely girl.
When she went to bed that night, she was so tired that she slept soundly
until the morning. When the morning did arrive, and she was greeted by
a smiling housemaid and a delicious cup of tea, she felt that, for the
time at least, she was in the land of luxury.
"I'll enjoy myself for once," she thought, "I'll forget about school and
that I am very poor and that I am disappointed with Brenda, and that
Brenda is staying at Marshlands, and Mademoiselle, too, is staying at
Marshlands. I will forget everything but just that it is very, very
good to be here."
So she arose and dressed herself in one of the new white linen dresses
which Mademoiselle had purchased for her out of Mrs Hazlitt's money,
and she came down to breakfast looking fresh and almost pretty.
"You do seem rested--I am so glad!" said Honora. "Oh, no, we are not
breakfasting in that room. Father and mother and the grown-ups use the
front hall for breakfast in the summer, and we children have the big old
school-room to ourselves. You didn't see it last night; we had so much
to show you, but it is--oh--such a jolly room. Come now this way, you
will be surprised at such a crowd of us."
As Honora spoke, she took Penelope's hand, and, pushing open a heavy oak
door, led the way through a sort of ante-chamber and then down a
corridor to a long, low room with latticed windows, over which many
creepers cast just now a most grateful shade. There were several boys
and girls in the room, and a long table was laid, with all sorts of good
things for breakfast. Amongst the boys was Fred Hungerford and a
younger brother called Dick, and there were three or four boys, brothers
and cousins of Honora herself. There were altogether at least thirteen
or fourteen girls. The two little Hungerfords flew up to Penelope when
they saw her. They seemed to regard her as their special friend.
"Honora," said Pauline, "may we sit one at each side of Penelope and
tell her who every one is and all about everything? Then she'll feel
quite one of us and be--oh--so happy!"
"That's an excellent idea, Pauline," said Honora. "Here, Penelope, come
up to this end of the table, and I'll jog the children's memories if
they forget any one."
So Penelope enjoyed her first breakfast at Castle Beverley, and could
not help looking at Honora with a wonderful, new sensation of love in
her eyes. Honora, whose dazzling fairness and stately young figure had
made her appear at first sight such an admirable representative of the
fair Helen of the past, had never looked more beautiful than this
morning.
She wore a dress of the palest shade of blue cambric and had a great
bunch of forget-me-nots in her belt. Her face was like sunshine itself,
and her wealth of golden hair was quite marvellous in its fairness. Her
placid blue eyes seemed to be as mirrors in which one could see into her
steadfast and noble mind. All her thoughts were those of kindness, and
she was absolutely unselfish. In fact, as one girl said: "Honora is
selfless: she almost forgets that she exists, so little does she think
of herself in her thought for others."
Now, Honora's one desire was to make Penelope happy, and Penelope
responded to the sympathetic manner and kindly words as a poor little
sickly flower will revel in sunshine. But Pauline presently spoke in
that rather shrill little voice of hers:
"We _are_ happy here: even Nellie's better, aren't you, Nellie?"
"Yes, I suppose so," said Nellie. She looked across the table at
Pauline, and gave half a sigh and half a smile.
"Of course you are happy, Nellie," said Honora. "You're not thinking
any more about that bracelet, are you?"
"I do wish I could get it back," said Nellie, "but, all the same I am
happy."
"But please, Penelope, tell us about your sister," said Pauline. "Oh,
do you know--"
"Yes--_do_ tell us that!" interrupted Nellie.
"Why, Fred saw her yesterday at Marshlands-on-the-Sea," continued
Pauline. "She's quite close to us--isn't it fun? Fred came back quite
interested in her--he thinks her so very pretty!"
"Whom do I think pretty, Miss?" called out Fred from a little way down
the table. "No taking of my name in vain--if you please."
"You know, Fred," said Pauline, in her somewhat solemn little voice,
"that you think dear Penelope's sister sweetly pretty."
"I should think so, indeed!" said Fred, "and, by the way, she is at
Marshlands. She had three of the funniest little girls out walking with
her yesterday that you ever saw in your life. Did you know she was
going to be at Marshlands, Miss Carlton?"
"Yes," said Penelope, feeling not quite so happy as she did a few
minutes ago.
"We'll ask her up here some day to have a good time with us, dear, if
you like," said Honora.
"Thank you," replied Penelope, but without enthusiasm.
"I spoke to her yesterday," said Fred. "She really did look awfully
nice; only they were the rummest little coves you ever saw in all your
life--the children who are there."
"They are her pupils; they're the daughters of a clergyman," said
Penelope.
"I don't care whose daughters they are, but they go about with your
sister, and they _do_ look so funny. I told her you were coming and she
gave me her address. Would you like to go in to see her this morning?"
Penelope trembled.
"Not this morning, please," she said.
She felt herself turning pale. She felt she must have one happy day
before she began to meet Brenda. She had a curious feeling that when
that event took place, her peace, and delight in her present
surroundings would somehow be clouded. Brenda was so much cleverer than
she was, so gay, so determined, so strange in many ways. Oh, no; she
would not go to see her to-day.
"If you like," said Honora, observing Penelope's confusion, and rather
wondering at it, "I could send a note to your sister to come up
to-morrow to spend the day here. We're not going to do anything special
to-morrow, and mother always allows me to ask any friends we like to the
Castle. We have heaps of croquet courts and tennis courts, and the
little girls could come with her, for of course she couldn't leave them
behind. How would that do, Penelope? Would that please you?"
"I don't know," said Penelope. Then she said, somewhat awkwardly:
"Oh, yes--yes--if you like--"
Honora had a curious sensation of some surprise at Penelope's manner;
but it quickly passed. She accounted for it by saying to herself that
her friend was tired and of course must greatly long to see her only
sister.
"She's not absolutely and altogether to my taste," thought Honora, "but
I am just determined to give her the best of times, and we can have the
sister up and the funny children for at least one day. What's the good
of having a big place if one doesn't get people to enjoy it?"
It was just then that Nellie said:
"I do wish, Penelope, you had not done one thing."
"What is that?" asked Penelope, who had hardly got over the shock of
having Brenda so soon with her.
"Why did you bring Mademoiselle to Marshlands? We don't care for
Mademoiselle, do we, Pauline?"
"No, indeed," said Pauline, "and she took my hand yesterday and clutched
it so tight and wouldn't let it go before I pulled two or three times,
and oh! I'm quite positive sure that she'll find us out, and I wish she
wouldn't!"
"Frankly, I wish she wouldn't too," said Honora, "but I do not see," she
added, "why Penelope should be disturbed on that account--it isn't her
fault."
"No, indeed it isn't," said Penelope, "and I wish with all my heart she
hadn't come with me to Marshlands-on-the-Sea."
When breakfast was over, all the young people streamed out into the
gardens with the exception of Honora and Penelope.
"One minute, Penelope dear," said Honora. "Just write a little line to
your sister and I will enclose one, in mother's name and mine, inviting
her to come up with the children to-morrow. Here are writing
materials--you needn't take a minute."
Penelope sat down and wrote a few words to Brenda. For the life of her,
she could not make these words cordial. She hardly knew her own
sensations. Was she addressing the same Brenda whom she had worshipped
and suffered for and loved so frantically when she was a little girl?
Was it jealousy that was stealing into her heart? What could be her
motives in wishing to keep this sister from the nice boys and girls who
made Castle Beverley so charming? Or was she--was she so mean--so
small--as to be ashamed of Brenda? No, no--it could not be that, and
yet--and yet--it was that: she was ashamed of Brenda! The children she
was now with belonged to the best of their kind. Penelope had lived
with people of the better class for several months now and was
discerning enough to perceive the difference between gold and tinsel.
Oh, was Brenda tinsel; Brenda--her only sister? Penelope could have
sobbed, but she must hide all emotion.
Her letter was finished. She knew how eagerly Brenda would accept and
how cleverly she would get herself invited to the Castle again, and
again, and again. Honora's cordial little note was slipped into the
same envelope. Penelope had to furnish the address, and, an hour later,
Fred and his brothers, who were going to ride to Marshlands in order to
bathe and to spend some hours afterwards on the beach, arranged to
convey the invitation to Brenda which poor Penelope so dreaded.
"Now we have that off our minds," said Honora, "and can have a real good
time. What would you like to do, Penelope? You know you must make
yourself absolutely and completely at home. You are one of us. Every
girl who comes here by mother's invitation is for the time mother's own
daughter and looked upon as such by her. She is also father's own
daughter and, I can tell you, he treats her as such, and the boys are
exactly in the same position. We're all brothers and sisters here, and
we love each other, every one of us."
"But would you love a girl, whatever happened?" asked Penelope, all of a
sudden.
"Oh, I don't know what you mean--whatever happened--what could happen?"
"Nothing--of course--nothing; only I wonder, Honora. I never seemed to
know you at all when I was at school. I wonder if you could love a girl
like me."
"I love you already, dear," said Honora. "And now, please, don't be
morbid; just let's be jolly and laugh and joke; every one can do just
what every one likes--this is Liberty Hall, of course. It's a home of
delight, of course. It's the home of `Byegone dull Care';--oh, it's the
nicest place in all the world, and I want you to remember it as long as
you live. I am so glad mother allowed me to ask you! Now then, do see
those youngsters, Pauline and Nellie, tumbling over the hay-cocks: how
sunburnt they are! such a jolly little pair! I am sorry about Nellie's
bracelet; the loss of it makes her think too much of that sort of thing.
I am quite afraid she will never find it now. What would you like to
do, Penelope? You looked so happy when you came downstairs, but now
you're a little tired."
"I think I am a little tired," said Penelope. "I think for this morning
I'd like a book best."
"Then here we are--this is the school library: every jolly schoolgirl's
and schoolboy's story that has ever been written finds its way into this
room. Run in, and make your choice, and then come out. The grounds are
all round you--shade everywhere, and pleasure, pleasure all day long."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
THE SEASIDE.
Brenda and her three pupils had arrived two or three days before at
Marshlands-on-the-Sea. It cannot be said their lodgings were exactly
"chic," for the Reverend Josiah could not rise to apartments anything
approaching to that term. He had given Brenda a certain sum which was
to cover the expenses of their month's pleasure, and had told her to
make the best of it. Brenda had expostulated and begged hard for more;
but no--for once the Reverend Josiah was firm. He said that his
suffering parishioners required all his surplus money, and that the
girls and their governess must stay at the seaside for five guineas a
week. Brenda shook her head, and declared that it was impossible; but,
seeing that no more was to be obtained, she made the best of things, and
when she arrived at Marshlands just in the height of the summer season,
she finally took up her abode at a fifth-rate boarding-house in a little
street which certainly did not face the sea.
Here she and her pupils were taken for a guinea a week each, and Brenda
had the surplus to spend on teas out and on little expeditions
generally. She was careful on these occasions to be absolutely and
thoroughly honest. She even consulted Nina on the subject. She was
exceedingly polite to Nina just now and, at the same time, intensely
sarcastic. She was fond of asking Nina, even in the middle of the
_table d'hote_ dinner, if she had her pencil and notebook handy, and if
she would then and there kindly enter the item of twopence three
farthings spent on cherries,--quarter of a pound to eat on the beach,--
or if she had absolutely forgotten the fact that she was obliged to
provide a reel of white and a reel of black cotton for necessary repairs
of the wardrobe. How Nina hated her pretty governess on these
occasions! how her little eyes would flash with indignation and her
small face looked pinched with the sense of tragedy which oppressed her,
and which she could not understand.
The commonplace ladies who lived in the commonplace boarding-house were
deeply interested in Nina's extraordinary talent for accounts. They
gently asked the exceedingly pretty and attractive Miss Carlton what it
meant.
"Simply a little mania of hers," said Brenda, with a shrug of her plump
white shoulders, for she always wore _decolletee_ dress at late dinner
and her shoulders and arms were greatly admired by the other visitors at
the boarding-house. Nina began to dread the subject of accounts. Once
she forgot her notebook and pencil on purpose, but Brenda was a match
for her. She asked her in a loud semi-whisper if she could tot up
exactly what they had expended that day, and when Nina replied that she
had left the notebook upstairs, she was desired immediately to go to
fetch it. The little girl left the room on this occasion with a sense
of almost hatred at her heart.
"Fetch that odious book! oh dear, oh dear!" She wished every
account-book in the world at the bottom of the sea. She wished she had
never interfered with Brenda. She wished she had never made that
terrible little sum on the day when Brenda went to Hazlitt Chase. She
was being severely punished for her anxiety and her sense of justice.
Brenda had determined that this should be the case, and had given her
small pupil a terrible time while she was spending that seven pounds,
sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence on extra clothes for her pupils.
She took them into a fashionable shop, for, as the money had to be
spent, she was determined that it should be done as quickly as possible.
As she could not save it for herself, she wanted to get rid of it, it
did not matter how quickly. Therefore, while Fanchon stood transfixed
with admiration of her own figure in a muslin hat before a long glass,
and eagerly demanded that it should be bought immediately, it was poor
Nina who was brought forward to decide.
"It is becoming," said Brenda, gazing at her pupil critically; "that
pale shade of blue suits you _to perfection_; and that `chic' little
mauve bow at the side is so very, very _comme il faut_. But that is not
the question in the very least, Fanchon--whether it becomes you or not.
It is this: can we afford it--or rather, can Nina afford it? Nina,
look. Can you afford to allow your sister to buy that hat?"
The serving-woman in the shop very nearly tittered when the plain,
awkward little girl--the youngest of the party--was brought forward to
make such a solemn decision. Nina herself was very sulky, and, without
glancing at the hat, said:
"Yes, take it, I don't care!"
"Very well, darling," said Brenda. "You can send that hat to Palliser
Gardens--9, Palliser Gardens," she said to the attendant. "Nina, enter
in your account-book twelve shillings and eleven-pence three farthings
for Fanchon's hat."
"I want one like it!" cried Josie.
"Oh--I'm sure Nina won't allow that!" exclaimed Brenda.
"_I_ don't care!" said Nina.
In the end each girl had a similar hat, and Nina had to enter the
amounts in her horrible little book. The hats were fairly pretty, but
were really not meant for little girls with their hair worn in pigtails.
But the only thing Brenda cared about was the fact that a considerable
sum of Mr Amberley's money was got rid of.
"Now," she said, "we'll consider the dresses." And the dresses were
considered. They were quite expensive and not pretty. There were also
several other things purchased, and Nina grew quite thin with her
calculations. All these things happened during the first days of their
stay at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. But now the toilets were complete.
It was on a scorching and beautiful morning after Brenda, becomingly
dressed from head to foot in purest white, had taken her little pupils
in check dresses and paper hats down to the seashore, had bathed there
and swum most beautifully, to the delight of those who looked on, and
had returned again in time for the mid-day meal, that she found
Penelope's letter awaiting her. It was laid by her plate on the dinner
table. She opened it with her usual airy grace and then exclaimed--her
eyes sparkling with excitement and delight:
"I say, girls--here's a treat! Our dear friends, the Beverleys, have
invited us all to spend to-morrow at the Castle. We must accept, of
course, and must drive out. Mrs Dawson,"--here she turned to the lady
who kept the boarding-house--"can you tell me what a drive will be from
here to Castle Beverley?"
"Five shillings at the very least," replied Mrs Dawson.
She spoke in an awe-struck voice. There were no people so respected in
the neighbourhood as the Beverleys, and Mrs Dawson--a well-meaning and
sensible woman--did not believe it possible that any guest of hers could
know them.
"Really, Miss Carlton," she said, "I am highly flattered to think that a
young lady who stays here in my humble house--no offence, ladies, I am
sure--but in my modest and inexpensive habitation, should know the
Beverleys of Castle Beverley."
"We don't know them!" here called out Josie.
Brenda gave Josie a frown which augured ill for that young lady's
pleasure during the rest of the day. She paused for a minute, and then
said modestly:
"It so happens that my dear sister is a special friend of the eldest
Miss Beverley. They are at the same school. My sister is staying at
the Castle at present, and I have had a letter inviting me to go there
for to-morrow. It will be a very great pleasure."
"Very great, indeed,"--replied Mrs Dawson--"a most distinguished thing
to do. We shall all be interested to hear your experiences when you
return in the evening, dear Miss Carlton. Hand Miss Carlton the peas,"
continued the good woman, addressing the flushed and towsled parlour
maid.
Brenda helped herself delicately to a few of these dainties and then
continued:
"Yes, we shall enjoy it; my dear sister's friends are very select. I
naturally expected to go to Castle Beverley when I heard she was there;
but I didn't know that the Beverleys would be so good-natured as to
extend their invitations to these dear children. Even the little
accountant, Nina, is invited. Nina, you'll be sure to take your book
with you, dear, for you might make some little private notes with regard
to the possible expense of housekeeping at Castle Beverley while you are
there. You, dear, must be like the busy bee; you must improve each
shining hour--eh, Nina? eh, my little arithmetician?"
"I am _not_ your arithmetician; and I--I hate you!" said Nina.
These remarks were regarded by the other ladies present as simply those
of a naughty child in a temper.
"Oh, fie, Miss Nina!" said a certain Miss Rachael Price. "You should
not show those naughty little tempers. You should say, when you feel
your angry passions rising, `Down, down, little temper; down, down!' I
have always done that, and I assure you it is most soothing in its
effects."
"But you wouldn't if you were me," said Nina, who was past all prudence
at that instant. "If you had an odious--odious!" here she burst out
crying and fled from the room.
"Poor child! What can be the matter with her?" said a fat matron who
bore the name of Simpkins, and had several children under nine years of
age in the house. "Aren't you a little severe on her, Miss Carlton?
Strikes me she don't love 'rithmetic--as my Georgie calls it--so much as
you seem to imagine."
Brenda laughed.
"I am teaching my dear little pupil a lesson," she said. "That is all.
I have a unique way of doing it, but it will be for her good in the
end."
Soon afterwards, the young lady and her two remaining pupils left the
dinner table and went up to their shabby bedroom, which they all shared
together at the top of the house. Nina was lying on her own bed with
her face turned to the wall. The moment Brenda came in she sat up and,
taking the account-book, flung it in the face of her governess.
"There! you horrid, odious thing!" she said. "I will never put down
another account--never--as long as I live! There--I won't, I won't, and
you can't make me!"
"I am afraid, most dear child," said Brenda, "I should not feel safe
otherwise. I might be accused of dishonesty by my clever little Nina
when I return to the dear old rectory and to the presence of your
sweetest papa. But come, now--let's be sensible; let's enjoy ourselves.
We will drive out to Castle Beverley to-morrow, of that I am
determined, even though it does cost five shillings. But we'll walk
back in the evening--that is, if they don't offer us a carriage; but I
have a kind of idea that I can even manage their extending their favour
to that amount. It is all-important, however, that we should arrive
looking fresh. Now, girls--this is a most important occasion, and how
are we to be dressed?"
Nina said that she didn't know and she didn't care. But Josie and
Fanchon were immensely interested.
"There are your muslin hats," said Brenda--"quite fresh and most
suitable; and your little blue check dresses. The check is very small,
and they really look most neat. They're not cotton, either--they're
`delaine.' Dearest papa will be delighted with them, won't he? He'll
be quite puzzled how to classify them, but I think we can teach him.
You three dressed all alike _will_ look _sweet_, and you may be thankful
to your dear Brenda for not allowing you to racket through your clothes
beforehand. Well, that is settled. You will look a very sweet little
trio, and if Nina is good, and runs up to her own Brenda now, and kisses
her, she needn't take the account-book to Castle Beverley. Just for one
day, she may resign her office as chartered accountant to this _yere_
company."
Brenda made her joke with a merry laugh and showed all her pearly teeth.
"Come, Nina," said Josie, who was in high good humour, "you must kiss
Brenda; you were horribly rude to her."
"Oh, I forgive her--poor little thing," said Brenda. "Little girls
don't like the rod, do they? but sometimes they have to bear it, haven't
they? Now then, you little thing, cheer up, and make friends. I have
found a delightful shop where we can have tea, bread and butter and
shrimps, and afterwards we'll sit on the beach--it's great fun, sitting
on the beach--and we'll see nearly all the fashionable folks."
The thought of shrimps and bread and butter for tea was too much for
Nina's greedy little soul. She did condescend to get off the hot bed
and kiss Brenda, who for her part was quite delightful, for the time
being. She even took the account-book and pencil, and said that they
should not be seen again until the day after to-morrow. Then she washed
Nina's flushed face, and made her wear the objectionable pink muslin
with the folds across the bottom in lieu of flounces, and that little
straw hat, which cost exactly one-and-sixpence, including its trimming.
Afterwards, they all went down on the beach, and presently they had tea.
Then, in good time, they came back to supper, and after that, the
delightful period of the day began for Fanchon, and the trying one for
her two sisters--for Fanchon was now regularly established as Brenda's
companion when she went out to enjoy herself after supper, and the two
younger girls, notwithstanding all their tears and protestations, were
ordered off to bed. It was odious to go to bed on these hot, long
evenings, but Brenda was most specious in her arguments, and Mrs Dawson
and Miss Price and Mrs Simpkins all agreed with the governess--that
there was nothing for young folks like early bed. Mrs Simpkins even
repeated that odious proverb for Nina's benefit, "Early to bed and early
to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise." In short, Brenda had
broken in her pupils to her own satisfaction; and when she had seen them
into their "nighties"--as she called those garments,--she and Fanchon,
dressed in their very best, went out on pleasure intent.
It was a pretty sight to see the elegant-looking young governess and her
somewhat _gauche_ pupil wander down to that part of the pier where the
band played; and it was truly edifying to perceive how Fanchon anxiously
copied Brenda on these occasions. She imitated her step, her walk, her
hand-shake--which was of the truly fashionable kind, stiff, and rising
high in the air. Fanchon's heart beat with pleasure when she perceived
how very much Brenda was admired, and, as Brenda could do anything with
her pupil by means of flattery, the young lady was by no means unhappy
about herself. On this special night--the night before the visit to
Beverley Castle--Fanchon felt even more delighted than usual, for she
was allowed, at the last moment, in the close little hall of the
boarding-house, to slip the precious, the most precious bangle on her
sunburnt wrist.
"I always said you should wear it," said Brenda, "and you shall
to-night."
Fanchon fairly trembled with happiness.
"It feels delightful," she said. "It's like a tonic, which gives me
tone. I don't think I should be afraid of anything if I could always
wear this."
"Some day you shall, if you remain faithful to your own Brenda."
"You know, Brenda, I would do anything for you."
"Well, it seems like it at present," said Brenda, "but of course I have
to think of the past. You were not so absolutely perfect on a certain
occasion not very long ago, were you, dearie?"
Fanchon coloured.
"Don't let's think of that now," she said. "If ever any one was
unjustly suspected, you were that person, Brenda. Oh, how Nina hates
herself for what she did! But aren't you rather over-punishing the poor
little thing?"
"I shall cease to punish her in a few days, but she must learn a lesson.
Now then--I should not be the least surprised if Harry Jordan was at
the band to-night. You know we saw him to-day, but we couldn't take
much notice with the other girls about. I have begged of him never to
speak to me when Josie and Nina are present, for I can't tell what a
child like Nina may be up to. But I rather fancy he'll be here on the
promenade this evening, and I asked him to bring a friend for you to
talk to, Fanchon; you don't mind, do you?"
"A friend!" cried Fanchon. "Oh--I hope you don't mean a man! I'd be
terrified out of my seven senses even to address a word to a man."
"Dear Fanchon," said Brenda, "you'll soon get over that. Well, here we
are--and I do declare if that isn't Harry himself coming to meet us,
and--yes--he's brought a very nice youth with him. Now, Fanchon, you
will have a pleasant time too. Not a word, _ever_, to your sisters, or
to dearest papa!"
"Oh, trust me," said Fanchon, holding her head high, and feeling that
she must survive the dreadful ordeal of talking to a man, whatever her
sensations.
Now Harry Jordan happened to be a sleek, fat youth of about twenty years
of age. He was well off, in fact he was doing a thriving trade in the
draper's business, but in a distant town. Brenda had not the least idea
what his business was. He told her vaguely that he was in business, and
she pictured him to herself as a merchant prince, and who in all the
world could be more honourable than one of the merchant princes of
England? But, be that as it may, she enjoyed Harry Jordan's admiration,
and if he were to like her well enough to ask her to marry him, why--she
would probably say yes, for it would be infinitely better than remaining
as governess at thirty pounds a year to Mr Amberley's little daughters.
Now, Harry was a youth who enjoyed a flirtation as much as anybody, and
as Brenda had hinted that they could not be perfectly free and happy if
Fanchon was listening, he brought a friend of his along--a certain Joe
Burbery--to engage the attentions of that young lady. Accordingly, the
four met, and Joe Burbery, a most sickly youth of seventeen, was
introduced to both ladies, and after Brenda had said one or two words to
him, quite enough to turn his head, he was deputed to his rightful place
by Fanchon's side, who racked her brains in her vain endeavour to say a
word to him at all, and would have figuratively stuck in the mud
altogether, but for his loud exclamation of delight when he saw her
bracelet.
"I _say_!" exclaimed the youth, "what an elegant article--is it real?"
"Real!" said Fanchon, facing him with her little eyes flashing. "It's
eighteen carat."
"Oh, is it?" said Joe. "I see. I never touched eighteen carat in my
life--more likely to be nine carat."
He winked hard at Fanchon as he spoke. Fanchon, in her rage, took the
bracelet off and asked him to examine the hall-mark under the next
lamp-post, which he accordingly proceeded to do. He discovered that she
was right and handed it back to her with great respect. "How did you
come by it?" was his next enquiry. "It is a present--I mustn't say how
I came by it."
"Eighteen carat gold,"--murmured Joe Burbery. "Eighteen carat, and a
very large and specially fine turquoise. Why, there's a thing
advertised for exactly like that. I remember it quite well; I saw it in
the _Standard_ and the _Morning Post_ and even in some of the local
papers here--a bangle just like this which was lost--supposed to be lost
in a railway carriage. How funny that you should have one which so
exactly answers to the description!"
"It is, isn't it?" said Fanchon, laughing with the utmost unsuspicion.
"Well," she continued, "I am glad mine isn't lost; I am frightfully
proud of it; I shall love it all my days; I don't mean ever to part from
it. Even if I get a very rich husband some day, and he gives me lots of
jewellery, I will always keep my beautiful bangle. Brenda says that it
is the sort you need never be ashamed of."
"It is that," admitted Joe. "So _she_ admires it--_she_ knows a good
thing when she sees it, doesn't she?"
"Oh, yes--she is very clever--"
"And a stunner herself, ain't she now?" said Joe Burbery.
"I suppose so," replied Fanchon, who did not feel interested in praises
of Brenda from the first young man who had come into her life. He ought
to be too much devoted to her and her most elegant bangle.
The walk came to an end presently. It was necessary in Mrs Dawson's
establishment for the young ladies to come in not later than half-past
ten, and at that hour the two girls appeared in the hall. Mrs Dawson
herself was waiting for them. As she proceeded to lock and chain the
front door, she also saw the flash of the bangle on Fanchon's wrist.
She immediately exclaimed at its beauty, and asked to have a nearer view
of it.
"Why, I say," she cried, "what a truly elegant thing! Does it belong to
you, Miss Amberley?"
"Yes," replied Fanchon. "It was given to me by a great friend."
Here she looked meaningly at Brenda.
"Come up to bed, Fanchon, do!" said Brenda. "You look dead tired and
won't appear at your best to-morrow at the Castle. Good-night, Mrs
Dawson." Mrs Dawson said nothing further, but she thought for a minute
or two and then went into her private sitting-room and opened a
_Standard_ of a few days old and read a certain advertisement in it
without any comment. After a time, she put the _Standard_ carefully
away and went up to her own room, for she had doubtless earned her
night's repose.
As they were going upstairs, Brenda said in a somewhat fretful voice:
"Fanchon--I do wish you would not let people think that _I_ gave you
that bangle."
"But why should you not let them think it?" asked the astonished girl.
"Well--of course people couldn't expect a governess like me to give you
such really expensive things."
"Oh--but they don't know what a darling you are," said Fanchon,
springing suddenly on Brenda with the sort of affection of a bear's cub,
and crushing that young lady's immaculate evening toilet.
Now, Brenda was decidedly cross because Harry Jordan had not been as
pointed as usual in his remarks, and she disliked--she could scarcely
tell why--the expression in Mrs Dawson's eyes when they had rested on
the bangle. She was, therefore, not at all prepared for Fanchon's rough
caress, nor for Fanchon's next words.
"I do wonder if you would be such a duck of a thing as to let me wear
the bangle at Castle Beverley to-morrow."
"Wear it there!" cried Brenda, real terror for a minute seizing her.
"Of course not--could anything be more unsuitable! You must appear at
Castle Beverley as the innocent little girl you are. You must not think
of jewellery. You mustn't allude to it, nor to your evening walks, nor
to anything we do when you and I are enjoying ourselves together. Come,
Fanchon, give me the bangle; I allowed you to wear it to-night as a
great treat; but I want to put it away."
Fanchon looked decidedly cross.
"I should _so_ like to wear it to-morrow," she said, "and I can't make
out why you won't let me. If it is my bangle, mayn't I wear it when I
like?"
"But it _isn't_ your bangle--at least at present, and it won't be yours
ever if you make a fuss. Come, Fanchon, do you want to quarrel with me?
and oh--I am so tired! My dear child, give it here--I will take it."
Brenda snatched the bangle from her pupil's wrist. "It would be such a
pity," she said, "if anything destroyed our fun--and any one could see
with half an eye that Mr Burbery was greatly struck with you. Harry
told me as much. Mr Burbery is going to be exceedingly rich some day;
he also is in the mercantile world: there's no other world worth
considering, I can tell you that, Fanchon."
"He knows a lot about bangles, anyhow," said Fanchon, "for he was
greatly struck with mine; indeed, I was thankful he was, for I couldn't
utter a word, and didn't know from Adam what to say until he began to
talk of it. And he said--oh, Brenda! that there is one advertised for
in all the papers just like mine. I told him I wasn't a bit surprised,
for mine was so very beautiful."
Brenda's heart sank down to her very boots. Her rosy, radiant face
turned white.
"There!" she exclaimed, "I see you are nothing whatever but a gossip. I
don't know when I will be able to let you have the bangle again. But
now let's come to bed, and let's tread softly--we can manage without a
light of course; it wouldn't do to wake Josephine and Nina."
So the girls slipped into the darkened, hot bedroom and presently got
into bed, Fanchon to sleep and dream of Joe Burbery and the lovely
bangle, and the sad pity it was that she could not display its charms
to-morrow--but Brenda to lie awake; fear--dull dreadful fear tapping at
her heart.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
A SCRUMPTIOUS DAY.
Notwithstanding that fear, however, on the following morning the pretty
governess looked gay enough. They were to have a delightful day; there
was no real danger; no one could prove in all the world that the bangle
was not her own, or at least, her pupil's. But she would not allow
Fanchon to wear it again. She must not be seen in it, that was plain.
As the horrid, odious thing was being advertised for, it was highly
dangerous that Fanchon should wear it. Brenda could not enough regret
her imprudence in having allowed her pupil to appear in it on the
previous night. But how could she guess that that uninteresting youth,
Joe Burbery, would have noticed it and seen the advertisement--the
advertisement! oh, how perfectly dreadful! Why did rich people bother
when they lost such a simple thing as a little gold bangle with a blue
stone in it? Why could not they allow poor folks to have their chances?
And Joe Burbery had seen--had seen--this horrible advertisement! Well,
of course that meant nothing at all. Brenda could not guess that a far
worse enemy in the shape of Mrs Dawson had also observed it. All she
could do at present was to lock the bangle carefully up in one of the
drawers of the humble little chest of drawers which the four had to
share between them in their horrible hot bedroom.
She whispered a word to Fanchon not to breathe the subject of the bangle
at the Castle, promising her as a reward that it should be hers
absolutely, all the sooner. She then proceeded to make a most careful
toilet herself and to superintend those of her pupils. She was really
anxious that the three little Amberleys should look their best on this
occasion. So she took their red hair out of the tight plaits in which
they generally wore it, and combed it out and caused it to ripple down
their backs.
This delighted Fanchon, and also Josephine, but Nina was greatly
bothered by the heat of her thick fleece of red hair and would have
infinitely preferred its being plaited tightly and tied with the old
brown ribbon which generally adorned it. Nevertheless, when Brenda
assured her that she was most elegant and altogether superior to most
girls in her appearance, she decided to endure the unwonted heat.
A carriage from the neighbouring livery stables was sent for, and the
three drove off in state to Castle Beverley, just in time to arrive on
the scene between twelve and one o'clock; and Mrs Dawson, Miss Price,
Mrs Simpkins, and all the little Simpkinses saw them off and wished
them well, and a happy day; and when the carriage had turned the corner,
Mrs Dawson was congratulated by the other ladies on her distinguished
visitors. Mrs Dawson, however, made few replies, for she was
considerably occupied with the thought of that advertisement and what it
meant, and how it was that a commonplace child like Fanchon Amberley
should wear so handsome a bangle.
"For my poor husband was in the jewellery line when he lived," thought
the widow to herself, "and I know the best gold and real good stones
when I see them."
Mrs Dawson's feelings, however, have little to do with the really
interesting events of this wonderful July day. The colour rose
becomingly into Brenda's cheeks as she thought of all that lay before
her, and when the hackney carriage drew up outside the Beverleys' house,
she stepped lightly to the ground, and her pupils, with extreme
awkwardness, followed her example. Josephine managed, in her exit from
the carriage, to tear her delaine frock, which was decidedly annoying;
but nothing else untoward occurred.
Honora was there and so was Penelope, and so were several other of the
girls; and they all swept Brenda and her little charges under their
wings. Honora saw that the torn flounce was immediately mended, and
then they went into the cool shady grounds. The three little Amberleys
were introduced to girls corresponding to themselves in age, and were
led away to enjoy several games. Fanchon for a time tried to observe
the grown-up manners which Brenda had endeavoured to instil. She could
not forget, either, that on the previous night she had worn a real gold
bangle, and talked to a real man--for seventeen years of age seemed very
old and grown-up to her fourteen summers.
But Josie and Nina had no intention of doing anything but enjoy
themselves. After the first few minutes of shyness, Nina complained
bitterly of the heat of her hair and said she wished Brenda had not
taken it out of its plaits.
"Why," asked little Nellie Hungerford--"don't you always wear it like
that down your back!"
"Oh, never," answered Nina. "It's screwed up into tight, tight plaits,
and tied with some sort of string at the end. That's how I like it,"
she answered. "I _am_ so hot with it falling all over my neck and
shoulders--I wish I could cut it off."
"Oh, no--it is so pretty," said Nellie. "I tell you what," she added,
"I'll plait it for you, if you like."
"Will you!" answered Nina, "I wish you would."
"All right--I'll do it right away, this very minute. And, Pauline
darling, you can run into the house for a piece of ribbon. What colour
do you want, Nina?"
"Oh, anything will do," said Nina--"a bit of grass, anything."
"Well, I tell you what," said Nellie; "we are a good way from the house
at present, and I have some string in my pocket, so we'll tie it with
that, and afterwards you shall have a piece of ribbon before we go down
to lunch."
So Nina's hot, red hair was very badly and unevenly plaited. It hung
rather crooked, much more to the left shoulder than to the right, and
the string was not becoming, but that did not matter at all to the
emancipated little girl.
When Nellie had plaited Nina's hair, she suggested that she should
perform the same office for the other two girls. Josie longed to
accept, but did not dare. Fanchon answered, "No, thank you, I prefer my
hair down until I can put it up properly. I long for the day when I can
put my hair up. Don't you?" she added, looking round at the little
group who were surveying her.
"Indeed, no," answered both the little Hungerfords. "We should hate to
be grown up. We love being children, don't we, Pauline?"
"Yes, yes," said Pauline. It was just then that her beautiful little
bangle with its ruby heart flashed in the sun. Fanchon noticed it; it
was so very like her own--so like, but with a marked difference. She
could not help saying:
"What a very pretty bangle you have got!"
"Yes--isn't it?" said Pauline, but she spoke in a low voice, and pulled
Fanchon a little aside. "Don't speak of it, please," she said. "I
often feel that I oughtn't to wear it."
"Do you, indeed?" said Fanchon, "I can't understand why. It looks most
elegant, and it gives such tone, doesn't it, now?"
"I don't know anything about that," said Pauline; "it is just a pretty
little ornament. Mother gave it to me."
"Well, I'm sure you ought to wear what your mother gave you. It must be
so sweet to get presents of that kind; why don't you like to?"
"I will tell you, if you'll not say anything about it, and at the same
time, when I tell you, I want you to promise me something."
Fanchon coloured with delight. Pauline belonged to the county, and
there was quite a subtle difference between her and Miss Fanchon
Amberley, which that young lady herself appreciated, struggled against,
and detested, all at the same time.
"Of course I won't tell," she said, "it is very nice of you to trust me.
Have you a secret? It seems to me that most people have."
"Oh dear, no; I haven't any secret in all the world," said Pauline. "I
wouldn't; it'd be too horrid."
"Then why mustn't I tell what you say?"
"Because it would hurt my darling Nellie?"
"Your sister?"
"Yes."
"And why ever would it hurt her? Is she jealous because you have got
something--something so very, very pretty, and so--so--`chic'?"
"I hate that word," said Pauline, restlessly. "Well, I'll just tell you
the reason. I tell you because perhaps you will beg your sisters not to
notice my bangle--I would so much rather they didn't. The reason is
this. Darlingest mother went to Paris not long ago and bought a bangle
for each of us, one with a red stone--this ruby you see--for me, and one
with the most lovely blue turquoise for Nellie, because Nellie's
birthday is in December, and that is the month for turquoises, and
people who are born in December have the right to wear turquoises. And
what do you think? Darling Nellie's bangle is lost. We can't imagine
what's become of it?"
"Is it being advertised in the paper?" asked Fanchon, opening her eyes
very wide.
"Yes, of course it is. Have you seen the advertisement?"
"No, I haven't, but I--I met a ma--a person last night and he--the
person, I mean--saw the advertisement and--and--told me. I am so sorry,
I hope you will get it back."
"No--I am afraid we never will. The advertisement has been out some
days now, and there has been no answer."
"Who do you think took it?" asked Fanchon.
"Oh, one of the railway officials--it's awful to think that those men
should be so dishonest, but we're certain it must be one of them, or, of
course it _might_ be a passenger in the train. Fred knows all about it.
Fred thinks it must have been a passenger, but mother thinks it was an
official. Anyhow, that doesn't greatly matter, does it? Some one is a
thief, and darling Nellie is without her bangle. I would much rather
not wear mine--I really would--but mother insists, and I _think_ she
will get another for Nellie some day--that is, if Nellie is brave and
doesn't mind too much. But the loss of it has quite told upon her, and
she isn't half as good as she used to be, that's why I don't want you to
speak of it."
"Oh, of course I won't. I am immensely interested," said Fanchon. "I
do hope they'll find it; I should think they'll be sure to. What was it
like, exactly? do you mind telling me?"
"Exactly like this; do you notice the beautiful carving all round the
gold? and the gold is the best that can be procured, and the stone was
exactly the size of my ruby. I am July, you know, so the ruby is my
stone. Well, well--we had better not say any more about it now--"
"I have a bangle of my own," suddenly said Fanchon.
"Have you?"
"Yes--but I mustn't tell you about it. I ought not even to have
mentioned that I have one. It was given to me by--by--a great friend.
I prize it dearly. I longed and longed to wear it to-day, but I was not
allowed."
"Who wouldn't let you wear it?" asked Pauline.
"My governess--Miss Carlton. She said that little girls didn't wear
jewellery. But you are younger than me, and you have your bangle on. I
do _wish_ Miss Carlton would have let me wear mine! It is--oh--I
_should_ like to describe it!"
Pauline looked at her attentively.
"Well," she said, "why don't you--that is, if you want to."
She was not really interested in Fanchon's bangle.
"I oughtn't to have said anything, even that I possessed it, and you
must promise that you won't mention it. I had no right to let it out--
no right at all; my--my friend would be so dreadfully angry--you will
promise you won't tell?"
"Of course I won't tell."
Pauline spoke in an offended, off-hand manner. She was not at all taken
with Fanchon.
"Come," she said, "I won't tell about your bangle, and you will ask your
sisters not to mention mine. Now we must join the others. They're
going to have a game I know, under the trees."
Fanchon followed her companion. She felt a queer sense of excitement,
but not the most remote suspicion of the real truth entered her mind.
Meanwhile Honora, who wished to do everything in her power to make her
visitors happy, arranged that Brenda and Penelope should be left quite
undisturbed together. Penelope was not too happy at this idea, but as
she could not possibly make any excuse for avoiding her dear Brenda, she
was obliged to submit to it.
"Why are we to be left all alone?" said Brenda, whose restless eyes had
roved over the entire company, and had evidently thought Penelope the
person least worth conversing with.
"It is Honora," replied Penelope at once. "She thinks that, as we are
sisters, we ought to be glad to have a little time together all by
ourselves. After lunch at one--we can join the others if you wish it."
"Of course I wish it," said Brenda. "I have nothing special to say to
you, Penelope; have you anything special to say to me?"
"No, nothing at all," said Penelope, a lump coming into her throat.
"Well, shall we join the others, then! There are such a lot of them
talking under that oak tree."
"It might look a little queer," said Penelope, "and lunch will be quite
soon. Let's walk about under these trees; we shall be quite in the
shade."
"Well--if we are to appear devoted sisters, let us play the part," said
Brenda, crossly. "After all," she added, after a moment's reflection,
"I am glad to have a few words with you, Pennie, for I want you to help
me all you possibly can."
"I can't do anything more, I really can't," said Penelope, her eyes
growing dark with alarm. "I got you that twenty pounds, and I don't
think I shall ever be happy again!"
"Oh--what a little goose you are! How you harp upon that trifle!--and
how far do you think twenty pounds will go in the case of a girl who
wants every single thing that a girl ought to have? I thought this
dress,"--Brenda looked at her spotted white muslin--"was really quite
`chic' until I saw Honora Beverley's. I must say I don't like Honora
Beverley--of course you won't whisper it, darling--but she always
manages to put me in the shade. On the day of your fete when I wore my
pale blue silk, her real Parisian lace made me look commonplace. And
now, to-day, her white muslin must have cost pounds more than mine. It
is disgusting to be trammelled like this, and I am sure I am fifty times
prettier."
"Don't, Brenda!" said Penelope, suddenly. As she spoke, she laid her
hand on her sister's arm.
"What do you mean by `don't'? Why do you look at me in that queer way?"
"Because I can't bear you to talk like that--what's the good of fighting
and struggling for the impossible? You are not born in Honora's rank of
life, and you can never aim at dressing like her. You look very--yes,
very--"
"You needn't say it!" said Brenda, her eyes flashing with passion. "I
know what you think of me--I saw it in your face when I came up. You
are ashamed of me! It's a nice thing for one sister to be ashamed of
another, and I do my best--my very best--and you know what I wanted that
money for--you know it quite well. I could cry, but it would spoil my
eyes, and my eyes are my best point I mustn't shed a tear, though tears
are choking me, and I could--oh--I could sob--at your treating me like
this, when you know, too--"
"What do I know, Brenda? Brenda, what have I done?"
"You show it all in your voice, and in your eyes, and in your manner--
you're bitterly ashamed of me!"
"I should be very simple in my dress, if I were in your place," said
Penelope, "that is all."
"What can be simpler in all the world than sprigged white muslin with
blue ribbons and a blue straw hat with blue bows to match? If I could
think for ever, I could not imagine anything simpler."
"But all the blue ribbons--there are such a lot of them, Brenda. With a
white hat, it would have been sweet. But, never mind--of course you're
very pretty."
"Thank you for nothing, my dear--I don't owe my face to you, and I
wouldn't change it for yours, I can tell you."
"But tell me what you mean, for indeed, indeed I would help you, in the
right way, all I could."
"I hate that solemn, sanctimonious manner in which you are getting to
speak. You used to be such a nice, loving little thing, and for _you_
to reproach me for asking you to struggle to get me a miserable twenty
pounds--why, you know I told you that I hoped to be engaged soon. If
that comes off--and I see every likelihood of it, for he is very
_empresse_--I shall have as many jewels and dresses and furbelows as
your precious Honora, and perhaps more. And I'll be able to help you,
so you'd better not cast me aside."
"Am I casting you off, Brenda? This is only my second day at Castle
Beverley, and you and your pupils are spending it here."
"Yes, I know that, and I suppose I ought not to complain. But the fact
is, it does make me cross to see the difference between this place and
the horrid den in which I have to live at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. I
shall get Harry--his name is Harry, but you mustn't breathe it--to buy a
castle like this for me to live in when I am married. He can well
afford it, for he is a--"
"Is his name Harry?" asked Penelope, impressed by what seemed to her the
romance of a real love story.
"Yes--I told you so."
"And his surname?"
"I had better not breathe that yet. You mustn't know him really until
we are properly engaged. He is exceedingly good-looking, of the blond
type. He is--oh--somebody who will probably be a baronet. They make
very rich City magnates--I think they are called--baronets now, and I
shall be Lady--oh, I mustn't breathe the name. But listen; I want him
to come to the point."
"Why--hasn't he asked you yet?" exclaimed Penelope.
"Hush, child! don't talk so loud! What an indelicate way you have of
approaching the subject; you take the bloom off it--you really do. But
you know, notwithstanding his enormous wealth, he has lofty ideas, and
would be greatly impressed if he thought I was thick with the people
here; so I want you to have me asked very often. And there's another
thing; I should so like you to have us sent back in one of the carriages
this evening."
"Oh, Brenda! Didn't you desire the carriage you came in to call for
you?"
"Of course I didn't--you horrid little thing! Do you suppose I can run
to the expense? Really, Penelope, you are too trying. I didn't desire
the carriage to call--certainly not. If these grand people will see
their humble visitors walking back to Marshlands in the heat of a
summer's evening, why, they must--that's all. I should have thought
that my sister could have managed differently."
"I can't--I can't," said Penelope. "I hate asking favours. They're
so--just more than--kind. Couldn't we send a message to Marshlands? I
am sure a servant will be going in after lunch and I--I--would pay--I've
got a few shillings."
But this idea did not at all suit Brenda.
"No," she said stoutly. "Nothing will induce me to take your money. If
we're not driven in, in one of the Beverley carriages--we'll walk--we'll
arrive dusty and worn out, and wretched at Mrs Dawson's--that is our
landlady's odious name. But what I really desire is to have one of the
Beverley carriages, and for--for my Harry to see me in it. I do think
it would have a most excellent effect on him; he is so wonderfully
impressed by real style--I never knew anything like it."
"Well," said Penelope, "I really don't know how it is to be done.
There's the gong for lunch. Shall we go into the house!"
Neither girl looked too happy during this meal; but Brenda contrived to
get herself placed at table as far as possible from Penelope and as near
to Fred as she could. She joked and laughed with Fred Hungerford, and
he thought her a very pretty girl indeed. After lunch, however, he and
his brother were obliged to go to Marshlands to see some friends. He
mentioned this fact with regret to Brenda, who had hoped that he was
going to be her partner in a game of tennis.
"I can't," he said--"it is a long engagement, and I can't break it. I
should like to awfully; but of course you'll come another day; I know my
aunt will be delighted to ask you. We're so glad to have your sister
with us--we think she is such a very nice girl."
"So she is--a sweet girl--a noble girl," said Brenda. She looked
thoughtfully round her: there was no one exactly in sight.
"I made such an idiotic mistake this morning," she said. "I wonder--if
you would help me--I scarcely know how to manage."
"Why--what did you do? and what can I do for you! I am sure I shall be
quite pleased."
"I forgot to desire the cab from town to return for us. Would you--or
could you--send a message to the livery stables to tell them to come
here at--oh, I don't know what hour we're expected to leave."
"Not until dark--I'm certain, and of course you must have one of the
carriages here. Wait a minute, and I'll speak to my uncle."
Young Hungerford crossed the hall. He met the squire, and said a few
words to him. The squire slightly raised his brows.
"She ought not to have done it," he said. "I don't much admire that
young lady; but of course, Fred, we'll see her home--you just tell her
so. And now get off, my dear lad, and enjoy yourself. The Calverts
expect you and Jim quite early."
"I'll just mention it to Miss Carlton--it'll relieve her, poor thing,"
said the young fellow. "She only forgot, you know."
"Not a bit of it," muttered the squire.
But Fred did not hear this remark, and, going back to Brenda, he set her
mind at rest on the subject of the carriage.
"It is all right," he said. "And now I must be off, really. There is
Pauline. Pauline, come along here. Will you take Miss Carlton out to
the others?"
"Please, will you come?" said Pauline.
She did not look too pleased. Brenda was quick to recognise the fact,
and, as the boys had all dispersed, she did not find the rest of the day
so agreeable as she had hoped, although the girls did their very utmost
for their visitors. The little Amberleys were really enjoying
themselves. Even Fanchon forgot that she was anything but a small and
ignorant girl. She shrieked with laughter when Josie did, and as to
Nina, she romped round and round wildly with her red hair in its crooked
plait and still tied at the end by the piece of string; for all the
children had forgotten the piece of ribbon which was to have graced it
at lunch. Brenda almost cried when she saw her pupil. Her first
impulse was to call the child to her side, but she restrained herself.
She was in too bad humour to care. Nothing that could be done would
ever make the Amberleys look the least like the Hungerfords or the
Beverleys, or the Beverleys' friends. There was Mary L'Estrange, with
her interesting face, and there was Cara Burt, who looked both haughty
and distinguished. Even she herself was nobody in the midst of this
group.
But the strange thing was that Penelope, whom no one took any trouble
about, whose dress was of the very plainest imaginable, seemed quite at
her ease and was perfectly friendly with all the other girls.
"But she's such a plain little thing," thought Brenda. "Of course she
is wonderfully fair, but then she has no colour anywhere, nor any
distinguished touches, and that white linen drew doesn't suit her one
bit. But all the same, she looks as I don't look--I wish I could make
it out--I hate being in this place, and yet, I must make myself
agreeable, for I want them to ask me again and again."
The long day came to an end, as the longest, brightest days will. There
was early supper for the children, who did not partake of late dinner
with their elders. This fact alone somewhat offended Brenda, who
thought that there might have been an exception made in her favour; and
after supper, when it was really cool and delightful, Honora came up to
the young lady's side and asked her what hour she would like the
wagonette to come round.
"It is our small wagonette, but it'll hold you four nicely," she said.
"Father tells me that you forgot to order your carriage to return, and
of course we are delighted to send you back to Marshlands."
"I should like your carriage at any time that suits yourself," replied
Brenda.
"Will eight o'clock do?" asked Honora.
Brenda made a careful calculation. Harry would probably be going on the
Esplanade about eight or soon after. She was quite determined that the
coachman should drive them round in that direction. She meant the
coachman to draw up in order that she might speak to Harry. That, at
least, she might achieve at the end of her long and unsatisfactory day.
So she said, in a meek voice, that she was very, very sorry to trouble
the Beverleys, that it was very stupid of her to forget to order her own
carriage to return, that her poor little head did often ache so badly
with the care of her pupils--and so on, and so on, until Honora wondered
when her regrets would end.
"It doesn't matter at all," she said, in her pleasant, well-bred voice;
"we are delighted to send you back, of course, and I hope you have
enjoyed your day."
"Yes, thank you so much: your home is so delightful--so different from
most places where I have the misfortune to live. And then to see my
darling sister so perfectly happy--I am greatly obliged. I hope," she
added suddenly, "that you will permit Penelope to come to see us some
day at Marshlands. We shan't have much to offer her, but just a hearty
welcome and the love of her sister."
"You had best come out here again; it would be fifty times better," said
Honora. "However, you will let us know; and now I'll just run and
desire them to bring the wagonette round. Why, it's five minutes to
eight."
Honora ran immediately out of the room and Penelope came in.
"Well, Pen--I've got my way. I managed the carriage, you see, although
you, strange, callous little thing, would not ask for it for me. But I
have a champion in that handsome Fred Hungerford, and I've been
practically asked here again. But now, look here--you must help me
whether you like it or not. Listen. I shall write to you in a day or
two asking you to come to spend the day at Palliser Gardens, where we
put up. You'll just know what it is if you spend one day with us.
You'll know what it is to be stuffy and hot, and to have horrid food,
and you'll see our miserable attic bedroom where we sleep all four
together. You dare not refuse: you wouldn't be quite so mean as that;
and after you've come to us, and have got back again, you've got to make
the worst of it; and then I'll ask you again, and when I ask you the
second time, you've to see that we come here instead. Well, I think
that is all. You know your duty. Whether you are ashamed of me or not,
I am your only sister. Oh, here come my little charges: what frights,
to be sure! Nina, _do_ put your hat on straight and let me take that
string from your hair--you utterly ridiculous child!"
Brenda pulled Nina with great firmness towards her, unplaited the shaggy
mane, and let it fall once more over the child's shoulders. Then the
wagonette was heard approaching and Mrs Beverley said good-night to her
visitors, and all the children of the Castle clustered around. Just at
the last instant, Fanchon flew up to Pauline and whispered in her ear:
"I _should_ like to describe my bangle to you, but I--I just--dare not.
But thank you for having given us all such a scrumptious day!"
They got into the wagonette. The carriage rolled down the avenue and
Brenda immediately enquired of Fanchon what secrets she had been pouring
into little Miss Hungerford's ears.
"Oh, something that concerns--a--a friend of mine," said Fanchon,
looking wicked and mysterious; and Brenda suddenly remembered the bangle
and felt crosser than ever. But, after all, she had her consolation,
for the band was playing its very best as they passed the Esplanade, and
there was Harry standing talking and smoking with some other men.
Brenda immediately pulled the check string and beckoned him. He came
forward in delight and confusion.
"I shall be too tired to see you this evening, Mr Jordan," said Brenda.
"Drive on please, coachman. We have been having a delightful day," she
called out, as the man took her at her word, "at Castle Beverley."
"She _is_ a stunner!" said Joe Burbery to his friend. "And what swells
she knows! I say, old man, I have seldom seen such a ripping girl!"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
GATHERING CLOUDS.
Mrs Dawson was seated with that copy of the _Standard_ which contained
the advertisement for the gold bangle open on her knee. She had read
the advertisement not only once, but twice. There was a reward offered
for the recovery of the trinket of no less than three guineas. That
seemed a very large sum of money to honest Mrs Dawson. She thought how
acceptable it would be, and wished that the lost trinket might come in
her way.
While she was ruminating, without quite knowing whether she would take
any active steps, Jane, one of the house servants, entered and said that
a lady wanted to know if there was a vacant room in the house.
"Oh, tell her there isn't," said Mrs Dawson rather crossly. "There's
nothing whatever except the back attic--the one just behind the large
attic where Miss Carlton and the three Miss Amberleys sleep. We
couldn't put any one there, it's so choky and hot these sultry days."
Jane departed, but presently returned with the information that the lady
did not mind what the room was like in the least and would be very glad
to see the back attic.
"I don't know that I want to let it," said Mrs Dawson. "We're chock
full now and you and Mary Anne are worked off your legs."
"That we are, ma'am; but we don't mind if you should wish to fill the
room," answered the good-natured girl. "It's the season, and every one
should have their innings. She seems an easy-satisfied sort of body--a
Frenchy, I should take it, from her style of talk."
Here there came a clear, piercing voice at the very door of Mrs
Dawson's private sitting-room. This sitting-room was the smallest
apartment imaginable. It faced west too, and was hot at the present
moment with the afternoon sun.
"_Pardonnez--pardonnez_" said the voice; "I do so want that
_appartement_ that your _domestique_ did mention. I mind not the heat--
oh, not in the very least. I am from _la belle France_, where the days
are hotter than your English days, and the sun more bright, and the
world more gay."
Here Mademoiselle boldly entered the room and came up to Mrs Dawson.
"I am a poor Frenchwoman, out for a little recreation. My funds are of
the most _petits_, and I am satisfied with the very least that can
content any mortal. May I see the _appartement_ so minute, and judge
for myself if it will suffice?"
Mrs Dawson eyed the visitor with scant favour. She disliked foreigners
with all an Englishwoman's prejudice, and wondered how Miss Price, and
in particular Mrs Simpkins--who had the best rooms in the house, owing
to the needs of her large family--would like to associate with the
"Frenchy." She was, therefore, distinctly cold.
"I told my servant to tell you, Mademoiselle,"--Mrs Dawson's lips
quivered over the name; she had not pronounced it for many a long
day--"that my house was full."
"But not replete," said Mademoiselle with avidity. "She did let out,
that faithful one, that there was one _appartement triste_ in your
beautiful villa. I feel that I should be at home here. It is wonderful
when we feel that drawing of the heart towards certain of our
fellow-creatures. I should love to be a member of your little family.
I should make myself _tres-agreable_: I should converse in the broken
English which makes your folk laugh. We of the French tongue never
laugh at your mistakes when you try to copy us. But I mind not that. I
like you to laugh. May I see the chamber and decide for myself?"
"Well, if you are satisfied," said Mrs Dawson, "I of course want to
make as much money as I can. The room is at the very top of the house,
and I have stowed away one or two boxes just under the roof. I hardly
ever let it because it faces due west and the slates get so hot people
complain that they can't sleep in it of nights. It's next door, also,
to a large attic where three young ladies and their governess sleep.
You mayn't even find quiet in the little room."
"I mind not," said Mademoiselle, "I am accustomed to the vagaries of the
youthful. I am indeed a teacher from that most distinguished school,
Hazlitt Chase. My dear pupil, Penelope Carlton, and I, came to
Marshlands two nights ago, she to visit my dear and most beloved pupil,
Miss Honora Beverley, and I to search for a meagre _appartement_ in the
cheapest part of your gay and sparkling town. I find not what I want.
I roam abroad to-day to seek for fresh quarters. I see your house so
cool, so chaste, so--if I may use the word--refined. I say to myself--
here is a home, here is a rest: I mind not the hot attic, for by day, at
least, I shall be happy."
"Oh, if you know Miss Beverley, that makes all the difference," said
Mrs Dawson. Her manner changed on the spot. "It is strange," she
continued, "that you should come from the school where Miss Beverley is
being educated, and it is still stranger that the sister of one of your
pupils should be at the present moment occupying the room next to the
west attic. She is an exceedingly pretty young lady, and remarkably
well off. She's a governess to three little pupils, and they're well
supplied with not only the necessaries, but the luxuries of life. Even
jewellery of the best sort isn't denied them. But there--what a
chatterbox I am! Jane, take this lady up to the western attic, and let
her decide whether she will be satisfied to sleep there." Jane and the
voluble Mademoiselle climbed the weary stairs up to the attic which, at
the present moment, must have registered ninety degrees in the shade.
Even Mademoiselle gasped a trifle as she entered the tiny room; but she
was too glad to be in the same house with Brenda Carlton not to put up
with some personal discomforts. She, accordingly, decided to engage the
apartment; told Jane that her luggage of the most modest would arrive
within an hour and went down to interview Mrs Dawson.
"You do deprecate yourself, dear Madame," she said. "Your room you so
despise is to me a haven of rest. It is doubtless what might be called
hot, but what of that? It belongs to a home, and I _shall_--I feel it--
be happy under your roof."
"My terms," said Mrs Dawson, "are--"
Mademoiselle puckered her brows with anxiety. "You would not be hard on
a poor French governess," she said. "She would make herself
_tres-agreable_: she would tell stories of the most witty at your dinner
table: she would make your visitors laugh and laugh again. She would
instruct you in that cooking of _la belle France_ which you English know
so little about. She would offer herself to market for you in the land
of these broiling July days. You will not be hard on one at once so
poor and so useful."
"I charge the ladies in the front attic a guinea a week each," said Mrs
Dawson.
"But that chamber is _magnifique_!" cried Mademoiselle. "I asked your
most delightful Jane to show it to me, and I was struck by its size and
the beautiful draught that blew through it. Indeed, it is cheap--very
cheap--to live in such a room in the very height of the season for so
small a sum. But the western attic, Madame, you will not charge the
poor lonely foreigner as much for the western attic?"
After considerable chaffering on both sides, Mrs Dawson decided that
she would give Mademoiselle the stifling western attic for eighteen and
sixpence per week. This sum, of course, was to include her board. The
French teacher considered matters carefully for a minute, then said with
a smile:
"Ah, well! I must perforce agree. It is large--it is ruinous! But
what shall I do? Where there is no choice, one must put up with the
inevitable. I will do for you, Madame, all that I would have done had
you taken this lonely one for twelve or fifteen shillings a week. I
will still entertain your visitors, and teach you the recipes of my own
land, and go errands for you and make myself, in truth, your valued
friend."
"Thank you, very much," said Mrs Dawson, "but it isn't my habit to
trouble my visitors. Of course I always value a pleasant person at
table, but otherwise I do my own housekeeping and I go my own messages."
"Ah--Madame! you know me not yet. You will yet esteem my services.
What a delicious cool _appartement_ is your own!"
The room was steaming hot, and poor Mrs Dawson's face testified to the
fact. Mademoiselle, however, was in the best of humours. She hurried
away to fetch her luggage--that small packet which she had carried in
one hand while she dragged Pauline Hungerford along the platform with
the other; and she had sat down and made herself quite one of the family
by the time supper was announced.
During supper, she caused the entire company to convulse with laughter.
She told one funny story after another, entreating them to laugh their
hearts full and not to mind her poor English, which she would speak
better if she knew how. In short, she was established as a most
agreeable addition to Number 9, Palliser Gardens by the time the
Beverleys' wagonette drew up at the door with the three little Amberleys
and Brenda Carlton ensconced within.
As the ladies had gone out to see Miss Carlton off, so did the ladies
once more reassemble to witness Miss Carlton's return. She was certain
that she would feel to her dying day that she had achieved this, at
least, with flying colours. The very look of the coachman on the box
and of the footman as he flung open the door and helped the three
awkward girls to descend, had such a paralysing effect upon the members
of Mrs Dawson's boarding-house, that they were all silent for a moment.
"That will do," said Brenda, as she shook out her white skirts on the
steps.
Then the coachman turned homewards, and after that, all tongues were
loosened. Brenda was almost carried into the house by the other
boarders.
"Come straight into the drawing-room," said Miss Price, "and tell us all
about it. Oh, by the way, may I introduce you to a most charming
addition to our circle, Mademoiselle d'Etienne. Mademoiselle arrived
to-day. Mademoiselle, this is Miss Brenda Carlton."
"I have the so great pleasure to know your sister," said Mademoiselle,
in a small, distinct voice, fixing her black eyes on Brenda's face.
"You know Penelope?" cried Brenda.
"I have the so immense honour to educate that fascinating young lady in
that elegant tongue of my beloved France. She is an obedient pupil and
does to me credit."
Brenda felt confused, interested, and on the whole pleased. They all
entered the drawing-room, the three girls dead tired with their day and,
consequently, very cross; Brenda was more or less cross also, but
gratified to find there was such a fuss being made about her.
Mademoiselle was cool, ugly, but nevertheless charming looking. What
was there about her French dress and French manner which lifted her
altogether into a different world from her dowdy English neighbours?
She was in black too--black from head to foot; but her black dress
fitted her like a glove and her hair was most becomingly arranged. In
short, she looked finished. Mrs Simpkins looked the reverse of
finished, for she had just had a scuffle with her eldest baby in which
the baby had been distinctly victorious; and Miss Price was hot and
untidy, cross with the weather, but, nevertheless, ready to welcome the
gossip that Brenda might treat them to.
"Oh, you poor childrens!" said Mademoiselle. "Miss Carlton will you not
send these _petites_ to their rest--they look so _fatiguees_. They want
the repose so essential to the youth. What sweet childrens! I know I
shall adore them all. But go, my little ones. Mademoiselle, you
permit? Yes--go at once to your needed rest."
"Yes, children; do run upstairs," said Brenda. "Fanchon, you must go
with the rest; we're not going out this evening."
"Oh, you've said that already!" remarked Fanchon in a rude voice, "and
you've let the cat out of the bag too!" she continued, a venomous
expression coming into her face; for the younger girls were not supposed
to know anything of the existence of Harry Jordan.
"_What_ cat out of _what_ bag?" asked Mademoiselle. "I do so _adore_
cats in bags--what mean you, _mon enfant_--your words thrill me--what
cat out of what bag?"
"Hold your tongue, Fanchon, and go to bed!" said Brenda.
"Obey your governess, my dear," said Mrs Simpkins. "You're dead tired:
creep upstairs, all three of you, and don't, for the life of you, wake
my Georgie, for he's that fractious--enough to madden a body."
The girls had to depart, and then Miss Price went up to Mrs Dawson and
whispered something in her ear, the result of which was that Mrs Dawson
went to the door and called Jane. She gave her hurried directions and,
by-and-by, what should appear in the little drawing-room but delicious
ices which had hastily been fetched from a neighbouring confectioner's,
and which Miss Price meant to pay for. Mademoiselle declared that she
fairly gloated on the ices made in Angleterre; even Brenda was soothed
by a really good strawberry ice, and, as there was one apiece, all the
ladies congregated round and ate their dainties with deliberation.
"Now tell me about the Castle, do," said Miss Price. "Is it as grand as
they make out, or do they exaggerate?"
"Of course they exaggerate," said Mrs Simpkins. "Folks of that kind
always do."
"But no," cried Mademoiselle, "that is _imposseeble_ to exaggerate the
so great glories of Castle Beverley! It cannot be done. I have heard
it described, and I was ravished with what I was told."
"I have been there," said Brenda. "I have spent the day; my sister is a
special friend of Miss Beverley."
"Not so very special," whispered Mademoiselle, something like a little
snake at that moment, in Brenda's ear. Brenda turned and looked full at
her. Their eyes met. It seemed at that instant that these two--the
young girl and the experienced woman--crossed swords, and that Brenda
got the worst of the encounter. There was a pause for a minute. Then
she said, quietly:
"I don't know with regard to the depth of the friendship, but I only
know that my sweet sister Penelope is staying at the Castle, and that it
is--oh, well--a very nice sort of place. I _could_ imagine more
beautiful places."
"Windsor Castle, perhaps," whispered Mademoiselle, at which remark Miss
Price tittered audibly.
"But tell us, dear," said Mrs Simpkins. "I have been thinking all day
about it. I assure you that the thought of your return has kept me up
although the heat is fearful, and Georgie is so cross, and little Peter
cutting another tooth--oh dear! Of course I love my children, but
sometimes they seem to do things just to spite you; for the doctor told
me flat that Peter's eye-teeth would not be due for another two months,
and I made certain that we'd have our seaside holiday over before he
began on it. The aggravation of eye-teeth is almost past bearing. I
often say if a woman can live through the eye-teeth of her children,
she'll live through anything. But there--I am digressing. Go on, Miss
Carlton, do."
"What did you have to eat?" said Mrs Dawson. "Was there anything that
specially took your fancy?"
"Ah, yes--tell us that!" cried Mademoiselle, "for I could copy it for
these dear, most select and amiable ladies. I should so love to give
them the benefit of my French experience."
"I don't know what we had to eat," said Brenda. "Perhaps Nina could
tell you to-morrow--she is our greedy one."
"Poor little thing!" said Mrs Simpkins. "You've let her off her
accounts, I see, and that's a blessing. Now, Miss Carlton, you won't
take it amiss, but if you will allow a motherly body like myself to
speak, you won't be too harsh with that poor child. She's a good child,
and means well; and why in the name of goodness she should be pestered
with that account-book and pencil at all hours of the day beats me."
"Is this what would be so called a secret?" asked Mademoiselle, "for, if
so, I will--to speak in the figurative way--stop up my ears."
"Oh, no," said Brenda, "it is nothing: I am teaching my youngest pupil a
lesson, and these ladies--even dear Mrs Simpkins--fail to understand."
"Ah--how I you do admire!" said Mademoiselle. "I also have my methods.
We, dear Miss Carlton, will have much in common. We will talk together
of our pupils and our wrongs."
"For my part, I am getting sleepy," said Miss Price, "and the
conversation is not nearly so interesting as I hoped it would have
been."
She looked regretfully at the empty ice plates and thought of the bill
she would have to pay at Jones' on the morrow.
"But what did you suppose I would have to talk about?" asked Brenda,
putting the last morsel of delicious strawberry ice into her mouth as
she spoke.
"Oh, I'm sure I can't tell. I had a sort of vision of a delightful
time--I thought you'd begin at the very beginning, as they pay in the
story books, and tell us of everything--what he said to her, you know,
and what she said to him, and how they were all dressed--"
"And a good lot about the food," interrupted Mrs Simpkins. "I'm great
on nice food myself, and it's delightful to think that a good-natured
French body has come to stay here--"
"I will make you," interrupted Mademoiselle, "of the _salade_ the most
enjoyable with a taste of mayonnaise, that cannot be compounded except
by a person born in _la belle France_."
"You mustn't let Georgie see it, then," said Mrs Simpkins, "for if he
swallows even a morsel of anything Frenchy, he'll be done for!"
"I could fancy it myself," said Miss Price. "I am very much obliged
indeed to Mademoiselle for thinking of making us a proper French salad."
"And so am I, although you oughtn't to trouble yourself," said Mrs
Dawson, who began to perceive that Mademoiselle might be exceedingly
useful to her.
"Well, ladies," said Brenda, rising, "I think I will go to bed. I am a
little tired to-night, for we have been out so much. It was sweet of
you, Miss Price, to give us those delicious ices. I have never enjoyed
anything better. Doubtless, to-morrow, when I am refreshed, I shall
have numerous little anecdotes to tell each of you in turn, but not
before the children. It is so bad for children, too, to hear their
friends gossiped about."
"I agree with them sentiments," said Mrs Simpkins. "I wouldn't have
Georgie listen to the tell-tales between me and Maria--that's my maid at
home--for all the world. Why, he'd have it out to his pa at his next
meal for certain."
"I'll tell you each in confidence," said Brenda, "and," she added, "I
daresay there'll be plenty of fresh news for the future, for I expect to
go constantly to Castle Beverley, and my sister is coming to spend the
day with me soon."
"Not Penelope, my most adored one!" cried Mademoiselle. "Do you say,
dear Miss Carlton, that I am to see my sweetest pupil so soon?"
"I don't know the exact day," said Brenda, "but you will see her if you
happen to stay here."
"Stay here?" said Miss Price. "Of course we trust Mademoiselle will
stay! It is delightful to have a real Frenchwoman in the house."
"I said this place was home," said Mademoiselle, raising her eyes
ceilingward.
Brenda went up to her room. There she found all the girls already
disposed of in their separate beds. To her relief, they were all, even
Fanchon, sound asleep. She sat down for a short time by the open window
and thought over matters. She did not altogether like the turn of
events. Try as she would, she felt that she would never be anything but
a nobody at Castle Beverley. More anxious than ever was she to secure
Harry Jordan as her affianced husband. She had a shrewd guess as to his
sort of character, and wondered what impression she would make on him
when they met the following evening. Poor Brenda went to sleep fairly
happy, on the whole, that night, little guessing what a very active
disturber to her peace Mademoiselle d'Etienne would prove herself to be.
The next day broke, as usual, with cloudless splendour. The different
ladies went out Brenda strolled abroad with her pupils. She found a
shady place under a cliff, and sat there to rest, and looked around her.
Meanwhile, Mademoiselle devoted herself to Mrs Dawson. She insisted on
going shopping, if not for her, yet with her. And Mademoiselle had an
eye for a bargain which even that astute Englishwoman, Mrs Dawson,
could never hope to possess. Why, those tomatoes which she purchased
for almost nothing would never have been observed at all by the good
lady, and then those little crabs which were going for a few pence (Mrs
Dawson, as a rule, never purchased small crabs, but Mademoiselle begged
of her, on this occasion, to do so) were soon disposed of in the worthy
woman's basket; and lettuces, with other tempting fresh vegetables, were
secured. Mademoiselle implored of Mrs Dawson to let her arrange the
supper table that night.
"You have bought but little," she said; "nevertheless, it is enough. I
will surprise the good, the dear ladies of your charming family with the
French supper which I will prepare."
"But Mary Anne will never stand it," objected Mrs Dawson.
"Is she your cook?"
"Yes, and a very good one too--I pay her a lot of wages."
"Never mind: I will counsel her, and I will talk with her: I will get
her to think that she herself has made the _souffle_ and the _omelette_
and the tomato soup and the delectable preparation of crabs. She will
know it not, except as her own handiwork, and I will be your cook."
"It is too much to expect of you," said Mrs Dawson, really won over by
her paying guest's extraordinary kindness.
"Have I found a home--and am I ungrateful?" was Mademoiselle's response.
The result of this was that the two ladies came back the most excellent
friends, and sat together until early dinner in that stifling little
parlour. In that small room Mademoiselle got a good deal of information
with regard to Brenda, whom she was interested in for more reasons than
one, and also saw the advertisement for the lost bracelet with her own
eyes. She read it over carefully and her black eyes glittered with
excitement.
"It is a reward _magnifique_!" she said.
"I wish I could find it," said Mrs Dawson.
"If we were both to find it, _chere amie_," said the Frenchwoman, "we
might divide the so great profits."
"But we never can," said Mrs Dawson. Then she added, after a minute's
pause, "All the same, I'd like to say something."
"And what is that?" asked Mademoiselle.
"You mustn't breathe it, please. You're quite a stranger to me, but
coming from Hazlitt Chase, and knowing Miss Beverley, I suppose you're
to be trusted." Mademoiselle laid her hand dramatically on her very fat
chest.
"I suppose so," she replied.
"And I must confide in some one, for the thing seems to burn a sort of
hole in me."
"My good, dear, delightful friend," said the Frenchwoman, "don't let the
secret prey on you in that fashion, for it will undermine your so
precious health. Confide it to one who is ardent to help you, who has
for you already the affection the most profound."
"It is nothing, of course," said Mrs Dawson, "and you will promise not
to tell."
"I have promised."
Again the hand was laid over the region of the heart.
"Well, then,--it is just this. I know a good jewel when I see it, for
my poor husband, the late Dawson, was in the jewellery line, and he
taught me to know at a glance the difference between poor gold and good
gold, and imitation stones and real ones; and if you will believe me,
Mademoiselle d'Etienne, that little minx of a Fanchon Amberley came into
the house the other evening with a bangle on her arm which for all the
world might have been this,"--here she pointed to the _Standard_. "That
bangle might have meant three guineas in my pocket, for it was eighteen
carat gold as I am alive, and the turquoise in it was the most beautiful
I ever saw."
Mademoiselle's dark face flushed and then paled; but she did not stir or
show any other sign of special interest. After a minute, she said
gently:
"There are so many bangles now-a-days, and they are all more or less
alike."
"Of course Miss Fanchon--"
"Ridiculous to call an English girl by one of our names--"
"Had it of her own--she said a friend gave it to her, but she was very
mysterious about it."
"I'd like to see it," said Mademoiselle.
"And so would I," said Mrs Dawson.
"I'd like to see it for a reason," said Mademoiselle. "Mademoiselle
d'Etienne, you don't mean--"
"I don't know that I mean anything, but if I saw it, I'd know once for
all."
"What would you know?"
"I tell you what, Mrs Dawson. I have examined the bracelet that little
Pauline Hungerford--one of my adorable pupils--has worn, which she got
on the day of the break-up. I took it in my hand, and she allowed me to
examine it, and I know the other was exactly the same except for the
difference in the stones. I should like to see the bracelet that the
young lady who ought not to possess bangles, wears."
"I don't believe you will: there's something about that governess which
makes me think her a deep one--I can't be certain, but I have my
suspicions--and she seemed distressed, I don't know why, when I noticed
the bangle on Miss Fanchon's arm."
"Leave the matter to me," said Mademoiselle. "This interests me; but I
must be calm. You and I, dear Madame, are true friends, are we not?"
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
THE LOCKED DRAWER.
Brenda was looking eagerly forward to the evening. A great deal would
depend on the evening, for then she would see Harry Jordan again, and
find out whether he was impressed or not. She had already perceived in
that charming youth a passion for greatness--a snobbish devotion to the
great ones of this world. She had wondered within herself why he cared
so much for people with "handles," as he expressed it, to their names.
If he was as rich as he described himself, surely these things scarcely
mattered to him.
Well, she at least was gently born, and had friends in the class which
he so coveted to know. She was very, very pretty, and he had almost
told her that he loved her.
"Fanchon," said the governess to her eldest pupil that day, "we'll go
out by ourselves after supper to-night and walk on the promenade and
listen to the band. The two younger children must go to bed immediately
after supper; I must insist on that; Mrs Simpkins always helps me with
regard to that. She thinks it is good for children to put them early to
bed. But for that one redeeming trait in her character, I should detest
the woman."
"Oh, every one in the house is detestable!" said Fanchon, "except
perhaps Mademoiselle."
Brenda lowered her brows. The two younger girls were well on in front.
"I like Mademoiselle the least of all," she said.
"Do you, Brenda?" cried Fanchon. "I wonder why."
"I detest her," said Brenda.
"Oh, but she's so funny," exclaimed Fanchon.
"Do you know," said Brenda, "that she's leaving Hazlitt Chase? Penelope
mentioned the fact quite casually to me yesterday. She will not be
there when darling Penelope returns. Perhaps if the ladies knew that
little item of news, they wouldn't be quite so agreeable to her. They
think a great deal of the fact that she's French teacher at the Chase."
Fanchon yawned.
"I dare say," she answered. "But after all, what does that matter?
She's rather a pleasant woman, I think, and she does talk such funny
English; it's as good as a play to hear her."
"Well," said Brenda, "we needn't bother about her now. The great thing
is for us to slip away after supper. Your friend will be there, of
course, and you will talk to him."
"You mean Mr Burbery," said Fanchon, blushing. "Don't colour up like
that, dear--I wouldn't if I were you. He can't mean anything, of
course."
"Oh, of course not," said Fanchon; but she coloured more vividly than
ever, while a delicious thrill ran through her childish breast. "I
wonder," she said in a low tone, "if you will lend me the bangle again
to-night."
"No--I won't, Fanchon."
"But why not--why won't you?"
"You are so dreadfully silly about it--you show it to people--oh, not by
talking, but you shove out your hand and arm in such a hideously marked
fashion. If you were modest, and like a girl accustomed to get
jewellery, you would think nothing about it, and then no one would
remark it. As it is, that precious Mr Burbery spoke of it. Then Mrs
Dawson was attracted by it."
"But where's the good of wearing it, if no one is to see it?" queried
the practical Fanchon.
"Oh, I don't know," said Brenda, crossly; "but I can assure you it is
exceedingly bad form to intrude it in the way you do. You look, when
you have it on, as though you were all bangle--it's absurd!"
"Well, all the same, I do wish you would let me put it on," said
Fanchon. "I can slip it up under my sleeve, then no one will notice and
it does support me so tremendously when I am undergoing the ordeal of
talking to a man."
"No--you shan't have it to-night," said Brenda, and there was a finality
in her tone which Fanchon recognised and did not attempt to dispute.
Supper that evening was of course extra delicious. The ladies were in
raptures. The salad, made in the truly French style, was most
appetising. There were certain most "chic" little sandwiches handed
round to eat with it. Mademoiselle would not give away the secret of
how those sandwiches were made. There were iced drinks to refresh the
unfortunate inmates of Mrs Dawson's fearfully hot dining-room. There
was a fragrance about the supper which astonished and delighted these
poor ladies. Mrs Simpkins very nearly shed tears.
"After the battle I've had all the afternoon with those dear, darling,
dreadful children," she said, "it's fairly like heaven to come down
here."
Her raptures grew still greater as she partook of the savoury omelets,
and by-and-by ate some of that _souffle_ which most certainly Mary Anne
could never have compounded. But the crowning dish at that supper table
was the preparation of crab to which Mademoiselle gave some long French,
absolutely unpronounceable name, and which all the ladies consumed with
immense satisfaction. Mrs Dawson was so struck with the success of her
supper, and also with the pleasing knowledge that the ingredients which
composed it had cost hardly anything, that she began to entertain
serious thoughts of taking Mademoiselle into partnership on the spot.
With such a woman to help her with her daily _menage_, what might she
not aspire to? Another house, a higher class of boarders, double and
even treble profits. Then Mademoiselle was so nice to look at--although
ugly, yes, quite ugly--and so charmingly witty, but so modest withal,
never attempting to take the lead, listening deferentially even to the
most minute details with regard to Georgie's cold, and to Miss Price's
pain in her head, and yet guiding the conversation ever and always into
channels which caused ripples of laughter and perfect good humour.
Brenda, who hitherto had been the centre of attraction, was cast
completely into the shade. Brenda Carlton seldom looked prettier than
she did that evening, but nobody noticed her fresh young face with its
bright colour, nor the clear blue of her eyes, nor her charming figure,
when ugly Mademoiselle was keeping the table in constant roars of
laughter. Brenda felt that, if this sort of thing went on, her feeling
towards the French governess would become dangerous.
The little Simpkinses were, of course, not allowed to sit up to supper,
but the Amberleys always partook of that meal, and there was no one more
greedy on the present occasion than Nina Amberley, who enjoyed the
Frenchwoman's cooking so intensely that she forgot to do anything but
eat.
At last, however, the viands were disposed of. There was nothing for
Jane to remove from the table but the empty plates and dishes.
Mademoiselle felt that she was wearing a little secret crown--the crown
of a great success, and Mrs Dawson rose majestically from the board.
"Children," said Brenda, "you will at once go up to bed, it is
exceedingly late."
Josie looked cross, Nina defiant.
"Les _pauvres enfants_!" exclaimed Mademoiselle. "Why confine them to
their _appartement_ on this so hot evening! The air would refresh
them--there is no need for this early retirement on these long summer
days."
"Your opinion, Mrs Simpkins, coincides with mine in that subject," said
Brenda, turning hastily to the fat mother of the babies.
"Oh, I know, my dear," said Mrs Simpkins, "and I always do hold with my
favourite proverb. But it is 'ot to-night, and I fairly gasp. I
suppose an extra hour up would not be permitted, Miss Carlton?"
"No, no--you must go to bed immediately," said Brenda, turning to her
pupils. "Now off you go. Say good-night, Nina; say good-night,
Josephine."
Very sulkily did the girls obey. They were both of them consumed with
rage when they reached their hot attic.
"I _hate_ going to bed," said Nina.
"It is abominable--it is cruel to send us!" cried Josie. "I want to
know," she added, "why Fanchon, who is only a year and six months older
than me should go out and have no end of fun and why we should lie
stewing in these hot beds!"
But though the little girls grumbled, they felt in their own minds that
they were no match for Brenda; and when, a short time afterwards, that
young lady came into the room, they were both in bed and were even
pretending to be asleep. Brenda hastily put on her most becoming
picture hat, glanced at the private drawer which contained the bracelet
and her money, took Fanchon's hat and gloves from the room, and, telling
the others to go to sleep and be quick about it, took her departure. A
few minutes later, she and Fanchon had stolen softly from the house, and
ten minutes after that, there came a gentle tap at the door of the room
where Nina and Josie were lying wide awake and conversing in low tones
about their mutual grievances.
"Whoever is that?" said Joey, in a tone of some alarm. "Come in!" she
called, and Mademoiselle entered.
"Oh, _pauvres petites_!" cried the French governess. "I venture to come
to offer you my consolations. This `early to bed' is what cannot be
permitted. I also am an instructress of the young. I have had a long
experience. Why should you not be out and enjoy the summer air?"
"Oh--but we dare not disobey Brenda!" exclaimed Nina.
"It is very kind of you, Mademoiselle, to come and see us," said Josie;
"but Brenda always sends us to bed when she and Fanchon go out for their
fun."
"Do they have great fun at this hour?" asked Mademoiselle.
"Oh, I don't know--I expect so," exclaimed Josie, and she giggled a
little.
Mademoiselle uttered a sigh. She opened the window a little wider and
left the door ajar.
"Now there is a consoling draught," she said, "you will not suffer so
much from the hot, hot air. Tell me your little stories, _petites_, so
that I may you comfort while you lie awake."
The children did not know at first what they had especially to tell to
Mademoiselle; but that clever woman was not ten minutes in their society
before she had obtained a vast lot of useful information from them--
information which she meant to turn to good account. She had her way to
make in the world, and could only make it by more or less dishonest
means. In short, before she left the little girls on this occasion, she
knew that little secret with regard to Nina's account-book, and why Nina
was learning this salutary lesson. She pretended to be rather shocked
by the little girl's disclosure.
"Oh, _mais fi donc! mon enfant_," she exclaimed. "You to have had that
very great mistrust! and your beautiful instructress has the anxiety
written all over her face. She punishes you, and it is well. Doubtless
it is also for that very reason that she confines you and your sister in
this so _triste appartement_, while she and Fanchon go abroad in order
to amuse themselves. But, my dear _petites_, I have not come to this
house for nothing. I would aid you. I see not why you two poor little
ones should not also have your so great pleasure. What would you say to
coming out with me for a little pastime to-morrow evening?"
"We would love it beyond anything!" said Joey. "But," said Nina, "we
would not dare!"
"And why not, _petites_, if no person did know it?"
"Surely you could not manage that?"
"Ah--but yes; I think I know a way. I would you advise to slip into bed
to-morrow evening with a willing grace; but put on your night things
over your pretty day garments, so that you can slip them off quickly
when I appear. I will then take you abroad for a delicious hour. We
will go out and see the wonders of the night, and you will be in bed
again and, _peut-etre_, asleep, before Mademoiselle Brenda and
Mademoiselle Fanchon appear."
This sounded delicious, daring, extremely naughty, and altogether quite
impossible to resist, to the little girls.
"You are quite a darling," said Nina. "I only wish you were our
governess instead of horrid Brenda!"
"Ah, _mechante_--but Brenda, whom you like not, is of the best. She has
the principles the most high, and the desires the most perfect for your
real advancement."
"I don't think so for a single minute," said Nina.
"I'm certain that she's a--"
"Oh--don't say anything against her now!" said Josephine.
Mademoiselle looked anxiously round the room. "You will wear your very
prettiest dresses when you come abroad with me to-morrow night," she
said. "I take you not to the promenade _ordinaire_, but to the most
select one where the admission is one shilling each, and where we sit
with the ladies and gentlemen of the highest quality. Have you no
so-called trinkets or ornament! that you could wear?"
"Oh dear, no!" said Nina, "nothing of the sort!"
"But then you might borrow from your sister Function."
Nina gave a childish laugh.
"Fanchon has only one little silver brooch, and the pin is broken. Poor
Fanchon! what would she--"
"_Mais, ma chere_," said Mademoiselle, as she laid a shapely French hand
on the little girl's arm, "I think you are under a misapprehension. Ask
your sister to lend you her bangle."
"Her bangle?" said Nina.
"Breathe it not, dear one, to your adorable governess, but ask your
sister to lend it to you, and I will give you the most delightful
surprise when you come out with me."
"But she's not got one!" said Josie. "I don't know what you are
dreaming about, Mademoiselle. Poor Fanchon--I only wish she had!"
"Well, dears, examine her belongings, and I think you will see that this
clever mademoiselle is right, and that you, _mes enfants_, are wrong.
Find it, and wear it, one or other of you, and you shall have a surprise
which shall delight your young hearts. Now then, I must go. I am about
to take a little walk abroad to refresh myself after the sultry airs of
the house. _Bonsoir, mes enfants. Dormez bien_."
Mademoiselle waved her hand to the children, and gently closed the door
behind her. She left them both in a state of great excitement and
wonder. What a fascinating woman she was! How delightfully she
sympathised! and wouldn't it be fun to go out with her on the following
evening, to have a very superior treat to that one which Fanchon enjoyed
and made such a fuss about? Oh, the mystery of the whole thing, and the
spice of danger in it, and the awful dread of discovery, and the
maddening joy of getting away without anybody knowing, and the charming
surprise which would await them!
"But Mademoiselle must be mad on one point," said Nina, "for she talks
of Fanchon's bangle. Fanchon hasn't got a bangle."
"There's no saying what she has or hasn't," said Josie. "She's so
abominably mysterious lately; she's so stuck up, and has such airs and
graces, I shouldn't be a bit surprised if she had got Brenda to buy her
one of those cheap shilling things you see in the shop windows."
"Brenda never got me to put that expense down in the account-book," said
Nina.
"Oh, she wouldn't!" exclaimed Josie. "She's too sly."
"It seems a great pity," said Nina, after another restless twiddle in
her little hot bed, "that we can't find out."
"We could look through the drawers, of course," said Joey, "and discover
for ourselves."
"Brenda keeps the top drawer locked and has taken the key." Nina gave a
little jump. "I tell you what!" she said. "Why shouldn't we try if the
key of the wardrobe would open the top drawer of the chest of drawers?
It looks exactly the same: I noticed that myself when first we came."
"But there isn't any key to the wardrobe!" exclaimed Joey.
"Oh--isn't there? I know better. It was always lying on the floor, and
I picked it up and put it behind that ornament on the mantelpiece so as
to get it out of the way."
"Well--we can look at once," said Josie.
"What fun it will be if Fanchon really has a shilling bangle, and Brenda
forgot to have it entered in the accounts!"
The two girls sprang out of bed. They were trembling with excitement.
They longed beyond anything to discover if Mademoiselle was right.
"But if she has it," suddenly exclaimed Nina, "she may be wearing it--
it's just the sort of thing she would do--she'd be so desperately proud
of it!"
"Yes," said Josie, "and by the evening light people would think it was
real. Oh, I say, Nina, what fun--this key does open the drawers! Yes,
and locks them too. I say now, shall we have a search?"
The girls ransacked the precious locked drawer, and of course, in less
than a minute, came upon the gold bangle with the turquoise ornament.
They brought it to the window and examined it carefully by the light of
the moon. While Josie held it, Nina kept the little box, in which it
was generally concealed, in her hand. She now read the writing on it.
"Why--it _is_ Fanchon's!" she cried, "here's her name on the box saying
that the bangle is hers. Oh, what a wicked, wicked Fanchon, not to tell
us! Won't we tease her about this!"
"No, we mustn't," said Josie. "But I tell you what we'll do. We'll
just carefully--most carefully--put that key away, and then to-morrow
night before we go out, we'll unlock the drawer and take the bangle, and
either you or I can wear it. What _awful_ fun that'll be! We'll have
our surprise too--how clever of Mademoiselle to know!"
"Perhaps after our delicious time out is over, and our surprise is come
to an end, we may talk to Fanchon about her horrid meanness in keeping
the bangle a secret."
"Of course it isn't real gold--it's only one of those shilling things;
but she might have told--that she might."
"That she might," exclaimed the other sister.
Then they put the bangle carefully back into its box, and readjusted the
drawer so as not to allow suspicious eyes to guess that anything had
been disarranged. They took the precious key which could unlock the
drawer and display this marvellous fairyland of delight, and hid it
under a portion of the carpet which went straight under the bed in which
they slept.
"No one will find it here," said Nina, "for this room is never cleaned.
I asked Jane about it, and she said she never cleans the bedrooms except
when new visitors come. We _shall_ have fun to-morrow night--I can
hardly sleep for thinking about it!"
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
TELLTALE TRACINGS.
Brenda and Fanchon had by no means a very satisfactory evening out.
Harry Jordan was not quite as _empresse_ as usual; the fact being that
he had not the most remote intention of ever asking Brenda to marry him,
and was already turning his attentions to another young lady, much more
in his rank of life.
Joe Burbery did not put in an appearance, and Harry, after walking up
and down the Esplanade two or three times with Brenda and Fanchon,
managed to make his escape to that new siren who was at present
occupying his fickle affections.
Brenda's rage and disappointment scarcely knew any bounds; but she would
not show her feelings for the world, and walked up and down with Fanchon
until the usual hour for retiring.
"It's a great pity one of us had not the bangle on," said the eldest
pupil, as she walked with her governess. "He would have been interested
in that: every one is who sees it--it's so very lovely."
"Think of my giving it to you, Fanchon!" exclaimed Brenda. "Can you
ever thank me enough?"
"I will thank you as long as I live when once you allow me to wear it
properly," said Fanchon.
Brenda made no answer to this.
"We'll go out to-morrow evening, won't we?" asked the young pupil of the
careful governess, "and you'll let me put it on them, won't you, darling
Brenda--darling Brenda!"
"No--I won't--and that's flat!" exclaimed Brenda. "We shall have a very
good time, though, to-morrow, Fanchon; for Harry says that he'll take us
to a play down in the town. There's a very good travelling company now
at Marshlands. You have never seen a play, have you?"
"Indeed, no--how perfectly delightful--I didn't know you had arranged
that!"
"Yes, I have. I think really why he left us was to go at once and
enquire for tickets."
"Oh, no--it wasn't," said Fanchon; "I saw him walking with a girl with
black hair--a very tall, showy-looking girl--and they were laughing
loudly."
Brenda bit her lips. She knew this fact quite well, but had trusted
that Fanchon had not noticed it. When they returned to the house, the
two younger girls were really sound asleep, and Brenda and her pupil got
quietly into bed--Brenda to think of what means she could adopt to bring
fickle Harry, that merchant prince, once again to her side; and Fanchon
to wonder if by any possible plan she could induce Brenda to allow her
to wear the bracelet on the following evening.
Meanwhile, plans were being made in another quarter which were likely to
upset the most astute calculations on the part of Brenda and her eldest
pupil. After breakfast, Mademoiselle managed to have a word alone with
Nina Amberley. There and then, Nina told her that she had discovered
how very wise Mademoiselle was--that Fanchon really had an ugly old
cheap bangle, which she knew only cost a shilling, and that beyond doubt
the said bangle would appear on Nina's wrist that very evening when
Mademoiselle took Josie and herself for their surprise treat.
Mademoiselle could have hugged Nina as she spoke. Little as she cared
for the plain face of that extraordinary child, she thought that same
face almost beautiful at that moment. But she had her work to do. She
meant to be thoroughly sure of her facts; and, after parting from Nina
and cautioning her not to reveal a word but to trust absolutely to the
poor Frenchwoman for an evening of such intense fascination that she
could never forget it as long as she lived, she hurried from the child's
presence, went up to her room, and there she dressed herself in her very
best.
Mademoiselle's best was plain, but it was eminently suitable. She ran
downstairs, and entered Mrs Dawson's parlour.
"I should not be the least surprised," she said in a low voice, "if you
and I, dear Madame, did obtain our little, our very little reward for
the eighteen carat gold bangle with the beautiful turquoise stone in the
clasp. But I tell you no more; only, Madame, you will miss me to-day at
my mid-day meal; for I must repair to Castle Beverley in order to see my
two beloved pupils--Miss Honora and Miss Penelope."
Of course Mrs Dawson was all curiosity, and of course Mademoiselle was
all mystery. Nothing would induce the French governess to reveal so
much as a pin's point of how she knew what she knew. In the end
Mademoiselle departed, making first the necessary proviso that Mrs
Dawson should not repeat to any of the ladies of the _pension_ where the
French governess had gone.
"For the sake of ourselves, it is best not to do so, I you do assure,"
said Mademoiselle, and then she started to walk to Castle Beverley.
Mademoiselle had by no means a good complexion; but then she never
flushed, or looked the least hot; and when that long walk had come to an
end, she had not a speck of dust on her neat black dress, for she had
taken the precaution to bring with her a tiny clothes brush, with which
she carefully removed what she had gathered from the dusty highroad; and
her hair was as fresh as though she had just arranged it before the best
looking-glass in the world. She drew on a pair of new gloves, which she
did not wear while she was walking, and, with her dainty parasol
unfurled, and her exquisite feet perfectly shod, she appeared quite a
stylish-looking person when she enquired of the powdered footman if Miss
Beverley was within.
Yes, Miss Beverley was within. Mademoiselle produced her neat card, and
begged that it might be conveyed to the young lady. Meanwhile, the
servant asked her into one of the sitting-rooms. There, a few minutes
later, Honora joined her.
Honora was not glad to see her, but that did not greatly matter. She
was hospitable to her finger-ends, and would not allow the tired
governess to go away until she was thoroughly refreshed after her long
walk.
"My pupil most dear!" said Mademoiselle, when Honora entered, "I could
not rest so near your home the most beautiful without calling upon you.
Alas, yes! I walked! But what of that, when I had such a joy at the
end of the weary _kilometres_!"
"You must stay now you have come," said Honora. "Will you come into the
garden? It is beautifully cool under the cedar tree, and you will find
most of us there. We shall have lunch by-and-by, and you will not
return until the cool of the evening."
Mademoiselle murmured her thanks, and was very glad to join the others
under the cedar. She made the usual suitable remarks and, as there were
several of her pupils present, they all gave her, more or less, a
cordial welcome.
"I see you not again," she said, tears springing to her eyes. "I return
to my land, heart-rent for the absence of those I so fondly love."
Little Pauline Hungerford had the warmest heart in the world. She did
not like Mademoiselle at all when she was at school, but she was truly
sorry for her now. She ran up to her and flung her arms round her neck.
"Why must you go?" she said. "Is Mrs Hazlitt angry with you?"
"I know not, _mon enfant_. I cannot imagine why I leave the good school
where my loved pupils dwell, but the decree is gone forth, and I must
submit. You will remember me when you conjugate your verbs, my little
Pauline, will you not?"
As Mademoiselle spoke, she passed her arm round the child's waist, and
drew her close to her. The others were now talking to one another at a
little distance.
"You have your pretty bangle on," said the governess. "Have you heard
of the recovery of its--so to speak--twin sister?"
"No, no," said Pauline, "we don't talk of it at all: it is quite lost,
but Nellie is getting good; she doesn't cry any more; she is resigned.
Mother will get her one, I know, to replace the lost one, by-and-by."
"Your sister Nellie is of the angel type; but perhaps--I say not
anything to a certainty--she may be rewarded sooner than she thinks."
"Why, Mademoiselle," cried Pauline, opening her eyes in astonishment,
"do you know anything?"
"Whisper it not, dear. I have at present nothing to say. At
_present_--remember; but there may be news in the future. Allow me, my
little one, to examine your bangle with its heart of the ruby--still
more close than I have hitherto done."
Pauline allowed the bangle to be removed from her wrist Mademoiselle
noticed the curious and very beautiful engraving of the delicate gold.
"And the other was an exact counterpart, was it not?" she queried.
"Precisely the same," said Pauline, "only that it held a turquoise and
mine holds a ruby."
Mademoiselle took a pencil from her pocket, and also a little notebook.
She made some almost invisible tracings in the notebook and then
returned the bangle to Pauline.
"You will speak no words," she said, "but you will cultivate a _soupcon_
of that precious hope which sustains the heart."
Pauline promised, and went away, feeling more uncomfortable than glad.
Mademoiselle spent the rest of her day in quite an agreeable manner.
She had dropped all those traits which had made her disliked at Hazlitt
Chase, and amused the young people by her witty talk and her gay
demeanour. The strange children at Castle Beverley thought her
altogether delightful: her pupils also considered her delightful, but
with a reserve in their minds which confined that delight to holidays
and differentiated it from the working days.
Mademoiselle could not be induced to stay to supper. No, she said she
must hurry home. She was staying in the same house where that sweet
girl, Brenda Carlton, with her dear little pupils, was living.
"I have a small attic there," she said humbly. "The terms are moderate,
and I am filled with sweet content. But I have promised to take some
disconsolate little children for a treat to-night, and I would not
disappoint them for the world."
To Penelope, Mademoiselle hardly spoke; but before she went away, she
went up to the young lady and uttered some extravagant words of praise
of her sister.
"But you yourself are coming to see us. We look forward to your visit
with the delight supreme," said Mademoiselle.
"I am coming in to Marshlands to-morrow," said Penelope. "Brenda has
asked me to spend a part of the day there."
Mademoiselle expressed her increased pleasure at this news, and
presently took her departure, walking back again all the way to
Marshlands. But on the middle of the dusty highroad she took out her
notebook, and carefully examined the little drawing she had made in it.
She gave a low laugh of absolute contentment; and when she sat down to
the supper table in the boarding-house, there was no person more
cheerful or who looked more absolutely fresh than Mademoiselle.
CHAPTER TWENTY.
AN EXCHANGE.
The two younger Amberleys were in a state of great agitation during
supper. Had Brenda not been intensely preoccupied, she must have
noticed this. Little Nina was too restless to eat with her usual
appetite. She was silent too, watching Mademoiselle closely, but
casting quick, furtive glances from time to time in Brenda's direction.
Brenda had achieved her object, and Harry Jordan was going to take her
to the play. She had succeeded in this by writing him a note proposing
the arrangement, and also offering to pay for his ticket. Harry Jordan
had accepted, thinking all the time how infinitely he would prefer going
to the play with Nettie Harris, the girl who was just at present
engaging his wayward fancy. Brenda meant to make the most of this
opportunity with regard to Harry. Fanchon must, of course, be her
companion. Her hopes rose high as the hour approached.
"Girls," said Brenda, rising front the supper table, "go up immediately
to your bedroom, it is very late."
"Late?" cried Mrs Simpkins, "it is more than half an hour earlier than
usual. We have all of us been, so to speak, unconversational to-night.
We have eaten our supper without repining. It was not quite as tasty a
supper as what you gave us, dear Mademoiselle, but we have eaten it
silently. I will go and sit on my balcony presently, in order to get
cool. Peter's eye-tooth is certain to come through this evening, and I
mustn't be far from the blessed darling. Ah, my dear young ladies! what
troubles we take on ourselves when we put our heads under the
matrimonial yoke. But there, children are blessings--"
"In disguise, perhaps," murmured Mademoiselle. Then Mrs Simpkins
waddled off: Miss Price followed suit: one or two of the other ladies
also left the room; and Brenda, driving her pupils before her as though
they were a flock of sheep, left Mademoiselle and Mrs Dawson alone.
"The supper," said Mademoiselle, "it was _triste_. The good food it
cost--oh, much, much! but it was not delectable. You needed me, _chere
Madame_, to make the viands of the lightness and delicacy that would
tempt the jaded appetite."
"But I can't have you always, Mademoiselle, so where's the use of
trusting to you?" said Mrs Dawson, rather crossly.
"Ah, I knew not!" sighed Mademoiselle. "The future, it may declare
itself in the direction least expected--I know not, but I think much."
Mrs Dawson longed to question her further. Was she alluding to the
bangle! Why had she gone to Beverley Castle that day? Why was it not
to be mentioned? She felt her heart burning with curiosity. But there
was no amusement for her, poor woman, that hot evening. It was
necessary for her to go back to her tiny parlour, and there sum up
accounts and wonder how she could make two ends meet. For, to tell the
truth, the boarders were hardly profitable, and it was very difficult
for her to fulfil the requirements of her fairly large household.
While Mrs Dawson was thus employed, poring over her large account-book,
spectacles on nose, and her face quite moist with the heat, Mademoiselle
herself burst into the room.
"I make not the apology," she cried, "for the occasion is supreme.
Behold!"--and she pushed the gold and turquoise bracelet into Mrs
Dawson's hand.
"Why? what? where?" said Mrs Dawson.
"What--where?" echoed Mademoiselle. "Here--I say; here! I tell no more
yet; but go not to bed this evening until I relate the whole of this
_histoire_!"
She withdrew immediately, and Mrs Dawson sat back in her chair and said
"Well!" to herself several times. The little girls were waiting for
Mademoiselle in the passage. Nina, notwithstanding her ecstasy of
spirit, was a little cross; for, whatever her faults, she was singularly
downright and, up to the present, singularly honest.
"Why did you snatch Fanchon's bracelet from me?" she said, "and rush
with it into Mrs Dawson's room? I don't want Mrs Dawson to know that
I am wearing it--she'll tell, and then where will poor Josie and I be!"
"Tell!" echoed Mademoiselle. "She'll never tell--it makes not for her
interest. _Restez tranquille, mon enfant, bien aimee_; you have notting
to fear--put on your bangle so beautiful, and come with me to enjoy my
surprise!"
Mademoiselle's surprise was of a complex nature. First of all, she took
the little girls to a jeweller's shop, and there went to the unheard-of
extravagance of purchasing for them a little brooch each. Of course
these, little brooches were not real gold, but they were very pretty and
were washed over with that precious metal. One was set with pearls,
also of a dubious kind, and the other with a turquoise.
At the neck of Nina's little dress the turquoise brooch was now affixed,
while Josie revelled in the one which held the pearls.
"These are for children the most to be adored," said Mademoiselle. "You
will wear them whenever you go out with me. Why should Fanchon have the
bangle so pretty,--so `chic'--oh, yes, it _is_ very `chic'--I can see
that. Now, just, my dear ones, walk outside the shop for a leetle, a
very _leetle_ time, while I pay for the so great surprises I have got
for you."
The girls obeyed. It seemed to them that each passer-by must notice
their pretty brooches. They held their little heads high; they sniffed
in the soft evening air. While they were absent, Mademoiselle eagerly
asked to see a tray of bangles. She quickly discovered one somewhat
like in design to the valuable bangle which was now reposing on Nina's
wrist. She paid a trifling sum for it. It did not matter at all that
it was made of the commonest gilt, and that the stone was no more a
turquoise than she was herself; nor that the delicate engraving was
lacking. Her object was to exchange the false bangle for the real one.
This she trusted to be able to do. She was now in high spirits. She
had parted with a few trifling shillings. Her discovery was imminent,
and she felt that she would be well rewarded. Already she had compared
the precious gold bangle with the delicate tracery in her notebook.
Yes: without doubt it was the missing trinket. The reward, trivial in
itself, must be shared with Mrs Dawson. But there were other issues at
stake.
Mademoiselle took the little Amberleys to the choice seclusion of the
best promenade. There she gave them ices and also a right good time.
She was lavish with her money that evening. The children never laughed
more in the whole course of their lives. They were quite free in their
confidences to Mademoiselle, and implored her more than once to be their
governess to supersede "dreadful Brenda," and to live in the house with
dearest papa.
"He'd just adore you," said Nina, "I know he would."
"I'm not so sure," said Josie. "He adores Brenda; he says it's because
she's so exceedingly fair and--and--pretty."
Mademoiselle asked a few questions with regard to the Reverend Josiah,
and drew her own conclusions that it would not particularly suit her
little game to be governess to the small Amberleys. She took them home
in good time, and when they entered their bedroom, followed them into
the seclusion of that apartment.
"You are so _fatiguees_," she said; "let me help you to undress. Nina,
you little naughty one, where is the key of the drawer from where you
purloined the bangle? I will it restore with my own hands."
Nina, now completely under Mademoiselle's influence, revealed the spot
under the carpet where she had hidden the key. She produced it and
Mademoiselle ran and opened the drawer, where she found the little box.
She opened it.
"Give me the bangle, and we will pop it inside," she said.
Nina did so.
"I am glad to get rid of it," murmured the child. "It wasn't such great
fun wearing it, after all."
"I have my hopes that some day this most precious little Nina will wear
a bangle of gold real, with a turquoise the most valuable," said
Mademoiselle.
As she spoke, she adroitly dropped the wrong bangle into the box and
slipped the real one into her pocket. She then carefully locked the
drawer and returned the key to its place of secrecy under the carpet.
"I am now _tres-fatiguee_!" she cried. "_Bonsoir, mes enfants_."
She left the children. They had played their little part in the present
mystery and were no longer of the slightest interest to her.
Brenda and Fanchon were having a fairly good time at the play, although
Brenda could not get Harry Jordan to declare himself. She was rather
tired now of this wayward youth. To have him desperately in love with
her was one thing, but to have him negligent and with his silly thoughts
elsewhere was quite another. She became downright cross when he
proposed to introduce Miss Nettie Harris to her and her pupil.
"I am sorry, but I cannot permit it," she said.
"And why not?" asked Harry Jordan.
"My dear little pupils' father is most particular whit people they
associate with," was her reply. "You must understand that in the
professions there is a great deal of etiquette. Mercantile people are
doubtless not aware of that; but it is my duty to protect my young
pupils."
As Brenda spoke, she gave Fanchon a tender look, as though she were a
sort of guardian angel, and Harry felt so properly snubbed that he very
nearly returned to his first allegiance to Brenda. After all, she was a
ripper. What style she had! Nettie Harris wasn't a patch upon her.
But then Nettie Harris had a snug little fortune which might help them
to marry and live in a very modest way; whereas Brenda had nothing at
all but her beauty and her distinguished air and friends of the
distinguished world. Yes, yes--it was a pity.
Brenda had Harry rather under her thumb for the rest of the evening and
went home little guessing what had befallen her. There was a letter
awaiting her on the hall table from Penelope, who announced her
intention of coming to spend part of the next day with her. Brenda
pretended to be pleased.
"We'll take her out and show her things," she said, turning to Fanchon.
"Perhaps you'll let me wear the bangle," said Fanchon.
"No, Fanchon; I may as well speak openly; I have made up my mind about
it. I think it likely that I can arrange a little picnic for you and
me, and perhaps Mr Jordan, and perhaps Mr Burbery, some day before we
leave; and on that occasion you shall wear the bangle, but not before.
Now don't worry me, child. Let's get into bed, both of us, as quietly
as we can; it's later than usual."
Fanchon was so sleepy that she was glad to comply; Brenda herself was
also thoroughly weary, and dropped sound asleep the moment her head
touched her pillow.
But downstairs in Mrs Dawson's little parlour, a deep consultation had
taken place. The real bracelet, the lost bangle, lay absolutely on Mrs
Dawson's lap. She was comparing the delicate engraving with the outline
of a similar engraving in Mademoiselle's notebook.
"It is the same," said Mademoiselle. "There is no doubt that the
thief--it is that wicked governess, Brenda Carlton. Now, Madame, you
can, if you please, take this bangle to those persons who have put the
announcement in the newspaper; or you can deliver it up to the police
to-morrow morning, but if you are wise, you will do neither of these
things."
"And what shall I do?" asked Mrs Dawson. "It's really a horrid thing
to have happening in this house, but a guinea and a half each isn't to
be despised, is it, Mademoiselle?"
"I do agree that the reward shall be divided," said Mademoiselle; "but,
as a matter of fact, it was I who made the so great discovery."
"I know that," said Mrs Dawson; "but you wouldn't have thought of it if
I had not put you on the scent."
"True, true," echoed Mademoiselle, "and I think not for a moment but of
dividing the spoil. Nevertheless, Madame, there are greater things to
be obtained than just a trumpery tree guineas, and my advice to you is:
say notting--but leave the matter _absolument_ in my hands. I have my
own plans, and they will include you. Think what discovery would mean--
just _now_, in the height of your so short season. It would mean that
Mademoiselle Carlton and her three pupils left your establishment. It
would not redound to your credit. Your other boarders might take the
fright. They would say she harbour the thief, how can we by any
possibility continue to reside under her roof?"
"You are right," said Mrs Dawson. "The whole thing is most
disagreeable; I don't really know what to do."
"But I know how to assist you and myself to keep all _esclandres_ at
bay. We court it not, Madame. It is not good for your beautiful home;
but the breath of scandal, Madame, it is--oh, _assurement_, of the most
fatal!"
The consequence of this conversation was that Mademoiselle bound Mrs
Dawson over to the most absolute secrecy, and thoroughly won over that
good woman's confidence, who declared that she already felt she could
not live without Mademoiselle, who went off to her own room with the
bangle in her pocket.
Before she lay down to sleep that night she looked at it again. She
kissed it; she gloated over it. Finally, she locked it up, not in the
drawer which might be easily opened by another key, but in that small
leather bag where she kept her treasured hoardings and which she hardly
ever allowed out of her sight.
Mademoiselle slept soundly that night, and went downstairs the next
morning in radiant spirits. Now the two little girl Amberleys had one
frantic desire, and that was, to show Fanchon their brooches. If
Fanchon had a shilling bangle, which she was so intensely proud of, why
should not they be proud, more than proud of their half-crown brooches?
Miss Carlton often left her pupils during the morning hours to their own
devices. She had letters to write, and shopping to do, and she often
liked to stroll on the promenade alone, hoping that Harry, the perverse,
might meet her there.
This very morning the girls found themselves in their bedroom alone.
Mademoiselle had, of course, to a certain extent, made them promise that
they would not wear the brooches in public; but that was a very
different matter from showing them to their own dear Fanchon, their
sister.
"Although she is a stuck-up thing," said Nina, "she is our own flesh and
flood, and we'll put her to shame by showing the darlings to her,
although she has not trusted us."
Accordingly, as Nina sat on the edge of her bed that morning, she turned
to Fanchon and said:
"When will that Penelope girl arrive?"
"I think she's coming to lunch," answered Fanchon. "I suppose she's a
second Brenda," exclaimed Josie. "Oh, I don't think she's at all like
her," answered Fanchon. "Besides, she is much, much younger."
"Brenda is very old indeed," said Nina. "She's twenty-one; I can hardly
imagine anybody being quite as old as that--it must be such an awful
weight of years on one's head."
"They say it isn't," replied Fanchon, who was becoming learned in all
sorts of matters she had better have known nothing about. "Brenda says
that you don't even begin to feel grown-up until you are past twenty."
"I suppose you have jolly times when you're out spreeing with her at
night," said Josie.
"Wonderful," said Fanchon.
"You wouldn't tell us anything about it, would you?"
"No," said Fanchon, "it is quite, quite secret."
"_I_ don't want to hear," said Nina. Then she added:
"Josie and I have a secret too--a beautiful, beautiful secret that _you_
don't know anything about."
"A _secret_?" said Fanchon. "What nonsense!"
She thought of Joe Burbery, of the play, of the beautiful bangle. What
silly children her little sisters were to talk of having secrets.
"Yes, we have!" reiterated Nina; "haven't we, Josie?"
"Wonderful!" said Josie, smacking her lips.
"Well, tell it, you little geese," said Fanchon, "and have done with
it."
"Indeed we won't," said Nina, "not unless you tell us yours."
"But I haven't a secret," said Fanchon.
"You haven't? Oh, what awful lies you tell! I'd be ashamed if I were
you!" said Nina.
"Well, well--if I have--I can't tell it," said Fanchon, colouring.
"You can't?" said Josephine--"not to your own, own sisters? You might--
you know."
Fanchon would not for worlds betray Brenda, either as regarded her
introduction of Joe Burbery, or the fact that she had taken her to a
play--for dearest papa did not approve of plays. But she would have
liked her sisters, in secret, in absolute secret, to behold the lovely
bangle.
"I can't tell my secret," she said. "I have one--just a little one--but
I can't, because I have promised."
"Then we can't tell you ours," said Nina. "And our secret is _lovely_!
Isn't it, Joey?"
"Oh, ripping!" said Joey. "It's just golloptious! Won't you be
jealous, though? You'll want to wear one of them sometimes."
"A thing to wear!" said Fanchon, colouring and trembling. "What sort of
thing?"
"That's our secret."
Fanchon got up from the chair where she was seated and began, in a
perfunctory way, to tidy the hopeless room.
"I suppose we had best go out," she said. "Brenda said we were to
follow her to the sands. She says we're not to bathe this morning.
Oh--and, Nina--you're to take your notebook and pencil--there are a lot
of things to enter."
"I am going to lose that account-book," said Nina. "I won't be bothered
any more--horrid Brenda!! I had dear Mademoiselle as my governess."
"Mademoiselle d'Etienne?" exclaimed Fanchon. "What do you know about
her? Brenda says she's not a bit nice. Brenda distrusts her
dreadfully."
"Well, and she doesn't like Brenda," exclaimed Nina. The moment she
said this, Fanchon walked up to her young sister and said sternly:
"What have you seen of Mademoiselle? Out with it!"
"I won't tell!" said Nina. "You're not to question me--I won't tell!
You have all your fun, and I don't mention it--I can if I like--I can
write to dear papa and tell him, and he'll come over pretty quick--you
had best not worry me."
"Never mind," said Fanchon, who didn't at all like this threat on Nina's
part; more particularly as she knew that her little sister was quite
capable of carrying it into effect. "Never mind," she repeated. "But
you might as well tell me that little wonderful secret."
"I'll tell if you'll tell," said Josie. "There! that's fair."
"And _I'll_ tell if you'll tell," exclaimed Nina.
Josephine walked softly up and down.
"Why shouldn't we three have secrets all to our three selves?" she said
then.
"Oh, if I thought it wouldn't go to anybody else, of course I shouldn't
mind," said Fanchon.
"Why should it go to anybody else? We just want you to know--it is so
beautiful--so very beautiful!" said Nina. "We want you to know because
you are our flesh and blood, but it's only fair you should give us
something in exchange."
"Then I will--I _will_ show it to you. I'll lock the door first. It
is--it is--too beautiful--you'll envy me all the days of your lives,
both of you. But you must never breathe it--you must go on your knees
and solemnly declare that you won't let it out."
"All right," said Nina, her little eyes dancing. "And you will go on
_your_ knees and promise that _you_ won't let out what we have got to
say to you."
"Silly children," said Fanchon. "You can't have much of a secret."
"But we have--we have, we certainly have!" said Josie.
"Well then, here, let us clasp hands--that'll do equally well," said
Fanchon. "We'll never, any of us, tell to anybody, what is about to
take place in this bedroom. I, Fanchon Amberley, promise."
"And I, Josephine Amberley, promise," cried Josephine.
"And I, Nina Amberley, promise," exclaimed little Nina.
"Now, Nina, lock the door," said Fanchon.
Nina did so.
"Who'll show first?" she asked, her small face crimson.
"Oh--it's something to show?" said Fanchon. "Well, you'll show first,
of course--you're the youngest."
"Must I?" said Nina. "You're the eldest, you ought to begin."
"Nothing of the sort: the greater comes last."
"I wonder if it is greater!" said Nina.
"Never mind--you will soon see."
"Well then--I'll begin."
Each sister possessed a little sacred drawer. The sisters' drawers were
destitute of keys, for Brenda had appropriated the key for her own far
more valuable possessions. Nina's was the bottom drawer. The chest was
a rude, shaky concern, but the drawer itself was deep and held a good
deal. She went on her knees now and pulled it open and pushed her
little hand into the farthest back corner and took from within a tiny
cardboard box. Her hand shook as she laid the box in her lap and looked
up at Fanchon. Fanchon did not speak. She was waiting for Nina to
proceed.
"Open it quickly, do!" said Fanchon, when the little girl still
hesitated.
"It'll surprise you," said Nina. "You never could think that I would
have such a thing: but it's my very, very own. There, look!"
The box was pulled open, the cotton wool removed, the little gilt brooch
with its false turquoise was held up for Fanchon's inspection.
"It is mine!" said Nina--"_she_ gave it to me!"
"Who in the world is _she_?" asked Fanchon, very much impressed by the
brooch, and secretly coveting it. "That darling Mademoiselle. Oh, I
can't tell you anything more; but she was sorry for us little girls who
go to bed every night in the hot, hot hours in this hot, hot room--and
she gave me this! It's a beautiful, beautiful trinket, isn't it?"
"It is very pretty indeed," said Fanchon.
"Well now--you see mine," said Josie, and she produced the brooch which
held the false pearls.
"There!"--she said--"Mademoiselle called them `very chic,' and aren't
they--aren't they lovely?"
"They are sweet!" said Fanchon. "How curious of her to give them to
you. Of course they can't be real."
"I know that, but it doesn't matter a bit," said Nina--"they look like
real, and that's the main thing. Poor dear Mademoiselle couldn't afford
real jewellery."
"You think they look real," said Fanchon. "Wait till you see--"
She had discovered the spot where Brenda kept the real key of the chest
of drawers. She had watched carefully, and had seen her put it inside a
broken vase on the top shelf of the over-mantel that very morning.
"Girls," she said, "I have something to show you. Both of you go and
bury your heads against your counterpanes. Kneel down by your beds, and
don't look, to save your lives. Then _you_ will see something!"
The girls flew to obey. In a minute Fanchon had opened the drawer and
had taken out the little precious box.
"Now you may look, and you must be quick!" she said. "Oh dear--it is
weak of me even to show it--but when you see it--"
She opened the precious box and lifted out the bangle, which she
supposed to be the real one. There was the blue stone, there was the
clasp, and there was the rim of gold, but--Fanchon felt all the colour
rushing madly up to her face, and then leaving it. The bangle was _not_
her bangle! Oh, yes--she had studied it once or twice; she had observed
its elegance, its dainty finish. "This--this--"
She looked wildly at her two sisters, who glanced at her in some wonder.
"Where _did_ you get this?" said Nina, who felt that if she did not
pretend now, all the rest of her life would be worthless to her.
"It was given to me by Brenda--oh, let me put it away--some one will
come--I am frightened!"
"It's only an old shilling thing, isn't it?" said Josie. "Indeed not--
it is real, as real can be."
"Then why didn't you show us the gold mark? there's always a gold mark
on real things--at least so Mademoiselle says."
"I can--oh dear, oh dear--of course I can! but--you must come to the
light."
The three girls approached the window. They turned the bangle round and
round. Alas! that curious little mark which Joe Burbery had detected
under the lamp-post was nowhere to be found on the false bangle.
Fanchon burst into a flood of tears.
"Some one has _stolen_ the real bangle!--whatever am I to do?"
The two girls clustered round her. She cried a good deal; then
carefully returned the bangle to its hidden place.
"I don't know what is to be done!" she said. "It's the most awful thing
that ever happened! But _my_ bangle that was eighteen carat gold--and
there was the most lovely turquoise in it--is gone! Oh, what am I to
do!"
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.
A FORLORN HOPE.
The Amberleys were really fond of each other. They were worldly little
creatures, and had never been trained in high principles of any sort;
but they clung together, as motherless, defenceless creatures will in
their hour of peril. They had a queer feeling now that they were in
some sort of danger, and the younger ones sympathised enormously with
Fanchon.
They did not of course dare to tell her what had happened on the
previous night--how Nina had worn the bangle, the real eighteen carat
gold bangle, the bangle with the turquoise of such size and elegance, of
such an exquisite shade of colour, the bangle with that delicate tracery
all over its gold rim. That bangle was so widely different from this,
that there was no doubt whatever that the one had been substituted for
the other. How had it been done? Mademoiselle? Oh, no, no. Nina
looked at Josephine, and Josephine was afraid to meet Nina's eyes, as
the thoughts flashed quickly through each little brain.
Mademoiselle had helped them to undress. Mademoiselle had herself put
the precious bangle away. But no--she was kind--more than kind. It
could not be in the heart of such a woman to do anything so shabby.
Nevertheless, the thought of Mademoiselle's past treachery had come to
both the little sisters, and they hated themselves for it, and feared to
glance at each other, and above all things dreaded what Fanchon might be
thinking about. Fanchon was, however, far too miserable to worry
herself with regard to her little sisters' thoughts.
"I cannot make it out," she said. "Of course I shall have to speak to
poor Brenda about it."
"Perhaps Brenda did it herself," said Nina then. It was an audacious
and very wicked thought which had come to the little girl, but she was
really intensely anxious to shield Mademoiselle at that moment. The
words she uttered bore some fruit, for Fanchon considered them very
carefully, and said aloud:
"If I really thought that--"
"What would you do if you did think that?" asked Josephine.
"I should go straight home to papa, and tell him everything--
everything!" was Fanchon's answer.
"But have you a great deal to tell him?"
"I have--oh, I have. I am a miserable girl! That odious--that vulgar--
that detestable bangle--is _that_ what I am to have in the end? She
probably did _exchange_ it for the real one, because she wanted to wear
the real one herself. Oh, girls--how am I to endure it!"
"Buck up, whatever you do," said Nina; "and remember your promise."
"Oh--how I hate promises!" said Fanchon. "I want to fly at her now,
horrid thing! and confront her with the truth."
"Well, you can't anyhow for the present, on account of your promise,"
said Josie.
"Perhaps to-night you may talk to her, but certainly not before; and
it's time for us to be going down to the sands," said Nina. "We'll lose
all our morning's fun if we don't. I want to get some of those buns
from the little old woman who brings them round in her basket. I'll get
Brenda to buy them for us; I'm ever so hungry, and I'm not going to be
afraid of Brenda to-day."
"You'll have to take your notebook," said Fanchon; and then she gave a
half-laugh.
"I!" exclaimed Nina. "Not I. I think the time of tyranny with Brenda
is nearly over."
The girls put on their hats, and strolled down to the beach. Brenda was
there looking quite happy and unconcerned. She called Fanchon a little
aside, and desired the younger girls to amuse themselves building
castles in the sand.
"I am too old for that," said Josephine.
"Not a bit," exclaimed Brenda. "How ridiculous you are! you are nothing
but a baby. Anyhow, please yourselves, both of you, for I want to talk
to Fanchon."
"It's horrid, the way you make Fanchon grown-up, and make Nina and me
quite little babies!" said Josie.
But Brenda looked troubled, and was quite indifferent to her small
pupil's remarks with regard to her conduct.
"I tell you what," she said, after a pause. "You may do anything you
like on the sands, only don't wander too far."
"There's Betty with her tray of cakes!" exclaimed Nina. "May we have a
bun each, Brenda? Will you give us money to buy a bun each?"
Curious to relate, Brenda complied. She gave Nina the necessary pence,
and did not even refer to the obnoxious notebook. The moment the little
girls were out of sight, she turned to her elder pupil.
"I met Harry to-day; he was quite contrite and nice. I feel almost
certain he'll ask me to marry him. I mean to go out without you this
evening, and I mean to wear the bangle. I think the bangle will quite
clinch matters. Harry thinks I am poor; but I don't want him to do so.
Why, what's the matter, Fanchon?"
"Oh, nothing," said Fanchon, making an effort to conceal her feelings.
"Have you a headache, dear? are you ill?"
"I am not ill," said Fanchon, "but I have a little headache--the sun is
very hot," she added.
"I shall take Penelope with me this evening--that's a good idea," said
Brenda, suddenly. "I shall keep her for the night; I mean to force her
to stay. She's got a very stylish air about her, which you, poor
Fanchon, don't possess, and what with Penelope and the bangle--"
"I thought you didn't want Penelope to know about the bangle."
"No more I do; but I shall manage just to let him see a gleam of it when
she is not looking. You haven't the least idea how to arrange these
sort of things, my dear child; but doubtless some day you will.
However, now it's almost time to hurry home. My little Fanchon shall
have that beautiful bangle all for herself when the holidays are over."
Fanchon gave quite an audible sniff.
"What a very unpleasant noise you make, dear Fanchon."
"Oh, I can't help it," replied Fanchon, and she stuck her head high in
the air and looked so repellent that her governess wondered she had ever
been bothered by her.
When the girls returned to the _pension_, they found Penelope awaiting
them. She wore a brown holland frock, quite neat, but very plain. Her
soft, very fair hair was arranged tidily round her head, also with the
least attempt at display. She was a singularly unobtrusive-looking
girl, and, beside Brenda, she was, as the ladies of the _pension_
exclaimed, "nowhere." They all criticised her, however, very deeply,
for had she not come from Castle Beverley? By slow degrees, too, they
began to discover virtues in her, the sort of virtues they could never
aspire to. She was so gentle in conversation, and had such a low, sweet
voice. She was very polite, also, and talked for a long time to Miss
Price, seeming, by her manner, to enjoy this woman's society. Mrs
Simpkins looked her up and looked her down, and said to herself that
although not pretty, she was "genteel," and to be genteel, you had to
possess something which money could not buy. The good woman made a
further discovery--that pretty, showy Brenda was not genteel.
Mademoiselle was also reading Penelope from quite a new point of view.
She had already gauged to a great extent her pupil's character, and what
she saw to-day gave her pleasure rather than otherwise. She talked to
her, however, very little, and put herself completely into the shade.
When the meal was over, Brenda spoke to her sister.
"I want you to stay for the night," she said. "We can send a telegram
to the Castle to say that I have kept you. I want you to stay a bit,
Pen; you will, won't you?"
"I am afraid I can't, for Honora wants me to go home."
"You call Castle Beverley home?"
"Just for the present, and it is nice to feel that I can speak of it as
such."
The other ladies lingered round for a minute or so, but having no excuse
to listen to Brenda and Penelope, they retired, leaving the two sisters
and the three Misses Amberley alone.
"Children, you would like Pen to stay, wouldn't you?"
"Oh, yes, of course," said Fanchon.
"And you three could just for one night sleep all together."
"It wouldn't be at all comfortable," said Nina, "but I suppose we
could."
"You would have to sleep at the foot, Nina," said Fanchon.
"All right," said Nina, "I'd like that best, for I could kick you both
if you were troublesome."
"I certainly can't stay," remarked Penelope. "I promised to come to you
for part of a day, Brenda, and surely we can say all we want to say
between now and nightfall."
"You are horribly disobliging," said Brenda.
"The carriage is coming for me too," exclaimed Penelope; "I really must
go back."
"You could send a note quite well, that is, if you were really nice."
The five girls had now gone upstairs, Mademoiselle had retired to her
stifling attic. Mademoiselle was hiding her time. After a little
further conversation Brenda perceived that it was quite useless to
expect Penelope to remain for the night in the boarding-house, and
accordingly, with extreme sulkiness, gave up her plan of impressing
Harry with the elegant demeanour of her own sister that night. The next
best thing, however, was to take Penelope for a walk. This she
proceeded to do. The girls were told they might amuse themselves, which
they did by locking themselves into their bedroom and examining the two
brooches and the false bangle until they were fairly weary of the
subject. Each girl in turn tried on the brooches, and each girl slipped
the bangle on her wrist to shoot it off the next moment in horror and
let it lie on the floor.
"Ugly, coarse, common thing!" said Fanchon. "Oh! when I remember my
beauty, you can't even imagine, girls, what it was like."
"But it seems so ridiculous that Brenda could have given it to you,"
said Nina. "Brenda might rise to a shilling thing, but as to the bangle
you describe--"
"Well, well--I know nothing about it," exclaimed Fanchon. "I only know
that she did give it to me. Perhaps she inherited it from a relation.
She wanted me to be friends with her, anyhow, and so she gave it to me,
although I was not to have it for my absolute very, very own until we
return to Harroway."
"Well--I shouldn't think you would much value _that_ thing!" exclaimed
Nina, kicking the false bangle across the room with her foot.
Josie ran and picked it up.
"It's better than nothing," she cried, "but of course it is common. Now
of course our brooches--"
"Your brooches are common too," said Fanchon.
"No, they're not; they're very, very elegant: any one would take them to
be real."
"What--without the hall-mark?" queried Fanchon.
"People as a rule don't ask you to take your brooch off in order to see
the hall-mark!" exclaimed Josie. "Don't be silly, Fanchon, you can
never wear that bangle, for it is too coarse for anything. But we can,
and _will_--wear our brooches. We'll wear them every Sunday regularly,
when we get home. And won't the children at Sunday school be impressed!
I can fancy I see all their eyes resting on mine--I think mine with the
pearls is even more elegant than Nina's with the turquoise."
"Well, come out now," said Fanchon. "The whole thing is disgusting. Of
course Brenda will discover very soon that the bangle is changed."
"She won't be surprised, because she did it herself," said Nina.
"No--that she didn't! I am certain sure she would not be quite so
mean--I don't believe it of her!" exclaimed Fanchon.
The three little Amberleys walked and talked alone that afternoon, while
Brenda and Penelope sat on the quay. Brenda earnestly hoped that the
redoubtable Harry would pass that way and see her with her elegant
sister.
"I always did think you a fearfully plain girl, Penelope," said her
sister, "and of course you are plain. But you are mixing in such good
society that it is beginning to affect you. You seem to me to have
undergone a sort of transformation. You are--of course you're quite
ugly still; but you are--I can't explain what it is--different from the
rest of us."
"You don't look too happy, Brenda," was Penelope's next remark.
"I happy?" answered Brenda. "Oh--I'm well enough."
"We're very happy at the Castle," continued Penelope. "Honora is so
sweet, and all the other children are nice, and--I wish you could know
something of our life--it is a little bit higher than this, somehow."
Brenda kicked a pebble restlessly away with the toe of her smart shoe.
"I am not suited for that sort of life," she said. "I don't care for
your Castle, but all the same, I think you may as well get me invited
there again. What day can we come?"
"I don't know: how can I get invitations for you?"
"You'll be perfectly horrid if you don't--it is your duty to give your
own, own sister a good time."
"Oh, Brenda--if only you'd be different!"
"I don't want to be different, thank you; I enjoy myself, on the whole,
very well."
"You don't look too happy: you seem sort of worried," and Penelope gave
a sigh and laid her hand on Brenda's arm.
"When _he_ proposes, it'll be all right," said Brenda. "It was on
account of him that I wanted you to stay. I don't want to be governess
any more. I want to be married and to have my fun like other girls; and
he is awfully rich--Oh--I do declare! Yes--it is--why, there is Mr
Fred Hungerford and his brother!"
Brenda bridled, and drew herself up. Young Hungerford approached. He
took off his hat to both the girls, and presently he and his brother and
Brenda and Penelope were chatting in the most amicable way together.
While they were thus employed--Brenda's face now radiant with smiles,
her eyes bright with merriment, and even Penelope laughing and chatting
in the most natural way in the world--who should pass by but Harry
Jordan and his friend, Joe Burbery. Brenda felt that she would like to
cut Harry Jordan at that moment. She contented herself, however, with
the very stiffest inclination of her head. Fred followed her gaze, and
favoured Joe with the slightest perceptible nod.
"How is it you know that bounder?" he said, turning to Brenda as he
spoke.
Brenda coloured deeply.
"I just know him slightly," she said, "do you?"
"Why, yes--of course. He is the son of a small draper in our town. I
used to meet him when I was a schoolboy on my way to school every
morning, and I think mother sometimes gets odds and ends at Jordan's
shop. They're fifth-rate tradespeople, and I don't believe their
business is very extensive."
Brenda felt a coldness stealing round her heart. Was this the
explanation--the true explanation--with regard to her merchant prince?
After a minute, during which she thought swiftly, she said:
"He has had the audacity to speak to me, but of course I shan't notice
him in future."
"I wouldn't if I were you," said Fred. "He is in no sense of the word a
gentleman. Well, I must be off. Penelope, I know the carriage is
coming for you at seven o'clock. Will you be ready?"
"Yes, quite," answered Penelope.
The two Hungerford boys disappeared, and the two Carlton girls sat side
by side on the quay. People passed and repassed. Penelope was lost in
thought. She was anxious about Brenda, and yet she did not know what to
do for her sister. Brenda's thoughts were so fast and furious that they
need scarcely be described. After a minute, she said:
"On the whole, you are doing right to go back to your Castle and your
grand friends this evening."
"Of course I am doing right," said Penelope.
"And," continued Brenda, "I shan't be married just at present. Perhaps
I may some day, for I suppose I am pretty."
"You are very, very pretty, Brenda."
"Yes, but not with your style, and not like the sort of folks you know."
"I only know them for a short time, Brenda. But I do hope that the time
spent at Hazlitt Chase will enable me always to act as a lady; for we
were born ladies, dear," she added; and she touched Brenda on her arm.
Brenda clutched Penelope's arm in response to this greeting with a
feverish grip.
"You are all right," she said; "but I can never go back."
"What do you mean?"
"I am wrong from first to last. I made a great mistake and I can't
explain it. Let's come home; don't worry about me. You will do well in
life."
"I love you fifty thousand times better than I have loved you since we
met on break-up day," was Penelope's response. "When you talk like
this, you seem like the sister I lost long ago; but when you are stuck
up and proud and vainglorious, then my feelings for you alter. If you
were in trouble, in real trouble, Brenda, and I could help you, I
would."
"I daresay," said Brenda. Then she gave a light laugh. "But I am not
in trouble," she said, "I'm as jolly as a sand-boy. Do let's come back;
it is so silly to pay for our tea out-of-doors when Mademoiselle makes
the very nicest little confections for us to partake of at home."
There was a particularly nice afternoon tea that day in Mrs Dawson's
drawing-room. That drawing-room, until Mademoiselle had appeared on the
scene, was truly a room to be avoided. The western sun used to flood it
with its rays. The windows were seldom properly opened. What flowers
there were lacked water and were half dead in their vases. The
furniture wanted dusting and arranging. There were generally broken
toys about, which the small Simpkinses used to leave behind them in
their wake. As likely as not, when you sank into a chair, you found
yourself annoyed by a baby's rattle or a very objectionable india-rubber
doll. In short, the drawing-room was never esteemed by the boarders.
But lo, and behold! Since Mademoiselle had come to Palliser Gardens,
this same drawing-room was transformed. Were there not green Venetian
blinds to the windows? What so easy as to pull them down? Why should
not the drooping withered flowers be replaced by fresh ones which, by a
judicious management of leaves and grasses, could give a cool and airy
effect? Then Mademoiselle had a knack of squirting the Venetian blinds
with cold water, which gave a delicious dampness and fragrance at the
same time in the room. The curtains, too, were sometimes slightly
drawn, and the furniture was all neatly arranged; and the tea--that was
_recherche_ itself--of such good flavour, so admirably made; then
Mademoiselle was always fresh, always bright and presentable, standing
by the little tea equipage, dispensing the very light, but really
refreshing viands. Mademoiselle made one very gentle stipulation. It
was this: that the small Simpkinses, the treasured babies of the
establishment, should not come down to afternoon tea. Mrs Simpkins
grumbled, but finally confessed that it was a comfort not to have
Georgie tugging at her skirt, and Peter laying his hot head on her broad
chest, and demanding "more, more," incessantly. In short, the little
party became in the very best of humours at the meal that was hitherto
such a signal failure in Mrs Dawson's drawing-room.
They all met on this special day, and Mademoiselle cast more than one
earnest glance at her late pupil, Penelope Carlton, and then, with a
smile hovering round her lips, poured tea into the delicate cups and
handed it round, always with a smile and a gentle compliment to each
lady boarder. Mrs Dawson was not present at this delightful little
repast, for Mademoiselle insisted on the poor tired woman having a cup
of tea all by herself and then lying down and sleeping until supper
time.
Mrs Dawson was now completely in Mademoiselle's clever hands, and did
precisely what that good woman wished. When the meal was over, the
party again dispersed, but not before Mademoiselle had stolen up to
Penelope's side and said quietly:
"_Mon enfant_, when do you take your departure?"
"I expect the wagonette at seven o'clock," replied Penelope.
"And you will be, _peut-etre_, alone?"
"I think so."
"That is good," was Mademoiselle's reply. Then she vanished to suggest
some particularly soothing application for Peter Simpkins' swollen gums.
At last the hour arrived when Penelope was to go. She bade her sister
good-bye, and also the three little Amberleys, who regretted her
departure without quite knowing why. A moment later, she had stepped
into the wagonette and was being driven out of the town in the direction
of Castle Beverley. The carriage had borne her just outside the
suburbs, when a neat-looking black-robed figure appeared in the very
middle of the King's highway, imperatively demanding that the coachman
should stop his horses. This the man, in some surprise, did.
Mademoiselle then approached Penelope's side.
"I have something to say to you, _cherie_," she remarked, "something of
the greatest importance. May I accompany you in your drive?"
"But how will you get home?" asked Penelope, very much annoyed and not
at all inclined to comply.
"The homeward way signifies not," responded Mademoiselle. "It is the
drive with you, most dear one, and the so sacred confidences that form
the essentials of this hour. You will not deny me, for in so doing, you
will place yourself and your sister, the most adorable Brenda, in
jeopardy."
"I suppose you have something unpleasant to say," said Penelope, "and if
you have, the sooner you get it over, the better."
"Then you do permit me to enter into the carriage?"
"I cannot help myself, but I cannot take you further than to the gates
of the Castle."
"That will be time sufficient. But we will desire--ah! I will myself
speak to him."
Mademoiselle entered the wagonette, and stepping up to the coachman,
asked him to drive slowly. She did this in such a very insinuating
manner that he felt he could do all in the world to oblige her, and
accordingly, let his horses drop into a walk. This the animals were not
disinclined to do on so hot an evening.
"Now," said Penelope, absolutely unsuspicious, and turning her fair
face--which owing to her recent happiness, was really becoming quite
good-looking--in the direction of her governess. "What have you to say,
Mademoiselle?"
"This, _mon enfant_. I will tell it to you briefly. You know the story
of the _petites_ Hungerfords--the little one called Nellie, that
_enfant_ who suffered with a suffering so severe for the loss of her
inestimable trinket--the bangle of the purest gold set with a turquoise
most exquisite."
"Yes, yes," exclaimed Penelope, "I know all about it. The bangle was
lost; has it been found?"
"Softly--_cherie_--I am coming to that. It was lost, was it not, on the
very day of the _grande fete_ at Hazlitt Chase?"
"Yes," said Penelope, "I believe Mrs Hungerford thinks she lost it in
the railway carriage in which she came to the Chase."
"_Precisement_: you have the _histoire_ in all its accuracy," answered
Mademoiselle. "And there was, _mon enfant_, was there not, an
announcement of the loss in the newspapers, the so great newspapers of
London, and the _petits journaux_ of the smaller towns? And was there
not that announcement with the reward attached even inserted, for the
sake of the more safety, in the _journal_ here--the _petit journal_ of
Marshlands-on-the-Sea?"
"I daresay you are right," said Penelope, "but I really am not specially
interested, nor have I followed what the Hungerfords have done."
"Ah! _ma chere_--you say you are not interested once. But that will
pass. That state of your mind will quickly arrive when you will be
interested; for there is much to concern you in this matter. Behold,
_mon enfant_, what I, your French governess, have discovered."
Mademoiselle thrust her hand into her pocket, took out a soft, cambric
handkerchief, unfolded it, and revealed the missing bangle.
"See!" she exclaimed. "Behold for yourself--I would convince myself, by
visiting you at the beautiful Castle yesterday, and I remarked the
bangle on the leetle Pauline's slender wrist. I took a note of the fine
engraving, and the pattern of it. Is not this _precisement_ the same!
See for yourself," she added.
"Why, it is--it must be!" exclaimed Penelope. "So it is found out; did
you discover it? How delighted Nellie will be! Are you coming up to
the Castle to give it back to her to-night and to claim the reward? I
know it will be given to you at once. Poor, dear little Nellie--she
will be pleased!"
"Ah--_ma chere_!" said the French governess, "I act not so--I have not
the heart so cruel!"
"But what do you mean?" asked Penelope, in great astonishment.
"You must listen to the _histoire_ that I will tell to you. You must
clearly first understand that this is the identical lost bangle--the
bangle made of the eighteen carat gold--with the delicate engraving and
the turquoise of the colour so pure, and of the form so rare and the
size so marvellous. It is the identical one."
"It certainly seems like it," said Penelope.
"It _is_ the same--rest assured."
As Mademoiselle spoke, she folded up the bangle and transferred it to
her pocket.
"I have something to say to you, _chere enfant_."
"What do you mean? Why don't you give me the bangle to take to little
Nellie? I don't understand you."
"_Ayez patience_--you soon will be enlightened." Mademoiselle bent
close to Penelope; her voice dropped to a whisper. "They shall hear us
not," she said, "those men on the box. We can talk freely. Shall I
tell you how I found it? I had my so true suspicions, and I followed
them up. Now listen."
With this preamble, Mademoiselle poured into poor Penelope's ears the
story of Fanchon and the marvellous bangle she wore, of Nina, and her
walk abroad with Mademoiselle wearing the said bangle on her wrist, of
Brenda's reprehensible doings when she took Fanchon out night after
night, and, lastly, of the very clever way in which she, Mademoiselle,
had managed to substitute the worthless bangle for the real one.
"I talk not of myself as lofty in this matter," was her final remark.
"I am the poor governess who have here all to earn; but I am not so bad
as that _mechante_--your sister. There is no doubt that on the day of
the _grande fete_ at Hazlitt Chase she found the bangle and that she
would keep it for her own purposes. It was doubtless not lost in any
railway carriage, nor was there any official or traveller to blame. She
was the one who put that idea into your head, was she not?"
Penelope did not utter a word.
"There is circumstantial evidence the most grave against your sister,"
said Mademoiselle, in conclusion, "but I try her not by my judgment; I
have mercy upon her, and bring the case to you; I lay it at your feet.
What will you do for the sister--the only sister that you possess? You
most assuredly will not allow her to be put into prison. What will you
do?"
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
DO THE RIGHT THING.
Penelope was quite silent, not replying by a single word to
Mademoiselle's insinuations until they reached the gates of Castle
Beverley. Then she said in a quiet voice:
"You have told me something most terrible, and of course--I will do--I
will do something--"
"But you will not expose that _pauvre_ sister--you will not ruin her for
all her life; and she so young and so fair."
"Please, Mademoiselle, promise me something," said Penelope. "You have
told me the story, and I am obliged to you. I will let you know what I
myself mean to do to-morrow morning."
"But that will be far too late, _mon enfant_; for remember, I have found
the missing bangle, and for this so great discovery there is a reward
offered, and that reward, although _tres petite_, is nevertheless of
consequence to one so poor as myself. I will claim that reward; but I
want to claim more. If I keep this thing dark--quite dark, I claim a
big reward."
"What?" asked Penelope.
Her whole tone changed. The coachman, by her directions, had drawn up
at the avenue gates. Penelope and Mademoiselle had both alighted.
"Drive on," said Penelope to the man. "Say that I am following."
He obeyed. When the sound of the horses' hoofs had died away, Penelope
turned again to Mademoiselle.
"You have told me the story," she said; "and now I want to know exactly
what you do expect. You have, of course, told me the story not out of
any kindness to me or to my sister. Please don't waste your breath
denying this fact, Mademoiselle d'Etienne. You have told it, hoping to
profit by it."
"_C'est vrai_," replied the Frenchwoman. "I am of the poor; I am of the
needy; I have not the wherewithal to support the most precious life. I
am dismissed from being your teacher through no fault of mine. The wide
world--it lies around me; if I have not the money, I will starve!" She
held up her right hand dramatically. "Does it seem to you of the
reasonable that I should starve, Mademoiselle Penelope? Why should I
not feather my own nest? I wish for the reward; but it matters not from
whom it comes, if it come from you, your sister is saved; if it come
from Mrs Hungerford, your sister and you--think of the position, _ma
chere_--"
"I do think of it," said Penelope.
"You will consider it yet more deeply. I give you a little time. I
tell you plainly that I want from you what you have already done for
your sister. I know that you did collect from your school friends--
those maidens so rich, so distinguished--the money--a great sum. I
demand that you make a collection again, and that you give it to me.
Twenty pound is my price; give me twenty sovereigns of the gold, and no
person know notting of the lost bangle. If you will not--I tell what I
know."
"Mademoiselle, do you think, do you really think that I am made like
that?"
"I know not, _ma chere_; I only do know that once you got money from
your school friends. You would like not that story to be known; but it
can be spread all over the school at Hazlitt Chase, and Honora Beverley,
that most saintly and esteemed young lady, can hear of it. She will not
wish to have you any longer a visitor at her beautiful home; for she is
of the lofty sort that stoop not to the ways of the wicked. Think what
it will mean. And your sister--she will be, oh, in peril of grave
imprisonment. Think of the public trial and the so great disgrace.
Madame at the Chase will not receive you back; she would not dare to
receive the sister of a thief! _Oh, fi donc_! She could not it endure.
That is your position. But I deliver you therefrom if you once again
exercise that spell which you possess; and get from your companions--it
matters not which--the leetle, leetle sum of twenty pound. That is the
whole, you understand."
"I understand," said Penelope. She spoke in a low voice; her face was
white as death.
"I give you until the morning. You are puzzled, _pauvre petite_, and
most truly do I you pity. But never mind; it is _necessaire_ that the
poor governess be helped in her hour of so great need. To her it is
equal about the disgrace to you and yours; in one way or the other she,
the poor French Mademoiselle, makes a _grand coup_ in this matter! And
now, I wish you `adieu' for the night. Communicate with me before
twelve o'clock to-morrow. If at that hour I have no news from you, I
take my own steps. _Adieu, cherie. Pauvre enfant, dormez tranquille_."
Mademoiselle turned away. She walked quickly down the dusty road. She
had done her evil deed; she had exploded her bomb. Her wicked heart
felt no sense of shame or sorrow for the innocent girl whom she had put
in so cruel a position.
As to Penelope, she stayed for a little time just where Mademoiselle
d'Etienne had left her. Then she turned and walked up the drive. She
was stunned. She had not walked half-way up the avenue before a gay
young voice sounded in her ears; and, of all people in the world, those
she least wished to see at this juncture, rushed up to her and flung
their arms round her neck and wrist.
"You have come back!" said Nellie Hungerford.
"We are _so_ delighted!" said Pauline. "We have missed you just
dreadfully. But we have had a good day. We went to the sands at Carlin
Bay. Uncle Beverley took us, and we did enjoy ourselves! But still it
isn't half so much fun when you're away. You're so splendid at telling
stories, you know. But come along now; you're just in time for supper,
and after supper we mean to have a grand game at hide-and-seek before we
all go to bed. Honora! Nora dear, here is Penelope--she is come back!"
Honora ran down the grassy sward to meet her friend.
"Why, surely," she said, "you didn't walk home?"
"No, no--I left the carriage at the gate."
"But why did you do that?"
"I thought I'd like to walk up the avenue."
"You look dead tired; is anything the matter?"
"I have a--a--headache," said Penelope, taking refuge in this
time-honoured excuse for low spirits.
"Poor thing! I expect you found the sun very hot at Marshlands. As to
Nellie and Pauline--I call them a pair of salamanders; they can stand
any amount of heat. They would insist on father taking them to Carlin
sands to-day; and they came back fresher than ever. The rest of us
stayed more or less in the shade, for I never remember the sun being so
hot."
"Come in, and have some supper, Pen; that'll do you good," said Pauline.
Penelope said she would. They had now reached the house. She ran up to
her own room. She bathed her face, washed her hands, and brushed back
her hair. She tried to believe that the dreadful thing that had
happened in the wagonette was a dream, that there was no such horror
surrounding her, lying in wait for her, clutching at her very vitals.
She would keep up at any cost for the evening. When the night came, she
would be alone. Then she could think.
Honora's voice was heard calling her. She ran downstairs. They all
went into the long, cool supper-room. There a cold collation was spread
on the table.
"I won't let you go to Marshlands again," said Nora, looking critically
at Penelope. "You're just as white as a sheet. It is much too tiring
this hot weather. Your sister must come to us instead."
Poor Penelope gave a little inward shiver. Pauline Hungerford nestled
close to her.
"I've something to whisper to you," she said.
"Oh, no--not now," said Penelope.
"Yes, but I must. They don't mind what we do at supper--we're all quite
free at supper. It is this: listen. Mother's coming here early
to-morrow--think of that!--And I do believe she is bringing a bangle,
the same as mine, for Nellie! She didn't _say_ so in so many words, but
I think she is. Then we'll be perfectly happy! Aren't you glad? I
know I am. I've never half enjoyed my darling bangle at the thought of
Nellie's sorrow. But Nellie has been very good lately, and hasn't
talked about it a bit, or even once asked to look at mine. She wouldn't
do that at first; she used to shut her eyes whenever she found herself
forced to see it, just as though it gave her the greatest pain. I
hate--and _hate_ wearing it. Mother said I must, for it would be so bad
for Nellie if she didn't bear a thing of this sort well. But now, it's
all right, and darling Nellie will be as happy as a sand-boy. Oh, I
_am_ delighted!"
"Paulie, you mustn't whisper any more," said Fred Hungerford at that
moment. "Hullo, Pen!" he added, "I am glad to see you back. Did you
and your sister stay much longer on the quay? and did you meet that
low-down fellow, Jordan, again? I can't imagine how your pretty sister
got to know him."
"We didn't meet him any more," said Penelope, "and we went back to the
_pension_ soon after."
Supper came to an end. Pauline asked wildly, her bright eyes gleaming,
when the grand game of hide-and-seek in the moonlit garden was to begin.
Here Penelope's fortitude failed her.
"I have had a tiring day," she said. "Do you mind, Nora, if I go to my
room?"
"Is your head aching badly?" asked Honora.
"Yes, I'm afraid it is."
"Then of course you must go. And, children, we won't shout too loudly
under Pen's window. Good-night, dear. Would you like me to come and
see you before I go to bed myself?"
"Oh, no, please; not to-night, Nora."
"Very well--good-night. You really don't look at all well."
Penelope felt a brief sense of relief when she was all alone in her
room. She took off her dress and put on a light dressing-gown. Then
she flung the window wide open and sat down by it, resting her elbow on
the deep window ledge. Her pale, despairing face gazed out into the
night. How happy she had been at Castle Beverley! What a joyful, glad,
delightful sort of place it was! How merry the voices of the children
sounded! She could hear shrieks of mirth in the distance. Oh, yes;
Castle Beverley was a delightful home. She knew quite well why. It
seemed to her that night that the whole secret of its gladness, of its
goodness, of its beauty, was revealed. Castle Beverley was delightful,
not because its owner was a rich man and well born; not because the
children who came there were ladies and gentlemen by birth; but simply
because the laws that governed that household were the laws of truth and
love and unselfishness and righteousness. It was impossible to be mean
in that home, for here the highest things were practised more than
preached. There were no ostensible lessons in religion, but the
religious life was led here, by Honora, by all the children, and, most
of all, by the father and mother.
"That accounts for it," thought Penelope. "It is because they are so
good without being priggishly good, that I have been so happy. They
always think nice thoughts of every one; and they are unselfish, and
each gives up to the other. I don't belong to them--I belong to Brenda.
Brenda and I have the same mother, and the same father. We are two
sisters. Brenda has fallen very low indeed, and I suppose I shall fall
too; for how can I endure, even for a moment, what Mademoiselle
contemplates doing--what Mademoiselle will do? It will mean Brenda's
ruin, Brenda's public disgrace, and my disgrace! Oh, to think that I
should be living here, and that the children--Nellie and Pauline--should
love me, and confide in me, and all the time my sister--mine! has stolen
Nellie's bangle! Oh, Brenda, Brenda!"
Poor Penelope did not cry: she was past tears. She sat and gazed out
into the night. Her perplexities were extreme; she could not rest.
What was she to do? Mademoiselle had put her, indeed, into a cleft
stick; whichever way she turned there seemed to be nothing but despair.
"I was so happy; but that doesn't matter," she thought. "The thing now
to do is to know how to save Brenda. Can I save her by--by--trying to
get money for her? But then I couldn't get money. Oh, yes, I could,
though--or at least perhaps I could, I don't know. I wouldn't ask the
girls again for all the world--but there's the squire; he might--might
lend it to me. I'd have to tell him a lot of lies--and I shouldn't like
that. I must sink down to Brenda's level in order to save her! Oh,
Brenda, I can't, I just can't! Brenda, why did you do it? And I had
got that twenty pounds for you. Why _did_ you steal the bangle and put
every one on the wrong scent and get us into the power of that terrible,
unscrupulous Mademoiselle! She'll do what she said she would--there's
no sort of hope from her. Oh, what am I--what am I to do!"
"Do right," whispered a voice in her ear. This voice spoke light and
clear from the conscience of Penelope Carlton, and it was so startling
in its tone that it seemed to her that some one spoke to her. She
started and looked out, gazing to right and left. As she did this, some
one who was walking below, saw her. That some one was Honora. She
observed the white, very white face of the girl and noticed its agony.
All of a sudden, Honora came to a resolve.
"There is something wrong," she thought to herself. "It's not an
ordinary headache. I don't like that sister of hers a bit--we none of
us do. She has done something to make poor little Pen unhappy. I just
think that I'll force myself on her this very night. She is too
miserable to be left alone; of that I am sure."
Mary L'Estrange and Cara Burt, walking arm in arm, came now into view.
"What is the matter, Honora?" said Mary.
"Why do you ask?" questioned Nora.
Mary gave a laugh.
"You look something like what you did that evening when you refused to
take the part of Helen of Troy."
"Oh, we needn't bother about that now," said Honora, a slight tone of
vexation in her voice. Then she added, suddenly: "I am not quite happy
about Pen; I don't think she is well. I am going to her."
"But she has only a headache," said Cara, "and no wonder, out all this
hot day in the sun."
"I feel somehow that it's more than a headache," said Honora. "I saw
her just now looking out of her window, and somehow, I feel she may want
me: in any case, I am going to her. Will you, Cara, and you, Mary, just
lead the games, and don't let the children stay out very much longer;
it's time for the young ones, at least, to go to bed."
Cara and Mary promised, and immediately turned away.
"I," said Cara, addressing her companion, "also thought there was
something queer about Penelope to-night. It is odd that Honora should
have worn the expression she did when she refused to act as Helen of
Troy."
"And another thing is also odd."
"What do you mean?" asked Cara.
"Why, at supper to-night, it seemed to me that Penelope looked as she
did when she made that extraordinary request of us, asking us to give
her five pounds apiece for her to take the part."
"I didn't notice that expression," exclaimed Mary. "But it was very
queer of her to want the money. I didn't like her a bit then, did you,
Cara?"
"Of course not," said Cara. "I despised her utterly."
"So did I, until she acted Helen, and then I could not help admiring
her--she was quite, quite splendid."
"And since she has come here," continued Cara, "she has been very, very
nice. Honora is wonderfully taken with her. Honora told me to-day that
she loves her dearly and means to help her after she has left school.
Honora says she's such a lady, and so different from her elder sister."
"Oh, _she's_ quite an impossible person," said Mary. "But here come
some of the stragglers. Now we must resume our play. Hullo! Nellie;
is it my turn to be blindfolded?"
The elder girls, the boys, and the little girls continued their play,
Honora ran up to Penelope's room and tapped at the door. Penelope
started, and at first did not reply. But the tap was repeated, and she
was forced to say, "Who's there?"
"It is I--Honora," called a voice.
"Oh, Nora--I am just going to bed," answered Penelope.
"No, you're not, dear. Let me in, please."
There was another moment of hesitation. Then the door was unlocked, and
Honora entered. The room was full of moonlight, for Penelope had not
lighted any candle.
"What is it, Nora?" she said.
"I thought I'd come and sit with you for a little, for--you naughty
thing--you've not gone to bed; I happened to see you from the garden
below. What is the matter, Pen?"
"I want to be alone to-night so very badly," said Penelope.
"You're very unhappy, Pen--I want to know what is the matter."
"I am unhappy--but I can't tell you, Honora."
"What is the good of a friend if you can't confide in her?" said Honora.
"If," said Penelope, speaking very slowly, "I do what I ought to do, you
will never be my friend again; you will never wish even to have my name
mentioned. And if I do what I ought not to do, then perhaps, you will
be my friend--but I shall be unworthy of you."
"I don't know anything whatever about that," said Honora; "but I do know
one thing. If you are in any sort of trouble (and perhaps your sister
has got you into some trouble--for, to tell you the truth, Penelope, I
do not greatly care for your sister, and I must say so just now), you
will, of course do what is right."
"That is the dreadful thing my conscience said just now," said Penelope.
"Then you really are in great trouble, dear?"
"Don't call me dear," said Penelope. "I am in great trouble."
"On your own account?"
"Practically. I did wrong a little time ago, and it is reflecting on
me; and anyhow, of course it _is_ my trouble--and it's--Oh, Nora--don't
touch me--don't look at of! Go away, please--I'm not fit for you to
look at me. I belong to--to--the wicked people! Go away, Nora--you're
so pure, and so--so--sort of--holy. I am frightened when I see you--let
me be alone to-night!"
"It's your sister Brenda, it's not you!" said Honora, startled.
"Oh, don't blame her too much--please, please! She is my only sister.
Oh, what shall I do!"
Penelope flung herself on her bed and burst into a tempest of weeping.
Perhaps those tears really saved her brain, for the poor girl was
absolutely distracted. While she wept, and wept, and wept, Honora knelt
by her, now and then patting her shoulder gently, now and then uttering
a word of prayer to God. For this was the sort of occasion when
Honora's real religious training came strongly to the fore. She knew
that her friend was tempted, that something had happened which could
scarcely by any possibility come into her own life, and that if she did
not stand by her now, she might fall.
"But I won't let her," thought the girl. "I'll stick by her through
thick and thin. I love her--I didn't when I was at school, but I do
now."
After a time, however, poor Penelope's tears ceased. Honora bent down
and put her arm round her neck.
"I want to whisper something to you," she said. "I want to confide
something. I was not nice to you at school. I thought you, somehow,
not a bit the sort of girl that I could ever care for. Then, when I saw
you act as Helen of Troy and look so transformed, it seemed to me that
my eyes were opened about you, and I wanted to have you here much more
badly than I wished to have any other girl here; and since you came, I
have learned to love you. Now I don't love very, very easily--I mean I
don't give my deepest love. Having given it, however, I cannot possibly
take it back--it is yours for what it is worth. I know something
terrible has happened, and I want you to do right, not wrong, for it is
never worth while to do wrong. I want you to try and understand that
here, and to-night--it is always worth while to do right, and never
worth while to do wrong. So choose the right, darling; I will ask God
to help you."
"But you don't know--you can't even guess!" sobbed Penelope.
"Do you think you could bring yourself to tell me? We are all alone
here, in this dark room, for even the moon will soon set, and I am your
true friend. Don't you think you could just tell me everything?"
"Oh, I don't know--no, I couldn't--I couldn't!" Penelope rose. "I have
no words to thank you," she continued. "You have comforted me, and
perhaps--anyhow, I must have until the morning to think."
"Very well," said Honora, "I will go away to my own room and think of
you all night, and pray for you, and in the morning, at seven o'clock, I
will come back to you. Then, perhaps you will tell me--for you have got
something to _do_, have you not?"
"I have to do something, or not to do something."
"If you do that something, what will happen?"
"Apparently nothing, only I--"
"I understand," said Honora. "The thing you have got to do is wrong.
Suppose you don't do it--"
"Then--then--oh, Honora--I could wish to-night that I had never lived to
grow up to my present age. I'm nearly mad with misery!"
"I will come to you in the morning," said Honora. "But before I go, I
wish to say something--that of course you won't do whatever the thing
is; for if you keep yourself right, other things must come right
somehow."
Then Honora kissed Penelope, and left the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
A WONDERFUL DREAM.
Penelope stayed awake for a very long time after Honora had left her.
When at last she fell asleep, however, she had a wonderful, an
extraordinary dream.
She thought that an angel came into her room and looked down at her, and
gave her the choice between the downward and the upward roads. The
angel carried a crown in his hand; and he pointed to it, and said that
it was the crown of thorns. He asked her if she thought that by any
means she were worthy to wear it. He said that if she could prove
herself to be thus worthy, nothing else really mattered.
Having said these words, he laid the crown by her side and went away,
very slowly vanishing, first into thin mist, then into nothing.
Penelope in her dream found herself all alone with the crown of thorns.
The thorns were all glistening with dew drops, as though the crown had
been freshly made. She noticed that the thorns were sharp and of the
sort that might hurt her very much, were she to wear the crown.
Nevertheless, she started quite happily to her feet and, raising the
crown, placed it for an instant on her head. It gave her very great
pain but at the same time immense courage. She did not think she would
mind even bitter shame if she was conscious of that crown surrounding
her brow. She thought she would like to look at herself in the mirror
and see her own reflection with the crown of thorns about her. She
imagined, in her dream, that she crossed the room and stood before the
long glass. She saw her own reflection quite distinctly--her white
night dress with its frills, her little pale face, her golden hair.
But--lo, and behold! the crown itself was invisible! She put up her
hand to touch it. She felt it quite distinctly, and its thorns pierced
her hand and hurt her head, but she could not see it. She stared hard
at her own reflection. Then there came a noise outside the door and
Penelope awoke.
She was lying in bed. The angel and the crown of thorns were only a
dream. Nevertheless, she knew something that she had not known when she
fell asleep. She knew now that it was quite impossible for her to
choose the downward path, and she knew also that the crown of thorns
made all things--even the most painful things of life--possible, if one
were only doing right.
The noise outside her door had been made by Honora. Honora came in with
her white dressing-gown wrapped round her, and her sweet, lofty-looking
face more full of compassion and more serene, even, than usual. The
moment Penelope saw her, she started up in bed and said with fervour:
"I have had a dream--the most wonderful in the world; and I know
perfectly well, at last, what I am going to do, and you needn't ask me
any more. But I have made up my mind to choose the most difficult
sight, and to reject the most easy Wrong."
"There now," said Honora, "I knew you would."
"I can't tell you any more just yet. You will know all; to-day--
everybody will know all to-day."
"You would really rather I did not know first!"
"It would be easier for me that you should not know first. But just
tell me this. Is Mrs Hungerford really coming to-day?"
"Yes," said Honora, in some surprise; "but I didn't even know that you
knew her."
"I don't really. Paulie was telling me about her last night, and how
delighted she was at the thought of seeing her. When will she come,
Nora?"
"Oh, I think by quite an early train; she'll be here probably about
twelve o'clock."
"Nora, do you think I might drive into Marshlands quite early, that is,
immediately after breakfast? I want to see my sister Brenda."
"Of course you may. Oh, how white you look! I trust you are not going
to be ill!"
Penelope whispered to her own heart: "It's only the pain that the crown
gives, and I don't mind that sort." She said aloud, in almost a
cheerful voice: "No, I'm not going to be ill," and presently Honora left
her.
Then Penelope rose and dressed and ran downstairs. She went into the
garden, which was always fresh and beautiful. Once or twice she put her
hand to her forehead, as though she would feel the crown and those
thorns that pierced her brow and were so sweet and sustaining.
Breakfast was ready at the usual hour, and the children were gay and
happy--the little Hungerfords wild with delight at the thought of seeing
their mother, and Mary L'Estrange and Cara Burt were full of sympathy
with regard to Penelope who, they thought, looked particularly nice that
morning.
"I am so glad you have got over your headache," said Mary.
"Oh, yes, quite," replied Penelope.
"But you must be careful to-day," said Cara; "you must stay a good deal
in the shade, for it's going to be hot--very hot--even hotter than
yesterday."
"I am obliged to go to Marshlands," said Penelope; "but I shall be very
careful," she added.
The girls expostulated, and Cara called to Honora.
"Are you going to permit this, Nora? Penelope, after her bad headache,
declares that she is going to Marshlands again to-day."
"Yes; she has to go on some business," replied Honora. "But it's all
right," she added, "for I have ordered the phaeton with the hood, which
shall be put up so that she'll be sheltered from the rays of the sun."
Almost immediately after breakfast, Penelope started on her drive to
Marshlands.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.
RESTITUTION.
Mademoiselle was very restless. She had confided a little bit of her
interview with Penelope to Mrs Dawson, and Mrs Dawson had much
approved of what the Frenchwoman had done. The fact is, these two women
had, more or less, sketched out a future together on the strength of the
twenty pounds which Penelope would give as hush money with regard to the
lost bangle.
"I will keep the bangle too," said Mademoiselle. "It would not be at
all safe to give it to either of the Carlton girls. You shall wear it
sometimes, and I will wear it sometimes, and we might take the house
next door to this, and do a thriving business next season."
Mrs Dawson said once, in a feeble sort of way: "Isn't it very wicked,
though?"
"Wicked?" cried Mademoiselle, "when the poor have to live!" She held up
her hands in expostulation. "Ah, Madame!" she said, "trust to me in
this matter. I have been treated in the way the most cruel, and this is
my small, my very small revenge."
Mrs Dawson was fascinated, but even still not quite convinced. Brenda,
meanwhile, knew nothing of that sword of Damocles which was hanging over
her devoted head. Strange as it may seem, she had not looked at the
bangle on the previous night, and none of the girls dared to tell her
what had occurred. She was very cross, and exceedingly disappointed.
Her hopes had fallen through. Her little money was largely spent--all
to no effect. The holidays would, all too quickly, go by, and there was
nothing before her but a dreary and most monotonous existence at the
Reverend Josiah Amberley's, with her very stupid pupils as companions.
As to Harry, of course he was hopeless. She would not have looked at
him again. A merchant prince, indeed! He was nothing but the son of a
fifth-rate tradesman. This fact accounted for his atrocious manners and
for all his many delinquencies. Certainly Brenda was in the worst of
humours, and the three little girls were by no means comfortable in her
presence.
She was in her room on the following morning, and the girls were there
too. They were there during the moment when she would discover that the
valuable bangle had been changed, and were anxious to hurry her off to
the seashore.
"Let's come, and be quick," said Nina. "What's the good of being at the
seaside if we're not out enjoying the air? Dear papa will be vexed if
we tell him that we have spent half our time in this poky, horrid room."
"I wonder," said Brenda, in response, "that a little girl dares to utter
such untruths. And where's your notebook, Nina? Out with it, this
minute!"
Nina coloured and then turned pale.
"I've lost it," she said.
"Lost it--what do you mean?"
"Well, not that exactly. I--I've torn it up."
"You wicked little girl!"
Brenda advanced towards poor Nina; but what might have happened was
never known, for just at that moment there came a tap at the door, and
in walked Penelope. There was a look on her face which the three little
Amberleys had never seen there before; but Brenda had on one occasion,
that great and auspicious occasion when her younger sister had stood
spellbound under the full rays of the electric light, acting the part of
Helen of Troy. There was the same rapt gaze, the same expression in her
eyes, which seemed to say: "Where'er I came I brought calamity." Brenda
did not know why her heart sank so low in her breast, why the petty,
trivial things which had been annoying her a moment before sank utterly
out of sight. Penelope looked round at the three girls.
"I want to speak to Brenda," she said. "Brenda, can I see you alone."
"You had better go out, girls, as Penelope chooses to be so mysterious,"
said Brenda, recovering herself, and speaking in a sulky tone.
It did not take the girls long to put on their sailor hats, and a moment
later they had left the room. Then Penelope turned the key in the lock.
"It has come, Brenda," she said. "I don't want to reproach you or to
say a cross word; but there's only one thing to be done."
"What in the wide world do you mean?" said Brenda. "What reason have
you for all these heroics?"
"I know about you," said Penelope then. "It,"--her voice quivered--"has
broken my heart! But there is only one thing to be done. You must come
back with me to Beverley Castle, and bring the bangle with you."
"The bangle?" said Brenda.
She had been fairly cool until now. But now she trembled exceedingly,
and leaned up against the wardrobe. She did not even ask what bangle.
"You stole Nellie Hungerford's bangle on the day of the break-up at
Hazlitt Chase," pursued Penelope. "You put people on the wrong scent
with regard to it. Where you found it and how--I don't know, but you
did find it."
"How can you possibly, possibly tell?" gasped Brenda then.
"For the beat of all reasons--I have seen it."
"Seen it--seen it? the lost bangle?"
"I saw it last night. Mademoiselle got possession of it--I can't
exactly say how--but she managed to get to your drawer and found it."
"I don't believe a word of it!" began Brenda.
"It is true," said Penelope. "There is no way out, Brenda, except by
the one painful way. You and I must see Mrs Hungerford to-day, and
return the bangle. There is no other possible way out."
"But--but--I didn't do it," began Brenda.
"Oh, poor Brenda!" said Penelope. "Why will you add to all the misery
by telling lies? You know you did it. I will call Mademoiselle."
She turned swiftly and left her sister standing in the middle of the
room. The very instant this happened, Brenda flew up to the little
ornament on the shelf on the over-mantel, took out the key, and opened
the drawer. She laid her hand on the box on which she had written
Fanchon's name, opened it, and took out the false bangle. She was
looking at it in a sort of stunned way, when Mademoiselle, accompanied
by Mrs Dawson, came in.
"Ah!" said Mademoiselle, whose face was white with rage; for she never
expected that Penelope would act as she had done. "You are the thief--
convicted in the very act!" and she pointed with a finger of scorn at
Brenda.
"You're a nice young woman to have as a visitor in my respectable
house!" said Mrs Dawson.
"_Pauvre petite_! She looks as if she could faint," said Mademoiselle,
who still did not give up hope of obtaining money and having the affair
hushed up. "Why, will her own sister ruin her! The thing can be--oh,
not spoken of, but put away in the most secret of the heart's recesses--
buried there for all time. A leetle--a very leetle money, will do
this."
"No," said Penelope, turning and flashing her eyes upon her. "You
tempted me last night, but I am thankful to say your temptation has not
the smallest attraction for me any longer. I want you, and Mrs
Dawson--if she likes--and Brenda to come back with me immediately to the
Castle; and you, Mademoiselle, who so cleverly discovered the bangle,
will receive your reward. But the bangle itself must be returned.
Fetch it, please; for there is no time to lose."
"Then you will," said Mademoiselle, "with your own hands, send your only
young sister to prison! Oh, the hardness of your heart!"
Penelope made no reply to that, but as she glanced at Brenda, who was
absolutely silent--all the brilliant colour gone from her pretty face,
the hand of age itself seeming to steal over her features--such a sharp
pain went through the younger girl's heart that, involuntarily, she put
her hand to her brow as though to feel the weight of the crown of
thorns. Whatever that actually signified, it seemed to comfort her and
steady her resolves. She turned to Brenda, and said quickly: "Will you
get ready at once, dear?" And Mademoiselle, seeing that she was
defeated, went out of the room, and brought the bangle.
"I myself convey it to the Castle," she said. "I will myself relate the
story, and will claim that shabby reward which has been offered for the
recovery of the lost treasure."
"That is exactly as you like. And would Mrs Dawson wish to accompany
you--"
"No," said Mrs Dawson, "not I. I have had nothing to do with this
thing. I had my suspicions on the night when I saw such an unsuitable
ornament on Miss Fanchon's wrist. There is nothing whatever for me to
do but to request that the Misses Amberley be removed from my house as
soon as possible--"
"Oh, that is for afterwards," interrupted Penelope. "Brenda has got
something to do first. Come, Brenda, shall I find your hat? The sooner
we get this over, the better."
"But I won't go--I won't!" suddenly shrieked Brenda. "I have not
confessed; I have admitted nothing. Why should I not have a bangle of
my own. Is Nellie Hungerford's the only one in the world?"
"The queer coincidence of the engraving exactly alike on the bangle
which contains the most precious ruby and on this bangle which holds the
turquoise of great beauty makes it scarcely probable, _mon enfant_,"
said Mademoiselle. As she spoke, she held up the glittering toy for
Penelope to see. "I will go and put on my neat bonnet and be ready to
accompany you, young ladies," she said.
Thus it came to pass that, half an hour later, a miserable,
cowed-looking girl entered the phaeton and took her place by
Mademoiselle's side. Penelope occupied the little seat in front. No
one spoke during that miserable drive, but that aged look was still
perceptible on Brenda's face, and the colour had absolutely left her
cheeks. Once Penelope tried to take her sister's hand, but Brenda
pulled it roughly away.
At last, they all reached Castle Beverley. Mrs Hungerford was there
with her two little girls, and Honora was watching for Penelope with
more anxiety in her heart than she cared to own. When she saw that
Penelope had brought her sister and the French governess back with her,
she guessed at once that something important must have occurred. The
three got out.
"This is for me my hour of triumph," said Mademoiselle. But she uttered
the words without any jauntiness, for the look on Brenda's face appalled
even her gay and wicked spirit.
Penelope went straight up to Nora.
"I have brought my sister and Mademoiselle; and will Mrs Hungerford
come--and will you come, Honora? The sooner we get this over, the
better."
"Oh--I can't," murmured Brenda, in a passionate voice under her breath.
"You can--you must. It is the only, only way," whispered Penelope then.
With these words, she determinedly took her sister's hand, and the three
went into the small room opening out of the front hall, while Honora ran
to fetch Mrs Hungerford. When that lady appeared, being much amazed at
this hasty summons, she was startled at the aspect of the little group
who awaited her. There was Penelope, with still that Helen-of-Troy
expression on her face. There was Brenda, aged for the time being, and
shrinking; and there was Mademoiselle, with her wicked eyes gleaming.
The moment Mrs Hungerford entered, Mademoiselle marched up to her.
"I claim the so great reward," she said. "You did advertise for this
very leetle trinket, and behold! I it to you restore. Look at it--it
is the one that you have lost. Ponder it--and consider it well.
Compare it with the bracelet your little daughter Pauline wears, and see
if it is not, in very truth, the lost bangle."
"It most certainly is," said Mrs Hungerford; "and you have found it?
Pardon me--I do not know your name."
"Mademoiselle d'Etienne--at your service. I have had the so high
privilege to teach your young daughters the elegancies of our French
tongue at that select seminary, Hazlitt Chase. I know when the bangle
was missing, and the sore grief it was to the _chere petite_ who had
lost it. Through a series of adventures I have found it again, and I
lay it on your lap. You can give it to the child for whom it was
purchased."
"But how did you get it?"
"Ah! There I have a _histoire_ the most pathetic, the most wonderful,
the most _extra-ordinaire_ to relate."
"No," interrupted Penelope, suddenly, "the time has come for Brenda to
speak. Brenda, tell what you know."
"There's no use in concealing it," said Brenda. "I am not sorry--I
mean, I'm only sorry to be found out. Mrs Hungerford, this is what
happened. Do you remember driving up with me to Hazlitt Chase on the
day of the prize-giving? You stepped--oh--out of the carriage, and as
you did so you dropped the bangle on the ground, I saw it: I coveted it:
I took it: I slipped it into my pocket. I put you off the scent by
telling my sister that doubtless you had dropped it in the train. I am
the thief. I await my punishment: it is prison, it it not? Very well;
I have confessed. I think it is most likely that Mr Beverley is a
magistrate. He can send for the police, and put me into prison. I
stole the bangle: Mademoiselle found it. I am a thief, and Penelope is
the sister of one. That is all."
"Oh, poor girl!" said Mrs Hungerford. She rose slowly from her seat
and left the room. In a few minutes she returned. She brought with her
three sovereigns and three shillings.
"These are for you," she said to Mademoiselle. "This is the reward
offered. You have led to the discovery of the bangle--I don't want to
know how--take your reward, and go."
"Yes, please go at once," said Honora.
There was a quality in her young voice which the Frenchwoman had never
heard before, and there was such a ring of scorn in Mrs Hungerford's
tone that it seemed--as Mademoiselle afterwards expressed it--"to wither
even the very vitals." She took her money sulkily and, without a word,
left the presence of the others, never to be seen by them again.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
What followed can be easily explained. Mrs Hungerford was a good
woman. Honora had learned some lessons in the higher life. Now Mrs
Hungerford and Honora were certainly not going to punish Penelope, and
their one earnest desire was to rescue Brenda.
They left the sisters alone for a short time, and talked together.
"That poor, poor, pretty girl!" said Mrs Hungerford. "Oh, of course
what she did was dreadful, but we just mustn't let her go under, must
we, Honora?"
"I knew you would feel like that," said Honora, "I felt certain of it.
You can little guess what Penelope has suffered; she is a splendid girl.
Her mission at present in life is to help her sister."
"Now listen."
Mrs Hungerford proposed a plan which was eventually carried out. This
was no less than, first and foremost, to assure Brenda of her absolute
forgiveness.
"You acted very badly indeed," she said; "but I am not going to call the
police, nor to put you in prison. Your punishment will be that those
who know you will have to be acquainted with what has occurred. You had
much better not return to the boarding-house, but stay here. Your
little pupils must go back to their father, for I do not think it right
that they should be with you any longer. As to you--I want you and
Penelope to do something for me."
"I to do anything for you?" said Brenda, her eyes suddenly growing soft
and a new expression stealing over her face.
"Yes. My house in the country is empty at present. Will you and
Penelope go there to-day and live there quietly until the holidays come
to an end? I can put you on the way. When the holidays are over,
Penelope will, of course, return to Hazlitt Chase, and I myself will do
my utmost to get you a post which I think you may suit--not as teacher
to the young, for you have not the necessary qualifications."
From the thought of prison, the magistrates, the handcuffs, which she
might possibly wear, the public examination, the trial--to going away
with Penelope to Mrs Hungerford's own house was such a relief to the
miserable Brenda that, all of a sudden, she gave way utterly.
"There--now I am sorry really!" she said. "I was not a bit sorry when
every one was hard to me, but I am bitterly sorry now!"
Mrs Hungerford's arrangements were carried out in full detail. The
little Amberleys were invited up to the Castle until the Reverend Josiah
could be summoned. He came on the following morning, and was told in
full the sad story about Brenda. He was greatly shocked, but begged
that the knowledge of what had occurred should be kept from his
daughters.
"I am afraid they suspect a great deal," said Mrs Beverley, who of
course had been taken into confidence.
"Poor children, life is hard on them!" said dear papa, "and I did think
Brenda such a sweet young creature. How frightfully we were deceived!
But I must take them back, and get Miss Juggins to teach them in
future."
"Perhaps you would allow me to recommend a particularly nice girl to be
their governess," here interposed Mrs Beverley.
"Oh, Madam, do you know of one?"
"I do--I have known her since she was a child. I think she would go to
you, and help your little girls. Her name is Lydia Hamburg. You can
see her if you like, for she lives close by."
Lydia Hamburg, who was all that Brenda Carlton was not, did eventually
find herself installed as governess to the little Amberleys; and as she
was faithful and true, the wheels of life ran smoothly at the rectory,
and the girls turned out, on the whole, better than might have been
expected.
As to Brenda, hers was a difficult and--it must be owned--a worthless
character. Not all Penelope's earnestness and faithful love would make
her really see the enormity of her crime in its full light. But,
nevertheless, even she had learned a lesson and, in future, would not
lend herself to such open sin as heretofore. Mrs Hungerford arranged
that she was to leave England, with a party who were going to Canada;
for in a fresh land, she might do better.
These things have all happened, and the characters in this story have
moved on a little way in life's journey. To each has been meted out a
due share of cloud and sunshine, and those who have done wrong have each
in their turn suffered.
But Penelope has never forgotten her dream, nor the feeling of that
blessed crown of thorns, and she and Honora Beverley are the best and
truest of friends.
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