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 thatsouffléwhich 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 dailyménage, 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.“Lespauvres enfants!” exclaimed Mademoiselle. “Why confine them to theirappartementon 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.“Ihategoing 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 sotriste appartement, while she and Fanchon go abroad in order to amuse themselves. But, my dearpetites, 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-être, 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,méchante—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 promenadeordinaire, 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 chère,” 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—itisFanchon’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. Whatawfulfun 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. Weshallhave fun to-morrow night—I can hardly sleep for thinking about it!”
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 thatsouffléwhich 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 dailyménage, 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.
“Lespauvres enfants!” exclaimed Mademoiselle. “Why confine them to theirappartementon 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.
“Ihategoing 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 sotriste appartement, while she and Fanchon go abroad in order to amuse themselves. But, my dearpetites, 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-être, 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,méchante—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 promenadeordinaire, 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 chère,” 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—itisFanchon’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. Whatawfulfun 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. Weshallhave 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 asempresséas 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 thepensionwhere 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 wearykilometres!”“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. Atpresent—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 asoupçonof 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.
Brenda and Fanchon had by no means a very satisfactory evening out. Harry Jordan was not quite asempresséas 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 thepensionwhere 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 wearykilometres!”
“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. Atpresent—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 asoupçonof 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 wastriste. The good food it cost—oh, much, much! but it was not delectable. You needed me,chère 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 thishistoire!”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 aimée; 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, itisvery ‘chic’—I can see that. Now, just, my dear ones, walk outside the shop for a leetle, a veryleetletime, 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 sofatiguées,” 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 nowtrès-fatiguée!” 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 matterabsolumentin my hands. I have my own plans, and they will include you. Think what discovery would mean—justnow, 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 allesclandresat bay. We court it not, Madame. It is not good for your beautiful home; but the breath of scandal, Madame, it is—oh,assurément, 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.”“Idon’t want to hear,” said Nina. Then she added:“Josie and I have a secret too—a beautiful, beautiful secret thatyoudon’t know anything about.”“Asecret?” 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 islovely! 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.”“AndI’lltell 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—Iwillshow 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 onyourknees and promise thatyouwon’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—“shegave it to me!”“Who in the world isshe?” 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. Thenyouwill 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 wasnother 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.“Wheredidyou 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 hasstolenthe 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! Butmybangle that was eighteen carat gold—and there was the most lovely turquoise in it—is gone! Oh, what am I to do!”
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 wastriste. The good food it cost—oh, much, much! but it was not delectable. You needed me,chère 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 thishistoire!”
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 aimée; 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, itisvery ‘chic’—I can see that. Now, just, my dear ones, walk outside the shop for a leetle, a veryleetletime, 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 sofatiguées,” 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 nowtrès-fatiguée!” 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 matterabsolumentin my hands. I have my own plans, and they will include you. Think what discovery would mean—justnow, 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 allesclandresat bay. We court it not, Madame. It is not good for your beautiful home; but the breath of scandal, Madame, it is—oh,assurément, 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.”
“Idon’t want to hear,” said Nina. Then she added:
“Josie and I have a secret too—a beautiful, beautiful secret thatyoudon’t know anything about.”
“Asecret?” 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 islovely! 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.”
“AndI’lltell 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—Iwillshow 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 onyourknees and promise thatyouwon’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—“shegave it to me!”
“Who in the world isshe?” 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. Thenyouwill 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 wasnother 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.
“Wheredidyou 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 hasstolenthe 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! Butmybangle that was eighteen carat gold—and there was the most lovely turquoise in it—is gone! Oh, what am I to do!”