Chapter Sixteen.A Scrumptious Day.Notwithstanding that fear, however, on the following morning the pretty governess looked gay enough. They were to have a delightful day; there was no real danger; no one could prove in all the world that the bangle was not her own, or at least, her pupil’s. But she would not allow Fanchon to wear it again. She must not be seen in it, that was plain. As the horrid, odious thing was being advertised for, it was highly dangerous that Fanchon should wear it. Brenda could not enough regret her imprudence in having allowed her pupil to appear in it on the previous night. But how could she guess that that uninteresting youth, Joe Burbery, would have noticed it and seen the advertisement—the advertisement! oh, how perfectly dreadful! Why did rich people bother when they lost such a simple thing as a little gold bangle with a blue stone in it? Why could not they allow poor folks to have their chances? And Joe Burbery had seen—had seen—this horrible advertisement! Well, of course that meant nothing at all. Brenda could not guess that a far worse enemy in the shape of Mrs Dawson had also observed it. All she could do at present was to lock the bangle carefully up in one of the drawers of the humble little chest of drawers which the four had to share between them in their horrible hot bedroom.She whispered a word to Fanchon not to breathe the subject of the bangle at the Castle, promising her as a reward that it should be hers absolutely, all the sooner. She then proceeded to make a most careful toilet herself and to superintend those of her pupils. She was really anxious that the three little Amberleys should look their best on this occasion. So she took their red hair out of the tight plaits in which they generally wore it, and combed it out and caused it to ripple down their backs.This delighted Fanchon, and also Josephine, but Nina was greatly bothered by the heat of her thick fleece of red hair and would have infinitely preferred its being plaited tightly and tied with the old brown ribbon which generally adorned it. Nevertheless, when Brenda assured her that she was most elegant and altogether superior to most girls in her appearance, she decided to endure the unwonted heat.A carriage from the neighbouring livery stables was sent for, and the three drove off in state to Castle Beverley, just in time to arrive on the scene between twelve and one o’clock; and Mrs Dawson, Miss Price, Mrs Simpkins, and all the little Simpkinses saw them off and wished them well, and a happy day; and when the carriage had turned the corner, Mrs Dawson was congratulated by the other ladies on her distinguished visitors. Mrs Dawson, however, made few replies, for she was considerably occupied with the thought of that advertisement and what it meant, and how it was that a commonplace child like Fanchon Amberley should wear so handsome a bangle.“For my poor husband was in the jewellery line when he lived,” thought the widow to herself, “and I know the best gold and real good stones when I see them.”Mrs Dawson’s feelings, however, have little to do with the really interesting events of this wonderful July day. The colour rose becomingly into Brenda’s cheeks as she thought of all that lay before her, and when the hackney carriage drew up outside the Beverleys’ house, she stepped lightly to the ground, and her pupils, with extreme awkwardness, followed her example. Josephine managed, in her exit from the carriage, to tear her delaine frock, which was decidedly annoying; but nothing else untoward occurred.Honora was there and so was Penelope, and so were several other of the girls; and they all swept Brenda and her little charges under their wings. Honora saw that the torn flounce was immediately mended, and then they went into the cool shady grounds. The three little Amberleys were introduced to girls corresponding to themselves in age, and were led away to enjoy several games. Fanchon for a time tried to observe the grown-up manners which Brenda had endeavoured to instil. She could not forget, either, that on the previous night she had worn a real gold bangle, and talked to a real man—for seventeen years of age seemed very old and grown-up to her fourteen summers.But Josie and Nina had no intention of doing anything but enjoy themselves. After the first few minutes of shyness, Nina complained bitterly of the heat of her hair and said she wished Brenda had not taken it out of its plaits.“Why,” asked little Nellie Hungerford—“don’t you always wear it like that down your back!”“Oh, never,” answered Nina. “It’s screwed up into tight, tight plaits, and tied with some sort of string at the end. That’s how I like it,” she answered. “Iamso hot with it falling all over my neck and shoulders—I wish I could cut it off.”“Oh, no—it is so pretty,” said Nellie. “I tell you what,” she added, “I’ll plait it for you, if you like.”“Will you!” answered Nina, “I wish you would.”“All right—I’ll do it right away, this very minute. And, Pauline darling, you can run into the house for a piece of ribbon. What colour do you want, Nina?”“Oh, anything will do,” said Nina—“a bit of grass, anything.”“Well, I tell you what,” said Nellie; “we are a good way from the house at present, and I have some string in my pocket, so we’ll tie it with that, and afterwards you shall have a piece of ribbon before we go down to lunch.”So Nina’s hot, red hair was very badly and unevenly plaited. It hung rather crooked, much more to the left shoulder than to the right, and the string was not becoming, but that did not matter at all to the emancipated little girl.When Nellie had plaited Nina’s hair, she suggested that she should perform the same office for the other two girls. Josie longed to accept, but did not dare. Fanchon answered, “No, thank you, I prefer my hair down until I can put it up properly. I long for the day when I can put my hair up. Don’t you?” she added, looking round at the little group who were surveying her.“Indeed, no,” answered both the little Hungerfords. “We should hate to be grown up. We love being children, don’t we, Pauline?”“Yes, yes,” said Pauline. It was just then that her beautiful little bangle with its ruby heart flashed in the sun. Fanchon noticed it; it was so very like her own—so like, but with a marked difference. She could not help saying:“What a very pretty bangle you have got!”“Yes—isn’t it?” said Pauline, but she spoke in a low voice, and pulled Fanchon a little aside. “Don’t speak of it, please,” she said. “I often feel that I oughtn’t to wear it.”“Do you, indeed?” said Fanchon, “I can’t understand why. It looks most elegant, and it gives such tone, doesn’t it, now?”“I don’t know anything about that,” said Pauline; “it is just a pretty little ornament. Mother gave it to me.”“Well, I’m sure you ought to wear what your mother gave you. It must be so sweet to get presents of that kind; why don’t you like to?”“I will tell you, if you’ll not say anything about it, and at the same time, when I tell you, I want you to promise me something.”Fanchon coloured with delight. Pauline belonged to the county, and there was quite a subtle difference between her and Miss Fanchon Amberley, which that young lady herself appreciated, struggled against, and detested, all at the same time.“Of course I won’t tell,” she said, “it is very nice of you to trust me. Have you a secret? It seems to me that most people have.”“Oh dear, no; I haven’t any secret in all the world,” said Pauline. “I wouldn’t; it’d be too horrid.”“Then why mustn’t I tell what you say?”“Because it would hurt my darling Nellie?”“Your sister?”“Yes.”“And why ever would it hurt her? Is she jealous because you have got something—something so very, very pretty, and so—so—‘chic’?”“I hate that word,” said Pauline, restlessly. “Well, I’ll just tell you the reason. I tell you because perhaps you will beg your sisters not to notice my bangle—I would so much rather they didn’t. The reason is this. Darlingest mother went to Paris not long ago and bought a bangle for each of us, one with a red stone—this ruby you see—for me, and one with the most lovely blue turquoise for Nellie, because Nellie’s birthday is in December, and that is the month for turquoises, and people who are born in December have the right to wear turquoises. And what do you think? Darling Nellie’s bangle is lost. We can’t imagine what’s become of it?”“Is it being advertised in the paper?” asked Fanchon, opening her eyes very wide.“Yes, of course it is. Have you seen the advertisement?”“No, I haven’t, but I—I met a ma— a person last night and he—the person, I mean—saw the advertisement and—and—told me. I am so sorry, I hope you will get it back.”“No—I am afraid we never will. The advertisement has been out some days now, and there has been no answer.”“Who do you think took it?” asked Fanchon.“Oh, one of the railway officials—it’s awful to think that those men should be so dishonest, but we’re certain it must be one of them, or, of course itmightbe a passenger in the train. Fred knows all about it. Fred thinks it must have been a passenger, but mother thinks it was an official. Anyhow, that doesn’t greatly matter, does it? Some one is a thief, and darling Nellie is without her bangle. I would much rather not wear mine—I really would—but mother insists, and Ithinkshe will get another for Nellie some day—that is, if Nellie is brave and doesn’t mind too much. But the loss of it has quite told upon her, and she isn’t half as good as she used to be, that’s why I don’t want you to speak of it.”“Oh, of course I won’t. I am immensely interested,” said Fanchon. “I do hope they’ll find it; I should think they’ll be sure to. What was it like, exactly? do you mind telling me?”“Exactly like this; do you notice the beautiful carving all round the gold? and the gold is the best that can be procured, and the stone was exactly the size of my ruby. I am July, you know, so the ruby is my stone. Well, well—we had better not say any more about it now—”“I have a bangle of my own,” suddenly said Fanchon.“Have you?”“Yes—but I mustn’t tell you about it. I ought not even to have mentioned that I have one. It was given to me by—by—a great friend. I prize it dearly. I longed and longed to wear it to-day, but I was not allowed.”“Who wouldn’t let you wear it?” asked Pauline.“My governess—Miss Carlton. She said that little girls didn’t wear jewellery. But you are younger than me, and you have your bangle on. I dowishMiss Carlton would have let me wear mine! It is—oh—Ishouldlike to describe it!”Pauline looked at her attentively.“Well,” she said, “why don’t you—that is, if you want to.”She was not really interested in Fanchon’s bangle.“I oughtn’t to have said anything, even that I possessed it, and you must promise that you won’t mention it. I had no right to let it out—no right at all; my—my friend would be so dreadfully angry—you will promise you won’t tell?”“Of course I won’t tell.”Pauline spoke in an offended, off-hand manner. She was not at all taken with Fanchon.“Come,” she said, “I won’t tell about your bangle, and you will ask your sisters not to mention mine. Now we must join the others. They’re going to have a game I know, under the trees.”Fanchon followed her companion. She felt a queer sense of excitement, but not the most remote suspicion of the real truth entered her mind.Meanwhile Honora, who wished to do everything in her power to make her visitors happy, arranged that Brenda and Penelope should be left quite undisturbed together. Penelope was not too happy at this idea, but as she could not possibly make any excuse for avoiding her dear Brenda, she was obliged to submit to it.“Why are we to be left all alone?” said Brenda, whose restless eyes had roved over the entire company, and had evidently thought Penelope the person least worth conversing with.“It is Honora,” replied Penelope at once. “She thinks that, as we are sisters, we ought to be glad to have a little time together all by ourselves. After lunch at one—we can join the others if you wish it.”“Of course I wish it,” said Brenda. “I have nothing special to say to you, Penelope; have you anything special to say to me?”“No, nothing at all,” said Penelope, a lump coming into her throat.“Well, shall we join the others, then! There are such a lot of them talking under that oak tree.”“It might look a little queer,” said Penelope, “and lunch will be quite soon. Let’s walk about under these trees; we shall be quite in the shade.”“Well—if we are to appear devoted sisters, let us play the part,” said Brenda, crossly. “After all,” she added, after a moment’s reflection, “I am glad to have a few words with you, Pennie, for I want you to help me all you possibly can.”“I can’t do anything more, I really can’t,” said Penelope, her eyes growing dark with alarm. “I got you that twenty pounds, and I don’t think I shall ever be happy again!”“Oh—what a little goose you are! How you harp upon that trifle!—and how far do you think twenty pounds will go in the case of a girl who wants every single thing that a girl ought to have? I thought this dress,”—Brenda looked at her spotted white muslin—“was really quite ‘chic’ until I saw Honora Beverley’s. I must say I don’t like Honora Beverley—of course you won’t whisper it, darling—but she always manages to put me in the shade. On the day of your fête when I wore my pale blue silk, her real Parisian lace made me look commonplace. And now, to-day, her white muslin must have cost pounds more than mine. It is disgusting to be trammelled like this, and I am sure I am fifty times prettier.”“Don’t, Brenda!” said Penelope, suddenly. As she spoke, she laid her hand on her sister’s arm.“What do you mean by ‘don’t’? Why do you look at me in that queer way?”“Because I can’t bear you to talk like that—what’s the good of fighting and struggling for the impossible? You are not born in Honora’s rank of life, and you can never aim at dressing like her. You look very—yes, very—”“You needn’t say it!” said Brenda, her eyes flashing with passion. “I know what you think of me—I saw it in your face when I came up. You are ashamed of me! It’s a nice thing for one sister to be ashamed of another, and I do my best—my very best—and you know what I wanted that money for—you know it quite well. I could cry, but it would spoil my eyes, and my eyes are my best point I mustn’t shed a tear, though tears are choking me, and I could—oh—I could sob—at your treating me like this, when you know, too—”“What do I know, Brenda? Brenda, what have I done?”“You show it all in your voice, and in your eyes, and in your manner—you’re bitterly ashamed of me!”“I should be very simple in my dress, if I were in your place,” said Penelope, “that is all.”“What can be simpler in all the world than sprigged white muslin with blue ribbons and a blue straw hat with blue bows to match? If I could think for ever, I could not imagine anything simpler.”“But all the blue ribbons—there are such a lot of them, Brenda. With a white hat, it would have been sweet. But, never mind—of course you’re very pretty.”“Thank you for nothing, my dear—I don’t owe my face to you, and I wouldn’t change it for yours, I can tell you.”“But tell me what you mean, for indeed, indeed I would help you, in the right way, all I could.”“I hate that solemn, sanctimonious manner in which you are getting to speak. You used to be such a nice, loving little thing, and foryouto reproach me for asking you to struggle to get me a miserable twenty pounds—why, you know I told you that I hoped to be engaged soon. If that comes off—and I see every likelihood of it, for he is veryempressé—I shall have as many jewels and dresses and furbelows as your precious Honora, and perhaps more. And I’ll be able to help you, so you’d better not cast me aside.”“Am I casting you off, Brenda? This is only my second day at Castle Beverley, and you and your pupils are spending it here.”“Yes, I know that, and I suppose I ought not to complain. But the fact is, it does make me cross to see the difference between this place and the horrid den in which I have to live at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. I shall get Harry—his name is Harry, but you mustn’t breathe it—to buy a castle like this for me to live in when I am married. He can well afford it, for he is a—”“Is his name Harry?” asked Penelope, impressed by what seemed to her the romance of a real love story.“Yes—I told you so.”“And his surname?”“I had better not breathe that yet. You mustn’t know him really until we are properly engaged. He is exceedingly good-looking, of the blond type. He is—oh—somebody who will probably be a baronet. They make very rich City magnates—I think they are called—baronets now, and I shall be Lady—oh, I mustn’t breathe the name. But listen; I want him to come to the point.”“Why—hasn’t he asked you yet?” exclaimed Penelope.“Hush, child! don’t talk so loud! What an indelicate way you have of approaching the subject; you take the bloom off it—you really do. But you know, notwithstanding his enormous wealth, he has lofty ideas, and would be greatly impressed if he thought I was thick with the people here; so I want you to have me asked very often. And there’s another thing; I should so like you to have us sent back in one of the carriages this evening.”“Oh, Brenda! Didn’t you desire the carriage you came in to call for you?”“Of course I didn’t—you horrid little thing! Do you suppose I can run to the expense? Really, Penelope, you are too trying. I didn’t desire the carriage to call—certainly not. If these grand people will see their humble visitors walking back to Marshlands in the heat of a summer’s evening, why, they must—that’s all. I should have thought that my sister could have managed differently.”“I can’t—I can’t,” said Penelope. “I hate asking favours. They’re so—just more than—kind. Couldn’t we send a message to Marshlands? I am sure a servant will be going in after lunch and I—I—would pay—I’ve got a few shillings.”But this idea did not at all suit Brenda.“No,” she said stoutly. “Nothing will induce me to take your money. If we’re not driven in, in one of the Beverley carriages—we’ll walk—we’ll arrive dusty and worn out, and wretched at Mrs Dawson’s—that is our landlady’s odious name. But what I really desire is to have one of the Beverley carriages, and for—for my Harry to see me in it. I do think it would have a most excellent effect on him; he is so wonderfully impressed by real style—I never knew anything like it.”“Well,” said Penelope, “I really don’t know how it is to be done. There’s the gong for lunch. Shall we go into the house!”Neither girl looked too happy during this meal; but Brenda contrived to get herself placed at table as far as possible from Penelope and as near to Fred as she could. She joked and laughed with Fred Hungerford, and he thought her a very pretty girl indeed. After lunch, however, he and his brother were obliged to go to Marshlands to see some friends. He mentioned this fact with regret to Brenda, who had hoped that he was going to be her partner in a game of tennis.“I can’t,” he said—“it is a long engagement, and I can’t break it. I should like to awfully; but of course you’ll come another day; I know my aunt will be delighted to ask you. We’re so glad to have your sister with us—we think she is such a very nice girl.”“So she is—a sweet girl—a noble girl,” said Brenda. She looked thoughtfully round her: there was no one exactly in sight.“I made such an idiotic mistake this morning,” she said. “I wonder—if you would help me—I scarcely know how to manage.”“Why—what did you do? and what can I do for you! I am sure I shall be quite pleased.”“I forgot to desire the cab from town to return for us. Would you—or could you—send a message to the livery stables to tell them to come here at—oh, I don’t know what hour we’re expected to leave.”“Not until dark—I’m certain, and of course you must have one of the carriages here. Wait a minute, and I’ll speak to my uncle.”Young Hungerford crossed the hall. He met the squire, and said a few words to him. The squire slightly raised his brows.“She ought not to have done it,” he said. “I don’t much admire that young lady; but of course, Fred, we’ll see her home—you just tell her so. And now get off, my dear lad, and enjoy yourself. The Calverts expect you and Jim quite early.”“I’ll just mention it to Miss Carlton—it’ll relieve her, poor thing,” said the young fellow. “She only forgot, you know.”“Not a bit of it,” muttered the squire.But Fred did not hear this remark, and, going back to Brenda, he set her mind at rest on the subject of the carriage.“It is all right,” he said. “And now I must be off, really. There is Pauline. Pauline, come along here. Will you take Miss Carlton out to the others?”“Please, will you come?” said Pauline.She did not look too pleased. Brenda was quick to recognise the fact, and, as the boys had all dispersed, she did not find the rest of the day so agreeable as she had hoped, although the girls did their very utmost for their visitors. The little Amberleys were really enjoying themselves. Even Fanchon forgot that she was anything but a small and ignorant girl. She shrieked with laughter when Josie did, and as to Nina, she romped round and round wildly with her red hair in its crooked plait and still tied at the end by the piece of string; for all the children had forgotten the piece of ribbon which was to have graced it at lunch. Brenda almost cried when she saw her pupil. Her first impulse was to call the child to her side, but she restrained herself. She was in too bad humour to care. Nothing that could be done would ever make the Amberleys look the least like the Hungerfords or the Beverleys, or the Beverleys’ friends. There was Mary L’Estrange, with her interesting face, and there was Cara Burt, who looked both haughty and distinguished. Even she herself was nobody in the midst of this group.But the strange thing was that Penelope, whom no one took any trouble about, whose dress was of the very plainest imaginable, seemed quite at her ease and was perfectly friendly with all the other girls.“But she’s such a plain little thing,” thought Brenda. “Of course she is wonderfully fair, but then she has no colour anywhere, nor any distinguished touches, and that white linen drew doesn’t suit her one bit. But all the same, she looks as I don’t look—I wish I could make it out—I hate being in this place, and yet, I must make myself agreeable, for I want them to ask me again and again.”The long day came to an end, as the longest, brightest days will. There was early supper for the children, who did not partake of late dinner with their elders. This fact alone somewhat offended Brenda, who thought that there might have been an exception made in her favour; and after supper, when it was really cool and delightful, Honora came up to the young lady’s side and asked her what hour she would like the wagonette to come round.“It is our small wagonette, but it’ll hold you four nicely,” she said. “Father tells me that you forgot to order your carriage to return, and of course we are delighted to send you back to Marshlands.”“I should like your carriage at any time that suits yourself,” replied Brenda.“Will eight o’clock do?” asked Honora.Brenda made a careful calculation. Harry would probably be going on the Esplanade about eight or soon after. She was quite determined that the coachman should drive them round in that direction. She meant the coachman to draw up in order that she might speak to Harry. That, at least, she might achieve at the end of her long and unsatisfactory day.So she said, in a meek voice, that she was very, very sorry to trouble the Beverleys, that it was very stupid of her to forget to order her own carriage to return, that her poor little head did often ache so badly with the care of her pupils—and so on, and so on, until Honora wondered when her regrets would end.“It doesn’t matter at all,” she said, in her pleasant, well-bred voice; “we are delighted to send you back, of course, and I hope you have enjoyed your day.”“Yes, thank you so much: your home is so delightful—so different from most places where I have the misfortune to live. And then to see my darling sister so perfectly happy—I am greatly obliged. I hope,” she added suddenly, “that you will permit Penelope to come to see us some day at Marshlands. We shan’t have much to offer her, but just a hearty welcome and the love of her sister.”“You had best come out here again; it would be fifty times better,” said Honora. “However, you will let us know; and now I’ll just run and desire them to bring the wagonette round. Why, it’s five minutes to eight.”Honora ran immediately out of the room and Penelope came in.“Well, Pen—I’ve got my way. I managed the carriage, you see, although you, strange, callous little thing, would not ask for it for me. But I have a champion in that handsome Fred Hungerford, and I’ve been practically asked here again. But now, look here—you must help me whether you like it or not. Listen. I shall write to you in a day or two asking you to come to spend the day at Palliser Gardens, where we put up. You’ll just know what it is if you spend one day with us. You’ll know what it is to be stuffy and hot, and to have horrid food, and you’ll see our miserable attic bedroom where we sleep all four together. You dare not refuse: you wouldn’t be quite so mean as that; and after you’ve come to us, and have got back again, you’ve got to make the worst of it; and then I’ll ask you again, and when I ask you the second time, you’ve to see that we come here instead. Well, I think that is all. You know your duty. Whether you are ashamed of me or not, I am your only sister. Oh, here come my little charges: what frights, to be sure! Nina,doput your hat on straight and let me take that string from your hair—you utterly ridiculous child!”Brenda pulled Nina with great firmness towards her, unplaited the shaggy mane, and let it fall once more over the child’s shoulders. Then the wagonette was heard approaching and Mrs Beverley said good-night to her visitors, and all the children of the Castle clustered around. Just at the last instant, Fanchon flew up to Pauline and whispered in her ear:“Ishouldlike to describe my bangle to you, but I—I just—dare not. But thank you for having given us all such a scrumptious day!”They got into the wagonette. The carriage rolled down the avenue and Brenda immediately enquired of Fanchon what secrets she had been pouring into little Miss Hungerford’s ears.“Oh, something that concerns—a—a friend of mine,” said Fanchon, looking wicked and mysterious; and Brenda suddenly remembered the bangle and felt crosser than ever. But, after all, she had her consolation, for the band was playing its very best as they passed the Esplanade, and there was Harry standing talking and smoking with some other men. Brenda immediately pulled the check string and beckoned him. He came forward in delight and confusion.“I shall be too tired to see you this evening, Mr Jordan,” said Brenda. “Drive on please, coachman. We have been having a delightful day,” she called out, as the man took her at her word, “at Castle Beverley.”“Sheisa stunner!” said Joe Burbery to his friend. “And what swells she knows! I say, old man, I have seldom seen such a ripping girl!”
Notwithstanding that fear, however, on the following morning the pretty governess looked gay enough. They were to have a delightful day; there was no real danger; no one could prove in all the world that the bangle was not her own, or at least, her pupil’s. But she would not allow Fanchon to wear it again. She must not be seen in it, that was plain. As the horrid, odious thing was being advertised for, it was highly dangerous that Fanchon should wear it. Brenda could not enough regret her imprudence in having allowed her pupil to appear in it on the previous night. But how could she guess that that uninteresting youth, Joe Burbery, would have noticed it and seen the advertisement—the advertisement! oh, how perfectly dreadful! Why did rich people bother when they lost such a simple thing as a little gold bangle with a blue stone in it? Why could not they allow poor folks to have their chances? And Joe Burbery had seen—had seen—this horrible advertisement! Well, of course that meant nothing at all. Brenda could not guess that a far worse enemy in the shape of Mrs Dawson had also observed it. All she could do at present was to lock the bangle carefully up in one of the drawers of the humble little chest of drawers which the four had to share between them in their horrible hot bedroom.
She whispered a word to Fanchon not to breathe the subject of the bangle at the Castle, promising her as a reward that it should be hers absolutely, all the sooner. She then proceeded to make a most careful toilet herself and to superintend those of her pupils. She was really anxious that the three little Amberleys should look their best on this occasion. So she took their red hair out of the tight plaits in which they generally wore it, and combed it out and caused it to ripple down their backs.
This delighted Fanchon, and also Josephine, but Nina was greatly bothered by the heat of her thick fleece of red hair and would have infinitely preferred its being plaited tightly and tied with the old brown ribbon which generally adorned it. Nevertheless, when Brenda assured her that she was most elegant and altogether superior to most girls in her appearance, she decided to endure the unwonted heat.
A carriage from the neighbouring livery stables was sent for, and the three drove off in state to Castle Beverley, just in time to arrive on the scene between twelve and one o’clock; and Mrs Dawson, Miss Price, Mrs Simpkins, and all the little Simpkinses saw them off and wished them well, and a happy day; and when the carriage had turned the corner, Mrs Dawson was congratulated by the other ladies on her distinguished visitors. Mrs Dawson, however, made few replies, for she was considerably occupied with the thought of that advertisement and what it meant, and how it was that a commonplace child like Fanchon Amberley should wear so handsome a bangle.
“For my poor husband was in the jewellery line when he lived,” thought the widow to herself, “and I know the best gold and real good stones when I see them.”
Mrs Dawson’s feelings, however, have little to do with the really interesting events of this wonderful July day. The colour rose becomingly into Brenda’s cheeks as she thought of all that lay before her, and when the hackney carriage drew up outside the Beverleys’ house, she stepped lightly to the ground, and her pupils, with extreme awkwardness, followed her example. Josephine managed, in her exit from the carriage, to tear her delaine frock, which was decidedly annoying; but nothing else untoward occurred.
Honora was there and so was Penelope, and so were several other of the girls; and they all swept Brenda and her little charges under their wings. Honora saw that the torn flounce was immediately mended, and then they went into the cool shady grounds. The three little Amberleys were introduced to girls corresponding to themselves in age, and were led away to enjoy several games. Fanchon for a time tried to observe the grown-up manners which Brenda had endeavoured to instil. She could not forget, either, that on the previous night she had worn a real gold bangle, and talked to a real man—for seventeen years of age seemed very old and grown-up to her fourteen summers.
But Josie and Nina had no intention of doing anything but enjoy themselves. After the first few minutes of shyness, Nina complained bitterly of the heat of her hair and said she wished Brenda had not taken it out of its plaits.
“Why,” asked little Nellie Hungerford—“don’t you always wear it like that down your back!”
“Oh, never,” answered Nina. “It’s screwed up into tight, tight plaits, and tied with some sort of string at the end. That’s how I like it,” she answered. “Iamso hot with it falling all over my neck and shoulders—I wish I could cut it off.”
“Oh, no—it is so pretty,” said Nellie. “I tell you what,” she added, “I’ll plait it for you, if you like.”
“Will you!” answered Nina, “I wish you would.”
“All right—I’ll do it right away, this very minute. And, Pauline darling, you can run into the house for a piece of ribbon. What colour do you want, Nina?”
“Oh, anything will do,” said Nina—“a bit of grass, anything.”
“Well, I tell you what,” said Nellie; “we are a good way from the house at present, and I have some string in my pocket, so we’ll tie it with that, and afterwards you shall have a piece of ribbon before we go down to lunch.”
So Nina’s hot, red hair was very badly and unevenly plaited. It hung rather crooked, much more to the left shoulder than to the right, and the string was not becoming, but that did not matter at all to the emancipated little girl.
When Nellie had plaited Nina’s hair, she suggested that she should perform the same office for the other two girls. Josie longed to accept, but did not dare. Fanchon answered, “No, thank you, I prefer my hair down until I can put it up properly. I long for the day when I can put my hair up. Don’t you?” she added, looking round at the little group who were surveying her.
“Indeed, no,” answered both the little Hungerfords. “We should hate to be grown up. We love being children, don’t we, Pauline?”
“Yes, yes,” said Pauline. It was just then that her beautiful little bangle with its ruby heart flashed in the sun. Fanchon noticed it; it was so very like her own—so like, but with a marked difference. She could not help saying:
“What a very pretty bangle you have got!”
“Yes—isn’t it?” said Pauline, but she spoke in a low voice, and pulled Fanchon a little aside. “Don’t speak of it, please,” she said. “I often feel that I oughtn’t to wear it.”
“Do you, indeed?” said Fanchon, “I can’t understand why. It looks most elegant, and it gives such tone, doesn’t it, now?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” said Pauline; “it is just a pretty little ornament. Mother gave it to me.”
“Well, I’m sure you ought to wear what your mother gave you. It must be so sweet to get presents of that kind; why don’t you like to?”
“I will tell you, if you’ll not say anything about it, and at the same time, when I tell you, I want you to promise me something.”
Fanchon coloured with delight. Pauline belonged to the county, and there was quite a subtle difference between her and Miss Fanchon Amberley, which that young lady herself appreciated, struggled against, and detested, all at the same time.
“Of course I won’t tell,” she said, “it is very nice of you to trust me. Have you a secret? It seems to me that most people have.”
“Oh dear, no; I haven’t any secret in all the world,” said Pauline. “I wouldn’t; it’d be too horrid.”
“Then why mustn’t I tell what you say?”
“Because it would hurt my darling Nellie?”
“Your sister?”
“Yes.”
“And why ever would it hurt her? Is she jealous because you have got something—something so very, very pretty, and so—so—‘chic’?”
“I hate that word,” said Pauline, restlessly. “Well, I’ll just tell you the reason. I tell you because perhaps you will beg your sisters not to notice my bangle—I would so much rather they didn’t. The reason is this. Darlingest mother went to Paris not long ago and bought a bangle for each of us, one with a red stone—this ruby you see—for me, and one with the most lovely blue turquoise for Nellie, because Nellie’s birthday is in December, and that is the month for turquoises, and people who are born in December have the right to wear turquoises. And what do you think? Darling Nellie’s bangle is lost. We can’t imagine what’s become of it?”
“Is it being advertised in the paper?” asked Fanchon, opening her eyes very wide.
“Yes, of course it is. Have you seen the advertisement?”
“No, I haven’t, but I—I met a ma— a person last night and he—the person, I mean—saw the advertisement and—and—told me. I am so sorry, I hope you will get it back.”
“No—I am afraid we never will. The advertisement has been out some days now, and there has been no answer.”
“Who do you think took it?” asked Fanchon.
“Oh, one of the railway officials—it’s awful to think that those men should be so dishonest, but we’re certain it must be one of them, or, of course itmightbe a passenger in the train. Fred knows all about it. Fred thinks it must have been a passenger, but mother thinks it was an official. Anyhow, that doesn’t greatly matter, does it? Some one is a thief, and darling Nellie is without her bangle. I would much rather not wear mine—I really would—but mother insists, and Ithinkshe will get another for Nellie some day—that is, if Nellie is brave and doesn’t mind too much. But the loss of it has quite told upon her, and she isn’t half as good as she used to be, that’s why I don’t want you to speak of it.”
“Oh, of course I won’t. I am immensely interested,” said Fanchon. “I do hope they’ll find it; I should think they’ll be sure to. What was it like, exactly? do you mind telling me?”
“Exactly like this; do you notice the beautiful carving all round the gold? and the gold is the best that can be procured, and the stone was exactly the size of my ruby. I am July, you know, so the ruby is my stone. Well, well—we had better not say any more about it now—”
“I have a bangle of my own,” suddenly said Fanchon.
“Have you?”
“Yes—but I mustn’t tell you about it. I ought not even to have mentioned that I have one. It was given to me by—by—a great friend. I prize it dearly. I longed and longed to wear it to-day, but I was not allowed.”
“Who wouldn’t let you wear it?” asked Pauline.
“My governess—Miss Carlton. She said that little girls didn’t wear jewellery. But you are younger than me, and you have your bangle on. I dowishMiss Carlton would have let me wear mine! It is—oh—Ishouldlike to describe it!”
Pauline looked at her attentively.
“Well,” she said, “why don’t you—that is, if you want to.”
She was not really interested in Fanchon’s bangle.
“I oughtn’t to have said anything, even that I possessed it, and you must promise that you won’t mention it. I had no right to let it out—no right at all; my—my friend would be so dreadfully angry—you will promise you won’t tell?”
“Of course I won’t tell.”
Pauline spoke in an offended, off-hand manner. She was not at all taken with Fanchon.
“Come,” she said, “I won’t tell about your bangle, and you will ask your sisters not to mention mine. Now we must join the others. They’re going to have a game I know, under the trees.”
Fanchon followed her companion. She felt a queer sense of excitement, but not the most remote suspicion of the real truth entered her mind.
Meanwhile Honora, who wished to do everything in her power to make her visitors happy, arranged that Brenda and Penelope should be left quite undisturbed together. Penelope was not too happy at this idea, but as she could not possibly make any excuse for avoiding her dear Brenda, she was obliged to submit to it.
“Why are we to be left all alone?” said Brenda, whose restless eyes had roved over the entire company, and had evidently thought Penelope the person least worth conversing with.
“It is Honora,” replied Penelope at once. “She thinks that, as we are sisters, we ought to be glad to have a little time together all by ourselves. After lunch at one—we can join the others if you wish it.”
“Of course I wish it,” said Brenda. “I have nothing special to say to you, Penelope; have you anything special to say to me?”
“No, nothing at all,” said Penelope, a lump coming into her throat.
“Well, shall we join the others, then! There are such a lot of them talking under that oak tree.”
“It might look a little queer,” said Penelope, “and lunch will be quite soon. Let’s walk about under these trees; we shall be quite in the shade.”
“Well—if we are to appear devoted sisters, let us play the part,” said Brenda, crossly. “After all,” she added, after a moment’s reflection, “I am glad to have a few words with you, Pennie, for I want you to help me all you possibly can.”
“I can’t do anything more, I really can’t,” said Penelope, her eyes growing dark with alarm. “I got you that twenty pounds, and I don’t think I shall ever be happy again!”
“Oh—what a little goose you are! How you harp upon that trifle!—and how far do you think twenty pounds will go in the case of a girl who wants every single thing that a girl ought to have? I thought this dress,”—Brenda looked at her spotted white muslin—“was really quite ‘chic’ until I saw Honora Beverley’s. I must say I don’t like Honora Beverley—of course you won’t whisper it, darling—but she always manages to put me in the shade. On the day of your fête when I wore my pale blue silk, her real Parisian lace made me look commonplace. And now, to-day, her white muslin must have cost pounds more than mine. It is disgusting to be trammelled like this, and I am sure I am fifty times prettier.”
“Don’t, Brenda!” said Penelope, suddenly. As she spoke, she laid her hand on her sister’s arm.
“What do you mean by ‘don’t’? Why do you look at me in that queer way?”
“Because I can’t bear you to talk like that—what’s the good of fighting and struggling for the impossible? You are not born in Honora’s rank of life, and you can never aim at dressing like her. You look very—yes, very—”
“You needn’t say it!” said Brenda, her eyes flashing with passion. “I know what you think of me—I saw it in your face when I came up. You are ashamed of me! It’s a nice thing for one sister to be ashamed of another, and I do my best—my very best—and you know what I wanted that money for—you know it quite well. I could cry, but it would spoil my eyes, and my eyes are my best point I mustn’t shed a tear, though tears are choking me, and I could—oh—I could sob—at your treating me like this, when you know, too—”
“What do I know, Brenda? Brenda, what have I done?”
“You show it all in your voice, and in your eyes, and in your manner—you’re bitterly ashamed of me!”
“I should be very simple in my dress, if I were in your place,” said Penelope, “that is all.”
“What can be simpler in all the world than sprigged white muslin with blue ribbons and a blue straw hat with blue bows to match? If I could think for ever, I could not imagine anything simpler.”
“But all the blue ribbons—there are such a lot of them, Brenda. With a white hat, it would have been sweet. But, never mind—of course you’re very pretty.”
“Thank you for nothing, my dear—I don’t owe my face to you, and I wouldn’t change it for yours, I can tell you.”
“But tell me what you mean, for indeed, indeed I would help you, in the right way, all I could.”
“I hate that solemn, sanctimonious manner in which you are getting to speak. You used to be such a nice, loving little thing, and foryouto reproach me for asking you to struggle to get me a miserable twenty pounds—why, you know I told you that I hoped to be engaged soon. If that comes off—and I see every likelihood of it, for he is veryempressé—I shall have as many jewels and dresses and furbelows as your precious Honora, and perhaps more. And I’ll be able to help you, so you’d better not cast me aside.”
“Am I casting you off, Brenda? This is only my second day at Castle Beverley, and you and your pupils are spending it here.”
“Yes, I know that, and I suppose I ought not to complain. But the fact is, it does make me cross to see the difference between this place and the horrid den in which I have to live at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. I shall get Harry—his name is Harry, but you mustn’t breathe it—to buy a castle like this for me to live in when I am married. He can well afford it, for he is a—”
“Is his name Harry?” asked Penelope, impressed by what seemed to her the romance of a real love story.
“Yes—I told you so.”
“And his surname?”
“I had better not breathe that yet. You mustn’t know him really until we are properly engaged. He is exceedingly good-looking, of the blond type. He is—oh—somebody who will probably be a baronet. They make very rich City magnates—I think they are called—baronets now, and I shall be Lady—oh, I mustn’t breathe the name. But listen; I want him to come to the point.”
“Why—hasn’t he asked you yet?” exclaimed Penelope.
“Hush, child! don’t talk so loud! What an indelicate way you have of approaching the subject; you take the bloom off it—you really do. But you know, notwithstanding his enormous wealth, he has lofty ideas, and would be greatly impressed if he thought I was thick with the people here; so I want you to have me asked very often. And there’s another thing; I should so like you to have us sent back in one of the carriages this evening.”
“Oh, Brenda! Didn’t you desire the carriage you came in to call for you?”
“Of course I didn’t—you horrid little thing! Do you suppose I can run to the expense? Really, Penelope, you are too trying. I didn’t desire the carriage to call—certainly not. If these grand people will see their humble visitors walking back to Marshlands in the heat of a summer’s evening, why, they must—that’s all. I should have thought that my sister could have managed differently.”
“I can’t—I can’t,” said Penelope. “I hate asking favours. They’re so—just more than—kind. Couldn’t we send a message to Marshlands? I am sure a servant will be going in after lunch and I—I—would pay—I’ve got a few shillings.”
But this idea did not at all suit Brenda.
“No,” she said stoutly. “Nothing will induce me to take your money. If we’re not driven in, in one of the Beverley carriages—we’ll walk—we’ll arrive dusty and worn out, and wretched at Mrs Dawson’s—that is our landlady’s odious name. But what I really desire is to have one of the Beverley carriages, and for—for my Harry to see me in it. I do think it would have a most excellent effect on him; he is so wonderfully impressed by real style—I never knew anything like it.”
“Well,” said Penelope, “I really don’t know how it is to be done. There’s the gong for lunch. Shall we go into the house!”
Neither girl looked too happy during this meal; but Brenda contrived to get herself placed at table as far as possible from Penelope and as near to Fred as she could. She joked and laughed with Fred Hungerford, and he thought her a very pretty girl indeed. After lunch, however, he and his brother were obliged to go to Marshlands to see some friends. He mentioned this fact with regret to Brenda, who had hoped that he was going to be her partner in a game of tennis.
“I can’t,” he said—“it is a long engagement, and I can’t break it. I should like to awfully; but of course you’ll come another day; I know my aunt will be delighted to ask you. We’re so glad to have your sister with us—we think she is such a very nice girl.”
“So she is—a sweet girl—a noble girl,” said Brenda. She looked thoughtfully round her: there was no one exactly in sight.
“I made such an idiotic mistake this morning,” she said. “I wonder—if you would help me—I scarcely know how to manage.”
“Why—what did you do? and what can I do for you! I am sure I shall be quite pleased.”
“I forgot to desire the cab from town to return for us. Would you—or could you—send a message to the livery stables to tell them to come here at—oh, I don’t know what hour we’re expected to leave.”
“Not until dark—I’m certain, and of course you must have one of the carriages here. Wait a minute, and I’ll speak to my uncle.”
Young Hungerford crossed the hall. He met the squire, and said a few words to him. The squire slightly raised his brows.
“She ought not to have done it,” he said. “I don’t much admire that young lady; but of course, Fred, we’ll see her home—you just tell her so. And now get off, my dear lad, and enjoy yourself. The Calverts expect you and Jim quite early.”
“I’ll just mention it to Miss Carlton—it’ll relieve her, poor thing,” said the young fellow. “She only forgot, you know.”
“Not a bit of it,” muttered the squire.
But Fred did not hear this remark, and, going back to Brenda, he set her mind at rest on the subject of the carriage.
“It is all right,” he said. “And now I must be off, really. There is Pauline. Pauline, come along here. Will you take Miss Carlton out to the others?”
“Please, will you come?” said Pauline.
She did not look too pleased. Brenda was quick to recognise the fact, and, as the boys had all dispersed, she did not find the rest of the day so agreeable as she had hoped, although the girls did their very utmost for their visitors. The little Amberleys were really enjoying themselves. Even Fanchon forgot that she was anything but a small and ignorant girl. She shrieked with laughter when Josie did, and as to Nina, she romped round and round wildly with her red hair in its crooked plait and still tied at the end by the piece of string; for all the children had forgotten the piece of ribbon which was to have graced it at lunch. Brenda almost cried when she saw her pupil. Her first impulse was to call the child to her side, but she restrained herself. She was in too bad humour to care. Nothing that could be done would ever make the Amberleys look the least like the Hungerfords or the Beverleys, or the Beverleys’ friends. There was Mary L’Estrange, with her interesting face, and there was Cara Burt, who looked both haughty and distinguished. Even she herself was nobody in the midst of this group.
But the strange thing was that Penelope, whom no one took any trouble about, whose dress was of the very plainest imaginable, seemed quite at her ease and was perfectly friendly with all the other girls.
“But she’s such a plain little thing,” thought Brenda. “Of course she is wonderfully fair, but then she has no colour anywhere, nor any distinguished touches, and that white linen drew doesn’t suit her one bit. But all the same, she looks as I don’t look—I wish I could make it out—I hate being in this place, and yet, I must make myself agreeable, for I want them to ask me again and again.”
The long day came to an end, as the longest, brightest days will. There was early supper for the children, who did not partake of late dinner with their elders. This fact alone somewhat offended Brenda, who thought that there might have been an exception made in her favour; and after supper, when it was really cool and delightful, Honora came up to the young lady’s side and asked her what hour she would like the wagonette to come round.
“It is our small wagonette, but it’ll hold you four nicely,” she said. “Father tells me that you forgot to order your carriage to return, and of course we are delighted to send you back to Marshlands.”
“I should like your carriage at any time that suits yourself,” replied Brenda.
“Will eight o’clock do?” asked Honora.
Brenda made a careful calculation. Harry would probably be going on the Esplanade about eight or soon after. She was quite determined that the coachman should drive them round in that direction. She meant the coachman to draw up in order that she might speak to Harry. That, at least, she might achieve at the end of her long and unsatisfactory day.
So she said, in a meek voice, that she was very, very sorry to trouble the Beverleys, that it was very stupid of her to forget to order her own carriage to return, that her poor little head did often ache so badly with the care of her pupils—and so on, and so on, until Honora wondered when her regrets would end.
“It doesn’t matter at all,” she said, in her pleasant, well-bred voice; “we are delighted to send you back, of course, and I hope you have enjoyed your day.”
“Yes, thank you so much: your home is so delightful—so different from most places where I have the misfortune to live. And then to see my darling sister so perfectly happy—I am greatly obliged. I hope,” she added suddenly, “that you will permit Penelope to come to see us some day at Marshlands. We shan’t have much to offer her, but just a hearty welcome and the love of her sister.”
“You had best come out here again; it would be fifty times better,” said Honora. “However, you will let us know; and now I’ll just run and desire them to bring the wagonette round. Why, it’s five minutes to eight.”
Honora ran immediately out of the room and Penelope came in.
“Well, Pen—I’ve got my way. I managed the carriage, you see, although you, strange, callous little thing, would not ask for it for me. But I have a champion in that handsome Fred Hungerford, and I’ve been practically asked here again. But now, look here—you must help me whether you like it or not. Listen. I shall write to you in a day or two asking you to come to spend the day at Palliser Gardens, where we put up. You’ll just know what it is if you spend one day with us. You’ll know what it is to be stuffy and hot, and to have horrid food, and you’ll see our miserable attic bedroom where we sleep all four together. You dare not refuse: you wouldn’t be quite so mean as that; and after you’ve come to us, and have got back again, you’ve got to make the worst of it; and then I’ll ask you again, and when I ask you the second time, you’ve to see that we come here instead. Well, I think that is all. You know your duty. Whether you are ashamed of me or not, I am your only sister. Oh, here come my little charges: what frights, to be sure! Nina,doput your hat on straight and let me take that string from your hair—you utterly ridiculous child!”
Brenda pulled Nina with great firmness towards her, unplaited the shaggy mane, and let it fall once more over the child’s shoulders. Then the wagonette was heard approaching and Mrs Beverley said good-night to her visitors, and all the children of the Castle clustered around. Just at the last instant, Fanchon flew up to Pauline and whispered in her ear:
“Ishouldlike to describe my bangle to you, but I—I just—dare not. But thank you for having given us all such a scrumptious day!”
They got into the wagonette. The carriage rolled down the avenue and Brenda immediately enquired of Fanchon what secrets she had been pouring into little Miss Hungerford’s ears.
“Oh, something that concerns—a—a friend of mine,” said Fanchon, looking wicked and mysterious; and Brenda suddenly remembered the bangle and felt crosser than ever. But, after all, she had her consolation, for the band was playing its very best as they passed the Esplanade, and there was Harry standing talking and smoking with some other men. Brenda immediately pulled the check string and beckoned him. He came forward in delight and confusion.
“I shall be too tired to see you this evening, Mr Jordan,” said Brenda. “Drive on please, coachman. We have been having a delightful day,” she called out, as the man took her at her word, “at Castle Beverley.”
“Sheisa stunner!” said Joe Burbery to his friend. “And what swells she knows! I say, old man, I have seldom seen such a ripping girl!”
Chapter Seventeen.Gathering Clouds.Mrs Dawson was seated with that copy of theStandardwhich contained the advertisement for the gold bangle open on her knee. She had read the advertisement not only once, but twice. There was a reward offered for the recovery of the trinket of no less than three guineas. That seemed a very large sum of money to honest Mrs Dawson. She thought how acceptable it would be, and wished that the lost trinket might come in her way.While she was ruminating, without quite knowing whether she would take any active steps, Jane, one of the house servants, entered and said that a lady wanted to know if there was a vacant room in the house.“Oh, tell her there isn’t,” said Mrs Dawson rather crossly. “There’s nothing whatever except the back attic—the one just behind the large attic where Miss Carlton and the three Miss Amberleys sleep. We couldn’t put any one there, it’s so choky and hot these sultry days.”Jane departed, but presently returned with the information that the lady did not mind what the room was like in the least and would be very glad to see the back attic.“I don’t know that I want to let it,” said Mrs Dawson. “We’re chock full now and you and Mary Anne are worked off your legs.”“That we are, ma’am; but we don’t mind if you should wish to fill the room,” answered the good-natured girl. “It’s the season, and every one should have their innings. She seems an easy-satisfied sort of body—a Frenchy, I should take it, from her style of talk.”Here there came a clear, piercing voice at the very door of Mrs Dawson’s private sitting-room. This sitting-room was the smallest apartment imaginable. It faced west too, and was hot at the present moment with the afternoon sun.“Pardonnez—pardonnez” said the voice; “I do so want thatappartementthat yourdomestiquedid mention. I mind not the heat—oh, not in the very least. I am fromla belle France, where the days are hotter than your English days, and the sun more bright, and the world more gay.”Here Mademoiselle boldly entered the room and came up to Mrs Dawson.“I am a poor Frenchwoman, out for a little recreation. My funds are of the mostpetits, and I am satisfied with the very least that can content any mortal. May I see theappartementso minute, and judge for myself if it will suffice?”Mrs Dawson eyed the visitor with scant favour. She disliked foreigners with all an Englishwoman’s prejudice, and wondered how Miss Price, and in particular Mrs Simpkins—who had the best rooms in the house, owing to the needs of her large family—would like to associate with the “Frenchy.” She was, therefore, distinctly cold.“I told my servant to tell you, Mademoiselle,”—Mrs Dawson’s lips quivered over the name; she had not pronounced it for many a long day—“that my house was full.”“But not replete,” said Mademoiselle with avidity. “She did let out, that faithful one, that there was oneappartement tristein your beautiful villa. I feel that I should be at home here. It is wonderful when we feel that drawing of the heart towards certain of our fellow-creatures. I should love to be a member of your little family. I should make myselftrès-agréable: I should converse in the broken English which makes your folk laugh. We of the French tongue never laugh at your mistakes when you try to copy us. But I mind not that. I like you to laugh. May I see the chamber and decide for myself?”“Well, if you are satisfied,” said Mrs Dawson, “I of course want to make as much money as I can. The room is at the very top of the house, and I have stowed away one or two boxes just under the roof. I hardly ever let it because it faces due west and the slates get so hot people complain that they can’t sleep in it of nights. It’s next door, also, to a large attic where three young ladies and their governess sleep. You mayn’t even find quiet in the little room.”“I mind not,” said Mademoiselle, “I am accustomed to the vagaries of the youthful. I am indeed a teacher from that most distinguished school, Hazlitt Chase. My dear pupil, Penelope Carlton, and I, came to Marshlands two nights ago, she to visit my dear and most beloved pupil, Miss Honora Beverley, and I to search for a meagreappartementin the cheapest part of your gay and sparkling town. I find not what I want. I roam abroad to-day to seek for fresh quarters. I see your house so cool, so chaste, so—if I may use the word—refined. I say to myself—here is a home, here is a rest: I mind not the hot attic, for by day, at least, I shall be happy.”“Oh, if you know Miss Beverley, that makes all the difference,” said Mrs Dawson. Her manner changed on the spot. “It is strange,” she continued, “that you should come from the school where Miss Beverley is being educated, and it is still stranger that the sister of one of your pupils should be at the present moment occupying the room next to the west attic. She is an exceedingly pretty young lady, and remarkably well off. She’s a governess to three little pupils, and they’re well supplied with not only the necessaries, but the luxuries of life. Even jewellery of the best sort isn’t denied them. But there—what a chatterbox I am! Jane, take this lady up to the western attic, and let her decide whether she will be satisfied to sleep there.” Jane and the voluble Mademoiselle climbed the weary stairs up to the attic which, at the present moment, must have registered ninety degrees in the shade. Even Mademoiselle gasped a trifle as she entered the tiny room; but she was too glad to be in the same house with Brenda Carlton not to put up with some personal discomforts. She, accordingly, decided to engage the apartment; told Jane that her luggage of the most modest would arrive within an hour and went down to interview Mrs Dawson.“You do deprecate yourself, dear Madame,” she said. “Your room you so despise is to me a haven of rest. It is doubtless what might be called hot, but what of that? It belongs to a home, and Ishall—I feel it—be happy under your roof.”“My terms,” said Mrs Dawson, “are—”Mademoiselle puckered her brows with anxiety. “You would not be hard on a poor French governess,” she said. “She would make herselftrès-agréable: she would tell stories of the most witty at your dinner table: she would make your visitors laugh and laugh again. She would instruct you in that cooking ofla belle Francewhich you English know so little about. She would offer herself to market for you in the land of these broiling July days. You will not be hard on one at once so poor and so useful.”“I charge the ladies in the front attic a guinea a week each,” said Mrs Dawson.“But that chamber ismagnifique!” cried Mademoiselle. “I asked your most delightful Jane to show it to me, and I was struck by its size and the beautiful draught that blew through it. Indeed, it is cheap—very cheap—to live in such a room in the very height of the season for so small a sum. But the western attic, Madame, you will not charge the poor lonely foreigner as much for the western attic?”After considerable chaffering on both sides, Mrs Dawson decided that she would give Mademoiselle the stifling western attic for eighteen and sixpence per week. This sum, of course, was to include her board. The French teacher considered matters carefully for a minute, then said with a smile:“Ah, well! I must perforce agree. It is large—it is ruinous! But what shall I do? Where there is no choice, one must put up with the inevitable. I will do for you, Madame, all that I would have done had you taken this lonely one for twelve or fifteen shillings a week. I will still entertain your visitors, and teach you the recipes of my own land, and go errands for you and make myself, in truth, your valued friend.”“Thank you, very much,” said Mrs Dawson, “but it isn’t my habit to trouble my visitors. Of course I always value a pleasant person at table, but otherwise I do my own housekeeping and I go my own messages.”“Ah—Madame! you know me not yet. You will yet esteem my services. What a delicious coolappartementis your own!”The room was steaming hot, and poor Mrs Dawson’s face testified to the fact. Mademoiselle, however, was in the best of humours. She hurried away to fetch her luggage—that small packet which she had carried in one hand while she dragged Pauline Hungerford along the platform with the other; and she had sat down and made herself quite one of the family by the time supper was announced.During supper, she caused the entire company to convulse with laughter. She told one funny story after another, entreating them to laugh their hearts full and not to mind her poor English, which she would speak better if she knew how. In short, she was established as a most agreeable addition to Number 9, Palliser Gardens by the time the Beverleys’ wagonette drew up at the door with the three little Amberleys and Brenda Carlton ensconced within.As the ladies had gone out to see Miss Carlton off, so did the ladies once more reassemble to witness Miss Carlton’s return. She was certain that she would feel to her dying day that she had achieved this, at least, with flying colours. The very look of the coachman on the box and of the footman as he flung open the door and helped the three awkward girls to descend, had such a paralysing effect upon the members of Mrs Dawson’s boarding-house, that they were all silent for a moment.“That will do,” said Brenda, as she shook out her white skirts on the steps.Then the coachman turned homewards, and after that, all tongues were loosened. Brenda was almost carried into the house by the other boarders.“Come straight into the drawing-room,” said Miss Price, “and tell us all about it. Oh, by the way, may I introduce you to a most charming addition to our circle, Mademoiselle d’Etienne. Mademoiselle arrived to-day. Mademoiselle, this is Miss Brenda Carlton.”“I have the so great pleasure to know your sister,” said Mademoiselle, in a small, distinct voice, fixing her black eyes on Brenda’s face.“You know Penelope?” cried Brenda.“I have the so immense honour to educate that fascinating young lady in that elegant tongue of my beloved France. She is an obedient pupil and does to me credit.”Brenda felt confused, interested, and on the whole pleased. They all entered the drawing-room, the three girls dead tired with their day and, consequently, very cross; Brenda was more or less cross also, but gratified to find there was such a fuss being made about her. Mademoiselle was cool, ugly, but nevertheless charming looking. What was there about her French dress and French manner which lifted her altogether into a different world from her dowdy English neighbours?She was in black too—black from head to foot; but her black dress fitted her like a glove and her hair was most becomingly arranged. In short, she looked finished. Mrs Simpkins looked the reverse of finished, for she had just had a scuffle with her eldest baby in which the baby had been distinctly victorious; and Miss Price was hot and untidy, cross with the weather, but, nevertheless, ready to welcome the gossip that Brenda might treat them to.“Oh, you poor childrens!” said Mademoiselle. “Miss Carlton will you not send thesepetitesto their rest—they look sofatiguées. They want the repose so essential to the youth. What sweet childrens! I know I shall adore them all. But go, my little ones. Mademoiselle, you permit? Yes—go at once to your needed rest.”“Yes, children; do run upstairs,” said Brenda. “Fanchon, you must go with the rest; we’re not going out this evening.”“Oh, you’ve said that already!” remarked Fanchon in a rude voice, “and you’ve let the cat out of the bag too!” she continued, a venomous expression coming into her face; for the younger girls were not supposed to know anything of the existence of Harry Jordan.“Whatcat out ofwhatbag?” asked Mademoiselle. “I do soadorecats in bags—what mean you,mon enfant—your words thrill me—what cat out of what bag?”“Hold your tongue, Fanchon, and go to bed!” said Brenda.“Obey your governess, my dear,” said Mrs Simpkins. “You’re dead tired: creep upstairs, all three of you, and don’t, for the life of you, wake my Georgie, for he’s that fractious—enough to madden a body.”The girls had to depart, and then Miss Price went up to Mrs Dawson and whispered something in her ear, the result of which was that Mrs Dawson went to the door and called Jane. She gave her hurried directions and, by-and-by, what should appear in the little drawing-room but delicious ices which had hastily been fetched from a neighbouring confectioner’s, and which Miss Price meant to pay for. Mademoiselle declared that she fairly gloated on the ices made in Angleterre; even Brenda was soothed by a really good strawberry ice, and, as there was one apiece, all the ladies congregated round and ate their dainties with deliberation.“Now tell me about the Castle, do,” said Miss Price. “Is it as grand as they make out, or do they exaggerate?”“Of course they exaggerate,” said Mrs Simpkins. “Folks of that kind always do.”“But no,” cried Mademoiselle, “that isimposseebleto exaggerate the so great glories of Castle Beverley! It cannot be done. I have heard it described, and I was ravished with what I was told.”“I have been there,” said Brenda. “I have spent the day; my sister is a special friend of Miss Beverley.”“Not so very special,” whispered Mademoiselle, something like a little snake at that moment, in Brenda’s ear. Brenda turned and looked full at her. Their eyes met. It seemed at that instant that these two—the young girl and the experienced woman—crossed swords, and that Brenda got the worst of the encounter. There was a pause for a minute. Then she said, quietly:“I don’t know with regard to the depth of the friendship, but I only know that my sweet sister Penelope is staying at the Castle, and that it is—oh, well—a very nice sort of place. Icouldimagine more beautiful places.”“Windsor Castle, perhaps,” whispered Mademoiselle, at which remark Miss Price tittered audibly.“But tell us, dear,” said Mrs Simpkins. “I have been thinking all day about it. I assure you that the thought of your return has kept me up although the heat is fearful, and Georgie is so cross, and little Peter cutting another tooth—oh dear! Of course I love my children, but sometimes they seem to do things just to spite you; for the doctor told me flat that Peter’s eye-teeth would not be due for another two months, and I made certain that we’d have our seaside holiday over before he began on it. The aggravation of eye-teeth is almost past bearing. I often say if a woman can live through the eye-teeth of her children, she’ll live through anything. But there—I am digressing. Go on, Miss Carlton, do.”“What did you have to eat?” said Mrs Dawson. “Was there anything that specially took your fancy?”“Ah, yes—tell us that!” cried Mademoiselle, “for I could copy it for these dear, most select and amiable ladies. I should so love to give them the benefit of my French experience.”“I don’t know what we had to eat,” said Brenda. “Perhaps Nina could tell you to-morrow—she is our greedy one.”“Poor little thing!” said Mrs Simpkins. “You’ve let her off her accounts, I see, and that’s a blessing. Now, Miss Carlton, you won’t take it amiss, but if you will allow a motherly body like myself to speak, you won’t be too harsh with that poor child. She’s a good child, and means well; and why in the name of goodness she should be pestered with that account-book and pencil at all hours of the day beats me.”“Is this what would be so called a secret?” asked Mademoiselle, “for, if so, I will—to speak in the figurative way—stop up my ears.”“Oh, no,” said Brenda, “it is nothing: I am teaching my youngest pupil a lesson, and these ladies—even dear Mrs Simpkins—fail to understand.”“Ah—how I you do admire!” said Mademoiselle. “I also have my methods. We, dear Miss Carlton, will have much in common. We will talk together of our pupils and our wrongs.”“For my part, I am getting sleepy,” said Miss Price, “and the conversation is not nearly so interesting as I hoped it would have been.”She looked regretfully at the empty ice plates and thought of the bill she would have to pay at Jones’ on the morrow.“But what did you suppose I would have to talk about?” asked Brenda, putting the last morsel of delicious strawberry ice into her mouth as she spoke.“Oh, I’m sure I can’t tell. I had a sort of vision of a delightful time—I thought you’d begin at the very beginning, as they pay in the story books, and tell us of everything—what he said to her, you know, and what she said to him, and how they were all dressed—”“And a good lot about the food,” interrupted Mrs Simpkins. “I’m great on nice food myself, and it’s delightful to think that a good-natured French body has come to stay here—”“I will make you,” interrupted Mademoiselle, “of thesaladethe most enjoyable with a taste of mayonnaise, that cannot be compounded except by a person born inla belle France.”“You mustn’t let Georgie see it, then,” said Mrs Simpkins, “for if he swallows even a morsel of anything Frenchy, he’ll be done for!”“I could fancy it myself,” said Miss Price. “I am very much obliged indeed to Mademoiselle for thinking of making us a proper French salad.”“And so am I, although you oughtn’t to trouble yourself,” said Mrs Dawson, who began to perceive that Mademoiselle might be exceedingly useful to her.“Well, ladies,” said Brenda, rising, “I think I will go to bed. I am a little tired to-night, for we have been out so much. It was sweet of you, Miss Price, to give us those delicious ices. I have never enjoyed anything better. Doubtless, to-morrow, when I am refreshed, I shall have numerous little anecdotes to tell each of you in turn, but not before the children. It is so bad for children, too, to hear their friends gossiped about.”“I agree with them sentiments,” said Mrs Simpkins. “I wouldn’t have Georgie listen to the tell-tales between me and Maria—that’s my maid at home—for all the world. Why, he’d have it out to his pa at his next meal for certain.”“I’ll tell you each in confidence,” said Brenda, “and,” she added, “I daresay there’ll be plenty of fresh news for the future, for I expect to go constantly to Castle Beverley, and my sister is coming to spend the day with me soon.”“Not Penelope, my most adored one!” cried Mademoiselle. “Do you say, dear Miss Carlton, that I am to see my sweetest pupil so soon?”“I don’t know the exact day,” said Brenda, “but you will see her if you happen to stay here.”“Stay here?” said Miss Price. “Of course we trust Mademoiselle will stay! It is delightful to have a real Frenchwoman in the house.”“I said this place was home,” said Mademoiselle, raising her eyes ceilingward.Brenda went up to her room. There she found all the girls already disposed of in their separate beds. To her relief, they were all, even Fanchon, sound asleep. She sat down for a short time by the open window and thought over matters. She did not altogether like the turn of events. Try as she would, she felt that she would never be anything but a nobody at Castle Beverley. More anxious than ever was she to secure Harry Jordan as her affianced husband. She had a shrewd guess as to his sort of character, and wondered what impression she would make on him when they met the following evening. Poor Brenda went to sleep fairly happy, on the whole, that night, little guessing what a very active disturber to her peace Mademoiselle d’Etienne would prove herself to be.The next day broke, as usual, with cloudless splendour. The different ladies went out Brenda strolled abroad with her pupils. She found a shady place under a cliff, and sat there to rest, and looked around her.Meanwhile, Mademoiselle devoted herself to Mrs Dawson. She insisted on going shopping, if not for her, yet with her. And Mademoiselle had an eye for a bargain which even that astute Englishwoman, Mrs Dawson, could never hope to possess. Why, those tomatoes which she purchased for almost nothing would never have been observed at all by the good lady, and then those little crabs which were going for a few pence (Mrs Dawson, as a rule, never purchased small crabs, but Mademoiselle begged of her, on this occasion, to do so) were soon disposed of in the worthy woman’s basket; and lettuces, with other tempting fresh vegetables, were secured. Mademoiselle implored of Mrs Dawson to let her arrange the supper table that night.“You have bought but little,” she said; “nevertheless, it is enough. I will surprise the good, the dear ladies of your charming family with the French supper which I will prepare.”“But Mary Anne will never stand it,” objected Mrs Dawson.“Is she your cook?”“Yes, and a very good one too—I pay her a lot of wages.”“Never mind: I will counsel her, and I will talk with her: I will get her to think that she herself has made thesouffléand theomeletteand the tomato soup and the delectable preparation of crabs. She will know it not, except as her own handiwork, and I will be your cook.”“It is too much to expect of you,” said Mrs Dawson, really won over by her paying guest’s extraordinary kindness.“Have I found a home—and am I ungrateful?” was Mademoiselle’s response.The result of this was that the two ladies came back the most excellent friends, and sat together until early dinner in that stifling little parlour. In that small room Mademoiselle got a good deal of information with regard to Brenda, whom she was interested in for more reasons than one, and also saw the advertisement for the lost bracelet with her own eyes. She read it over carefully and her black eyes glittered with excitement.“It is a rewardmagnifique!” she said.“I wish I could find it,” said Mrs Dawson.“If we were both to find it,chère amie,” said the Frenchwoman, “we might divide the so great profits.”“But we never can,” said Mrs Dawson. Then she added, after a minute’s pause, “All the same, I’d like to say something.”“And what is that?” asked Mademoiselle.“You mustn’t breathe it, please. You’re quite a stranger to me, but coming from Hazlitt Chase, and knowing Miss Beverley, I suppose you’re to be trusted.” Mademoiselle laid her hand dramatically on her very fat chest.“I suppose so,” she replied.“And I must confide in some one, for the thing seems to burn a sort of hole in me.”“My good, dear, delightful friend,” said the Frenchwoman, “don’t let the secret prey on you in that fashion, for it will undermine your so precious health. Confide it to one who is ardent to help you, who has for you already the affection the most profound.”“It is nothing, of course,” said Mrs Dawson, “and you will promise not to tell.”“I have promised.”Again the hand was laid over the region of the heart.“Well, then,—it is just this. I know a good jewel when I see it, for my poor husband, the late Dawson, was in the jewellery line, and he taught me to know at a glance the difference between poor gold and good gold, and imitation stones and real ones; and if you will believe me, Mademoiselle d’Etienne, that little minx of a Fanchon Amberley came into the house the other evening with a bangle on her arm which for all the world might have been this,”—here she pointed to theStandard. “That bangle might have meant three guineas in my pocket, for it was eighteen carat gold as I am alive, and the turquoise in it was the most beautiful I ever saw.”Mademoiselle’s dark face flushed and then paled; but she did not stir or show any other sign of special interest. After a minute, she said gently:“There are so many bangles now-a-days, and they are all more or less alike.”“Of course Miss Fanchon—”“Ridiculous to call an English girl by one of our names—”“Had it of her own—she said a friend gave it to her, but she was very mysterious about it.”“I’d like to see it,” said Mademoiselle.“And so would I,” said Mrs Dawson.“I’d like to see it for a reason,” said Mademoiselle. “Mademoiselle d’Etienne, you don’t mean—”“I don’t know that I mean anything, but if I saw it, I’d know once for all.”“What would you know?”“I tell you what, Mrs Dawson. I have examined the bracelet that little Pauline Hungerford—one of my adorable pupils—has worn, which she got on the day of the break-up. I took it in my hand, and she allowed me to examine it, and I know the other was exactly the same except for the difference in the stones. I should like to see the bracelet that the young lady who ought not to possess bangles, wears.”“I don’t believe you will: there’s something about that governess which makes me think her a deep one—I can’t be certain, but I have my suspicions—and she seemed distressed, I don’t know why, when I noticed the bangle on Miss Fanchon’s arm.”“Leave the matter to me,” said Mademoiselle. “This interests me; but I must be calm. You and I, dear Madame, are true friends, are we not?”
Mrs Dawson was seated with that copy of theStandardwhich contained the advertisement for the gold bangle open on her knee. She had read the advertisement not only once, but twice. There was a reward offered for the recovery of the trinket of no less than three guineas. That seemed a very large sum of money to honest Mrs Dawson. She thought how acceptable it would be, and wished that the lost trinket might come in her way.
While she was ruminating, without quite knowing whether she would take any active steps, Jane, one of the house servants, entered and said that a lady wanted to know if there was a vacant room in the house.
“Oh, tell her there isn’t,” said Mrs Dawson rather crossly. “There’s nothing whatever except the back attic—the one just behind the large attic where Miss Carlton and the three Miss Amberleys sleep. We couldn’t put any one there, it’s so choky and hot these sultry days.”
Jane departed, but presently returned with the information that the lady did not mind what the room was like in the least and would be very glad to see the back attic.
“I don’t know that I want to let it,” said Mrs Dawson. “We’re chock full now and you and Mary Anne are worked off your legs.”
“That we are, ma’am; but we don’t mind if you should wish to fill the room,” answered the good-natured girl. “It’s the season, and every one should have their innings. She seems an easy-satisfied sort of body—a Frenchy, I should take it, from her style of talk.”
Here there came a clear, piercing voice at the very door of Mrs Dawson’s private sitting-room. This sitting-room was the smallest apartment imaginable. It faced west too, and was hot at the present moment with the afternoon sun.
“Pardonnez—pardonnez” said the voice; “I do so want thatappartementthat yourdomestiquedid mention. I mind not the heat—oh, not in the very least. I am fromla belle France, where the days are hotter than your English days, and the sun more bright, and the world more gay.”
Here Mademoiselle boldly entered the room and came up to Mrs Dawson.
“I am a poor Frenchwoman, out for a little recreation. My funds are of the mostpetits, and I am satisfied with the very least that can content any mortal. May I see theappartementso minute, and judge for myself if it will suffice?”
Mrs Dawson eyed the visitor with scant favour. She disliked foreigners with all an Englishwoman’s prejudice, and wondered how Miss Price, and in particular Mrs Simpkins—who had the best rooms in the house, owing to the needs of her large family—would like to associate with the “Frenchy.” She was, therefore, distinctly cold.
“I told my servant to tell you, Mademoiselle,”—Mrs Dawson’s lips quivered over the name; she had not pronounced it for many a long day—“that my house was full.”
“But not replete,” said Mademoiselle with avidity. “She did let out, that faithful one, that there was oneappartement tristein your beautiful villa. I feel that I should be at home here. It is wonderful when we feel that drawing of the heart towards certain of our fellow-creatures. I should love to be a member of your little family. I should make myselftrès-agréable: I should converse in the broken English which makes your folk laugh. We of the French tongue never laugh at your mistakes when you try to copy us. But I mind not that. I like you to laugh. May I see the chamber and decide for myself?”
“Well, if you are satisfied,” said Mrs Dawson, “I of course want to make as much money as I can. The room is at the very top of the house, and I have stowed away one or two boxes just under the roof. I hardly ever let it because it faces due west and the slates get so hot people complain that they can’t sleep in it of nights. It’s next door, also, to a large attic where three young ladies and their governess sleep. You mayn’t even find quiet in the little room.”
“I mind not,” said Mademoiselle, “I am accustomed to the vagaries of the youthful. I am indeed a teacher from that most distinguished school, Hazlitt Chase. My dear pupil, Penelope Carlton, and I, came to Marshlands two nights ago, she to visit my dear and most beloved pupil, Miss Honora Beverley, and I to search for a meagreappartementin the cheapest part of your gay and sparkling town. I find not what I want. I roam abroad to-day to seek for fresh quarters. I see your house so cool, so chaste, so—if I may use the word—refined. I say to myself—here is a home, here is a rest: I mind not the hot attic, for by day, at least, I shall be happy.”
“Oh, if you know Miss Beverley, that makes all the difference,” said Mrs Dawson. Her manner changed on the spot. “It is strange,” she continued, “that you should come from the school where Miss Beverley is being educated, and it is still stranger that the sister of one of your pupils should be at the present moment occupying the room next to the west attic. She is an exceedingly pretty young lady, and remarkably well off. She’s a governess to three little pupils, and they’re well supplied with not only the necessaries, but the luxuries of life. Even jewellery of the best sort isn’t denied them. But there—what a chatterbox I am! Jane, take this lady up to the western attic, and let her decide whether she will be satisfied to sleep there.” Jane and the voluble Mademoiselle climbed the weary stairs up to the attic which, at the present moment, must have registered ninety degrees in the shade. Even Mademoiselle gasped a trifle as she entered the tiny room; but she was too glad to be in the same house with Brenda Carlton not to put up with some personal discomforts. She, accordingly, decided to engage the apartment; told Jane that her luggage of the most modest would arrive within an hour and went down to interview Mrs Dawson.
“You do deprecate yourself, dear Madame,” she said. “Your room you so despise is to me a haven of rest. It is doubtless what might be called hot, but what of that? It belongs to a home, and Ishall—I feel it—be happy under your roof.”
“My terms,” said Mrs Dawson, “are—”
Mademoiselle puckered her brows with anxiety. “You would not be hard on a poor French governess,” she said. “She would make herselftrès-agréable: she would tell stories of the most witty at your dinner table: she would make your visitors laugh and laugh again. She would instruct you in that cooking ofla belle Francewhich you English know so little about. She would offer herself to market for you in the land of these broiling July days. You will not be hard on one at once so poor and so useful.”
“I charge the ladies in the front attic a guinea a week each,” said Mrs Dawson.
“But that chamber ismagnifique!” cried Mademoiselle. “I asked your most delightful Jane to show it to me, and I was struck by its size and the beautiful draught that blew through it. Indeed, it is cheap—very cheap—to live in such a room in the very height of the season for so small a sum. But the western attic, Madame, you will not charge the poor lonely foreigner as much for the western attic?”
After considerable chaffering on both sides, Mrs Dawson decided that she would give Mademoiselle the stifling western attic for eighteen and sixpence per week. This sum, of course, was to include her board. The French teacher considered matters carefully for a minute, then said with a smile:
“Ah, well! I must perforce agree. It is large—it is ruinous! But what shall I do? Where there is no choice, one must put up with the inevitable. I will do for you, Madame, all that I would have done had you taken this lonely one for twelve or fifteen shillings a week. I will still entertain your visitors, and teach you the recipes of my own land, and go errands for you and make myself, in truth, your valued friend.”
“Thank you, very much,” said Mrs Dawson, “but it isn’t my habit to trouble my visitors. Of course I always value a pleasant person at table, but otherwise I do my own housekeeping and I go my own messages.”
“Ah—Madame! you know me not yet. You will yet esteem my services. What a delicious coolappartementis your own!”
The room was steaming hot, and poor Mrs Dawson’s face testified to the fact. Mademoiselle, however, was in the best of humours. She hurried away to fetch her luggage—that small packet which she had carried in one hand while she dragged Pauline Hungerford along the platform with the other; and she had sat down and made herself quite one of the family by the time supper was announced.
During supper, she caused the entire company to convulse with laughter. She told one funny story after another, entreating them to laugh their hearts full and not to mind her poor English, which she would speak better if she knew how. In short, she was established as a most agreeable addition to Number 9, Palliser Gardens by the time the Beverleys’ wagonette drew up at the door with the three little Amberleys and Brenda Carlton ensconced within.
As the ladies had gone out to see Miss Carlton off, so did the ladies once more reassemble to witness Miss Carlton’s return. She was certain that she would feel to her dying day that she had achieved this, at least, with flying colours. The very look of the coachman on the box and of the footman as he flung open the door and helped the three awkward girls to descend, had such a paralysing effect upon the members of Mrs Dawson’s boarding-house, that they were all silent for a moment.
“That will do,” said Brenda, as she shook out her white skirts on the steps.
Then the coachman turned homewards, and after that, all tongues were loosened. Brenda was almost carried into the house by the other boarders.
“Come straight into the drawing-room,” said Miss Price, “and tell us all about it. Oh, by the way, may I introduce you to a most charming addition to our circle, Mademoiselle d’Etienne. Mademoiselle arrived to-day. Mademoiselle, this is Miss Brenda Carlton.”
“I have the so great pleasure to know your sister,” said Mademoiselle, in a small, distinct voice, fixing her black eyes on Brenda’s face.
“You know Penelope?” cried Brenda.
“I have the so immense honour to educate that fascinating young lady in that elegant tongue of my beloved France. She is an obedient pupil and does to me credit.”
Brenda felt confused, interested, and on the whole pleased. They all entered the drawing-room, the three girls dead tired with their day and, consequently, very cross; Brenda was more or less cross also, but gratified to find there was such a fuss being made about her. Mademoiselle was cool, ugly, but nevertheless charming looking. What was there about her French dress and French manner which lifted her altogether into a different world from her dowdy English neighbours?
She was in black too—black from head to foot; but her black dress fitted her like a glove and her hair was most becomingly arranged. In short, she looked finished. Mrs Simpkins looked the reverse of finished, for she had just had a scuffle with her eldest baby in which the baby had been distinctly victorious; and Miss Price was hot and untidy, cross with the weather, but, nevertheless, ready to welcome the gossip that Brenda might treat them to.
“Oh, you poor childrens!” said Mademoiselle. “Miss Carlton will you not send thesepetitesto their rest—they look sofatiguées. They want the repose so essential to the youth. What sweet childrens! I know I shall adore them all. But go, my little ones. Mademoiselle, you permit? Yes—go at once to your needed rest.”
“Yes, children; do run upstairs,” said Brenda. “Fanchon, you must go with the rest; we’re not going out this evening.”
“Oh, you’ve said that already!” remarked Fanchon in a rude voice, “and you’ve let the cat out of the bag too!” she continued, a venomous expression coming into her face; for the younger girls were not supposed to know anything of the existence of Harry Jordan.
“Whatcat out ofwhatbag?” asked Mademoiselle. “I do soadorecats in bags—what mean you,mon enfant—your words thrill me—what cat out of what bag?”
“Hold your tongue, Fanchon, and go to bed!” said Brenda.
“Obey your governess, my dear,” said Mrs Simpkins. “You’re dead tired: creep upstairs, all three of you, and don’t, for the life of you, wake my Georgie, for he’s that fractious—enough to madden a body.”
The girls had to depart, and then Miss Price went up to Mrs Dawson and whispered something in her ear, the result of which was that Mrs Dawson went to the door and called Jane. She gave her hurried directions and, by-and-by, what should appear in the little drawing-room but delicious ices which had hastily been fetched from a neighbouring confectioner’s, and which Miss Price meant to pay for. Mademoiselle declared that she fairly gloated on the ices made in Angleterre; even Brenda was soothed by a really good strawberry ice, and, as there was one apiece, all the ladies congregated round and ate their dainties with deliberation.
“Now tell me about the Castle, do,” said Miss Price. “Is it as grand as they make out, or do they exaggerate?”
“Of course they exaggerate,” said Mrs Simpkins. “Folks of that kind always do.”
“But no,” cried Mademoiselle, “that isimposseebleto exaggerate the so great glories of Castle Beverley! It cannot be done. I have heard it described, and I was ravished with what I was told.”
“I have been there,” said Brenda. “I have spent the day; my sister is a special friend of Miss Beverley.”
“Not so very special,” whispered Mademoiselle, something like a little snake at that moment, in Brenda’s ear. Brenda turned and looked full at her. Their eyes met. It seemed at that instant that these two—the young girl and the experienced woman—crossed swords, and that Brenda got the worst of the encounter. There was a pause for a minute. Then she said, quietly:
“I don’t know with regard to the depth of the friendship, but I only know that my sweet sister Penelope is staying at the Castle, and that it is—oh, well—a very nice sort of place. Icouldimagine more beautiful places.”
“Windsor Castle, perhaps,” whispered Mademoiselle, at which remark Miss Price tittered audibly.
“But tell us, dear,” said Mrs Simpkins. “I have been thinking all day about it. I assure you that the thought of your return has kept me up although the heat is fearful, and Georgie is so cross, and little Peter cutting another tooth—oh dear! Of course I love my children, but sometimes they seem to do things just to spite you; for the doctor told me flat that Peter’s eye-teeth would not be due for another two months, and I made certain that we’d have our seaside holiday over before he began on it. The aggravation of eye-teeth is almost past bearing. I often say if a woman can live through the eye-teeth of her children, she’ll live through anything. But there—I am digressing. Go on, Miss Carlton, do.”
“What did you have to eat?” said Mrs Dawson. “Was there anything that specially took your fancy?”
“Ah, yes—tell us that!” cried Mademoiselle, “for I could copy it for these dear, most select and amiable ladies. I should so love to give them the benefit of my French experience.”
“I don’t know what we had to eat,” said Brenda. “Perhaps Nina could tell you to-morrow—she is our greedy one.”
“Poor little thing!” said Mrs Simpkins. “You’ve let her off her accounts, I see, and that’s a blessing. Now, Miss Carlton, you won’t take it amiss, but if you will allow a motherly body like myself to speak, you won’t be too harsh with that poor child. She’s a good child, and means well; and why in the name of goodness she should be pestered with that account-book and pencil at all hours of the day beats me.”
“Is this what would be so called a secret?” asked Mademoiselle, “for, if so, I will—to speak in the figurative way—stop up my ears.”
“Oh, no,” said Brenda, “it is nothing: I am teaching my youngest pupil a lesson, and these ladies—even dear Mrs Simpkins—fail to understand.”
“Ah—how I you do admire!” said Mademoiselle. “I also have my methods. We, dear Miss Carlton, will have much in common. We will talk together of our pupils and our wrongs.”
“For my part, I am getting sleepy,” said Miss Price, “and the conversation is not nearly so interesting as I hoped it would have been.”
She looked regretfully at the empty ice plates and thought of the bill she would have to pay at Jones’ on the morrow.
“But what did you suppose I would have to talk about?” asked Brenda, putting the last morsel of delicious strawberry ice into her mouth as she spoke.
“Oh, I’m sure I can’t tell. I had a sort of vision of a delightful time—I thought you’d begin at the very beginning, as they pay in the story books, and tell us of everything—what he said to her, you know, and what she said to him, and how they were all dressed—”
“And a good lot about the food,” interrupted Mrs Simpkins. “I’m great on nice food myself, and it’s delightful to think that a good-natured French body has come to stay here—”
“I will make you,” interrupted Mademoiselle, “of thesaladethe most enjoyable with a taste of mayonnaise, that cannot be compounded except by a person born inla belle France.”
“You mustn’t let Georgie see it, then,” said Mrs Simpkins, “for if he swallows even a morsel of anything Frenchy, he’ll be done for!”
“I could fancy it myself,” said Miss Price. “I am very much obliged indeed to Mademoiselle for thinking of making us a proper French salad.”
“And so am I, although you oughtn’t to trouble yourself,” said Mrs Dawson, who began to perceive that Mademoiselle might be exceedingly useful to her.
“Well, ladies,” said Brenda, rising, “I think I will go to bed. I am a little tired to-night, for we have been out so much. It was sweet of you, Miss Price, to give us those delicious ices. I have never enjoyed anything better. Doubtless, to-morrow, when I am refreshed, I shall have numerous little anecdotes to tell each of you in turn, but not before the children. It is so bad for children, too, to hear their friends gossiped about.”
“I agree with them sentiments,” said Mrs Simpkins. “I wouldn’t have Georgie listen to the tell-tales between me and Maria—that’s my maid at home—for all the world. Why, he’d have it out to his pa at his next meal for certain.”
“I’ll tell you each in confidence,” said Brenda, “and,” she added, “I daresay there’ll be plenty of fresh news for the future, for I expect to go constantly to Castle Beverley, and my sister is coming to spend the day with me soon.”
“Not Penelope, my most adored one!” cried Mademoiselle. “Do you say, dear Miss Carlton, that I am to see my sweetest pupil so soon?”
“I don’t know the exact day,” said Brenda, “but you will see her if you happen to stay here.”
“Stay here?” said Miss Price. “Of course we trust Mademoiselle will stay! It is delightful to have a real Frenchwoman in the house.”
“I said this place was home,” said Mademoiselle, raising her eyes ceilingward.
Brenda went up to her room. There she found all the girls already disposed of in their separate beds. To her relief, they were all, even Fanchon, sound asleep. She sat down for a short time by the open window and thought over matters. She did not altogether like the turn of events. Try as she would, she felt that she would never be anything but a nobody at Castle Beverley. More anxious than ever was she to secure Harry Jordan as her affianced husband. She had a shrewd guess as to his sort of character, and wondered what impression she would make on him when they met the following evening. Poor Brenda went to sleep fairly happy, on the whole, that night, little guessing what a very active disturber to her peace Mademoiselle d’Etienne would prove herself to be.
The next day broke, as usual, with cloudless splendour. The different ladies went out Brenda strolled abroad with her pupils. She found a shady place under a cliff, and sat there to rest, and looked around her.
Meanwhile, Mademoiselle devoted herself to Mrs Dawson. She insisted on going shopping, if not for her, yet with her. And Mademoiselle had an eye for a bargain which even that astute Englishwoman, Mrs Dawson, could never hope to possess. Why, those tomatoes which she purchased for almost nothing would never have been observed at all by the good lady, and then those little crabs which were going for a few pence (Mrs Dawson, as a rule, never purchased small crabs, but Mademoiselle begged of her, on this occasion, to do so) were soon disposed of in the worthy woman’s basket; and lettuces, with other tempting fresh vegetables, were secured. Mademoiselle implored of Mrs Dawson to let her arrange the supper table that night.
“You have bought but little,” she said; “nevertheless, it is enough. I will surprise the good, the dear ladies of your charming family with the French supper which I will prepare.”
“But Mary Anne will never stand it,” objected Mrs Dawson.
“Is she your cook?”
“Yes, and a very good one too—I pay her a lot of wages.”
“Never mind: I will counsel her, and I will talk with her: I will get her to think that she herself has made thesouffléand theomeletteand the tomato soup and the delectable preparation of crabs. She will know it not, except as her own handiwork, and I will be your cook.”
“It is too much to expect of you,” said Mrs Dawson, really won over by her paying guest’s extraordinary kindness.
“Have I found a home—and am I ungrateful?” was Mademoiselle’s response.
The result of this was that the two ladies came back the most excellent friends, and sat together until early dinner in that stifling little parlour. In that small room Mademoiselle got a good deal of information with regard to Brenda, whom she was interested in for more reasons than one, and also saw the advertisement for the lost bracelet with her own eyes. She read it over carefully and her black eyes glittered with excitement.
“It is a rewardmagnifique!” she said.
“I wish I could find it,” said Mrs Dawson.
“If we were both to find it,chère amie,” said the Frenchwoman, “we might divide the so great profits.”
“But we never can,” said Mrs Dawson. Then she added, after a minute’s pause, “All the same, I’d like to say something.”
“And what is that?” asked Mademoiselle.
“You mustn’t breathe it, please. You’re quite a stranger to me, but coming from Hazlitt Chase, and knowing Miss Beverley, I suppose you’re to be trusted.” Mademoiselle laid her hand dramatically on her very fat chest.
“I suppose so,” she replied.
“And I must confide in some one, for the thing seems to burn a sort of hole in me.”
“My good, dear, delightful friend,” said the Frenchwoman, “don’t let the secret prey on you in that fashion, for it will undermine your so precious health. Confide it to one who is ardent to help you, who has for you already the affection the most profound.”
“It is nothing, of course,” said Mrs Dawson, “and you will promise not to tell.”
“I have promised.”
Again the hand was laid over the region of the heart.
“Well, then,—it is just this. I know a good jewel when I see it, for my poor husband, the late Dawson, was in the jewellery line, and he taught me to know at a glance the difference between poor gold and good gold, and imitation stones and real ones; and if you will believe me, Mademoiselle d’Etienne, that little minx of a Fanchon Amberley came into the house the other evening with a bangle on her arm which for all the world might have been this,”—here she pointed to theStandard. “That bangle might have meant three guineas in my pocket, for it was eighteen carat gold as I am alive, and the turquoise in it was the most beautiful I ever saw.”
Mademoiselle’s dark face flushed and then paled; but she did not stir or show any other sign of special interest. After a minute, she said gently:
“There are so many bangles now-a-days, and they are all more or less alike.”
“Of course Miss Fanchon—”
“Ridiculous to call an English girl by one of our names—”
“Had it of her own—she said a friend gave it to her, but she was very mysterious about it.”
“I’d like to see it,” said Mademoiselle.
“And so would I,” said Mrs Dawson.
“I’d like to see it for a reason,” said Mademoiselle. “Mademoiselle d’Etienne, you don’t mean—”
“I don’t know that I mean anything, but if I saw it, I’d know once for all.”
“What would you know?”
“I tell you what, Mrs Dawson. I have examined the bracelet that little Pauline Hungerford—one of my adorable pupils—has worn, which she got on the day of the break-up. I took it in my hand, and she allowed me to examine it, and I know the other was exactly the same except for the difference in the stones. I should like to see the bracelet that the young lady who ought not to possess bangles, wears.”
“I don’t believe you will: there’s something about that governess which makes me think her a deep one—I can’t be certain, but I have my suspicions—and she seemed distressed, I don’t know why, when I noticed the bangle on Miss Fanchon’s arm.”
“Leave the matter to me,” said Mademoiselle. “This interests me; but I must be calm. You and I, dear Madame, are true friends, are we not?”