Chapter Ten.A Cosy Little Supper.Mr Amberley was one of the most unsuspicious of men, but he, too, had his own slightly cunning ways. He allowed Brenda so much money each week for housekeeping, and it must be said that she kept the family on short commons. There were even times when the Reverend Josiah was slightly hungry. This being the case, and as he, in reality, held the purse-strings, he was wont to provide himself with bread, butter, and cheese and some bottles of ale which he kept in a private cupboard in his study. By the aid of these, he managed to quell his rising appetite and to sleep soundly at nights.But Brenda knew nothing of the delicate cheese supply by this reverend gentleman, of the butter which he himself brought home from the nearest dairy, nor of the dainty bread which he slipped into his pocket on his way home from his parochial rounds. Now, however, his intention was to give the pretty little governess a charming surprise when she returned that evening. She should have that rarest of all dainties—in his opinion—Welsh rabbit, made from a receipt handed down to him by his grandmother. Accordingly, by his own clever hands, as the hour approached midnight, he put everything into preparation—the little stove on which the dainty was to be prepared (he regretted much that they must eat it on bread, not on toast), a bottle of the very best ale that could be purchased: in short, a charming little meal for two.He had missed Brenda sorely during the day. In her presence the girls were quite delightful, but without her they were tiresome, plain, rather disagreeable girls. It was too late to take the pony to the station, but he himself would walk there in order that Brenda should come home under his safe convoy. This plan of his Brenda had not counted on. He took the precaution, indeed, not to appear on the platform, but met her just as she was emerging out of the shade of a thick wood just beyond the village. He thought how charming she looked in her white serge coat—how different from his own unruly girls. But Brenda herself was snappish and by no means inclined to respond to his kind attentions.“I wish you had not come out, Mr Amberley. It really is ridiculous to suppose that a woman of my age,”—(Brenda was very fond of making herself appear old when she spoke to Josiah)—“a woman of my age,” she continued, “cannot walk the short distance from the station to your house.”“But at midnight—my dear girl,” protested Josiah, “I really could not hear of it. I hope I know what is due to any girl whom I respect, and it is only a pleasure to serve you—you know that.”“Dreadful old goose!” thought Brenda to herself.But she saw that she must humour him. She had had, on the whole, a good day and, although she had not excited the admiration she had expected, she was the richer by a very valuable gold bangle. So she chatted as lightly and airily as she could and, when they entered the house, she even assisted to cat a tiny portion of the Welsh rabbit and to sip a little of the sparkling beer. She asked no questions, too, with regard to the manner in which Josiah got these dainties into the house. But although she said nothing, she thought a good deal and resolved to feed the good clergyman slightly better in future and not to save quite so much of the housekeeping money for her own purposes.When she had finished supper, she yawned profoundly, protested that she could not keep her eyes open a minute longer, and, giving Josiah a scant “good-night,” ran off to bed.When she left him, he sat for a little time musing. Brenda had managed that he should not even get a glimpse of her blue silk dress, but he had noticed the dainty hat with its perfect trimmings, the white serge coat which covered the governess’ pretty person from head to foot, and the neat and lovely white gloves. He had thought how wonderful it was that she could wear such nice things. That coat, in particular, took his fancy. It was of a wonderful material which he did not think that he recognised. Silk it was not; cotton it was not; linsey-woolsey it was not. What was it made of? It must be cheap, or poor little Brenda could not afford it. Brenda had so often and so pathetically told him how necessary it was that she should save almost every penny of her income. She used to say to him with those sweet blue eyes of hers, so different from the eyes of his own daughters, looking into his face:“It is my duty to prepare for the rainy day. It may come, you know, and if I have not saved money, where shall I be?”He had smiled at her on these occasions and once had even gone the length of patting her little white hand and had said that he wished all other girls were so wise. Yes, dear Brenda was saving up her poor little salary; and that nicely made white coat—of course she must have made it herself—must be composed of a very cheap material. He wondered if dresses of the same material could be got for his poor orphans. He always spoke of his children to himself as his poor orphans. They had been very tiresome orphans on the day that had just gone by—Nina in the morning, Fanchon later on. They had, it seemed to him, almost complained with regard to their clothes—those clothes which he so laboured to get them. It was annoying, very; but if they might have coats, or frocks, or whatever the article of dress was called, of the material which Brenda wore, he would feel that he had done his duty by them.He went to bed at last, resolved to speak to the governess on the subject by-and-by. When Brenda reached her room, she first of all proceeded to lock her door. She then carefully removed her white serge coat, shook it, brushed it over tenderly, and folded it up, with tissue paper between the folds. She then laid this elegant garment in the bottom drawer of her wardrobe. It must not be seen again until she was safe at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. Having removed the coat, she stood for a time surveying her own reflection in the cracked mirror, which, after all, was the best looking-glass the rectory could afford. She moved her head slightly to right, slightly to left; she pushed her hat in different positions, and contemplated herself with great admiration. Then, putting her hand into her pocket, she took out the beautiful little bangle and clasped it on her wrist. The bangle really gave her great finish. It seemed to raise her in the social scale. It was so absolutely good—not the least bit jim-crack. That gold was at least eighteen carat, and that exquisite turquoise must have cost a mint of money; it was just the right size for her, too. She held up her arm, and contemplated the effect of the bangle in this position. She laid her hand across her knee, and looked at it from that point of view. She arranged it and rearranged it, and loved it more and worshipped it more deeply the longer she looked at it.At last, with a deep sigh of satisfaction, she took it off, folded it softly in some tissue paper, and, opening her purse, took from it the key of a drawer which she always kept locked. The people who surrounded the rectory, the few domestics who worked there, were all honest as the day. Had this not been the case, Brenda’s drawer in her wardrobe might have been found worth robbing before now. For in it were those savings which she had secured from the housekeeping money, and that seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence which still belonged to the girls’ wardrobes and the four five-pound notes which Penelope had sent her. In short, Brenda felt that she was quite a wealthy girl. She had not an idea of any Nemesis at hand.She laid the stolen bracelet in a little box which had held hitherto some mock jewellery, and having locked her drawer, proceeded to take off her pale blue dress, to fold it up, put it away, to do ditto with her hat and gloves, and finally to undress and get into bed.Brenda Carlton slept soundly that night, for she was really very tired. She was also quite hopeful and happy. But towards morning, she was disturbed by a dream. The dream was a curious mixture of Helen of Troy as she had appeared—silent and stately in the dusky wood—of Penelope, with her eyes red from crying, of her pupils and their clothes, and, last but not least, the Reverend Josiah.It seemed to her in her dream that Josiah was exceedingly angry, that all that gentleness and suavity of manner which, as a rule, characterised him, had departed; that he was looking at her—yes, at her—with little angry eyes, and that he was accusing her of something which was very terrible and, which, try as she would, she could not disprove. She awoke from this dream trembling and with the dews of perspiration on her forehead. She started up in bed to wipe them away and, as she did so, she was aware of the fact that some one was thumping at her bedroom door.“Yes—what is it?” she called out crossly.“It is only me,” answered the voice of her eldest pupil. “I thought you would be tired and have brought you your breakfast.”“Oh, thank you so much,” said Brenda, relieved and gratified, for she really was intensely thirsty.She sprang out of bed, unlocked the door, then, running across the room, got into bed once more and sat up, looking exceedingly pretty with her slightly flushed cheeks and befrilled nightdress of fine lawn. Fanchon entered with the breakfast tray, which was quite common, being made of iron that had once been japanned; but this decorative process had gradually been removed by the fingers of time, and Brenda was far too careful with regard to the laundry to allow extra cloths for breakfast trays or any such little dainties.Fanchon placed the tray on a table close to Brenda’s bed; then having, as she considered, performed her duty, she jumped up on the side of the bed and sat gazing at her governess. Fanchon had made all her preparations. Brenda should have food before the thunder clap fell on her devoted head. Accordingly, Fanchon Amberley began by making friendly enquiries with regard to the governess’ success on the previous day.“Drink your tea and eat your toast,” she said. “There’s no butter in the house—you didn’t leave us money to buy any, and that egg is, I am afraid, stale. But it is the last one left from your purchases of last week. You must make the best of it, I am afraid. But never mind,” continued the young lady, swinging her foot backwards and forwards, “you must have gorged so on the good things of life yesterday, that I don’t suppose you are overpowered with an appetite.”“I didn’t gorge,” said Brenda gently. “I never gorge, as you know, Fanchon. But I am thirsty, and it is very thoughtful and kind of you, dear, to bring me up my breakfast.”Fanchon made no reply to this. Brenda poured herself out a cup of tea. She drank it off thirstily and then looked at her pupil.“How untidy you are, my dear child.”“Am I? That doesn’t matter,” said Fanchon. “Tell me, Brenda, how you enjoyed yourself. Was it quite as wonderful as you expected?”“Oh, quite, quite,” said Brenda, who had no idea but of making the very best of things to her pupil.“It was really worth your pale blue silk dress and your serge coat, and your hat, and your gloves, and your new parasol?” pursued Fanchon.“I wish, Fanchon,” said the governess, “that you would not give me an inventory of my clothes whenever you speak to me. I suppose I must be dressed like other people, mustn’t I?”“Of course,” said Fanchon. “Well, let us leave the dress alone. How did you get on with your sister? was she as nice as that dead-and-gone body—whatever her name is?”“Oh, she was wonderful!” said Brenda, with real enthusiasm. “She has a real gift for acting, there’s no doubt of that.”“I suppose you’ll tell us about it sometime, won’t you?”“I am telling you now—what do you mean by sometime?”“I mean,” said Fanchon, “that Nina and Joey and I want all the particulars, not just a few bare facts, but every little tiny incident made as full as possible; and in especial, we are anxious to know if you met anyhe’s, and if you did meet one specialhe; and in that case, whathesaid to you, and what you said to him—a sort of ‘consequence’ game, you understand. And in particular, we want to learn the compliments he paid you; for some day, when we three are dressed like you in pale blue silk, etc, we may have similar compliments ourselves. That is what we want to know.”“Whatisthe matter with you, Fanchon?” said her governess.“Do you like your breakfast, Brenda?” was Fanchon’s response.“Not much,” answered Brenda crossly. “The bread is stale; there is no butter, and the egg is uneatable. I must jump up at once in order to attend to the housekeeping.”“You needn’t, really, Brenda. Joey went round to the shops this morning and ordered things in. We’re going to have a couple of ducks for dinner, and green peas—”“Whatdoyou mean?” said Brenda, her eyes flashing. “A couple of ducks and green peas! You know how expensive ducks are.”“I don’t,” said Fanchon calmly—“all I know about them is that they are good to eat and Joey has ordered them. Oh—and we’re going to have raspberry and currant pie too, and a lot of cream with it—”“And you expectmeto pay for these luxuries out of the housekeeping money?”“Of course we do, Brenda—who else would pay for them?”“But I tell you I can’t—you don’t understand how little your father gives me; it is absolutely impossible—you must countermand that orderat once, Fanchon—go and do it this minute while I get up. I shall send cook out presently for a bit of steak, and potatoes from the garden will do; there are no peas, and it is the height of extravagance to buy them.”“You’ll be a great deal too late, for they are all in the house; and I think cook has put the ducks in the oven. Anyhow,” continued Fanchon, suddenly changing her tone, “I don’t mean to stop either Joey or Nina. They’re buying food—proper food—for us, and you’ve got to pay for it.”“I don’t understand you—you are exceedingly impertinent. I must speak to your father.”“You can of course, if you like,” answered Fanchon, with great calmness, “but all the same, I don’t think you will; I’ve got something to say to you, Brenda, and it is something rather dreadful.”“What?” said Brenda.She longed to rouse herself into a towering passion, but she had the memory of her dream still over her, and the thought of Mr Amberley’s face with its changed and quite awful expression. She was more tired, too, than she cared to own. She found her eyes fixed upon those of her eldest pupil. What a dreadful-looking girl she was—so singularly plain and ungainly—all legs and arms, and with that truly disagreeable face! Brenda contrasted her with a girl she had seen at Hazlitt Chase, and wondered how she had endured her own position so long. And now this girl was actually bullying her—a girl not fifteen years of age!Fanchon seemed to read some of her governess’ discomfiture and amazement; in short, she was enjoying herself mightily. It was delightful to turn the tables; it was delicious for the slave to be, even for a short time, the master. She, therefore, continued in a calm voice:“I’d best tell you everything, and then you will know what is to be done. To begin with: I think you partly owe the discovery we have made to the fact that you, in your spirit of parsimony, would not give poor little Nina flounces to her dress.”Brenda gasped, but was speechless.“And,” continued Fanchon, “Nina, although she is not yet eleven years of age, is no fool, and so yesterday, when you were out of the way—you know the old proverb, ‘When the cat’s away, the mice will play,’—well, that poor little mouse, Nina, thought she would have a gambol on her own account yesterday, and Joey and I joined in. We quizzed father with great dexterity and—in short, Madam Cat!—we found you out!”These last words were quite terrible. From Fanchon’s pale eyes a steely fire shot forth. It seemed to scorch the miserable Brenda, who shrank lower on her pillows and longed for the ceiling to fall on her.“I,”—she began tremblingly—“I think you are quite the most impertinent—and I wish—I wish—you would go. I shall speak—to—to your dear father. I’ll just get dressed and go to him.”Here Brenda burst into tears.“Your tears won’t do any good, Madam Cat,” said Fanchon, “and I am not a bit impertinent, and as to telling father, why, you can tell him anything you like, after you have listened to me. The girls know that I am talking to you, so we won’t be disturbed. Now then—stop crying—you’re in my power, and you’re in Joey’s power, and you’re in Nina’s power, and the sooner you realise that fact, the better for you.” Brenda uttered a deep sigh. She thought she saw a loop-hole of hope. The girls, after all, did not matter—not greatly—whatever those impertinent little creatures had discovered. It was the Reverend Josiah whom she really dreaded, and if she were in his power, he would not have given her Welsh rabbit on the previous night, nor been so very, very kind, nor have looked at her so admiringly. If Fanchon had not gone too far, there was still hope. She, therefore, wiped her eyes and sat up.“What is it?” she said meekly. “I am a poor prisoner at your bar, Fanchon—out with the indictment—tell the prisoner of what offence she is guilty.”“I’ll tell you first of all what we suspect, and afterwards I will tell you what we know,” said Fanchon.“You terrible, impertinent child—how dare you suspect me of anything!”“We three suspect that you don’t spend all the money papa gives you for housekeeping, on the housekeeping. Cause why: We are always so dreadfully hungry and the meals are so shocking poor—and—cause why: We know that you save money for yourself in other quarters—”“Do you think I would steal afarthing—of your dear papa’s money, you dreadful, dreadful—horrible child!” said Brenda.“I don’tthinkabout what I know,” replied Fanchon. “Now listen. Look at that sum.” Here she thrust a carefully made out account into Brenda’s hand. Brenda read the items, tears rushing back to her eyes and her heart palpitating wildly. The grand total of one pound, three shillings, and a penny stared her in the face. “And now,” continued Fanchon, “having discovered that this was exactly what you spent on our poor little clothes, we should like to know what you propose to do with the balance.”“The balance, child!” said Brenda. “I haven’t a penny—not a penny over. In fact, although I wouldn’t trouble your father, you are a little bit in debt to me—I mean the gloves—I couldn’t tell you, and you had to have gloves—butIpaid for the gloves.”“Oh—you wicked Brenda!” said Fanchon—“you intolerably wicked woman! Nina talked to father yesterday, and father told her that he gave you three pounds for each of us, in order to clothe us for the seaside. So you have still in your possession seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence of our money. It’s my belief that you have spent it on your own clothes! There—you can’t deny it—we know what the things you bought cost—the miserable—horrid—meanthings you bought! and we know what poor papa gave you, for he told Nina and afterwards I went and asked him and he told me too.”“And does he—does he know—anything else?” asked Brenda.“Nothing else at present, but he will soon.”Brenda lay very still and thoughtful on her bed. After a minute she said:“Fanchon—you are quite mistaken in me.”“I know you thoroughly,” said Fanchon; “I always believed you to be intensely conceited, frightfully—appallingly vain, and—not too honourable. But now I also know that you are nothing more nor less than a common thief! How long do you think father would keep you in the house if he knew?”“But—he doesn’t know, dear, dear Fanchon!”“Not yet. We thought we’d tell you first—it seemed only fair to give you that chance.”“How sweet of you, Fanchon.”“But I have told you now, and I shall go straight to him this very minute and show him this little sum unless you confess the truth to me.”“I—I—” said Brenda—“what truth?”“Have you got seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence of our money in your possession? If you say no—I go immediately to father. If you say yes—why, perhaps I will wait an hour or so.”Brenda almost smiled when Fanchon made use of the last words.“Then,” she said in a gentle tone, “I have still got the money, for you—for you. I thought we could spend it best at Marshlands-on-the-Sea.”“Oh, no, you didn’t,” said Fanchon—“those sort of lies won’t go down any longer with us. But as you have made a sort of confession, you may dress yourself. You won’t grumble, I think, when you come downstairs and enjoy our good dinner, and after dinner I’ll have another talk with you. It is my turn to dictate terms now, and I mean to enjoy myself.”With this last remark Fanchon marched out of the room, wrenching the door open noisily and banging it after her. Her two little sisters were waiting on the landing.“The cat has confessed,” she said, “and so the poor little mice may play as much as they like. Not a word to dad—we’d have no fun if he knew—we can do exactly what we like with her now.”Josephine clapped her hands. Nina enquired if the ducks and green peas and raspberry and currant tart, with unlimited cream, had been mentioned.“Oh, yes; and we shall enjoy our dinner—poor starved creatures,” said Fanchon.The three girls tripped downstairs. The old rectory was already full of the odorous smell of roast duck. Mr Amberley perceived it in his study. He slightly sniffed, and thought of toasted cheese. He felt pangs of hunger which, as a rule, he was not accustomed to. The girls were flying about: they seemed in high spirits.“What a delightful day it is,” thought the rector to himself, and he shut up the musty old Josephus with a bang and decided to give an old sermon for the sixth time of hearing to his parishioners on Sunday, and not to worry any more about a new one until the hot weather was over. He even went to the length of standing by the open study window and looking across the sun-flecked garden.Presently, he saw his daughters entering the house with trailing flowers of all sorts and descriptions in their arms. He wondered what could be up. Josephine, who had a certain knack for the arrangement of dinner tables, was laying a white cloth on the board. In the centre she placed billowy piles of green art muslin which she had bought that morning in the village—or rather, put down to the housekeeping account. Rows of sweet peas and carnations were then placed in bowls in the centre of the table and, this handiwork having been completed, Josie rushed up to her room to put on the best dress she possessed. In short, the entire place wore a festive air.“It’s because dear Brenda has returned,” thought the rector.He felt the difference without observing it. But when sharp little Fanchon appeared and led him into the dining-room and he beheld with his own eyes two plump birds waiting to be carved, and saw the green peas, and the new potatoes, and the apple sauce, and the different accompaniments of young ducks, he forgot everything in the joy of gratifying his appetite.The three girls were waiting—no servant ever attended at meals,—their faces were flushed with delight. The rector did not even ask, “Where is Brenda?” He flopped down into his seat, said grace, and began to carve the birds.Brenda entered in a pale green cotton dress, which suited her lissom young figure to perfection. She took her seat meekly. The girls did not speak to her, but the rector addressed her with enthusiasm.“My dear,”—he said—“what a delicious feast we are having, and how very good of you to manage it out of the housekeeping money. I know—my dear Brenda—that I give you far too little; but my stipend, my dear, is so small, and the needs of my poor so considerable—”“There’s raspberry tart and cream coming on,” said Nina, “so let’s hurry up with the ducks.”The rector placed the first delicious morsel between his lips. Brenda made a gentle remark to the effect that she was glad she had pleased him. Nina gave a groan; Joey kicked her sister’s foot; Fanchon tried to look stately, but failed. Notwithstanding all these things, however, the three girls and their father thoroughly enjoyed the excellent dinner.“I feel a new man,” said Mr Amberley, when it was over. “It is wonderful how supporting really tasty food is. My dear Brenda, I thank you.”She bowed to him—a mocking light in her eyes which he did not observe.
Mr Amberley was one of the most unsuspicious of men, but he, too, had his own slightly cunning ways. He allowed Brenda so much money each week for housekeeping, and it must be said that she kept the family on short commons. There were even times when the Reverend Josiah was slightly hungry. This being the case, and as he, in reality, held the purse-strings, he was wont to provide himself with bread, butter, and cheese and some bottles of ale which he kept in a private cupboard in his study. By the aid of these, he managed to quell his rising appetite and to sleep soundly at nights.
But Brenda knew nothing of the delicate cheese supply by this reverend gentleman, of the butter which he himself brought home from the nearest dairy, nor of the dainty bread which he slipped into his pocket on his way home from his parochial rounds. Now, however, his intention was to give the pretty little governess a charming surprise when she returned that evening. She should have that rarest of all dainties—in his opinion—Welsh rabbit, made from a receipt handed down to him by his grandmother. Accordingly, by his own clever hands, as the hour approached midnight, he put everything into preparation—the little stove on which the dainty was to be prepared (he regretted much that they must eat it on bread, not on toast), a bottle of the very best ale that could be purchased: in short, a charming little meal for two.
He had missed Brenda sorely during the day. In her presence the girls were quite delightful, but without her they were tiresome, plain, rather disagreeable girls. It was too late to take the pony to the station, but he himself would walk there in order that Brenda should come home under his safe convoy. This plan of his Brenda had not counted on. He took the precaution, indeed, not to appear on the platform, but met her just as she was emerging out of the shade of a thick wood just beyond the village. He thought how charming she looked in her white serge coat—how different from his own unruly girls. But Brenda herself was snappish and by no means inclined to respond to his kind attentions.
“I wish you had not come out, Mr Amberley. It really is ridiculous to suppose that a woman of my age,”—(Brenda was very fond of making herself appear old when she spoke to Josiah)—“a woman of my age,” she continued, “cannot walk the short distance from the station to your house.”
“But at midnight—my dear girl,” protested Josiah, “I really could not hear of it. I hope I know what is due to any girl whom I respect, and it is only a pleasure to serve you—you know that.”
“Dreadful old goose!” thought Brenda to herself.
But she saw that she must humour him. She had had, on the whole, a good day and, although she had not excited the admiration she had expected, she was the richer by a very valuable gold bangle. So she chatted as lightly and airily as she could and, when they entered the house, she even assisted to cat a tiny portion of the Welsh rabbit and to sip a little of the sparkling beer. She asked no questions, too, with regard to the manner in which Josiah got these dainties into the house. But although she said nothing, she thought a good deal and resolved to feed the good clergyman slightly better in future and not to save quite so much of the housekeeping money for her own purposes.
When she had finished supper, she yawned profoundly, protested that she could not keep her eyes open a minute longer, and, giving Josiah a scant “good-night,” ran off to bed.
When she left him, he sat for a little time musing. Brenda had managed that he should not even get a glimpse of her blue silk dress, but he had noticed the dainty hat with its perfect trimmings, the white serge coat which covered the governess’ pretty person from head to foot, and the neat and lovely white gloves. He had thought how wonderful it was that she could wear such nice things. That coat, in particular, took his fancy. It was of a wonderful material which he did not think that he recognised. Silk it was not; cotton it was not; linsey-woolsey it was not. What was it made of? It must be cheap, or poor little Brenda could not afford it. Brenda had so often and so pathetically told him how necessary it was that she should save almost every penny of her income. She used to say to him with those sweet blue eyes of hers, so different from the eyes of his own daughters, looking into his face:
“It is my duty to prepare for the rainy day. It may come, you know, and if I have not saved money, where shall I be?”
He had smiled at her on these occasions and once had even gone the length of patting her little white hand and had said that he wished all other girls were so wise. Yes, dear Brenda was saving up her poor little salary; and that nicely made white coat—of course she must have made it herself—must be composed of a very cheap material. He wondered if dresses of the same material could be got for his poor orphans. He always spoke of his children to himself as his poor orphans. They had been very tiresome orphans on the day that had just gone by—Nina in the morning, Fanchon later on. They had, it seemed to him, almost complained with regard to their clothes—those clothes which he so laboured to get them. It was annoying, very; but if they might have coats, or frocks, or whatever the article of dress was called, of the material which Brenda wore, he would feel that he had done his duty by them.
He went to bed at last, resolved to speak to the governess on the subject by-and-by. When Brenda reached her room, she first of all proceeded to lock her door. She then carefully removed her white serge coat, shook it, brushed it over tenderly, and folded it up, with tissue paper between the folds. She then laid this elegant garment in the bottom drawer of her wardrobe. It must not be seen again until she was safe at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. Having removed the coat, she stood for a time surveying her own reflection in the cracked mirror, which, after all, was the best looking-glass the rectory could afford. She moved her head slightly to right, slightly to left; she pushed her hat in different positions, and contemplated herself with great admiration. Then, putting her hand into her pocket, she took out the beautiful little bangle and clasped it on her wrist. The bangle really gave her great finish. It seemed to raise her in the social scale. It was so absolutely good—not the least bit jim-crack. That gold was at least eighteen carat, and that exquisite turquoise must have cost a mint of money; it was just the right size for her, too. She held up her arm, and contemplated the effect of the bangle in this position. She laid her hand across her knee, and looked at it from that point of view. She arranged it and rearranged it, and loved it more and worshipped it more deeply the longer she looked at it.
At last, with a deep sigh of satisfaction, she took it off, folded it softly in some tissue paper, and, opening her purse, took from it the key of a drawer which she always kept locked. The people who surrounded the rectory, the few domestics who worked there, were all honest as the day. Had this not been the case, Brenda’s drawer in her wardrobe might have been found worth robbing before now. For in it were those savings which she had secured from the housekeeping money, and that seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence which still belonged to the girls’ wardrobes and the four five-pound notes which Penelope had sent her. In short, Brenda felt that she was quite a wealthy girl. She had not an idea of any Nemesis at hand.
She laid the stolen bracelet in a little box which had held hitherto some mock jewellery, and having locked her drawer, proceeded to take off her pale blue dress, to fold it up, put it away, to do ditto with her hat and gloves, and finally to undress and get into bed.
Brenda Carlton slept soundly that night, for she was really very tired. She was also quite hopeful and happy. But towards morning, she was disturbed by a dream. The dream was a curious mixture of Helen of Troy as she had appeared—silent and stately in the dusky wood—of Penelope, with her eyes red from crying, of her pupils and their clothes, and, last but not least, the Reverend Josiah.
It seemed to her in her dream that Josiah was exceedingly angry, that all that gentleness and suavity of manner which, as a rule, characterised him, had departed; that he was looking at her—yes, at her—with little angry eyes, and that he was accusing her of something which was very terrible and, which, try as she would, she could not disprove. She awoke from this dream trembling and with the dews of perspiration on her forehead. She started up in bed to wipe them away and, as she did so, she was aware of the fact that some one was thumping at her bedroom door.
“Yes—what is it?” she called out crossly.
“It is only me,” answered the voice of her eldest pupil. “I thought you would be tired and have brought you your breakfast.”
“Oh, thank you so much,” said Brenda, relieved and gratified, for she really was intensely thirsty.
She sprang out of bed, unlocked the door, then, running across the room, got into bed once more and sat up, looking exceedingly pretty with her slightly flushed cheeks and befrilled nightdress of fine lawn. Fanchon entered with the breakfast tray, which was quite common, being made of iron that had once been japanned; but this decorative process had gradually been removed by the fingers of time, and Brenda was far too careful with regard to the laundry to allow extra cloths for breakfast trays or any such little dainties.
Fanchon placed the tray on a table close to Brenda’s bed; then having, as she considered, performed her duty, she jumped up on the side of the bed and sat gazing at her governess. Fanchon had made all her preparations. Brenda should have food before the thunder clap fell on her devoted head. Accordingly, Fanchon Amberley began by making friendly enquiries with regard to the governess’ success on the previous day.
“Drink your tea and eat your toast,” she said. “There’s no butter in the house—you didn’t leave us money to buy any, and that egg is, I am afraid, stale. But it is the last one left from your purchases of last week. You must make the best of it, I am afraid. But never mind,” continued the young lady, swinging her foot backwards and forwards, “you must have gorged so on the good things of life yesterday, that I don’t suppose you are overpowered with an appetite.”
“I didn’t gorge,” said Brenda gently. “I never gorge, as you know, Fanchon. But I am thirsty, and it is very thoughtful and kind of you, dear, to bring me up my breakfast.”
Fanchon made no reply to this. Brenda poured herself out a cup of tea. She drank it off thirstily and then looked at her pupil.
“How untidy you are, my dear child.”
“Am I? That doesn’t matter,” said Fanchon. “Tell me, Brenda, how you enjoyed yourself. Was it quite as wonderful as you expected?”
“Oh, quite, quite,” said Brenda, who had no idea but of making the very best of things to her pupil.
“It was really worth your pale blue silk dress and your serge coat, and your hat, and your gloves, and your new parasol?” pursued Fanchon.
“I wish, Fanchon,” said the governess, “that you would not give me an inventory of my clothes whenever you speak to me. I suppose I must be dressed like other people, mustn’t I?”
“Of course,” said Fanchon. “Well, let us leave the dress alone. How did you get on with your sister? was she as nice as that dead-and-gone body—whatever her name is?”
“Oh, she was wonderful!” said Brenda, with real enthusiasm. “She has a real gift for acting, there’s no doubt of that.”
“I suppose you’ll tell us about it sometime, won’t you?”
“I am telling you now—what do you mean by sometime?”
“I mean,” said Fanchon, “that Nina and Joey and I want all the particulars, not just a few bare facts, but every little tiny incident made as full as possible; and in especial, we are anxious to know if you met anyhe’s, and if you did meet one specialhe; and in that case, whathesaid to you, and what you said to him—a sort of ‘consequence’ game, you understand. And in particular, we want to learn the compliments he paid you; for some day, when we three are dressed like you in pale blue silk, etc, we may have similar compliments ourselves. That is what we want to know.”
“Whatisthe matter with you, Fanchon?” said her governess.
“Do you like your breakfast, Brenda?” was Fanchon’s response.
“Not much,” answered Brenda crossly. “The bread is stale; there is no butter, and the egg is uneatable. I must jump up at once in order to attend to the housekeeping.”
“You needn’t, really, Brenda. Joey went round to the shops this morning and ordered things in. We’re going to have a couple of ducks for dinner, and green peas—”
“Whatdoyou mean?” said Brenda, her eyes flashing. “A couple of ducks and green peas! You know how expensive ducks are.”
“I don’t,” said Fanchon calmly—“all I know about them is that they are good to eat and Joey has ordered them. Oh—and we’re going to have raspberry and currant pie too, and a lot of cream with it—”
“And you expectmeto pay for these luxuries out of the housekeeping money?”
“Of course we do, Brenda—who else would pay for them?”
“But I tell you I can’t—you don’t understand how little your father gives me; it is absolutely impossible—you must countermand that orderat once, Fanchon—go and do it this minute while I get up. I shall send cook out presently for a bit of steak, and potatoes from the garden will do; there are no peas, and it is the height of extravagance to buy them.”
“You’ll be a great deal too late, for they are all in the house; and I think cook has put the ducks in the oven. Anyhow,” continued Fanchon, suddenly changing her tone, “I don’t mean to stop either Joey or Nina. They’re buying food—proper food—for us, and you’ve got to pay for it.”
“I don’t understand you—you are exceedingly impertinent. I must speak to your father.”
“You can of course, if you like,” answered Fanchon, with great calmness, “but all the same, I don’t think you will; I’ve got something to say to you, Brenda, and it is something rather dreadful.”
“What?” said Brenda.
She longed to rouse herself into a towering passion, but she had the memory of her dream still over her, and the thought of Mr Amberley’s face with its changed and quite awful expression. She was more tired, too, than she cared to own. She found her eyes fixed upon those of her eldest pupil. What a dreadful-looking girl she was—so singularly plain and ungainly—all legs and arms, and with that truly disagreeable face! Brenda contrasted her with a girl she had seen at Hazlitt Chase, and wondered how she had endured her own position so long. And now this girl was actually bullying her—a girl not fifteen years of age!
Fanchon seemed to read some of her governess’ discomfiture and amazement; in short, she was enjoying herself mightily. It was delightful to turn the tables; it was delicious for the slave to be, even for a short time, the master. She, therefore, continued in a calm voice:
“I’d best tell you everything, and then you will know what is to be done. To begin with: I think you partly owe the discovery we have made to the fact that you, in your spirit of parsimony, would not give poor little Nina flounces to her dress.”
Brenda gasped, but was speechless.
“And,” continued Fanchon, “Nina, although she is not yet eleven years of age, is no fool, and so yesterday, when you were out of the way—you know the old proverb, ‘When the cat’s away, the mice will play,’—well, that poor little mouse, Nina, thought she would have a gambol on her own account yesterday, and Joey and I joined in. We quizzed father with great dexterity and—in short, Madam Cat!—we found you out!”
These last words were quite terrible. From Fanchon’s pale eyes a steely fire shot forth. It seemed to scorch the miserable Brenda, who shrank lower on her pillows and longed for the ceiling to fall on her.
“I,”—she began tremblingly—“I think you are quite the most impertinent—and I wish—I wish—you would go. I shall speak—to—to your dear father. I’ll just get dressed and go to him.”
Here Brenda burst into tears.
“Your tears won’t do any good, Madam Cat,” said Fanchon, “and I am not a bit impertinent, and as to telling father, why, you can tell him anything you like, after you have listened to me. The girls know that I am talking to you, so we won’t be disturbed. Now then—stop crying—you’re in my power, and you’re in Joey’s power, and you’re in Nina’s power, and the sooner you realise that fact, the better for you.” Brenda uttered a deep sigh. She thought she saw a loop-hole of hope. The girls, after all, did not matter—not greatly—whatever those impertinent little creatures had discovered. It was the Reverend Josiah whom she really dreaded, and if she were in his power, he would not have given her Welsh rabbit on the previous night, nor been so very, very kind, nor have looked at her so admiringly. If Fanchon had not gone too far, there was still hope. She, therefore, wiped her eyes and sat up.
“What is it?” she said meekly. “I am a poor prisoner at your bar, Fanchon—out with the indictment—tell the prisoner of what offence she is guilty.”
“I’ll tell you first of all what we suspect, and afterwards I will tell you what we know,” said Fanchon.
“You terrible, impertinent child—how dare you suspect me of anything!”
“We three suspect that you don’t spend all the money papa gives you for housekeeping, on the housekeeping. Cause why: We are always so dreadfully hungry and the meals are so shocking poor—and—cause why: We know that you save money for yourself in other quarters—”
“Do you think I would steal afarthing—of your dear papa’s money, you dreadful, dreadful—horrible child!” said Brenda.
“I don’tthinkabout what I know,” replied Fanchon. “Now listen. Look at that sum.” Here she thrust a carefully made out account into Brenda’s hand. Brenda read the items, tears rushing back to her eyes and her heart palpitating wildly. The grand total of one pound, three shillings, and a penny stared her in the face. “And now,” continued Fanchon, “having discovered that this was exactly what you spent on our poor little clothes, we should like to know what you propose to do with the balance.”
“The balance, child!” said Brenda. “I haven’t a penny—not a penny over. In fact, although I wouldn’t trouble your father, you are a little bit in debt to me—I mean the gloves—I couldn’t tell you, and you had to have gloves—butIpaid for the gloves.”
“Oh—you wicked Brenda!” said Fanchon—“you intolerably wicked woman! Nina talked to father yesterday, and father told her that he gave you three pounds for each of us, in order to clothe us for the seaside. So you have still in your possession seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence of our money. It’s my belief that you have spent it on your own clothes! There—you can’t deny it—we know what the things you bought cost—the miserable—horrid—meanthings you bought! and we know what poor papa gave you, for he told Nina and afterwards I went and asked him and he told me too.”
“And does he—does he know—anything else?” asked Brenda.
“Nothing else at present, but he will soon.”
Brenda lay very still and thoughtful on her bed. After a minute she said:
“Fanchon—you are quite mistaken in me.”
“I know you thoroughly,” said Fanchon; “I always believed you to be intensely conceited, frightfully—appallingly vain, and—not too honourable. But now I also know that you are nothing more nor less than a common thief! How long do you think father would keep you in the house if he knew?”
“But—he doesn’t know, dear, dear Fanchon!”
“Not yet. We thought we’d tell you first—it seemed only fair to give you that chance.”
“How sweet of you, Fanchon.”
“But I have told you now, and I shall go straight to him this very minute and show him this little sum unless you confess the truth to me.”
“I—I—” said Brenda—“what truth?”
“Have you got seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence of our money in your possession? If you say no—I go immediately to father. If you say yes—why, perhaps I will wait an hour or so.”
Brenda almost smiled when Fanchon made use of the last words.
“Then,” she said in a gentle tone, “I have still got the money, for you—for you. I thought we could spend it best at Marshlands-on-the-Sea.”
“Oh, no, you didn’t,” said Fanchon—“those sort of lies won’t go down any longer with us. But as you have made a sort of confession, you may dress yourself. You won’t grumble, I think, when you come downstairs and enjoy our good dinner, and after dinner I’ll have another talk with you. It is my turn to dictate terms now, and I mean to enjoy myself.”
With this last remark Fanchon marched out of the room, wrenching the door open noisily and banging it after her. Her two little sisters were waiting on the landing.
“The cat has confessed,” she said, “and so the poor little mice may play as much as they like. Not a word to dad—we’d have no fun if he knew—we can do exactly what we like with her now.”
Josephine clapped her hands. Nina enquired if the ducks and green peas and raspberry and currant tart, with unlimited cream, had been mentioned.
“Oh, yes; and we shall enjoy our dinner—poor starved creatures,” said Fanchon.
The three girls tripped downstairs. The old rectory was already full of the odorous smell of roast duck. Mr Amberley perceived it in his study. He slightly sniffed, and thought of toasted cheese. He felt pangs of hunger which, as a rule, he was not accustomed to. The girls were flying about: they seemed in high spirits.
“What a delightful day it is,” thought the rector to himself, and he shut up the musty old Josephus with a bang and decided to give an old sermon for the sixth time of hearing to his parishioners on Sunday, and not to worry any more about a new one until the hot weather was over. He even went to the length of standing by the open study window and looking across the sun-flecked garden.
Presently, he saw his daughters entering the house with trailing flowers of all sorts and descriptions in their arms. He wondered what could be up. Josephine, who had a certain knack for the arrangement of dinner tables, was laying a white cloth on the board. In the centre she placed billowy piles of green art muslin which she had bought that morning in the village—or rather, put down to the housekeeping account. Rows of sweet peas and carnations were then placed in bowls in the centre of the table and, this handiwork having been completed, Josie rushed up to her room to put on the best dress she possessed. In short, the entire place wore a festive air.
“It’s because dear Brenda has returned,” thought the rector.
He felt the difference without observing it. But when sharp little Fanchon appeared and led him into the dining-room and he beheld with his own eyes two plump birds waiting to be carved, and saw the green peas, and the new potatoes, and the apple sauce, and the different accompaniments of young ducks, he forgot everything in the joy of gratifying his appetite.
The three girls were waiting—no servant ever attended at meals,—their faces were flushed with delight. The rector did not even ask, “Where is Brenda?” He flopped down into his seat, said grace, and began to carve the birds.
Brenda entered in a pale green cotton dress, which suited her lissom young figure to perfection. She took her seat meekly. The girls did not speak to her, but the rector addressed her with enthusiasm.
“My dear,”—he said—“what a delicious feast we are having, and how very good of you to manage it out of the housekeeping money. I know—my dear Brenda—that I give you far too little; but my stipend, my dear, is so small, and the needs of my poor so considerable—”
“There’s raspberry tart and cream coming on,” said Nina, “so let’s hurry up with the ducks.”
The rector placed the first delicious morsel between his lips. Brenda made a gentle remark to the effect that she was glad she had pleased him. Nina gave a groan; Joey kicked her sister’s foot; Fanchon tried to look stately, but failed. Notwithstanding all these things, however, the three girls and their father thoroughly enjoyed the excellent dinner.
“I feel a new man,” said Mr Amberley, when it was over. “It is wonderful how supporting really tasty food is. My dear Brenda, I thank you.”
She bowed to him—a mocking light in her eyes which he did not observe.
Chapter Eleven.Reaction.It was after dinner that Fanchon approached her governess.“I hope you enjoyed your dinner,” she said.“Yes; it was very good,” said Brenda.“When do you feel inclined to have a chat with me?” pursued Fanchon.“Not just at present,” answered Brenda.“But you’d better be quick about it, for we mean always to live well in the future. Joey and I think that we might order a crab for supper to-night—papa loves crabs.”Brenda was silent.“When can we have our talk?” continued Fanchon.“Well, I don’t think just at present; will you give me until evening? Order what you wish to-day, but don’t be too extravagant, you’ll only have an illness. I give you plain food, for it is really best from every point of view, and your father’s allowance of housekeeping money is very limited.”“I can ask him, of course, what he does give,” said Fanchon.“No, no; don’t do that—”“And,” continued Fanchon, as though she had not heard the last remark, “I can find out what the butcher’s bills, and the green grocer’s, and the grocer’s come to per week. I shall be rather clever about these things in future.”Brenda made no reply. After a minute’s pause, she said:“Would you really like me to leave you?”“I think, on the whole, I should very much.”“You would wish to give up going to Marshlands-on-the-Sea?”“No—that would be a disappointment.”“You can’t go there without me.”“Oh—I suppose we could get some one else.”“There is no one else whom your father would trust.”Fanchon was silent and a little thoughtful.“I have a plan to propose to you, Fanchon,” said her governess suddenly; “but I shall not propose it now—I will keep it until to-night. To-night, at ten o’clock, come to my room and I will talk to you. In the meantime, tell the other girls that for to-day, just for to-day, they may do as they please. Now let me be alone; I have a headache.”Fanchon danced off to communicate this news to her sisters.“The cat’s caving in like anything,” she said. “We shall have a jolly, jolly time in future!”“What can we have to eat at tea-time?” was Nina’s remark.“Oh—you little goose,” exclaimed Fanchon, “you can’t possibly be hungry yet.”“But I shall be hungry when tea-time comes.”“Well, get what you like, both of you.”“Let’s go to the shops this blessed minute,” said Nina, turning to Josephine.They started off arm in arm. They did not mind the fact that they were wearing their only white frocks—their Sunday-go-to-meeting frocks, and that Nina’s was already sadly stained with some juice from the raspberry tart. They did not mind the fact also that they had outgrown these frocks, and that the people stared at the rector’s daughters when they were at all respectably attired. They were too excited to think of anything but the victory they were having over old pussy-cat—which was their present name for their hitherto beloved Brenda.They went to the shops where Brenda dealt, and ordered rich plum cake for tea, two sorts of jam, some more fruit and some more cream; and for supper they ordered crabs—two crabs to be sent up dressed, from the fishmonger’s, also a lobster, and also a large plate of prawns. Having thus wilfully expended money which might have kept the rectory on its ordinaryrégimefor weeks, they returned home in the best of spirits.’Tis a little sad to relate that even mice, in their moments of triumph over their legendary foe—the domestic cat—may sometimes overdo things. For two of these little mice felt decidedly ill that night from the direful effects of overeating. Nina spent that night, which she had felt would be of such triumph, rolling from side to side in bed and crying out with pain, and Josephine had the most appalling succession of nightmares. But Fanchon was more moderate in her eating and, therefore, did not suffer. She had her work cut out for her; and that evening, at the appointed hour—regardless of Nina’s cries and Josephine’s frightened exclamations in her sleep—she went off to interview her governess in her bedroom.Brenda was waiting for her, and was quite ready. She had been frightened, terribly frightened, in the morning, but she was alarmed no longer. She had been given time to think, to consider, to form her plans. The discovery which those tiresome children had made was altogether most unpleasant. Had it been made by older people, it would almost have been dangerous. But Brenda felt that she could manage the children. She must sacrifice something, it is true, but she need not sacrifice everything.The girls had never been trained in high principles. They had been brought up anyhow. The rector was not a specially admirable man. It is true, he lived according to his lights, but these did not carry him far. His children were motherless, and it did not occur to him to suspect the girl into whose care he placed them. He was devoted to his poorer parishioners, and was kindness itself to them, denying himself many things for their benefit. But it was his object in life to do what he could for his orphans, and he thought he had done so when he put such a pretty, charming girl as Brenda Carlton over their heads. He believed fully in Brenda, and admired her immensely. He thought her a truly Christian young woman; for she was regular in her attendance at church, and always looked—he considered—so sweet and interested when he preached to her. It was wonderful how he found himself preaching directly to her, Sunday after Sunday, suiting his words to her need and thinking of her as he addressed, or was supposed to address, his congregation.As to the children’s education, he expected them to go to Sunday school; but as their teacher there was no other than Brenda herself, it cannot be said that they gained much by this special instruction.Brenda looked very pretty when she taught her class. Most of the time she told them good little stories, which they listened to when they were not too restless, and when Brenda herself was not too charmingly attired. On the whole, the girls were ripe for a fall, and Brenda had no compunction in saving herself at their expense. These three girls had, however, a considerable amount of character, and, strange as it may seem, the one the governess most dreaded was the youngest. For Nina was exceedingly fearless, and also rather cunning, and Brenda was not quite certain that if she gave her word she would keep it. The governess felt pretty sure that she could manage Fanchon and Josephine, but Nina was different. All things considered, however, she had to make the best of a bad job, and if she could only get through that happy time at Marshlands-on-the-Sea, she felt convinced that all would be well with her in the future. She, accordingly, welcomed Fanchon now with a smile, and immediately took the lead.“Just for all the world,” repeated Fanchon afterwards when she gave her sisters a partial account of this interview, “as ifshewere in the right and I was her little culprit at the bar!”“Sit down, dear Fanchon,” said Brenda. “Take this cosy seat by the open window—isn’t the night very warm?”“Yes—very,” said Fanchon.She took the proffered seat and the governess placed herself on the window ledge near by.“We shall enjoy our time at the sea,” said Brenda, “shall we not?”Fanchon did not answer. She was gazing in surprise at Brenda, who, prettily dressed in soft white muslin, looked more charming even than usual.“The cool sea breezes will be so refreshing,” continued the governess—“I am picturing the whole scene. I am going to be, of course, very particular with regard to Josie and Nina; but you, Fanchon, who are so tall for your age, can come out with me in the evening and listen to the band and—and—partake of any sort of fun that is going on.”“Can I really?” said Fanchon, her eyes sparkling, and, for a minute, she forgot that she was really the judge and Brenda the criminal.“Of course you can, dear; I mean you to have a good time.”“But can’t we settle that afterwards?” said Fanchon. “The other thing has to be arranged first, hasn’t it?”“What other thing, my dear?”“Oh, Brenda—you know—don’t pretend that you forget. I gave you a fright—a big fright—this morning, and you—you cried. What are you going to do about the money? you have it—you know, and it isn’t yours, it’s ours.”“I have it, of course,” said Brenda, “I have not denied it. I told you that I thought of spending it at Marshlands; there’ll be sure to be nice shops there, and we can see the things that’ll be suitable. You don’t suppose, you poor children, that you can manage with only those pink muslin dresses—that would never, never do—I had no such thought, I assure you.”“But,” persisted Fanchon, “you said this morning that you had spent all the money on us, and that we owed you for the gloves. Oh, how knowing you are, Brenda, but you have overstepped the mark this time, and poor papa, if he knew—”Brenda lowered her eyes. She had very thick and very curling jet-black lashes, and they looked sweet as they rested against her blooming cheeks. Fanchon could not help noticing them and, further, she could not help observing the gentle smile that played round her lips.“Now, listen,” said Brenda. “I want to confide in you. You can believe in me or not—just as you please. I cannot possibly force your belief, nor can I force you to do anything but what you wish. I am, to a certain extent, in your power, and in the power of the other two girls. You can tell your father, and he will dismiss me, and—I shall be ruined—”“Oh, I don’t suppose papa will be so very hard with you. He’s quite fond of you, you know,” said Fanchon.“He would be terribly severe,” said Brenda. “He is a dear good man, but he would be terrible, fearful, if you told him—you three—what you have found out. I tell you, Fanchon, why he would be so fearful. Because I have done what I have done entirely for the sake of deceiving him.”“Oh dear! dear! Then you are even more wicked than I thought,” said Fanchon.“Listen—the position is a very strange one. I seem to forget, as I am talking to you, that I am your governess, and that you and your sisters are my little pupils, but the facts are those: I look upon you, Fanchon, as very much older than your years. You have, in many ways, the mind of a grown-up woman. Of course you are very young, quite unformed, but you will be grown up sooner than most girls; and you have an understanding way, and I think you will follow me now if I try hard to explain myself.”“I wish you would begin,” said Fanchon then, restlessly, “you do so beat about the bush. You said this morning that you hadn’t a penny over, and that we owed you for the gloves; and then, afterwards, you confessed that you had something over—an awful lot over—and that you meant to spend it at Marshlands. You told one lie, anyway.”“Yes, I told one lie, anyway,” responded Brenda, intense sadness in her tone. “I told one dreadful, wicked lie, and I am very,verysorry—”“Oh, I wonder if you are!”“Yes, I am—I am; that was why I cried that time.”“It wasn’t—you cried because you were in a funk.”“Fanchon, my dear child, your blunt words hurt me exceedingly.”“Well, well,” said Fanchon, kicking one leg against the wainscoting as she spoke—“do go on, hurry up—won’t you? We’ll forget about the lie number one, and remember that you have confessed to having the money. We’ll even try to believe that you meant to spend it on us at Marshlands. Go on from that point, do.”“I will explain things to you,” said Brenda. “You know your dear father is very ignorant with regard to dress. His simplicity on these matters is most sweet, but at times it almost provokes a smile. Now, if I had spent three pounds on each of you in the little shops at Rocheford; and if Nina, and Josephine, and you—my dear Fanchon, in your silly way—had lost your heads over the pretty things I had bought, he would have been dreadfully startled and would have accused himself of great extravagance in giving you so much money, and when the next occasion came when my dear little pupils wanted pretty clothes, I should have had nothing like as much to spend on you. So your Brenda was—well—cunning, if you choose to call it so, and determined to outwit dear papa; and quite resolved that her little pupils should be charmingly attired at a place where he was not likely to see them.” Fanchon did not speak at all for a minute. After a pause, she said:“Andthatwas your reason for keeping back the money?”“Certainly—just to deceive your poor papa; forhisgood, dear—for his good, and for yours.”“You’re awfully clever, Brenda,” was Fanchon’s next remark.Brenda coloured.“Why do you say that?” she asked.“Because—because—I know it. You made up that story to-day when you were by yourself, and it’s wonderfully clever—it really is. I suppose you think that we girls believe you.”“You’ll believe in your pretty frocks, and nice hats, and nice shoes and charming gloves, and also in the little treats at the different tea shops which I mean to give you all out of dear papa’s money—”“That is, of course, if we don’t tell,” said Fanchon. “Oh, you can please yourself about that,” said Brenda. “You can tell, and everything will be at an end. I shall go away from here; I will give him back the money—I have it in that drawer—and he will take my poor little character as well, and I’ll wander forth into the world, a desolate and ruined girl. You won’t go to the sea—you’ll stay at home. You’ll have your victory. In a few weeks a horrid, elderly governess with spectacles, and perhaps with a squint, will come here. I’m sure your father will be afraid to get any one young and—and—pretty—again. Whenshecomes, she will give you—”“Beans!” said Fanchon. “I know the sort—I—I don’t want a horrible thing like that in the house.”“No—poor Brenda is better than that, isn’t she?”“Oh, Brenda, youareso clever,” laughed Fanchon. When Brenda heard that laugh, she knew that her victory was assured.“My dear girl,” she said, “believe me or not; that was my real reason for keeping back the money, and your terrible little Nina can keep an account of all that I spend at Marshlands, and satisfy her wise,odiouslittle head with the fact that I am not holding back one penny for myself. She can do that, and you can all have a good time. Now—what do you say?”“It sounds—if you had not told that first lie—it sounds almost as if it could just be believed,” said Fanchon.“It can be acted on, whether it is believed or not,” remarked Brenda.Fanchon was silent. Brenda watched her narrowly. “I have something to say to you,” she remarked, all of a sudden. “Of course you won’t speak to your papa and get me dismissed, and lose all your own fun—no three girls would be so mad. But I have something more to say. I wantyou, Fanchon, to be my friend.”“Oh—I!” said Fanchon—“but mice are never friendly with cats, are they?”“You mustn’t think of me as a cat, dear, nor of yourself as a mouse. The simile is very painful, and you know how I have talked to you about the pleasant time I trust to have at Marshlands; and you shall help me, and look very, very smart when you come out with me in the evenings. Do you remember my telling you that if you are my friend, I might get you a little bangle to wear?”“Oh, yes—but I am certain it would be a horrid gilt thing not worth anything.”“Fanchon—youareunkind! I told you in the utmost confidence that I had been left a tiny legacy—a little,littlesum of money, very precious to poor me, but very small. Well, I did not forget my pupil, and I have bought her a bangle.”“Oh, Brenda,haveyou?”“Yes, dear; and it is made of thebest goldfor the purpose—eighteen carat gold! You must on no account tell the others a singlewordabout it; but I will give it you sometimes to wear when you and I go out by ourselves in the evenings. It shall shine on your little wrist then, Fanchon, and—howsweetyou will look in it!”“Oh—but may I see it?” said Fanchon, her lips trembling as she spoke.“Not until you most faithfully promise that you will not say a word about it to the other girls. There are, occasionally, times when I may even want to wear it myself. But it will belong to you—it will beyourproperty, and when we come back from the sea, I will present it to you absolutely. Make me a faithful promise that you will say nothing about the bangle, and you shall constantly wear it when the others are not looking on—and—when we return, it shall beyours!”“Oh, I promise,” said Fanchon. “I expect I was a sort of a brute this morning—I didn’t understand you could besokind. Are you making a fool of me, Brenda—do you mean what you say?”“Of course I mean what I say. You faithfully promise?”“Ido—indeed—indeed; and I will explain things to the others, and I’ll force them to believe me—they generally do everything that I wish. Youwillbuy us all the lovely clothes, won’t you,darlingBrenda!”“I have said so, Fanchon.”“And youwilltake me out in the evenings when the other two are in bed?”“Most certainly I will.”“Then Iwillpromiseeverything—I will be your friend through thick and thin, and I’m awfully sorry I was cross to you and—and disbelieved you. Of course, I see that dear papa has to be managed; he is so funny about our dress—so different from other men.”“Your father is a most saint-like man, and you must never say that he is funny, for that is not right. But saint-like men have to be managed in this unsaintlike world, that is all, dear—every woman understands that, she wouldn’t be worth her salt if she didn’t.”“Please, please show me the bracelet,” said Fanchon. Then Brenda went to the drawer where her treasures were and took out the little old box where her false jewellery had reposed, and where now the beautiful bangle lay in all its pristine freshness. She hated beyond words to see Fanchon even touch it, but she felt that she had to pay this price to secure her own safety, and she even permitted the girl to clasp it round her wrist, and to look at it with the colour flaming into her cheeks and the light of longing in her dull eyes.“Oh—isn’t it just—tooperfect!” said Fanchon.“Be my friend and it shall be yours when we return from the sea. I bought it for you—foryou; real, real gold too, of the best quality—and such an exquisite turquoise! You needn’t be ashamed to wear thiswhereveryou appear—even when, by-and-by, you are married to some rich, great man, you can still wear the little bracelet—the very best of its kind. See, I will write your name now before your eyes on the little box.” Brenda took up a pencil and hastily wrote the following words on the back of the box: “Fanchon Amberley’s gold and turquoise bracelet.”“Why don’t you say that you have given it to me?” said Fanchon.“No, no—I can add that by-and-by. If people happen to ask you the story about it, it may not be wise for it to appear that such a beautiful thing was given to you by a poor governess. Well now, here it is back again in the drawer, and you can go to bed, Fanchon. You are a very rich girl, and I am not quite as bad as you painted me, am I?”“No, no!” said Fanchon, who was completely won over, “you’re a darling!”“Not a cat,” whispered Brenda—“not a horrid pussy-cat?”“No—a darling, and my friend,” said Fanchon and then she left the room a little giddily, for the thought of the bracelet seemed to weigh her down with uncontrollable bliss; she scarcely understood her own sensations.
It was after dinner that Fanchon approached her governess.
“I hope you enjoyed your dinner,” she said.
“Yes; it was very good,” said Brenda.
“When do you feel inclined to have a chat with me?” pursued Fanchon.
“Not just at present,” answered Brenda.
“But you’d better be quick about it, for we mean always to live well in the future. Joey and I think that we might order a crab for supper to-night—papa loves crabs.”
Brenda was silent.
“When can we have our talk?” continued Fanchon.
“Well, I don’t think just at present; will you give me until evening? Order what you wish to-day, but don’t be too extravagant, you’ll only have an illness. I give you plain food, for it is really best from every point of view, and your father’s allowance of housekeeping money is very limited.”
“I can ask him, of course, what he does give,” said Fanchon.
“No, no; don’t do that—”
“And,” continued Fanchon, as though she had not heard the last remark, “I can find out what the butcher’s bills, and the green grocer’s, and the grocer’s come to per week. I shall be rather clever about these things in future.”
Brenda made no reply. After a minute’s pause, she said:
“Would you really like me to leave you?”
“I think, on the whole, I should very much.”
“You would wish to give up going to Marshlands-on-the-Sea?”
“No—that would be a disappointment.”
“You can’t go there without me.”
“Oh—I suppose we could get some one else.”
“There is no one else whom your father would trust.”
Fanchon was silent and a little thoughtful.
“I have a plan to propose to you, Fanchon,” said her governess suddenly; “but I shall not propose it now—I will keep it until to-night. To-night, at ten o’clock, come to my room and I will talk to you. In the meantime, tell the other girls that for to-day, just for to-day, they may do as they please. Now let me be alone; I have a headache.”
Fanchon danced off to communicate this news to her sisters.
“The cat’s caving in like anything,” she said. “We shall have a jolly, jolly time in future!”
“What can we have to eat at tea-time?” was Nina’s remark.
“Oh—you little goose,” exclaimed Fanchon, “you can’t possibly be hungry yet.”
“But I shall be hungry when tea-time comes.”
“Well, get what you like, both of you.”
“Let’s go to the shops this blessed minute,” said Nina, turning to Josephine.
They started off arm in arm. They did not mind the fact that they were wearing their only white frocks—their Sunday-go-to-meeting frocks, and that Nina’s was already sadly stained with some juice from the raspberry tart. They did not mind the fact also that they had outgrown these frocks, and that the people stared at the rector’s daughters when they were at all respectably attired. They were too excited to think of anything but the victory they were having over old pussy-cat—which was their present name for their hitherto beloved Brenda.
They went to the shops where Brenda dealt, and ordered rich plum cake for tea, two sorts of jam, some more fruit and some more cream; and for supper they ordered crabs—two crabs to be sent up dressed, from the fishmonger’s, also a lobster, and also a large plate of prawns. Having thus wilfully expended money which might have kept the rectory on its ordinaryrégimefor weeks, they returned home in the best of spirits.
’Tis a little sad to relate that even mice, in their moments of triumph over their legendary foe—the domestic cat—may sometimes overdo things. For two of these little mice felt decidedly ill that night from the direful effects of overeating. Nina spent that night, which she had felt would be of such triumph, rolling from side to side in bed and crying out with pain, and Josephine had the most appalling succession of nightmares. But Fanchon was more moderate in her eating and, therefore, did not suffer. She had her work cut out for her; and that evening, at the appointed hour—regardless of Nina’s cries and Josephine’s frightened exclamations in her sleep—she went off to interview her governess in her bedroom.
Brenda was waiting for her, and was quite ready. She had been frightened, terribly frightened, in the morning, but she was alarmed no longer. She had been given time to think, to consider, to form her plans. The discovery which those tiresome children had made was altogether most unpleasant. Had it been made by older people, it would almost have been dangerous. But Brenda felt that she could manage the children. She must sacrifice something, it is true, but she need not sacrifice everything.
The girls had never been trained in high principles. They had been brought up anyhow. The rector was not a specially admirable man. It is true, he lived according to his lights, but these did not carry him far. His children were motherless, and it did not occur to him to suspect the girl into whose care he placed them. He was devoted to his poorer parishioners, and was kindness itself to them, denying himself many things for their benefit. But it was his object in life to do what he could for his orphans, and he thought he had done so when he put such a pretty, charming girl as Brenda Carlton over their heads. He believed fully in Brenda, and admired her immensely. He thought her a truly Christian young woman; for she was regular in her attendance at church, and always looked—he considered—so sweet and interested when he preached to her. It was wonderful how he found himself preaching directly to her, Sunday after Sunday, suiting his words to her need and thinking of her as he addressed, or was supposed to address, his congregation.
As to the children’s education, he expected them to go to Sunday school; but as their teacher there was no other than Brenda herself, it cannot be said that they gained much by this special instruction.
Brenda looked very pretty when she taught her class. Most of the time she told them good little stories, which they listened to when they were not too restless, and when Brenda herself was not too charmingly attired. On the whole, the girls were ripe for a fall, and Brenda had no compunction in saving herself at their expense. These three girls had, however, a considerable amount of character, and, strange as it may seem, the one the governess most dreaded was the youngest. For Nina was exceedingly fearless, and also rather cunning, and Brenda was not quite certain that if she gave her word she would keep it. The governess felt pretty sure that she could manage Fanchon and Josephine, but Nina was different. All things considered, however, she had to make the best of a bad job, and if she could only get through that happy time at Marshlands-on-the-Sea, she felt convinced that all would be well with her in the future. She, accordingly, welcomed Fanchon now with a smile, and immediately took the lead.
“Just for all the world,” repeated Fanchon afterwards when she gave her sisters a partial account of this interview, “as ifshewere in the right and I was her little culprit at the bar!”
“Sit down, dear Fanchon,” said Brenda. “Take this cosy seat by the open window—isn’t the night very warm?”
“Yes—very,” said Fanchon.
She took the proffered seat and the governess placed herself on the window ledge near by.
“We shall enjoy our time at the sea,” said Brenda, “shall we not?”
Fanchon did not answer. She was gazing in surprise at Brenda, who, prettily dressed in soft white muslin, looked more charming even than usual.
“The cool sea breezes will be so refreshing,” continued the governess—“I am picturing the whole scene. I am going to be, of course, very particular with regard to Josie and Nina; but you, Fanchon, who are so tall for your age, can come out with me in the evening and listen to the band and—and—partake of any sort of fun that is going on.”
“Can I really?” said Fanchon, her eyes sparkling, and, for a minute, she forgot that she was really the judge and Brenda the criminal.
“Of course you can, dear; I mean you to have a good time.”
“But can’t we settle that afterwards?” said Fanchon. “The other thing has to be arranged first, hasn’t it?”
“What other thing, my dear?”
“Oh, Brenda—you know—don’t pretend that you forget. I gave you a fright—a big fright—this morning, and you—you cried. What are you going to do about the money? you have it—you know, and it isn’t yours, it’s ours.”
“I have it, of course,” said Brenda, “I have not denied it. I told you that I thought of spending it at Marshlands; there’ll be sure to be nice shops there, and we can see the things that’ll be suitable. You don’t suppose, you poor children, that you can manage with only those pink muslin dresses—that would never, never do—I had no such thought, I assure you.”
“But,” persisted Fanchon, “you said this morning that you had spent all the money on us, and that we owed you for the gloves. Oh, how knowing you are, Brenda, but you have overstepped the mark this time, and poor papa, if he knew—”
Brenda lowered her eyes. She had very thick and very curling jet-black lashes, and they looked sweet as they rested against her blooming cheeks. Fanchon could not help noticing them and, further, she could not help observing the gentle smile that played round her lips.
“Now, listen,” said Brenda. “I want to confide in you. You can believe in me or not—just as you please. I cannot possibly force your belief, nor can I force you to do anything but what you wish. I am, to a certain extent, in your power, and in the power of the other two girls. You can tell your father, and he will dismiss me, and—I shall be ruined—”
“Oh, I don’t suppose papa will be so very hard with you. He’s quite fond of you, you know,” said Fanchon.
“He would be terribly severe,” said Brenda. “He is a dear good man, but he would be terrible, fearful, if you told him—you three—what you have found out. I tell you, Fanchon, why he would be so fearful. Because I have done what I have done entirely for the sake of deceiving him.”
“Oh dear! dear! Then you are even more wicked than I thought,” said Fanchon.
“Listen—the position is a very strange one. I seem to forget, as I am talking to you, that I am your governess, and that you and your sisters are my little pupils, but the facts are those: I look upon you, Fanchon, as very much older than your years. You have, in many ways, the mind of a grown-up woman. Of course you are very young, quite unformed, but you will be grown up sooner than most girls; and you have an understanding way, and I think you will follow me now if I try hard to explain myself.”
“I wish you would begin,” said Fanchon then, restlessly, “you do so beat about the bush. You said this morning that you hadn’t a penny over, and that we owed you for the gloves; and then, afterwards, you confessed that you had something over—an awful lot over—and that you meant to spend it at Marshlands. You told one lie, anyway.”
“Yes, I told one lie, anyway,” responded Brenda, intense sadness in her tone. “I told one dreadful, wicked lie, and I am very,verysorry—”
“Oh, I wonder if you are!”
“Yes, I am—I am; that was why I cried that time.”
“It wasn’t—you cried because you were in a funk.”
“Fanchon, my dear child, your blunt words hurt me exceedingly.”
“Well, well,” said Fanchon, kicking one leg against the wainscoting as she spoke—“do go on, hurry up—won’t you? We’ll forget about the lie number one, and remember that you have confessed to having the money. We’ll even try to believe that you meant to spend it on us at Marshlands. Go on from that point, do.”
“I will explain things to you,” said Brenda. “You know your dear father is very ignorant with regard to dress. His simplicity on these matters is most sweet, but at times it almost provokes a smile. Now, if I had spent three pounds on each of you in the little shops at Rocheford; and if Nina, and Josephine, and you—my dear Fanchon, in your silly way—had lost your heads over the pretty things I had bought, he would have been dreadfully startled and would have accused himself of great extravagance in giving you so much money, and when the next occasion came when my dear little pupils wanted pretty clothes, I should have had nothing like as much to spend on you. So your Brenda was—well—cunning, if you choose to call it so, and determined to outwit dear papa; and quite resolved that her little pupils should be charmingly attired at a place where he was not likely to see them.” Fanchon did not speak at all for a minute. After a pause, she said:
“Andthatwas your reason for keeping back the money?”
“Certainly—just to deceive your poor papa; forhisgood, dear—for his good, and for yours.”
“You’re awfully clever, Brenda,” was Fanchon’s next remark.
Brenda coloured.
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
“Because—because—I know it. You made up that story to-day when you were by yourself, and it’s wonderfully clever—it really is. I suppose you think that we girls believe you.”
“You’ll believe in your pretty frocks, and nice hats, and nice shoes and charming gloves, and also in the little treats at the different tea shops which I mean to give you all out of dear papa’s money—”
“That is, of course, if we don’t tell,” said Fanchon. “Oh, you can please yourself about that,” said Brenda. “You can tell, and everything will be at an end. I shall go away from here; I will give him back the money—I have it in that drawer—and he will take my poor little character as well, and I’ll wander forth into the world, a desolate and ruined girl. You won’t go to the sea—you’ll stay at home. You’ll have your victory. In a few weeks a horrid, elderly governess with spectacles, and perhaps with a squint, will come here. I’m sure your father will be afraid to get any one young and—and—pretty—again. Whenshecomes, she will give you—”
“Beans!” said Fanchon. “I know the sort—I—I don’t want a horrible thing like that in the house.”
“No—poor Brenda is better than that, isn’t she?”
“Oh, Brenda, youareso clever,” laughed Fanchon. When Brenda heard that laugh, she knew that her victory was assured.
“My dear girl,” she said, “believe me or not; that was my real reason for keeping back the money, and your terrible little Nina can keep an account of all that I spend at Marshlands, and satisfy her wise,odiouslittle head with the fact that I am not holding back one penny for myself. She can do that, and you can all have a good time. Now—what do you say?”
“It sounds—if you had not told that first lie—it sounds almost as if it could just be believed,” said Fanchon.
“It can be acted on, whether it is believed or not,” remarked Brenda.
Fanchon was silent. Brenda watched her narrowly. “I have something to say to you,” she remarked, all of a sudden. “Of course you won’t speak to your papa and get me dismissed, and lose all your own fun—no three girls would be so mad. But I have something more to say. I wantyou, Fanchon, to be my friend.”
“Oh—I!” said Fanchon—“but mice are never friendly with cats, are they?”
“You mustn’t think of me as a cat, dear, nor of yourself as a mouse. The simile is very painful, and you know how I have talked to you about the pleasant time I trust to have at Marshlands; and you shall help me, and look very, very smart when you come out with me in the evenings. Do you remember my telling you that if you are my friend, I might get you a little bangle to wear?”
“Oh, yes—but I am certain it would be a horrid gilt thing not worth anything.”
“Fanchon—youareunkind! I told you in the utmost confidence that I had been left a tiny legacy—a little,littlesum of money, very precious to poor me, but very small. Well, I did not forget my pupil, and I have bought her a bangle.”
“Oh, Brenda,haveyou?”
“Yes, dear; and it is made of thebest goldfor the purpose—eighteen carat gold! You must on no account tell the others a singlewordabout it; but I will give it you sometimes to wear when you and I go out by ourselves in the evenings. It shall shine on your little wrist then, Fanchon, and—howsweetyou will look in it!”
“Oh—but may I see it?” said Fanchon, her lips trembling as she spoke.
“Not until you most faithfully promise that you will not say a word about it to the other girls. There are, occasionally, times when I may even want to wear it myself. But it will belong to you—it will beyourproperty, and when we come back from the sea, I will present it to you absolutely. Make me a faithful promise that you will say nothing about the bangle, and you shall constantly wear it when the others are not looking on—and—when we return, it shall beyours!”
“Oh, I promise,” said Fanchon. “I expect I was a sort of a brute this morning—I didn’t understand you could besokind. Are you making a fool of me, Brenda—do you mean what you say?”
“Of course I mean what I say. You faithfully promise?”
“Ido—indeed—indeed; and I will explain things to the others, and I’ll force them to believe me—they generally do everything that I wish. Youwillbuy us all the lovely clothes, won’t you,darlingBrenda!”
“I have said so, Fanchon.”
“And youwilltake me out in the evenings when the other two are in bed?”
“Most certainly I will.”
“Then Iwillpromiseeverything—I will be your friend through thick and thin, and I’m awfully sorry I was cross to you and—and disbelieved you. Of course, I see that dear papa has to be managed; he is so funny about our dress—so different from other men.”
“Your father is a most saint-like man, and you must never say that he is funny, for that is not right. But saint-like men have to be managed in this unsaintlike world, that is all, dear—every woman understands that, she wouldn’t be worth her salt if she didn’t.”
“Please, please show me the bracelet,” said Fanchon. Then Brenda went to the drawer where her treasures were and took out the little old box where her false jewellery had reposed, and where now the beautiful bangle lay in all its pristine freshness. She hated beyond words to see Fanchon even touch it, but she felt that she had to pay this price to secure her own safety, and she even permitted the girl to clasp it round her wrist, and to look at it with the colour flaming into her cheeks and the light of longing in her dull eyes.
“Oh—isn’t it just—tooperfect!” said Fanchon.
“Be my friend and it shall be yours when we return from the sea. I bought it for you—foryou; real, real gold too, of the best quality—and such an exquisite turquoise! You needn’t be ashamed to wear thiswhereveryou appear—even when, by-and-by, you are married to some rich, great man, you can still wear the little bracelet—the very best of its kind. See, I will write your name now before your eyes on the little box.” Brenda took up a pencil and hastily wrote the following words on the back of the box: “Fanchon Amberley’s gold and turquoise bracelet.”
“Why don’t you say that you have given it to me?” said Fanchon.
“No, no—I can add that by-and-by. If people happen to ask you the story about it, it may not be wise for it to appear that such a beautiful thing was given to you by a poor governess. Well now, here it is back again in the drawer, and you can go to bed, Fanchon. You are a very rich girl, and I am not quite as bad as you painted me, am I?”
“No, no!” said Fanchon, who was completely won over, “you’re a darling!”
“Not a cat,” whispered Brenda—“not a horrid pussy-cat?”
“No—a darling, and my friend,” said Fanchon and then she left the room a little giddily, for the thought of the bracelet seemed to weigh her down with uncontrollable bliss; she scarcely understood her own sensations.
Chapter Twelve.A Terrible Alternative.Nina was very poorly the next day and was forced to stay in bed. She could not eat any of the good things which had been provided for breakfast, and thought of herself as a much abused little martyr.Brenda’s conduct to this naughty, greedy child was all that was exemplary. She gave her proper medicines and saw that her bedroom was made comfortable, and came in and out of the room like a ministering angel—as Mr Amberley said.Soon after noon, Nina was better, and as she had not the slightest idea what had taken place between Fanchon and her governess the night before, she said somewhat rudely to that pretty young woman, who was hemming some of the Reverend Josiah’s handkerchiefs as she sat by the bedside:“Do go away please, Brenda, and send Fanchon to me.”Brenda gave an angelic smile and immediately complied. A few minutes later Fanchon entered the room accompanied by Josephine.“Oh, you are better, are you?” said Fanchon, regarding her younger sister with small favour. “Well—I hope you have received your lesson and won’t eat unlimited plum cake again, and finish off with lobster and crabs.”“I hate l-lobsters and crabs!” moaned the victim. “They make me so s-sick—horrid things!”“Well, you’re better now, so forget about them,” said Fanchon.“Yes—I am better;she—the cat—she says that I am to have gruel for dinner! Idon’twant it—horrid thing!”“Serves you right, say I!” cried Fanchon.“Oh, please, Fanchon,” said Nina, whose tears had trickled weakly forth, for she had really been rather bad, “don’t scold me, but tell me what you have arranged with Cat last night.”“She’s not a cat—we made a mistake about that,” said Fanchon.“What on earth do you mean now, Fanchon?” exclaimed Josie.“She explained things to me. She’s very good-natured, and very wise.”“Very ill-natured and onlyself-wise!” exclaimed Josie.“No, no—you don’t know!” and then Fanchon proceeded to explain to both her sisters all about that wonderful point of view which Brenda, in her cleverness, had managed to impress on her mind. The money was kept back on purpose. It was on account of dear papa and dear papa’s eccentricity. The money would be spent at Marshlands, and Nina, if she liked, could keep accounts.“She cried about it, poor thing!” said Fanchon. “She admits, of course, that the money is there for us, and she will buy us just what we want and give us a good time, and some treats besides in the different tea shops. She really was awfully nice about it.”“Oh, Fanchon,” said Josephine, “you are taken in easily.”“No, I’m not—I didn’t believe her myself at first.”“You mean to say you do now?” said Nina.“Y-yes, I do now.”Notwithstanding her weakness, Nina laughed.“Well, then—I don’t—do you, Joey?”“I?” said Josephine. “I believe her less than ever. She is found out, and she means to save herself by spending the money on us. She’s a worse old cat than ever—that’s whatIcall her.”“Well—of course,” said Fanchon, “you can tell papa—she told me last night that I could.”“It’s the right thing to do,” said Nina.“Well, I don’t think so. I believe her—I really and truly do. She confesses she told that lie about not having money, for she wished to have the thing a secret until we got to the seaside; but that is the whole of her offending. Of course you, girls, can tell papa, but it’ll be very serious, particularly as that awful Miss Juggins has come home to live with her mother.”“What in the wide world has Miss Juggins to do with it?” exclaimed both sisters.“Well—she’s out of a situation, and papa is safe and certain to get her to come to us. It was Brenda herself who spoke of her last night. She did not mention her name, but she must have had her in her mind. She is between forty and fifty if she’s a day, and she wears spectacles and has a cast in her eye and she’s a perfect terror. If we get poor Brenda away, we don’t go to the sea, and Juggins comes. It’s because of Juggins that I believe in Brenda—it is really.”This frank avowal of the cause of her belief had a great influence on the other girls. Josephine sat quite still, evidently in deep thought. Nina lay back against her pillows.“It would be awful to have Juggins!” she said, after a pause, “she would be worse than Brenda.”“She would be honest, though,” said Josephine.“Oh, yes—that she would. But think of our fun and—and—we know enough about Brenda now to force her to give us a good time.”“I think, girls, we had best accept the situation,” was Fanchon’s final judgment.Whatever the other girls might have remarked, and whatever their resolve would have been, must be left partly to conjecture. But something occurred at that moment to cause them to come altogether to Fanchon’s point of view; for, just at that instant, there was a tap at Nina’s door, and who should walk in but—Miss Jemima Juggins herself!She came close up to Nina’s bedside, and asked abruptly where the Reverend Josiah was.“Why are you lying in bed, you lazy child?” she said. “What is the matter?”Now certainly Miss Juggins made a great contrast to pretty Brenda, and, when she removed her blue glasses and fixed her rather crooked eyes on Nina, Nina made up her mind on the spot to believe in Brenda, in Marshlands, in the pretty clothes which were yet to be bought, in a good time by the sea.“I will go and find papa,” said Fanchon. “I know he’ll be glad to see you, Miss Juggins.”“I hope he will, indeed,” said Miss Juggins. “I have come to speak to him on business. I want a new situation. How untidy your room is, girls! Shameful, I call it—three great hulking lasses like you not to be able to keep your own bedroom straight! But get your father at once, please, Fanny.”“My name is Fanchon,” said that young lady. “Fanny—I prefer to call you; I hate French names.” Fanchon withdrew. The Reverend Josiah was discovered, and was borne up to little Nina’s room. Miss Juggins was seated by the bed.“How do you do!” she said when the rector entered. “You don’t mind my finding my way about this house, I hope, Mr Amberley, seeing that I knew your sainted wife so well. I came to ask you if you could find me a situation. This child is a little ill from overeating, and ought to get up and take a good walk. I will go down with you to your study, Mr Amberley, for I must have a private talk. Good-bye, children. Take my advice, and tidy up your room. Really, Rector, you don’t bring your girls up at all in the way their dear mother would have liked.”The door slammed behind Miss Juggins. The girls looked at each other.“We mustn’t get rid of Pussy-cat,” said Nina then. “Shewould be fifty times worse. Well, I’ll keep the sums awfully carefully, and I’ll—”“You’ll have to believe in her, you know, and try to be agreeable,” said Fanchon.“Oh—any fate in preference to Juggins!” was Josephine’s remark.
Nina was very poorly the next day and was forced to stay in bed. She could not eat any of the good things which had been provided for breakfast, and thought of herself as a much abused little martyr.
Brenda’s conduct to this naughty, greedy child was all that was exemplary. She gave her proper medicines and saw that her bedroom was made comfortable, and came in and out of the room like a ministering angel—as Mr Amberley said.
Soon after noon, Nina was better, and as she had not the slightest idea what had taken place between Fanchon and her governess the night before, she said somewhat rudely to that pretty young woman, who was hemming some of the Reverend Josiah’s handkerchiefs as she sat by the bedside:
“Do go away please, Brenda, and send Fanchon to me.”
Brenda gave an angelic smile and immediately complied. A few minutes later Fanchon entered the room accompanied by Josephine.
“Oh, you are better, are you?” said Fanchon, regarding her younger sister with small favour. “Well—I hope you have received your lesson and won’t eat unlimited plum cake again, and finish off with lobster and crabs.”
“I hate l-lobsters and crabs!” moaned the victim. “They make me so s-sick—horrid things!”
“Well, you’re better now, so forget about them,” said Fanchon.
“Yes—I am better;she—the cat—she says that I am to have gruel for dinner! Idon’twant it—horrid thing!”
“Serves you right, say I!” cried Fanchon.
“Oh, please, Fanchon,” said Nina, whose tears had trickled weakly forth, for she had really been rather bad, “don’t scold me, but tell me what you have arranged with Cat last night.”
“She’s not a cat—we made a mistake about that,” said Fanchon.
“What on earth do you mean now, Fanchon?” exclaimed Josie.
“She explained things to me. She’s very good-natured, and very wise.”
“Very ill-natured and onlyself-wise!” exclaimed Josie.
“No, no—you don’t know!” and then Fanchon proceeded to explain to both her sisters all about that wonderful point of view which Brenda, in her cleverness, had managed to impress on her mind. The money was kept back on purpose. It was on account of dear papa and dear papa’s eccentricity. The money would be spent at Marshlands, and Nina, if she liked, could keep accounts.
“She cried about it, poor thing!” said Fanchon. “She admits, of course, that the money is there for us, and she will buy us just what we want and give us a good time, and some treats besides in the different tea shops. She really was awfully nice about it.”
“Oh, Fanchon,” said Josephine, “you are taken in easily.”
“No, I’m not—I didn’t believe her myself at first.”
“You mean to say you do now?” said Nina.
“Y-yes, I do now.”
Notwithstanding her weakness, Nina laughed.
“Well, then—I don’t—do you, Joey?”
“I?” said Josephine. “I believe her less than ever. She is found out, and she means to save herself by spending the money on us. She’s a worse old cat than ever—that’s whatIcall her.”
“Well—of course,” said Fanchon, “you can tell papa—she told me last night that I could.”
“It’s the right thing to do,” said Nina.
“Well, I don’t think so. I believe her—I really and truly do. She confesses she told that lie about not having money, for she wished to have the thing a secret until we got to the seaside; but that is the whole of her offending. Of course you, girls, can tell papa, but it’ll be very serious, particularly as that awful Miss Juggins has come home to live with her mother.”
“What in the wide world has Miss Juggins to do with it?” exclaimed both sisters.
“Well—she’s out of a situation, and papa is safe and certain to get her to come to us. It was Brenda herself who spoke of her last night. She did not mention her name, but she must have had her in her mind. She is between forty and fifty if she’s a day, and she wears spectacles and has a cast in her eye and she’s a perfect terror. If we get poor Brenda away, we don’t go to the sea, and Juggins comes. It’s because of Juggins that I believe in Brenda—it is really.”
This frank avowal of the cause of her belief had a great influence on the other girls. Josephine sat quite still, evidently in deep thought. Nina lay back against her pillows.
“It would be awful to have Juggins!” she said, after a pause, “she would be worse than Brenda.”
“She would be honest, though,” said Josephine.
“Oh, yes—that she would. But think of our fun and—and—we know enough about Brenda now to force her to give us a good time.”
“I think, girls, we had best accept the situation,” was Fanchon’s final judgment.
Whatever the other girls might have remarked, and whatever their resolve would have been, must be left partly to conjecture. But something occurred at that moment to cause them to come altogether to Fanchon’s point of view; for, just at that instant, there was a tap at Nina’s door, and who should walk in but—Miss Jemima Juggins herself!
She came close up to Nina’s bedside, and asked abruptly where the Reverend Josiah was.
“Why are you lying in bed, you lazy child?” she said. “What is the matter?”
Now certainly Miss Juggins made a great contrast to pretty Brenda, and, when she removed her blue glasses and fixed her rather crooked eyes on Nina, Nina made up her mind on the spot to believe in Brenda, in Marshlands, in the pretty clothes which were yet to be bought, in a good time by the sea.
“I will go and find papa,” said Fanchon. “I know he’ll be glad to see you, Miss Juggins.”
“I hope he will, indeed,” said Miss Juggins. “I have come to speak to him on business. I want a new situation. How untidy your room is, girls! Shameful, I call it—three great hulking lasses like you not to be able to keep your own bedroom straight! But get your father at once, please, Fanny.”
“My name is Fanchon,” said that young lady. “Fanny—I prefer to call you; I hate French names.” Fanchon withdrew. The Reverend Josiah was discovered, and was borne up to little Nina’s room. Miss Juggins was seated by the bed.
“How do you do!” she said when the rector entered. “You don’t mind my finding my way about this house, I hope, Mr Amberley, seeing that I knew your sainted wife so well. I came to ask you if you could find me a situation. This child is a little ill from overeating, and ought to get up and take a good walk. I will go down with you to your study, Mr Amberley, for I must have a private talk. Good-bye, children. Take my advice, and tidy up your room. Really, Rector, you don’t bring your girls up at all in the way their dear mother would have liked.”
The door slammed behind Miss Juggins. The girls looked at each other.
“We mustn’t get rid of Pussy-cat,” said Nina then. “Shewould be fifty times worse. Well, I’ll keep the sums awfully carefully, and I’ll—”
“You’ll have to believe in her, you know, and try to be agreeable,” said Fanchon.
“Oh—any fate in preference to Juggins!” was Josephine’s remark.