Chapter Thirteen.A Surprise Invitation.On the morning after the prize-giving day at Hazlitt Chase, Penelope rose with a headache. There was a great deal of bustle and excitement in the school, for nearly all the girls were going to their several homes on that special morning. Penelope and Mademoiselle d’Etienne would have the beautiful old house to themselves before twenty-four hours were over.Penelope did not in the least care for Mademoiselle; she was not especially fond of her school life, but she detested those long and endless holidays which she spent invariably at Hazlitt Chase.To-day all was in disorder. The usual routine of school life was over. The children were some of them beside themselves with the thought of the railway journey and the home-coming in the evening. Somebody shouted to Penelope to hurry with her dressing, in order to help to get off the little ones. The smaller children, including the two little Hungerfords, were to go in a great omnibus to the station and be conducted by a governess to their different homes in various parts of England.Pauline Hungerford suddenly rushed into the room where Penelope was standing.“Helen of Troy,” she said.“Oh, please don’t!” said Penelope. “I amnotHelen of Troy—I don’t wish to be called by that odious name.”“But youwereso beautiful!” said little Pauline. “Do you know that while we were looking at you, even Nellie forgot about her bracelet; but she’s crying like anything over the loss of it this morning. It is quite too bad.”“Yes, indeed it is,” said Penelope. “I do trust your mother will take steps to get it back. I hear that some of the railway officials were supposed to have stolen it.”“Oh dear,” said Pauline, “how wicked of them! What awful people they must be! Who told you that, Penelope?”“Well, it was mentioned to me by my sister, who came here yesterday. You saw her, of course?”“Yes—she was talking a lot to my brother. She is very pretty; of course—of course I saw her. And she says it was the railway people who stole it? I will tell mother that the very instant I get back. But oh, please, Penelope, Honora wants you; she said you promised to go to her room before ten, and she would be so glad if you would go at once—will you?”“Yes, I will go,” said Penelope.She had forgotten Honora’s words, being absorbed in her own melancholy thoughts. It now occurred to her, however, that she might as well keep her promise to the pretty girl who ought to have been Helen of Troy. She went slowly down the passage, tapped at Honora’s door, and entered her bedroom. The young lady was just dressed for her journey. She wore dainty white piqué and a pretty hat to match. She looked fair and fresh and charming.“I am just off—I have hardly a minute,” she said. “I want to ask a great favour of you, Penelope.”“What is that?” said Penelope.She spoke ill-naturedly. She felt the contrast between them. She almost disliked Honora for her beauty on this occasion.“It is this,” said Honora. “I have been asking mamma—and she says I may do it. Will you come and stay with us for part of the holidays?”“I!” said Penelope—amazement in her face.“Yes. We live at Castle Beverley: it is not very far from Marshlands-on-the-Sea.”“Oh dear!” exclaimed Penelope, clasping her hands. “Why, it is there my sister is going.”“Then of course you can see her; that will be nice. But will you come? I will write to fix the day after I get home. Ishouldlike you to have a good time with us. We shall be quite a big party—boys and girls, oh,—a lot of us, and I think there’ll be no end of fun. The little Hungerfords are coming, and Fred. Fred is such a nice boy. Will you come, Penelope? Do say ‘Yes.’”Penelope’s eyes suddenly filled with tears.“Will I come!” she said. “Why, I’d just love it beyond anything. Oh, youaregood! Do you ask me because you pity me?”“Well—yes, perhaps a little,” said Honora, colouring at this direct question—“but also because I want to like you. I know you are worth liking. No one who could look as you did last night could be unworthy. It was after I saw you that I asked mamma; and she said: most certainly you should come. It will probably be next week: I will write you fixing the day as soon as ever I get home. And now, I must be off. Good-bye, dear. You may be certain I will do my very utmost to give you a really happy time.”Honora bent her stately head, pressed a little kiss on Penelope’s forehead, and the next minute had left her. Penelope’s first impulse had been to rush downstairs; but she restrained herself. She sat down on Honora’s vacant bed and pressed her hand to her forehead.“Fun for me,”—she thought—“for me! I shan’t have lonely holidays. I shall go to one of the nicest houses in England, and be with nice people, good people, true people. There’s Brenda—of course I wish—I do wish Brenda werenotat Marshlands; but I suppose Ican’thave everything. I wish—I wish I could understand Brenda. Why did she force me to get all that money for her? I wonder if any of the girls who gave it me will be there. Well, well—I won’t be disagreeable—I am going to have a jolly time—I, who never have any fun. Oh, I am glad—I am very glad!”About an hour later, the great house of Hazlitt Chase seemed quite silent and empty. Except for some housemaids who went to the different rooms in order to fold up the sheets and put away the blankets and take the curtains down from the windows and generally reduce the spotless, dainty chambers to the immaculate order of holiday times, Penelope did not see any one. She was glad that Mademoiselle d’Etienne was not in sight. She thought she could endure her holiday now that she had something to look forward to, if only Mademoiselle were not with her. But she could not stand the housemaids: they were so full of gossip and noise. Their accustomed reverence for the young ladies was not extended to the lonely girl who always spent vacation at Hazlitt Chase.Penelope put on her hat, seized the first book she could find, and went out into the open air. The grounds still bore traces of yesterday’s revels. There was the wood—dark, cool, and beautiful—which had been used for that scene in which she took so distinguished a part. Penelope’s first desire was to get within the shade of the wood; but then she remembered how many things had happened there; how it was there that she had made terms with the girls with regard to the conditions on which she would act Helen of Troy. It was there, too, that Honora Beverley had found her when the play was over—when she was feeling so wrought up, so desolate, and, somehow, so ashamed of herself. She did not want to go into the wood. She walked, therefore, down one of the sunny garden paths, and at last came to a grassy sward with a huge elm-tree in the middle. There was shade under the elm. She eat down on the grass and opened her book. But she was not inclined to read. Penelope was never a reader. She had no special nor strong tastes. She could have been made a very nice, all-round sort of girl; her brain could have been well developed, but she would never be a genius or a specialist of any sort. Nevertheless, she had one thing which some of those girls who despised her did not possess; that was, a real, vibrating, suffering, longing, and passionate soul. She longed intensely for love, and she would rather be good than bad—that was about all.She sat with her book open and her eyes fixed on the flickering sunlight and shade of the lawn just in front of her. After all she, Penelope, would have a good time—just like the other girls. She would come back to school able, like the other girls, to talk of her holidays, to describe where she went and what companions she found and what friends she made; to talk as the others talked of this delightful day and that delightful day. Oh, yes—she would have a good time! She pressed her hand to her eyes and her eyelids smarted with tears. It had been a very long time since Penelope had cried. Now, notwithstanding her sudden and unlooked-for bliss, there was a pain within her breast. She was terribly—most terribly disappointed in Brenda. She had not seen Brenda for a long time, and she had always rather worshipped her sister. When a little child, she had thoroughly revelled in Brenda’s beauty. When the time came that she and Brenda must part, little Penelope had sobbed hard in her elder sister’s arms—had implored and implored her not to leave her, and afterwards, when the separation had taken place, had been sullen and truly miserable for a long time.Then she had been admitted to Mrs Hazlitt’s school on those special conditions which came to a few girls and had been arranged by those governors who put a certain number on the foundation terms of the school. The foundation girls were never known to be such by any of their companions. They were treated exactly like the others. In fact, if anything, they had a few more indulgences. Not for worlds would Mrs Hazlitt have given these children of poverty so cruel a time as to make their estate known to their companions.But, it so happened that Penelope was obliged always to spend her holidays at the school. That was the only difference made between her and the others. She had not seen Brenda for years. But Brenda had written to her little sister and had made all use possible of that sister’s affection. She had worked up her feelings with regard to her own dreadful poverty and, in short, had got Penelope to blackmail four girls of the school for her sake.“It was a dreadful thing to do,” thought Penelope to herself, as she sat now under the shade of the elm-tree. “I don’t think I’d have done it if I’d known. I wonder if she really wanted the money so very badly. There’s some one who loves her, and she must look nice for his sake. But all the same—I wish I hadn’t done it, and I wish she were not going to Marshlands-on-the-Sea. For she is just the sort to make it unpleasant for me, and to expect the Beverleys to ask her to Beverley Castle; and oh—I am disappointed in her!”Again Penelope cried, not hard or much, for this was not her nature, but sufficiently to relieve some of the load at her heart. Then, all of a sudden, she started to her feet. Mademoiselle d’Etienne was coming down the central lawn to meet her. Mademoiselle was in many respects an excellent French governess, but had the usual faults of the proverbial Frenchwoman. She was both ugly and vain. She could not in the least read character, but she had the knack of discovering which was the girl whose acquaintance was most worth cultivating.Mrs Hazlitt had made a mistake in introducing this woman into the school. She had not interviewed her in advance, and was altogether disappointed when she arrived. It was her intention to get another French governess to take her place at the beginning of next term. Mademoiselle had, in fact, received notice to this effect and was exceedingly annoyed. She was in that state when she must vent her spleen on some one, and, as Penelope was the only girl now at Hazlitt Chase, she went up to her crossly.“What are you doing here,mon enfant?” she cried. “You leave the poor French mademoiselle all alone—it is sad—it is strange—it is wrong. Come this minute into the house. I have my woes to relate, and I want even apetitelike you to listen. Come at once, and sit no longer under this shade, but make of yourself a use.”Penelope rose, looking more grim and forbidding than usual. She followed Mademoiselle up the garden, past the wood, and into the house.“Behold the desolation!” cried Mademoiselle, when they got indoors. She spread out her two fat, short arms and looked around her. “Not apetitein sight—not a sound—the whole mansion empty, and Madame gone—gone with venom! She have left me my dismissal; she say, ‘You teach no moreles enfantsin this school.’ She gave no reason, but say, ‘I find another and you teach no more!’ Who was that spiteful and mostméchant enfantwho reveals secrets of poor Mademoiselle to Madame?”“I don’t know,” said Penelope. “I hadn’t an idea you were going. I know nothing about it,” she continued. “Aren’t we going to have any lunch? I am so hungry.”“And so am I,” cried Mademoiselle, who was exceedingly greedy. “I starve—I ache from within.Sonnez, mon enfant—I entreat; let us have ourdéjeuner—my vitals can stand the strain no longer.”Penelope rang the bell, and presently a towsled-looking housemaid appeared, to whom Mademoiselle spoke in a volley of bad English and excellent French.“Get us something to eat,” said Penelope, “that is what we want. Isn’t Patience here to wait on us as usual?”Patience was one of the immaculate parlour maids.“No,” said the girl; “Patience has gone on her holiday.”She withdrew, however, quickly after making this remark, for Mademoiselle’s eyes flashed fire.“I suffer not these tortures,” she cried, “and the insolence of Englishdomestiques! I return to my own adorable land and partake of theragoûtsso delicate and thebouillonso fragrant and theomelettesso adorable. I turn my back on your cold England. It loves not the stranger—and the stranger loves it not!”A meal was hastily prepared in another room, and Penelope and the governess went there together.“What I dread,” said Mademoiselle, “what I consider sotristeand execrable—is that I should remain here in this so gloomy climate, far, far from my beloved land, with you—the mostennuyeuseof all my pupils during the time of holiday. I call it shameful! I rebel!”“Then why do you stay?” said Penelope.Again Mademoiselle extended her fat hands and arms.“Would I lose that little character which is to me the breath of existence?” she enquired. “Were Madame to know that I had left you, mytristepupil, all alone during these long days and weeks, would she give me a paper with those essential qualifications written on it which secure for me employment elsewhere?”“I am going away myself next week,” said Penelope, bluntly.“Next week!” cried Mademoiselle, much startled and delighted at this news. “But is that indeed so? for Madame say nothing of it. She say to me this morning: ‘You take excellent care of my pupil, Penelope Carlton, and give her of the food sufficient, and of the mental food also, that she will digest.’”“I won’t digest any of it,” said Penelope, bluntly.“That was my thought, but I dared not express it. I knew well the dulness of your intellect, and although last night you did soar into a different world—ma foi, you did take me by surprise!—you are yourself a verytristelittle girl—anenfantindistinguishable, with neither the gifts of beauty nor of genius.”“Well—I am going—it is arranged. Mrs Hazlitt will doubtless be written to.”“And where do you go,pauvre petite?” asked the governess.“I am going to stay with Honora Beverley, at Castle Beverley,” replied Penelope, with even a touch of arrogance in her small voice.Mademoiselle opened her eyes wide.“With her!—my pupilmagnifique, and so beautiful! She has the air distinguished and the manner noble. She belongs to the rich and to the great.Shetakesyouup—butpourquoi?”“Kindness—I suppose,” said Penelope. “I am lonely, and they have a big house; I am going there.”“It is wonderful,” said Mademoiselle, “you of all people. Honora is one with thoughts the most lofty, and she signifies a preference for you! It is strange—it gives memal à la têteeven to think of it!”“Why should it?” asked Penelope.“Do I not know some of your ways,mon enfant—and that little, little transaction in the wood?”“What in the world do you mean?” said Penelope, turning ghastly white.“Ah! I mean no wrong. I have eaten enough of your odious English cookery; let us rise from table. I am glad to feel that you are going to that friend so unsuitable—to that lady sosupérieure. Would she ask you if she knew what I know?—”“I can’t tell, I am sure, what you do know,” said Penelope; “but what I feel at present is that I want rest—you’re not obliged to follow me about all the afternoon—may I stay by myself until supper time?”“Ungrateful!” cried Mademoiselle. “But I shall go—I need you not. I have myself to attend to, and my affairs so sombre to settle. I will meet you again at the hour of supper, when I have put matters in train for myself.”Penelope left her. How much did Mademoiselle know? She disliked her heartily, and did not want to trouble her head too much over the circumstance. She felt certain that the four girls who had given her the money would not confide their secrets to any one, far less to Mademoiselle, whom they distrusted. Nevertheless, the governess was scarcely likely to speak as she had done without reason. She was evidently jealous of Penelope’s invitation to Beverley Castle, and was very angry at being dismissed from Hazlitt Chase.“She can’t by any possibility know the truth,” thought the girl, “and I won’t fret about it. I will just humour her as best I can until next week arrives, and then say good-bye to her for ever. I am heartily glad she is leaving the school; I never liked her so little as I do now.”Now, Mademoiselle D’Etienne and Brenda Carlton would have made their fortunes by ways that deceived. There was a great deal of affinity in their insincere natures. With Mademoiselle, it was truly bred in the bone; but she was not altogether ill-natured, and, after considering matters for a short time, decided that, unless special circumstances turned up, she would not disturb Penelope’s chance of having a good time at Castle Beverley. Her jealousy of the girl died down and she thought of herself and her own circumstances. Then it occurred to her that she would perhaps make some use of her pupil’s unexpected absence from Hazlitt Chase. If Penelope went to Castle Beverley for several weeks of the holidays, it would surely not be necessary for Mademoiselle to stay in that mansion sotriste, so desolate. Mrs Hazlitt was the soul of kindness. Mademoiselle was in her employ, and earning a considerable salary until the middle of September. It might be possible that Mrs Hazlitt could find some amusement for the poor lonely girl who was banished from her native land. Where could she go? what could she do to relieve the heavy air of England, to take the oppression from her heart? It would be more than delightful if she, too, could have an invitation to Castle Beverley, and, just for a minute, it entered her head that she might manage this by means of that little secret which she held over Penelope.But, after all, the secret was not so intensely valuable. What she knew was simply this. She had observed Cara Burt opening a letter on a certain morning and taking an unexpected five-pound note out of it. Mademoiselle was avaricious. The sight of the money had awakened desires within her. What could a girl like Cara want with anything so precious as a five-pound note in term time? She resolved to question her.“How good your people are to you!” she said.Cara had asked the governess what she meant, and the governess had prettily replied in her broken English that she had seen the “note so valuable” in Cara’s hand when she opened the letter.“Oh, that is for a purpose—an important one,” answered Cara. Then she bit her lips, for she was sorry she had said so much. But other girls had received their money on the very same day and Mademoiselle, alert and auspicious, had crept to therendezvouswhere they all met. Poor Penelope! When Penelope received the five-pound Bank of England notes, Mademoiselle’s dark, wicked face was peering from behind the shade of a magnificent oak tree. The girls themselves did not perceive her. She was much elated with her discovery and resolved to enfold it, as she said, within her breast for future use.Now, it occurred to her that she might simply relate to Penelope what she had done, or rather tell her pupil enough to show her that she was in the secret. That very evening, when the two had finished their supper she began her confidence. She told the girl that she had not wished to injure her, but at the same time that she knew for a fact that she had received four five-pound notes from four different girls of the school.“To me it is extraordinary,” she said, “why they should give to you the precious money, but that they have done so is beyond doubt. I go by the evidence of these eyes at once piercing and true! Do you deny it,mon enfant? Do you dare to be soméchante?”“I admit nothing and deny nothing,” said Penelope, as calmly as she could speak.Mademoiselle laughed. After a long pause, she said:“I am a nature the most generous, and I would not hurt a hair of the head of my pupil. You will go and enjoy the festival and the time so gay and the friends so kind at Castle Beverley, and thatenfantsomagnifique, Honora Beverley, will be your companion. I could prevent it, for she is, with all her nobleness, fanatical in her views, and of principles the most severe.”“I will never ask you to keep anything back,” said Penelope. “You can write to Honora if you wish: I don’t know how you can say anything about me without maligning yourself.”“Ah—mademoiselle I do you think I could so injure you?” said the governess. “That would indeed be far from my thoughts. But if I have the consideration the very deepest for you, will you not assist me to have a lesstristetime than in this lonely house with even you away?”“What can I do?” asked Penelope, in surprise. “I am a rather friendless girl, how can I possibly assist you to have a gay time? I never yet had a gay time myself, this is the first occasion.”“And it fills you with so great delight?”“I am very glad,” said Penelope.“I write this evening,” said Mademoiselle, “to Madame, and I mention to her the fact that my one pupil departs on the quest of pleasure, and I ask her to liberate me from mysolitaireposition here and to perhaps do me a little kindness by assisting me to spend the holiday by the gay, bright, and charming sea. A little word thrown in from you, too, mademoiselle, might do much to influence Madame to think of the poor governess. Will you not write that word?”Penelope hesitated for a minute. Then she said, bluntly:“I will mention the fact that you will be quite alone, and I will write myself to Mrs Hazlitt to-night.”As she spoke, she got up, and left the room. Penelope hated herself for having to write the letter. She longed more than ever for the moment when she would be free to go to Castle Beverley. She was not really afraid of Mademoiselle. She would rather all the girls in the school knew what she had done than be, in any respect, in Mademoiselle’s power. In fact, such a strange revulsion of feeling had come over her, that she would have told the truth but for Brenda. But, although she was deeply disappointed in Brenda, it was the last wish in her heart to do anything to injure or to provoke her.Accordingly, she wrote a careful and really nice letter to her headmistress, telling her what Honora had said, and begging of her to allow her to accept the invitation, when it arrived. She also said that Mademoiselle d’Etienne would be quite alone, and seemed put out at the fact of her going. At the same time, she begged that the thought of Mademoiselle would not prevent Mrs Hazlitt’s allowing her to accept the invitation.Penelope’s letter was duly put into the post, accompanied by one of much persuasiveness from the French governess. The result of these two letters was, that as soon as the post could bring replies, replies came. Mrs Hazlitt said that she would be delighted to allow Penelope to go to Castle Beverley, and that as she knew the house would be full of gay young people, she enclosed her a five-pound note out of a fund which she specially possessed for the purpose, to allow the girl to get a few nice things.“Mademoiselle will help you to purchase these,” she said, “and you can have all your school frocks nicely washed and done up in the school laundry. I am afraid I cannot spend more on your dress, Penelope, but I think you can manage with the money I send you.”Mademoiselle’s cheeks were flushed when she devoured the contents of her own letter; for enclosed in it was a cheque so generous that her eyes blazed with pleasure.“Madame is of the most mean, and yet of the most generous!” she cried. “She allows me to go when you go,petite, and she gives me a little sum to spend on myself, so that I make a holiday the best that I can. I knew where I will reside. I will go to that place near Castle Beverley—I forget its long name—but it is gay, sad on the sea.”“You’re not going to Marshlands?” cried Penelope, in some alarm.“That is the place that I will go to,” said Mademoiselle. “I have looked it out on the map, and it is far off, but not too far off. There I can watch over you, although it is the distant view that I will obtain, and I can, from time to time, see my other most beloved pupil, and perhaps go to Castle Beverley, and wish them adieu before I depart to that land of sun—la belle France.”Penelope did not at all like the idea of Mademoiselle’s going to Marshlands. She hoped she would not come across Brenda, and she trusted sincerely that she would not be invited to Castle Beverley. But, as Mademoiselle was determined to have her own way, Penelope resolved to take the good which lay at hand, and not to trouble herself too much about the future.Mademoiselle was now extremely good-natured, and helped Penelope to renovate her very simple wardrobe and, in short, made herself as charming as a Frenchwoman of her character knew how. All in good time, Honora’s delightful letter of invitation arrived, and Mademoiselle resolved to travel with her pupil as far as Marshlands.“I part from you,” she said, “at the railway station where you will meet your friends so distinguished; and I, the governess, the foreigner, will go to search forappartementsthat are cheap. You will bid me farewell, and permit me to shake the hand once again of my pupil Honora. Ah! but I am kind to you—am I not?”“Yes,” murmured Penelope, feeling all the time that Mademoiselle was unbearably trying. The joys, however, of going to Castle Beverley should not be damped even by this incident.The girl and the Frenchwoman travelled second-class together, and arrived at the somewhat noisy station of Marshlands-on-the-Sea between six and seven o’clock on a glorious evening in August Penelope had not beheld the blue, blue sea since she was quite a little girl, and her eyes sparkled now with delight. She looked quite different from the limp and somewhat uninteresting girl she had appeared to every one at Hazlitt Chase. The anticipation of happiness was working marvels in her character. Penelope had taken good care not to inform Brenda of the day of her arrival. She was quite sure she would have to meet her sister; but she would at least give herself a little rest before the encounter took place. She rejoiced, too, in the knowledge that up to the present Mademoiselle d’Etienne and Brenda did not know each other.As soon as the train drew up to the platform, Mademoiselle poked out her head and uttered a little shriek when she beheld Pauline and Nellie Hungerford, as well as Honora herself and a tall footman waiting on the platform. Mademoiselle rushed up to Honora, taking both her hands and shaking them up and down while she burst into an eager volley of French, in which she informed that “pupil best beloved” that the desire to be near her had brought her to Marshlands-on-the-Sea, and that she was even now going with her humble belongings to seek apartments appropriate to her means.“I meet you, my pupil,” she said, “with a joy which almost ravishes my breast, for sincere and true are my feelings towards you. And now I stay not, but perhaps some day you will think of the governess in her humbleappartementsby the lone sea, and allow her to pay you a little visit.”Honora murmured something which scarcely amounted to an invitation. Mademoiselle turned to the little girls, and Honora ran to Penelope’s side.“I am so glad to see you! I hope you are not frightfully tired. Oh, you do look hot and dusty, but we shall have a delicious drive up to the Castle. My home is quite outside the town, which is somewhat noisy. Ah, I see Dan has collected your luggage; shall we come at once? Good-bye, Mademoiselle. I hope you will secure nice rooms.”Mademoiselle was flattering, and full of charm to the end. She insisted on marching down the platform with Pauline’s hand clasped in one of hers, and her humble little bag in the other. She did not part from her pupils until she saw them all ensconced in the luxurious carriage which was to bear them rapidly into the pleasant country. But, when that same carriage had turned the corner and she found herself alone, an ugly expression crossed her face.“It is not good to have these feelings,” she murmured to herself. “I like not the jealousies when they come to devour; but why should Penelope with her schemes and her behaviour the most strange be taken to the very heart of the best of all my pupils? I will see into this by-and-by. Meanwhile—ma foi—how hot it is!”
On the morning after the prize-giving day at Hazlitt Chase, Penelope rose with a headache. There was a great deal of bustle and excitement in the school, for nearly all the girls were going to their several homes on that special morning. Penelope and Mademoiselle d’Etienne would have the beautiful old house to themselves before twenty-four hours were over.
Penelope did not in the least care for Mademoiselle; she was not especially fond of her school life, but she detested those long and endless holidays which she spent invariably at Hazlitt Chase.
To-day all was in disorder. The usual routine of school life was over. The children were some of them beside themselves with the thought of the railway journey and the home-coming in the evening. Somebody shouted to Penelope to hurry with her dressing, in order to help to get off the little ones. The smaller children, including the two little Hungerfords, were to go in a great omnibus to the station and be conducted by a governess to their different homes in various parts of England.
Pauline Hungerford suddenly rushed into the room where Penelope was standing.
“Helen of Troy,” she said.
“Oh, please don’t!” said Penelope. “I amnotHelen of Troy—I don’t wish to be called by that odious name.”
“But youwereso beautiful!” said little Pauline. “Do you know that while we were looking at you, even Nellie forgot about her bracelet; but she’s crying like anything over the loss of it this morning. It is quite too bad.”
“Yes, indeed it is,” said Penelope. “I do trust your mother will take steps to get it back. I hear that some of the railway officials were supposed to have stolen it.”
“Oh dear,” said Pauline, “how wicked of them! What awful people they must be! Who told you that, Penelope?”
“Well, it was mentioned to me by my sister, who came here yesterday. You saw her, of course?”
“Yes—she was talking a lot to my brother. She is very pretty; of course—of course I saw her. And she says it was the railway people who stole it? I will tell mother that the very instant I get back. But oh, please, Penelope, Honora wants you; she said you promised to go to her room before ten, and she would be so glad if you would go at once—will you?”
“Yes, I will go,” said Penelope.
She had forgotten Honora’s words, being absorbed in her own melancholy thoughts. It now occurred to her, however, that she might as well keep her promise to the pretty girl who ought to have been Helen of Troy. She went slowly down the passage, tapped at Honora’s door, and entered her bedroom. The young lady was just dressed for her journey. She wore dainty white piqué and a pretty hat to match. She looked fair and fresh and charming.
“I am just off—I have hardly a minute,” she said. “I want to ask a great favour of you, Penelope.”
“What is that?” said Penelope.
She spoke ill-naturedly. She felt the contrast between them. She almost disliked Honora for her beauty on this occasion.
“It is this,” said Honora. “I have been asking mamma—and she says I may do it. Will you come and stay with us for part of the holidays?”
“I!” said Penelope—amazement in her face.
“Yes. We live at Castle Beverley: it is not very far from Marshlands-on-the-Sea.”
“Oh dear!” exclaimed Penelope, clasping her hands. “Why, it is there my sister is going.”
“Then of course you can see her; that will be nice. But will you come? I will write to fix the day after I get home. Ishouldlike you to have a good time with us. We shall be quite a big party—boys and girls, oh,—a lot of us, and I think there’ll be no end of fun. The little Hungerfords are coming, and Fred. Fred is such a nice boy. Will you come, Penelope? Do say ‘Yes.’”
Penelope’s eyes suddenly filled with tears.
“Will I come!” she said. “Why, I’d just love it beyond anything. Oh, youaregood! Do you ask me because you pity me?”
“Well—yes, perhaps a little,” said Honora, colouring at this direct question—“but also because I want to like you. I know you are worth liking. No one who could look as you did last night could be unworthy. It was after I saw you that I asked mamma; and she said: most certainly you should come. It will probably be next week: I will write you fixing the day as soon as ever I get home. And now, I must be off. Good-bye, dear. You may be certain I will do my very utmost to give you a really happy time.”
Honora bent her stately head, pressed a little kiss on Penelope’s forehead, and the next minute had left her. Penelope’s first impulse had been to rush downstairs; but she restrained herself. She sat down on Honora’s vacant bed and pressed her hand to her forehead.
“Fun for me,”—she thought—“for me! I shan’t have lonely holidays. I shall go to one of the nicest houses in England, and be with nice people, good people, true people. There’s Brenda—of course I wish—I do wish Brenda werenotat Marshlands; but I suppose Ican’thave everything. I wish—I wish I could understand Brenda. Why did she force me to get all that money for her? I wonder if any of the girls who gave it me will be there. Well, well—I won’t be disagreeable—I am going to have a jolly time—I, who never have any fun. Oh, I am glad—I am very glad!”
About an hour later, the great house of Hazlitt Chase seemed quite silent and empty. Except for some housemaids who went to the different rooms in order to fold up the sheets and put away the blankets and take the curtains down from the windows and generally reduce the spotless, dainty chambers to the immaculate order of holiday times, Penelope did not see any one. She was glad that Mademoiselle d’Etienne was not in sight. She thought she could endure her holiday now that she had something to look forward to, if only Mademoiselle were not with her. But she could not stand the housemaids: they were so full of gossip and noise. Their accustomed reverence for the young ladies was not extended to the lonely girl who always spent vacation at Hazlitt Chase.
Penelope put on her hat, seized the first book she could find, and went out into the open air. The grounds still bore traces of yesterday’s revels. There was the wood—dark, cool, and beautiful—which had been used for that scene in which she took so distinguished a part. Penelope’s first desire was to get within the shade of the wood; but then she remembered how many things had happened there; how it was there that she had made terms with the girls with regard to the conditions on which she would act Helen of Troy. It was there, too, that Honora Beverley had found her when the play was over—when she was feeling so wrought up, so desolate, and, somehow, so ashamed of herself. She did not want to go into the wood. She walked, therefore, down one of the sunny garden paths, and at last came to a grassy sward with a huge elm-tree in the middle. There was shade under the elm. She eat down on the grass and opened her book. But she was not inclined to read. Penelope was never a reader. She had no special nor strong tastes. She could have been made a very nice, all-round sort of girl; her brain could have been well developed, but she would never be a genius or a specialist of any sort. Nevertheless, she had one thing which some of those girls who despised her did not possess; that was, a real, vibrating, suffering, longing, and passionate soul. She longed intensely for love, and she would rather be good than bad—that was about all.
She sat with her book open and her eyes fixed on the flickering sunlight and shade of the lawn just in front of her. After all she, Penelope, would have a good time—just like the other girls. She would come back to school able, like the other girls, to talk of her holidays, to describe where she went and what companions she found and what friends she made; to talk as the others talked of this delightful day and that delightful day. Oh, yes—she would have a good time! She pressed her hand to her eyes and her eyelids smarted with tears. It had been a very long time since Penelope had cried. Now, notwithstanding her sudden and unlooked-for bliss, there was a pain within her breast. She was terribly—most terribly disappointed in Brenda. She had not seen Brenda for a long time, and she had always rather worshipped her sister. When a little child, she had thoroughly revelled in Brenda’s beauty. When the time came that she and Brenda must part, little Penelope had sobbed hard in her elder sister’s arms—had implored and implored her not to leave her, and afterwards, when the separation had taken place, had been sullen and truly miserable for a long time.
Then she had been admitted to Mrs Hazlitt’s school on those special conditions which came to a few girls and had been arranged by those governors who put a certain number on the foundation terms of the school. The foundation girls were never known to be such by any of their companions. They were treated exactly like the others. In fact, if anything, they had a few more indulgences. Not for worlds would Mrs Hazlitt have given these children of poverty so cruel a time as to make their estate known to their companions.
But, it so happened that Penelope was obliged always to spend her holidays at the school. That was the only difference made between her and the others. She had not seen Brenda for years. But Brenda had written to her little sister and had made all use possible of that sister’s affection. She had worked up her feelings with regard to her own dreadful poverty and, in short, had got Penelope to blackmail four girls of the school for her sake.
“It was a dreadful thing to do,” thought Penelope to herself, as she sat now under the shade of the elm-tree. “I don’t think I’d have done it if I’d known. I wonder if she really wanted the money so very badly. There’s some one who loves her, and she must look nice for his sake. But all the same—I wish I hadn’t done it, and I wish she were not going to Marshlands-on-the-Sea. For she is just the sort to make it unpleasant for me, and to expect the Beverleys to ask her to Beverley Castle; and oh—I am disappointed in her!”
Again Penelope cried, not hard or much, for this was not her nature, but sufficiently to relieve some of the load at her heart. Then, all of a sudden, she started to her feet. Mademoiselle d’Etienne was coming down the central lawn to meet her. Mademoiselle was in many respects an excellent French governess, but had the usual faults of the proverbial Frenchwoman. She was both ugly and vain. She could not in the least read character, but she had the knack of discovering which was the girl whose acquaintance was most worth cultivating.
Mrs Hazlitt had made a mistake in introducing this woman into the school. She had not interviewed her in advance, and was altogether disappointed when she arrived. It was her intention to get another French governess to take her place at the beginning of next term. Mademoiselle had, in fact, received notice to this effect and was exceedingly annoyed. She was in that state when she must vent her spleen on some one, and, as Penelope was the only girl now at Hazlitt Chase, she went up to her crossly.
“What are you doing here,mon enfant?” she cried. “You leave the poor French mademoiselle all alone—it is sad—it is strange—it is wrong. Come this minute into the house. I have my woes to relate, and I want even apetitelike you to listen. Come at once, and sit no longer under this shade, but make of yourself a use.”
Penelope rose, looking more grim and forbidding than usual. She followed Mademoiselle up the garden, past the wood, and into the house.
“Behold the desolation!” cried Mademoiselle, when they got indoors. She spread out her two fat, short arms and looked around her. “Not apetitein sight—not a sound—the whole mansion empty, and Madame gone—gone with venom! She have left me my dismissal; she say, ‘You teach no moreles enfantsin this school.’ She gave no reason, but say, ‘I find another and you teach no more!’ Who was that spiteful and mostméchant enfantwho reveals secrets of poor Mademoiselle to Madame?”
“I don’t know,” said Penelope. “I hadn’t an idea you were going. I know nothing about it,” she continued. “Aren’t we going to have any lunch? I am so hungry.”
“And so am I,” cried Mademoiselle, who was exceedingly greedy. “I starve—I ache from within.Sonnez, mon enfant—I entreat; let us have ourdéjeuner—my vitals can stand the strain no longer.”
Penelope rang the bell, and presently a towsled-looking housemaid appeared, to whom Mademoiselle spoke in a volley of bad English and excellent French.
“Get us something to eat,” said Penelope, “that is what we want. Isn’t Patience here to wait on us as usual?”
Patience was one of the immaculate parlour maids.
“No,” said the girl; “Patience has gone on her holiday.”
She withdrew, however, quickly after making this remark, for Mademoiselle’s eyes flashed fire.
“I suffer not these tortures,” she cried, “and the insolence of Englishdomestiques! I return to my own adorable land and partake of theragoûtsso delicate and thebouillonso fragrant and theomelettesso adorable. I turn my back on your cold England. It loves not the stranger—and the stranger loves it not!”
A meal was hastily prepared in another room, and Penelope and the governess went there together.
“What I dread,” said Mademoiselle, “what I consider sotristeand execrable—is that I should remain here in this so gloomy climate, far, far from my beloved land, with you—the mostennuyeuseof all my pupils during the time of holiday. I call it shameful! I rebel!”
“Then why do you stay?” said Penelope.
Again Mademoiselle extended her fat hands and arms.
“Would I lose that little character which is to me the breath of existence?” she enquired. “Were Madame to know that I had left you, mytristepupil, all alone during these long days and weeks, would she give me a paper with those essential qualifications written on it which secure for me employment elsewhere?”
“I am going away myself next week,” said Penelope, bluntly.
“Next week!” cried Mademoiselle, much startled and delighted at this news. “But is that indeed so? for Madame say nothing of it. She say to me this morning: ‘You take excellent care of my pupil, Penelope Carlton, and give her of the food sufficient, and of the mental food also, that she will digest.’”
“I won’t digest any of it,” said Penelope, bluntly.
“That was my thought, but I dared not express it. I knew well the dulness of your intellect, and although last night you did soar into a different world—ma foi, you did take me by surprise!—you are yourself a verytristelittle girl—anenfantindistinguishable, with neither the gifts of beauty nor of genius.”
“Well—I am going—it is arranged. Mrs Hazlitt will doubtless be written to.”
“And where do you go,pauvre petite?” asked the governess.
“I am going to stay with Honora Beverley, at Castle Beverley,” replied Penelope, with even a touch of arrogance in her small voice.
Mademoiselle opened her eyes wide.
“With her!—my pupilmagnifique, and so beautiful! She has the air distinguished and the manner noble. She belongs to the rich and to the great.Shetakesyouup—butpourquoi?”
“Kindness—I suppose,” said Penelope. “I am lonely, and they have a big house; I am going there.”
“It is wonderful,” said Mademoiselle, “you of all people. Honora is one with thoughts the most lofty, and she signifies a preference for you! It is strange—it gives memal à la têteeven to think of it!”
“Why should it?” asked Penelope.
“Do I not know some of your ways,mon enfant—and that little, little transaction in the wood?”
“What in the world do you mean?” said Penelope, turning ghastly white.
“Ah! I mean no wrong. I have eaten enough of your odious English cookery; let us rise from table. I am glad to feel that you are going to that friend so unsuitable—to that lady sosupérieure. Would she ask you if she knew what I know?—”
“I can’t tell, I am sure, what you do know,” said Penelope; “but what I feel at present is that I want rest—you’re not obliged to follow me about all the afternoon—may I stay by myself until supper time?”
“Ungrateful!” cried Mademoiselle. “But I shall go—I need you not. I have myself to attend to, and my affairs so sombre to settle. I will meet you again at the hour of supper, when I have put matters in train for myself.”
Penelope left her. How much did Mademoiselle know? She disliked her heartily, and did not want to trouble her head too much over the circumstance. She felt certain that the four girls who had given her the money would not confide their secrets to any one, far less to Mademoiselle, whom they distrusted. Nevertheless, the governess was scarcely likely to speak as she had done without reason. She was evidently jealous of Penelope’s invitation to Beverley Castle, and was very angry at being dismissed from Hazlitt Chase.
“She can’t by any possibility know the truth,” thought the girl, “and I won’t fret about it. I will just humour her as best I can until next week arrives, and then say good-bye to her for ever. I am heartily glad she is leaving the school; I never liked her so little as I do now.”
Now, Mademoiselle D’Etienne and Brenda Carlton would have made their fortunes by ways that deceived. There was a great deal of affinity in their insincere natures. With Mademoiselle, it was truly bred in the bone; but she was not altogether ill-natured, and, after considering matters for a short time, decided that, unless special circumstances turned up, she would not disturb Penelope’s chance of having a good time at Castle Beverley. Her jealousy of the girl died down and she thought of herself and her own circumstances. Then it occurred to her that she would perhaps make some use of her pupil’s unexpected absence from Hazlitt Chase. If Penelope went to Castle Beverley for several weeks of the holidays, it would surely not be necessary for Mademoiselle to stay in that mansion sotriste, so desolate. Mrs Hazlitt was the soul of kindness. Mademoiselle was in her employ, and earning a considerable salary until the middle of September. It might be possible that Mrs Hazlitt could find some amusement for the poor lonely girl who was banished from her native land. Where could she go? what could she do to relieve the heavy air of England, to take the oppression from her heart? It would be more than delightful if she, too, could have an invitation to Castle Beverley, and, just for a minute, it entered her head that she might manage this by means of that little secret which she held over Penelope.
But, after all, the secret was not so intensely valuable. What she knew was simply this. She had observed Cara Burt opening a letter on a certain morning and taking an unexpected five-pound note out of it. Mademoiselle was avaricious. The sight of the money had awakened desires within her. What could a girl like Cara want with anything so precious as a five-pound note in term time? She resolved to question her.
“How good your people are to you!” she said.
Cara had asked the governess what she meant, and the governess had prettily replied in her broken English that she had seen the “note so valuable” in Cara’s hand when she opened the letter.
“Oh, that is for a purpose—an important one,” answered Cara. Then she bit her lips, for she was sorry she had said so much. But other girls had received their money on the very same day and Mademoiselle, alert and auspicious, had crept to therendezvouswhere they all met. Poor Penelope! When Penelope received the five-pound Bank of England notes, Mademoiselle’s dark, wicked face was peering from behind the shade of a magnificent oak tree. The girls themselves did not perceive her. She was much elated with her discovery and resolved to enfold it, as she said, within her breast for future use.
Now, it occurred to her that she might simply relate to Penelope what she had done, or rather tell her pupil enough to show her that she was in the secret. That very evening, when the two had finished their supper she began her confidence. She told the girl that she had not wished to injure her, but at the same time that she knew for a fact that she had received four five-pound notes from four different girls of the school.
“To me it is extraordinary,” she said, “why they should give to you the precious money, but that they have done so is beyond doubt. I go by the evidence of these eyes at once piercing and true! Do you deny it,mon enfant? Do you dare to be soméchante?”
“I admit nothing and deny nothing,” said Penelope, as calmly as she could speak.
Mademoiselle laughed. After a long pause, she said:
“I am a nature the most generous, and I would not hurt a hair of the head of my pupil. You will go and enjoy the festival and the time so gay and the friends so kind at Castle Beverley, and thatenfantsomagnifique, Honora Beverley, will be your companion. I could prevent it, for she is, with all her nobleness, fanatical in her views, and of principles the most severe.”
“I will never ask you to keep anything back,” said Penelope. “You can write to Honora if you wish: I don’t know how you can say anything about me without maligning yourself.”
“Ah—mademoiselle I do you think I could so injure you?” said the governess. “That would indeed be far from my thoughts. But if I have the consideration the very deepest for you, will you not assist me to have a lesstristetime than in this lonely house with even you away?”
“What can I do?” asked Penelope, in surprise. “I am a rather friendless girl, how can I possibly assist you to have a gay time? I never yet had a gay time myself, this is the first occasion.”
“And it fills you with so great delight?”
“I am very glad,” said Penelope.
“I write this evening,” said Mademoiselle, “to Madame, and I mention to her the fact that my one pupil departs on the quest of pleasure, and I ask her to liberate me from mysolitaireposition here and to perhaps do me a little kindness by assisting me to spend the holiday by the gay, bright, and charming sea. A little word thrown in from you, too, mademoiselle, might do much to influence Madame to think of the poor governess. Will you not write that word?”
Penelope hesitated for a minute. Then she said, bluntly:
“I will mention the fact that you will be quite alone, and I will write myself to Mrs Hazlitt to-night.”
As she spoke, she got up, and left the room. Penelope hated herself for having to write the letter. She longed more than ever for the moment when she would be free to go to Castle Beverley. She was not really afraid of Mademoiselle. She would rather all the girls in the school knew what she had done than be, in any respect, in Mademoiselle’s power. In fact, such a strange revulsion of feeling had come over her, that she would have told the truth but for Brenda. But, although she was deeply disappointed in Brenda, it was the last wish in her heart to do anything to injure or to provoke her.
Accordingly, she wrote a careful and really nice letter to her headmistress, telling her what Honora had said, and begging of her to allow her to accept the invitation, when it arrived. She also said that Mademoiselle d’Etienne would be quite alone, and seemed put out at the fact of her going. At the same time, she begged that the thought of Mademoiselle would not prevent Mrs Hazlitt’s allowing her to accept the invitation.
Penelope’s letter was duly put into the post, accompanied by one of much persuasiveness from the French governess. The result of these two letters was, that as soon as the post could bring replies, replies came. Mrs Hazlitt said that she would be delighted to allow Penelope to go to Castle Beverley, and that as she knew the house would be full of gay young people, she enclosed her a five-pound note out of a fund which she specially possessed for the purpose, to allow the girl to get a few nice things.
“Mademoiselle will help you to purchase these,” she said, “and you can have all your school frocks nicely washed and done up in the school laundry. I am afraid I cannot spend more on your dress, Penelope, but I think you can manage with the money I send you.”
Mademoiselle’s cheeks were flushed when she devoured the contents of her own letter; for enclosed in it was a cheque so generous that her eyes blazed with pleasure.
“Madame is of the most mean, and yet of the most generous!” she cried. “She allows me to go when you go,petite, and she gives me a little sum to spend on myself, so that I make a holiday the best that I can. I knew where I will reside. I will go to that place near Castle Beverley—I forget its long name—but it is gay, sad on the sea.”
“You’re not going to Marshlands?” cried Penelope, in some alarm.
“That is the place that I will go to,” said Mademoiselle. “I have looked it out on the map, and it is far off, but not too far off. There I can watch over you, although it is the distant view that I will obtain, and I can, from time to time, see my other most beloved pupil, and perhaps go to Castle Beverley, and wish them adieu before I depart to that land of sun—la belle France.”
Penelope did not at all like the idea of Mademoiselle’s going to Marshlands. She hoped she would not come across Brenda, and she trusted sincerely that she would not be invited to Castle Beverley. But, as Mademoiselle was determined to have her own way, Penelope resolved to take the good which lay at hand, and not to trouble herself too much about the future.
Mademoiselle was now extremely good-natured, and helped Penelope to renovate her very simple wardrobe and, in short, made herself as charming as a Frenchwoman of her character knew how. All in good time, Honora’s delightful letter of invitation arrived, and Mademoiselle resolved to travel with her pupil as far as Marshlands.
“I part from you,” she said, “at the railway station where you will meet your friends so distinguished; and I, the governess, the foreigner, will go to search forappartementsthat are cheap. You will bid me farewell, and permit me to shake the hand once again of my pupil Honora. Ah! but I am kind to you—am I not?”
“Yes,” murmured Penelope, feeling all the time that Mademoiselle was unbearably trying. The joys, however, of going to Castle Beverley should not be damped even by this incident.
The girl and the Frenchwoman travelled second-class together, and arrived at the somewhat noisy station of Marshlands-on-the-Sea between six and seven o’clock on a glorious evening in August Penelope had not beheld the blue, blue sea since she was quite a little girl, and her eyes sparkled now with delight. She looked quite different from the limp and somewhat uninteresting girl she had appeared to every one at Hazlitt Chase. The anticipation of happiness was working marvels in her character. Penelope had taken good care not to inform Brenda of the day of her arrival. She was quite sure she would have to meet her sister; but she would at least give herself a little rest before the encounter took place. She rejoiced, too, in the knowledge that up to the present Mademoiselle d’Etienne and Brenda did not know each other.
As soon as the train drew up to the platform, Mademoiselle poked out her head and uttered a little shriek when she beheld Pauline and Nellie Hungerford, as well as Honora herself and a tall footman waiting on the platform. Mademoiselle rushed up to Honora, taking both her hands and shaking them up and down while she burst into an eager volley of French, in which she informed that “pupil best beloved” that the desire to be near her had brought her to Marshlands-on-the-Sea, and that she was even now going with her humble belongings to seek apartments appropriate to her means.
“I meet you, my pupil,” she said, “with a joy which almost ravishes my breast, for sincere and true are my feelings towards you. And now I stay not, but perhaps some day you will think of the governess in her humbleappartementsby the lone sea, and allow her to pay you a little visit.”
Honora murmured something which scarcely amounted to an invitation. Mademoiselle turned to the little girls, and Honora ran to Penelope’s side.
“I am so glad to see you! I hope you are not frightfully tired. Oh, you do look hot and dusty, but we shall have a delicious drive up to the Castle. My home is quite outside the town, which is somewhat noisy. Ah, I see Dan has collected your luggage; shall we come at once? Good-bye, Mademoiselle. I hope you will secure nice rooms.”
Mademoiselle was flattering, and full of charm to the end. She insisted on marching down the platform with Pauline’s hand clasped in one of hers, and her humble little bag in the other. She did not part from her pupils until she saw them all ensconced in the luxurious carriage which was to bear them rapidly into the pleasant country. But, when that same carriage had turned the corner and she found herself alone, an ugly expression crossed her face.
“It is not good to have these feelings,” she murmured to herself. “I like not the jealousies when they come to devour; but why should Penelope with her schemes and her behaviour the most strange be taken to the very heart of the best of all my pupils? I will see into this by-and-by. Meanwhile—ma foi—how hot it is!”
Chapter Fourteen.The Castle.Castle Beverley was even a more delightful place than Penelope had the least idea of before she arrived at it. She had her own vivid imagination, and had pictured the old castle, its suites of apartments, its crowds of servants, its stately guests, many and many a time before the blissful hour of her arrival. But when she did get to Castle Beverley, she found that all her pictures had been wrong.It is true, there was an old castle, and a tower at one end of an irregular pile of building; but the modern part of the house, while it was large, was also unpretentious and simple.The children who ran to meet the carriage were many of them Penelope’s schoolfellows. Mrs Beverley had a charming and placid face and a kindly manner. Mr Beverley was a round-faced, rubicund country squire, who made jokes about every one, and was as little alarming as human being could be. In short, it was impossible for Penelope not to feel herself at home. Her old schoolfellows welcomed her almost with enthusiasm. They had not cared for her greatly when at Hazlitt Chase, but they were just in the mood to be in the best temper with everything, and had been in raptures with her rendering of Helen of Troy. Honora, too, had pictured, very pathetically, the scene of the lonely girl afterwards weeping by herself in the wood, and the delightful inspiration which had come over her to give her some weeks’ holiday at Castle Beverley. Perhaps Cara Burt would have preferred her not being there, but Mary L’Estrange, who was also a visitor at the Castle, had quite forgiven Penelope for her desire to obtain five pounds. She put it down altogether, now, to the poor thing’s poverty, and hoped that the transaction would never be known. Annie Leicester had not yet arrived, but was expected. Susanna, the most to be feared, perhaps, of the four girls who had given Penelope the money, had gone abroad for the holidays.Thus, all was sunshine on this first evening, and when Penelope found herself joking and repeating little bits of school news and some of the funny things which had occurred between herself and Mademoiselle, the others laughed heartily. Yes, that first evening was a golden one, long to be remembered by the somewhat lonely girl.When she went to bed that night, she was so tired that she slept soundly until the morning. When the morning did arrive, and she was greeted by a smiling housemaid and a delicious cup of tea, she felt that, for the time at least, she was in the land of luxury.“I’ll enjoy myself for once,” she thought, “I’ll forget about school and that I am very poor and that I am disappointed with Brenda, and that Brenda is staying at Marshlands, and Mademoiselle, too, is staying at Marshlands. I will forget everything but just that it is very, very good to be here.”So she arose and dressed herself in one of the new white linen dresses which Mademoiselle had purchased for her out of Mrs Hazlitt’s money, and she came down to breakfast looking fresh and almost pretty.“You do seem rested—I am so glad!” said Honora. “Oh, no, we are not breakfasting in that room. Father and mother and the grown-ups use the front hall for breakfast in the summer, and we children have the big old school-room to ourselves. You didn’t see it last night; we had so much to show you, but it is—oh—such a jolly room. Come now this way, you will be surprised at such a crowd of us.”As Honora spoke, she took Penelope’s hand, and, pushing open a heavy oak door, led the way through a sort of ante-chamber and then down a corridor to a long, low room with latticed windows, over which many creepers cast just now a most grateful shade. There were several boys and girls in the room, and a long table was laid, with all sorts of good things for breakfast. Amongst the boys was Fred Hungerford and a younger brother called Dick, and there were three or four boys, brothers and cousins of Honora herself. There were altogether at least thirteen or fourteen girls. The two little Hungerfords flew up to Penelope when they saw her. They seemed to regard her as their special friend.“Honora,” said Pauline, “may we sit one at each side of Penelope and tell her who every one is and all about everything? Then she’ll feel quite one of us and be—oh—so happy!”“That’s an excellent idea, Pauline,” said Honora. “Here, Penelope, come up to this end of the table, and I’ll jog the children’s memories if they forget any one.”So Penelope enjoyed her first breakfast at Castle Beverley, and could not help looking at Honora with a wonderful, new sensation of love in her eyes. Honora, whose dazzling fairness and stately young figure had made her appear at first sight such an admirable representative of the fair Helen of the past, had never looked more beautiful than this morning.She wore a dress of the palest shade of blue cambric and had a great bunch of forget-me-nots in her belt. Her face was like sunshine itself, and her wealth of golden hair was quite marvellous in its fairness. Her placid blue eyes seemed to be as mirrors in which one could see into her steadfast and noble mind. All her thoughts were those of kindness, and she was absolutely unselfish. In fact, as one girl said: “Honora is selfless: she almost forgets that she exists, so little does she think of herself in her thought for others.”Now, Honora’s one desire was to make Penelope happy, and Penelope responded to the sympathetic manner and kindly words as a poor little sickly flower will revel in sunshine. But Pauline presently spoke in that rather shrill little voice of hers:“Wearehappy here: even Nellie’s better, aren’t you, Nellie?”“Yes, I suppose so,” said Nellie. She looked across the table at Pauline, and gave half a sigh and half a smile.“Of course you are happy, Nellie,” said Honora. “You’re not thinking any more about that bracelet, are you?”“I do wish I could get it back,” said Nellie, “but, all the same I am happy.”“But please, Penelope, tell us about your sister,” said Pauline. “Oh, do you know—”“Yes—dotell us that!” interrupted Nellie.“Why, Fred saw her yesterday at Marshlands-on-the-Sea,” continued Pauline. “She’s quite close to us—isn’t it fun? Fred came back quite interested in her—he thinks her so very pretty!”“Whom do I think pretty, Miss?” called out Fred from a little way down the table. “No taking of my name in vain—if you please.”“You know, Fred,” said Pauline, in her somewhat solemn little voice, “that you think dear Penelope’s sister sweetly pretty.”“I should think so, indeed!” said Fred, “and, by the way, she is at Marshlands. She had three of the funniest little girls out walking with her yesterday that you ever saw in your life. Did you know she was going to be at Marshlands, Miss Carlton?”“Yes,” said Penelope, feeling not quite so happy as she did a few minutes ago.“We’ll ask her up here some day to have a good time with us, dear, if you like,” said Honora.“Thank you,” replied Penelope, but without enthusiasm.“I spoke to her yesterday,” said Fred. “She really did look awfully nice; only they were the rummest little coves you ever saw in all your life—the children who are there.”“They are her pupils; they’re the daughters of a clergyman,” said Penelope.“I don’t care whose daughters they are, but they go about with your sister, and theydolook so funny. I told her you were coming and she gave me her address. Would you like to go in to see her this morning?” Penelope trembled.“Not this morning, please,” she said.She felt herself turning pale. She felt she must have one happy day before she began to meet Brenda. She had a curious feeling that when that event took place, her peace, and delight in her present surroundings would somehow be clouded. Brenda was so much cleverer than she was, so gay, so determined, so strange in many ways. Oh, no; she would not go to see her to-day.“If you like,” said Honora, observing Penelope’s confusion, and rather wondering at it, “I could send a note to your sister to come up to-morrow to spend the day here. We’re not going to do anything special to-morrow, and mother always allows me to ask any friends we like to the Castle. We have heaps of croquet courts and tennis courts, and the little girls could come with her, for of course she couldn’t leave them behind. How would that do, Penelope? Would that please you?”“I don’t know,” said Penelope. Then she said, somewhat awkwardly:“Oh, yes—yes—if you like—”Honora had a curious sensation of some surprise at Penelope’s manner; but it quickly passed. She accounted for it by saying to herself that her friend was tired and of course must greatly long to see her only sister.“She’s not absolutely and altogether to my taste,” thought Honora, “but I am just determined to give her the best of times, and we can have the sister up and the funny children for at least one day. What’s the good of having a big place if one doesn’t get people to enjoy it?”It was just then that Nellie said:“I do wish, Penelope, you had not done one thing.”“What is that?” asked Penelope, who had hardly got over the shock of having Brenda so soon with her.“Why did you bring Mademoiselle to Marshlands? We don’t care for Mademoiselle, do we, Pauline?”“No, indeed,” said Pauline, “and she took my hand yesterday and clutched it so tight and wouldn’t let it go before I pulled two or three times, and oh! I’m quite positive sure that she’ll find us out, and I wish she wouldn’t!”“Frankly, I wish she wouldn’t too,” said Honora, “but I do not see,” she added, “why Penelope should be disturbed on that account—it isn’t her fault.”“No, indeed it isn’t,” said Penelope, “and I wish with all my heart she hadn’t come with me to Marshlands-on-the-Sea.”When breakfast was over, all the young people streamed out into the gardens with the exception of Honora and Penelope.“One minute, Penelope dear,” said Honora. “Just write a little line to your sister and I will enclose one, in mother’s name and mine, inviting her to come up with the children to-morrow. Here are writing materials—you needn’t take a minute.”Penelope sat down and wrote a few words to Brenda. For the life of her, she could not make these words cordial. She hardly knew her own sensations. Was she addressing the same Brenda whom she had worshipped and suffered for and loved so frantically when she was a little girl? Was it jealousy that was stealing into her heart? What could be her motives in wishing to keep this sister from the nice boys and girls who made Castle Beverley so charming? Or was she—was she so mean—so small—as to be ashamed of Brenda? No, no—it could not be that, and yet—and yet—it was that: she was ashamed of Brenda! The children she was now with belonged to the best of their kind. Penelope had lived with people of the better class for several months now and was discerning enough to perceive the difference between gold and tinsel. Oh, was Brenda tinsel; Brenda—her only sister? Penelope could have sobbed, but she must hide all emotion.Her letter was finished. She knew how eagerly Brenda would accept and how cleverly she would get herself invited to the Castle again, and again, and again. Honora’s cordial little note was slipped into the same envelope. Penelope had to furnish the address, and, an hour later, Fred and his brothers, who were going to ride to Marshlands in order to bathe and to spend some hours afterwards on the beach, arranged to convey the invitation to Brenda which poor Penelope so dreaded.“Now we have that off our minds,” said Honora, “and can have a real good time. What would you like to do, Penelope? You know you must make yourself absolutely and completely at home. You are one of us. Every girl who comes here by mother’s invitation is for the time mother’s own daughter and looked upon as such by her. She is also father’s own daughter and, I can tell you, he treats her as such, and the boys are exactly in the same position. We’re all brothers and sisters here, and we love each other, every one of us.”“But would you love a girl, whatever happened?” asked Penelope, all of a sudden.“Oh, I don’t know what you mean—whatever happened—what could happen?”“Nothing—of course—nothing; only I wonder, Honora. I never seemed to know you at all when I was at school. I wonder if you could love a girl like me.”“I love you already, dear,” said Honora. “And now, please, don’t be morbid; just let’s be jolly and laugh and joke; every one can do just what every one likes—this is Liberty Hall, of course. It’s a home of delight, of course. It’s the home of ‘Byegone dull Care’;—oh, it’s the nicest place in all the world, and I want you to remember it as long as you live. I am so glad mother allowed me to ask you! Now then, do see those youngsters, Pauline and Nellie, tumbling over the hay-cocks: how sunburnt they are! such a jolly little pair! I am sorry about Nellie’s bracelet; the loss of it makes her think too much of that sort of thing. I am quite afraid she will never find it now. What would you like to do, Penelope? You looked so happy when you came downstairs, but now you’re a little tired.”“I think I am a little tired,” said Penelope. “I think for this morning I’d like a book best.”“Then here we are—this is the school library: every jolly schoolgirl’s and schoolboy’s story that has ever been written finds its way into this room. Run in, and make your choice, and then come out. The grounds are all round you—shade everywhere, and pleasure, pleasure all day long.”
Castle Beverley was even a more delightful place than Penelope had the least idea of before she arrived at it. She had her own vivid imagination, and had pictured the old castle, its suites of apartments, its crowds of servants, its stately guests, many and many a time before the blissful hour of her arrival. But when she did get to Castle Beverley, she found that all her pictures had been wrong.
It is true, there was an old castle, and a tower at one end of an irregular pile of building; but the modern part of the house, while it was large, was also unpretentious and simple.
The children who ran to meet the carriage were many of them Penelope’s schoolfellows. Mrs Beverley had a charming and placid face and a kindly manner. Mr Beverley was a round-faced, rubicund country squire, who made jokes about every one, and was as little alarming as human being could be. In short, it was impossible for Penelope not to feel herself at home. Her old schoolfellows welcomed her almost with enthusiasm. They had not cared for her greatly when at Hazlitt Chase, but they were just in the mood to be in the best temper with everything, and had been in raptures with her rendering of Helen of Troy. Honora, too, had pictured, very pathetically, the scene of the lonely girl afterwards weeping by herself in the wood, and the delightful inspiration which had come over her to give her some weeks’ holiday at Castle Beverley. Perhaps Cara Burt would have preferred her not being there, but Mary L’Estrange, who was also a visitor at the Castle, had quite forgiven Penelope for her desire to obtain five pounds. She put it down altogether, now, to the poor thing’s poverty, and hoped that the transaction would never be known. Annie Leicester had not yet arrived, but was expected. Susanna, the most to be feared, perhaps, of the four girls who had given Penelope the money, had gone abroad for the holidays.
Thus, all was sunshine on this first evening, and when Penelope found herself joking and repeating little bits of school news and some of the funny things which had occurred between herself and Mademoiselle, the others laughed heartily. Yes, that first evening was a golden one, long to be remembered by the somewhat lonely girl.
When she went to bed that night, she was so tired that she slept soundly until the morning. When the morning did arrive, and she was greeted by a smiling housemaid and a delicious cup of tea, she felt that, for the time at least, she was in the land of luxury.
“I’ll enjoy myself for once,” she thought, “I’ll forget about school and that I am very poor and that I am disappointed with Brenda, and that Brenda is staying at Marshlands, and Mademoiselle, too, is staying at Marshlands. I will forget everything but just that it is very, very good to be here.”
So she arose and dressed herself in one of the new white linen dresses which Mademoiselle had purchased for her out of Mrs Hazlitt’s money, and she came down to breakfast looking fresh and almost pretty.
“You do seem rested—I am so glad!” said Honora. “Oh, no, we are not breakfasting in that room. Father and mother and the grown-ups use the front hall for breakfast in the summer, and we children have the big old school-room to ourselves. You didn’t see it last night; we had so much to show you, but it is—oh—such a jolly room. Come now this way, you will be surprised at such a crowd of us.”
As Honora spoke, she took Penelope’s hand, and, pushing open a heavy oak door, led the way through a sort of ante-chamber and then down a corridor to a long, low room with latticed windows, over which many creepers cast just now a most grateful shade. There were several boys and girls in the room, and a long table was laid, with all sorts of good things for breakfast. Amongst the boys was Fred Hungerford and a younger brother called Dick, and there were three or four boys, brothers and cousins of Honora herself. There were altogether at least thirteen or fourteen girls. The two little Hungerfords flew up to Penelope when they saw her. They seemed to regard her as their special friend.
“Honora,” said Pauline, “may we sit one at each side of Penelope and tell her who every one is and all about everything? Then she’ll feel quite one of us and be—oh—so happy!”
“That’s an excellent idea, Pauline,” said Honora. “Here, Penelope, come up to this end of the table, and I’ll jog the children’s memories if they forget any one.”
So Penelope enjoyed her first breakfast at Castle Beverley, and could not help looking at Honora with a wonderful, new sensation of love in her eyes. Honora, whose dazzling fairness and stately young figure had made her appear at first sight such an admirable representative of the fair Helen of the past, had never looked more beautiful than this morning.
She wore a dress of the palest shade of blue cambric and had a great bunch of forget-me-nots in her belt. Her face was like sunshine itself, and her wealth of golden hair was quite marvellous in its fairness. Her placid blue eyes seemed to be as mirrors in which one could see into her steadfast and noble mind. All her thoughts were those of kindness, and she was absolutely unselfish. In fact, as one girl said: “Honora is selfless: she almost forgets that she exists, so little does she think of herself in her thought for others.”
Now, Honora’s one desire was to make Penelope happy, and Penelope responded to the sympathetic manner and kindly words as a poor little sickly flower will revel in sunshine. But Pauline presently spoke in that rather shrill little voice of hers:
“Wearehappy here: even Nellie’s better, aren’t you, Nellie?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Nellie. She looked across the table at Pauline, and gave half a sigh and half a smile.
“Of course you are happy, Nellie,” said Honora. “You’re not thinking any more about that bracelet, are you?”
“I do wish I could get it back,” said Nellie, “but, all the same I am happy.”
“But please, Penelope, tell us about your sister,” said Pauline. “Oh, do you know—”
“Yes—dotell us that!” interrupted Nellie.
“Why, Fred saw her yesterday at Marshlands-on-the-Sea,” continued Pauline. “She’s quite close to us—isn’t it fun? Fred came back quite interested in her—he thinks her so very pretty!”
“Whom do I think pretty, Miss?” called out Fred from a little way down the table. “No taking of my name in vain—if you please.”
“You know, Fred,” said Pauline, in her somewhat solemn little voice, “that you think dear Penelope’s sister sweetly pretty.”
“I should think so, indeed!” said Fred, “and, by the way, she is at Marshlands. She had three of the funniest little girls out walking with her yesterday that you ever saw in your life. Did you know she was going to be at Marshlands, Miss Carlton?”
“Yes,” said Penelope, feeling not quite so happy as she did a few minutes ago.
“We’ll ask her up here some day to have a good time with us, dear, if you like,” said Honora.
“Thank you,” replied Penelope, but without enthusiasm.
“I spoke to her yesterday,” said Fred. “She really did look awfully nice; only they were the rummest little coves you ever saw in all your life—the children who are there.”
“They are her pupils; they’re the daughters of a clergyman,” said Penelope.
“I don’t care whose daughters they are, but they go about with your sister, and theydolook so funny. I told her you were coming and she gave me her address. Would you like to go in to see her this morning?” Penelope trembled.
“Not this morning, please,” she said.
She felt herself turning pale. She felt she must have one happy day before she began to meet Brenda. She had a curious feeling that when that event took place, her peace, and delight in her present surroundings would somehow be clouded. Brenda was so much cleverer than she was, so gay, so determined, so strange in many ways. Oh, no; she would not go to see her to-day.
“If you like,” said Honora, observing Penelope’s confusion, and rather wondering at it, “I could send a note to your sister to come up to-morrow to spend the day here. We’re not going to do anything special to-morrow, and mother always allows me to ask any friends we like to the Castle. We have heaps of croquet courts and tennis courts, and the little girls could come with her, for of course she couldn’t leave them behind. How would that do, Penelope? Would that please you?”
“I don’t know,” said Penelope. Then she said, somewhat awkwardly:
“Oh, yes—yes—if you like—”
Honora had a curious sensation of some surprise at Penelope’s manner; but it quickly passed. She accounted for it by saying to herself that her friend was tired and of course must greatly long to see her only sister.
“She’s not absolutely and altogether to my taste,” thought Honora, “but I am just determined to give her the best of times, and we can have the sister up and the funny children for at least one day. What’s the good of having a big place if one doesn’t get people to enjoy it?”
It was just then that Nellie said:
“I do wish, Penelope, you had not done one thing.”
“What is that?” asked Penelope, who had hardly got over the shock of having Brenda so soon with her.
“Why did you bring Mademoiselle to Marshlands? We don’t care for Mademoiselle, do we, Pauline?”
“No, indeed,” said Pauline, “and she took my hand yesterday and clutched it so tight and wouldn’t let it go before I pulled two or three times, and oh! I’m quite positive sure that she’ll find us out, and I wish she wouldn’t!”
“Frankly, I wish she wouldn’t too,” said Honora, “but I do not see,” she added, “why Penelope should be disturbed on that account—it isn’t her fault.”
“No, indeed it isn’t,” said Penelope, “and I wish with all my heart she hadn’t come with me to Marshlands-on-the-Sea.”
When breakfast was over, all the young people streamed out into the gardens with the exception of Honora and Penelope.
“One minute, Penelope dear,” said Honora. “Just write a little line to your sister and I will enclose one, in mother’s name and mine, inviting her to come up with the children to-morrow. Here are writing materials—you needn’t take a minute.”
Penelope sat down and wrote a few words to Brenda. For the life of her, she could not make these words cordial. She hardly knew her own sensations. Was she addressing the same Brenda whom she had worshipped and suffered for and loved so frantically when she was a little girl? Was it jealousy that was stealing into her heart? What could be her motives in wishing to keep this sister from the nice boys and girls who made Castle Beverley so charming? Or was she—was she so mean—so small—as to be ashamed of Brenda? No, no—it could not be that, and yet—and yet—it was that: she was ashamed of Brenda! The children she was now with belonged to the best of their kind. Penelope had lived with people of the better class for several months now and was discerning enough to perceive the difference between gold and tinsel. Oh, was Brenda tinsel; Brenda—her only sister? Penelope could have sobbed, but she must hide all emotion.
Her letter was finished. She knew how eagerly Brenda would accept and how cleverly she would get herself invited to the Castle again, and again, and again. Honora’s cordial little note was slipped into the same envelope. Penelope had to furnish the address, and, an hour later, Fred and his brothers, who were going to ride to Marshlands in order to bathe and to spend some hours afterwards on the beach, arranged to convey the invitation to Brenda which poor Penelope so dreaded.
“Now we have that off our minds,” said Honora, “and can have a real good time. What would you like to do, Penelope? You know you must make yourself absolutely and completely at home. You are one of us. Every girl who comes here by mother’s invitation is for the time mother’s own daughter and looked upon as such by her. She is also father’s own daughter and, I can tell you, he treats her as such, and the boys are exactly in the same position. We’re all brothers and sisters here, and we love each other, every one of us.”
“But would you love a girl, whatever happened?” asked Penelope, all of a sudden.
“Oh, I don’t know what you mean—whatever happened—what could happen?”
“Nothing—of course—nothing; only I wonder, Honora. I never seemed to know you at all when I was at school. I wonder if you could love a girl like me.”
“I love you already, dear,” said Honora. “And now, please, don’t be morbid; just let’s be jolly and laugh and joke; every one can do just what every one likes—this is Liberty Hall, of course. It’s a home of delight, of course. It’s the home of ‘Byegone dull Care’;—oh, it’s the nicest place in all the world, and I want you to remember it as long as you live. I am so glad mother allowed me to ask you! Now then, do see those youngsters, Pauline and Nellie, tumbling over the hay-cocks: how sunburnt they are! such a jolly little pair! I am sorry about Nellie’s bracelet; the loss of it makes her think too much of that sort of thing. I am quite afraid she will never find it now. What would you like to do, Penelope? You looked so happy when you came downstairs, but now you’re a little tired.”
“I think I am a little tired,” said Penelope. “I think for this morning I’d like a book best.”
“Then here we are—this is the school library: every jolly schoolgirl’s and schoolboy’s story that has ever been written finds its way into this room. Run in, and make your choice, and then come out. The grounds are all round you—shade everywhere, and pleasure, pleasure all day long.”
Chapter Fifteen.The Seaside.Brenda and her three pupils had arrived two or three days before at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. It cannot be said their lodgings were exactly “chic,” for the Reverend Josiah could not rise to apartments anything approaching to that term. He had given Brenda a certain sum which was to cover the expenses of their month’s pleasure, and had told her to make the best of it. Brenda had expostulated and begged hard for more; but no—for once the Reverend Josiah was firm. He said that his suffering parishioners required all his surplus money, and that the girls and their governess must stay at the seaside for five guineas a week. Brenda shook her head, and declared that it was impossible; but, seeing that no more was to be obtained, she made the best of things, and when she arrived at Marshlands just in the height of the summer season, she finally took up her abode at a fifth-rate boarding-house in a little street which certainly did not face the sea.Here she and her pupils were taken for a guinea a week each, and Brenda had the surplus to spend on teas out and on little expeditions generally. She was careful on these occasions to be absolutely and thoroughly honest. She even consulted Nina on the subject. She was exceedingly polite to Nina just now and, at the same time, intensely sarcastic. She was fond of asking Nina, even in the middle of thetable d’hôtedinner, if she had her pencil and notebook handy, and if she would then and there kindly enter the item of twopence three farthings spent on cherries,—quarter of a pound to eat on the beach,—or if she had absolutely forgotten the fact that she was obliged to provide a reel of white and a reel of black cotton for necessary repairs of the wardrobe. How Nina hated her pretty governess on these occasions! how her little eyes would flash with indignation and her small face looked pinched with the sense of tragedy which oppressed her, and which she could not understand.The commonplace ladies who lived in the commonplace boarding-house were deeply interested in Nina’s extraordinary talent for accounts. They gently asked the exceedingly pretty and attractive Miss Carlton what it meant.“Simply a little mania of hers,” said Brenda, with a shrug of her plump white shoulders, for she always woredécolletéedress at late dinner and her shoulders and arms were greatly admired by the other visitors at the boarding-house. Nina began to dread the subject of accounts. Once she forgot her notebook and pencil on purpose, but Brenda was a match for her. She asked her in a loud semi-whisper if she could tot up exactly what they had expended that day, and when Nina replied that she had left the notebook upstairs, she was desired immediately to go to fetch it. The little girl left the room on this occasion with a sense of almost hatred at her heart.“Fetch that odious book! oh dear, oh dear!” She wished every account-book in the world at the bottom of the sea. She wished she had never interfered with Brenda. She wished she had never made that terrible little sum on the day when Brenda went to Hazlitt Chase. She was being severely punished for her anxiety and her sense of justice. Brenda had determined that this should be the case, and had given her small pupil a terrible time while she was spending that seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence on extra clothes for her pupils.She took them into a fashionable shop, for, as the money had to be spent, she was determined that it should be done as quickly as possible. As she could not save it for herself, she wanted to get rid of it, it did not matter how quickly. Therefore, while Fanchon stood transfixed with admiration of her own figure in a muslin hat before a long glass, and eagerly demanded that it should be bought immediately, it was poor Nina who was brought forward to decide.“It is becoming,” said Brenda, gazing at her pupil critically; “that pale shade of blue suits youto perfection; and that ‘chic’ little mauve bow at the side is so very, verycomme il faut. But that is not the question in the very least, Fanchon—whether it becomes you or not. It is this: can we afford it—or rather, can Nina afford it? Nina, look. Can you afford to allow your sister to buy that hat?”The serving-woman in the shop very nearly tittered when the plain, awkward little girl—the youngest of the party—was brought forward to make such a solemn decision. Nina herself was very sulky, and, without glancing at the hat, said:“Yes, take it, I don’t care!”“Very well, darling,” said Brenda. “You can send that hat to Palliser Gardens—9, Palliser Gardens,” she said to the attendant. “Nina, enter in your account-book twelve shillings and eleven-pence three farthings for Fanchon’s hat.”“I want one like it!” cried Josie.“Oh—I’m sure Nina won’t allow that!” exclaimed Brenda.“Idon’t care!” said Nina.In the end each girl had a similar hat, and Nina had to enter the amounts in her horrible little book. The hats were fairly pretty, but were really not meant for little girls with their hair worn in pigtails. But the only thing Brenda cared about was the fact that a considerable sum of Mr Amberley’s money was got rid of.“Now,” she said, “we’ll consider the dresses.” And the dresses were considered. They were quite expensive and not pretty. There were also several other things purchased, and Nina grew quite thin with her calculations. All these things happened during the first days of their stay at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. But now the toilets were complete.It was on a scorching and beautiful morning after Brenda, becomingly dressed from head to foot in purest white, had taken her little pupils in check dresses and paper hats down to the seashore, had bathed there and swum most beautifully, to the delight of those who looked on, and had returned again in time for the mid-day meal, that she found Penelope’s letter awaiting her. It was laid by her plate on the dinner table. She opened it with her usual airy grace and then exclaimed—her eyes sparkling with excitement and delight:“I say, girls—here’s a treat! Our dear friends, the Beverleys, have invited us all to spend to-morrow at the Castle. We must accept, of course, and must drive out. Mrs Dawson,”—here she turned to the lady who kept the boarding-house—“can you tell me what a drive will be from here to Castle Beverley?”“Five shillings at the very least,” replied Mrs Dawson.She spoke in an awe-struck voice. There were no people so respected in the neighbourhood as the Beverleys, and Mrs Dawson—a well-meaning and sensible woman—did not believe it possible that any guest of hers could know them.“Really, Miss Carlton,” she said, “I am highly flattered to think that a young lady who stays here in my humble house—no offence, ladies, I am sure—but in my modest and inexpensive habitation, should know the Beverleys of Castle Beverley.”“We don’t know them!” here called out Josie.Brenda gave Josie a frown which augured ill for that young lady’s pleasure during the rest of the day. She paused for a minute, and then said modestly:“It so happens that my dear sister is a special friend of the eldest Miss Beverley. They are at the same school. My sister is staying at the Castle at present, and I have had a letter inviting me to go there for to-morrow. It will be a very great pleasure.”“Very great, indeed,”—replied Mrs Dawson—“a most distinguished thing to do. We shall all be interested to hear your experiences when you return in the evening, dear Miss Carlton. Hand Miss Carlton the peas,” continued the good woman, addressing the flushed and towsled parlour maid.Brenda helped herself delicately to a few of these dainties and then continued:“Yes, we shall enjoy it; my dear sister’s friends are very select. I naturally expected to go to Castle Beverley when I heard she was there; but I didn’t know that the Beverleys would be so good-natured as to extend their invitations to these dear children. Even the little accountant, Nina, is invited. Nina, you’ll be sure to take your book with you, dear, for you might make some little private notes with regard to the possible expense of housekeeping at Castle Beverley while you are there. You, dear, must be like the busy bee; you must improve each shining hour—eh, Nina? eh, my little arithmetician?”“I amnotyour arithmetician; and I—I hate you!” said Nina.These remarks were regarded by the other ladies present as simply those of a naughty child in a temper.“Oh, fie, Miss Nina!” said a certain Miss Rachael Price. “You should not show those naughty little tempers. You should say, when you feel your angry passions rising, ‘Down, down, little temper; down, down!’ I have always done that, and I assure you it is most soothing in its effects.”“But you wouldn’t if you were me,” said Nina, who was past all prudence at that instant. “If you had an odious—odious!” here she burst out crying and fled from the room.“Poor child! What can be the matter with her?” said a fat matron who bore the name of Simpkins, and had several children under nine years of age in the house. “Aren’t you a little severe on her, Miss Carlton? Strikes me she don’t love ’rithmetic—as my Georgie calls it—so much as you seem to imagine.”Brenda laughed.“I am teaching my dear little pupil a lesson,” she said. “That is all. I have a unique way of doing it, but it will be for her good in the end.”Soon afterwards, the young lady and her two remaining pupils left the dinner table and went up to their shabby bedroom, which they all shared together at the top of the house. Nina was lying on her own bed with her face turned to the wall. The moment Brenda came in she sat up and, taking the account-book, flung it in the face of her governess.“There! you horrid, odious thing!” she said. “I will never put down another account—never—as long as I live! There—I won’t, I won’t, and you can’t make me!”“I am afraid, most dear child,” said Brenda, “I should not feel safe otherwise. I might be accused of dishonesty by my clever little Nina when I return to the dear old rectory and to the presence of your sweetest papa. But come, now—let’s be sensible; let’s enjoy ourselves. We will drive out to Castle Beverley to-morrow, of that I am determined, even though it does cost five shillings. But we’ll walk back in the evening—that is, if they don’t offer us a carriage; but I have a kind of idea that I can even manage their extending their favour to that amount. It is all-important, however, that we should arrive looking fresh. Now, girls—this is a most important occasion, and how are we to be dressed?”Nina said that she didn’t know and she didn’t care. But Josie and Fanchon were immensely interested.“There are your muslin hats,” said Brenda—“quite fresh and most suitable; and your little blue check dresses. The check is very small, and they really look most neat. They’re not cotton, either—they’re ‘delaine.’ Dearest papa will be delighted with them, won’t he? He’ll be quite puzzled how to classify them, but I think we can teach him. You three dressed all alikewilllooksweet, and you may be thankful to your dear Brenda for not allowing you to racket through your clothes beforehand. Well, that is settled. You will look a very sweet little trio, and if Nina is good, and runs up to her own Brenda now, and kisses her, she needn’t take the account-book to Castle Beverley. Just for one day, she may resign her office as chartered accountant to thisyerecompany.”Brenda made her joke with a merry laugh and showed all her pearly teeth.“Come, Nina,” said Josie, who was in high good humour, “you must kiss Brenda; you were horribly rude to her.”“Oh, I forgive her—poor little thing,” said Brenda. “Little girls don’t like the rod, do they? but sometimes they have to bear it, haven’t they? Now then, you little thing, cheer up, and make friends. I have found a delightful shop where we can have tea, bread and butter and shrimps, and afterwards we’ll sit on the beach—it’s great fun, sitting on the beach—and we’ll see nearly all the fashionable folks.”The thought of shrimps and bread and butter for tea was too much for Nina’s greedy little soul. She did condescend to get off the hot bed and kiss Brenda, who for her part was quite delightful, for the time being. She even took the account-book and pencil, and said that they should not be seen again until the day after to-morrow. Then she washed Nina’s flushed face, and made her wear the objectionable pink muslin with the folds across the bottom in lieu of flounces, and that little straw hat, which cost exactly one-and-sixpence, including its trimming.Afterwards, they all went down on the beach, and presently they had tea. Then, in good time, they came back to supper, and after that, the delightful period of the day began for Fanchon, and the trying one for her two sisters—for Fanchon was now regularly established as Brenda’s companion when she went out to enjoy herself after supper, and the two younger girls, notwithstanding all their tears and protestations, were ordered off to bed. It was odious to go to bed on these hot, long evenings, but Brenda was most specious in her arguments, and Mrs Dawson and Miss Price and Mrs Simpkins all agreed with the governess—that there was nothing for young folks like early bed. Mrs Simpkins even repeated that odious proverb for Nina’s benefit, “Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” In short, Brenda had broken in her pupils to her own satisfaction; and when she had seen them into their “nighties”—as she called those garments,—she and Fanchon, dressed in their very best, went out on pleasure intent.It was a pretty sight to see the elegant-looking young governess and her somewhatgauchepupil wander down to that part of the pier where the band played; and it was truly edifying to perceive how Fanchon anxiously copied Brenda on these occasions. She imitated her step, her walk, her hand-shake—which was of the truly fashionable kind, stiff, and rising high in the air. Fanchon’s heart beat with pleasure when she perceived how very much Brenda was admired, and, as Brenda could do anything with her pupil by means of flattery, the young lady was by no means unhappy about herself. On this special night—the night before the visit to Beverley Castle—Fanchon felt even more delighted than usual, for she was allowed, at the last moment, in the close little hall of the boarding-house, to slip the precious, the most precious bangle on her sunburnt wrist.“I always said you should wear it,” said Brenda, “and you shall to-night.”Fanchon fairly trembled with happiness.“It feels delightful,” she said. “It’s like a tonic, which gives me tone. I don’t think I should be afraid of anything if I could always wear this.”“Some day you shall, if you remain faithful to your own Brenda.”“You know, Brenda, I would do anything for you.”“Well, it seems like it at present,” said Brenda, “but of course I have to think of the past. You were not so absolutely perfect on a certain occasion not very long ago, were you, dearie?”Fanchon coloured.“Don’t let’s think of that now,” she said. “If ever any one was unjustly suspected, you were that person, Brenda. Oh, how Nina hates herself for what she did! But aren’t you rather over-punishing the poor little thing?”“I shall cease to punish her in a few days, but she must learn a lesson. Now then—I should not be the least surprised if Harry Jordan was at the band to-night. You know we saw him to-day, but we couldn’t take much notice with the other girls about. I have begged of him never to speak to me when Josie and Nina are present, for I can’t tell what a child like Nina may be up to. But I rather fancy he’ll be here on the promenade this evening, and I asked him to bring a friend for you to talk to, Fanchon; you don’t mind, do you?”“A friend!” cried Fanchon. “Oh—I hope you don’t mean a man! I’d be terrified out of my seven senses even to address a word to a man.”“Dear Fanchon,” said Brenda, “you’ll soon get over that. Well, here we are—and I do declare if that isn’t Harry himself coming to meet us, and—yes—he’s brought a very nice youth with him. Now, Fanchon, you will have a pleasant time too. Not a word,ever, to your sisters, or to dearest papa!”“Oh, trust me,” said Fanchon, holding her head high, and feeling that she must survive the dreadful ordeal of talking to a man, whatever her sensations.Now Harry Jordan happened to be a sleek, fat youth of about twenty years of age. He was well off, in fact he was doing a thriving trade in the draper’s business, but in a distant town. Brenda had not the least idea what his business was. He told her vaguely that he was in business, and she pictured him to herself as a merchant prince, and who in all the world could be more honourable than one of the merchant princes of England? But, be that as it may, she enjoyed Harry Jordan’s admiration, and if he were to like her well enough to ask her to marry him, why—she would probably say yes, for it would be infinitely better than remaining as governess at thirty pounds a year to Mr Amberley’s little daughters. Now, Harry was a youth who enjoyed a flirtation as much as anybody, and as Brenda had hinted that they could not be perfectly free and happy if Fanchon was listening, he brought a friend of his along—a certain Joe Burbery—to engage the attentions of that young lady. Accordingly, the four met, and Joe Burbery, a most sickly youth of seventeen, was introduced to both ladies, and after Brenda had said one or two words to him, quite enough to turn his head, he was deputed to his rightful place by Fanchon’s side, who racked her brains in her vain endeavour to say a word to him at all, and would have figuratively stuck in the mud altogether, but for his loud exclamation of delight when he saw her bracelet.“Isay!” exclaimed the youth, “what an elegant article—is it real?”“Real!” said Fanchon, facing him with her little eyes flashing. “It’s eighteen carat.”“Oh, is it?” said Joe. “I see. I never touched eighteen carat in my life—more likely to be nine carat.”He winked hard at Fanchon as he spoke. Fanchon, in her rage, took the bracelet off and asked him to examine the hall-mark under the next lamp-post, which he accordingly proceeded to do. He discovered that she was right and handed it back to her with great respect. “How did you come by it?” was his next enquiry. “It is a present—I mustn’t say how I came by it.”“Eighteen carat gold,”—murmured Joe Burbery. “Eighteen carat, and a very large and specially fine turquoise. Why, there’s a thing advertised for exactly like that. I remember it quite well; I saw it in theStandardand theMorning Postand even in some of the local papers here—a bangle just like this which was lost—supposed to be lost in a railway carriage. How funny that you should have one which so exactly answers to the description!”“It is, isn’t it?” said Fanchon, laughing with the utmost unsuspicion. “Well,” she continued, “I am glad mine isn’t lost; I am frightfully proud of it; I shall love it all my days; I don’t mean ever to part from it. Even if I get a very rich husband some day, and he gives me lots of jewellery, I will always keep my beautiful bangle. Brenda says that it is the sort you need never be ashamed of.”“It is that,” admitted Joe. “Sosheadmires it—sheknows a good thing when she sees it, doesn’t she?”“Oh, yes—she is very clever—”“And a stunner herself, ain’t she now?” said Joe Burbery.“I suppose so,” replied Fanchon, who did not feel interested in praises of Brenda from the first young man who had come into her life. He ought to be too much devoted to her and her most elegant bangle.The walk came to an end presently. It was necessary in Mrs Dawson’s establishment for the young ladies to come in not later than half-past ten, and at that hour the two girls appeared in the hall. Mrs Dawson herself was waiting for them. As she proceeded to lock and chain the front door, she also saw the flash of the bangle on Fanchon’s wrist. She immediately exclaimed at its beauty, and asked to have a nearer view of it.“Why, I say,” she cried, “what a truly elegant thing! Does it belong to you, Miss Amberley?”“Yes,” replied Fanchon. “It was given to me by a great friend.”Here she looked meaningly at Brenda.“Come up to bed, Fanchon, do!” said Brenda. “You look dead tired and won’t appear at your best to-morrow at the Castle. Good-night, Mrs Dawson.” Mrs Dawson said nothing further, but she thought for a minute or two and then went into her private sitting-room and opened aStandardof a few days old and read a certain advertisement in it without any comment. After a time, she put theStandardcarefully away and went up to her own room, for she had doubtless earned her night’s repose.As they were going upstairs, Brenda said in a somewhat fretful voice:“Fanchon—I do wish you would not let people think thatIgave you that bangle.”“But why should you not let them think it?” asked the astonished girl.“Well—of course people couldn’t expect a governess like me to give you such really expensive things.”“Oh—but they don’t know what a darling you are,” said Fanchon, springing suddenly on Brenda with the sort of affection of a bear’s cub, and crushing that young lady’s immaculate evening toilet.Now, Brenda was decidedly cross because Harry Jordan had not been as pointed as usual in his remarks, and she disliked—she could scarcely tell why—the expression in Mrs Dawson’s eyes when they had rested on the bangle. She was, therefore, not at all prepared for Fanchon’s rough caress, nor for Fanchon’s next words.“I do wonder if you would be such a duck of a thing as to let me wear the bangle at Castle Beverley to-morrow.”“Wear it there!” cried Brenda, real terror for a minute seizing her. “Of course not—could anything be more unsuitable! You must appear at Castle Beverley as the innocent little girl you are. You must not think of jewellery. You mustn’t allude to it, nor to your evening walks, nor to anything we do when you and I are enjoying ourselves together. Come, Fanchon, give me the bangle; I allowed you to wear it to-night as a great treat; but I want to put it away.”Fanchon looked decidedly cross.“I shouldsolike to wear it to-morrow,” she said, “and I can’t make out why you won’t let me. If it is my bangle, mayn’t I wear it when I like?”“But itisn’tyour bangle—at least at present, and it won’t be yours ever if you make a fuss. Come, Fanchon, do you want to quarrel with me? and oh—I am so tired! My dear child, give it here—I will take it.” Brenda snatched the bangle from her pupil’s wrist. “It would be such a pity,” she said, “if anything destroyed our fun—and any one could see with half an eye that Mr Burbery was greatly struck with you. Harry told me as much. Mr Burbery is going to be exceedingly rich some day; he also is in the mercantile world: there’s no other world worth considering, I can tell you that, Fanchon.”“He knows a lot about bangles, anyhow,” said Fanchon, “for he was greatly struck with mine; indeed, I was thankful he was, for I couldn’t utter a word, and didn’t know from Adam what to say until he began to talk of it. And he said—oh, Brenda! that there is one advertised for in all the papers just like mine. I told him I wasn’t a bit surprised, for mine was so very beautiful.”Brenda’s heart sank down to her very boots. Her rosy, radiant face turned white.“There!” she exclaimed, “I see you are nothing whatever but a gossip. I don’t know when I will be able to let you have the bangle again. But now let’s come to bed, and let’s tread softly—we can manage without a light of course; it wouldn’t do to wake Josephine and Nina.”So the girls slipped into the darkened, hot bedroom and presently got into bed, Fanchon to sleep and dream of Joe Burbery and the lovely bangle, and the sad pity it was that she could not display its charms to-morrow—but Brenda to lie awake; fear—dull dreadful fear tapping at her heart.
Brenda and her three pupils had arrived two or three days before at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. It cannot be said their lodgings were exactly “chic,” for the Reverend Josiah could not rise to apartments anything approaching to that term. He had given Brenda a certain sum which was to cover the expenses of their month’s pleasure, and had told her to make the best of it. Brenda had expostulated and begged hard for more; but no—for once the Reverend Josiah was firm. He said that his suffering parishioners required all his surplus money, and that the girls and their governess must stay at the seaside for five guineas a week. Brenda shook her head, and declared that it was impossible; but, seeing that no more was to be obtained, she made the best of things, and when she arrived at Marshlands just in the height of the summer season, she finally took up her abode at a fifth-rate boarding-house in a little street which certainly did not face the sea.
Here she and her pupils were taken for a guinea a week each, and Brenda had the surplus to spend on teas out and on little expeditions generally. She was careful on these occasions to be absolutely and thoroughly honest. She even consulted Nina on the subject. She was exceedingly polite to Nina just now and, at the same time, intensely sarcastic. She was fond of asking Nina, even in the middle of thetable d’hôtedinner, if she had her pencil and notebook handy, and if she would then and there kindly enter the item of twopence three farthings spent on cherries,—quarter of a pound to eat on the beach,—or if she had absolutely forgotten the fact that she was obliged to provide a reel of white and a reel of black cotton for necessary repairs of the wardrobe. How Nina hated her pretty governess on these occasions! how her little eyes would flash with indignation and her small face looked pinched with the sense of tragedy which oppressed her, and which she could not understand.
The commonplace ladies who lived in the commonplace boarding-house were deeply interested in Nina’s extraordinary talent for accounts. They gently asked the exceedingly pretty and attractive Miss Carlton what it meant.
“Simply a little mania of hers,” said Brenda, with a shrug of her plump white shoulders, for she always woredécolletéedress at late dinner and her shoulders and arms were greatly admired by the other visitors at the boarding-house. Nina began to dread the subject of accounts. Once she forgot her notebook and pencil on purpose, but Brenda was a match for her. She asked her in a loud semi-whisper if she could tot up exactly what they had expended that day, and when Nina replied that she had left the notebook upstairs, she was desired immediately to go to fetch it. The little girl left the room on this occasion with a sense of almost hatred at her heart.
“Fetch that odious book! oh dear, oh dear!” She wished every account-book in the world at the bottom of the sea. She wished she had never interfered with Brenda. She wished she had never made that terrible little sum on the day when Brenda went to Hazlitt Chase. She was being severely punished for her anxiety and her sense of justice. Brenda had determined that this should be the case, and had given her small pupil a terrible time while she was spending that seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence on extra clothes for her pupils.
She took them into a fashionable shop, for, as the money had to be spent, she was determined that it should be done as quickly as possible. As she could not save it for herself, she wanted to get rid of it, it did not matter how quickly. Therefore, while Fanchon stood transfixed with admiration of her own figure in a muslin hat before a long glass, and eagerly demanded that it should be bought immediately, it was poor Nina who was brought forward to decide.
“It is becoming,” said Brenda, gazing at her pupil critically; “that pale shade of blue suits youto perfection; and that ‘chic’ little mauve bow at the side is so very, verycomme il faut. But that is not the question in the very least, Fanchon—whether it becomes you or not. It is this: can we afford it—or rather, can Nina afford it? Nina, look. Can you afford to allow your sister to buy that hat?”
The serving-woman in the shop very nearly tittered when the plain, awkward little girl—the youngest of the party—was brought forward to make such a solemn decision. Nina herself was very sulky, and, without glancing at the hat, said:
“Yes, take it, I don’t care!”
“Very well, darling,” said Brenda. “You can send that hat to Palliser Gardens—9, Palliser Gardens,” she said to the attendant. “Nina, enter in your account-book twelve shillings and eleven-pence three farthings for Fanchon’s hat.”
“I want one like it!” cried Josie.
“Oh—I’m sure Nina won’t allow that!” exclaimed Brenda.
“Idon’t care!” said Nina.
In the end each girl had a similar hat, and Nina had to enter the amounts in her horrible little book. The hats were fairly pretty, but were really not meant for little girls with their hair worn in pigtails. But the only thing Brenda cared about was the fact that a considerable sum of Mr Amberley’s money was got rid of.
“Now,” she said, “we’ll consider the dresses.” And the dresses were considered. They were quite expensive and not pretty. There were also several other things purchased, and Nina grew quite thin with her calculations. All these things happened during the first days of their stay at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. But now the toilets were complete.
It was on a scorching and beautiful morning after Brenda, becomingly dressed from head to foot in purest white, had taken her little pupils in check dresses and paper hats down to the seashore, had bathed there and swum most beautifully, to the delight of those who looked on, and had returned again in time for the mid-day meal, that she found Penelope’s letter awaiting her. It was laid by her plate on the dinner table. She opened it with her usual airy grace and then exclaimed—her eyes sparkling with excitement and delight:
“I say, girls—here’s a treat! Our dear friends, the Beverleys, have invited us all to spend to-morrow at the Castle. We must accept, of course, and must drive out. Mrs Dawson,”—here she turned to the lady who kept the boarding-house—“can you tell me what a drive will be from here to Castle Beverley?”
“Five shillings at the very least,” replied Mrs Dawson.
She spoke in an awe-struck voice. There were no people so respected in the neighbourhood as the Beverleys, and Mrs Dawson—a well-meaning and sensible woman—did not believe it possible that any guest of hers could know them.
“Really, Miss Carlton,” she said, “I am highly flattered to think that a young lady who stays here in my humble house—no offence, ladies, I am sure—but in my modest and inexpensive habitation, should know the Beverleys of Castle Beverley.”
“We don’t know them!” here called out Josie.
Brenda gave Josie a frown which augured ill for that young lady’s pleasure during the rest of the day. She paused for a minute, and then said modestly:
“It so happens that my dear sister is a special friend of the eldest Miss Beverley. They are at the same school. My sister is staying at the Castle at present, and I have had a letter inviting me to go there for to-morrow. It will be a very great pleasure.”
“Very great, indeed,”—replied Mrs Dawson—“a most distinguished thing to do. We shall all be interested to hear your experiences when you return in the evening, dear Miss Carlton. Hand Miss Carlton the peas,” continued the good woman, addressing the flushed and towsled parlour maid.
Brenda helped herself delicately to a few of these dainties and then continued:
“Yes, we shall enjoy it; my dear sister’s friends are very select. I naturally expected to go to Castle Beverley when I heard she was there; but I didn’t know that the Beverleys would be so good-natured as to extend their invitations to these dear children. Even the little accountant, Nina, is invited. Nina, you’ll be sure to take your book with you, dear, for you might make some little private notes with regard to the possible expense of housekeeping at Castle Beverley while you are there. You, dear, must be like the busy bee; you must improve each shining hour—eh, Nina? eh, my little arithmetician?”
“I amnotyour arithmetician; and I—I hate you!” said Nina.
These remarks were regarded by the other ladies present as simply those of a naughty child in a temper.
“Oh, fie, Miss Nina!” said a certain Miss Rachael Price. “You should not show those naughty little tempers. You should say, when you feel your angry passions rising, ‘Down, down, little temper; down, down!’ I have always done that, and I assure you it is most soothing in its effects.”
“But you wouldn’t if you were me,” said Nina, who was past all prudence at that instant. “If you had an odious—odious!” here she burst out crying and fled from the room.
“Poor child! What can be the matter with her?” said a fat matron who bore the name of Simpkins, and had several children under nine years of age in the house. “Aren’t you a little severe on her, Miss Carlton? Strikes me she don’t love ’rithmetic—as my Georgie calls it—so much as you seem to imagine.”
Brenda laughed.
“I am teaching my dear little pupil a lesson,” she said. “That is all. I have a unique way of doing it, but it will be for her good in the end.”
Soon afterwards, the young lady and her two remaining pupils left the dinner table and went up to their shabby bedroom, which they all shared together at the top of the house. Nina was lying on her own bed with her face turned to the wall. The moment Brenda came in she sat up and, taking the account-book, flung it in the face of her governess.
“There! you horrid, odious thing!” she said. “I will never put down another account—never—as long as I live! There—I won’t, I won’t, and you can’t make me!”
“I am afraid, most dear child,” said Brenda, “I should not feel safe otherwise. I might be accused of dishonesty by my clever little Nina when I return to the dear old rectory and to the presence of your sweetest papa. But come, now—let’s be sensible; let’s enjoy ourselves. We will drive out to Castle Beverley to-morrow, of that I am determined, even though it does cost five shillings. But we’ll walk back in the evening—that is, if they don’t offer us a carriage; but I have a kind of idea that I can even manage their extending their favour to that amount. It is all-important, however, that we should arrive looking fresh. Now, girls—this is a most important occasion, and how are we to be dressed?”
Nina said that she didn’t know and she didn’t care. But Josie and Fanchon were immensely interested.
“There are your muslin hats,” said Brenda—“quite fresh and most suitable; and your little blue check dresses. The check is very small, and they really look most neat. They’re not cotton, either—they’re ‘delaine.’ Dearest papa will be delighted with them, won’t he? He’ll be quite puzzled how to classify them, but I think we can teach him. You three dressed all alikewilllooksweet, and you may be thankful to your dear Brenda for not allowing you to racket through your clothes beforehand. Well, that is settled. You will look a very sweet little trio, and if Nina is good, and runs up to her own Brenda now, and kisses her, she needn’t take the account-book to Castle Beverley. Just for one day, she may resign her office as chartered accountant to thisyerecompany.”
Brenda made her joke with a merry laugh and showed all her pearly teeth.
“Come, Nina,” said Josie, who was in high good humour, “you must kiss Brenda; you were horribly rude to her.”
“Oh, I forgive her—poor little thing,” said Brenda. “Little girls don’t like the rod, do they? but sometimes they have to bear it, haven’t they? Now then, you little thing, cheer up, and make friends. I have found a delightful shop where we can have tea, bread and butter and shrimps, and afterwards we’ll sit on the beach—it’s great fun, sitting on the beach—and we’ll see nearly all the fashionable folks.”
The thought of shrimps and bread and butter for tea was too much for Nina’s greedy little soul. She did condescend to get off the hot bed and kiss Brenda, who for her part was quite delightful, for the time being. She even took the account-book and pencil, and said that they should not be seen again until the day after to-morrow. Then she washed Nina’s flushed face, and made her wear the objectionable pink muslin with the folds across the bottom in lieu of flounces, and that little straw hat, which cost exactly one-and-sixpence, including its trimming.
Afterwards, they all went down on the beach, and presently they had tea. Then, in good time, they came back to supper, and after that, the delightful period of the day began for Fanchon, and the trying one for her two sisters—for Fanchon was now regularly established as Brenda’s companion when she went out to enjoy herself after supper, and the two younger girls, notwithstanding all their tears and protestations, were ordered off to bed. It was odious to go to bed on these hot, long evenings, but Brenda was most specious in her arguments, and Mrs Dawson and Miss Price and Mrs Simpkins all agreed with the governess—that there was nothing for young folks like early bed. Mrs Simpkins even repeated that odious proverb for Nina’s benefit, “Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” In short, Brenda had broken in her pupils to her own satisfaction; and when she had seen them into their “nighties”—as she called those garments,—she and Fanchon, dressed in their very best, went out on pleasure intent.
It was a pretty sight to see the elegant-looking young governess and her somewhatgauchepupil wander down to that part of the pier where the band played; and it was truly edifying to perceive how Fanchon anxiously copied Brenda on these occasions. She imitated her step, her walk, her hand-shake—which was of the truly fashionable kind, stiff, and rising high in the air. Fanchon’s heart beat with pleasure when she perceived how very much Brenda was admired, and, as Brenda could do anything with her pupil by means of flattery, the young lady was by no means unhappy about herself. On this special night—the night before the visit to Beverley Castle—Fanchon felt even more delighted than usual, for she was allowed, at the last moment, in the close little hall of the boarding-house, to slip the precious, the most precious bangle on her sunburnt wrist.
“I always said you should wear it,” said Brenda, “and you shall to-night.”
Fanchon fairly trembled with happiness.
“It feels delightful,” she said. “It’s like a tonic, which gives me tone. I don’t think I should be afraid of anything if I could always wear this.”
“Some day you shall, if you remain faithful to your own Brenda.”
“You know, Brenda, I would do anything for you.”
“Well, it seems like it at present,” said Brenda, “but of course I have to think of the past. You were not so absolutely perfect on a certain occasion not very long ago, were you, dearie?”
Fanchon coloured.
“Don’t let’s think of that now,” she said. “If ever any one was unjustly suspected, you were that person, Brenda. Oh, how Nina hates herself for what she did! But aren’t you rather over-punishing the poor little thing?”
“I shall cease to punish her in a few days, but she must learn a lesson. Now then—I should not be the least surprised if Harry Jordan was at the band to-night. You know we saw him to-day, but we couldn’t take much notice with the other girls about. I have begged of him never to speak to me when Josie and Nina are present, for I can’t tell what a child like Nina may be up to. But I rather fancy he’ll be here on the promenade this evening, and I asked him to bring a friend for you to talk to, Fanchon; you don’t mind, do you?”
“A friend!” cried Fanchon. “Oh—I hope you don’t mean a man! I’d be terrified out of my seven senses even to address a word to a man.”
“Dear Fanchon,” said Brenda, “you’ll soon get over that. Well, here we are—and I do declare if that isn’t Harry himself coming to meet us, and—yes—he’s brought a very nice youth with him. Now, Fanchon, you will have a pleasant time too. Not a word,ever, to your sisters, or to dearest papa!”
“Oh, trust me,” said Fanchon, holding her head high, and feeling that she must survive the dreadful ordeal of talking to a man, whatever her sensations.
Now Harry Jordan happened to be a sleek, fat youth of about twenty years of age. He was well off, in fact he was doing a thriving trade in the draper’s business, but in a distant town. Brenda had not the least idea what his business was. He told her vaguely that he was in business, and she pictured him to herself as a merchant prince, and who in all the world could be more honourable than one of the merchant princes of England? But, be that as it may, she enjoyed Harry Jordan’s admiration, and if he were to like her well enough to ask her to marry him, why—she would probably say yes, for it would be infinitely better than remaining as governess at thirty pounds a year to Mr Amberley’s little daughters. Now, Harry was a youth who enjoyed a flirtation as much as anybody, and as Brenda had hinted that they could not be perfectly free and happy if Fanchon was listening, he brought a friend of his along—a certain Joe Burbery—to engage the attentions of that young lady. Accordingly, the four met, and Joe Burbery, a most sickly youth of seventeen, was introduced to both ladies, and after Brenda had said one or two words to him, quite enough to turn his head, he was deputed to his rightful place by Fanchon’s side, who racked her brains in her vain endeavour to say a word to him at all, and would have figuratively stuck in the mud altogether, but for his loud exclamation of delight when he saw her bracelet.
“Isay!” exclaimed the youth, “what an elegant article—is it real?”
“Real!” said Fanchon, facing him with her little eyes flashing. “It’s eighteen carat.”
“Oh, is it?” said Joe. “I see. I never touched eighteen carat in my life—more likely to be nine carat.”
He winked hard at Fanchon as he spoke. Fanchon, in her rage, took the bracelet off and asked him to examine the hall-mark under the next lamp-post, which he accordingly proceeded to do. He discovered that she was right and handed it back to her with great respect. “How did you come by it?” was his next enquiry. “It is a present—I mustn’t say how I came by it.”
“Eighteen carat gold,”—murmured Joe Burbery. “Eighteen carat, and a very large and specially fine turquoise. Why, there’s a thing advertised for exactly like that. I remember it quite well; I saw it in theStandardand theMorning Postand even in some of the local papers here—a bangle just like this which was lost—supposed to be lost in a railway carriage. How funny that you should have one which so exactly answers to the description!”
“It is, isn’t it?” said Fanchon, laughing with the utmost unsuspicion. “Well,” she continued, “I am glad mine isn’t lost; I am frightfully proud of it; I shall love it all my days; I don’t mean ever to part from it. Even if I get a very rich husband some day, and he gives me lots of jewellery, I will always keep my beautiful bangle. Brenda says that it is the sort you need never be ashamed of.”
“It is that,” admitted Joe. “Sosheadmires it—sheknows a good thing when she sees it, doesn’t she?”
“Oh, yes—she is very clever—”
“And a stunner herself, ain’t she now?” said Joe Burbery.
“I suppose so,” replied Fanchon, who did not feel interested in praises of Brenda from the first young man who had come into her life. He ought to be too much devoted to her and her most elegant bangle.
The walk came to an end presently. It was necessary in Mrs Dawson’s establishment for the young ladies to come in not later than half-past ten, and at that hour the two girls appeared in the hall. Mrs Dawson herself was waiting for them. As she proceeded to lock and chain the front door, she also saw the flash of the bangle on Fanchon’s wrist. She immediately exclaimed at its beauty, and asked to have a nearer view of it.
“Why, I say,” she cried, “what a truly elegant thing! Does it belong to you, Miss Amberley?”
“Yes,” replied Fanchon. “It was given to me by a great friend.”
Here she looked meaningly at Brenda.
“Come up to bed, Fanchon, do!” said Brenda. “You look dead tired and won’t appear at your best to-morrow at the Castle. Good-night, Mrs Dawson.” Mrs Dawson said nothing further, but she thought for a minute or two and then went into her private sitting-room and opened aStandardof a few days old and read a certain advertisement in it without any comment. After a time, she put theStandardcarefully away and went up to her own room, for she had doubtless earned her night’s repose.
As they were going upstairs, Brenda said in a somewhat fretful voice:
“Fanchon—I do wish you would not let people think thatIgave you that bangle.”
“But why should you not let them think it?” asked the astonished girl.
“Well—of course people couldn’t expect a governess like me to give you such really expensive things.”
“Oh—but they don’t know what a darling you are,” said Fanchon, springing suddenly on Brenda with the sort of affection of a bear’s cub, and crushing that young lady’s immaculate evening toilet.
Now, Brenda was decidedly cross because Harry Jordan had not been as pointed as usual in his remarks, and she disliked—she could scarcely tell why—the expression in Mrs Dawson’s eyes when they had rested on the bangle. She was, therefore, not at all prepared for Fanchon’s rough caress, nor for Fanchon’s next words.
“I do wonder if you would be such a duck of a thing as to let me wear the bangle at Castle Beverley to-morrow.”
“Wear it there!” cried Brenda, real terror for a minute seizing her. “Of course not—could anything be more unsuitable! You must appear at Castle Beverley as the innocent little girl you are. You must not think of jewellery. You mustn’t allude to it, nor to your evening walks, nor to anything we do when you and I are enjoying ourselves together. Come, Fanchon, give me the bangle; I allowed you to wear it to-night as a great treat; but I want to put it away.”
Fanchon looked decidedly cross.
“I shouldsolike to wear it to-morrow,” she said, “and I can’t make out why you won’t let me. If it is my bangle, mayn’t I wear it when I like?”
“But itisn’tyour bangle—at least at present, and it won’t be yours ever if you make a fuss. Come, Fanchon, do you want to quarrel with me? and oh—I am so tired! My dear child, give it here—I will take it.” Brenda snatched the bangle from her pupil’s wrist. “It would be such a pity,” she said, “if anything destroyed our fun—and any one could see with half an eye that Mr Burbery was greatly struck with you. Harry told me as much. Mr Burbery is going to be exceedingly rich some day; he also is in the mercantile world: there’s no other world worth considering, I can tell you that, Fanchon.”
“He knows a lot about bangles, anyhow,” said Fanchon, “for he was greatly struck with mine; indeed, I was thankful he was, for I couldn’t utter a word, and didn’t know from Adam what to say until he began to talk of it. And he said—oh, Brenda! that there is one advertised for in all the papers just like mine. I told him I wasn’t a bit surprised, for mine was so very beautiful.”
Brenda’s heart sank down to her very boots. Her rosy, radiant face turned white.
“There!” she exclaimed, “I see you are nothing whatever but a gossip. I don’t know when I will be able to let you have the bangle again. But now let’s come to bed, and let’s tread softly—we can manage without a light of course; it wouldn’t do to wake Josephine and Nina.”
So the girls slipped into the darkened, hot bedroom and presently got into bed, Fanchon to sleep and dream of Joe Burbery and the lovely bangle, and the sad pity it was that she could not display its charms to-morrow—but Brenda to lie awake; fear—dull dreadful fear tapping at her heart.