On the following evening five girls might have been seen all busily
employed writing to their respective friends. These girls were the five
who had been elected to take the parts of the heroines in Tennyson's
"Dream of Fair Women." Penelope Carlton was writing to her sister
Brenda. She had passed her test sufficiently well to induce Mrs
Hazlitt to alter her resolution and to determine that "A Dream of Fair
Women" should be represented on the little stage in the old Elizabethan
garden of Hazlitt Chase.
The girl was full of deficiencies, but she was also full of
capabilities. There was, in short, a soul somewhere within her. Those
light blue eyes of hers could at will darken and flash fire. Those
insipid lips could curve into a smile which was almost dangerous. There
was an extraordinary witchery about the face, which Mrs Hazlitt felt,
although she had never noticed it before. She blamed herself for
considering--at least for the time being--that in some respects Penelope
Carlton outshone Honora Beverley. Honora, with her stately grace, her
magnificent young physique, could never go down into the very depth of
things as could this queer, this poor, this despised Penelope. Mrs
Hazlitt decided to give in to the girls, and, that being decided, the
necessary letters were written.
Penelope wrote briefly to her sister, but with decision:
"Dearest Brenda: Don't ask me why I have done it, but accept the fact
that your desires are accomplished. I have sunk very low for your
sake, and I feel absolutely despicable; but the less you know of the
why and the wherefore of my deed, the better. All that really
concerns you is this: that within the next week or so you will receive
twenty pounds which you can do exactly what you like with. You will
owe this gift to your sister, who will have made herself--but no
matter. You know, for I have told you already, how truly I love you.
I don't think it would be quite frank not to say that I don't care for
any one in all the world like you, Brenda. I am only sixteen, and you
twenty-one--or is it twenty-two--and all my life I have adored you
from the time when I used to cry because you were so beautiful and I
so ugly, and from the time also when you used to take me in your arms
and pet me, and kiss me and call me your own little girl.
"It takes a great deal to get me to love anybody, but I do love you,
Brenda, and I think I prove my love when I disgrace myself now in the
school for your sake and do something which, if it were found out--but
there--how nearly I trenched on ground which I must not touch in your
presence; for if you knew, and if you were in the least worthy of what
I think you, darling, you would not take the money. You would not,
because you could not.
"I hope whoever the man is who cares for you and who wants to see you
in your fine dress and your pretty hat and ruffles, that he will not
take the little affection you have for me away. But, even if that
happens, my love for you is so true, and so very, very deep, that I
think I would not change my purpose, even though I knew, by so doing,
I should lose the little love you give me. For, Brenda,--I must say
it now--I read you quite truly--you have got a lovely face and a
beautiful manner and all people are attracted to you. But it is I--
your sister--who have got the heart; and the one who has the heart
suffers. I accept the position. I know quite well that no one will
ever care for me in the way people will care for you; but so great is
my love for you, that I am satisfied even to do what is wrong for your
sake. It is all dreadful, but it can't be helped.
"Your affectionate sister,--
"Penelope Carlton."
Having finished her letter, Penelope addressed it to: Miss Brenda
Carlton, c/o Rev Josiah Amberley, The Rectory, Harroway; and, leaving
her room, she ran with it into the hall, where it was deposited in the
post box in sufficient time to go out with the evening letters.
The four girls who had promised to get the money for Penelope had been
equally busy with their pens, and each had written the sort of letter
which would assuredly bring back five pounds in its train. Cara Burt
wrote briefly and decidedly. She wanted plenty of pocket money just
now, and wouldn't darling great-grand-dad supply her? and would he
promise to keep it dark from grandfather and grandmother and father and
mother and from every one else at home, and just let it be a secret
between his own Cara and himself; and if he did this, would not she
reward him by a special walk, and a special button-hole, which she would
make for him on the day of the break-up?
Cara knew her man to a nicety, and was assured of the dear little crisp
five-pound note that arrived by return of post. Annie Leicester also
wrote with calm assurance to her parents. She wanted a little extra
money. She knew she had been a trifle extravagant with regard to
chocolates and suchlike things. If she could have a five-pound note to
see her safely to the end of term, it would put her into such excellent
spirits that she could act Fair Rosamond to perfection. She wanted the
money, and by return of post, and of course it would be forthcoming.
Mary L'Estrange found more difficulty with her letter; for, although her
people were rich, they were careful; but she managed to write such a
letter as would make her mother deny herself a summer ruffle or some
such luxury for the sake of supplying her little daughter with what that
daughter considered necessary. Susanna was the only one who had any
real difficulty in penning her letter.
Now, Susanna's people were much richer than the parents of any other
girls in the school. They counted their money by tens of thousands; for
Susanna's father was, in his way, a sort of Rothschild and he was fond
of saying that everything he touched turned into gold. But if what he
touched turned to gold, he was very fond of that said metal and did not
at all like to part with it, and Susanna knew that it would be perfectly
useless to apply to her mother on the subject, for Mrs Salmi had always
to go to her husband for every penny she spent. Great lady as she
supposed herself to be, she was not favoured with a separate banking
account; but her bills were paid off with loud protestations by her lord
and master. Susanna, however, was perhaps more anxious than the others
to take the part of Cleopatra. She felt that she could do the swarthy
queen of Egypt full justice. Her blood tingled at the thought of what
her appearance would be, decked in the jewels which her own mother would
lend her for the occasion. How her eyes would flash! how striking would
be her appearance! Not for twenty-five five-pound notes would she give
up so delightful a part.
Accordingly, she wrote straight to her father and, after many
cogitations with herself, this was her letter:
"My Dear Old Dad: I am sending this straight to your office in the
City, for I don't want the mum-mum to know anything about it. There
are times when a girl has to apply straight to her dad to put things
right for her.
"Now, dad, darling; I want five pounds. I am having a little
speculation on my own account in the school. You know from whom I
have inherited the spirit of speculation. It is from no one else than
the dear dad himself--that wealthy delightful creature, who turns
everything he touches into gold. Well, your own Susanna has inherited
your peculiarities, and when I leave school, there is no saying but I
may be able to give you some points. Anyhow, if you will trust me
with the money and not say a single word about it to mummy, you may
have it back again double, some day--I don't exactly say when. Don't
refuse me, like a dear, for my heart is really set on this, or I would
not apply to you; and what use is it to be the only daughter of the
richest dad in England if he can't grant me such a small whim? Five
pounds, therefore, please, daddie mine, by return of post, and no
questions asked.
"Your loving daughter,--
"Susanna.
"P.S. You and mother will be sure to come to Hazlitt Chase on the day
of the break-up, and then I think you will see what will surprise you,
namely: your own girl in a very prominent and exalted position.
Breathe not this to the mummy, or to anybody, but be your Susanna's
best of friends."
Susanna was decidedly under the impression that this letter would do the
business, and she was right. For she had taken the great City merchant
by surprise, and although most men would be shocked to think that a
schoolgirl daughter was engaged in money speculations, this man only
laughed and shook from side to side in his merriment and, opening a
drawer on the spot, took a crisp five-pound note from a certain recess
and popped it into an envelope with the words: "Go it, Susanna." The
money reached Susanna accordingly by the first post on the following
morning. The other girls received their five-pound notes at different
times during the day, and Penelope was in possession of twenty pounds
that very evening.
But now arose an unlooked-for and unexpected difficulty. Mrs Hazlitt
was not so unobservant as her pupils supposed her to be. She trusted
them, it is true; but she never absolutely gave them her full
confidence. Their letters were supposed to be under her jurisdiction;
but she was not the sort of woman to open a letter addressed to a parent
or guardian, although at the same time she clearly gave the said
guardians and parents to understand that, if necessity arose, she would
feel obliged to open letters.
She had not opened any one of the five letters which left her house on a
certain evening, but she did observe the excited appearance of Penelope,
the change from dull apathy into watchfulness; the manner, too, in which
Susanna absolutely neglected all her lessons, Mary L'Estrange's anxious
face, Annie Leicester's want of appetite, and Cara Burt's headache.
Cara Burt was, indeed, so overpowered that she could neither attend to
her lessons, nor appear at the mid-day meal.
Now, all these symptoms--strange in themselves as only assailing the
five girls who were to take part in "A Dream of Fair Women"--could not
but arouse the headmistress' suspicions; but when they unaccountably
vanished on the arrival of the post on the following morning, and when
each girl seemed happy and relieved once more, Mrs Hazlitt felt sure
that something had occurred which she ought to know about. She
accordingly spoke to Deborah, who was her factotum in the school.
Deborah has been mentioned hitherto as the English governess. She held
that position, but not in its entirety. It is true that she taught the
young girls English history and literature, helped them with their
spelling, and attended to their writing. But there was also a very
special, highly educated woman to give lessons in English literature and
English composition to all the elder girls, and, besides this, Mrs
Hazlitt herself taught English as no one else could, for she was a
profound scholar and had a mind of the highest order. Deborah, however,
was indispensable for the simple reason that she was honest, exceedingly
unselfish, and could do those thousand and one things for the girls
which only a person who never thought of herself could achieve. Mrs
Hazlitt, therefore, determined to speak to Deborah now on the subject of
the girls.
It was the pleasant hour of recess. What a beautiful calm rested over
the place! The sun shone forth from a cloudless sky; the trees were in
their full summer green; there were shadow and sunlight intermingled all
over the lovely old place. The house itself was so old and the walls so
thick that great heat could never penetrate; and Mrs Hazlitt chose as
her place of confidence her own tiny oak parlour where she sat when she
wanted to rest and did not wish to be intruded upon.
"Deborah," she said on this occasion, "will you come with me into the
parlour? I suppose the children are all right, and you need not trouble
about them. That good-natured girl, Penelope Carlton, will look after
them if you ask her."
"I don't know," replied Deborah; "she is up in her room writing. She
said she had a special letter she wanted to write, but I have no doubt
they won't get into any mischief. I will just go and talk to them for a
minute and put them on their honour."
"Do, Deborah," said Mrs Hazlitt, "and then come back to me. Don't tell
any one what you are specially doing; just come here; I shall be waiting
for you."
The governess withdrew, to return in the course of a few minutes.
"It's all right," she said. "I went first of all to Penelope, but she
seemed rather fluttered at being disturbed and said that she always did
suppose that recess was at her own disposal. But the children will be
quite good; they will play in the woods and keep out of the sunshine."
"Then that is all right," said Mrs Hazlitt. "And what is Penelope
doing in her room, Deborah?"
"She is writing a letter."
"A letter?" said Mrs Hazlitt. "Did you see her writing one?"
"Oh, yes--at least I think so."
Deborah coloured, for she knew that Penelope had hastily put a sheet of
paper over the letter when the English teacher had entered the bedroom.
Deborah never would tell tales of the pupils whom she loved, nor did
Mrs Hazlitt expect her to. Nevertheless, that good woman gazed now
intently at the English governess.
"Deborah," she said, "I cannot help confiding in you. There is a spirit
at present abroad in this school which I feel, without being able to
differentiate. It is an unholy and a mischievous spirit and it has
never been in our midst before. There are certain girls in the school
who are acting in a sort of conspiracy. I cannot tell why, but I feel
assured on that point, and I believe that the head of the conspiracy is
no less a person than Penelope Carlton."
"Now, my dear Mrs Hazlitt," said Deborah Duke, "I never did hear you
give way to such unchristian sentiments before. You will forgive me, my
dear friend, my best friend--but why should you accuse poor little
Penelope of anything so base?"
"I accuse her of nothing, but I have a feeling about her. I know for a
fact that five letters left this house a couple of days ago--on the
evening of the day when it was decided that Penelope was to take the
part of Helen of Troy. I also know that five letters in reply were
received this morning, and that they gave universal satisfaction.
During the time of suspense between the departure of the letters and
their replies four of my pupils were absolutely good for nothing--
uneasy, incapable of work; in short, quite unlike themselves. It is my
rule not to open my pupils' letters; nevertheless, I am full of
suspicions, and my suspicions particularly centre round the girl who is
to take the part of Helen of Troy. Why did she volunteer for the part?
I can put up with her, but she is not suitable. Do you know anything
about it, Deborah?"
"All I know is this," replied Deborah--"that Honora Beverley would not
take the part because she was full of horror with regard to the
character. I thought `A Dream of Fair Women' was practically at an end
when Penelope--of all people--came forward. I believe she was very much
pressed by the other girls to do this. They thought of her because she
is fair."
Mrs Hazlitt looked full at Miss Duke. After a minute, she said
abruptly:
"You say that Penelope is at present writing a letter?"
"That is true."
"When she has finished it, she will drop it into the post box, will she
not?"
"Yes; that is true also."
"I shall do something which I am not accustomed to doing, but I must do
it for the sake of the school," said Mrs Hazlitt. "I shall open
Penelope's letter before it goes, and acquaint myself with the
contents."
Miss Duke gave a start.
"You will not do that," she said. "It would distress Penelope very
much."
"She need never know. If the letter is straightforward and above board,
nothing will occur. If the spirit of mischief--nay, more, of intrigue--
is abroad, the sooner I can nip it in the bud, the better. I sent for
you to consult you. I am within my rights in this matter. Don't say a
word to any one. I think that is all."
"I am very much distressed," said Deborah. "I wish you would not do
this thing."
"I have made up my mind, dear friend; we will not argue the point. I
will read the contents of the letter, and it shall reach its destination
if there is nothing in it. No harm will be done. If there is mischief
in it, I shall at least know where I stand."
Deborah sighed profoundly and left the room.
Now, upstairs a girl, who had hastily finished a hasty scrawl and had
thrust it into its envelope, was busily engaged putting on her hat and
drawing some cotton gloves over her hands.
"I daren't put the letter into the post box," she said. "I wish Deborah
hadn't come into my room; she saw quite well that I was writing. I must
manage somehow to get to the village and will post the letter myself."
She flew downstairs. A minute later, she was out of doors. She looked
swiftly round her; there was not a soul in sight. The children, who
were her constant companions, were playing happily in the distant woods.
The girls whom she trusted were in the Queen Anne parterre or in the
Queen Elizabeth garden. All the world seemed still and sleepy.
Penelope made a hasty calculation. Mrs Hazlitt's oak parlour looked
out on the Queen Anne parterre. There was no one to see her. The
village was a mile away; yes, she could get there; she would get there.
By running fast she would accomplish this feat and yet be back just
within time for afternoon school.
Outside Hazlitt Chase was just the reverse of peace and quietude. There
was a wide and dusty road over which motors flew at intervals; and heavy
carts, drawn, some by horses and some by oxen, toiled over the road;
carriages, pony traps, governess carts also traversed the King's
highway, and amongst them, flying in and out, ran a girl in a dusty
brown holland dress, her fair face suffused by ugly colour, her eyes
full of dust, her lips parched.
All in good time she reached the village and dropped the letter, which
she had already stamped, into the post box. She was safe. She drew a
long breath of relief. Nothing would induce the village postmistress to
give up her letter; all was right now; Brenda would be happy to-morrow
morning and she--she could perform her task with a light heart.
She had done a great deal for her beloved sitter. Deborah had given the
whole show away by coming to visit her in her room. Penelope was quick
enough, to be certain that there was something up, or the English
teacher would not have come in looking so _distraite_ and unlike
herself. Deborah was the last person in the world ever to ask Penelope
to take care of the younger children. Yes; it was all too plain; Mrs
Hazlitt's suspicions were aroused. Well, they would never be verified,
for the letter was posted. If only Penelope could get back in safety--
could creep up to her own room without being observed, she might snap
her fingers at the enemy; all would, all must be--well.
She returned to the school by the same dusty highway, entered by a back
door, went to her room, threw herself on her bed for five minutes, then
washed her face and hands and went downstairs for afternoon school. Not
a soul had seen her go; not a soul had witnessed her return.
Mrs Hazlitt watched her as she took her place in class--her face
flushed, her lips dry. Miss Duke raised a guilty and startled face when
the girl--whose secret, if she had one, was so soon to be exposed--took
her usual place and went through her usual tasks with that skill and
ability which always characterised her. Mrs Hazlitt was more
determined than ever to take steps to discover what she felt was wrong;
but she looked in vain in the letter box. Childish productions from
more than one member of the school were there, but there was no letter
addressed to Miss Brenda Carlton--no letter of any sort in Penelope
Carlton's upright and somewhat remarkable handwriting. What could have
happened? Had the girl dared to go to that extreme of disobedience?
Had she posted her letter herself?