Mr Amberley was one of the most unsuspicious of men, but he, too, had
his own slightly cunning ways. He allowed Brenda so much money each
week for housekeeping, and it must be said that she kept the family on
short commons. There were even times when the Reverend Josiah was
slightly hungry. This being the case, and as he, in reality, held the
purse-strings, he was wont to provide himself with bread, butter, and
cheese and some bottles of ale which he kept in a private cupboard in
his study. By the aid of these, he managed to quell his rising appetite
and to sleep soundly at nights.
But Brenda knew nothing of the delicate cheese supply by this reverend
gentleman, of the butter which he himself brought home from the nearest
dairy, nor of the dainty bread which he slipped into his pocket on his
way home from his parochial rounds. Now, however, his intention was to
give the pretty little governess a charming surprise when she returned
that evening. She should have that rarest of all dainties--in his
opinion--Welsh rabbit, made from a receipt handed down to him by his
grandmother. Accordingly, by his own clever hands, as the hour
approached midnight, he put everything into preparation--the little
stove on which the dainty was to be prepared (he regretted much that
they must eat it on bread, not on toast), a bottle of the very best ale
that could be purchased: in short, a charming little meal for two.
He had missed Brenda sorely during the day. In her presence the girls
were quite delightful, but without her they were tiresome, plain, rather
disagreeable girls. It was too late to take the pony to the station,
but he himself would walk there in order that Brenda should come home
under his safe convoy. This plan of his Brenda had not counted on. He
took the precaution, indeed, not to appear on the platform, but met her
just as she was emerging out of the shade of a thick wood just beyond
the village. He thought how charming she looked in her white serge
coat--how different from his own unruly girls. But Brenda herself was
snappish and by no means inclined to respond to his kind attentions.
"I wish you had not come out, Mr Amberley. It really is ridiculous to
suppose that a woman of my age,"--(Brenda was very fond of making
herself appear old when she spoke to Josiah)--"a woman of my age," she
continued, "cannot walk the short distance from the station to your
house."
"But at midnight--my dear girl," protested Josiah, "I really could not
hear of it. I hope I know what is due to any girl whom I respect, and
it is only a pleasure to serve you--you know that."
"Dreadful old goose!" thought Brenda to herself.
But she saw that she must humour him. She had had, on the whole, a good
day and, although she had not excited the admiration she had expected,
she was the richer by a very valuable gold bangle. So she chatted as
lightly and airily as she could and, when they entered the house, she
even assisted to cat a tiny portion of the Welsh rabbit and to sip a
little of the sparkling beer. She asked no questions, too, with regard
to the manner in which Josiah got these dainties into the house. But
although she said nothing, she thought a good deal and resolved to feed
the good clergyman slightly better in future and not to save quite so
much of the housekeeping money for her own purposes.
When she had finished supper, she yawned profoundly, protested that she
could not keep her eyes open a minute longer, and, giving Josiah a scant
"good-night," ran off to bed.
When she left him, he sat for a little time musing. Brenda had managed
that he should not even get a glimpse of her blue silk dress, but he had
noticed the dainty hat with its perfect trimmings, the white serge coat
which covered the governess' pretty person from head to foot, and the
neat and lovely white gloves. He had thought how wonderful it was that
she could wear such nice things. That coat, in particular, took his
fancy. It was of a wonderful material which he did not think that he
recognised. Silk it was not; cotton it was not; linsey-woolsey it was
not. What was it made of? It must be cheap, or poor little Brenda
could not afford it. Brenda had so often and so pathetically told him
how necessary it was that she should save almost every penny of her
income. She used to say to him with those sweet blue eyes of hers, so
different from the eyes of his own daughters, looking into his face:
"It is my duty to prepare for the rainy day. It may come, you know, and
if I have not saved money, where shall I be?"
He had smiled at her on these occasions and once had even gone the
length of patting her little white hand and had said that he wished all
other girls were so wise. Yes, dear Brenda was saving up her poor
little salary; and that nicely made white coat--of course she must have
made it herself--must be composed of a very cheap material. He wondered
if dresses of the same material could be got for his poor orphans. He
always spoke of his children to himself as his poor orphans. They had
been very tiresome orphans on the day that had just gone by--Nina in the
morning, Fanchon later on. They had, it seemed to him, almost
complained with regard to their clothes--those clothes which he so
laboured to get them. It was annoying, very; but if they might have
coats, or frocks, or whatever the article of dress was called, of the
material which Brenda wore, he would feel that he had done his duty by
them.
He went to bed at last, resolved to speak to the governess on the
subject by-and-by. When Brenda reached her room, she first of all
proceeded to lock her door. She then carefully removed her white serge
coat, shook it, brushed it over tenderly, and folded it up, with tissue
paper between the folds. She then laid this elegant garment in the
bottom drawer of her wardrobe. It must not be seen again until she was
safe at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. Having removed the coat, she stood for a
time surveying her own reflection in the cracked mirror, which, after
all, was the best looking-glass the rectory could afford. She moved her
head slightly to right, slightly to left; she pushed her hat in
different positions, and contemplated herself with great admiration.
Then, putting her hand into her pocket, she took out the beautiful
little bangle and clasped it on her wrist. The bangle really gave her
great finish. It seemed to raise her in the social scale. It was so
absolutely good--not the least bit jim-crack. That gold was at least
eighteen carat, and that exquisite turquoise must have cost a mint of
money; it was just the right size for her, too. She held up her arm,
and contemplated the effect of the bangle in this position. She laid
her hand across her knee, and looked at it from that point of view. She
arranged it and rearranged it, and loved it more and worshipped it more
deeply the longer she looked at it.
At last, with a deep sigh of satisfaction, she took it off, folded it
softly in some tissue paper, and, opening her purse, took from it the
key of a drawer which she always kept locked. The people who surrounded
the rectory, the few domestics who worked there, were all honest as the
day. Had this not been the case, Brenda's drawer in her wardrobe might
have been found worth robbing before now. For in it were those savings
which she had secured from the housekeeping money, and that seven
pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence which still belonged to the
girls' wardrobes and the four five-pound notes which Penelope had sent
her. In short, Brenda felt that she was quite a wealthy girl. She had
not an idea of any Nemesis at hand.
She laid the stolen bracelet in a little box which had held hitherto
some mock jewellery, and having locked her drawer, proceeded to take off
her pale blue dress, to fold it up, put it away, to do ditto with her
hat and gloves, and finally to undress and get into bed.
Brenda Carlton slept soundly that night, for she was really very tired.
She was also quite hopeful and happy. But towards morning, she was
disturbed by a dream. The dream was a curious mixture of Helen of Troy
as she had appeared--silent and stately in the dusky wood--of Penelope,
with her eyes red from crying, of her pupils and their clothes, and,
last but not least, the Reverend Josiah.
It seemed to her in her dream that Josiah was exceedingly angry, that
all that gentleness and suavity of manner which, as a rule,
characterised him, had departed; that he was looking at her--yes, at
her--with little angry eyes, and that he was accusing her of something
which was very terrible and, which, try as she would, she could not
disprove. She awoke from this dream trembling and with the dews of
perspiration on her forehead. She started up in bed to wipe them away
and, as she did so, she was aware of the fact that some one was thumping
at her bedroom door.
"Yes--what is it?" she called out crossly.
"It is only me," answered the voice of her eldest pupil. "I thought you
would be tired and have brought you your breakfast."
"Oh, thank you so much," said Brenda, relieved and gratified, for she
really was intensely thirsty.
She sprang out of bed, unlocked the door, then, running across the room,
got into bed once more and sat up, looking exceedingly pretty with her
slightly flushed cheeks and befrilled nightdress of fine lawn. Fanchon
entered with the breakfast tray, which was quite common, being made of
iron that had once been japanned; but this decorative process had
gradually been removed by the fingers of time, and Brenda was far too
careful with regard to the laundry to allow extra cloths for breakfast
trays or any such little dainties.
Fanchon placed the tray on a table close to Brenda's bed; then having,
as she considered, performed her duty, she jumped up on the side of the
bed and sat gazing at her governess. Fanchon had made all her
preparations. Brenda should have food before the thunder clap fell on
her devoted head. Accordingly, Fanchon Amberley began by making
friendly enquiries with regard to the governess' success on the previous
day.
"Drink your tea and eat your toast," she said. "There's no butter in
the house--you didn't leave us money to buy any, and that egg is, I am
afraid, stale. But it is the last one left from your purchases of last
week. You must make the best of it, I am afraid. But never mind,"
continued the young lady, swinging her foot backwards and forwards, "you
must have gorged so on the good things of life yesterday, that I don't
suppose you are overpowered with an appetite."
"I didn't gorge," said Brenda gently. "I never gorge, as you know,
Fanchon. But I am thirsty, and it is very thoughtful and kind of you,
dear, to bring me up my breakfast."
Fanchon made no reply to this. Brenda poured herself out a cup of tea.
She drank it off thirstily and then looked at her pupil.
"How untidy you are, my dear child."
"Am I? That doesn't matter," said Fanchon. "Tell me, Brenda, how you
enjoyed yourself. Was it quite as wonderful as you expected?"
"Oh, quite, quite," said Brenda, who had no idea but of making the very
best of things to her pupil.
"It was really worth your pale blue silk dress and your serge coat, and
your hat, and your gloves, and your new parasol?" pursued Fanchon.
"I wish, Fanchon," said the governess, "that you would not give me an
inventory of my clothes whenever you speak to me. I suppose I must be
dressed like other people, mustn't I?"
"Of course," said Fanchon. "Well, let us leave the dress alone. How
did you get on with your sister? was she as nice as that dead-and-gone
body--whatever her name is?"
"Oh, she was wonderful!" said Brenda, with real enthusiasm. "She has a
real gift for acting, there's no doubt of that."
"I suppose you'll tell us about it sometime, won't you?"
"I am telling you now--what do you mean by sometime?"
"I mean," said Fanchon, "that Nina and Joey and I want all the
particulars, not just a few bare facts, but every little tiny incident
made as full as possible; and in especial, we are anxious to know if you
met any _he's_, and if you did meet one special _he_; and in that case,
what _he_ said to you, and what you said to him--a sort of `consequence'
game, you understand. And in particular, we want to learn the
compliments he paid you; for some day, when we three are dressed like
you in pale blue silk, etc, we may have similar compliments ourselves.
That is what we want to know."
"What _is_ the matter with you, Fanchon?" said her governess.
"Do you like your breakfast, Brenda?" was Fanchon's response.
"Not much," answered Brenda crossly. "The bread is stale; there is no
butter, and the egg is uneatable. I must jump up at once in order to
attend to the housekeeping."
"You needn't, really, Brenda. Joey went round to the shops this morning
and ordered things in. We're going to have a couple of ducks for
dinner, and green peas--"
"What _do_ you mean?" said Brenda, her eyes flashing. "A couple of
ducks and green peas! You know how expensive ducks are."
"I don't," said Fanchon calmly--"all I know about them is that they are
good to eat and Joey has ordered them. Oh--and we're going to have
raspberry and currant pie too, and a lot of cream with it--"
"And you expect _me_ to pay for these luxuries out of the housekeeping
money?"
"Of course we do, Brenda--who else would pay for them?"
"But I tell you I can't--you don't understand how little your father
gives me; it is absolutely impossible--you must countermand that order
_at once_, Fanchon--go and do it this minute while I get up. I shall
send cook out presently for a bit of steak, and potatoes from the garden
will do; there are no peas, and it is the height of extravagance to buy
them."
"You'll be a great deal too late, for they are all in the house; and I
think cook has put the ducks in the oven. Anyhow," continued Fanchon,
suddenly changing her tone, "I don't mean to stop either Joey or Nina.
They're buying food--proper food--for us, and you've got to pay for it."
"I don't understand you--you are exceedingly impertinent. I must speak
to your father."
"You can of course, if you like," answered Fanchon, with great calmness,
"but all the same, I don't think you will; I've got something to say to
you, Brenda, and it is something rather dreadful."
"What?" said Brenda.
She longed to rouse herself into a towering passion, but she had the
memory of her dream still over her, and the thought of Mr Amberley's
face with its changed and quite awful expression. She was more tired,
too, than she cared to own. She found her eyes fixed upon those of her
eldest pupil. What a dreadful-looking girl she was--so singularly plain
and ungainly--all legs and arms, and with that truly disagreeable face!
Brenda contrasted her with a girl she had seen at Hazlitt Chase, and
wondered how she had endured her own position so long. And now this
girl was actually bullying her--a girl not fifteen years of age!
Fanchon seemed to read some of her governess' discomfiture and
amazement; in short, she was enjoying herself mightily. It was
delightful to turn the tables; it was delicious for the slave to be,
even for a short time, the master. She, therefore, continued in a calm
voice:
"I'd best tell you everything, and then you will know what is to be
done. To begin with: I think you partly owe the discovery we have made
to the fact that you, in your spirit of parsimony, would not give poor
little Nina flounces to her dress."
Brenda gasped, but was speechless.
"And," continued Fanchon, "Nina, although she is not yet eleven years of
age, is no fool, and so yesterday, when you were out of the way--you
know the old proverb, `When the cat's away, the mice will play,'--well,
that poor little mouse, Nina, thought she would have a gambol on her own
account yesterday, and Joey and I joined in. We quizzed father with
great dexterity and--in short, Madam Cat!--we found you out!"
These last words were quite terrible. From Fanchon's pale eyes a steely
fire shot forth. It seemed to scorch the miserable Brenda, who shrank
lower on her pillows and longed for the ceiling to fall on her.
"I,"--she began tremblingly--"I think you are quite the most
impertinent--and I wish--I wish--you would go. I shall speak--to--to
your dear father. I'll just get dressed and go to him."
Here Brenda burst into tears.
"Your tears won't do any good, Madam Cat," said Fanchon, "and I am not a
bit impertinent, and as to telling father, why, you can tell him
anything you like, after you have listened to me. The girls know that I
am talking to you, so we won't be disturbed. Now then--stop crying--
you're in my power, and you're in Joey's power, and you're in Nina's
power, and the sooner you realise that fact, the better for you."
Brenda uttered a deep sigh. She thought she saw a loop-hole of hope.
The girls, after all, did not matter--not greatly--whatever those
impertinent little creatures had discovered. It was the Reverend Josiah
whom she really dreaded, and if she were in his power, he would not have
given her Welsh rabbit on the previous night, nor been so very, very
kind, nor have looked at her so admiringly. If Fanchon had not gone too
far, there was still hope. She, therefore, wiped her eyes and sat up.
"What is it?" she said meekly. "I am a poor prisoner at your bar,
Fanchon--out with the indictment--tell the prisoner of what offence she
is guilty."
"I'll tell you first of all what we suspect, and afterwards I will tell
you what we know," said Fanchon.
"You terrible, impertinent child--how dare you suspect me of anything!"
"We three suspect that you don't spend all the money papa gives you for
housekeeping, on the housekeeping. Cause why: We are always so
dreadfully hungry and the meals are so shocking poor--and--cause why: We
know that you save money for yourself in other quarters--"
"Do you think I would steal a _farthing_--of your dear papa's money, you
dreadful, dreadful--horrible child!" said Brenda.
"I don't _think_ about what I know," replied Fanchon. "Now listen.
Look at that sum." Here she thrust a carefully made out account into
Brenda's hand. Brenda read the items, tears rushing back to her eyes
and her heart palpitating wildly. The grand total of one pound, three
shillings, and a penny stared her in the face. "And now," continued
Fanchon, "having discovered that this was exactly what you spent on our
poor little clothes, we should like to know what you propose to do with
the balance."
"The balance, child!" said Brenda. "I haven't a penny--not a penny
over. In fact, although I wouldn't trouble your father, you are a
little bit in debt to me--I mean the gloves--I couldn't tell you, and
you had to have gloves--but _I_ paid for the gloves."
"Oh--you wicked Brenda!" said Fanchon--"you intolerably wicked woman!
Nina talked to father yesterday, and father told her that he gave you
three pounds for each of us, in order to clothe us for the seaside. So
you have still in your possession seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and
eleven-pence of our money. It's my belief that you have spent it on
your own clothes! There--you can't deny it--we know what the things you
bought cost--the miserable--horrid--_mean_ things you bought! and we
know what poor papa gave you, for he told Nina and afterwards I went and
asked him and he told me too."
"And does he--does he know--anything else?" asked Brenda.
"Nothing else at present, but he will soon."
Brenda lay very still and thoughtful on her bed. After a minute she
said:
"Fanchon--you are quite mistaken in me."
"I know you thoroughly," said Fanchon; "I always believed you to be
intensely conceited, frightfully--appallingly vain, and--not too
honourable. But now I also know that you are nothing more nor less than
a common thief! How long do you think father would keep you in the
house if he knew?"
"But--he doesn't know, dear, dear Fanchon!"
"Not yet. We thought we'd tell you first--it seemed only fair to give
you that chance."
"How sweet of you, Fanchon."
"But I have told you now, and I shall go straight to him this very
minute and show him this little sum unless you confess the truth to me."
"I--I--" said Brenda--"what truth?"
"Have you got seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence of our
money in your possession? If you say no--I go immediately to father.
If you say yes--why, perhaps I will wait an hour or so."
Brenda almost smiled when Fanchon made use of the last words.
"Then," she said in a gentle tone, "I have still got the money,
for you--for you. I thought we could spend it best at
Marshlands-on-the-Sea."
"Oh, no, you didn't," said Fanchon--"those sort of lies won't go down
any longer with us. But as you have made a sort of confession, you may
dress yourself. You won't grumble, I think, when you come downstairs
and enjoy our good dinner, and after dinner I'll have another talk with
you. It is my turn to dictate terms now, and I mean to enjoy myself."
With this last remark Fanchon marched out of the room, wrenching the
door open noisily and banging it after her. Her two little sisters were
waiting on the landing.
"The cat has confessed," she said, "and so the poor little mice may play
as much as they like. Not a word to dad--we'd have no fun if he knew--
we can do exactly what we like with her now."
Josephine clapped her hands. Nina enquired if the ducks and green peas
and raspberry and currant tart, with unlimited cream, had been
mentioned.
"Oh, yes; and we shall enjoy our dinner--poor starved creatures," said
Fanchon.
The three girls tripped downstairs. The old rectory was already full of
the odorous smell of roast duck. Mr Amberley perceived it in his
study. He slightly sniffed, and thought of toasted cheese. He felt
pangs of hunger which, as a rule, he was not accustomed to. The girls
were flying about: they seemed in high spirits.
"What a delightful day it is," thought the rector to himself, and he
shut up the musty old Josephus with a bang and decided to give an old
sermon for the sixth time of hearing to his parishioners on Sunday, and
not to worry any more about a new one until the hot weather was over.
He even went to the length of standing by the open study window and
looking across the sun-flecked garden.
Presently, he saw his daughters entering the house with trailing flowers
of all sorts and descriptions in their arms. He wondered what could be
up. Josephine, who had a certain knack for the arrangement of dinner
tables, was laying a white cloth on the board. In the centre she placed
billowy piles of green art muslin which she had bought that morning in
the village--or rather, put down to the housekeeping account. Rows of
sweet peas and carnations were then placed in bowls in the centre of the
table and, this handiwork having been completed, Josie rushed up to her
room to put on the best dress she possessed. In short, the entire place
wore a festive air.
"It's because dear Brenda has returned," thought the rector.
He felt the difference without observing it. But when sharp little
Fanchon appeared and led him into the dining-room and he beheld with his
own eyes two plump birds waiting to be carved, and saw the green peas,
and the new potatoes, and the apple sauce, and the different
accompaniments of young ducks, he forgot everything in the joy of
gratifying his appetite.
The three girls were waiting--no servant ever attended at meals,--their
faces were flushed with delight. The rector did not even ask, "Where is
Brenda?" He flopped down into his seat, said grace, and began to carve
the birds.
Brenda entered in a pale green cotton dress, which suited her lissom
young figure to perfection. She took her seat meekly. The girls did
not speak to her, but the rector addressed her with enthusiasm.
"My dear,"--he said--"what a delicious feast we are having, and how very
good of you to manage it out of the housekeeping money. I know--my dear
Brenda--that I give you far too little; but my stipend, my dear, is so
small, and the needs of my poor so considerable--"
"There's raspberry tart and cream coming on," said Nina, "so let's hurry
up with the ducks."
The rector placed the first delicious morsel between his lips. Brenda
made a gentle remark to the effect that she was glad she had pleased
him. Nina gave a groan; Joey kicked her sister's foot; Fanchon tried to
look stately, but failed. Notwithstanding all these things, however,
the three girls and their father thoroughly enjoyed the excellent
dinner.
"I feel a new man," said Mr Amberley, when it was over. "It is
wonderful how supporting really tasty food is. My dear Brenda, I thank
you."
She bowed to him--a mocking light in her eyes which he did not observe.