It was after dinner that Fanchon approached her governess.
"I hope you enjoyed your dinner," she said.
"Yes; it was very good," said Brenda.
"When do you feel inclined to have a chat with me?" pursued Fanchon.
"Not just at present," answered Brenda.
"But you'd better be quick about it, for we mean always to live well in
the future. Joey and I think that we might order a crab for supper
to-night--papa loves crabs."
Brenda was silent.
"When can we have our talk?" continued Fanchon.
"Well, I don't think just at present; will you give me until evening?
Order what you wish to-day, but don't be too extravagant, you'll only
have an illness. I give you plain food, for it is really best from
every point of view, and your father's allowance of housekeeping money
is very limited."
"I can ask him, of course, what he does give," said Fanchon.
"No, no; don't do that--"
"And," continued Fanchon, as though she had not heard the last remark,
"I can find out what the butcher's bills, and the green grocer's, and
the grocer's come to per week. I shall be rather clever about these
things in future."
Brenda made no reply. After a minute's pause, she said:
"Would you really like me to leave you?"
"I think, on the whole, I should very much."
"You would wish to give up going to Marshlands-on-the-Sea?"
"No--that would be a disappointment."
"You can't go there without me."
"Oh--I suppose we could get some one else."
"There is no one else whom your father would trust."
Fanchon was silent and a little thoughtful.
"I have a plan to propose to you, Fanchon," said her governess suddenly;
"but I shall not propose it now--I will keep it until to-night.
To-night, at ten o'clock, come to my room and I will talk to you. In
the meantime, tell the other girls that for to-day, just for to-day,
they may do as they please. Now let me be alone; I have a headache."
Fanchon danced off to communicate this news to her sisters.
"The cat's caving in like anything," she said. "We shall have a jolly,
jolly time in future!"
"What can we have to eat at tea-time?" was Nina's remark.
"Oh--you little goose," exclaimed Fanchon, "you can't possibly be hungry
yet."
"But I shall be hungry when tea-time comes."
"Well, get what you like, both of you."
"Let's go to the shops this blessed minute," said Nina, turning to
Josephine.
They started off arm in arm. They did not mind the fact that they were
wearing their only white frocks--their Sunday-go-to-meeting frocks, and
that Nina's was already sadly stained with some juice from the raspberry
tart. They did not mind the fact also that they had outgrown these
frocks, and that the people stared at the rector's daughters when they
were at all respectably attired. They were too excited to think of
anything but the victory they were having over old pussy-cat--which was
their present name for their hitherto beloved Brenda.
They went to the shops where Brenda dealt, and ordered rich plum cake
for tea, two sorts of jam, some more fruit and some more cream; and for
supper they ordered crabs--two crabs to be sent up dressed, from the
fishmonger's, also a lobster, and also a large plate of prawns. Having
thus wilfully expended money which might have kept the rectory on its
ordinary _regime_ for weeks, they returned home in the best of spirits.
'Tis a little sad to relate that even mice, in their moments of triumph
over their legendary foe--the domestic cat--may sometimes overdo things.
For two of these little mice felt decidedly ill that night from the
direful effects of overeating. Nina spent that night, which she had
felt would be of such triumph, rolling from side to side in bed and
crying out with pain, and Josephine had the most appalling succession of
nightmares. But Fanchon was more moderate in her eating and, therefore,
did not suffer. She had her work cut out for her; and that evening, at
the appointed hour--regardless of Nina's cries and Josephine's
frightened exclamations in her sleep--she went off to interview her
governess in her bedroom.
Brenda was waiting for her, and was quite ready. She had been
frightened, terribly frightened, in the morning, but she was alarmed no
longer. She had been given time to think, to consider, to form her
plans. The discovery which those tiresome children had made was
altogether most unpleasant. Had it been made by older people, it would
almost have been dangerous. But Brenda felt that she could manage the
children. She must sacrifice something, it is true, but she need not
sacrifice everything.
The girls had never been trained in high principles. They had been
brought up anyhow. The rector was not a specially admirable man. It is
true, he lived according to his lights, but these did not carry him far.
His children were motherless, and it did not occur to him to suspect
the girl into whose care he placed them. He was devoted to his poorer
parishioners, and was kindness itself to them, denying himself many
things for their benefit. But it was his object in life to do what he
could for his orphans, and he thought he had done so when he put such a
pretty, charming girl as Brenda Carlton over their heads. He believed
fully in Brenda, and admired her immensely. He thought her a truly
Christian young woman; for she was regular in her attendance at church,
and always looked--he considered--so sweet and interested when he
preached to her. It was wonderful how he found himself preaching
directly to her, Sunday after Sunday, suiting his words to her need and
thinking of her as he addressed, or was supposed to address, his
congregation.
As to the children's education, he expected them to go to Sunday school;
but as their teacher there was no other than Brenda herself, it cannot
be said that they gained much by this special instruction.
Brenda looked very pretty when she taught her class. Most of the time
she told them good little stories, which they listened to when they were
not too restless, and when Brenda herself was not too charmingly
attired. On the whole, the girls were ripe for a fall, and Brenda had
no compunction in saving herself at their expense. These three girls
had, however, a considerable amount of character, and, strange as it may
seem, the one the governess most dreaded was the youngest. For Nina was
exceedingly fearless, and also rather cunning, and Brenda was not quite
certain that if she gave her word she would keep it. The governess felt
pretty sure that she could manage Fanchon and Josephine, but Nina was
different. All things considered, however, she had to make the best of
a bad job, and if she could only get through that happy time at
Marshlands-on-the-Sea, she felt convinced that all would be well with
her in the future. She, accordingly, welcomed Fanchon now with a smile,
and immediately took the lead.
"Just for all the world," repeated Fanchon afterwards when she gave her
sisters a partial account of this interview, "as if _she_ were in the
right and I was her little culprit at the bar!"
"Sit down, dear Fanchon," said Brenda. "Take this cosy seat by the open
window--isn't the night very warm?"
"Yes--very," said Fanchon.
She took the proffered seat and the governess placed herself on the
window ledge near by.
"We shall enjoy our time at the sea," said Brenda, "shall we not?"
Fanchon did not answer. She was gazing in surprise at Brenda, who,
prettily dressed in soft white muslin, looked more charming even than
usual.
"The cool sea breezes will be so refreshing," continued the
governess--"I am picturing the whole scene. I am going to be, of
course, very particular with regard to Josie and Nina; but you, Fanchon,
who are so tall for your age, can come out with me in the evening and
listen to the band and--and--partake of any sort of fun that is going
on."
"Can I really?" said Fanchon, her eyes sparkling, and, for a minute, she
forgot that she was really the judge and Brenda the criminal.
"Of course you can, dear; I mean you to have a good time."
"But can't we settle that afterwards?" said Fanchon. "The other thing
has to be arranged first, hasn't it?"
"What other thing, my dear?"
"Oh, Brenda--you know--don't pretend that you forget. I gave you a
fright--a big fright--this morning, and you--you cried. What are you
going to do about the money? you have it--you know, and it isn't yours,
it's ours."
"I have it, of course," said Brenda, "I have not denied it. I told you
that I thought of spending it at Marshlands; there'll be sure to be nice
shops there, and we can see the things that'll be suitable. You don't
suppose, you poor children, that you can manage with only those pink
muslin dresses--that would never, never do--I had no such thought, I
assure you."
"But," persisted Fanchon, "you said this morning that you had spent all
the money on us, and that we owed you for the gloves. Oh, how knowing
you are, Brenda, but you have overstepped the mark this time, and poor
papa, if he knew--"
Brenda lowered her eyes. She had very thick and very curling jet-black
lashes, and they looked sweet as they rested against her blooming
cheeks. Fanchon could not help noticing them and, further, she could
not help observing the gentle smile that played round her lips.
"Now, listen," said Brenda. "I want to confide in you. You can believe
in me or not--just as you please. I cannot possibly force your belief,
nor can I force you to do anything but what you wish. I am, to a
certain extent, in your power, and in the power of the other two girls.
You can tell your father, and he will dismiss me, and--I shall be
ruined--"
"Oh, I don't suppose papa will be so very hard with you. He's quite
fond of you, you know," said Fanchon.
"He would be terribly severe," said Brenda. "He is a dear good man, but
he would be terrible, fearful, if you told him--you three--what you have
found out. I tell you, Fanchon, why he would be so fearful. Because I
have done what I have done entirely for the sake of deceiving him."
"Oh dear! dear! Then you are even more wicked than I thought," said
Fanchon.
"Listen--the position is a very strange one. I seem to forget, as I am
talking to you, that I am your governess, and that you and your sisters
are my little pupils, but the facts are those: I look upon you, Fanchon,
as very much older than your years. You have, in many ways, the mind of
a grown-up woman. Of course you are very young, quite unformed, but you
will be grown up sooner than most girls; and you have an understanding
way, and I think you will follow me now if I try hard to explain
myself."
"I wish you would begin," said Fanchon then, restlessly, "you do so beat
about the bush. You said this morning that you hadn't a penny over, and
that we owed you for the gloves; and then, afterwards, you confessed
that you had something over--an awful lot over--and that you meant to
spend it at Marshlands. You told one lie, anyway."
"Yes, I told one lie, anyway," responded Brenda, intense sadness in her
tone. "I told one dreadful, wicked lie, and I am very, _very_ sorry--"
"Oh, I wonder if you are!"
"Yes, I am--I am; that was why I cried that time."
"It wasn't--you cried because you were in a funk."
"Fanchon, my dear child, your blunt words hurt me exceedingly."
"Well, well," said Fanchon, kicking one leg against the wainscoting as
she spoke--"do go on, hurry up--won't you? We'll forget about the lie
number one, and remember that you have confessed to having the money.
We'll even try to believe that you meant to spend it on us at
Marshlands. Go on from that point, do."
"I will explain things to you," said Brenda. "You know your dear father
is very ignorant with regard to dress. His simplicity on these matters
is most sweet, but at times it almost provokes a smile. Now, if I had
spent three pounds on each of you in the little shops at Rocheford; and
if Nina, and Josephine, and you--my dear Fanchon, in your silly way--had
lost your heads over the pretty things I had bought, he would have been
dreadfully startled and would have accused himself of great extravagance
in giving you so much money, and when the next occasion came when my
dear little pupils wanted pretty clothes, I should have had nothing like
as much to spend on you. So your Brenda was--well--cunning, if you
choose to call it so, and determined to outwit dear papa; and quite
resolved that her little pupils should be charmingly attired at a place
where he was not likely to see them." Fanchon did not speak at all for
a minute. After a pause, she said:
"And _that_ was your reason for keeping back the money?"
"Certainly--just to deceive your poor papa; for _his_ good, dear--for
his good, and for yours."
"You're awfully clever, Brenda," was Fanchon's next remark.
Brenda coloured.
"Why do you say that?" she asked.
"Because--because--I know it. You made up that story to-day when you
were by yourself, and it's wonderfully clever--it really is. I suppose
you think that we girls believe you."
"You'll believe in your pretty frocks, and nice hats, and nice shoes and
charming gloves, and also in the little treats at the different tea
shops which I mean to give you all out of dear papa's money--"
"That is, of course, if we don't tell," said Fanchon. "Oh, you can
please yourself about that," said Brenda. "You can tell, and everything
will be at an end. I shall go away from here; I will give him back the
money--I have it in that drawer--and he will take my poor little
character as well, and I'll wander forth into the world, a desolate and
ruined girl. You won't go to the sea--you'll stay at home. You'll have
your victory. In a few weeks a horrid, elderly governess with
spectacles, and perhaps with a squint, will come here. I'm sure your
father will be afraid to get any one young and--and--pretty--again.
When _she_ comes, she will give you--"
"Beans!" said Fanchon. "I know the sort--I--I don't want a horrible
thing like that in the house."
"No--poor Brenda is better than that, isn't she?"
"Oh, Brenda, you _are_ so clever," laughed Fanchon. When Brenda heard
that laugh, she knew that her victory was assured.
"My dear girl," she said, "believe me or not; that was my real reason
for keeping back the money, and your terrible little Nina can keep an
account of all that I spend at Marshlands, and satisfy her wise,
_odious_ little head with the fact that I am not holding back one penny
for myself. She can do that, and you can all have a good time. Now--
what do you say?"
"It sounds--if you had not told that first lie--it sounds almost as if
it could just be believed," said Fanchon.
"It can be acted on, whether it is believed or not," remarked Brenda.
Fanchon was silent. Brenda watched her narrowly. "I have something to
say to you," she remarked, all of a sudden. "Of course you won't speak
to your papa and get me dismissed, and lose all your own fun--no three
girls would be so mad. But I have something more to say. I want _you_,
Fanchon, to be my friend."
"Oh--I!" said Fanchon--"but mice are never friendly with cats, are
they?"
"You mustn't think of me as a cat, dear, nor of yourself as a mouse.
The simile is very painful, and you know how I have talked to you about
the pleasant time I trust to have at Marshlands; and you shall help me,
and look very, very smart when you come out with me in the evenings. Do
you remember my telling you that if you are my friend, I might get you a
little bangle to wear?"
"Oh, yes--but I am certain it would be a horrid gilt thing not worth
anything."
"Fanchon--you _are_ unkind! I told you in the utmost confidence that I
had been left a tiny legacy--a little, _little_ sum of money, very
precious to poor me, but very small. Well, I did not forget my pupil,
and I have bought her a bangle."
"Oh, Brenda, _have_ you?"
"Yes, dear; and it is made of the _best gold_ for the purpose--_eighteen
carat gold_! You must on no account tell the others a single _word_
about it; but I will give it you sometimes to wear when you and I go out
by ourselves in the evenings. It shall shine on your little wrist then,
Fanchon, and--how _sweet_ you will look in it!"
"Oh--but may I see it?" said Fanchon, her lips trembling as she spoke.
"Not until you most faithfully promise that you will not say a word
about it to the other girls. There are, occasionally, times when I may
even want to wear it myself. But it will belong to you--it will be
_your_ property, and when we come back from the sea, I will present it
to you absolutely. Make me a faithful promise that you will say nothing
about the bangle, and you shall constantly wear it when the others are
not looking on--and--when we return, it shall be _yours_!"
"Oh, I promise," said Fanchon. "I expect I was a sort of a brute this
morning--I didn't understand you could be _so_ kind. Are you making a
fool of me, Brenda--do you mean what you say?"
"Of course I mean what I say. You faithfully promise?"
"I _do_--indeed--indeed; and I will explain things to the others, and
I'll force them to believe me--they generally do everything that I wish.
You _will_ buy us all the lovely clothes, won't you, _darling_ Brenda!"
"I have said so, Fanchon."
"And you _will_ take me out in the evenings when the other two are in
bed?"
"Most certainly I will."
"Then I _will_ promise _everything_--I will be your friend through thick
and thin, and I'm awfully sorry I was cross to you and--and disbelieved
you. Of course, I see that dear papa has to be managed; he is so funny
about our dress--so different from other men."
"Your father is a most saint-like man, and you must never say that he is
funny, for that is not right. But saint-like men have to be managed in
this unsaintlike world, that is all, dear--every woman understands that,
she wouldn't be worth her salt if she didn't."
"Please, please show me the bracelet," said Fanchon. Then Brenda went
to the drawer where her treasures were and took out the little old box
where her false jewellery had reposed, and where now the beautiful
bangle lay in all its pristine freshness. She hated beyond words to see
Fanchon even touch it, but she felt that she had to pay this price to
secure her own safety, and she even permitted the girl to clasp it round
her wrist, and to look at it with the colour flaming into her cheeks and
the light of longing in her dull eyes.
"Oh--isn't it just--_too_ perfect!" said Fanchon.
"Be my friend and it shall be yours when we return from the sea. I
bought it for you--for _you_; real, real gold too, of the best quality--
and such an exquisite turquoise! You needn't be ashamed to wear this
_wherever_ you appear--even when, by-and-by, you are married to some
rich, great man, you can still wear the little bracelet--the very best
of its kind. See, I will write your name now before your eyes on the
little box." Brenda took up a pencil and hastily wrote the following
words on the back of the box: "Fanchon Amberley's gold and turquoise
bracelet."
"Why don't you say that you have given it to me?" said Fanchon.
"No, no--I can add that by-and-by. If people happen to ask you the
story about it, it may not be wise for it to appear that such a
beautiful thing was given to you by a poor governess. Well now, here it
is back again in the drawer, and you can go to bed, Fanchon. You are a
very rich girl, and I am not quite as bad as you painted me, am I?"
"No, no!" said Fanchon, who was completely won over, "you're a darling!"
"Not a cat," whispered Brenda--"not a horrid pussy-cat?"
"No--a darling, and my friend," said Fanchon and then she left the room
a little giddily, for the thought of the bracelet seemed to weigh her
down with uncontrollable bliss; she scarcely understood her own
sensations.