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 am _not_ Helen of Troy--I don't
wish to be called by that odious name."
"But you _were_ so 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 pique 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. I _should_ like 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,
you _are_ good! 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 were _not_ at Marshlands; but I suppose I _can't_ have
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 a _petite_ like 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 a
_petite_ in 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 more _les enfants_ in this school.' She gave no reason, but
say, `I find another and you teach no more!' Who was that spiteful and
most _mechant enfant_ who 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 our _dejeuner_--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 English
_domestiques_! I return to my own adorable land and partake of the
_ragouts_ so delicate and the _bouillon_ so fragrant and the _omelettes_
so 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 so _triste_ and
execrable--is that I should remain here in this so gloomy climate, far,
far from my beloved land, with you--the most _ennuyeuse_ of 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, my
_triste_ pupil, 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 very _triste_ little girl--an _enfant_ indistinguishable,
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 pupil _magnifique_, and so beautiful! She has the air
distinguished and the manner noble. She belongs to the rich and to the
great. _She_ takes _you_ up--but _pourquoi_?"
"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 me _mal a la tete_ even 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 so _superieure_. 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 so _triste_, 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 the _rendezvous_ where 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 so _mechante_?"
"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 that _enfant_ so
_magnifique_, 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 less _triste_ time 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 my _solitaire_ position 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 for _appartements_ that 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
humble _appartements_ by 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!"