Notwithstanding that fear, however, on the following morning the pretty
governess looked gay enough. They were to have a delightful day; there
was no real danger; no one could prove in all the world that the bangle
was not her own, or at least, her pupil's. But she would not allow
Fanchon to wear it again. She must not be seen in it, that was plain.
As the horrid, odious thing was being advertised for, it was highly
dangerous that Fanchon should wear it. Brenda could not enough regret
her imprudence in having allowed her pupil to appear in it on the
previous night. But how could she guess that that uninteresting youth,
Joe Burbery, would have noticed it and seen the advertisement--the
advertisement! oh, how perfectly dreadful! Why did rich people bother
when they lost such a simple thing as a little gold bangle with a blue
stone in it? Why could not they allow poor folks to have their chances?
And Joe Burbery had seen--had seen--this horrible advertisement! Well,
of course that meant nothing at all. Brenda could not guess that a far
worse enemy in the shape of Mrs Dawson had also observed it. All she
could do at present was to lock the bangle carefully up in one of the
drawers of the humble little chest of drawers which the four had to
share between them in their horrible hot bedroom.
She whispered a word to Fanchon not to breathe the subject of the bangle
at the Castle, promising her as a reward that it should be hers
absolutely, all the sooner. She then proceeded to make a most careful
toilet herself and to superintend those of her pupils. She was really
anxious that the three little Amberleys should look their best on this
occasion. So she took their red hair out of the tight plaits in which
they generally wore it, and combed it out and caused it to ripple down
their backs.
This delighted Fanchon, and also Josephine, but Nina was greatly
bothered by the heat of her thick fleece of red hair and would have
infinitely preferred its being plaited tightly and tied with the old
brown ribbon which generally adorned it. Nevertheless, when Brenda
assured her that she was most elegant and altogether superior to most
girls in her appearance, she decided to endure the unwonted heat.
A carriage from the neighbouring livery stables was sent for, and the
three drove off in state to Castle Beverley, just in time to arrive on
the scene between twelve and one o'clock; and Mrs Dawson, Miss Price,
Mrs Simpkins, and all the little Simpkinses saw them off and wished
them well, and a happy day; and when the carriage had turned the corner,
Mrs Dawson was congratulated by the other ladies on her distinguished
visitors. Mrs Dawson, however, made few replies, for she was
considerably occupied with the thought of that advertisement and what it
meant, and how it was that a commonplace child like Fanchon Amberley
should wear so handsome a bangle.
"For my poor husband was in the jewellery line when he lived," thought
the widow to herself, "and I know the best gold and real good stones
when I see them."
Mrs Dawson's feelings, however, have little to do with the really
interesting events of this wonderful July day. The colour rose
becomingly into Brenda's cheeks as she thought of all that lay before
her, and when the hackney carriage drew up outside the Beverleys' house,
she stepped lightly to the ground, and her pupils, with extreme
awkwardness, followed her example. Josephine managed, in her exit from
the carriage, to tear her delaine frock, which was decidedly annoying;
but nothing else untoward occurred.
Honora was there and so was Penelope, and so were several other of the
girls; and they all swept Brenda and her little charges under their
wings. Honora saw that the torn flounce was immediately mended, and
then they went into the cool shady grounds. The three little Amberleys
were introduced to girls corresponding to themselves in age, and were
led away to enjoy several games. Fanchon for a time tried to observe
the grown-up manners which Brenda had endeavoured to instil. She could
not forget, either, that on the previous night she had worn a real gold
bangle, and talked to a real man--for seventeen years of age seemed very
old and grown-up to her fourteen summers.
But Josie and Nina had no intention of doing anything but enjoy
themselves. After the first few minutes of shyness, Nina complained
bitterly of the heat of her hair and said she wished Brenda had not
taken it out of its plaits.
"Why," asked little Nellie Hungerford--"don't you always wear it like
that down your back!"
"Oh, never," answered Nina. "It's screwed up into tight, tight plaits,
and tied with some sort of string at the end. That's how I like it,"
she answered. "I _am_ so hot with it falling all over my neck and
shoulders--I wish I could cut it off."
"Oh, no--it is so pretty," said Nellie. "I tell you what," she added,
"I'll plait it for you, if you like."
"Will you!" answered Nina, "I wish you would."
"All right--I'll do it right away, this very minute. And, Pauline
darling, you can run into the house for a piece of ribbon. What colour
do you want, Nina?"
"Oh, anything will do," said Nina--"a bit of grass, anything."
"Well, I tell you what," said Nellie; "we are a good way from the house
at present, and I have some string in my pocket, so we'll tie it with
that, and afterwards you shall have a piece of ribbon before we go down
to lunch."
So Nina's hot, red hair was very badly and unevenly plaited. It hung
rather crooked, much more to the left shoulder than to the right, and
the string was not becoming, but that did not matter at all to the
emancipated little girl.
When Nellie had plaited Nina's hair, she suggested that she should
perform the same office for the other two girls. Josie longed to
accept, but did not dare. Fanchon answered, "No, thank you, I prefer my
hair down until I can put it up properly. I long for the day when I can
put my hair up. Don't you?" she added, looking round at the little
group who were surveying her.
"Indeed, no," answered both the little Hungerfords. "We should hate to
be grown up. We love being children, don't we, Pauline?"
"Yes, yes," said Pauline. It was just then that her beautiful little
bangle with its ruby heart flashed in the sun. Fanchon noticed it; it
was so very like her own--so like, but with a marked difference. She
could not help saying:
"What a very pretty bangle you have got!"
"Yes--isn't it?" said Pauline, but she spoke in a low voice, and pulled
Fanchon a little aside. "Don't speak of it, please," she said. "I
often feel that I oughtn't to wear it."
"Do you, indeed?" said Fanchon, "I can't understand why. It looks most
elegant, and it gives such tone, doesn't it, now?"
"I don't know anything about that," said Pauline; "it is just a pretty
little ornament. Mother gave it to me."
"Well, I'm sure you ought to wear what your mother gave you. It must be
so sweet to get presents of that kind; why don't you like to?"
"I will tell you, if you'll not say anything about it, and at the same
time, when I tell you, I want you to promise me something."
Fanchon coloured with delight. Pauline belonged to the county, and
there was quite a subtle difference between her and Miss Fanchon
Amberley, which that young lady herself appreciated, struggled against,
and detested, all at the same time.
"Of course I won't tell," she said, "it is very nice of you to trust me.
Have you a secret? It seems to me that most people have."
"Oh dear, no; I haven't any secret in all the world," said Pauline. "I
wouldn't; it'd be too horrid."
"Then why mustn't I tell what you say?"
"Because it would hurt my darling Nellie?"
"Your sister?"
"Yes."
"And why ever would it hurt her? Is she jealous because you have got
something--something so very, very pretty, and so--so--`chic'?"
"I hate that word," said Pauline, restlessly. "Well, I'll just tell you
the reason. I tell you because perhaps you will beg your sisters not to
notice my bangle--I would so much rather they didn't. The reason is
this. Darlingest mother went to Paris not long ago and bought a bangle
for each of us, one with a red stone--this ruby you see--for me, and one
with the most lovely blue turquoise for Nellie, because Nellie's
birthday is in December, and that is the month for turquoises, and
people who are born in December have the right to wear turquoises. And
what do you think? Darling Nellie's bangle is lost. We can't imagine
what's become of it?"
"Is it being advertised in the paper?" asked Fanchon, opening her eyes
very wide.
"Yes, of course it is. Have you seen the advertisement?"
"No, I haven't, but I--I met a ma--a person last night and he--the
person, I mean--saw the advertisement and--and--told me. I am so sorry,
I hope you will get it back."
"No--I am afraid we never will. The advertisement has been out some
days now, and there has been no answer."
"Who do you think took it?" asked Fanchon.
"Oh, one of the railway officials--it's awful to think that those men
should be so dishonest, but we're certain it must be one of them, or, of
course it _might_ be a passenger in the train. Fred knows all about it.
Fred thinks it must have been a passenger, but mother thinks it was an
official. Anyhow, that doesn't greatly matter, does it? Some one is a
thief, and darling Nellie is without her bangle. I would much rather
not wear mine--I really would--but mother insists, and I _think_ she
will get another for Nellie some day--that is, if Nellie is brave and
doesn't mind too much. But the loss of it has quite told upon her, and
she isn't half as good as she used to be, that's why I don't want you to
speak of it."
"Oh, of course I won't. I am immensely interested," said Fanchon. "I
do hope they'll find it; I should think they'll be sure to. What was it
like, exactly? do you mind telling me?"
"Exactly like this; do you notice the beautiful carving all round the
gold? and the gold is the best that can be procured, and the stone was
exactly the size of my ruby. I am July, you know, so the ruby is my
stone. Well, well--we had better not say any more about it now--"
"I have a bangle of my own," suddenly said Fanchon.
"Have you?"
"Yes--but I mustn't tell you about it. I ought not even to have
mentioned that I have one. It was given to me by--by--a great friend.
I prize it dearly. I longed and longed to wear it to-day, but I was not
allowed."
"Who wouldn't let you wear it?" asked Pauline.
"My governess--Miss Carlton. She said that little girls didn't wear
jewellery. But you are younger than me, and you have your bangle on. I
do _wish_ Miss Carlton would have let me wear mine! It is--oh--I
_should_ like to describe it!"
Pauline looked at her attentively.
"Well," she said, "why don't you--that is, if you want to."
She was not really interested in Fanchon's bangle.
"I oughtn't to have said anything, even that I possessed it, and you
must promise that you won't mention it. I had no right to let it out--
no right at all; my--my friend would be so dreadfully angry--you will
promise you won't tell?"
"Of course I won't tell."
Pauline spoke in an offended, off-hand manner. She was not at all taken
with Fanchon.
"Come," she said, "I won't tell about your bangle, and you will ask your
sisters not to mention mine. Now we must join the others. They're
going to have a game I know, under the trees."
Fanchon followed her companion. She felt a queer sense of excitement,
but not the most remote suspicion of the real truth entered her mind.
Meanwhile Honora, who wished to do everything in her power to make her
visitors happy, arranged that Brenda and Penelope should be left quite
undisturbed together. Penelope was not too happy at this idea, but as
she could not possibly make any excuse for avoiding her dear Brenda, she
was obliged to submit to it.
"Why are we to be left all alone?" said Brenda, whose restless eyes had
roved over the entire company, and had evidently thought Penelope the
person least worth conversing with.
"It is Honora," replied Penelope at once. "She thinks that, as we are
sisters, we ought to be glad to have a little time together all by
ourselves. After lunch at one--we can join the others if you wish it."
"Of course I wish it," said Brenda. "I have nothing special to say to
you, Penelope; have you anything special to say to me?"
"No, nothing at all," said Penelope, a lump coming into her throat.
"Well, shall we join the others, then! There are such a lot of them
talking under that oak tree."
"It might look a little queer," said Penelope, "and lunch will be quite
soon. Let's walk about under these trees; we shall be quite in the
shade."
"Well--if we are to appear devoted sisters, let us play the part," said
Brenda, crossly. "After all," she added, after a moment's reflection,
"I am glad to have a few words with you, Pennie, for I want you to help
me all you possibly can."
"I can't do anything more, I really can't," said Penelope, her eyes
growing dark with alarm. "I got you that twenty pounds, and I don't
think I shall ever be happy again!"
"Oh--what a little goose you are! How you harp upon that trifle!--and
how far do you think twenty pounds will go in the case of a girl who
wants every single thing that a girl ought to have? I thought this
dress,"--Brenda looked at her spotted white muslin--"was really quite
`chic' until I saw Honora Beverley's. I must say I don't like Honora
Beverley--of course you won't whisper it, darling--but she always
manages to put me in the shade. On the day of your fete when I wore my
pale blue silk, her real Parisian lace made me look commonplace. And
now, to-day, her white muslin must have cost pounds more than mine. It
is disgusting to be trammelled like this, and I am sure I am fifty times
prettier."
"Don't, Brenda!" said Penelope, suddenly. As she spoke, she laid her
hand on her sister's arm.
"What do you mean by `don't'? Why do you look at me in that queer way?"
"Because I can't bear you to talk like that--what's the good of fighting
and struggling for the impossible? You are not born in Honora's rank of
life, and you can never aim at dressing like her. You look very--yes,
very--"
"You needn't say it!" said Brenda, her eyes flashing with passion. "I
know what you think of me--I saw it in your face when I came up. You
are ashamed of me! It's a nice thing for one sister to be ashamed of
another, and I do my best--my very best--and you know what I wanted that
money for--you know it quite well. I could cry, but it would spoil my
eyes, and my eyes are my best point I mustn't shed a tear, though tears
are choking me, and I could--oh--I could sob--at your treating me like
this, when you know, too--"
"What do I know, Brenda? Brenda, what have I done?"
"You show it all in your voice, and in your eyes, and in your manner--
you're bitterly ashamed of me!"
"I should be very simple in my dress, if I were in your place," said
Penelope, "that is all."
"What can be simpler in all the world than sprigged white muslin with
blue ribbons and a blue straw hat with blue bows to match? If I could
think for ever, I could not imagine anything simpler."
"But all the blue ribbons--there are such a lot of them, Brenda. With a
white hat, it would have been sweet. But, never mind--of course you're
very pretty."
"Thank you for nothing, my dear--I don't owe my face to you, and I
wouldn't change it for yours, I can tell you."
"But tell me what you mean, for indeed, indeed I would help you, in the
right way, all I could."
"I hate that solemn, sanctimonious manner in which you are getting to
speak. You used to be such a nice, loving little thing, and for _you_
to reproach me for asking you to struggle to get me a miserable twenty
pounds--why, you know I told you that I hoped to be engaged soon. If
that comes off--and I see every likelihood of it, for he is very
_empresse_--I shall have as many jewels and dresses and furbelows as
your precious Honora, and perhaps more. And I'll be able to help you,
so you'd better not cast me aside."
"Am I casting you off, Brenda? This is only my second day at Castle
Beverley, and you and your pupils are spending it here."
"Yes, I know that, and I suppose I ought not to complain. But the fact
is, it does make me cross to see the difference between this place and
the horrid den in which I have to live at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. I
shall get Harry--his name is Harry, but you mustn't breathe it--to buy a
castle like this for me to live in when I am married. He can well
afford it, for he is a--"
"Is his name Harry?" asked Penelope, impressed by what seemed to her the
romance of a real love story.
"Yes--I told you so."
"And his surname?"
"I had better not breathe that yet. You mustn't know him really until
we are properly engaged. He is exceedingly good-looking, of the blond
type. He is--oh--somebody who will probably be a baronet. They make
very rich City magnates--I think they are called--baronets now, and I
shall be Lady--oh, I mustn't breathe the name. But listen; I want him
to come to the point."
"Why--hasn't he asked you yet?" exclaimed Penelope.
"Hush, child! don't talk so loud! What an indelicate way you have of
approaching the subject; you take the bloom off it--you really do. But
you know, notwithstanding his enormous wealth, he has lofty ideas, and
would be greatly impressed if he thought I was thick with the people
here; so I want you to have me asked very often. And there's another
thing; I should so like you to have us sent back in one of the carriages
this evening."
"Oh, Brenda! Didn't you desire the carriage you came in to call for
you?"
"Of course I didn't--you horrid little thing! Do you suppose I can run
to the expense? Really, Penelope, you are too trying. I didn't desire
the carriage to call--certainly not. If these grand people will see
their humble visitors walking back to Marshlands in the heat of a
summer's evening, why, they must--that's all. I should have thought
that my sister could have managed differently."
"I can't--I can't," said Penelope. "I hate asking favours. They're
so--just more than--kind. Couldn't we send a message to Marshlands? I
am sure a servant will be going in after lunch and I--I--would pay--I've
got a few shillings."
But this idea did not at all suit Brenda.
"No," she said stoutly. "Nothing will induce me to take your money. If
we're not driven in, in one of the Beverley carriages--we'll walk--we'll
arrive dusty and worn out, and wretched at Mrs Dawson's--that is our
landlady's odious name. But what I really desire is to have one of the
Beverley carriages, and for--for my Harry to see me in it. I do think
it would have a most excellent effect on him; he is so wonderfully
impressed by real style--I never knew anything like it."
"Well," said Penelope, "I really don't know how it is to be done.
There's the gong for lunch. Shall we go into the house!"
Neither girl looked too happy during this meal; but Brenda contrived to
get herself placed at table as far as possible from Penelope and as near
to Fred as she could. She joked and laughed with Fred Hungerford, and
he thought her a very pretty girl indeed. After lunch, however, he and
his brother were obliged to go to Marshlands to see some friends. He
mentioned this fact with regret to Brenda, who had hoped that he was
going to be her partner in a game of tennis.
"I can't," he said--"it is a long engagement, and I can't break it. I
should like to awfully; but of course you'll come another day; I know my
aunt will be delighted to ask you. We're so glad to have your sister
with us--we think she is such a very nice girl."
"So she is--a sweet girl--a noble girl," said Brenda. She looked
thoughtfully round her: there was no one exactly in sight.
"I made such an idiotic mistake this morning," she said. "I wonder--if
you would help me--I scarcely know how to manage."
"Why--what did you do? and what can I do for you! I am sure I shall be
quite pleased."
"I forgot to desire the cab from town to return for us. Would you--or
could you--send a message to the livery stables to tell them to come
here at--oh, I don't know what hour we're expected to leave."
"Not until dark--I'm certain, and of course you must have one of the
carriages here. Wait a minute, and I'll speak to my uncle."
Young Hungerford crossed the hall. He met the squire, and said a few
words to him. The squire slightly raised his brows.
"She ought not to have done it," he said. "I don't much admire that
young lady; but of course, Fred, we'll see her home--you just tell her
so. And now get off, my dear lad, and enjoy yourself. The Calverts
expect you and Jim quite early."
"I'll just mention it to Miss Carlton--it'll relieve her, poor thing,"
said the young fellow. "She only forgot, you know."
"Not a bit of it," muttered the squire.
But Fred did not hear this remark, and, going back to Brenda, he set her
mind at rest on the subject of the carriage.
"It is all right," he said. "And now I must be off, really. There is
Pauline. Pauline, come along here. Will you take Miss Carlton out to
the others?"
"Please, will you come?" said Pauline.
She did not look too pleased. Brenda was quick to recognise the fact,
and, as the boys had all dispersed, she did not find the rest of the day
so agreeable as she had hoped, although the girls did their very utmost
for their visitors. The little Amberleys were really enjoying
themselves. Even Fanchon forgot that she was anything but a small and
ignorant girl. She shrieked with laughter when Josie did, and as to
Nina, she romped round and round wildly with her red hair in its crooked
plait and still tied at the end by the piece of string; for all the
children had forgotten the piece of ribbon which was to have graced it
at lunch. Brenda almost cried when she saw her pupil. Her first
impulse was to call the child to her side, but she restrained herself.
She was in too bad humour to care. Nothing that could be done would
ever make the Amberleys look the least like the Hungerfords or the
Beverleys, or the Beverleys' friends. There was Mary L'Estrange, with
her interesting face, and there was Cara Burt, who looked both haughty
and distinguished. Even she herself was nobody in the midst of this
group.
But the strange thing was that Penelope, whom no one took any trouble
about, whose dress was of the very plainest imaginable, seemed quite at
her ease and was perfectly friendly with all the other girls.
"But she's such a plain little thing," thought Brenda. "Of course she
is wonderfully fair, but then she has no colour anywhere, nor any
distinguished touches, and that white linen drew doesn't suit her one
bit. But all the same, she looks as I don't look--I wish I could make
it out--I hate being in this place, and yet, I must make myself
agreeable, for I want them to ask me again and again."
The long day came to an end, as the longest, brightest days will. There
was early supper for the children, who did not partake of late dinner
with their elders. This fact alone somewhat offended Brenda, who
thought that there might have been an exception made in her favour; and
after supper, when it was really cool and delightful, Honora came up to
the young lady's side and asked her what hour she would like the
wagonette to come round.
"It is our small wagonette, but it'll hold you four nicely," she said.
"Father tells me that you forgot to order your carriage to return, and
of course we are delighted to send you back to Marshlands."
"I should like your carriage at any time that suits yourself," replied
Brenda.
"Will eight o'clock do?" asked Honora.
Brenda made a careful calculation. Harry would probably be going on the
Esplanade about eight or soon after. She was quite determined that the
coachman should drive them round in that direction. She meant the
coachman to draw up in order that she might speak to Harry. That, at
least, she might achieve at the end of her long and unsatisfactory day.
So she said, in a meek voice, that she was very, very sorry to trouble
the Beverleys, that it was very stupid of her to forget to order her own
carriage to return, that her poor little head did often ache so badly
with the care of her pupils--and so on, and so on, until Honora wondered
when her regrets would end.
"It doesn't matter at all," she said, in her pleasant, well-bred voice;
"we are delighted to send you back, of course, and I hope you have
enjoyed your day."
"Yes, thank you so much: your home is so delightful--so different from
most places where I have the misfortune to live. And then to see my
darling sister so perfectly happy--I am greatly obliged. I hope," she
added suddenly, "that you will permit Penelope to come to see us some
day at Marshlands. We shan't have much to offer her, but just a hearty
welcome and the love of her sister."
"You had best come out here again; it would be fifty times better," said
Honora. "However, you will let us know; and now I'll just run and
desire them to bring the wagonette round. Why, it's five minutes to
eight."
Honora ran immediately out of the room and Penelope came in.
"Well, Pen--I've got my way. I managed the carriage, you see, although
you, strange, callous little thing, would not ask for it for me. But I
have a champion in that handsome Fred Hungerford, and I've been
practically asked here again. But now, look here--you must help me
whether you like it or not. Listen. I shall write to you in a day or
two asking you to come to spend the day at Palliser Gardens, where we
put up. You'll just know what it is if you spend one day with us.
You'll know what it is to be stuffy and hot, and to have horrid food,
and you'll see our miserable attic bedroom where we sleep all four
together. You dare not refuse: you wouldn't be quite so mean as that;
and after you've come to us, and have got back again, you've got to make
the worst of it; and then I'll ask you again, and when I ask you the
second time, you've to see that we come here instead. Well, I think
that is all. You know your duty. Whether you are ashamed of me or not,
I am your only sister. Oh, here come my little charges: what frights,
to be sure! Nina, _do_ put your hat on straight and let me take that
string from your hair--you utterly ridiculous child!"
Brenda pulled Nina with great firmness towards her, unplaited the shaggy
mane, and let it fall once more over the child's shoulders. Then the
wagonette was heard approaching and Mrs Beverley said good-night to her
visitors, and all the children of the Castle clustered around. Just at
the last instant, Fanchon flew up to Pauline and whispered in her ear:
"I _should_ like to describe my bangle to you, but I--I just--dare not.
But thank you for having given us all such a scrumptious day!"
They got into the wagonette. The carriage rolled down the avenue and
Brenda immediately enquired of Fanchon what secrets she had been pouring
into little Miss Hungerford's ears.
"Oh, something that concerns--a--a friend of mine," said Fanchon,
looking wicked and mysterious; and Brenda suddenly remembered the bangle
and felt crosser than ever. But, after all, she had her consolation,
for the band was playing its very best as they passed the Esplanade, and
there was Harry standing talking and smoking with some other men.
Brenda immediately pulled the check string and beckoned him. He came
forward in delight and confusion.
"I shall be too tired to see you this evening, Mr Jordan," said Brenda.
"Drive on please, coachman. We have been having a delightful day," she
called out, as the man took her at her word, "at Castle Beverley."
"She _is_ a stunner!" said Joe Burbery to his friend. "And what swells
she knows! I say, old man, I have seldom seen such a ripping girl!"