Brenda and Fanchon had by no means a very satisfactory evening out.
Harry Jordan was not quite as _empresse_ as usual; the fact being that
he had not the most remote intention of ever asking Brenda to marry him,
and was already turning his attentions to another young lady, much more
in his rank of life.
Joe Burbery did not put in an appearance, and Harry, after walking up
and down the Esplanade two or three times with Brenda and Fanchon,
managed to make his escape to that new siren who was at present
occupying his fickle affections.
Brenda's rage and disappointment scarcely knew any bounds; but she would
not show her feelings for the world, and walked up and down with Fanchon
until the usual hour for retiring.
"It's a great pity one of us had not the bangle on," said the eldest
pupil, as she walked with her governess. "He would have been interested
in that: every one is who sees it--it's so very lovely."
"Think of my giving it to you, Fanchon!" exclaimed Brenda. "Can you
ever thank me enough?"
"I will thank you as long as I live when once you allow me to wear it
properly," said Fanchon.
Brenda made no answer to this.
"We'll go out to-morrow evening, won't we?" asked the young pupil of the
careful governess, "and you'll let me put it on them, won't you, darling
Brenda--darling Brenda!"
"No--I won't--and that's flat!" exclaimed Brenda. "We shall have a very
good time, though, to-morrow, Fanchon; for Harry says that he'll take us
to a play down in the town. There's a very good travelling company now
at Marshlands. You have never seen a play, have you?"
"Indeed, no--how perfectly delightful--I didn't know you had arranged
that!"
"Yes, I have. I think really why he left us was to go at once and
enquire for tickets."
"Oh, no--it wasn't," said Fanchon; "I saw him walking with a girl with
black hair--a very tall, showy-looking girl--and they were laughing
loudly."
Brenda bit her lips. She knew this fact quite well, but had trusted
that Fanchon had not noticed it. When they returned to the house, the
two younger girls were really sound asleep, and Brenda and her pupil got
quietly into bed--Brenda to think of what means she could adopt to bring
fickle Harry, that merchant prince, once again to her side; and Fanchon
to wonder if by any possible plan she could induce Brenda to allow her
to wear the bracelet on the following evening.
Meanwhile, plans were being made in another quarter which were likely to
upset the most astute calculations on the part of Brenda and her eldest
pupil. After breakfast, Mademoiselle managed to have a word alone with
Nina Amberley. There and then, Nina told her that she had discovered
how very wise Mademoiselle was--that Fanchon really had an ugly old
cheap bangle, which she knew only cost a shilling, and that beyond doubt
the said bangle would appear on Nina's wrist that very evening when
Mademoiselle took Josie and herself for their surprise treat.
Mademoiselle could have hugged Nina as she spoke. Little as she cared
for the plain face of that extraordinary child, she thought that same
face almost beautiful at that moment. But she had her work to do. She
meant to be thoroughly sure of her facts; and, after parting from Nina
and cautioning her not to reveal a word but to trust absolutely to the
poor Frenchwoman for an evening of such intense fascination that she
could never forget it as long as she lived, she hurried from the child's
presence, went up to her room, and there she dressed herself in her very
best.
Mademoiselle's best was plain, but it was eminently suitable. She ran
downstairs, and entered Mrs Dawson's parlour.
"I should not be the least surprised," she said in a low voice, "if you
and I, dear Madame, did obtain our little, our very little reward for
the eighteen carat gold bangle with the beautiful turquoise stone in the
clasp. But I tell you no more; only, Madame, you will miss me to-day at
my mid-day meal; for I must repair to Castle Beverley in order to see my
two beloved pupils--Miss Honora and Miss Penelope."
Of course Mrs Dawson was all curiosity, and of course Mademoiselle was
all mystery. Nothing would induce the French governess to reveal so
much as a pin's point of how she knew what she knew. In the end
Mademoiselle departed, making first the necessary proviso that Mrs
Dawson should not repeat to any of the ladies of the _pension_ where the
French governess had gone.
"For the sake of ourselves, it is best not to do so, I you do assure,"
said Mademoiselle, and then she started to walk to Castle Beverley.
Mademoiselle had by no means a good complexion; but then she never
flushed, or looked the least hot; and when that long walk had come to an
end, she had not a speck of dust on her neat black dress, for she had
taken the precaution to bring with her a tiny clothes brush, with which
she carefully removed what she had gathered from the dusty highroad; and
her hair was as fresh as though she had just arranged it before the best
looking-glass in the world. She drew on a pair of new gloves, which she
did not wear while she was walking, and, with her dainty parasol
unfurled, and her exquisite feet perfectly shod, she appeared quite a
stylish-looking person when she enquired of the powdered footman if Miss
Beverley was within.
Yes, Miss Beverley was within. Mademoiselle produced her neat card, and
begged that it might be conveyed to the young lady. Meanwhile, the
servant asked her into one of the sitting-rooms. There, a few minutes
later, Honora joined her.
Honora was not glad to see her, but that did not greatly matter. She
was hospitable to her finger-ends, and would not allow the tired
governess to go away until she was thoroughly refreshed after her long
walk.
"My pupil most dear!" said Mademoiselle, when Honora entered, "I could
not rest so near your home the most beautiful without calling upon you.
Alas, yes! I walked! But what of that, when I had such a joy at the
end of the weary _kilometres_!"
"You must stay now you have come," said Honora. "Will you come into the
garden? It is beautifully cool under the cedar tree, and you will find
most of us there. We shall have lunch by-and-by, and you will not
return until the cool of the evening."
Mademoiselle murmured her thanks, and was very glad to join the others
under the cedar. She made the usual suitable remarks and, as there were
several of her pupils present, they all gave her, more or less, a
cordial welcome.
"I see you not again," she said, tears springing to her eyes. "I return
to my land, heart-rent for the absence of those I so fondly love."
Little Pauline Hungerford had the warmest heart in the world. She did
not like Mademoiselle at all when she was at school, but she was truly
sorry for her now. She ran up to her and flung her arms round her neck.
"Why must you go?" she said. "Is Mrs Hazlitt angry with you?"
"I know not, _mon enfant_. I cannot imagine why I leave the good school
where my loved pupils dwell, but the decree is gone forth, and I must
submit. You will remember me when you conjugate your verbs, my little
Pauline, will you not?"
As Mademoiselle spoke, she passed her arm round the child's waist, and
drew her close to her. The others were now talking to one another at a
little distance.
"You have your pretty bangle on," said the governess. "Have you heard
of the recovery of its--so to speak--twin sister?"
"No, no," said Pauline, "we don't talk of it at all: it is quite lost,
but Nellie is getting good; she doesn't cry any more; she is resigned.
Mother will get her one, I know, to replace the lost one, by-and-by."
"Your sister Nellie is of the angel type; but perhaps--I say not
anything to a certainty--she may be rewarded sooner than she thinks."
"Why, Mademoiselle," cried Pauline, opening her eyes in astonishment,
"do you know anything?"
"Whisper it not, dear. I have at present nothing to say. At
_present_--remember; but there may be news in the future. Allow me, my
little one, to examine your bangle with its heart of the ruby--still
more close than I have hitherto done."
Pauline allowed the bangle to be removed from her wrist Mademoiselle
noticed the curious and very beautiful engraving of the delicate gold.
"And the other was an exact counterpart, was it not?" she queried.
"Precisely the same," said Pauline, "only that it held a turquoise and
mine holds a ruby."
Mademoiselle took a pencil from her pocket, and also a little notebook.
She made some almost invisible tracings in the notebook and then
returned the bangle to Pauline.
"You will speak no words," she said, "but you will cultivate a _soupcon_
of that precious hope which sustains the heart."
Pauline promised, and went away, feeling more uncomfortable than glad.
Mademoiselle spent the rest of her day in quite an agreeable manner.
She had dropped all those traits which had made her disliked at Hazlitt
Chase, and amused the young people by her witty talk and her gay
demeanour. The strange children at Castle Beverley thought her
altogether delightful: her pupils also considered her delightful, but
with a reserve in their minds which confined that delight to holidays
and differentiated it from the working days.
Mademoiselle could not be induced to stay to supper. No, she said she
must hurry home. She was staying in the same house where that sweet
girl, Brenda Carlton, with her dear little pupils, was living.
"I have a small attic there," she said humbly. "The terms are moderate,
and I am filled with sweet content. But I have promised to take some
disconsolate little children for a treat to-night, and I would not
disappoint them for the world."
To Penelope, Mademoiselle hardly spoke; but before she went away, she
went up to the young lady and uttered some extravagant words of praise
of her sister.
"But you yourself are coming to see us. We look forward to your visit
with the delight supreme," said Mademoiselle.
"I am coming in to Marshlands to-morrow," said Penelope. "Brenda has
asked me to spend a part of the day there."
Mademoiselle expressed her increased pleasure at this news, and
presently took her departure, walking back again all the way to
Marshlands. But on the middle of the dusty highroad she took out her
notebook, and carefully examined the little drawing she had made in it.
She gave a low laugh of absolute contentment; and when she sat down to
the supper table in the boarding-house, there was no person more
cheerful or who looked more absolutely fresh than Mademoiselle.