The Amberleys were really fond of each other. They were worldly little
creatures, and had never been trained in high principles of any sort;
but they clung together, as motherless, defenceless creatures will in
their hour of peril. They had a queer feeling now that they were in
some sort of danger, and the younger ones sympathised enormously with
Fanchon.
They did not of course dare to tell her what had happened on the
previous night--how Nina had worn the bangle, the real eighteen carat
gold bangle, the bangle with the turquoise of such size and elegance, of
such an exquisite shade of colour, the bangle with that delicate tracery
all over its gold rim. That bangle was so widely different from this,
that there was no doubt whatever that the one had been substituted for
the other. How had it been done? Mademoiselle? Oh, no, no. Nina
looked at Josephine, and Josephine was afraid to meet Nina's eyes, as
the thoughts flashed quickly through each little brain.
Mademoiselle had helped them to undress. Mademoiselle had herself put
the precious bangle away. But no--she was kind--more than kind. It
could not be in the heart of such a woman to do anything so shabby.
Nevertheless, the thought of Mademoiselle's past treachery had come to
both the little sisters, and they hated themselves for it, and feared to
glance at each other, and above all things dreaded what Fanchon might be
thinking about. Fanchon was, however, far too miserable to worry
herself with regard to her little sisters' thoughts.
"I cannot make it out," she said. "Of course I shall have to speak to
poor Brenda about it."
"Perhaps Brenda did it herself," said Nina then. It was an audacious
and very wicked thought which had come to the little girl, but she was
really intensely anxious to shield Mademoiselle at that moment. The
words she uttered bore some fruit, for Fanchon considered them very
carefully, and said aloud:
"If I really thought that--"
"What would you do if you did think that?" asked Josephine.
"I should go straight home to papa, and tell him everything--
everything!" was Fanchon's answer.
"But have you a great deal to tell him?"
"I have--oh, I have. I am a miserable girl! That odious--that vulgar--
that detestable bangle--is _that_ what I am to have in the end? She
probably did _exchange_ it for the real one, because she wanted to wear
the real one herself. Oh, girls--how am I to endure it!"
"Buck up, whatever you do," said Nina; "and remember your promise."
"Oh--how I hate promises!" said Fanchon. "I want to fly at her now,
horrid thing! and confront her with the truth."
"Well, you can't anyhow for the present, on account of your promise,"
said Josie.
"Perhaps to-night you may talk to her, but certainly not before; and
it's time for us to be going down to the sands," said Nina. "We'll lose
all our morning's fun if we don't. I want to get some of those buns
from the little old woman who brings them round in her basket. I'll get
Brenda to buy them for us; I'm ever so hungry, and I'm not going to be
afraid of Brenda to-day."
"You'll have to take your notebook," said Fanchon; and then she gave a
half-laugh.
"I!" exclaimed Nina. "Not I. I think the time of tyranny with Brenda
is nearly over."
The girls put on their hats, and strolled down to the beach. Brenda was
there looking quite happy and unconcerned. She called Fanchon a little
aside, and desired the younger girls to amuse themselves building
castles in the sand.
"I am too old for that," said Josephine.
"Not a bit," exclaimed Brenda. "How ridiculous you are! you are nothing
but a baby. Anyhow, please yourselves, both of you, for I want to talk
to Fanchon."
"It's horrid, the way you make Fanchon grown-up, and make Nina and me
quite little babies!" said Josie.
But Brenda looked troubled, and was quite indifferent to her small
pupil's remarks with regard to her conduct.
"I tell you what," she said, after a pause. "You may do anything you
like on the sands, only don't wander too far."
"There's Betty with her tray of cakes!" exclaimed Nina. "May we have a
bun each, Brenda? Will you give us money to buy a bun each?"
Curious to relate, Brenda complied. She gave Nina the necessary pence,
and did not even refer to the obnoxious notebook. The moment the little
girls were out of sight, she turned to her elder pupil.
"I met Harry to-day; he was quite contrite and nice. I feel almost
certain he'll ask me to marry him. I mean to go out without you this
evening, and I mean to wear the bangle. I think the bangle will quite
clinch matters. Harry thinks I am poor; but I don't want him to do so.
Why, what's the matter, Fanchon?"
"Oh, nothing," said Fanchon, making an effort to conceal her feelings.
"Have you a headache, dear? are you ill?"
"I am not ill," said Fanchon, "but I have a little headache--the sun is
very hot," she added.
"I shall take Penelope with me this evening--that's a good idea," said
Brenda, suddenly. "I shall keep her for the night; I mean to force her
to stay. She's got a very stylish air about her, which you, poor
Fanchon, don't possess, and what with Penelope and the bangle--"
"I thought you didn't want Penelope to know about the bangle."
"No more I do; but I shall manage just to let him see a gleam of it when
she is not looking. You haven't the least idea how to arrange these
sort of things, my dear child; but doubtless some day you will.
However, now it's almost time to hurry home. My little Fanchon shall
have that beautiful bangle all for herself when the holidays are over."
Fanchon gave quite an audible sniff.
"What a very unpleasant noise you make, dear Fanchon."
"Oh, I can't help it," replied Fanchon, and she stuck her head high in
the air and looked so repellent that her governess wondered she had ever
been bothered by her.
When the girls returned to the _pension_, they found Penelope awaiting
them. She wore a brown holland frock, quite neat, but very plain. Her
soft, very fair hair was arranged tidily round her head, also with the
least attempt at display. She was a singularly unobtrusive-looking
girl, and, beside Brenda, she was, as the ladies of the _pension_
exclaimed, "nowhere." They all criticised her, however, very deeply,
for had she not come from Castle Beverley? By slow degrees, too, they
began to discover virtues in her, the sort of virtues they could never
aspire to. She was so gentle in conversation, and had such a low, sweet
voice. She was very polite, also, and talked for a long time to Miss
Price, seeming, by her manner, to enjoy this woman's society. Mrs
Simpkins looked her up and looked her down, and said to herself that
although not pretty, she was "genteel," and to be genteel, you had to
possess something which money could not buy. The good woman made a
further discovery--that pretty, showy Brenda was not genteel.
Mademoiselle was also reading Penelope from quite a new point of view.
She had already gauged to a great extent her pupil's character, and what
she saw to-day gave her pleasure rather than otherwise. She talked to
her, however, very little, and put herself completely into the shade.
When the meal was over, Brenda spoke to her sister.
"I want you to stay for the night," she said. "We can send a telegram
to the Castle to say that I have kept you. I want you to stay a bit,
Pen; you will, won't you?"
"I am afraid I can't, for Honora wants me to go home."
"You call Castle Beverley home?"
"Just for the present, and it is nice to feel that I can speak of it as
such."
The other ladies lingered round for a minute or so, but having no excuse
to listen to Brenda and Penelope, they retired, leaving the two sisters
and the three Misses Amberley alone.
"Children, you would like Pen to stay, wouldn't you?"
"Oh, yes, of course," said Fanchon.
"And you three could just for one night sleep all together."
"It wouldn't be at all comfortable," said Nina, "but I suppose we
could."
"You would have to sleep at the foot, Nina," said Fanchon.
"All right," said Nina, "I'd like that best, for I could kick you both
if you were troublesome."
"I certainly can't stay," remarked Penelope. "I promised to come to you
for part of a day, Brenda, and surely we can say all we want to say
between now and nightfall."
"You are horribly disobliging," said Brenda.
"The carriage is coming for me too," exclaimed Penelope; "I really must
go back."
"You could send a note quite well, that is, if you were really nice."
The five girls had now gone upstairs, Mademoiselle had retired to her
stifling attic. Mademoiselle was hiding her time. After a little
further conversation Brenda perceived that it was quite useless to
expect Penelope to remain for the night in the boarding-house, and
accordingly, with extreme sulkiness, gave up her plan of impressing
Harry with the elegant demeanour of her own sister that night. The next
best thing, however, was to take Penelope for a walk. This she
proceeded to do. The girls were told they might amuse themselves, which
they did by locking themselves into their bedroom and examining the two
brooches and the false bangle until they were fairly weary of the
subject. Each girl in turn tried on the brooches, and each girl slipped
the bangle on her wrist to shoot it off the next moment in horror and
let it lie on the floor.
"Ugly, coarse, common thing!" said Fanchon. "Oh! when I remember my
beauty, you can't even imagine, girls, what it was like."
"But it seems so ridiculous that Brenda could have given it to you,"
said Nina. "Brenda might rise to a shilling thing, but as to the bangle
you describe--"
"Well, well--I know nothing about it," exclaimed Fanchon. "I only know
that she did give it to me. Perhaps she inherited it from a relation.
She wanted me to be friends with her, anyhow, and so she gave it to me,
although I was not to have it for my absolute very, very own until we
return to Harroway."
"Well--I shouldn't think you would much value _that_ thing!" exclaimed
Nina, kicking the false bangle across the room with her foot.
Josie ran and picked it up.
"It's better than nothing," she cried, "but of course it is common. Now
of course our brooches--"
"Your brooches are common too," said Fanchon.
"No, they're not; they're very, very elegant: any one would take them to
be real."
"What--without the hall-mark?" queried Fanchon.
"People as a rule don't ask you to take your brooch off in order to see
the hall-mark!" exclaimed Josie. "Don't be silly, Fanchon, you can
never wear that bangle, for it is too coarse for anything. But we can,
and _will_--wear our brooches. We'll wear them every Sunday regularly,
when we get home. And won't the children at Sunday school be impressed!
I can fancy I see all their eyes resting on mine--I think mine with the
pearls is even more elegant than Nina's with the turquoise."
"Well, come out now," said Fanchon. "The whole thing is disgusting. Of
course Brenda will discover very soon that the bangle is changed."
"She won't be surprised, because she did it herself," said Nina.
"No--that she didn't! I am certain sure she would not be quite so
mean--I don't believe it of her!" exclaimed Fanchon.
The three little Amberleys walked and talked alone that afternoon, while
Brenda and Penelope sat on the quay. Brenda earnestly hoped that the
redoubtable Harry would pass that way and see her with her elegant
sister.
"I always did think you a fearfully plain girl, Penelope," said her
sister, "and of course you are plain. But you are mixing in such good
society that it is beginning to affect you. You seem to me to have
undergone a sort of transformation. You are--of course you're quite
ugly still; but you are--I can't explain what it is--different from the
rest of us."
"You don't look too happy, Brenda," was Penelope's next remark.
"I happy?" answered Brenda. "Oh--I'm well enough."
"We're very happy at the Castle," continued Penelope. "Honora is so
sweet, and all the other children are nice, and--I wish you could know
something of our life--it is a little bit higher than this, somehow."
Brenda kicked a pebble restlessly away with the toe of her smart shoe.
"I am not suited for that sort of life," she said. "I don't care for
your Castle, but all the same, I think you may as well get me invited
there again. What day can we come?"
"I don't know: how can I get invitations for you?"
"You'll be perfectly horrid if you don't--it is your duty to give your
own, own sister a good time."
"Oh, Brenda--if only you'd be different!"
"I don't want to be different, thank you; I enjoy myself, on the whole,
very well."
"You don't look too happy: you seem sort of worried," and Penelope gave
a sigh and laid her hand on Brenda's arm.
"When _he_ proposes, it'll be all right," said Brenda. "It was on
account of him that I wanted you to stay. I don't want to be governess
any more. I want to be married and to have my fun like other girls; and
he is awfully rich--Oh--I do declare! Yes--it is--why, there is Mr
Fred Hungerford and his brother!"
Brenda bridled, and drew herself up. Young Hungerford approached. He
took off his hat to both the girls, and presently he and his brother and
Brenda and Penelope were chatting in the most amicable way together.
While they were thus employed--Brenda's face now radiant with smiles,
her eyes bright with merriment, and even Penelope laughing and chatting
in the most natural way in the world--who should pass by but Harry
Jordan and his friend, Joe Burbery. Brenda felt that she would like to
cut Harry Jordan at that moment. She contented herself, however, with
the very stiffest inclination of her head. Fred followed her gaze, and
favoured Joe with the slightest perceptible nod.
"How is it you know that bounder?" he said, turning to Brenda as he
spoke.
Brenda coloured deeply.
"I just know him slightly," she said, "do you?"
"Why, yes--of course. He is the son of a small draper in our town. I
used to meet him when I was a schoolboy on my way to school every
morning, and I think mother sometimes gets odds and ends at Jordan's
shop. They're fifth-rate tradespeople, and I don't believe their
business is very extensive."
Brenda felt a coldness stealing round her heart. Was this the
explanation--the true explanation--with regard to her merchant prince?
After a minute, during which she thought swiftly, she said:
"He has had the audacity to speak to me, but of course I shan't notice
him in future."
"I wouldn't if I were you," said Fred. "He is in no sense of the word a
gentleman. Well, I must be off. Penelope, I know the carriage is
coming for you at seven o'clock. Will you be ready?"
"Yes, quite," answered Penelope.
The two Hungerford boys disappeared, and the two Carlton girls sat side
by side on the quay. People passed and repassed. Penelope was lost in
thought. She was anxious about Brenda, and yet she did not know what to
do for her sister. Brenda's thoughts were so fast and furious that they
need scarcely be described. After a minute, she said:
"On the whole, you are doing right to go back to your Castle and your
grand friends this evening."
"Of course I am doing right," said Penelope.
"And," continued Brenda, "I shan't be married just at present. Perhaps
I may some day, for I suppose I am pretty."
"You are very, very pretty, Brenda."
"Yes, but not with your style, and not like the sort of folks you know."
"I only know them for a short time, Brenda. But I do hope that the time
spent at Hazlitt Chase will enable me always to act as a lady; for we
were born ladies, dear," she added; and she touched Brenda on her arm.
Brenda clutched Penelope's arm in response to this greeting with a
feverish grip.
"You are all right," she said; "but I can never go back."
"What do you mean?"
"I am wrong from first to last. I made a great mistake and I can't
explain it. Let's come home; don't worry about me. You will do well in
life."
"I love you fifty thousand times better than I have loved you since we
met on break-up day," was Penelope's response. "When you talk like
this, you seem like the sister I lost long ago; but when you are stuck
up and proud and vainglorious, then my feelings for you alter. If you
were in trouble, in real trouble, Brenda, and I could help you, I
would."
"I daresay," said Brenda. Then she gave a light laugh. "But I am not
in trouble," she said, "I'm as jolly as a sand-boy. Do let's come back;
it is so silly to pay for our tea out-of-doors when Mademoiselle makes
the very nicest little confections for us to partake of at home."
There was a particularly nice afternoon tea that day in Mrs Dawson's
drawing-room. That drawing-room, until Mademoiselle had appeared on the
scene, was truly a room to be avoided. The western sun used to flood it
with its rays. The windows were seldom properly opened. What flowers
there were lacked water and were half dead in their vases. The
furniture wanted dusting and arranging. There were generally broken
toys about, which the small Simpkinses used to leave behind them in
their wake. As likely as not, when you sank into a chair, you found
yourself annoyed by a baby's rattle or a very objectionable india-rubber
doll. In short, the drawing-room was never esteemed by the boarders.
But lo, and behold! Since Mademoiselle had come to Palliser Gardens,
this same drawing-room was transformed. Were there not green Venetian
blinds to the windows? What so easy as to pull them down? Why should
not the drooping withered flowers be replaced by fresh ones which, by a
judicious management of leaves and grasses, could give a cool and airy
effect? Then Mademoiselle had a knack of squirting the Venetian blinds
with cold water, which gave a delicious dampness and fragrance at the
same time in the room. The curtains, too, were sometimes slightly
drawn, and the furniture was all neatly arranged; and the tea--that was
_recherche_ itself--of such good flavour, so admirably made; then
Mademoiselle was always fresh, always bright and presentable, standing
by the little tea equipage, dispensing the very light, but really
refreshing viands. Mademoiselle made one very gentle stipulation. It
was this: that the small Simpkinses, the treasured babies of the
establishment, should not come down to afternoon tea. Mrs Simpkins
grumbled, but finally confessed that it was a comfort not to have
Georgie tugging at her skirt, and Peter laying his hot head on her broad
chest, and demanding "more, more," incessantly. In short, the little
party became in the very best of humours at the meal that was hitherto
such a signal failure in Mrs Dawson's drawing-room.
They all met on this special day, and Mademoiselle cast more than one
earnest glance at her late pupil, Penelope Carlton, and then, with a
smile hovering round her lips, poured tea into the delicate cups and
handed it round, always with a smile and a gentle compliment to each
lady boarder. Mrs Dawson was not present at this delightful little
repast, for Mademoiselle insisted on the poor tired woman having a cup
of tea all by herself and then lying down and sleeping until supper
time.
Mrs Dawson was now completely in Mademoiselle's clever hands, and did
precisely what that good woman wished. When the meal was over, the
party again dispersed, but not before Mademoiselle had stolen up to
Penelope's side and said quietly:
"_Mon enfant_, when do you take your departure?"
"I expect the wagonette at seven o'clock," replied Penelope.
"And you will be, _peut-etre_, alone?"
"I think so."
"That is good," was Mademoiselle's reply. Then she vanished to suggest
some particularly soothing application for Peter Simpkins' swollen gums.
At last the hour arrived when Penelope was to go. She bade her sister
good-bye, and also the three little Amberleys, who regretted her
departure without quite knowing why. A moment later, she had stepped
into the wagonette and was being driven out of the town in the direction
of Castle Beverley. The carriage had borne her just outside the
suburbs, when a neat-looking black-robed figure appeared in the very
middle of the King's highway, imperatively demanding that the coachman
should stop his horses. This the man, in some surprise, did.
Mademoiselle then approached Penelope's side.
"I have something to say to you, _cherie_," she remarked, "something of
the greatest importance. May I accompany you in your drive?"
"But how will you get home?" asked Penelope, very much annoyed and not
at all inclined to comply.
"The homeward way signifies not," responded Mademoiselle. "It is the
drive with you, most dear one, and the so sacred confidences that form
the essentials of this hour. You will not deny me, for in so doing, you
will place yourself and your sister, the most adorable Brenda, in
jeopardy."
"I suppose you have something unpleasant to say," said Penelope, "and if
you have, the sooner you get it over, the better."
"Then you do permit me to enter into the carriage?"
"I cannot help myself, but I cannot take you further than to the gates
of the Castle."
"That will be time sufficient. But we will desire--ah! I will myself
speak to him."
Mademoiselle entered the wagonette, and stepping up to the coachman,
asked him to drive slowly. She did this in such a very insinuating
manner that he felt he could do all in the world to oblige her, and
accordingly, let his horses drop into a walk. This the animals were not
disinclined to do on so hot an evening.
"Now," said Penelope, absolutely unsuspicious, and turning her fair
face--which owing to her recent happiness, was really becoming quite
good-looking--in the direction of her governess. "What have you to say,
Mademoiselle?"
"This, _mon enfant_. I will tell it to you briefly. You know the story
of the _petites_ Hungerfords--the little one called Nellie, that
_enfant_ who suffered with a suffering so severe for the loss of her
inestimable trinket--the bangle of the purest gold set with a turquoise
most exquisite."
"Yes, yes," exclaimed Penelope, "I know all about it. The bangle was
lost; has it been found?"
"Softly--_cherie_--I am coming to that. It was lost, was it not, on the
very day of the _grande fete_ at Hazlitt Chase?"
"Yes," said Penelope, "I believe Mrs Hungerford thinks she lost it in
the railway carriage in which she came to the Chase."
"_Precisement_: you have the _histoire_ in all its accuracy," answered
Mademoiselle. "And there was, _mon enfant_, was there not, an
announcement of the loss in the newspapers, the so great newspapers of
London, and the _petits journaux_ of the smaller towns? And was there
not that announcement with the reward attached even inserted, for the
sake of the more safety, in the _journal_ here--the _petit journal_ of
Marshlands-on-the-Sea?"
"I daresay you are right," said Penelope, "but I really am not specially
interested, nor have I followed what the Hungerfords have done."
"Ah! _ma chere_--you say you are not interested once. But that will
pass. That state of your mind will quickly arrive when you will be
interested; for there is much to concern you in this matter. Behold,
_mon enfant_, what I, your French governess, have discovered."
Mademoiselle thrust her hand into her pocket, took out a soft, cambric
handkerchief, unfolded it, and revealed the missing bangle.
"See!" she exclaimed. "Behold for yourself--I would convince myself, by
visiting you at the beautiful Castle yesterday, and I remarked the
bangle on the leetle Pauline's slender wrist. I took a note of the fine
engraving, and the pattern of it. Is not this _precisement_ the same!
See for yourself," she added.
"Why, it is--it must be!" exclaimed Penelope. "So it is found out; did
you discover it? How delighted Nellie will be! Are you coming up to
the Castle to give it back to her to-night and to claim the reward? I
know it will be given to you at once. Poor, dear little Nellie--she
will be pleased!"
"Ah--_ma chere_!" said the French governess, "I act not so--I have not
the heart so cruel!"
"But what do you mean?" asked Penelope, in great astonishment.
"You must listen to the _histoire_ that I will tell to you. You must
clearly first understand that this is the identical lost bangle--the
bangle made of the eighteen carat gold--with the delicate engraving and
the turquoise of the colour so pure, and of the form so rare and the
size so marvellous. It is the identical one."
"It certainly seems like it," said Penelope.
"It _is_ the same--rest assured."
As Mademoiselle spoke, she folded up the bangle and transferred it to
her pocket.
"I have something to say to you, _chere enfant_."
"What do you mean? Why don't you give me the bangle to take to little
Nellie? I don't understand you."
"_Ayez patience_--you soon will be enlightened." Mademoiselle bent
close to Penelope; her voice dropped to a whisper. "They shall hear us
not," she said, "those men on the box. We can talk freely. Shall I
tell you how I found it? I had my so true suspicions, and I followed
them up. Now listen."
With this preamble, Mademoiselle poured into poor Penelope's ears the
story of Fanchon and the marvellous bangle she wore, of Nina, and her
walk abroad with Mademoiselle wearing the said bangle on her wrist, of
Brenda's reprehensible doings when she took Fanchon out night after
night, and, lastly, of the very clever way in which she, Mademoiselle,
had managed to substitute the worthless bangle for the real one.
"I talk not of myself as lofty in this matter," was her final remark.
"I am the poor governess who have here all to earn; but I am not so bad
as that _mechante_--your sister. There is no doubt that on the day of
the _grande fete_ at Hazlitt Chase she found the bangle and that she
would keep it for her own purposes. It was doubtless not lost in any
railway carriage, nor was there any official or traveller to blame. She
was the one who put that idea into your head, was she not?"
Penelope did not utter a word.
"There is circumstantial evidence the most grave against your sister,"
said Mademoiselle, in conclusion, "but I try her not by my judgment; I
have mercy upon her, and bring the case to you; I lay it at your feet.
What will you do for the sister--the only sister that you possess? You
most assuredly will not allow her to be put into prison. What will you
do?"