Penelope was quite silent, not replying by a single word to
Mademoiselle's insinuations until they reached the gates of Castle
Beverley. Then she said in a quiet voice:
"You have told me something most terrible, and of course--I will do--I
will do something--"
"But you will not expose that _pauvre_ sister--you will not ruin her for
all her life; and she so young and so fair."
"Please, Mademoiselle, promise me something," said Penelope. "You have
told me the story, and I am obliged to you. I will let you know what I
myself mean to do to-morrow morning."
"But that will be far too late, _mon enfant_; for remember, I have found
the missing bangle, and for this so great discovery there is a reward
offered, and that reward, although _tres petite_, is nevertheless of
consequence to one so poor as myself. I will claim that reward; but I
want to claim more. If I keep this thing dark--quite dark, I claim a
big reward."
"What?" asked Penelope.
Her whole tone changed. The coachman, by her directions, had drawn up
at the avenue gates. Penelope and Mademoiselle had both alighted.
"Drive on," said Penelope to the man. "Say that I am following."
He obeyed. When the sound of the horses' hoofs had died away, Penelope
turned again to Mademoiselle.
"You have told me the story," she said; "and now I want to know exactly
what you do expect. You have, of course, told me the story not out of
any kindness to me or to my sister. Please don't waste your breath
denying this fact, Mademoiselle d'Etienne. You have told it, hoping to
profit by it."
"_C'est vrai_," replied the Frenchwoman. "I am of the poor; I am of the
needy; I have not the wherewithal to support the most precious life. I
am dismissed from being your teacher through no fault of mine. The wide
world--it lies around me; if I have not the money, I will starve!" She
held up her right hand dramatically. "Does it seem to you of the
reasonable that I should starve, Mademoiselle Penelope? Why should I
not feather my own nest? I wish for the reward; but it matters not from
whom it comes, if it come from you, your sister is saved; if it come
from Mrs Hungerford, your sister and you--think of the position, _ma
chere_--"
"I do think of it," said Penelope.
"You will consider it yet more deeply. I give you a little time. I
tell you plainly that I want from you what you have already done for
your sister. I know that you did collect from your school friends--
those maidens so rich, so distinguished--the money--a great sum. I
demand that you make a collection again, and that you give it to me.
Twenty pound is my price; give me twenty sovereigns of the gold, and no
person know notting of the lost bangle. If you will not--I tell what I
know."
"Mademoiselle, do you think, do you really think that I am made like
that?"
"I know not, _ma chere_; I only do know that once you got money from
your school friends. You would like not that story to be known; but it
can be spread all over the school at Hazlitt Chase, and Honora Beverley,
that most saintly and esteemed young lady, can hear of it. She will not
wish to have you any longer a visitor at her beautiful home; for she is
of the lofty sort that stoop not to the ways of the wicked. Think what
it will mean. And your sister--she will be, oh, in peril of grave
imprisonment. Think of the public trial and the so great disgrace.
Madame at the Chase will not receive you back; she would not dare to
receive the sister of a thief! _Oh, fi donc_! She could not it endure.
That is your position. But I deliver you therefrom if you once again
exercise that spell which you possess; and get from your companions--it
matters not which--the leetle, leetle sum of twenty pound. That is the
whole, you understand."
"I understand," said Penelope. She spoke in a low voice; her face was
white as death.
"I give you until the morning. You are puzzled, _pauvre petite_, and
most truly do I you pity. But never mind; it is _necessaire_ that the
poor governess be helped in her hour of so great need. To her it is
equal about the disgrace to you and yours; in one way or the other she,
the poor French Mademoiselle, makes a _grand coup_ in this matter! And
now, I wish you `adieu' for the night. Communicate with me before
twelve o'clock to-morrow. If at that hour I have no news from you, I
take my own steps. _Adieu, cherie. Pauvre enfant, dormez tranquille_."
Mademoiselle turned away. She walked quickly down the dusty road. She
had done her evil deed; she had exploded her bomb. Her wicked heart
felt no sense of shame or sorrow for the innocent girl whom she had put
in so cruel a position.
As to Penelope, she stayed for a little time just where Mademoiselle
d'Etienne had left her. Then she turned and walked up the drive. She
was stunned. She had not walked half-way up the avenue before a gay
young voice sounded in her ears; and, of all people in the world, those
she least wished to see at this juncture, rushed up to her and flung
their arms round her neck and wrist.
"You have come back!" said Nellie Hungerford.
"We are _so_ delighted!" said Pauline. "We have missed you just
dreadfully. But we have had a good day. We went to the sands at Carlin
Bay. Uncle Beverley took us, and we did enjoy ourselves! But still it
isn't half so much fun when you're away. You're so splendid at telling
stories, you know. But come along now; you're just in time for supper,
and after supper we mean to have a grand game at hide-and-seek before we
all go to bed. Honora! Nora dear, here is Penelope--she is come back!"
Honora ran down the grassy sward to meet her friend.
"Why, surely," she said, "you didn't walk home?"
"No, no--I left the carriage at the gate."
"But why did you do that?"
"I thought I'd like to walk up the avenue."
"You look dead tired; is anything the matter?"
"I have a--a--headache," said Penelope, taking refuge in this
time-honoured excuse for low spirits.
"Poor thing! I expect you found the sun very hot at Marshlands. As to
Nellie and Pauline--I call them a pair of salamanders; they can stand
any amount of heat. They would insist on father taking them to Carlin
sands to-day; and they came back fresher than ever. The rest of us
stayed more or less in the shade, for I never remember the sun being so
hot."
"Come in, and have some supper, Pen; that'll do you good," said Pauline.
Penelope said she would. They had now reached the house. She ran up to
her own room. She bathed her face, washed her hands, and brushed back
her hair. She tried to believe that the dreadful thing that had
happened in the wagonette was a dream, that there was no such horror
surrounding her, lying in wait for her, clutching at her very vitals.
She would keep up at any cost for the evening. When the night came, she
would be alone. Then she could think.
Honora's voice was heard calling her. She ran downstairs. They all
went into the long, cool supper-room. There a cold collation was spread
on the table.
"I won't let you go to Marshlands again," said Nora, looking critically
at Penelope. "You're just as white as a sheet. It is much too tiring
this hot weather. Your sister must come to us instead."
Poor Penelope gave a little inward shiver. Pauline Hungerford nestled
close to her.
"I've something to whisper to you," she said.
"Oh, no--not now," said Penelope.
"Yes, but I must. They don't mind what we do at supper--we're all quite
free at supper. It is this: listen. Mother's coming here early
to-morrow--think of that!--And I do believe she is bringing a bangle,
the same as mine, for Nellie! She didn't _say_ so in so many words, but
I think she is. Then we'll be perfectly happy! Aren't you glad? I
know I am. I've never half enjoyed my darling bangle at the thought of
Nellie's sorrow. But Nellie has been very good lately, and hasn't
talked about it a bit, or even once asked to look at mine. She wouldn't
do that at first; she used to shut her eyes whenever she found herself
forced to see it, just as though it gave her the greatest pain. I
hate--and _hate_ wearing it. Mother said I must, for it would be so bad
for Nellie if she didn't bear a thing of this sort well. But now, it's
all right, and darling Nellie will be as happy as a sand-boy. Oh, I
_am_ delighted!"
"Paulie, you mustn't whisper any more," said Fred Hungerford at that
moment. "Hullo, Pen!" he added, "I am glad to see you back. Did you
and your sister stay much longer on the quay? and did you meet that
low-down fellow, Jordan, again? I can't imagine how your pretty sister
got to know him."
"We didn't meet him any more," said Penelope, "and we went back to the
_pension_ soon after."
Supper came to an end. Pauline asked wildly, her bright eyes gleaming,
when the grand game of hide-and-seek in the moonlit garden was to begin.
Here Penelope's fortitude failed her.
"I have had a tiring day," she said. "Do you mind, Nora, if I go to my
room?"
"Is your head aching badly?" asked Honora.
"Yes, I'm afraid it is."
"Then of course you must go. And, children, we won't shout too loudly
under Pen's window. Good-night, dear. Would you like me to come and
see you before I go to bed myself?"
"Oh, no, please; not to-night, Nora."
"Very well--good-night. You really don't look at all well."
Penelope felt a brief sense of relief when she was all alone in her
room. She took off her dress and put on a light dressing-gown. Then
she flung the window wide open and sat down by it, resting her elbow on
the deep window ledge. Her pale, despairing face gazed out into the
night. How happy she had been at Castle Beverley! What a joyful, glad,
delightful sort of place it was! How merry the voices of the children
sounded! She could hear shrieks of mirth in the distance. Oh, yes;
Castle Beverley was a delightful home. She knew quite well why. It
seemed to her that night that the whole secret of its gladness, of its
goodness, of its beauty, was revealed. Castle Beverley was delightful,
not because its owner was a rich man and well born; not because the
children who came there were ladies and gentlemen by birth; but simply
because the laws that governed that household were the laws of truth and
love and unselfishness and righteousness. It was impossible to be mean
in that home, for here the highest things were practised more than
preached. There were no ostensible lessons in religion, but the
religious life was led here, by Honora, by all the children, and, most
of all, by the father and mother.
"That accounts for it," thought Penelope. "It is because they are so
good without being priggishly good, that I have been so happy. They
always think nice thoughts of every one; and they are unselfish, and
each gives up to the other. I don't belong to them--I belong to Brenda.
Brenda and I have the same mother, and the same father. We are two
sisters. Brenda has fallen very low indeed, and I suppose I shall fall
too; for how can I endure, even for a moment, what Mademoiselle
contemplates doing--what Mademoiselle will do? It will mean Brenda's
ruin, Brenda's public disgrace, and my disgrace! Oh, to think that I
should be living here, and that the children--Nellie and Pauline--should
love me, and confide in me, and all the time my sister--mine! has stolen
Nellie's bangle! Oh, Brenda, Brenda!"
Poor Penelope did not cry: she was past tears. She sat and gazed out
into the night. Her perplexities were extreme; she could not rest.
What was she to do? Mademoiselle had put her, indeed, into a cleft
stick; whichever way she turned there seemed to be nothing but despair.
"I was so happy; but that doesn't matter," she thought. "The thing now
to do is to know how to save Brenda. Can I save her by--by--trying to
get money for her? But then I couldn't get money. Oh, yes, I could,
though--or at least perhaps I could, I don't know. I wouldn't ask the
girls again for all the world--but there's the squire; he might--might
lend it to me. I'd have to tell him a lot of lies--and I shouldn't like
that. I must sink down to Brenda's level in order to save her! Oh,
Brenda, I can't, I just can't! Brenda, why did you do it? And I had
got that twenty pounds for you. Why _did_ you steal the bangle and put
every one on the wrong scent and get us into the power of that terrible,
unscrupulous Mademoiselle! She'll do what she said she would--there's
no sort of hope from her. Oh, what am I--what am I to do!"
"Do right," whispered a voice in her ear. This voice spoke light and
clear from the conscience of Penelope Carlton, and it was so startling
in its tone that it seemed to her that some one spoke to her. She
started and looked out, gazing to right and left. As she did this, some
one who was walking below, saw her. That some one was Honora. She
observed the white, very white face of the girl and noticed its agony.
All of a sudden, Honora came to a resolve.
"There is something wrong," she thought to herself. "It's not an
ordinary headache. I don't like that sister of hers a bit--we none of
us do. She has done something to make poor little Pen unhappy. I just
think that I'll force myself on her this very night. She is too
miserable to be left alone; of that I am sure."
Mary L'Estrange and Cara Burt, walking arm in arm, came now into view.
"What is the matter, Honora?" said Mary.
"Why do you ask?" questioned Nora.
Mary gave a laugh.
"You look something like what you did that evening when you refused to
take the part of Helen of Troy."
"Oh, we needn't bother about that now," said Honora, a slight tone of
vexation in her voice. Then she added, suddenly: "I am not quite happy
about Pen; I don't think she is well. I am going to her."
"But she has only a headache," said Cara, "and no wonder, out all this
hot day in the sun."
"I feel somehow that it's more than a headache," said Honora. "I saw
her just now looking out of her window, and somehow, I feel she may want
me: in any case, I am going to her. Will you, Cara, and you, Mary, just
lead the games, and don't let the children stay out very much longer;
it's time for the young ones, at least, to go to bed."
Cara and Mary promised, and immediately turned away.
"I," said Cara, addressing her companion, "also thought there was
something queer about Penelope to-night. It is odd that Honora should
have worn the expression she did when she refused to act as Helen of
Troy."
"And another thing is also odd."
"What do you mean?" asked Cara.
"Why, at supper to-night, it seemed to me that Penelope looked as she
did when she made that extraordinary request of us, asking us to give
her five pounds apiece for her to take the part."
"I didn't notice that expression," exclaimed Mary. "But it was very
queer of her to want the money. I didn't like her a bit then, did you,
Cara?"
"Of course not," said Cara. "I despised her utterly."
"So did I, until she acted Helen, and then I could not help admiring
her--she was quite, quite splendid."
"And since she has come here," continued Cara, "she has been very, very
nice. Honora is wonderfully taken with her. Honora told me to-day that
she loves her dearly and means to help her after she has left school.
Honora says she's such a lady, and so different from her elder sister."
"Oh, _she's_ quite an impossible person," said Mary. "But here come
some of the stragglers. Now we must resume our play. Hullo! Nellie;
is it my turn to be blindfolded?"
The elder girls, the boys, and the little girls continued their play,
Honora ran up to Penelope's room and tapped at the door. Penelope
started, and at first did not reply. But the tap was repeated, and she
was forced to say, "Who's there?"
"It is I--Honora," called a voice.
"Oh, Nora--I am just going to bed," answered Penelope.
"No, you're not, dear. Let me in, please."
There was another moment of hesitation. Then the door was unlocked, and
Honora entered. The room was full of moonlight, for Penelope had not
lighted any candle.
"What is it, Nora?" she said.
"I thought I'd come and sit with you for a little, for--you naughty
thing--you've not gone to bed; I happened to see you from the garden
below. What is the matter, Pen?"
"I want to be alone to-night so very badly," said Penelope.
"You're very unhappy, Pen--I want to know what is the matter."
"I am unhappy--but I can't tell you, Honora."
"What is the good of a friend if you can't confide in her?" said Honora.
"If," said Penelope, speaking very slowly, "I do what I ought to do, you
will never be my friend again; you will never wish even to have my name
mentioned. And if I do what I ought not to do, then perhaps, you will
be my friend--but I shall be unworthy of you."
"I don't know anything whatever about that," said Honora; "but I do know
one thing. If you are in any sort of trouble (and perhaps your sister
has got you into some trouble--for, to tell you the truth, Penelope, I
do not greatly care for your sister, and I must say so just now), you
will, of course do what is right."
"That is the dreadful thing my conscience said just now," said Penelope.
"Then you really are in great trouble, dear?"
"Don't call me dear," said Penelope. "I am in great trouble."
"On your own account?"
"Practically. I did wrong a little time ago, and it is reflecting on
me; and anyhow, of course it _is_ my trouble--and it's--Oh, Nora--don't
touch me--don't look at of! Go away, please--I'm not fit for you to
look at me. I belong to--to--the wicked people! Go away, Nora--you're
so pure, and so--so--sort of--holy. I am frightened when I see you--let
me be alone to-night!"
"It's your sister Brenda, it's not you!" said Honora, startled.
"Oh, don't blame her too much--please, please! She is my only sister.
Oh, what shall I do!"
Penelope flung herself on her bed and burst into a tempest of weeping.
Perhaps those tears really saved her brain, for the poor girl was
absolutely distracted. While she wept, and wept, and wept, Honora knelt
by her, now and then patting her shoulder gently, now and then uttering
a word of prayer to God. For this was the sort of occasion when
Honora's real religious training came strongly to the fore. She knew
that her friend was tempted, that something had happened which could
scarcely by any possibility come into her own life, and that if she did
not stand by her now, she might fall.
"But I won't let her," thought the girl. "I'll stick by her through
thick and thin. I love her--I didn't when I was at school, but I do
now."
After a time, however, poor Penelope's tears ceased. Honora bent down
and put her arm round her neck.
"I want to whisper something to you," she said. "I want to confide
something. I was not nice to you at school. I thought you, somehow,
not a bit the sort of girl that I could ever care for. Then, when I saw
you act as Helen of Troy and look so transformed, it seemed to me that
my eyes were opened about you, and I wanted to have you here much more
badly than I wished to have any other girl here; and since you came, I
have learned to love you. Now I don't love very, very easily--I mean I
don't give my deepest love. Having given it, however, I cannot possibly
take it back--it is yours for what it is worth. I know something
terrible has happened, and I want you to do right, not wrong, for it is
never worth while to do wrong. I want you to try and understand that
here, and to-night--it is always worth while to do right, and never
worth while to do wrong. So choose the right, darling; I will ask God
to help you."
"But you don't know--you can't even guess!" sobbed Penelope.
"Do you think you could bring yourself to tell me? We are all alone
here, in this dark room, for even the moon will soon set, and I am your
true friend. Don't you think you could just tell me everything?"
"Oh, I don't know--no, I couldn't--I couldn't!" Penelope rose. "I have
no words to thank you," she continued. "You have comforted me, and
perhaps--anyhow, I must have until the morning to think."
"Very well," said Honora, "I will go away to my own room and think of
you all night, and pray for you, and in the morning, at seven o'clock, I
will come back to you. Then, perhaps you will tell me--for you have got
something to _do_, have you not?"
"I have to do something, or not to do something."
"If you do that something, what will happen?"
"Apparently nothing, only I--"
"I understand," said Honora. "The thing you have got to do is wrong.
Suppose you don't do it--"
"Then--then--oh, Honora--I could wish to-night that I had never lived to
grow up to my present age. I'm nearly mad with misery!"
"I will come to you in the morning," said Honora. "But before I go, I
wish to say something--that of course you won't do whatever the thing
is; for if you keep yourself right, other things must come right
somehow."
Then Honora kissed Penelope, and left the room.