Mademoiselle was very restless. She had confided a little bit of her
interview with Penelope to Mrs Dawson, and Mrs Dawson had much
approved of what the Frenchwoman had done. The fact is, these two women
had, more or less, sketched out a future together on the strength of the
twenty pounds which Penelope would give as hush money with regard to the
lost bangle.
"I will keep the bangle too," said Mademoiselle. "It would not be at
all safe to give it to either of the Carlton girls. You shall wear it
sometimes, and I will wear it sometimes, and we might take the house
next door to this, and do a thriving business next season."
Mrs Dawson said once, in a feeble sort of way: "Isn't it very wicked,
though?"
"Wicked?" cried Mademoiselle, "when the poor have to live!" She held up
her hands in expostulation. "Ah, Madame!" she said, "trust to me in
this matter. I have been treated in the way the most cruel, and this is
my small, my very small revenge."
Mrs Dawson was fascinated, but even still not quite convinced. Brenda,
meanwhile, knew nothing of that sword of Damocles which was hanging over
her devoted head. Strange as it may seem, she had not looked at the
bangle on the previous night, and none of the girls dared to tell her
what had occurred. She was very cross, and exceedingly disappointed.
Her hopes had fallen through. Her little money was largely spent--all
to no effect. The holidays would, all too quickly, go by, and there was
nothing before her but a dreary and most monotonous existence at the
Reverend Josiah Amberley's, with her very stupid pupils as companions.
As to Harry, of course he was hopeless. She would not have looked at
him again. A merchant prince, indeed! He was nothing but the son of a
fifth-rate tradesman. This fact accounted for his atrocious manners and
for all his many delinquencies. Certainly Brenda was in the worst of
humours, and the three little girls were by no means comfortable in her
presence.
She was in her room on the following morning, and the girls were there
too. They were there during the moment when she would discover that the
valuable bangle had been changed, and were anxious to hurry her off to
the seashore.
"Let's come, and be quick," said Nina. "What's the good of being at the
seaside if we're not out enjoying the air? Dear papa will be vexed if
we tell him that we have spent half our time in this poky, horrid room."
"I wonder," said Brenda, in response, "that a little girl dares to utter
such untruths. And where's your notebook, Nina? Out with it, this
minute!"
Nina coloured and then turned pale.
"I've lost it," she said.
"Lost it--what do you mean?"
"Well, not that exactly. I--I've torn it up."
"You wicked little girl!"
Brenda advanced towards poor Nina; but what might have happened was
never known, for just at that moment there came a tap at the door, and
in walked Penelope. There was a look on her face which the three little
Amberleys had never seen there before; but Brenda had on one occasion,
that great and auspicious occasion when her younger sister had stood
spellbound under the full rays of the electric light, acting the part of
Helen of Troy. There was the same rapt gaze, the same expression in her
eyes, which seemed to say: "Where'er I came I brought calamity." Brenda
did not know why her heart sank so low in her breast, why the petty,
trivial things which had been annoying her a moment before sank utterly
out of sight. Penelope looked round at the three girls.
"I want to speak to Brenda," she said. "Brenda, can I see you alone."
"You had better go out, girls, as Penelope chooses to be so mysterious,"
said Brenda, recovering herself, and speaking in a sulky tone.
It did not take the girls long to put on their sailor hats, and a moment
later they had left the room. Then Penelope turned the key in the lock.
"It has come, Brenda," she said. "I don't want to reproach you or to
say a cross word; but there's only one thing to be done."
"What in the wide world do you mean?" said Brenda. "What reason have
you for all these heroics?"
"I know about you," said Penelope then. "It,"--her voice quivered--"has
broken my heart! But there is only one thing to be done. You must come
back with me to Beverley Castle, and bring the bangle with you."
"The bangle?" said Brenda.
She had been fairly cool until now. But now she trembled exceedingly,
and leaned up against the wardrobe. She did not even ask what bangle.
"You stole Nellie Hungerford's bangle on the day of the break-up at
Hazlitt Chase," pursued Penelope. "You put people on the wrong scent
with regard to it. Where you found it and how--I don't know, but you
did find it."
"How can you possibly, possibly tell?" gasped Brenda then.
"For the beat of all reasons--I have seen it."
"Seen it--seen it? the lost bangle?"
"I saw it last night. Mademoiselle got possession of it--I can't
exactly say how--but she managed to get to your drawer and found it."
"I don't believe a word of it!" began Brenda.
"It is true," said Penelope. "There is no way out, Brenda, except by
the one painful way. You and I must see Mrs Hungerford to-day, and
return the bangle. There is no other possible way out."
"But--but--I didn't do it," began Brenda.
"Oh, poor Brenda!" said Penelope. "Why will you add to all the misery
by telling lies? You know you did it. I will call Mademoiselle."
She turned swiftly and left her sister standing in the middle of the
room. The very instant this happened, Brenda flew up to the little
ornament on the shelf on the over-mantel, took out the key, and opened
the drawer. She laid her hand on the box on which she had written
Fanchon's name, opened it, and took out the false bangle. She was
looking at it in a sort of stunned way, when Mademoiselle, accompanied
by Mrs Dawson, came in.
"Ah!" said Mademoiselle, whose face was white with rage; for she never
expected that Penelope would act as she had done. "You are the thief--
convicted in the very act!" and she pointed with a finger of scorn at
Brenda.
"You're a nice young woman to have as a visitor in my respectable
house!" said Mrs Dawson.
"_Pauvre petite_! She looks as if she could faint," said Mademoiselle,
who still did not give up hope of obtaining money and having the affair
hushed up. "Why, will her own sister ruin her! The thing can be--oh,
not spoken of, but put away in the most secret of the heart's recesses--
buried there for all time. A leetle--a very leetle money, will do
this."
"No," said Penelope, turning and flashing her eyes upon her. "You
tempted me last night, but I am thankful to say your temptation has not
the smallest attraction for me any longer. I want you, and Mrs
Dawson--if she likes--and Brenda to come back with me immediately to the
Castle; and you, Mademoiselle, who so cleverly discovered the bangle,
will receive your reward. But the bangle itself must be returned.
Fetch it, please; for there is no time to lose."
"Then you will," said Mademoiselle, "with your own hands, send your only
young sister to prison! Oh, the hardness of your heart!"
Penelope made no reply to that, but as she glanced at Brenda, who was
absolutely silent--all the brilliant colour gone from her pretty face,
the hand of age itself seeming to steal over her features--such a sharp
pain went through the younger girl's heart that, involuntarily, she put
her hand to her brow as though to feel the weight of the crown of
thorns. Whatever that actually signified, it seemed to comfort her and
steady her resolves. She turned to Brenda, and said quickly: "Will you
get ready at once, dear?" And Mademoiselle, seeing that she was
defeated, went out of the room, and brought the bangle.
"I myself convey it to the Castle," she said. "I will myself relate the
story, and will claim that shabby reward which has been offered for the
recovery of the lost treasure."
"That is exactly as you like. And would Mrs Dawson wish to accompany
you--"
"No," said Mrs Dawson, "not I. I have had nothing to do with this
thing. I had my suspicions on the night when I saw such an unsuitable
ornament on Miss Fanchon's wrist. There is nothing whatever for me to
do but to request that the Misses Amberley be removed from my house as
soon as possible--"
"Oh, that is for afterwards," interrupted Penelope. "Brenda has got
something to do first. Come, Brenda, shall I find your hat? The sooner
we get this over, the better."
"But I won't go--I won't!" suddenly shrieked Brenda. "I have not
confessed; I have admitted nothing. Why should I not have a bangle of
my own. Is Nellie Hungerford's the only one in the world?"
"The queer coincidence of the engraving exactly alike on the bangle
which contains the most precious ruby and on this bangle which holds the
turquoise of great beauty makes it scarcely probable, _mon enfant_,"
said Mademoiselle. As she spoke, she held up the glittering toy for
Penelope to see. "I will go and put on my neat bonnet and be ready to
accompany you, young ladies," she said.
Thus it came to pass that, half an hour later, a miserable,
cowed-looking girl entered the phaeton and took her place by
Mademoiselle's side. Penelope occupied the little seat in front. No
one spoke during that miserable drive, but that aged look was still
perceptible on Brenda's face, and the colour had absolutely left her
cheeks. Once Penelope tried to take her sister's hand, but Brenda
pulled it roughly away.
At last, they all reached Castle Beverley. Mrs Hungerford was there
with her two little girls, and Honora was watching for Penelope with
more anxiety in her heart than she cared to own. When she saw that
Penelope had brought her sister and the French governess back with her,
she guessed at once that something important must have occurred. The
three got out.
"This is for me my hour of triumph," said Mademoiselle. But she uttered
the words without any jauntiness, for the look on Brenda's face appalled
even her gay and wicked spirit.
Penelope went straight up to Nora.
"I have brought my sister and Mademoiselle; and will Mrs Hungerford
come--and will you come, Honora? The sooner we get this over, the
better."
"Oh--I can't," murmured Brenda, in a passionate voice under her breath.
"You can--you must. It is the only, only way," whispered Penelope then.
With these words, she determinedly took her sister's hand, and the three
went into the small room opening out of the front hall, while Honora ran
to fetch Mrs Hungerford. When that lady appeared, being much amazed at
this hasty summons, she was startled at the aspect of the little group
who awaited her. There was Penelope, with still that Helen-of-Troy
expression on her face. There was Brenda, aged for the time being, and
shrinking; and there was Mademoiselle, with her wicked eyes gleaming.
The moment Mrs Hungerford entered, Mademoiselle marched up to her.
"I claim the so great reward," she said. "You did advertise for this
very leetle trinket, and behold! I it to you restore. Look at it--it
is the one that you have lost. Ponder it--and consider it well.
Compare it with the bracelet your little daughter Pauline wears, and see
if it is not, in very truth, the lost bangle."
"It most certainly is," said Mrs Hungerford; "and you have found it?
Pardon me--I do not know your name."
"Mademoiselle d'Etienne--at your service. I have had the so high
privilege to teach your young daughters the elegancies of our French
tongue at that select seminary, Hazlitt Chase. I know when the bangle
was missing, and the sore grief it was to the _chere petite_ who had
lost it. Through a series of adventures I have found it again, and I
lay it on your lap. You can give it to the child for whom it was
purchased."
"But how did you get it?"
"Ah! There I have a _histoire_ the most pathetic, the most wonderful,
the most _extra-ordinaire_ to relate."
"No," interrupted Penelope, suddenly, "the time has come for Brenda to
speak. Brenda, tell what you know."
"There's no use in concealing it," said Brenda. "I am not sorry--I
mean, I'm only sorry to be found out. Mrs Hungerford, this is what
happened. Do you remember driving up with me to Hazlitt Chase on the
day of the prize-giving? You stepped--oh--out of the carriage, and as
you did so you dropped the bangle on the ground, I saw it: I coveted it:
I took it: I slipped it into my pocket. I put you off the scent by
telling my sister that doubtless you had dropped it in the train. I am
the thief. I await my punishment: it is prison, it it not? Very well;
I have confessed. I think it is most likely that Mr Beverley is a
magistrate. He can send for the police, and put me into prison. I
stole the bangle: Mademoiselle found it. I am a thief, and Penelope is
the sister of one. That is all."
"Oh, poor girl!" said Mrs Hungerford. She rose slowly from her seat
and left the room. In a few minutes she returned. She brought with her
three sovereigns and three shillings.
"These are for you," she said to Mademoiselle. "This is the reward
offered. You have led to the discovery of the bangle--I don't want to
know how--take your reward, and go."
"Yes, please go at once," said Honora.
There was a quality in her young voice which the Frenchwoman had never
heard before, and there was such a ring of scorn in Mrs Hungerford's
tone that it seemed--as Mademoiselle afterwards expressed it--"to wither
even the very vitals." She took her money sulkily and, without a word,
left the presence of the others, never to be seen by them again.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
What followed can be easily explained. Mrs Hungerford was a good
woman. Honora had learned some lessons in the higher life. Now Mrs
Hungerford and Honora were certainly not going to punish Penelope, and
their one earnest desire was to rescue Brenda.
They left the sisters alone for a short time, and talked together.
"That poor, poor, pretty girl!" said Mrs Hungerford. "Oh, of course
what she did was dreadful, but we just mustn't let her go under, must
we, Honora?"
"I knew you would feel like that," said Honora, "I felt certain of it.
You can little guess what Penelope has suffered; she is a splendid girl.
Her mission at present in life is to help her sister."
"Now listen."
Mrs Hungerford proposed a plan which was eventually carried out. This
was no less than, first and foremost, to assure Brenda of her absolute
forgiveness.
"You acted very badly indeed," she said; "but I am not going to call the
police, nor to put you in prison. Your punishment will be that those
who know you will have to be acquainted with what has occurred. You had
much better not return to the boarding-house, but stay here. Your
little pupils must go back to their father, for I do not think it right
that they should be with you any longer. As to you--I want you and
Penelope to do something for me."
"I to do anything for you?" said Brenda, her eyes suddenly growing soft
and a new expression stealing over her face.
"Yes. My house in the country is empty at present. Will you and
Penelope go there to-day and live there quietly until the holidays come
to an end? I can put you on the way. When the holidays are over,
Penelope will, of course, return to Hazlitt Chase, and I myself will do
my utmost to get you a post which I think you may suit--not as teacher
to the young, for you have not the necessary qualifications."
From the thought of prison, the magistrates, the handcuffs, which she
might possibly wear, the public examination, the trial--to going away
with Penelope to Mrs Hungerford's own house was such a relief to the
miserable Brenda that, all of a sudden, she gave way utterly.
"There--now I am sorry really!" she said. "I was not a bit sorry when
every one was hard to me, but I am bitterly sorry now!"
Mrs Hungerford's arrangements were carried out in full detail. The
little Amberleys were invited up to the Castle until the Reverend Josiah
could be summoned. He came on the following morning, and was told in
full the sad story about Brenda. He was greatly shocked, but begged
that the knowledge of what had occurred should be kept from his
daughters.
"I am afraid they suspect a great deal," said Mrs Beverley, who of
course had been taken into confidence.
"Poor children, life is hard on them!" said dear papa, "and I did think
Brenda such a sweet young creature. How frightfully we were deceived!
But I must take them back, and get Miss Juggins to teach them in
future."
"Perhaps you would allow me to recommend a particularly nice girl to be
their governess," here interposed Mrs Beverley.
"Oh, Madam, do you know of one?"
"I do--I have known her since she was a child. I think she would go to
you, and help your little girls. Her name is Lydia Hamburg. You can
see her if you like, for she lives close by."
Lydia Hamburg, who was all that Brenda Carlton was not, did eventually
find herself installed as governess to the little Amberleys; and as she
was faithful and true, the wheels of life ran smoothly at the rectory,
and the girls turned out, on the whole, better than might have been
expected.
As to Brenda, hers was a difficult and--it must be owned--a worthless
character. Not all Penelope's earnestness and faithful love would make
her really see the enormity of her crime in its full light. But,
nevertheless, even she had learned a lesson and, in future, would not
lend herself to such open sin as heretofore. Mrs Hungerford arranged
that she was to leave England, with a party who were going to Canada;
for in a fresh land, she might do better.
These things have all happened, and the characters in this story have
moved on a little way in life's journey. To each has been meted out a
due share of cloud and sunshine, and those who have done wrong have each
in their turn suffered.
But Penelope has never forgotten her dream, nor the feeling of that
blessed crown of thorns, and she and Honora Beverley are the best and
truest of friends.