Turquoise and Ruby

Chapter Twelve

A Terrible Alternative

Nina was very poorly the next day and was forced to stay in bed. She could not eat any of the good things which had been provided for breakfast, and thought of herself as a much abused little martyr.

Brenda’s conduct to this naughty, greedy child was all that was exemplary. She gave her proper medicines and saw that her bedroom was made comfortable, and came in and out of the room like a ministering angel – as Mr Amberley said.

Soon after noon, Nina was better, and as she had not the slightest idea what had taken place between Fanchon and her governess the night before, she said somewhat rudely to that pretty young woman, who was hemming some of the Reverend Josiah’s handkerchiefs as she sat by the bedside:

“Do go away please, Brenda, and send Fanchon to me.”

Brenda gave an angelic smile and immediately complied. A few minutes later Fanchon entered the room accompanied by Josephine.

“Oh, you are better, are you?” said Fanchon, regarding her younger sister with small favour. “Well – I hope you have received your lesson and won’t eat unlimited plum cake again, and finish off with lobster and crabs.”

“I hate l-lobsters and crabs!” moaned the victim. “They make me so s-sick – horrid things!”

“Well, you’re better now, so forget about them,” said Fanchon.

“Yes – I am better; she– the cat – she says that I am to have gruel for dinner! I don’t want it – horrid thing!”

“Serves you right, say I!” cried Fanchon.

“Oh, please, Fanchon,” said Nina, whose tears had trickled weakly forth, for she had really been rather bad, “don’t scold me, but tell me what you have arranged with Cat last night.”

“She’s not a cat – we made a mistake about that,” said Fanchon.

“What on earth do you mean now, Fanchon?” exclaimed Josie.

“She explained things to me. She’s very good-natured, and very wise.”

“Very ill-natured and only self-wise!” exclaimed Josie.

“No, no – you don’t know!” and then Fanchon proceeded to explain to both her sisters all about that wonderful point of view which Brenda, in her cleverness, had managed to impress on her mind. The money was kept back on purpose. It was on account of dear papa and dear papa’s eccentricity. The money would be spent at Marshlands, and Nina, if she liked, could keep accounts.

“She cried about it, poor thing!” said Fanchon. “She admits, of course, that the money is there for us, and she will buy us just what we want and give us a good time, and some treats besides in the different tea shops. She really was awfully nice about it.”

“Oh, Fanchon,” said Josephine, “you are taken in easily.”

“No, I’m not – I didn’t believe her myself at first.”

“You mean to say you do now?” said Nina.

“Y-yes, I do now.”

Notwithstanding her weakness, Nina laughed.

“Well, then – I don’t – do you, Joey?”

“I?” said Josephine. “I believe her less than ever. She is found out, and she means to save herself by spending the money on us. She’s a worse old cat than ever – that’s what I call her.”

“Well – of course,” said Fanchon, “you can tell papa – she told me last night that I could.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” said Nina.

“Well, I don’t think so. I believe her – I really and truly do. She confesses she told that lie about not having money, for she wished to have the thing a secret until we got to the seaside; but that is the whole of her offending. Of course you, girls, can tell papa, but it’ll be very serious, particularly as that awful Miss Juggins has come home to live with her mother.”

“What in the wide world has Miss Juggins to do with it?” exclaimed both sisters.

“Well – she’s out of a situation, and papa is safe and certain to get her to come to us. It was Brenda herself who spoke of her last night. She did not mention her name, but she must have had her in her mind. She is between forty and fifty if she’s a day, and she wears spectacles and has a cast in her eye and she’s a perfect terror. If we get poor Brenda away, we don’t go to the sea, and Juggins comes. It’s because of Juggins that I believe in Brenda – it is really.”

This frank avowal of the cause of her belief had a great influence on the other girls. Josephine sat quite still, evidently in deep thought. Nina lay back against her pillows.

“It would be awful to have Juggins!” she said, after a pause, “she would be worse than Brenda.”

“She would be honest, though,” said Josephine.

“Oh, yes – that she would. But think of our fun and – and – we know enough about Brenda now to force her to give us a good time.”

“I think, girls, we had best accept the situation,” was Fanchon’s final judgment.

Whatever the other girls might have remarked, and whatever their resolve would have been, must be left partly to conjecture. But something occurred at that moment to cause them to come altogether to Fanchon’s point of view; for, just at that instant, there was a tap at Nina’s door, and who should walk in but – Miss Jemima Juggins herself!

She came close up to Nina’s bedside, and asked abruptly where the Reverend Josiah was.

“Why are you lying in bed, you lazy child?” she said. “What is the matter?”

Now certainly Miss Juggins made a great contrast to pretty Brenda, and, when she removed her blue glasses and fixed her rather crooked eyes on Nina, Nina made up her mind on the spot to believe in Brenda, in Marshlands, in the pretty clothes which were yet to be bought, in a good time by the sea.

“I will go and find papa,” said Fanchon. “I know he’ll be glad to see you, Miss Juggins.”

“I hope he will, indeed,” said Miss Juggins. “I have come to speak to him on business. I want a new situation. How untidy your room is, girls! Shameful, I call it – three great hulking lasses like you not to be able to keep your own bedroom straight! But get your father at once, please, Fanny.”

“My name is Fanchon,” said that young lady. “Fanny – I prefer to call you; I hate French names.” Fanchon withdrew. The Reverend Josiah was discovered, and was borne up to little Nina’s room. Miss Juggins was seated by the bed.

“How do you do!” she said when the rector entered. “You don’t mind my finding my way about this house, I hope, Mr Amberley, seeing that I knew your sainted wife so well. I came to ask you if you could find me a situation. This child is a little ill from overeating, and ought to get up and take a good walk. I will go down with you to your study, Mr Amberley, for I must have a private talk. Good-bye, children. Take my advice, and tidy up your room. Really, Rector, you don’t bring your girls up at all in the way their dear mother would have liked.”

The door slammed behind Miss Juggins. The girls looked at each other.

“We mustn’t get rid of Pussy-cat,” said Nina then. “She would be fifty times worse. Well, I’ll keep the sums awfully carefully, and I’ll – ”

“You’ll have to believe in her, you know, and try to be agreeable,” said Fanchon.

“Oh – any fate in preference to Juggins!” was Josephine’s remark.

Chapter Thirteen

A Surprise Invitation

On the morning after the prize-giving day at Hazlitt Chase, Penelope rose with a headache. There was a great deal of bustle and excitement in the school, for nearly all the girls were going to their several homes on that special morning. Penelope and Mademoiselle d’Etienne would have the beautiful old house to themselves before twenty-four hours were over.

Penelope did not in the least care for Mademoiselle; she was not especially fond of her school life, but she detested those long and endless holidays which she spent invariably at Hazlitt Chase.

To-day all was in disorder. The usual routine of school life was over. The children were some of them beside themselves with the thought of the railway journey and the home-coming in the evening. Somebody shouted to Penelope to hurry with her dressing, in order to help to get off the little ones. The smaller children, including the two little Hungerfords, were to go in a great omnibus to the station and be conducted by a governess to their different homes in various parts of England.

Pauline Hungerford suddenly rushed into the room where Penelope was standing.

“Helen of Troy,” she said.

“Oh, please don’t!” said Penelope. “I am not Helen of Troy – I don’t wish to be called by that odious name.”

“But you were so beautiful!” said little Pauline. “Do you know that while we were looking at you, even Nellie forgot about her bracelet; but she’s crying like anything over the loss of it this morning. It is quite too bad.”

“Yes, indeed it is,” said Penelope. “I do trust your mother will take steps to get it back. I hear that some of the railway officials were supposed to have stolen it.”

“Oh dear,” said Pauline, “how wicked of them! What awful people they must be! Who told you that, Penelope?”

“Well, it was mentioned to me by my sister, who came here yesterday. You saw her, of course?”

“Yes – she was talking a lot to my brother. She is very pretty; of course – of course I saw her. And she says it was the railway people who stole it? I will tell mother that the very instant I get back. But oh, please, Penelope, Honora wants you; she said you promised to go to her room before ten, and she would be so glad if you would go at once – will you?”

“Yes, I will go,” said Penelope.

She had forgotten Honora’s words, being absorbed in her own melancholy thoughts. It now occurred to her, however, that she might as well keep her promise to the pretty girl who ought to have been Helen of Troy. She went slowly down the passage, tapped at Honora’s door, and entered her bedroom. The young lady was just dressed for her journey. She wore dainty white piqué and a pretty hat to match. She looked fair and fresh and charming.

“I am just off – I have hardly a minute,” she said. “I want to ask a great favour of you, Penelope.”

“What is that?” said Penelope.

She spoke ill-naturedly. She felt the contrast between them. She almost disliked Honora for her beauty on this occasion.

“It is this,” said Honora. “I have been asking mamma – and she says I may do it. Will you come and stay with us for part of the holidays?”

“I!” said Penelope – amazement in her face.

“Yes. We live at Castle Beverley: it is not very far from Marshlands-on-the-Sea.”

“Oh dear!” exclaimed Penelope, clasping her hands. “Why, it is there my sister is going.”

“Then of course you can see her; that will be nice. But will you come? I will write to fix the day after I get home. I should like you to have a good time with us. We shall be quite a big party – boys and girls, oh, – a lot of us, and I think there’ll be no end of fun. The little Hungerfords are coming, and Fred. Fred is such a nice boy. Will you come, Penelope? Do say ‘Yes.’”

Penelope’s eyes suddenly filled with tears.

“Will I come!” she said. “Why, I’d just love it beyond anything. Oh, you are good! Do you ask me because you pity me?”

“Well – yes, perhaps a little,” said Honora, colouring at this direct question – “but also because I want to like you. I know you are worth liking. No one who could look as you did last night could be unworthy. It was after I saw you that I asked mamma; and she said: most certainly you should come. It will probably be next week: I will write you fixing the day as soon as ever I get home. And now, I must be off. Good-bye, dear. You may be certain I will do my very utmost to give you a really happy time.”

Honora bent her stately head, pressed a little kiss on Penelope’s forehead, and the next minute had left her. Penelope’s first impulse had been to rush downstairs; but she restrained herself. She sat down on Honora’s vacant bed and pressed her hand to her forehead.

“Fun for me,” – she thought – “for me! I shan’t have lonely holidays. I shall go to one of the nicest houses in England, and be with nice people, good people, true people. There’s Brenda – of course I wish – I do wish Brenda were not at Marshlands; but I suppose I can’t have everything. I wish – I wish I could understand Brenda. Why did she force me to get all that money for her? I wonder if any of the girls who gave it me will be there. Well, well – I won’t be disagreeable – I am going to have a jolly time – I, who never have any fun. Oh, I am glad – I am very glad!”

About an hour later, the great house of Hazlitt Chase seemed quite silent and empty. Except for some housemaids who went to the different rooms in order to fold up the sheets and put away the blankets and take the curtains down from the windows and generally reduce the spotless, dainty chambers to the immaculate order of holiday times, Penelope did not see any one. She was glad that Mademoiselle d’Etienne was not in sight. She thought she could endure her holiday now that she had something to look forward to, if only Mademoiselle were not with her. But she could not stand the housemaids: they were so full of gossip and noise. Their accustomed reverence for the young ladies was not extended to the lonely girl who always spent vacation at Hazlitt Chase.

Penelope put on her hat, seized the first book she could find, and went out into the open air. The grounds still bore traces of yesterday’s revels. There was the wood – dark, cool, and beautiful – which had been used for that scene in which she took so distinguished a part. Penelope’s first desire was to get within the shade of the wood; but then she remembered how many things had happened there; how it was there that she had made terms with the girls with regard to the conditions on which she would act Helen of Troy. It was there, too, that Honora Beverley had found her when the play was over – when she was feeling so wrought up, so desolate, and, somehow, so ashamed of herself. She did not want to go into the wood. She walked, therefore, down one of the sunny garden paths, and at last came to a grassy sward with a huge elm-tree in the middle. There was shade under the elm. She eat down on the grass and opened her book. But she was not inclined to read. Penelope was never a reader. She had no special nor strong tastes. She could have been made a very nice, all-round sort of girl; her brain could have been well developed, but she would never be a genius or a specialist of any sort. Nevertheless, she had one thing which some of those girls who despised her did not possess; that was, a real, vibrating, suffering, longing, and passionate soul. She longed intensely for love, and she would rather be good than bad – that was about all.

She sat with her book open and her eyes fixed on the flickering sunlight and shade of the lawn just in front of her. After all she, Penelope, would have a good time – just like the other girls. She would come back to school able, like the other girls, to talk of her holidays, to describe where she went and what companions she found and what friends she made; to talk as the others talked of this delightful day and that delightful day. Oh, yes – she would have a good time! She pressed her hand to her eyes and her eyelids smarted with tears. It had been a very long time since Penelope had cried. Now, notwithstanding her sudden and unlooked-for bliss, there was a pain within her breast. She was terribly – most terribly disappointed in Brenda. She had not seen Brenda for a long time, and she had always rather worshipped her sister. When a little child, she had thoroughly revelled in Brenda’s beauty. When the time came that she and Brenda must part, little Penelope had sobbed hard in her elder sister’s arms – had implored and implored her not to leave her, and afterwards, when the separation had taken place, had been sullen and truly miserable for a long time.

Then she had been admitted to Mrs Hazlitt’s school on those special conditions which came to a few girls and had been arranged by those governors who put a certain number on the foundation terms of the school. The foundation girls were never known to be such by any of their companions. They were treated exactly like the others. In fact, if anything, they had a few more indulgences. Not for worlds would Mrs Hazlitt have given these children of poverty so cruel a time as to make their estate known to their companions.

But, it so happened that Penelope was obliged always to spend her holidays at the school. That was the only difference made between her and the others. She had not seen Brenda for years. But Brenda had written to her little sister and had made all use possible of that sister’s affection. She had worked up her feelings with regard to her own dreadful poverty and, in short, had got Penelope to blackmail four girls of the school for her sake.

“It was a dreadful thing to do,” thought Penelope to herself, as she sat now under the shade of the elm-tree. “I don’t think I’d have done it if I’d known. I wonder if she really wanted the money so very badly. There’s some one who loves her, and she must look nice for his sake. But all the same – I wish I hadn’t done it, and I wish she were not going to Marshlands-on-the-Sea. For she is just the sort to make it unpleasant for me, and to expect the Beverleys to ask her to Beverley Castle; and oh – I am disappointed in her!”

Again Penelope cried, not hard or much, for this was not her nature, but sufficiently to relieve some of the load at her heart. Then, all of a sudden, she started to her feet. Mademoiselle d’Etienne was coming down the central lawn to meet her. Mademoiselle was in many respects an excellent French governess, but had the usual faults of the proverbial Frenchwoman. She was both ugly and vain. She could not in the least read character, but she had the knack of discovering which was the girl whose acquaintance was most worth cultivating.

Mrs Hazlitt had made a mistake in introducing this woman into the school. She had not interviewed her in advance, and was altogether disappointed when she arrived. It was her intention to get another French governess to take her place at the beginning of next term. Mademoiselle had, in fact, received notice to this effect and was exceedingly annoyed. She was in that state when she must vent her spleen on some one, and, as Penelope was the only girl now at Hazlitt Chase, she went up to her crossly.

“What are you doing here, mon enfant?” she cried. “You leave the poor French mademoiselle all alone – it is sad – it is strange – it is wrong. Come this minute into the house. I have my woes to relate, and I want even a petite like you to listen. Come at once, and sit no longer under this shade, but make of yourself a use.”

Penelope rose, looking more grim and forbidding than usual. She followed Mademoiselle up the garden, past the wood, and into the house.

“Behold the desolation!” cried Mademoiselle, when they got indoors. She spread out her two fat, short arms and looked around her. “Not a petite in sight – not a sound – the whole mansion empty, and Madame gone – gone with venom! She have left me my dismissal; she say, ‘You teach no more les enfants in this school.’ She gave no reason, but say, ‘I find another and you teach no more!’ Who was that spiteful and most méchant enfant who reveals secrets of poor Mademoiselle to Madame?”

“I don’t know,” said Penelope. “I hadn’t an idea you were going. I know nothing about it,” she continued. “Aren’t we going to have any lunch? I am so hungry.”

“And so am I,” cried Mademoiselle, who was exceedingly greedy. “I starve – I ache from within. Sonnez, mon enfant– I entreat; let us have our déjeuner– my vitals can stand the strain no longer.”

Penelope rang the bell, and presently a towsled-looking housemaid appeared, to whom Mademoiselle spoke in a volley of bad English and excellent French.

“Get us something to eat,” said Penelope, “that is what we want. Isn’t Patience here to wait on us as usual?”

Patience was one of the immaculate parlour maids.

“No,” said the girl; “Patience has gone on her holiday.”

She withdrew, however, quickly after making this remark, for Mademoiselle’s eyes flashed fire.

“I suffer not these tortures,” she cried, “and the insolence of English domestiques! I return to my own adorable land and partake of the ragoûts so delicate and the bouillon so fragrant and the omelettes so adorable. I turn my back on your cold England. It loves not the stranger – and the stranger loves it not!”

A meal was hastily prepared in another room, and Penelope and the governess went there together.

“What I dread,” said Mademoiselle, “what I consider so triste and execrable – is that I should remain here in this so gloomy climate, far, far from my beloved land, with you – the most ennuyeuse of all my pupils during the time of holiday. I call it shameful! I rebel!”

“Then why do you stay?” said Penelope.

Again Mademoiselle extended her fat hands and arms.

“Would I lose that little character which is to me the breath of existence?” she enquired. “Were Madame to know that I had left you, my triste pupil, all alone during these long days and weeks, would she give me a paper with those essential qualifications written on it which secure for me employment elsewhere?”

“I am going away myself next week,” said Penelope, bluntly.

“Next week!” cried Mademoiselle, much startled and delighted at this news. “But is that indeed so? for Madame say nothing of it. She say to me this morning: ‘You take excellent care of my pupil, Penelope Carlton, and give her of the food sufficient, and of the mental food also, that she will digest.’”

“I won’t digest any of it,” said Penelope, bluntly.

“That was my thought, but I dared not express it. I knew well the dulness of your intellect, and although last night you did soar into a different world —ma foi, you did take me by surprise! – you are yourself a very triste little girl – an enfant indistinguishable, with neither the gifts of beauty nor of genius.”

“Well – I am going – it is arranged. Mrs Hazlitt will doubtless be written to.”

“And where do you go, pauvre petite?” asked the governess.

“I am going to stay with Honora Beverley, at Castle Beverley,” replied Penelope, with even a touch of arrogance in her small voice.

Mademoiselle opened her eyes wide.

“With her! – my pupil magnifique, and so beautiful! She has the air distinguished and the manner noble. She belongs to the rich and to the great. She takes you up – but pourquoi?”

“Kindness – I suppose,” said Penelope. “I am lonely, and they have a big house; I am going there.”

“It is wonderful,” said Mademoiselle, “you of all people. Honora is one with thoughts the most lofty, and she signifies a preference for you! It is strange – it gives me mal à la tête even to think of it!”

“Why should it?” asked Penelope.

“Do I not know some of your ways, mon enfant– and that little, little transaction in the wood?”