Turquoise and Ruby
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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 recherché 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-être, 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, chérie,” 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 —chérie– I am coming to that. It was lost, was it not, on the very day of the grande fête 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.”
“Précisément: 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 chère– 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 précisément 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 chère!” 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, chère 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 méchante– your sister. There is no doubt that on the day of the grande fête 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?”
Chapter Twenty Two
Do the Right Thing
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 très 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 chère– ”
“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 chère; 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 nécessaire 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, chérie. 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!”