“Leave the matter to me,” said Mademoiselle. “This interests me; but I must be calm. You and I, dear Madame, are true friends, are we not?”
Chapter Eighteen
The Locked Drawer
Brenda was looking eagerly forward to the evening. A great deal would depend on the evening, for then she would see Harry Jordan again, and find out whether he was impressed or not. She had already perceived in that charming youth a passion for greatness – a snobbish devotion to the great ones of this world. She had wondered within herself why he cared so much for people with “handles,” as he expressed it, to their names. If he was as rich as he described himself, surely these things scarcely mattered to him.
Well, she at least was gently born, and had friends in the class which he so coveted to know. She was very, very pretty, and he had almost told her that he loved her.
“Fanchon,” said the governess to her eldest pupil that day, “we’ll go out by ourselves after supper to-night and walk on the promenade and listen to the band. The two younger children must go to bed immediately after supper; I must insist on that; Mrs Simpkins always helps me with regard to that. She thinks it is good for children to put them early to bed. But for that one redeeming trait in her character, I should detest the woman.”
“Oh, every one in the house is detestable!” said Fanchon, “except perhaps Mademoiselle.”
Brenda lowered her brows. The two younger girls were well on in front.
“I like Mademoiselle the least of all,” she said.
“Do you, Brenda?” cried Fanchon. “I wonder why.”
“I detest her,” said Brenda.
“Oh, but she’s so funny,” exclaimed Fanchon.
“Do you know,” said Brenda, “that she’s leaving Hazlitt Chase? Penelope mentioned the fact quite casually to me yesterday. She will not be there when darling Penelope returns. Perhaps if the ladies knew that little item of news, they wouldn’t be quite so agreeable to her. They think a great deal of the fact that she’s French teacher at the Chase.”
Fanchon yawned.
“I dare say,” she answered. “But after all, what does that matter? She’s rather a pleasant woman, I think, and she does talk such funny English; it’s as good as a play to hear her.”
“Well,” said Brenda, “we needn’t bother about her now. The great thing is for us to slip away after supper. Your friend will be there, of course, and you will talk to him.”
“You mean Mr Burbery,” said Fanchon, blushing. “Don’t colour up like that, dear – I wouldn’t if I were you. He can’t mean anything, of course.”
“Oh, of course not,” said Fanchon; but she coloured more vividly than ever, while a delicious thrill ran through her childish breast. “I wonder,” she said in a low tone, “if you will lend me the bangle again to-night.”
“No – I won’t, Fanchon.”
“But why not – why won’t you?”
“You are so dreadfully silly about it – you show it to people – oh, not by talking, but you shove out your hand and arm in such a hideously marked fashion. If you were modest, and like a girl accustomed to get jewellery, you would think nothing about it, and then no one would remark it. As it is, that precious Mr Burbery spoke of it. Then Mrs Dawson was attracted by it.”
“But where’s the good of wearing it, if no one is to see it?” queried the practical Fanchon.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Brenda, crossly; “but I can assure you it is exceedingly bad form to intrude it in the way you do. You look, when you have it on, as though you were all bangle – it’s absurd!”
“Well, all the same, I do wish you would let me put it on,” said Fanchon. “I can slip it up under my sleeve, then no one will notice and it does support me so tremendously when I am undergoing the ordeal of talking to a man.”
“No – you shan’t have it to-night,” said Brenda, and there was a finality in her tone which Fanchon recognised and did not attempt to dispute.
Supper that evening was of course extra delicious. The ladies were in raptures. The salad, made in the truly French style, was most appetising. There were certain most “chic” little sandwiches handed round to eat with it. Mademoiselle would not give away the secret of how those sandwiches were made. There were iced drinks to refresh the unfortunate inmates of Mrs Dawson’s fearfully hot dining-room. There was a fragrance about the supper which astonished and delighted these poor ladies. Mrs Simpkins very nearly shed tears.
“After the battle I’ve had all the afternoon with those dear, darling, dreadful children,” she said, “it’s fairly like heaven to come down here.”
Her raptures grew still greater as she partook of the savoury omelets, and by-and-by ate some of that soufflé which most certainly Mary Anne could never have compounded. But the crowning dish at that supper table was the preparation of crab to which Mademoiselle gave some long French, absolutely unpronounceable name, and which all the ladies consumed with immense satisfaction. Mrs Dawson was so struck with the success of her supper, and also with the pleasing knowledge that the ingredients which composed it had cost hardly anything, that she began to entertain serious thoughts of taking Mademoiselle into partnership on the spot. With such a woman to help her with her daily ménage, what might she not aspire to? Another house, a higher class of boarders, double and even treble profits. Then Mademoiselle was so nice to look at – although ugly, yes, quite ugly – and so charmingly witty, but so modest withal, never attempting to take the lead, listening deferentially even to the most minute details with regard to Georgie’s cold, and to Miss Price’s pain in her head, and yet guiding the conversation ever and always into channels which caused ripples of laughter and perfect good humour.
Brenda, who hitherto had been the centre of attraction, was cast completely into the shade. Brenda Carlton seldom looked prettier than she did that evening, but nobody noticed her fresh young face with its bright colour, nor the clear blue of her eyes, nor her charming figure, when ugly Mademoiselle was keeping the table in constant roars of laughter. Brenda felt that, if this sort of thing went on, her feeling towards the French governess would become dangerous.
The little Simpkinses were, of course, not allowed to sit up to supper, but the Amberleys always partook of that meal, and there was no one more greedy on the present occasion than Nina Amberley, who enjoyed the Frenchwoman’s cooking so intensely that she forgot to do anything but eat.
At last, however, the viands were disposed of. There was nothing for Jane to remove from the table but the empty plates and dishes. Mademoiselle felt that she was wearing a little secret crown – the crown of a great success, and Mrs Dawson rose majestically from the board.
“Children,” said Brenda, “you will at once go up to bed, it is exceedingly late.”
Josie looked cross, Nina defiant.
“Les pauvres enfants!” exclaimed Mademoiselle. “Why confine them to their appartement on this so hot evening! The air would refresh them – there is no need for this early retirement on these long summer days.”
“Your opinion, Mrs Simpkins, coincides with mine in that subject,” said Brenda, turning hastily to the fat mother of the babies.
“Oh, I know, my dear,” said Mrs Simpkins, “and I always do hold with my favourite proverb. But it is ’ot to-night, and I fairly gasp. I suppose an extra hour up would not be permitted, Miss Carlton?”
“No, no – you must go to bed immediately,” said Brenda, turning to her pupils. “Now off you go. Say good-night, Nina; say good-night, Josephine.”
Very sulkily did the girls obey. They were both of them consumed with rage when they reached their hot attic.
“I hate going to bed,” said Nina.
“It is abominable – it is cruel to send us!” cried Josie. “I want to know,” she added, “why Fanchon, who is only a year and six months older than me should go out and have no end of fun and why we should lie stewing in these hot beds!”
But though the little girls grumbled, they felt in their own minds that they were no match for Brenda; and when, a short time afterwards, that young lady came into the room, they were both in bed and were even pretending to be asleep. Brenda hastily put on her most becoming picture hat, glanced at the private drawer which contained the bracelet and her money, took Fanchon’s hat and gloves from the room, and, telling the others to go to sleep and be quick about it, took her departure. A few minutes later, she and Fanchon had stolen softly from the house, and ten minutes after that, there came a gentle tap at the door of the room where Nina and Josie were lying wide awake and conversing in low tones about their mutual grievances.
“Whoever is that?” said Joey, in a tone of some alarm. “Come in!” she called, and Mademoiselle entered.
“Oh, pauvres petites!” cried the French governess. “I venture to come to offer you my consolations. This ‘early to bed’ is what cannot be permitted. I also am an instructress of the young. I have had a long experience. Why should you not be out and enjoy the summer air?”
“Oh – but we dare not disobey Brenda!” exclaimed Nina.
“It is very kind of you, Mademoiselle, to come and see us,” said Josie; “but Brenda always sends us to bed when she and Fanchon go out for their fun.”
“Do they have great fun at this hour?” asked Mademoiselle.
“Oh, I don’t know – I expect so,” exclaimed Josie, and she giggled a little.
Mademoiselle uttered a sigh. She opened the window a little wider and left the door ajar.
“Now there is a consoling draught,” she said, “you will not suffer so much from the hot, hot air. Tell me your little stories, petites, so that I may you comfort while you lie awake.”
The children did not know at first what they had especially to tell to Mademoiselle; but that clever woman was not ten minutes in their society before she had obtained a vast lot of useful information from them – information which she meant to turn to good account. She had her way to make in the world, and could only make it by more or less dishonest means. In short, before she left the little girls on this occasion, she knew that little secret with regard to Nina’s account-book, and why Nina was learning this salutary lesson. She pretended to be rather shocked by the little girl’s disclosure.
“Oh, mais fi donc! mon enfant,” she exclaimed. “You to have had that very great mistrust! and your beautiful instructress has the anxiety written all over her face. She punishes you, and it is well. Doubtless it is also for that very reason that she confines you and your sister in this so triste appartement, while she and Fanchon go abroad in order to amuse themselves. But, my dear petites, I have not come to this house for nothing. I would aid you. I see not why you two poor little ones should not also have your so great pleasure. What would you say to coming out with me for a little pastime to-morrow evening?”
“We would love it beyond anything!” said Joey. “But,” said Nina, “we would not dare!”
“And why not, petites, if no person did know it?”
“Surely you could not manage that?”
“Ah – but yes; I think I know a way. I would you advise to slip into bed to-morrow evening with a willing grace; but put on your night things over your pretty day garments, so that you can slip them off quickly when I appear. I will then take you abroad for a delicious hour. We will go out and see the wonders of the night, and you will be in bed again and, peut-être, asleep, before Mademoiselle Brenda and Mademoiselle Fanchon appear.”
This sounded delicious, daring, extremely naughty, and altogether quite impossible to resist, to the little girls.
“You are quite a darling,” said Nina. “I only wish you were our governess instead of horrid Brenda!”
“Ah, méchante– but Brenda, whom you like not, is of the best. She has the principles the most high, and the desires the most perfect for your real advancement.”
“I don’t think so for a single minute,” said Nina.
“I’m certain that she’s a – ”
“Oh – don’t say anything against her now!” said Josephine.
Mademoiselle looked anxiously round the room. “You will wear your very prettiest dresses when you come abroad with me to-morrow night,” she said. “I take you not to the promenade ordinaire, but to the most select one where the admission is one shilling each, and where we sit with the ladies and gentlemen of the highest quality. Have you no so-called trinkets or ornament! that you could wear?”
“Oh dear, no!” said Nina, “nothing of the sort!”
“But then you might borrow from your sister Function.”
Nina gave a childish laugh.
“Fanchon has only one little silver brooch, and the pin is broken. Poor Fanchon! what would she – ”
“Mais, ma chère,” said Mademoiselle, as she laid a shapely French hand on the little girl’s arm, “I think you are under a misapprehension. Ask your sister to lend you her bangle.”
“Her bangle?” said Nina.
“Breathe it not, dear one, to your adorable governess, but ask your sister to lend it to you, and I will give you the most delightful surprise when you come out with me.”
“But she’s not got one!” said Josie. “I don’t know what you are dreaming about, Mademoiselle. Poor Fanchon – I only wish she had!”
“Well, dears, examine her belongings, and I think you will see that this clever mademoiselle is right, and that you, mes enfants, are wrong. Find it, and wear it, one or other of you, and you shall have a surprise which shall delight your young hearts. Now then, I must go. I am about to take a little walk abroad to refresh myself after the sultry airs of the house. Bonsoir, mes enfants. Dormez bien.”
Mademoiselle waved her hand to the children, and gently closed the door behind her. She left them both in a state of great excitement and wonder. What a fascinating woman she was! How delightfully she sympathised! and wouldn’t it be fun to go out with her on the following evening, to have a very superior treat to that one which Fanchon enjoyed and made such a fuss about? Oh, the mystery of the whole thing, and the spice of danger in it, and the awful dread of discovery, and the maddening joy of getting away without anybody knowing, and the charming surprise which would await them!
“But Mademoiselle must be mad on one point,” said Nina, “for she talks of Fanchon’s bangle. Fanchon hasn’t got a bangle.”
“There’s no saying what she has or hasn’t,” said Josie. “She’s so abominably mysterious lately; she’s so stuck up, and has such airs and graces, I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if she had got Brenda to buy her one of those cheap shilling things you see in the shop windows.”
“Brenda never got me to put that expense down in the account-book,” said Nina.
“Oh, she wouldn’t!” exclaimed Josie. “She’s too sly.”
“It seems a great pity,” said Nina, after another restless twiddle in her little hot bed, “that we can’t find out.”
“We could look through the drawers, of course,” said Joey, “and discover for ourselves.”
“Brenda keeps the top drawer locked and has taken the key.” Nina gave a little jump. “I tell you what!” she said. “Why shouldn’t we try if the key of the wardrobe would open the top drawer of the chest of drawers? It looks exactly the same: I noticed that myself when first we came.”
“But there isn’t any key to the wardrobe!” exclaimed Joey.
“Oh – isn’t there? I know better. It was always lying on the floor, and I picked it up and put it behind that ornament on the mantelpiece so as to get it out of the way.”
“Well – we can look at once,” said Josie.
“What fun it will be if Fanchon really has a shilling bangle, and Brenda forgot to have it entered in the accounts!”
The two girls sprang out of bed. They were trembling with excitement. They longed beyond anything to discover if Mademoiselle was right.
“But if she has it,” suddenly exclaimed Nina, “she may be wearing it – it’s just the sort of thing she would do – she’d be so desperately proud of it!”
“Yes,” said Josie, “and by the evening light people would think it was real. Oh, I say, Nina, what fun – this key does open the drawers! Yes, and locks them too. I say now, shall we have a search?”
The girls ransacked the precious locked drawer, and of course, in less than a minute, came upon the gold bangle with the turquoise ornament. They brought it to the window and examined it carefully by the light of the moon. While Josie held it, Nina kept the little box, in which it was generally concealed, in her hand. She now read the writing on it.
“Why – it is Fanchon’s!” she cried, “here’s her name on the box saying that the bangle is hers. Oh, what a wicked, wicked Fanchon, not to tell us! Won’t we tease her about this!”
“No, we mustn’t,” said Josie. “But I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll just carefully – most carefully – put that key away, and then to-morrow night before we go out, we’ll unlock the drawer and take the bangle, and either you or I can wear it. What awful fun that’ll be! We’ll have our surprise too – how clever of Mademoiselle to know!”
“Perhaps after our delicious time out is over, and our surprise is come to an end, we may talk to Fanchon about her horrid meanness in keeping the bangle a secret.”
“Of course it isn’t real gold – it’s only one of those shilling things; but she might have told – that she might.”
“That she might,” exclaimed the other sister.
Then they put the bangle carefully back into its box, and readjusted the drawer so as not to allow suspicious eyes to guess that anything had been disarranged. They took the precious key which could unlock the drawer and display this marvellous fairyland of delight, and hid it under a portion of the carpet which went straight under the bed in which they slept.
“No one will find it here,” said Nina, “for this room is never cleaned. I asked Jane about it, and she said she never cleans the bedrooms except when new visitors come. We shall have fun to-morrow night – I can hardly sleep for thinking about it!”
Chapter Nineteen
Telltale Tracings
Brenda and Fanchon had by no means a very satisfactory evening out. Harry Jordan was not quite as empressé as usual; the fact being that he had not the most remote intention of ever asking Brenda to marry him, and was already turning his attentions to another young lady, much more in his rank of life.
Joe Burbery did not put in an appearance, and Harry, after walking up and down the Esplanade two or three times with Brenda and Fanchon, managed to make his escape to that new siren who was at present occupying his fickle affections.
Brenda’s rage and disappointment scarcely knew any bounds; but she would not show her feelings for the world, and walked up and down with Fanchon until the usual hour for retiring.
“It’s a great pity one of us had not the bangle on,” said the eldest pupil, as she walked with her governess. “He would have been interested in that: every one is who sees it – it’s so very lovely.”
“Think of my giving it to you, Fanchon!” exclaimed Brenda. “Can you ever thank me enough?”
“I will thank you as long as I live when once you allow me to wear it properly,” said Fanchon.
Brenda made no answer to this.
“We’ll go out to-morrow evening, won’t we?” asked the young pupil of the careful governess, “and you’ll let me put it on them, won’t you, darling Brenda – darling Brenda!”
“No – I won’t – and that’s flat!” exclaimed Brenda. “We shall have a very good time, though, to-morrow, Fanchon; for Harry says that he’ll take us to a play down in the town. There’s a very good travelling company now at Marshlands. You have never seen a play, have you?”
“Indeed, no – how perfectly delightful – I didn’t know you had arranged that!”
“Yes, I have. I think really why he left us was to go at once and enquire for tickets.”
“Oh, no – it wasn’t,” said Fanchon; “I saw him walking with a girl with black hair – a very tall, showy-looking girl – and they were laughing loudly.”
Brenda bit her lips. She knew this fact quite well, but had trusted that Fanchon had not noticed it. When they returned to the house, the two younger girls were really sound asleep, and Brenda and her pupil got quietly into bed – Brenda to think of what means she could adopt to bring fickle Harry, that merchant prince, once again to her side; and Fanchon to wonder if by any possible plan she could induce Brenda to allow her to wear the bracelet on the following evening.
Meanwhile, plans were being made in another quarter which were likely to upset the most astute calculations on the part of Brenda and her eldest pupil. After breakfast, Mademoiselle managed to have a word alone with Nina Amberley. There and then, Nina told her that she had discovered how very wise Mademoiselle was – that Fanchon really had an ugly old cheap bangle, which she knew only cost a shilling, and that beyond doubt the said bangle would appear on Nina’s wrist that very evening when Mademoiselle took Josie and herself for their surprise treat. Mademoiselle could have hugged Nina as she spoke. Little as she cared for the plain face of that extraordinary child, she thought that same face almost beautiful at that moment. But she had her work to do. She meant to be thoroughly sure of her facts; and, after parting from Nina and cautioning her not to reveal a word but to trust absolutely to the poor Frenchwoman for an evening of such intense fascination that she could never forget it as long as she lived, she hurried from the child’s presence, went up to her room, and there she dressed herself in her very best.
Mademoiselle’s best was plain, but it was eminently suitable. She ran downstairs, and entered Mrs Dawson’s parlour.
“I should not be the least surprised,” she said in a low voice, “if you and I, dear Madame, did obtain our little, our very little reward for the eighteen carat gold bangle with the beautiful turquoise stone in the clasp. But I tell you no more; only, Madame, you will miss me to-day at my mid-day meal; for I must repair to Castle Beverley in order to see my two beloved pupils – Miss Honora and Miss Penelope.”
Of course Mrs Dawson was all curiosity, and of course Mademoiselle was all mystery. Nothing would induce the French governess to reveal so much as a pin’s point of how she knew what she knew. In the end Mademoiselle departed, making first the necessary proviso that Mrs Dawson should not repeat to any of the ladies of the pension where the French governess had gone.
“For the sake of ourselves, it is best not to do so, I you do assure,” said Mademoiselle, and then she started to walk to Castle Beverley.
Mademoiselle had by no means a good complexion; but then she never flushed, or looked the least hot; and when that long walk had come to an end, she had not a speck of dust on her neat black dress, for she had taken the precaution to bring with her a tiny clothes brush, with which she carefully removed what she had gathered from the dusty highroad; and her hair was as fresh as though she had just arranged it before the best looking-glass in the world. She drew on a pair of new gloves, which she did not wear while she was walking, and, with her dainty parasol unfurled, and her exquisite feet perfectly shod, she appeared quite a stylish-looking person when she enquired of the powdered footman if Miss Beverley was within.
Yes, Miss Beverley was within. Mademoiselle produced her neat card, and begged that it might be conveyed to the young lady. Meanwhile, the servant asked her into one of the sitting-rooms. There, a few minutes later, Honora joined her.
Honora was not glad to see her, but that did not greatly matter. She was hospitable to her finger-ends, and would not allow the tired governess to go away until she was thoroughly refreshed after her long walk.
“My pupil most dear!” said Mademoiselle, when Honora entered, “I could not rest so near your home the most beautiful without calling upon you. Alas, yes! I walked! But what of that, when I had such a joy at the end of the weary kilometres!”
“You must stay now you have come,” said Honora. “Will you come into the garden? It is beautifully cool under the cedar tree, and you will find most of us there. We shall have lunch by-and-by, and you will not return until the cool of the evening.”
Mademoiselle murmured her thanks, and was very glad to join the others under the cedar. She made the usual suitable remarks and, as there were several of her pupils present, they all gave her, more or less, a cordial welcome.
“I see you not again,” she said, tears springing to her eyes. “I return to my land, heart-rent for the absence of those I so fondly love.”
Little Pauline Hungerford had the warmest heart in the world. She did not like Mademoiselle at all when she was at school, but she was truly sorry for her now. She ran up to her and flung her arms round her neck.
“Why must you go?” she said. “Is Mrs Hazlitt angry with you?”
“I know not, mon enfant. I cannot imagine why I leave the good school where my loved pupils dwell, but the decree is gone forth, and I must submit. You will remember me when you conjugate your verbs, my little Pauline, will you not?”
As Mademoiselle spoke, she passed her arm round the child’s waist, and drew her close to her. The others were now talking to one another at a little distance.
“You have your pretty bangle on,” said the governess. “Have you heard of the recovery of its – so to speak – twin sister?”
“No, no,” said Pauline, “we don’t talk of it at all: it is quite lost, but Nellie is getting good; she doesn’t cry any more; she is resigned. Mother will get her one, I know, to replace the lost one, by-and-by.”
“Your sister Nellie is of the angel type; but perhaps – I say not anything to a certainty – she may be rewarded sooner than she thinks.”
“Why, Mademoiselle,” cried Pauline, opening her eyes in astonishment, “do you know anything?”
“Whisper it not, dear. I have at present nothing to say. At present– remember; but there may be news in the future. Allow me, my little one, to examine your bangle with its heart of the ruby – still more close than I have hitherto done.”
Pauline allowed the bangle to be removed from her wrist Mademoiselle noticed the curious and very beautiful engraving of the delicate gold.
“And the other was an exact counterpart, was it not?” she queried.
“Precisely the same,” said Pauline, “only that it held a turquoise and mine holds a ruby.”
Mademoiselle took a pencil from her pocket, and also a little notebook. She made some almost invisible tracings in the notebook and then returned the bangle to Pauline.
“You will speak no words,” she said, “but you will cultivate a soupçon of that precious hope which sustains the heart.”
Pauline promised, and went away, feeling more uncomfortable than glad. Mademoiselle spent the rest of her day in quite an agreeable manner. She had dropped all those traits which had made her disliked at Hazlitt Chase, and amused the young people by her witty talk and her gay demeanour. The strange children at Castle Beverley thought her altogether delightful: her pupils also considered her delightful, but with a reserve in their minds which confined that delight to holidays and differentiated it from the working days.
Mademoiselle could not be induced to stay to supper. No, she said she must hurry home. She was staying in the same house where that sweet girl, Brenda Carlton, with her dear little pupils, was living.
“I have a small attic there,” she said humbly. “The terms are moderate, and I am filled with sweet content. But I have promised to take some disconsolate little children for a treat to-night, and I would not disappoint them for the world.”
To Penelope, Mademoiselle hardly spoke; but before she went away, she went up to the young lady and uttered some extravagant words of praise of her sister.
“But you yourself are coming to see us. We look forward to your visit with the delight supreme,” said Mademoiselle.
“I am coming in to Marshlands to-morrow,” said Penelope. “Brenda has asked me to spend a part of the day there.”
Mademoiselle expressed her increased pleasure at this news, and presently took her departure, walking back again all the way to Marshlands. But on the middle of the dusty highroad she took out her notebook, and carefully examined the little drawing she had made in it. She gave a low laugh of absolute contentment; and when she sat down to the supper table in the boarding-house, there was no person more cheerful or who looked more absolutely fresh than Mademoiselle.