Chapter Twenty One
A Forlorn Hope
The Amberleys were really fond of each other. They were worldly little creatures, and had never been trained in high principles of any sort; but they clung together, as motherless, defenceless creatures will in their hour of peril. They had a queer feeling now that they were in some sort of danger, and the younger ones sympathised enormously with Fanchon.
They did not of course dare to tell her what had happened on the previous night – how Nina had worn the bangle, the real eighteen carat gold bangle, the bangle with the turquoise of such size and elegance, of such an exquisite shade of colour, the bangle with that delicate tracery all over its gold rim. That bangle was so widely different from this, that there was no doubt whatever that the one had been substituted for the other. How had it been done? Mademoiselle? Oh, no, no. Nina looked at Josephine, and Josephine was afraid to meet Nina’s eyes, as the thoughts flashed quickly through each little brain.
Mademoiselle had helped them to undress. Mademoiselle had herself put the precious bangle away. But no – she was kind – more than kind. It could not be in the heart of such a woman to do anything so shabby. Nevertheless, the thought of Mademoiselle’s past treachery had come to both the little sisters, and they hated themselves for it, and feared to glance at each other, and above all things dreaded what Fanchon might be thinking about. Fanchon was, however, far too miserable to worry herself with regard to her little sisters’ thoughts.
“I cannot make it out,” she said. “Of course I shall have to speak to poor Brenda about it.”
“Perhaps Brenda did it herself,” said Nina then. It was an audacious and very wicked thought which had come to the little girl, but she was really intensely anxious to shield Mademoiselle at that moment. The words she uttered bore some fruit, for Fanchon considered them very carefully, and said aloud:
“If I really thought that – ”
“What would you do if you did think that?” asked Josephine.
“I should go straight home to papa, and tell him everything – everything!” was Fanchon’s answer.
“But have you a great deal to tell him?”
“I have – oh, I have. I am a miserable girl! That odious – that vulgar – that detestable bangle – is that what I am to have in the end? She probably did exchange it for the real one, because she wanted to wear the real one herself. Oh, girls – how am I to endure it!”
“Buck up, whatever you do,” said Nina; “and remember your promise.”
“Oh – how I hate promises!” said Fanchon. “I want to fly at her now, horrid thing! and confront her with the truth.”
“Well, you can’t anyhow for the present, on account of your promise,” said Josie.
“Perhaps to-night you may talk to her, but certainly not before; and it’s time for us to be going down to the sands,” said Nina. “We’ll lose all our morning’s fun if we don’t. I want to get some of those buns from the little old woman who brings them round in her basket. I’ll get Brenda to buy them for us; I’m ever so hungry, and I’m not going to be afraid of Brenda to-day.”
“You’ll have to take your notebook,” said Fanchon; and then she gave a half-laugh.
“I!” exclaimed Nina. “Not I. I think the time of tyranny with Brenda is nearly over.”
The girls put on their hats, and strolled down to the beach. Brenda was there looking quite happy and unconcerned. She called Fanchon a little aside, and desired the younger girls to amuse themselves building castles in the sand.
“I am too old for that,” said Josephine.
“Not a bit,” exclaimed Brenda. “How ridiculous you are! you are nothing but a baby. Anyhow, please yourselves, both of you, for I want to talk to Fanchon.”
“It’s horrid, the way you make Fanchon grown-up, and make Nina and me quite little babies!” said Josie.
But Brenda looked troubled, and was quite indifferent to her small pupil’s remarks with regard to her conduct.
“I tell you what,” she said, after a pause. “You may do anything you like on the sands, only don’t wander too far.”
“There’s Betty with her tray of cakes!” exclaimed Nina. “May we have a bun each, Brenda? Will you give us money to buy a bun each?”
Curious to relate, Brenda complied. She gave Nina the necessary pence, and did not even refer to the obnoxious notebook. The moment the little girls were out of sight, she turned to her elder pupil.
“I met Harry to-day; he was quite contrite and nice. I feel almost certain he’ll ask me to marry him. I mean to go out without you this evening, and I mean to wear the bangle. I think the bangle will quite clinch matters. Harry thinks I am poor; but I don’t want him to do so. Why, what’s the matter, Fanchon?”
“Oh, nothing,” said Fanchon, making an effort to conceal her feelings.
“Have you a headache, dear? are you ill?”
“I am not ill,” said Fanchon, “but I have a little headache – the sun is very hot,” she added.
“I shall take Penelope with me this evening – that’s a good idea,” said Brenda, suddenly. “I shall keep her for the night; I mean to force her to stay. She’s got a very stylish air about her, which you, poor Fanchon, don’t possess, and what with Penelope and the bangle – ”
“I thought you didn’t want Penelope to know about the bangle.”
“No more I do; but I shall manage just to let him see a gleam of it when she is not looking. You haven’t the least idea how to arrange these sort of things, my dear child; but doubtless some day you will. However, now it’s almost time to hurry home. My little Fanchon shall have that beautiful bangle all for herself when the holidays are over.”
Fanchon gave quite an audible sniff.
“What a very unpleasant noise you make, dear Fanchon.”
“Oh, I can’t help it,” replied Fanchon, and she stuck her head high in the air and looked so repellent that her governess wondered she had ever been bothered by her.
When the girls returned to the pension, they found Penelope awaiting them. She wore a brown holland frock, quite neat, but very plain. Her soft, very fair hair was arranged tidily round her head, also with the least attempt at display. She was a singularly unobtrusive-looking girl, and, beside Brenda, she was, as the ladies of the pension exclaimed, “nowhere.” They all criticised her, however, very deeply, for had she not come from Castle Beverley? By slow degrees, too, they began to discover virtues in her, the sort of virtues they could never aspire to. She was so gentle in conversation, and had such a low, sweet voice. She was very polite, also, and talked for a long time to Miss Price, seeming, by her manner, to enjoy this woman’s society. Mrs Simpkins looked her up and looked her down, and said to herself that although not pretty, she was “genteel,” and to be genteel, you had to possess something which money could not buy. The good woman made a further discovery – that pretty, showy Brenda was not genteel.
Mademoiselle was also reading Penelope from quite a new point of view. She had already gauged to a great extent her pupil’s character, and what she saw to-day gave her pleasure rather than otherwise. She talked to her, however, very little, and put herself completely into the shade.
When the meal was over, Brenda spoke to her sister.
“I want you to stay for the night,” she said. “We can send a telegram to the Castle to say that I have kept you. I want you to stay a bit, Pen; you will, won’t you?”
“I am afraid I can’t, for Honora wants me to go home.”
“You call Castle Beverley home?”
“Just for the present, and it is nice to feel that I can speak of it as such.”
The other ladies lingered round for a minute or so, but having no excuse to listen to Brenda and Penelope, they retired, leaving the two sisters and the three Misses Amberley alone.
“Children, you would like Pen to stay, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Fanchon.
“And you three could just for one night sleep all together.”
“It wouldn’t be at all comfortable,” said Nina, “but I suppose we could.”
“You would have to sleep at the foot, Nina,” said Fanchon.
“All right,” said Nina, “I’d like that best, for I could kick you both if you were troublesome.”
“I certainly can’t stay,” remarked Penelope. “I promised to come to you for part of a day, Brenda, and surely we can say all we want to say between now and nightfall.”
“You are horribly disobliging,” said Brenda.
“The carriage is coming for me too,” exclaimed Penelope; “I really must go back.”
“You could send a note quite well, that is, if you were really nice.”
The five girls had now gone upstairs, Mademoiselle had retired to her stifling attic. Mademoiselle was hiding her time. After a little further conversation Brenda perceived that it was quite useless to expect Penelope to remain for the night in the boarding-house, and accordingly, with extreme sulkiness, gave up her plan of impressing Harry with the elegant demeanour of her own sister that night. The next best thing, however, was to take Penelope for a walk. This she proceeded to do. The girls were told they might amuse themselves, which they did by locking themselves into their bedroom and examining the two brooches and the false bangle until they were fairly weary of the subject. Each girl in turn tried on the brooches, and each girl slipped the bangle on her wrist to shoot it off the next moment in horror and let it lie on the floor.
“Ugly, coarse, common thing!” said Fanchon. “Oh! when I remember my beauty, you can’t even imagine, girls, what it was like.”
“But it seems so ridiculous that Brenda could have given it to you,” said Nina. “Brenda might rise to a shilling thing, but as to the bangle you describe – ”
“Well, well – I know nothing about it,” exclaimed Fanchon. “I only know that she did give it to me. Perhaps she inherited it from a relation. She wanted me to be friends with her, anyhow, and so she gave it to me, although I was not to have it for my absolute very, very own until we return to Harroway.”
“Well – I shouldn’t think you would much value that thing!” exclaimed Nina, kicking the false bangle across the room with her foot.
Josie ran and picked it up.
“It’s better than nothing,” she cried, “but of course it is common. Now of course our brooches – ”
“Your brooches are common too,” said Fanchon.
“No, they’re not; they’re very, very elegant: any one would take them to be real.”
“What – without the hall-mark?” queried Fanchon.
“People as a rule don’t ask you to take your brooch off in order to see the hall-mark!” exclaimed Josie. “Don’t be silly, Fanchon, you can never wear that bangle, for it is too coarse for anything. But we can, and will– wear our brooches. We’ll wear them every Sunday regularly, when we get home. And won’t the children at Sunday school be impressed! I can fancy I see all their eyes resting on mine – I think mine with the pearls is even more elegant than Nina’s with the turquoise.”
“Well, come out now,” said Fanchon. “The whole thing is disgusting. Of course Brenda will discover very soon that the bangle is changed.”
“She won’t be surprised, because she did it herself,” said Nina.
“No – that she didn’t! I am certain sure she would not be quite so mean – I don’t believe it of her!” exclaimed Fanchon.
The three little Amberleys walked and talked alone that afternoon, while Brenda and Penelope sat on the quay. Brenda earnestly hoped that the redoubtable Harry would pass that way and see her with her elegant sister.
“I always did think you a fearfully plain girl, Penelope,” said her sister, “and of course you are plain. But you are mixing in such good society that it is beginning to affect you. You seem to me to have undergone a sort of transformation. You are – of course you’re quite ugly still; but you are – I can’t explain what it is – different from the rest of us.”
“You don’t look too happy, Brenda,” was Penelope’s next remark.
“I happy?” answered Brenda. “Oh – I’m well enough.”
“We’re very happy at the Castle,” continued Penelope. “Honora is so sweet, and all the other children are nice, and – I wish you could know something of our life – it is a little bit higher than this, somehow.”
Brenda kicked a pebble restlessly away with the toe of her smart shoe.
“I am not suited for that sort of life,” she said. “I don’t care for your Castle, but all the same, I think you may as well get me invited there again. What day can we come?”
“I don’t know: how can I get invitations for you?”
“You’ll be perfectly horrid if you don’t – it is your duty to give your own, own sister a good time.”
“Oh, Brenda – if only you’d be different!”
“I don’t want to be different, thank you; I enjoy myself, on the whole, very well.”
“You don’t look too happy: you seem sort of worried,” and Penelope gave a sigh and laid her hand on Brenda’s arm.
“When he proposes, it’ll be all right,” said Brenda. “It was on account of him that I wanted you to stay. I don’t want to be governess any more. I want to be married and to have my fun like other girls; and he is awfully rich – Oh – I do declare! Yes – it is – why, there is Mr Fred Hungerford and his brother!”
Brenda bridled, and drew herself up. Young Hungerford approached. He took off his hat to both the girls, and presently he and his brother and Brenda and Penelope were chatting in the most amicable way together.
While they were thus employed – Brenda’s face now radiant with smiles, her eyes bright with merriment, and even Penelope laughing and chatting in the most natural way in the world – who should pass by but Harry Jordan and his friend, Joe Burbery. Brenda felt that she would like to cut Harry Jordan at that moment. She contented herself, however, with the very stiffest inclination of her head. Fred followed her gaze, and favoured Joe with the slightest perceptible nod.
“How is it you know that bounder?” he said, turning to Brenda as he spoke.
Brenda coloured deeply.
“I just know him slightly,” she said, “do you?”
“Why, yes – of course. He is the son of a small draper in our town. I used to meet him when I was a schoolboy on my way to school every morning, and I think mother sometimes gets odds and ends at Jordan’s shop. They’re fifth-rate tradespeople, and I don’t believe their business is very extensive.”
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?”