L.T. Meade (continued 5)

“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.

Chapter Twenty.

An Exchange.

The two younger Amberleys were in a state of great agitation during supper. Had Brenda not been intensely preoccupied, she must have noticed this. Little Nina was too restless to eat with her usual appetite. She was silent too, watching Mademoiselle closely, but casting quick, furtive glances from time to time in Brenda’s direction.

Brenda had achieved her object, and Harry Jordan was going to take her to the play. She had succeeded in this by writing him a note proposing the arrangement, and also offering to pay for his ticket. Harry Jordan had accepted, thinking all the time how infinitely he would prefer going to the play with Nettie Harris, the girl who was just at present engaging his wayward fancy. Brenda meant to make the most of this opportunity with regard to Harry. Fanchon must, of course, be her companion. Her hopes rose high as the hour approached.

“Girls,” said Brenda, rising front the supper table, “go up immediately to your bedroom, it is very late.”

“Late?” cried Mrs Simpkins, “it is more than half an hour earlier than usual. We have all of us been, so to speak, unconversational to-night. We have eaten our supper without repining. It was not quite as tasty a supper as what you gave us, dear Mademoiselle, but we have eaten it silently. I will go and sit on my balcony presently, in order to get cool. Peter’s eye-tooth is certain to come through this evening, and I mustn’t be far from the blessed darling. Ah, my dear young ladies! what troubles we take on ourselves when we put our heads under the matrimonial yoke. But there, children are blessings—”

“In disguise, perhaps,” murmured Mademoiselle. Then Mrs Simpkins waddled off: Miss Price followed suit: one or two of the other ladies also left the room; and Brenda, driving her pupils before her as though they were a flock of sheep, left Mademoiselle and Mrs Dawson alone.

“The supper,” said Mademoiselle, “it was triste. The good food it cost—oh, much, much! but it was not delectable. You needed me, chère Madame, to make the viands of the lightness and delicacy that would tempt the jaded appetite.”

“But I can’t have you always, Mademoiselle, so where’s the use of trusting to you?” said Mrs Dawson, rather crossly.

“Ah, I knew not!” sighed Mademoiselle. “The future, it may declare itself in the direction least expected—I know not, but I think much.”

Mrs Dawson longed to question her further. Was she alluding to the bangle! Why had she gone to Beverley Castle that day? Why was it not to be mentioned? She felt her heart burning with curiosity. But there was no amusement for her, poor woman, that hot evening. It was necessary for her to go back to her tiny parlour, and there sum up accounts and wonder how she could make two ends meet. For, to tell the truth, the boarders were hardly profitable, and it was very difficult for her to fulfil the requirements of her fairly large household.

While Mrs Dawson was thus employed, poring over her large account-book, spectacles on nose, and her face quite moist with the heat, Mademoiselle herself burst into the room.

“I make not the apology,” she cried, “for the occasion is supreme. Behold!”—and she pushed the gold and turquoise bracelet into Mrs Dawson’s hand.

“Why? what? where?” said Mrs Dawson.

“What—where?” echoed Mademoiselle. “Here—I say; here! I tell no more yet; but go not to bed this evening until I relate the whole of this histoire!”

She withdrew immediately, and Mrs Dawson sat back in her chair and said “Well!” to herself several times. The little girls were waiting for Mademoiselle in the passage. Nina, notwithstanding her ecstasy of spirit, was a little cross; for, whatever her faults, she was singularly downright and, up to the present, singularly honest.

“Why did you snatch Fanchon’s bracelet from me?” she said, “and rush with it into Mrs Dawson’s room? I don’t want Mrs Dawson to know that I am wearing it—she’ll tell, and then where will poor Josie and I be!”

“Tell!” echoed Mademoiselle. “She’ll never tell—it makes not for her interest. Restez tranquille, mon enfant, bien aimée; you have notting to fear—put on your bangle so beautiful, and come with me to enjoy my surprise!”

Mademoiselle’s surprise was of a complex nature. First of all, she took the little girls to a jeweller’s shop, and there went to the unheard-of extravagance of purchasing for them a little brooch each. Of course these, little brooches were not real gold, but they were very pretty and were washed over with that precious metal. One was set with pearls, also of a dubious kind, and the other with a turquoise.

At the neck of Nina’s little dress the turquoise brooch was now affixed, while Josie revelled in the one which held the pearls.

“These are for children the most to be adored,” said Mademoiselle. “You will wear them whenever you go out with me. Why should Fanchon have the bangle so pretty,—so ‘chic’—oh, yes, it is very ‘chic’—I can see that. Now, just, my dear ones, walk outside the shop for a leetle, a very leetle time, while I pay for the so great surprises I have got for you.”

The girls obeyed. It seemed to them that each passer-by must notice their pretty brooches. They held their little heads high; they sniffed in the soft evening air. While they were absent, Mademoiselle eagerly asked to see a tray of bangles. She quickly discovered one somewhat like in design to the valuable bangle which was now reposing on Nina’s wrist. She paid a trifling sum for it. It did not matter at all that it was made of the commonest gilt, and that the stone was no more a turquoise than she was herself; nor that the delicate engraving was lacking. Her object was to exchange the false bangle for the real one. This she trusted to be able to do. She was now in high spirits. She had parted with a few trifling shillings. Her discovery was imminent, and she felt that she would be well rewarded. Already she had compared the precious gold bangle with the delicate tracery in her notebook. Yes: without doubt it was the missing trinket. The reward, trivial in itself, must be shared with Mrs Dawson. But there were other issues at stake.

Mademoiselle took the little Amberleys to the choice seclusion of the best promenade. There she gave them ices and also a right good time. She was lavish with her money that evening. The children never laughed more in the whole course of their lives. They were quite free in their confidences to Mademoiselle, and implored her more than once to be their governess to supersede “dreadful Brenda,” and to live in the house with dearest papa.

“He’d just adore you,” said Nina, “I know he would.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Josie. “He adores Brenda; he says it’s because she’s so exceedingly fair and—and—pretty.”

Mademoiselle asked a few questions with regard to the Reverend Josiah, and drew her own conclusions that it would not particularly suit her little game to be governess to the small Amberleys. She took them home in good time, and when they entered their bedroom, followed them into the seclusion of that apartment.

“You are so fatiguées,” she said; “let me help you to undress. Nina, you little naughty one, where is the key of the drawer from where you purloined the bangle? I will it restore with my own hands.”

Nina, now completely under Mademoiselle’s influence, revealed the spot under the carpet where she had hidden the key. She produced it and Mademoiselle ran and opened the drawer, where she found the little box. She opened it.

“Give me the bangle, and we will pop it inside,” she said.

Nina did so.

“I am glad to get rid of it,” murmured the child. “It wasn’t such great fun wearing it, after all.”

“I have my hopes that some day this most precious little Nina will wear a bangle of gold real, with a turquoise the most valuable,” said Mademoiselle.

As she spoke, she adroitly dropped the wrong bangle into the box and slipped the real one into her pocket. She then carefully locked the drawer and returned the key to its place of secrecy under the carpet.

“I am now très-fatiguée!” she cried. “Bonsoir, mes enfants.”

She left the children. They had played their little part in the present mystery and were no longer of the slightest interest to her.

Brenda and Fanchon were having a fairly good time at the play, although Brenda could not get Harry Jordan to declare himself. She was rather tired now of this wayward youth. To have him desperately in love with her was one thing, but to have him negligent and with his silly thoughts elsewhere was quite another. She became downright cross when he proposed to introduce Miss Nettie Harris to her and her pupil.

“I am sorry, but I cannot permit it,” she said.

“And why not?” asked Harry Jordan.

“My dear little pupils’ father is most particular whit people they associate with,” was her reply. “You must understand that in the professions there is a great deal of etiquette. Mercantile people are doubtless not aware of that; but it is my duty to protect my young pupils.”

As Brenda spoke, she gave Fanchon a tender look, as though she were a sort of guardian angel, and Harry felt so properly snubbed that he very nearly returned to his first allegiance to Brenda. After all, she was a ripper. What style she had! Nettie Harris wasn’t a patch upon her. But then Nettie Harris had a snug little fortune which might help them to marry and live in a very modest way; whereas Brenda had nothing at all but her beauty and her distinguished air and friends of the distinguished world. Yes, yes—it was a pity.

Brenda had Harry rather under her thumb for the rest of the evening and went home little guessing what had befallen her. There was a letter awaiting her on the hall table from Penelope, who announced her intention of coming to spend part of the next day with her. Brenda pretended to be pleased.

“We’ll take her out and show her things,” she said, turning to Fanchon.

“Perhaps you’ll let me wear the bangle,” said Fanchon.

“No, Fanchon; I may as well speak openly; I have made up my mind about it. I think it likely that I can arrange a little picnic for you and me, and perhaps Mr Jordan, and perhaps Mr Burbery, some day before we leave; and on that occasion you shall wear the bangle, but not before. Now don’t worry me, child. Let’s get into bed, both of us, as quietly as we can; it’s later than usual.”

Fanchon was so sleepy that she was glad to comply; Brenda herself was also thoroughly weary, and dropped sound asleep the moment her head touched her pillow.

But downstairs in Mrs Dawson’s little parlour, a deep consultation had taken place. The real bracelet, the lost bangle, lay absolutely on Mrs Dawson’s lap. She was comparing the delicate engraving with the outline of a similar engraving in Mademoiselle’s notebook.

“It is the same,” said Mademoiselle. “There is no doubt that the thief—it is that wicked governess, Brenda Carlton. Now, Madame, you can, if you please, take this bangle to those persons who have put the announcement in the newspaper; or you can deliver it up to the police to-morrow morning, but if you are wise, you will do neither of these things.”

“And what shall I do?” asked Mrs Dawson. “It’s really a horrid thing to have happening in this house, but a guinea and a half each isn’t to be despised, is it, Mademoiselle?”

“I do agree that the reward shall be divided,” said Mademoiselle; “but, as a matter of fact, it was I who made the so great discovery.”

“I know that,” said Mrs Dawson; “but you wouldn’t have thought of it if I had not put you on the scent.”

“True, true,” echoed Mademoiselle, “and I think not for a moment but of dividing the spoil. Nevertheless, Madame, there are greater things to be obtained than just a trumpery tree guineas, and my advice to you is: say notting—but leave the matter absolument in my hands. I have my own plans, and they will include you. Think what discovery would mean—just now, in the height of your so short season. It would mean that Mademoiselle Carlton and her three pupils left your establishment. It would not redound to your credit. Your other boarders might take the fright. They would say she harbour the thief, how can we by any possibility continue to reside under her roof?”

“You are right,” said Mrs Dawson. “The whole thing is most disagreeable; I don’t really know what to do.”

“But I know how to assist you and myself to keep all esclandres at bay. We court it not, Madame. It is not good for your beautiful home; but the breath of scandal, Madame, it is—oh, assurément, of the most fatal!”

The consequence of this conversation was that Mademoiselle bound Mrs Dawson over to the most absolute secrecy, and thoroughly won over that good woman’s confidence, who declared that she already felt she could not live without Mademoiselle, who went off to her own room with the bangle in her pocket.

Before she lay down to sleep that night she looked at it again. She kissed it; she gloated over it. Finally, she locked it up, not in the drawer which might be easily opened by another key, but in that small leather bag where she kept her treasured hoardings and which she hardly ever allowed out of her sight.

Mademoiselle slept soundly that night, and went downstairs the next morning in radiant spirits. Now the two little girl Amberleys had one frantic desire, and that was, to show Fanchon their brooches. If Fanchon had a shilling bangle, which she was so intensely proud of, why should not they be proud, more than proud of their half-crown brooches? Miss Carlton often left her pupils during the morning hours to their own devices. She had letters to write, and shopping to do, and she often liked to stroll on the promenade alone, hoping that Harry, the perverse, might meet her there.

This very morning the girls found themselves in their bedroom alone. Mademoiselle had, of course, to a certain extent, made them promise that they would not wear the brooches in public; but that was a very different matter from showing them to their own dear Fanchon, their sister.

“Although she is a stuck-up thing,” said Nina, “she is our own flesh and flood, and we’ll put her to shame by showing the darlings to her, although she has not trusted us.”

Accordingly, as Nina sat on the edge of her bed that morning, she turned to Fanchon and said:

“When will that Penelope girl arrive?”

“I think she’s coming to lunch,” answered Fanchon. “I suppose she’s a second Brenda,” exclaimed Josie. “Oh, I don’t think she’s at all like her,” answered Fanchon. “Besides, she is much, much younger.”

“Brenda is very old indeed,” said Nina. “She’s twenty-one; I can hardly imagine anybody being quite as old as that—it must be such an awful weight of years on one’s head.”

“They say it isn’t,” replied Fanchon, who was becoming learned in all sorts of matters she had better have known nothing about. “Brenda says that you don’t even begin to feel grown-up until you are past twenty.”

“I suppose you have jolly times when you’re out spreeing with her at night,” said Josie.

“Wonderful,” said Fanchon.

“You wouldn’t tell us anything about it, would you?”

“No,” said Fanchon, “it is quite, quite secret.”

“I don’t want to hear,” said Nina. Then she added:

“Josie and I have a secret too—a beautiful, beautiful secret that you don’t know anything about.”

“A secret?” said Fanchon. “What nonsense!”

She thought of Joe Burbery, of the play, of the beautiful bangle. What silly children her little sisters were to talk of having secrets.

“Yes, we have!” reiterated Nina; “haven’t we, Josie?”

“Wonderful!” said Josie, smacking her lips.

“Well, tell it, you little geese,” said Fanchon, “and have done with it.”

“Indeed we won’t,” said Nina, “not unless you tell us yours.”

“But I haven’t a secret,” said Fanchon.

“You haven’t? Oh, what awful lies you tell! I’d be ashamed if I were you!” said Nina.

“Well, well—if I have—I can’t tell it,” said Fanchon, colouring.

“You can’t?” said Josephine—“not to your own, own sisters? You might—you know.”

Fanchon would not for worlds betray Brenda, either as regarded her introduction of Joe Burbery, or the fact that she had taken her to a play—for dearest papa did not approve of plays. But she would have liked her sisters, in secret, in absolute secret, to behold the lovely bangle.

“I can’t tell my secret,” she said. “I have one—just a little one—but I can’t, because I have promised.”

“Then we can’t tell you ours,” said Nina. “And our secret is lovely! Isn’t it, Joey?”

“Oh, ripping!” said Joey. “It’s just golloptious! Won’t you be jealous, though? You’ll want to wear one of them sometimes.”

“A thing to wear!” said Fanchon, colouring and trembling. “What sort of thing?”

“That’s our secret.”

Fanchon got up from the chair where she was seated and began, in a perfunctory way, to tidy the hopeless room.

“I suppose we had best go out,” she said. “Brenda said we were to follow her to the sands. She says we’re not to bathe this morning. Oh—and, Nina—you’re to take your notebook and pencil—there are a lot of things to enter.”

“I am going to lose that account-book,” said Nina. “I won’t be bothered any more—horrid Brenda!! I had dear Mademoiselle as my governess.”

“Mademoiselle d’Etienne?” exclaimed Fanchon. “What do you know about her? Brenda says she’s not a bit nice. Brenda distrusts her dreadfully.”

“Well, and she doesn’t like Brenda,” exclaimed Nina. The moment she said this, Fanchon walked up to her young sister and said sternly:

“What have you seen of Mademoiselle? Out with it!”

“I won’t tell!” said Nina. “You’re not to question me—I won’t tell! You have all your fun, and I don’t mention it—I can if I like—I can write to dear papa and tell him, and he’ll come over pretty quick—you had best not worry me.”

“Never mind,” said Fanchon, who didn’t at all like this threat on Nina’s part; more particularly as she knew that her little sister was quite capable of carrying it into effect. “Never mind,” she repeated. “But you might as well tell me that little wonderful secret.”

“I’ll tell if you’ll tell,” said Josie. “There! that’s fair.”

“And I’ll tell if you’ll tell,” exclaimed Nina.

Josephine walked softly up and down.

“Why shouldn’t we three have secrets all to our three selves?” she said then.

“Oh, if I thought it wouldn’t go to anybody else, of course I shouldn’t mind,” said Fanchon.

“Why should it go to anybody else? We just want you to know—it is so beautiful—so very beautiful!” said Nina. “We want you to know because you are our flesh and blood, but it’s only fair you should give us something in exchange.”

“Then I will—I will show it to you. I’ll lock the door first. It is—it is—too beautiful—you’ll envy me all the days of your lives, both of you. But you must never breathe it—you must go on your knees and solemnly declare that you won’t let it out.”

“All right,” said Nina, her little eyes dancing. “And you will go on your knees and promise that you won’t let out what we have got to say to you.”

“Silly children,” said Fanchon. “You can’t have much of a secret.”

“But we have—we have, we certainly have!” said Josie.

“Well then, here, let us clasp hands—that’ll do equally well,” said Fanchon. “We’ll never, any of us, tell to anybody, what is about to take place in this bedroom. I, Fanchon Amberley, promise.”

“And I, Josephine Amberley, promise,” cried Josephine.

“And I, Nina Amberley, promise,” exclaimed little Nina.

“Now, Nina, lock the door,” said Fanchon.

Nina did so.

“Who’ll show first?” she asked, her small face crimson.

“Oh—it’s something to show?” said Fanchon. “Well, you’ll show first, of course—you’re the youngest.”

“Must I?” said Nina. “You’re the eldest, you ought to begin.”

“Nothing of the sort: the greater comes last.”

“I wonder if it is greater!” said Nina.

“Never mind—you will soon see.”

“Well then—I’ll begin.”

Each sister possessed a little sacred drawer. The sisters’ drawers were destitute of keys, for Brenda had appropriated the key for her own far more valuable possessions. Nina’s was the bottom drawer. The chest was a rude, shaky concern, but the drawer itself was deep and held a good deal. She went on her knees now and pulled it open and pushed her little hand into the farthest back corner and took from within a tiny cardboard box. Her hand shook as she laid the box in her lap and looked up at Fanchon. Fanchon did not speak. She was waiting for Nina to proceed.

“Open it quickly, do!” said Fanchon, when the little girl still hesitated.

“It’ll surprise you,” said Nina. “You never could think that I would have such a thing: but it’s my very, very own. There, look!”

The box was pulled open, the cotton wool removed, the little gilt brooch with its false turquoise was held up for Fanchon’s inspection.

“It is mine!” said Nina—“she gave it to me!”

“Who in the world is she?” asked Fanchon, very much impressed by the brooch, and secretly coveting it. “That darling Mademoiselle. Oh, I can’t tell you anything more; but she was sorry for us little girls who go to bed every night in the hot, hot hours in this hot, hot room—and she gave me this! It’s a beautiful, beautiful trinket, isn’t it?”

“It is very pretty indeed,” said Fanchon.

“Well now—you see mine,” said Josie, and she produced the brooch which held the false pearls.

“There!”—she said—“Mademoiselle called them ‘very chic,’ and aren’t they—aren’t they lovely?”

“They are sweet!” said Fanchon. “How curious of her to give them to you. Of course they can’t be real.”

“I know that, but it doesn’t matter a bit,” said Nina—“they look like real, and that’s the main thing. Poor dear Mademoiselle couldn’t afford real jewellery.”

“You think they look real,” said Fanchon. “Wait till you see—”

She had discovered the spot where Brenda kept the real key of the chest of drawers. She had watched carefully, and had seen her put it inside a broken vase on the top shelf of the over-mantel that very morning.

“Girls,” she said, “I have something to show you. Both of you go and bury your heads against your counterpanes. Kneel down by your beds, and don’t look, to save your lives. Then you will see something!”

The girls flew to obey. In a minute Fanchon had opened the drawer and had taken out the little precious box.

“Now you may look, and you must be quick!” she said. “Oh dear—it is weak of me even to show it—but when you see it—”

She opened the precious box and lifted out the bangle, which she supposed to be the real one. There was the blue stone, there was the clasp, and there was the rim of gold, but—Fanchon felt all the colour rushing madly up to her face, and then leaving it. The bangle was not her bangle! Oh, yes—she had studied it once or twice; she had observed its elegance, its dainty finish. “This—this—”

She looked wildly at her two sisters, who glanced at her in some wonder.

“Where did you get this?” said Nina, who felt that if she did not pretend now, all the rest of her life would be worthless to her.

“It was given to me by Brenda—oh, let me put it away—some one will come—I am frightened!”

“It’s only an old shilling thing, isn’t it?” said Josie. “Indeed not—it is real, as real can be.”

“Then why didn’t you show us the gold mark? there’s always a gold mark on real things—at least so Mademoiselle says.”

“I can—oh dear, oh dear—of course I can! but—you must come to the light.”

The three girls approached the window. They turned the bangle round and round. Alas! that curious little mark which Joe Burbery had detected under the lamp-post was nowhere to be found on the false bangle. Fanchon burst into a flood of tears.

“Some one has stolen the real bangle!—whatever am I to do?”

The two girls clustered round her. She cried a good deal; then carefully returned the bangle to its hidden place.

“I don’t know what is to be done!” she said. “It’s the most awful thing that ever happened! But my bangle that was eighteen carat gold—and there was the most lovely turquoise in it—is gone! Oh, what am I to do!”

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?”

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!”

“Do right,” whispered a voice in her ear. This voice spoke light and clear from the conscience of Penelope Carlton, and it was so startling in its tone that it seemed to her that some one spoke to her. She started and looked out, gazing to right and left. As she did this, some one who was walking below, saw her. That some one was Honora. She observed the white, very white face of the girl and noticed its agony. All of a sudden, Honora came to a resolve.

“There is something wrong,” she thought to herself. “It’s not an ordinary headache. I don’t like that sister of hers a bit—we none of us do. She has done something to make poor little Pen unhappy. I just think that I’ll force myself on her this very night. She is too miserable to be left alone; of that I am sure.”

Mary L’Estrange and Cara Burt, walking arm in arm, came now into view.

“What is the matter, Honora?” said Mary.

“Why do you ask?” questioned Nora.

Mary gave a laugh.

“You look something like what you did that evening when you refused to take the part of Helen of Troy.”

“Oh, we needn’t bother about that now,” said Honora, a slight tone of vexation in her voice. Then she added, suddenly: “I am not quite happy about Pen; I don’t think she is well. I am going to her.”

“But she has only a headache,” said Cara, “and no wonder, out all this hot day in the sun.”

“I feel somehow that it’s more than a headache,” said Honora. “I saw her just now looking out of her window, and somehow, I feel she may want me: in any case, I am going to her. Will you, Cara, and you, Mary, just lead the games, and don’t let the children stay out very much longer; it’s time for the young ones, at least, to go to bed.”

Cara and Mary promised, and immediately turned away.

“I,” said Cara, addressing her companion, “also thought there was something queer about Penelope to-night. It is odd that Honora should have worn the expression she did when she refused to act as Helen of Troy.”

“And another thing is also odd.”

“What do you mean?” asked Cara.

“Why, at supper to-night, it seemed to me that Penelope looked as she did when she made that extraordinary request of us, asking us to give her five pounds apiece for her to take the part.”

“I didn’t notice that expression,” exclaimed Mary. “But it was very queer of her to want the money. I didn’t like her a bit then, did you, Cara?”

“Of course not,” said Cara. “I despised her utterly.”

“So did I, until she acted Helen, and then I could not help admiring her—she was quite, quite splendid.”

“And since she has come here,” continued Cara, “she has been very, very nice. Honora is wonderfully taken with her. Honora told me to-day that she loves her dearly and means to help her after she has left school. Honora says she’s such a lady, and so different from her elder sister.”

“Oh, she’s quite an impossible person,” said Mary. “But here come some of the stragglers. Now we must resume our play. Hullo! Nellie; is it my turn to be blindfolded?”

The elder girls, the boys, and the little girls continued their play, Honora ran up to Penelope’s room and tapped at the door. Penelope started, and at first did not reply. But the tap was repeated, and she was forced to say, “Who’s there?”

“It is I—Honora,” called a voice.

“Oh, Nora—I am just going to bed,” answered Penelope.

“No, you’re not, dear. Let me in, please.”

There was another moment of hesitation. Then the door was unlocked, and Honora entered. The room was full of moonlight, for Penelope had not lighted any candle.

“What is it, Nora?” she said.

“I thought I’d come and sit with you for a little, for—you naughty thing—you’ve not gone to bed; I happened to see you from the garden below. What is the matter, Pen?”

“I want to be alone to-night so very badly,” said Penelope.

“You’re very unhappy, Pen—I want to know what is the matter.”

“I am unhappy—but I can’t tell you, Honora.”

“What is the good of a friend if you can’t confide in her?” said Honora.

“If,” said Penelope, speaking very slowly, “I do what I ought to do, you will never be my friend again; you will never wish even to have my name mentioned. And if I do what I ought not to do, then perhaps, you will be my friend—but I shall be unworthy of you.”

“I don’t know anything whatever about that,” said Honora; “but I do know one thing. If you are in any sort of trouble (and perhaps your sister has got you into some trouble—for, to tell you the truth, Penelope, I do not greatly care for your sister, and I must say so just now), you will, of course do what is right.”

“That is the dreadful thing my conscience said just now,” said Penelope.

“Then you really are in great trouble, dear?”

“Don’t call me dear,” said Penelope. “I am in great trouble.”

“On your own account?”

“Practically. I did wrong a little time ago, and it is reflecting on me; and anyhow, of course it is my trouble—and it’s—Oh, Nora—don’t touch me—don’t look at of! Go away, please—I’m not fit for you to look at me. I belong to—to—the wicked people! Go away, Nora—you’re so pure, and so—so—sort of—holy. I am frightened when I see you—let me be alone to-night!”

“It’s your sister Brenda, it’s not you!” said Honora, startled.

“Oh, don’t blame her too much—please, please! She is my only sister. Oh, what shall I do!”

Penelope flung herself on her bed and burst into a tempest of weeping. Perhaps those tears really saved her brain, for the poor girl was absolutely distracted. While she wept, and wept, and wept, Honora knelt by her, now and then patting her shoulder gently, now and then uttering a word of prayer to God. For this was the sort of occasion when Honora’s real religious training came strongly to the fore. She knew that her friend was tempted, that something had happened which could scarcely by any possibility come into her own life, and that if she did not stand by her now, she might fall.

“But I won’t let her,” thought the girl. “I’ll stick by her through thick and thin. I love her—I didn’t when I was at school, but I do now.”

After a time, however, poor Penelope’s tears ceased. Honora bent down and put her arm round her neck.

“I want to whisper something to you,” she said. “I want to confide something. I was not nice to you at school. I thought you, somehow, not a bit the sort of girl that I could ever care for. Then, when I saw you act as Helen of Troy and look so transformed, it seemed to me that my eyes were opened about you, and I wanted to have you here much more badly than I wished to have any other girl here; and since you came, I have learned to love you. Now I don’t love very, very easily—I mean I don’t give my deepest love. Having given it, however, I cannot possibly take it back—it is yours for what it is worth. I know something terrible has happened, and I want you to do right, not wrong, for it is never worth while to do wrong. I want you to try and understand that here, and to-night—it is always worth while to do right, and never worth while to do wrong. So choose the right, darling; I will ask God to help you.”

“But you don’t know—you can’t even guess!” sobbed Penelope.

“Do you think you could bring yourself to tell me? We are all alone here, in this dark room, for even the moon will soon set, and I am your true friend. Don’t you think you could just tell me everything?”

“Oh, I don’t know—no, I couldn’t—I couldn’t!” Penelope rose. “I have no words to thank you,” she continued. “You have comforted me, and perhaps—anyhow, I must have until the morning to think.”

“Very well,” said Honora, “I will go away to my own room and think of you all night, and pray for you, and in the morning, at seven o’clock, I will come back to you. Then, perhaps you will tell me—for you have got something to do, have you not?”

“I have to do something, or not to do something.”

“If you do that something, what will happen?”

“Apparently nothing, only I—”

“I understand,” said Honora. “The thing you have got to do is wrong. Suppose you don’t do it—”

“Then—then—oh, Honora—I could wish to-night that I had never lived to grow up to my present age. I’m nearly mad with misery!”

“I will come to you in the morning,” said Honora. “But before I go, I wish to say something—that of course you won’t do whatever the thing is; for if you keep yourself right, other things must come right somehow.”

Then Honora kissed Penelope, and left the room.

Chapter Twenty Three.

A Wonderful Dream.

Penelope stayed awake for a very long time after Honora had left her. When at last she fell asleep, however, she had a wonderful, an extraordinary dream.

She thought that an angel came into her room and looked down at her, and gave her the choice between the downward and the upward roads. The angel carried a crown in his hand; and he pointed to it, and said that it was the crown of thorns. He asked her if she thought that by any means she were worthy to wear it. He said that if she could prove herself to be thus worthy, nothing else really mattered.

Having said these words, he laid the crown by her side and went away, very slowly vanishing, first into thin mist, then into nothing. Penelope in her dream found herself all alone with the crown of thorns. The thorns were all glistening with dew drops, as though the crown had been freshly made. She noticed that the thorns were sharp and of the sort that might hurt her very much, were she to wear the crown.