Castle Beverley was even a more delightful place than Penelope had the least idea of before she arrived at it. She had her own vivid imagination, and had pictured the old castle, its suites of apartments, its crowds of servants, its stately guests, many and many a time before the blissful hour of her arrival. But when she did get to Castle Beverley, she found that all her pictures had been wrong.

It is true, there was an old castle, and a tower at one end of an irregular pile of building; but the modern part of the house, while it was large, was also unpretentious and simple.

The children who ran to meet the carriage were many of them Penelope’s schoolfellows. Mrs Beverley had a charming and placid face and a kindly manner. Mr Beverley was a round-faced, rubicund country squire, who made jokes about every one, and was as little alarming as human being could be. In short, it was impossible for Penelope not to feel herself at home. Her old schoolfellows welcomed her almost with enthusiasm. They had not cared for her greatly when at Hazlitt Chase, but they were just in the mood to be in the best temper with everything, and had been in raptures with her rendering of Helen of Troy. Honora, too, had pictured, very pathetically, the scene of the lonely girl afterwards weeping by herself in the wood, and the delightful inspiration which had come over her to give her some weeks’ holiday at Castle Beverley. Perhaps Cara Burt would have preferred her not being there, but Mary L’Estrange, who was also a visitor at the Castle, had quite forgiven Penelope for her desire to obtain five pounds. She put it down altogether, now, to the poor thing’s poverty, and hoped that the transaction would never be known. Annie Leicester had not yet arrived, but was expected. Susanna, the most to be feared, perhaps, of the four girls who had given Penelope the money, had gone abroad for the holidays.

Thus, all was sunshine on this first evening, and when Penelope found herself joking and repeating little bits of school news and some of the funny things which had occurred between herself and Mademoiselle, the others laughed heartily. Yes, that first evening was a golden one, long to be remembered by the somewhat lonely girl.

When she went to bed that night, she was so tired that she slept soundly until the morning. When the morning did arrive, and she was greeted by a smiling housemaid and a delicious cup of tea, she felt that, for the time at least, she was in the land of luxury.

“I’ll enjoy myself for once,” she thought, “I’ll forget about school and that I am very poor and that I am disappointed with Brenda, and that Brenda is staying at Marshlands, and Mademoiselle, too, is staying at Marshlands. I will forget everything but just that it is very, very good to be here.”

So she arose and dressed herself in one of the new white linen dresses which Mademoiselle had purchased for her out of Mrs Hazlitt’s money, and she came down to breakfast looking fresh and almost pretty.

“You do seem rested – I am so glad!” said Honora. “Oh, no, we are not breakfasting in that room. Father and mother and the grown-ups use the front hall for breakfast in the summer, and we children have the big old school-room to ourselves. You didn’t see it last night; we had so much to show you, but it is – oh – such a jolly room. Come now this way, you will be surprised at such a crowd of us.”

As Honora spoke, she took Penelope’s hand, and, pushing open a heavy oak door, led the way through a sort of ante-chamber and then down a corridor to a long, low room with latticed windows, over which many creepers cast just now a most grateful shade. There were several boys and girls in the room, and a long table was laid, with all sorts of good things for breakfast. Amongst the boys was Fred Hungerford and a younger brother called Dick, and there were three or four boys, brothers and cousins of Honora herself. There were altogether at least thirteen or fourteen girls. The two little Hungerfords flew up to Penelope when they saw her. They seemed to regard her as their special friend.

“Honora,” said Pauline, “may we sit one at each side of Penelope and tell her who every one is and all about everything? Then she’ll feel quite one of us and be – oh – so happy!”

“That’s an excellent idea, Pauline,” said Honora. “Here, Penelope, come up to this end of the table, and I’ll jog the children’s memories if they forget any one.”

So Penelope enjoyed her first breakfast at Castle Beverley, and could not help looking at Honora with a wonderful, new sensation of love in her eyes. Honora, whose dazzling fairness and stately young figure had made her appear at first sight such an admirable representative of the fair Helen of the past, had never looked more beautiful than this morning.

She wore a dress of the palest shade of blue cambric and had a great bunch of forget-me-nots in her belt. Her face was like sunshine itself, and her wealth of golden hair was quite marvellous in its fairness. Her placid blue eyes seemed to be as mirrors in which one could see into her steadfast and noble mind. All her thoughts were those of kindness, and she was absolutely unselfish. In fact, as one girl said: “Honora is selfless: she almost forgets that she exists, so little does she think of herself in her thought for others.”

Now, Honora’s one desire was to make Penelope happy, and Penelope responded to the sympathetic manner and kindly words as a poor little sickly flower will revel in sunshine. But Pauline presently spoke in that rather shrill little voice of hers:

“We

are

happy here: even Nellie’s better, aren’t you, Nellie?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Nellie. She looked across the table at Pauline, and gave half a sigh and half a smile.

“Of course you are happy, Nellie,” said Honora. “You’re not thinking any more about that bracelet, are you?”

“I do wish I could get it back,” said Nellie, “but, all the same I am happy.”

“But please, Penelope, tell us about your sister,” said Pauline. “Oh, do you know – ”

“Yes —

tell us that!” interrupted Nellie.

“Why, Fred saw her yesterday at Marshlands-on-the-Sea,” continued Pauline. “She’s quite close to us – isn’t it fun? Fred came back quite interested in her – he thinks her so very pretty!”

“Whom do I think pretty, Miss?” called out Fred from a little way down the table. “No taking of my name in vain – if you please.”

“You know, Fred,” said Pauline, in her somewhat solemn little voice, “that you think dear Penelope’s sister sweetly pretty.”

“I should think so, indeed!” said Fred, “and, by the way, she is at Marshlands. She had three of the funniest little girls out walking with her yesterday that you ever saw in your life. Did you know she was going to be at Marshlands, Miss Carlton?”

“Yes,” said Penelope, feeling not quite so happy as she did a few minutes ago.

“We’ll ask her up here some day to have a good time with us, dear, if you like,” said Honora.

“Thank you,” replied Penelope, but without enthusiasm.

“I spoke to her yesterday,” said Fred. “She really did look awfully nice; only they were the rummest little coves you ever saw in all your life – the children who are there.”

“They are her pupils; they’re the daughters of a clergyman,” said Penelope.

“I don’t care whose daughters they are, but they go about with your sister, and they

look so funny. I told her you were coming and she gave me her address. Would you like to go in to see her this morning?” Penelope trembled.

“Not this morning, please,” she said.

She felt herself turning pale. She felt she must have one happy day before she began to meet Brenda. She had a curious feeling that when that event took place, her peace, and delight in her present surroundings would somehow be clouded. Brenda was so much cleverer than she was, so gay, so determined, so strange in many ways. Oh, no; she would not go to see her to-day.

“If you like,” said Honora, observing Penelope’s confusion, and rather wondering at it, “I could send a note to your sister to come up to-morrow to spend the day here. We’re not going to do anything special to-morrow, and mother always allows me to ask any friends we like to the Castle. We have heaps of croquet courts and tennis courts, and the little girls could come with her, for of course she couldn’t leave them behind. How would that do, Penelope? Would that please you?”

“I don’t know,” said Penelope. Then she said, somewhat awkwardly:

“Oh, yes – yes – if you like – ”

Honora had a curious sensation of some surprise at Penelope’s manner; but it quickly passed. She accounted for it by saying to herself that her friend was tired and of course must greatly long to see her only sister.

“She’s not absolutely and altogether to my taste,” thought Honora, “but I am just determined to give her the best of times, and we can have the sister up and the funny children for at least one day. What’s the good of having a big place if one doesn’t get people to enjoy it?”

It was just then that Nellie said:

“I do wish, Penelope, you had not done one thing.”

“What is that?” asked Penelope, who had hardly got over the shock of having Brenda so soon with her.

“Why did you bring Mademoiselle to Marshlands? We don’t care for Mademoiselle, do we, Pauline?”

“No, indeed,” said Pauline, “and she took my hand yesterday and clutched it so tight and wouldn’t let it go before I pulled two or three times, and oh! I’m quite positive sure that she’ll find us out, and I wish she wouldn’t!”

“Frankly, I wish she wouldn’t too,” said Honora, “but I do not see,” she added, “why Penelope should be disturbed on that account – it isn’t her fault.”

“No, indeed it isn’t,” said Penelope, “and I wish with all my heart she hadn’t come with me to Marshlands-on-the-Sea.”

When breakfast was over, all the young people streamed out into the gardens with the exception of Honora and Penelope.

“One minute, Penelope dear,” said Honora. “Just write a little line to your sister and I will enclose one, in mother’s name and mine, inviting her to come up with the children to-morrow. Here are writing materials – you needn’t take a minute.”

Penelope sat down and wrote a few words to Brenda. For the life of her, she could not make these words cordial. She hardly knew her own sensations. Was she addressing the same Brenda whom she had worshipped and suffered for and loved so frantically when she was a little girl? Was it jealousy that was stealing into her heart? What could be her motives in wishing to keep this sister from the nice boys and girls who made Castle Beverley so charming? Or was she – was she so mean – so small – as to be ashamed of Brenda? No, no – it could not be that, and yet – and yet – it was that: she was ashamed of Brenda! The children she was now with belonged to the best of their kind. Penelope had lived with people of the better class for several months now and was discerning enough to perceive the difference between gold and tinsel. Oh, was Brenda tinsel; Brenda – her only sister? Penelope could have sobbed, but she must hide all emotion.

Her letter was finished. She knew how eagerly Brenda would accept and how cleverly she would get herself invited to the Castle again, and again, and again. Honora’s cordial little note was slipped into the same envelope. Penelope had to furnish the address, and, an hour later, Fred and his brothers, who were going to ride to Marshlands in order to bathe and to spend some hours afterwards on the beach, arranged to convey the invitation to Brenda which poor Penelope so dreaded.

“Now we have that off our minds,” said Honora, “and can have a real good time. What would you like to do, Penelope? You know you must make yourself absolutely and completely at home. You are one of us. Every girl who comes here by mother’s invitation is for the time mother’s own daughter and looked upon as such by her. She is also father’s own daughter and, I can tell you, he treats her as such, and the boys are exactly in the same position. We’re all brothers and sisters here, and we love each other, every one of us.”

“But would you love a girl, whatever happened?” asked Penelope, all of a sudden.

“Oh, I don’t know what you mean – whatever happened – what could happen?”

“Nothing – of course – nothing; only I wonder, Honora. I never seemed to know you at all when I was at school. I wonder if you could love a girl like me.”

“I love you already, dear,” said Honora. “And now, please, don’t be morbid; just let’s be jolly and laugh and joke; every one can do just what every one likes – this is Liberty Hall, of course. It’s a home of delight, of course. It’s the home of ‘Byegone dull Care’; – oh, it’s the nicest place in all the world, and I want you to remember it as long as you live. I am so glad mother allowed me to ask you! Now then, do see those youngsters, Pauline and Nellie, tumbling over the hay-cocks: how sunburnt they are! such a jolly little pair! I am sorry about Nellie’s bracelet; the loss of it makes her think too much of that sort of thing. I am quite afraid she will never find it now. What would you like to do, Penelope? You looked so happy when you came downstairs, but now you’re a little tired.”

“I think I am a little tired,” said Penelope. “I think for this morning I’d like a book best.”

“Then here we are – this is the school library: every jolly schoolgirl’s and schoolboy’s story that has ever been written finds its way into this room. Run in, and make your choice, and then come out. The grounds are all round you – shade everywhere, and pleasure, pleasure all day long.”

Chapter Fifteen

The Seaside

Brenda and her three pupils had arrived two or three days before at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. It cannot be said their lodgings were exactly “chic,” for the Reverend Josiah could not rise to apartments anything approaching to that term. He had given Brenda a certain sum which was to cover the expenses of their month’s pleasure, and had told her to make the best of it. Brenda had expostulated and begged hard for more; but no – for once the Reverend Josiah was firm. He said that his suffering parishioners required all his surplus money, and that the girls and their governess must stay at the seaside for five guineas a week. Brenda shook her head, and declared that it was impossible; but, seeing that no more was to be obtained, she made the best of things, and when she arrived at Marshlands just in the height of the summer season, she finally took up her abode at a fifth-rate boarding-house in a little street which certainly did not face the sea.

Here she and her pupils were taken for a guinea a week each, and Brenda had the surplus to spend on teas out and on little expeditions generally. She was careful on these occasions to be absolutely and thoroughly honest. She even consulted Nina on the subject. She was exceedingly polite to Nina just now and, at the same time, intensely sarcastic. She was fond of asking Nina, even in the middle of the

table d’hôte

dinner, if she had her pencil and notebook handy, and if she would then and there kindly enter the item of twopence three farthings spent on cherries, – quarter of a pound to eat on the beach, – or if she had absolutely forgotten the fact that she was obliged to provide a reel of white and a reel of black cotton for necessary repairs of the wardrobe. How Nina hated her pretty governess on these occasions! how her little eyes would flash with indignation and her small face looked pinched with the sense of tragedy which oppressed her, and which she could not understand.

The commonplace ladies who lived in the commonplace boarding-house were deeply interested in Nina’s extraordinary talent for accounts. They gently asked the exceedingly pretty and attractive Miss Carlton what it meant.

“Simply a little mania of hers,” said Brenda, with a shrug of her plump white shoulders, for she always wore

décolletée

dress at late dinner and her shoulders and arms were greatly admired by the other visitors at the boarding-house. Nina began to dread the subject of accounts. Once she forgot her notebook and pencil on purpose, but Brenda was a match for her. She asked her in a loud semi-whisper if she could tot up exactly what they had expended that day, and when Nina replied that she had left the notebook upstairs, she was desired immediately to go to fetch it. The little girl left the room on this occasion with a sense of almost hatred at her heart.

“Fetch that odious book! oh dear, oh dear!” She wished every account-book in the world at the bottom of the sea. She wished she had never interfered with Brenda. She wished she had never made that terrible little sum on the day when Brenda went to Hazlitt Chase. She was being severely punished for her anxiety and her sense of justice. Brenda had determined that this should be the case, and had given her small pupil a terrible time while she was spending that seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence on extra clothes for her pupils.

She took them into a fashionable shop, for, as the money had to be spent, she was determined that it should be done as quickly as possible. As she could not save it for herself, she wanted to get rid of it, it did not matter how quickly. Therefore, while Fanchon stood transfixed with admiration of her own figure in a muslin hat before a long glass, and eagerly demanded that it should be bought immediately, it was poor Nina who was brought forward to decide.

“It is becoming,” said Brenda, gazing at her pupil critically; “that pale shade of blue suits you

to perfection

; and that ‘chic’ little mauve bow at the side is so very, very

comme il faut

. But that is not the question in the very least, Fanchon – whether it becomes you or not. It is this: can we afford it – or rather, can Nina afford it? Nina, look. Can you afford to allow your sister to buy that hat?”

The serving-woman in the shop very nearly tittered when the plain, awkward little girl – the youngest of the party – was brought forward to make such a solemn decision. Nina herself was very sulky, and, without glancing at the hat, said:

“Yes, take it, I don’t care!”

“Very well, darling,” said Brenda. “You can send that hat to Palliser Gardens – 9, Palliser Gardens,” she said to the attendant. “Nina, enter in your account-book twelve shillings and eleven-pence three farthings for Fanchon’s hat.”

“I want one like it!” cried Josie.

“Oh – I’m sure Nina won’t allow that!” exclaimed Brenda.

“

don’t care!” said Nina.

In the end each girl had a similar hat, and Nina had to enter the amounts in her horrible little book. The hats were fairly pretty, but were really not meant for little girls with their hair worn in pigtails. But the only thing Brenda cared about was the fact that a considerable sum of Mr Amberley’s money was got rid of.

“Now,” she said, “we’ll consider the dresses.” And the dresses were considered. They were quite expensive and not pretty. There were also several other things purchased, and Nina grew quite thin with her calculations. All these things happened during the first days of their stay at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. But now the toilets were complete.

It was on a scorching and beautiful morning after Brenda, becomingly dressed from head to foot in purest white, had taken her little pupils in check dresses and paper hats down to the seashore, had bathed there and swum most beautifully, to the delight of those who looked on, and had returned again in time for the mid-day meal, that she found Penelope’s letter awaiting her. It was laid by her plate on the dinner table. She opened it with her usual airy grace and then exclaimed – her eyes sparkling with excitement and delight:

“I say, girls – here’s a treat! Our dear friends, the Beverleys, have invited us all to spend to-morrow at the Castle. We must accept, of course, and must drive out. Mrs Dawson,” – here she turned to the lady who kept the boarding-house – “can you tell me what a drive will be from here to Castle Beverley?”

“Five shillings at the very least,” replied Mrs Dawson.

She spoke in an awe-struck voice. There were no people so respected in the neighbourhood as the Beverleys, and Mrs Dawson – a well-meaning and sensible woman – did not believe it possible that any guest of hers could know them.

“Really, Miss Carlton,” she said, “I am highly flattered to think that a young lady who stays here in my humble house – no offence, ladies, I am sure – but in my modest and inexpensive habitation, should know the Beverleys of Castle Beverley.”

“We don’t know them!” here called out Josie.

Brenda gave Josie a frown which augured ill for that young lady’s pleasure during the rest of the day. She paused for a minute, and then said modestly:

“It so happens that my dear sister is a special friend of the eldest Miss Beverley. They are at the same school. My sister is staying at the Castle at present, and I have had a letter inviting me to go there for to-morrow. It will be a very great pleasure.”

“Very great, indeed,” – replied Mrs Dawson – “a most distinguished thing to do. We shall all be interested to hear your experiences when you return in the evening, dear Miss Carlton. Hand Miss Carlton the peas,” continued the good woman, addressing the flushed and towsled parlour maid.

Brenda helped herself delicately to a few of these dainties and then continued:

“Yes, we shall enjoy it; my dear sister’s friends are very select. I naturally expected to go to Castle Beverley when I heard she was there; but I didn’t know that the Beverleys would be so good-natured as to extend their invitations to these dear children. Even the little accountant, Nina, is invited. Nina, you’ll be sure to take your book with you, dear, for you might make some little private notes with regard to the possible expense of housekeeping at Castle Beverley while you are there. You, dear, must be like the busy bee; you must improve each shining hour – eh, Nina? eh, my little arithmetician?”

“I am

not

your arithmetician; and I – I hate you!” said Nina.

These remarks were regarded by the other ladies present as simply those of a naughty child in a temper.

“Oh, fie, Miss Nina!” said a certain Miss Rachael Price. “You should not show those naughty little tempers. You should say, when you feel your angry passions rising, ‘Down, down, little temper; down, down!’ I have always done that, and I assure you it is most soothing in its effects.”

“But you wouldn’t if you were me,” said Nina, who was past all prudence at that instant. “If you had an odious – odious!” here she burst out crying and fled from the room.

“Poor child! What can be the matter with her?” said a fat matron who bore the name of Simpkins, and had several children under nine years of age in the house. “Aren’t you a little severe on her, Miss Carlton? Strikes me she don’t love ’rithmetic – as my Georgie calls it – so much as you seem to imagine.”

Brenda laughed.

“I am teaching my dear little pupil a lesson,” she said. “That is all. I have a unique way of doing it, but it will be for her good in the end.”

Soon afterwards, the young lady and her two remaining pupils left the dinner table and went up to their shabby bedroom, which they all shared together at the top of the house. Nina was lying on her own bed with her face turned to the wall. The moment Brenda came in she sat up and, taking the account-book, flung it in the face of her governess.

“There! you horrid, odious thing!” she said. “I will never put down another account – never – as long as I live! There – I won’t, I won’t, and you can’t make me!”

“I am afraid, most dear child,” said Brenda, “I should not feel safe otherwise. I might be accused of dishonesty by my clever little Nina when I return to the dear old rectory and to the presence of your sweetest papa. But come, now – let’s be sensible; let’s enjoy ourselves. We will drive out to Castle Beverley to-morrow, of that I am determined, even though it does cost five shillings. But we’ll walk back in the evening – that is, if they don’t offer us a carriage; but I have a kind of idea that I can even manage their extending their favour to that amount. It is all-important, however, that we should arrive looking fresh. Now, girls – this is a most important occasion, and how are we to be dressed?”

Nina said that she didn’t know and she didn’t care. But Josie and Fanchon were immensely interested.

“There are your muslin hats,” said Brenda – “quite fresh and most suitable; and your little blue check dresses. The check is very small, and they really look most neat. They’re not cotton, either – they’re ‘delaine.’ Dearest papa will be delighted with them, won’t he? He’ll be quite puzzled how to classify them, but I think we can teach him. You three dressed all alike

will

look

sweet

, and you may be thankful to your dear Brenda for not allowing you to racket through your clothes beforehand. Well, that is settled. You will look a very sweet little trio, and if Nina is good, and runs up to her own Brenda now, and kisses her, she needn’t take the account-book to Castle Beverley. Just for one day, she may resign her office as chartered accountant to this

yere

company.”

Brenda made her joke with a merry laugh and showed all her pearly teeth.

“Come, Nina,” said Josie, who was in high good humour, “you must kiss Brenda; you were horribly rude to her.”

“Oh, I forgive her – poor little thing,” said Brenda. “Little girls don’t like the rod, do they? but sometimes they have to bear it, haven’t they? Now then, you little thing, cheer up, and make friends. I have found a delightful shop where we can have tea, bread and butter and shrimps, and afterwards we’ll sit on the beach – it’s great fun, sitting on the beach – and we’ll see nearly all the fashionable folks.”

The thought of shrimps and bread and butter for tea was too much for Nina’s greedy little soul. She did condescend to get off the hot bed and kiss Brenda, who for her part was quite delightful, for the time being. She even took the account-book and pencil, and said that they should not be seen again until the day after to-morrow. Then she washed Nina’s flushed face, and made her wear the objectionable pink muslin with the folds across the bottom in lieu of flounces, and that little straw hat, which cost exactly one-and-sixpence, including its trimming.

Afterwards, they all went down on the beach, and presently they had tea. Then, in good time, they came back to supper, and after that, the delightful period of the day began for Fanchon, and the trying one for her two sisters – for Fanchon was now regularly established as Brenda’s companion when she went out to enjoy herself a