Loe raamatut: «Turquoise and Ruby», lehekülg 14

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!”