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.

Nevertheless, she started quite happily to her feet and, raising the crown, placed it for an instant on her head. It gave her very great pain but at the same time immense courage. She did not think she would mind even bitter shame if she was conscious of that crown surrounding her brow. She thought she would like to look at herself in the mirror and see her own reflection with the crown of thorns about her. She imagined, in her dream, that she crossed the room and stood before the long glass. She saw her own reflection quite distinctly – her white night dress with its frills, her little pale face, her golden hair. But – lo, and behold! the crown itself was invisible! She put up her hand to touch it. She felt it quite distinctly, and its thorns pierced her hand and hurt her head, but she could not see it. She stared hard at her own reflection. Then there came a noise outside the door and Penelope awoke.

She was lying in bed. The angel and the crown of thorns were only a dream. Nevertheless, she knew something that she had not known when she fell asleep. She knew now that it was quite impossible for her to choose the downward path, and she knew also that the crown of thorns made all things – even the most painful things of life – possible, if one were only doing right.

The noise outside her door had been made by Honora. Honora came in with her white dressing-gown wrapped round her, and her sweet, lofty-looking face more full of compassion and more serene, even, than usual. The moment Penelope saw her, she started up in bed and said with fervour:

“I have had a dream – the most wonderful in the world; and I know perfectly well, at last, what I am going to do, and you needn’t ask me any more. But I have made up my mind to choose the most difficult sight, and to reject the most easy Wrong.”

“There now,” said Honora, “I knew you would.”

“I can’t tell you any more just yet. You will know all; to-day – everybody will know all to-day.”

“You would really rather I did not know first!”

“It would be easier for me that you should not know first. But just tell me this. Is Mrs Hungerford really coming to-day?”

“Yes,” said Honora, in some surprise; “but I didn’t even know that you knew her.”

“I don’t really. Paulie was telling me about her last night, and how delighted she was at the thought of seeing her. When will she come, Nora?”

“Oh, I think by quite an early train; she’ll be here probably about twelve o’clock.”

“Nora, do you think I might drive into Marshlands quite early, that is, immediately after breakfast? I want to see my sister Brenda.”

“Of course you may. Oh, how white you look! I trust you are not going to be ill!”

Penelope whispered to her own heart: “It’s only the pain that the crown gives, and I don’t mind that sort.” She said aloud, in almost a cheerful voice: “No, I’m not going to be ill,” and presently Honora left her.

Then Penelope rose and dressed and ran downstairs. She went into the garden, which was always fresh and beautiful. Once or twice she put her hand to her forehead, as though she would feel the crown and those thorns that pierced her brow and were so sweet and sustaining.

Breakfast was ready at the usual hour, and the children were gay and happy – the little Hungerfords wild with delight at the thought of seeing their mother, and Mary L’Estrange and Cara Burt were full of sympathy with regard to Penelope who, they thought, looked particularly nice that morning.

“I am so glad you have got over your headache,” said Mary.

“Oh, yes, quite,” replied Penelope.

“But you must be careful to-day,” said Cara; “you must stay a good deal in the shade, for it’s going to be hot – very hot – even hotter than yesterday.”

“I am obliged to go to Marshlands,” said Penelope; “but I shall be very careful,” she added.

The girls expostulated, and Cara called to Honora.

“Are you going to permit this, Nora? Penelope, after her bad headache, declares that she is going to Marshlands again to-day.”

“Yes; she has to go on some business,” replied Honora. “But it’s all right,” she added, “for I have ordered the phaeton with the hood, which shall be put up so that she’ll be sheltered from the rays of the sun.” Almost immediately after breakfast, Penelope started on her drive to Marshlands.

Chapter Twenty Four
Restitution

Mademoiselle was very restless. She had confided a little bit of her interview with Penelope to Mrs Dawson, and Mrs Dawson had much approved of what the Frenchwoman had done. The fact is, these two women had, more or less, sketched out a future together on the strength of the twenty pounds which Penelope would give as hush money with regard to the lost bangle.

“I will keep the bangle too,” said Mademoiselle. “It would not be at all safe to give it to either of the Carlton girls. You shall wear it sometimes, and I will wear it sometimes, and we might take the house next door to this, and do a thriving business next season.”

Mrs Dawson said once, in a feeble sort of way: “Isn’t it very wicked, though?”

“Wicked?” cried Mademoiselle, “when the poor have to live!” She held up her hands in expostulation. “Ah, Madame!” she said, “trust to me in this matter. I have been treated in the way the most cruel, and this is my small, my very small revenge.”

Mrs Dawson was fascinated, but even still not quite convinced. Brenda, meanwhile, knew nothing of that sword of Damocles which was hanging over her devoted head. Strange as it may seem, she had not looked at the bangle on the previous night, and none of the girls dared to tell her what had occurred. She was very cross, and exceedingly disappointed. Her hopes had fallen through. Her little money was largely spent – all to no effect. The holidays would, all too quickly, go by, and there was nothing before her but a dreary and most monotonous existence at the Reverend Josiah Amberley’s, with her very stupid pupils as companions.

As to Harry, of course he was hopeless. She would not have looked at him again. A merchant prince, indeed! He was nothing but the son of a fifth-rate tradesman. This fact accounted for his atrocious manners and for all his many delinquencies. Certainly Brenda was in the worst of humours, and the three little girls were by no means comfortable in her presence.

She was in her room on the following morning, and the girls were there too. They were there during the moment when she would discover that the valuable bangle had been changed, and were anxious to hurry her off to the seashore.

“Let’s come, and be quick,” said Nina. “What’s the good of being at the seaside if we’re not out enjoying the air? Dear papa will be vexed if we tell him that we have spent half our time in this poky, horrid room.”

“I wonder,” said Brenda, in response, “that a little girl dares to utter such untruths. And where’s your notebook, Nina? Out with it, this minute!”

Nina coloured and then turned pale.

“I’ve lost it,” she said.

“Lost it – what do you mean?”

“Well, not that exactly. I – I’ve torn it up.”

“You wicked little girl!”

Brenda advanced towards poor Nina; but what might have happened was never known, for just at that moment there came a tap at the door, and in walked Penelope. There was a look on her face which the three little Amberleys had never seen there before; but Brenda had on one occasion, that great and auspicious occasion when her younger sister had stood spellbound under the full rays of the electric light, acting the part of Helen of Troy. There was the same rapt gaze, the same expression in her eyes, which seemed to say: “Where’er I came I brought calamity.” Brenda did not know why her heart sank so low in her breast, why the petty, trivial things which had been annoying her a moment before sank utterly out of sight. Penelope looked round at the three girls.

“I want to speak to Brenda,” she said. “Brenda, can I see you alone.”

“You had better go out, girls, as Penelope chooses to be so mysterious,” said Brenda, recovering herself, and speaking in a sulky tone.

It did not take the girls long to put on their sailor hats, and a moment later they had left the room. Then Penelope turned the key in the lock.

“It has come, Brenda,” she said. “I don’t want to reproach you or to say a cross word; but there’s only one thing to be done.”

“What in the wide world do you mean?” said Brenda. “What reason have you for all these heroics?”

“I know about you,” said Penelope then. “It,” – her voice quivered – “has broken my heart! But there is only one thing to be done. You must come back with me to Beverley Castle, and bring the bangle with you.”

“The bangle?” said Brenda.

She had been fairly cool until now. But now she trembled exceedingly, and leaned up against the wardrobe. She did not even ask what bangle.

“You stole Nellie Hungerford’s bangle on the day of the break-up at Hazlitt Chase,” pursued Penelope. “You put people on the wrong scent with regard to it. Where you found it and how – I don’t know, but you did find it.”

“How can you possibly, possibly tell?” gasped Brenda then.

“For the beat of all reasons – I have seen it.”

“Seen it – seen it? the lost bangle?”

“I saw it last night. Mademoiselle got possession of it – I can’t exactly say how – but she managed to get to your drawer and found it.”

“I don’t believe a word of it!” began Brenda.

“It is true,” said Penelope. “There is no way out, Brenda, except by the one painful way. You and I must see Mrs Hungerford to-day, and return the bangle. There is no other possible way out.”

“But – but – I didn’t do it,” began Brenda.

“Oh, poor Brenda!” said Penelope. “Why will you add to all the misery by telling lies? You know you did it. I will call Mademoiselle.”

She turned swiftly and left her sister standing in the middle of the room. The very instant this happened, Brenda flew up to the little ornament on the shelf on the over-mantel, took out the key, and opened the drawer. She laid her hand on the box on which she had written Fanchon’s name, opened it, and took out the false bangle. She was looking at it in a sort of stunned way, when Mademoiselle, accompanied by Mrs Dawson, came in.

“Ah!” said Mademoiselle, whose face was white with rage; for she never expected that Penelope would act as she had done. “You are the thief – convicted in the very act!” and she pointed with a finger of scorn at Brenda.

“You’re a nice young woman to have as a visitor in my respectable house!” said Mrs Dawson.

“Pauvre petite! She looks as if she could faint,” said Mademoiselle, who still did not give up hope of obtaining money and having the affair hushed up. “Why, will her own sister ruin her! The thing can be – oh, not spoken of, but put away in the most secret of the heart’s recesses – buried there for all time. A leetle – a very leetle money, will do this.”

“No,” said Penelope, turning and flashing her eyes upon her. “You tempted me last night, but I am thankful to say your temptation has not the smallest attraction for me any longer. I want you, and Mrs Dawson – if she likes – and Brenda to come back with me immediately to the Castle; and you, Mademoiselle, who so cleverly discovered the bangle, will receive your reward. But the bangle itself must be returned. Fetch it, please; for there is no time to lose.”

“Then you will,” said Mademoiselle, “with your own hands, send your only young sister to prison! Oh, the hardness of your heart!”

Penelope made no reply to that, but as she glanced at Brenda, who was absolutely silent – all the brilliant colour gone from her pretty face, the hand of age itself seeming to steal over her features – such a sharp pain went through the younger girl’s heart that, involuntarily, she put her hand to her brow as though to feel the weight of the crown of thorns. Whatever that actually signified, it seemed to comfort her and steady her resolves. She turned to Brenda, and said quickly: “Will you get ready at once, dear?” And Mademoiselle, seeing that she was defeated, went out of the room, and brought the bangle.

“I myself convey it to the Castle,” she said. “I will myself relate the story, and will claim that shabby reward which has been offered for the recovery of the lost treasure.”

“That is exactly as you like. And would Mrs Dawson wish to accompany you – ”

“No,” said Mrs Dawson, “not I. I have had nothing to do with this thing. I had my suspicions on the night when I saw such an unsuitable ornament on Miss Fanchon’s wrist. There is nothing whatever for me to do but to request that the Misses Amberley be removed from my house as soon as possible – ”

“Oh, that is for afterwards,” interrupted Penelope. “Brenda has got something to do first. Come, Brenda, shall I find your hat? The sooner we get this over, the better.”

“But I won’t go – I won’t!” suddenly shrieked Brenda. “I have not confessed; I have admitted nothing. Why should I not have a bangle of my own. Is Nellie Hungerford’s the only one in the world?”

“The queer coincidence of the engraving exactly alike on the bangle which contains the most precious ruby and on this bangle which holds the turquoise of great beauty makes it scarcely probable, mon enfant,” said Mademoiselle. As she spoke, she held up the glittering toy for Penelope to see. “I will go and put on my neat bonnet and be ready to accompany you, young ladies,” she said.

Thus it came to pass that, half an hour later, a miserable, cowed-looking girl entered the phaeton and took her place by Mademoiselle’s side. Penelope occupied the little seat in front. No one spoke during that miserable drive, but that aged look was still perceptible on Brenda’s face, and the colour had absolutely left her cheeks. Once Penelope tried to take her sister’s hand, but Brenda pulled it roughly away.

At last, they all reached Castle Beverley. Mrs Hungerford was there with her two little girls, and Honora was watching for Penelope with more anxiety in her heart than she cared to own. When she saw that Penelope had brought her sister and the French governess back with her, she guessed at once that something important must have occurred. The three got out.

“This is for me my hour of triumph,” said Mademoiselle. But she uttered the words without any jauntiness, for the look on Brenda’s face appalled even her gay and wicked spirit.

Penelope went straight up to Nora.

“I have brought my sister and Mademoiselle; and will Mrs Hungerford come – and will you come, Honora? The sooner we get this over, the better.”

“Oh – I can’t,” murmured Brenda, in a passionate voice under her breath.

“You can – you must. It is the only, only way,” whispered Penelope then.

With these words, she determinedly took her sister’s hand, and the three went into the small room opening out of the front hall, while Honora ran to fetch Mrs Hungerford. When that lady appeared, being much amazed at this hasty summons, she was startled at the aspect of the little group who awaited her. There was Penelope, with still that Helen-of-Troy expression on her face. There was Brenda, aged for the time being, and shrinking; and there was Mademoiselle, with her wicked eyes gleaming.

The moment Mrs Hungerford entered, Mademoiselle marched up to her.

“I claim the so great reward,” she said. “You did advertise for this very leetle trinket, and behold! I it to you restore. Look at it – it is the one that you have lost. Ponder it – and consider it well. Compare it with the bracelet your little daughter Pauline wears, and see if it is not, in very truth, the lost bangle.”

“It most certainly is,” said Mrs Hungerford; “and you have found it? Pardon me – I do not know your name.”

“Mademoiselle d’Etienne – at your service. I have had the so high privilege to teach your young daughters the elegancies of our French tongue at that select seminary, Hazlitt Chase. I know when the bangle was missing, and the sore grief it was to the chère petite who had lost it. Through a series of adventures I have found it again, and I lay it on your lap. You can give it to the child for whom it was purchased.”

“But how did you get it?”

“Ah! There I have a histoire the most pathetic, the most wonderful, the most extra-ordinaire to relate.”

“No,” interrupted Penelope, suddenly, “the time has come for Brenda to speak. Brenda, tell what you know.”

“There’s no use in concealing it,” said Brenda. “I am not sorry – I mean, I’m only sorry to be found out. Mrs Hungerford, this is what happened. Do you remember driving up with me to Hazlitt Chase on the day of the prize-giving? You stepped – oh – out of the carriage, and as you did so you dropped the bangle on the ground, I saw it: I coveted it: I took it: I slipped it into my pocket. I put you off the scent by telling my sister that doubtless you had dropped it in the train. I am the thief. I await my punishment: it is prison, it it not? Very well; I have confessed. I think it is most likely that Mr Beverley is a magistrate. He can send for the police, and put me into prison. I stole the bangle: Mademoiselle found it. I am a thief, and Penelope is the sister of one. That is all.”

“Oh, poor girl!” said Mrs Hungerford. She rose slowly from her seat and left the room. In a few minutes she returned. She brought with her three sovereigns and three shillings.

“These are for you,” she said to Mademoiselle. “This is the reward offered. You have led to the discovery of the bangle – I don’t want to know how – take your reward, and go.”

“Yes, please go at once,” said Honora.

There was a quality in her young voice which the Frenchwoman had never heard before, and there was such a ring of scorn in Mrs Hungerford’s tone that it seemed – as Mademoiselle afterwards expressed it – “to wither even the very vitals.” She took her money sulkily and, without a word, left the presence of the others, never to be seen by them again.

What followed can be easily explained. Mrs Hungerford was a good woman. Honora had learned some lessons in the higher life. Now Mrs Hungerford and Honora were certainly not going to punish Penelope, and their one earnest desire was to rescue Brenda.

They left the sisters alone for a short time, and talked together.

“That poor, poor, pretty girl!” said Mrs Hungerford. “Oh, of course what she did was dreadful, but we just mustn’t let her go under, must we, Honora?”

“I knew you would feel like that,” said Honora, “I felt certain of it. You can little guess what Penelope has suffered; she is a splendid girl. Her mission at present in life is to help her sister.”

“Now listen.”

Mrs Hungerford proposed a plan which was eventually carried out. This was no less than, first and foremost, to assure Brenda of her absolute forgiveness.

“You acted very badly indeed,” she said; “but I am not going to call the police, nor to put you in prison. Your punishment will be that those who know you will have to be acquainted with what has occurred. You had much better not return to the boarding-house, but stay here. Your little pupils must go back to their father, for I do not think it right that they should be with you any longer. As to you – I want you and Penelope to do something for me.”

“I to do anything for you?” said Brenda, her eyes suddenly growing soft and a new expression stealing over her face.

“Yes. My house in the country is empty at present. Will you and Penelope go there to-day and live there quietly until the holidays come to an end? I can put you on the way. When the holidays are over, Penelope will, of course, return to Hazlitt Chase, and I myself will do my utmost to get you a post which I think you may suit – not as teacher to the young, for you have not the necessary qualifications.”

From the thought of prison, the magistrates, the handcuffs, which she might possibly wear, the public examination, the trial – to going away with Penelope to Mrs Hungerford’s own house was such a relief to the miserable Brenda that, all of a sudden, she gave way utterly.

“There – now I am sorry really!” she said. “I was not a bit sorry when every one was hard to me, but I am bitterly sorry now!”

Mrs Hungerford’s arrangements were carried out in full detail. The little Amberleys were invited up to the Castle until the Reverend Josiah could be summoned. He came on the following morning, and was told in full the sad story about Brenda. He was greatly shocked, but begged that the knowledge of what had occurred should be kept from his daughters.

“I am afraid they suspect a great deal,” said Mrs Beverley, who of course had been taken into confidence.

“Poor children, life is hard on them!” said dear papa, “and I did think Brenda such a sweet young creature. How frightfully we were deceived! But I must take them back, and get Miss Juggins to teach them in future.”

“Perhaps you would allow me to recommend a particularly nice girl to be their governess,” here interposed Mrs Beverley.

“Oh, Madam, do you know of one?”

“I do – I have known her since she was a child. I think she would go to you, and help your little girls. Her name is Lydia Hamburg. You can see her if you like, for she lives close by.”

Lydia Hamburg, who was all that Brenda Carlton was not, did eventually find herself installed as governess to the little Amberleys; and as she was faithful and true, the wheels of life ran smoothly at the rectory, and the girls turned out, on the whole, better than might have been expected.

As to Brenda, hers was a difficult and – it must be owned – a worthless character. Not all Penelope’s earnestness and faithful love would make her really see the enormity of her crime in its full light. But, nevertheless, even she had learned a lesson and, in future, would not lend herself to such open sin as heretofore. Mrs Hungerford arranged that she was to leave England, with a party who were going to Canada; for in a fresh land, she might do better.

These things have all happened, and the characters in this story have moved on a little way in life’s journey. To each has been meted out a due share of cloud and sunshine, and those who have done wrong have each in their turn suffered.

But Penelope has never forgotten her dream, nor the feeling of that blessed crown of thorns, and she and Honora Beverley are the best and truest of friends.