“You little goose!” exclaimed Brenda, bending forward and kissing Nina with affection. “Haven’t you just the darlingest little face, and who loves you if your own Brenda does not? But talk to your father on the subject if you wish, and I will change the pink muslins for cottons to-morrow – I can easily do so.”

“Oh, no – no,” said Fanchon.

Josephine shut her lips. Nina nestled up to her governess in an ecstasy of love and affection. If indeed she was a blonde – that lovely word – why, the pink muslin must suit her!

Chapter Seven
Light Blue Silk

During the days that elapsed between the purchase of the pale blue silk and the grand fête at Mrs Hazlitt’s school, it may well be supposed that Brenda Carlton was very busy. Not Penelope at school, not any of those girls who were to take the characters of Tennyson’s “Dream of Fair Women,” were as much occupied as this young woman. She had so much to think of and to do; for she had not only to see about her own toilette, which meant frequent visits to Madame Declassé’s, at Rocheford, and therefore frequent demands for the pony trap, but she had also to help the girls to make up their pink muslins.

She was sorry to have to dress her pupils in a colour she knew in her heart of hearts could not possibly suit them, but she argued with her own conscience that no possible dress that she could devise would make the Misses Amberley look well and, that being the case, they might just as soon be frightful as not. She had no pricks of conscience with regard to this matter. The little red-haired girls were useful to her for the time being. She intended to have a delightful outing at the seaside and, in order to effect this, she must keep the Reverend Josiah in the best of humours until her grand month was over.

This was quite easy to accomplish as long as the girls themselves were pleased. But Brenda was by no means a fool, and she judged by certain remarks of Nina’s, who was the most innocent of the confiding three, that already a few ugly little suspicions with regard to their governess were animating their small breasts. In short, they were the sort of girls who would very soon discover for themselves the wickedness of this wicked world. They were not specially amiable; there was nothing whatever attractive about them. When once they discovered Brenda, as Brenda really was, her position in the Reverend Josiah’s establishment would come to an end.

Well, she intended to secure another home before then. There was a certain rich young man whom she hoped to attract while at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. When once engaged to him, it mattered little to her what any of the Amberleys thought about her. Still, the present fortnight must be used to the best advantage, and Brenda took great care how she trimmed the white hate. She made them look exceedingly pretty and stylish, for she had wonderful fingers which could contrive and arrange the very simplest materials as though by magic. The pink muslin frocks were also made to suit each girl. It did not matter if they were a little skimpy; the girls were all young, and Nina, in particular, ought still to wear very short skirts.

“No, Nina,” said her governess, “I am not going to give you flounces, but I shall put a couple of false tucks upon the muslin skirt.”

“I’d much rather have flounces,” said Nina, who was nearly in tears. “I like little tiny frills, they are so pretty, and you have given them to Fanchon and to Josephine.”

“That is the very reason, chérie, why you must not have them,” was Brenda’s remark. “The washing will be altogether too expensive. Your poor, dear papa, who is taking no holiday himself, cannot possibly afford the laundry bills which I shall have to send him if all your dresses are flounced.”

This argument seemed conclusive, and Nina had to be satisfied – that is, she pretended to be, but there was her little scheme of vengeance working up in her small brain, and she intended to talk it over with her sisters on the eighth of July, that long, long, wonderful day when beautiful Brenda would not be with them, and when they could do exactly as they liked.

Clever as she was, Brenda could not guess the thoughts which filled her little pupil’s brain, and she was too much interested in her own affairs just then to trouble herself much about so insignificant a young person.

Meanwhile, time flew as it always does when one is busy, and Brenda’s own delicate and beautiful dress arrived at the rectory two days before she was to wear it. Now, Brenda did not want any of her pupils to see her in this dress, and above all things, she did not wish the Reverend Josiah to perceive that she – that absolutely dependent orphan – could leave his establishment attired in pale blue silk. She trusted much to the white serge coat, which she had ordered, to cover the silk. Nevertheless, she knew she must run some dangers. As a matter of fact, she had only spent about thirty shillings on each of her pupils, and had, therefore, purloined from the sum which had been given her for their clothes four pounds ten wherewith to line her own pockets. This she hoped would never be discovered, nor would it have been, had Nina not been quite so sharp, and Fanchon so really discontented with the quality of the muslin dress she was to wear at Marshlands-on-the-Sea.

“Please, please, Brenda,” said Fanchon, on the day before the great fête, “won’t you put on your pale blue silk, and let us see you in it? It has come, I know, for I was in the garden when the carrier arrived with that great box from Madame Declassé’s. Father was with us, and he asked what could be in the box.”

“And what did you say, dear?”

“I said it was a box full of pots for making jam – that you had bought the pots the day we were at Rocheford, as you thought it would be such a good thing for cook to turn all the gooseberries into jam while we were at the seaside.”

“What a very clever little Fanchon you are!” said Brenda, looking very attentively at her pupil. “And what did papa say – dear innocent papa?”

“Oh, he was ever so pleased – he loves gooseberry jam, and said that we must on no account strip the trees beforehand, so as to leave plenty for cook to boil down to put into the pots.”

“What a mercy he didn’t feel the box!” was Brenda’s remark. “I do think, Fanchon, you are very clever – very wicked, of course, and I suppose you ought to be punished. But there – you meant well, didn’t you?”

“I suppose I did,” said Fanchon, raising her pale blue eyes and fixing them on her governess’ face.

Brenda looked back at the girl. She heartily wished that Fanchon was two years younger and five years stupider, and even a little more ugly; but, such as she was, she must make the best of her.

“Of course,” continued Fanchon, who seemed to divine her governess’ thoughts, “if you really think that I told a wicked story, I can go to father now and tell him that I made a mistake, and that the box contained your blue silk dress, and – and – other things of yours – and not the jam pots. Shall I, Brenda? shall I?”

“You goosey! you goosey!” said Brenda. She squeezed Fanchon’s arm and began to pace up and down the terrace walk with her pupil by her side. “You know,” she said, lowering her voice and speaking in the most confiding and enthralling way, “you are older than the others, and I can confide in you. It is wrong to tell lies – very, very wrong – and whatever possessed you, you silly girl, to think of jam pots? I am sure nothing was further from our heads on that auspicious day. But I don’t want your dear father to see the dress that I am going to the fête in, and I will tell you why.”

“Please do,” said Fanchon, “for to tell the truth, Brenda, neither Nina, nor Josephine, nor I understand you always.”

“Well, dears, is it likely that you should? I am, let me see, between twenty-two and twenty-three years of age, although I don’t look it by any means.”

“I don’t know what that age looks like, so can’t say,” was Fanchon’s remark.

“Well, dear – it is a very beautiful age, and very young. It is the age when a girl comes – so to speak – to her prime, and when she thinks of – of,” – Brenda lowered her voice – “getting married.”

“Oh!” said Fanchon, colouring crimson. “You don’t mean to say – ”

“I don’t mean to say anything at all, I have nothing to confide, so don’t imagine it for a single moment. But at the seaside, where the gay people will be, and the band will play, and there’ll be no end of tea out of doors and all sorts of fun of one sort and another, it may happen that – that – somebody may see your Brenda and – oh, Fanchon, need I say any more!”

“I don’t suppose you need,” was Fanchon’s answer. She felt immensely flattered.

“Think what it would mean to me,” continued Brenda. “A prince might come along, who would fall in love with the beggar maid.”

“But you – with your blue silk dress, to be called a beggar maid! That name might suit poor Nina, who can’t have flounces, even, to her pink muslin dress that only cost sixpence three farthings a yard.”

Brenda was startled at Fanchon’s memory with regard to the price of the muslin.

“No,” continued that young lady, “you’re not a bit like the beggar maid.”

“Ah, but – my dear girl – I am the beggar maid, and I am waiting for the king to come along who will raise me to sit on his throne, and – in fact – I am going to whisper a great secret to you, Fanchon – ”

“What is it?” said Fanchon, who was at once fretful and disgusted, overpowered with curiosity, and yet heartily wishing that Brenda would not confide in her.

“Well – I will tell you,” said Brenda. “I have been left a little money – just the merest little trifle, and I am spending a little of it on my blue silk, and I don’t want any one to know but just my own darling Fanchon; my eldest pupil – who loves me so well! Perhaps, my chérie, I may buy you a pretty gift out of some of the money. What do you say to a little gold bracelet – a bangle, I mean?”

Brenda remembered that she could get a silver gilt bracelet for a couple of shillings at a shop she knew of at Rocheford, and that it would be worth her while to purchase Fanchon’s sympathy at that price.

“Oh – but I should love it!” said the young lady, looking at her sunburnt and badly formed wrist.

“The bangle would give you good style,” said Brenda. “Well, we’ll say nothing about it now – but – well, as I have given you my confidence, you won’t repeat it.”

“I suppose not, but I do want to see your blue silk.”

“All right, you shall, but not the others – I draw the line at the others. You can slip out of bed to-night and come to me, and I will put it on and show myself. I am going away early in the morning before any of you are up.”

“But I am certain father will be up, for he said so, and he’s going to let you in afterwards.”

Brenda considered for a moment —

“I can’t help his letting me in, but he shan’t see me off,” she said – “no one need do that. Well, now – go and join your sisters. Go to bed at the usual hour, and come to me at ten o’clock; then I will put on the dress and you shall judge of the effect.”

The thought of seeing the wonderful dress and of possessing a real gold bangle were two circumstances enough to turn the slight brain of Fanchon Amberley. She did not confide to her sisters what her conversation had been, and managed that evening to elude them and to present herself at Brenda’s door as the clock struck ten. The other two were sound asleep, so she had little difficulty in getting away from them, and, as Brenda was on the watch, she let her pupil in at once, immediately locking the door as soon as Fanchon got inside.

“Now then,” she said, “you just hop on to my bed, for I don’t want you to catch cold. See – here’s the dress.”

Madame Declassé was really an excellent dressmaker, and the pale blue silk would have looked lovely to any eyes, but the unaccustomed ones of Fanchon Amberley fairly blinked as they gazed at it.

“I never imagined anything so lovely!” she cried. “But you must put it on – you promised.”

Brenda obeyed. She was gratified by the curious mixture of vanity and greed, envy and admiration which filled poor Fanchon’s face, and she attired herself, not only in the dress, which gave her little figure such a “chic” appearance, but also put on the white hat and the dainty white lace scarf, and drew the long white gloves upon her slender arms. Finally, she slipped into the white serge coat which was to cover the finery, lest the Reverend Josiah should catch sight of it.

“He won’t see me to-morrow morning,” she said, “and when I come back in the evening, he’ll think that I am wearing a cotton dress underneath the serge. There now, Fanchon, you have seen everything, and you may rest satisfied that I shall have plenty to tell you when I return.”

“I am bewildered,” said Fanchon. “Of course you look beautiful; of course the prince or the king, whenever either of them comes along, will fall in love with you, for you look like a princess or a queen yourself! I wish I were beautiful too. I hate – yes – I hate being ugly!” and the poor child gave a sob of pain and disappointment.

“Now listen, Fanchon. You won’t be ugly when you are grown up. It doesn’t matter a bit how you look now, for you are only a little girl. What you have to do now is to help me all you can, and then, when you come to be eighteen or nineteen years of age – I will help you, petite, and get you a good husband, and drew you in the colours that will make you look – oh – marvellous! Keep me as your friend and you will be a wise little girl: do the reverse, and you will rue it.”

Fanchon shed a few more tears, but finally yielded to Brenda’s seductions and clasped her arms round her neck and kissed that young person’s cool cheek with her own hot lips; then went to bed to dream of that wonderful vision in blue silk and the prince who was surely going to find her.

The next morning, at a very early hour, Brenda took her departure, having successfully avoided the Reverend Josiah, who had gone to bed with the full intention of getting up to see his dear young governess off and to tell her that he would assuredly sit up and have something hot for supper when she came back in the evening. He had not yet thanked her for her consideration in buying the jam pots.

“The dear girl must have got them out of her own money,” he said to himself. “She really is a treasure, and I am so fond of gooseberry jam. One can have so few indulgences – what with the sick of the parish and my very small stipend. But when I think of that poor young creature, and of what she is doing for me and my children, I cannot be too thankful. I will certainly thank her in suitable words when she returns, and I will see her off in the morning.”

But, alack and alas! the Reverend Josiah was tired, for he had had a very long and fatiguing day, and Brenda’s footsteps were light as the falling of snow, and she had left the house and gone out to the stables and got the pony put to the cart. She had also awakened Jock – universally known as “the boy,” and had given him fourpence to drive her to Harroway station. All these things had been done, and Brenda was away – yes, away for her day’s holiday before the Reverend Josiah opened his eyes on that summer morning.

Chapter Eight
Break-Up Day

Nothing at all happened to Brenda of the least importance during her journey to Hazlitt Chase. She went second-class as far as Rocheford. There she changed for first-class, for she had every intention of doing the thing in style.

When she arrived at the little station, she saw several smart-looking carriages waiting to take guests up to The Chase and, going up to the driver of one, requested him immediately to convey her there. He looked at the very smart lady, admired her blue eyes and the radiant and truly natural colour in her cheeks, and signified to her that if she would enter the low victoria, he would take her to The Chase. She did so, wrapping her white serge cloak daintily round her, and leaning back in her seat with evident enjoyment.

She was reaching her goal – the goal she had been aspiring to for so many long weeks now; and that twenty pounds – yes, and a little more besides, some of the Reverend Josiah Amberley’s money (that money which he had given her to clothe his own little daughters) – reposed snugly in her purse at home. Her conscience did not trouble her, for Brenda had never cultivated that excellent monitor. It lay quiet and asleep within her breast. Her whole nature was full of anticipation and ripe for mischief. She was anxious to see her sister and the school, and to make a first-rate impression there.

As she sat leaning back in the little victoria, her white and dainty parasol unfurled, her white gloves gleaming in the summer sunshine, a lady, considerably older than herself, came out of the station and, going up to the driver, asked if she could have a seat also up to The Chase. This lady’s name was Mrs Hungerford, and she had two young daughters at the school. She was a fashionable woman, beautifully dressed, and when she took her seat by Brenda’s side, Brenda felt that she could not do better than make her her friend. Accordingly, she entered into what she considered a very delightful conversation. She talked simply, and yet suitably, with regard to herself, and did what she could to add to Mrs Hungerford’s comfort. For instance, the astute young woman proposed that her white parasol should shade both of them from the sun. Mrs Hungerford was a dark-complexioned woman and she immediately agreed to the offer. As a matter of fact, she did not much mind whether the sun’s rays fell on her face and neck or not. She noticed, although she made no remark at the time, that Brenda did not greatly care either; for she was absorbed in shading herself from the slightest fleck of undue light.

At last they reached The Chase. The little carriage drew up daintily at the front door, where a number of pupils were assembled and where Mrs Hazlitt herself stood to welcome her visitors. The girls in the school were all dressed in white – some in white washing silk, some in white lace, some only in white muslin. But whatever the dress, they looked neat and fresh and, in Brenda’s eyes, were elegant.

She looked anxiously around for Penelope, who was not immediately in sight. Mrs Hungerford got quickly out of the carriage, for she saw her own two little girls, who rushed to her with cries of delight. As she did so, something glittered at Brenda’s feet. She was stepping out when she saw it. It was a little gold bangle with a blue turquoise clasp. It was very pretty and dainty, and altogether the sort of thing which a girl like Brenda would covet. She had no immediate idea, however, of stealing it. She stooped to pick it up immediately, to avoid its being stepped upon, and was about to give it to Mrs Hungerford, whose property she supposed it to be, when that lady went straight into the house, without taking the slightest notice of her. With trembling fingers, Brenda slipped the gold bangle into her pocket. She longed most earnestly to be able to wear it. It was of beautiful workmanship, and the turquoise which clasped it together was of unusual size and purity of colour. It was quite a girlish-looking thing and would be, Brenda felt sure, most unsuitable for dark, stately Mrs Hungerford.

All these thoughts with regard to it rushed through her mind as she stood for a minute, unnoticed, on the green sward which swept up to the house at each side of the principal entrance.

Other carriages had immediately followed the little victoria, which rolled swiftly away out of sight, and, for a minute, no one spoke to Brenda. Then Mrs Hazlitt herself came up to her.

“Ah, how do you do, my dear?” she said. “You are – ”

“I am Brenda Carlton,” said Brenda, raising those lovely melting blue eyes to the good lady’s face. “It is so kind of you to invite me here. And where is Penelope?”

Mrs Hazlitt looked around. She was annoyed at Penelope not being in sight, and immediately called Honora Beverley to take her place.

“Honora,” she said – “this is Miss Carlton. I suppose Penelope has not finished dressing; will you kindly take Miss Carlton to her sister’s room? I am sorry, my dear, that I have not a corner to offer you to sleep in to-night; but on break-up days we are always overfull.”

Brenda made a becoming reply, and followed in the wake of beautiful, fair Honora. Her own dress, it seemed to her, was most stylish – most absolutely all that any girl could desire, until she noticed Honora’s white lace robe. It clung softly to her lissom young figure, and had an indescribable air about it which not even Madame Declassé could achieve. In short, it bore the hall-mark of Paris, for Honora Beverley was one of the richest girls in the school. She had always been accustomed to being well dressed, and had, therefore, never given the matter a thought.

She was a most kind-hearted, high-principled girl, and was anxious to do what she could for Brenda, whom she, in her heart of hearts, could not help dubbing as second-class, notwithstanding the girl’s real beauty.

“I am so sorry,” she said, “that Penelope was not present when you arrived; but she always does take a long time over her toilette. We must all assemble in the hall, however, in a quarter of an hour, so you will probably find her fully dressed. That is the way to her room. Have you come from a distance, Miss Carlton?”

Brenda mentioned the obscure village where the Reverend Josiah lived. Honora had never heard of it, neither was she deeply interested. She chatted in a pleasant voice of the different events of the day, and said how delightful everything was, and how singularly kind she thought it of Penelope to take the part of Helen of Troy.

“For I couldn’t do it,” she said. “It is just a case of conscience.”

There was something in her tone and in her gentle look which made Brenda gaze at her, not only with envy, but with dislike.

“Why should your conscience be more tender than my sister’s?” was her answer. “And who was Helen of Troy? I never heard of her.”

Honora opened her brown eyes. She had not believed that any one existed in the wide world who had not, at one time or another, made the acquaintance of this celebrated woman.

“Penelope will tell you about her,” she said gently. “Of course you know, Miss Carlton, what is wrong for one need not be necessarily wrong for another. We have each to answer for our own conscience, have we not? Ah, and this is Penelope’s room.” She knocked at the door. “Penelope, your sister has come.”

Hurried steps were heard inside the chamber. The door was flung open and Penelope, all in white and looking almost pretty, stood on the threshold. Honora immediately withdrew, and the two sisters found themselves for a few minutes alone.

“Do take off your cloak and let me look at you,” said Penelope. “I have been telling the girls so much about you, and most of them are all agog to see you. Dear, dear! pale blue silk! Well, it is rather pretty, only I wish you had been in white; but you look very nice all the same, dear.”

“You ate highly dissatisfied, Penelope; and I’m sure I’ve done all that mortal could to oblige you,” said Brenda.

“And I to oblige you,” retorted Penelope. “I can tell you, I had trouble about those five-pound notes, but you got them safely, didn’t you?”

“Yes, of course I did: I only wish you could have managed more. This dress is much prettier than your insipid white. White is all very well for schoolgirls, but I am grown up, remember.”

“Yes, yea – and you look very nice,” said Penelope. “It’s more than you do, Penelope; you’re not a bit pretty,” said frank Brenda.

“I know it – and it seems so highly ridiculous that I should be forced to take the part of Helen of Troy. Of course, Honora was the girl absolutely made on the very model, but she refused.”

“Who is Honora?” asked Brenda.

“Why, that lovely girl in the white lace – (it’s all real, I can tell you, and was sent to her from Paris) – who brought you to my door.”

“Oh —that girl!” said Brenda. “I don’t think her at all remarkable.”

“Don’t you? Well, most people do – she’s quite the belle of the school.”

“And what does the belle of the school signify?” said Brenda, who was feeling decidedly cross. “If a girl could be called the belle of the season, that might be something to aspire to – but the belle of a school! Who cares about that?”

“Well, the schoolgirls do, and while we are at school, it is our world,” said Penelope. “But now I must bring you downstairs, and put you into your place. You must get a seat on one of the benches near the front, or you won’t see one half that is going on. Come along, you may be sure I will fly to you whenever I have a second, but I shall be very busy all day.”

“Will there be gentlemen present?” asked Brenda.

“Oh – certainly. The brothers and cousins and fathers and uncles of the pupils.”

“I don’t care anything at all about the fathers and uncles, but I should like to be introduced to some of the brothers and cousins.”

“Well, I daresay that can be managed – ”

“Penelope – do come!” called Cara’s voice in the distance, and Penelope, accompanied by her sister, had to fly downstairs.

A few minutes later, Brenda found herself in the wide, open court. She was partly sheltered by a great awning. Here the prizes were to be given away, a few speeches were to be made, and a few recitations given by some of the most accomplished girls and teachers.

No one took any special notice of her, and this acute young person discovered that if she did not play her own cards well and immediately, she would be out of the fun. Now, this was the last thing she wished. The slight feeling of discomfort which had arisen in her breast when she saw Honora Beverley in her simple and exquisite dress had vanished: the colour brightened in her cheeks; she felt assured that she looked well, and assuredly she was pretty, although second-class.

She deliberately took a seat near two young men who were brothers of two of the older girls. She asked one of them quite an innocent question, to which he replied. She decided that he was good-looking and that she could have a pleasant day in his company, and immediately requested him, in that simple and pathetic voice which always so strongly appealed to the Reverend Josiah, to tell her all about the company – who was who, and what was what. She said that she herself was a lonely girl who had come from a distance to behold her dear sister in that exquisite creation, Helen of Troy. She talked of Helen as though she had been that good woman’s intimate friend from her youth up, and managed to impress both young men with a lively sense of her pleasantness and her frank, daring sort of beauty.

Presently, one of the little Hungerford girls came along. She belonged to the smaller girls of the school. She came straight up to the young man who was talking to Brenda, and, leaning against him, said in a disconsolate voice:

“It is quite lost; mother did promise that I should have it. Pauline has got hers – hers has a ruby clasp, but mine with the blue turquoise can’t be found anywhere!”

“Why, what is it, Nelly?” said the young man. “Nelly, may I introduce you to this young lady.”

“My name is Carlton – Brenda Carlton. I am the sister of your friend Penelope, who is to be Helen of Troy,” said Brenda. “Is anything wrong, dear?” she continued, speaking kindly, and bending forward so as almost to caress the child by her manner.

Young Hungerford’s dark face quite flushed, and he made room for his little sister to sit between him and Brenda for a minute.

“Tell her – perhaps she will know. Now that I remember, she drove up in the victoria with mother from the station.”

“It is my bangle!” said Nelly. “Mother brought one for me, and the other for Pauline. Mine had a turquoise clasp. She got them from Paris and they are so very, very, very pretty; and Pauline is wearing hers, and mine is gone!”

“Oh, but – how provoking! It must be found, of course,” said Brenda, putting on an air of great sympathy, and wondering how she could get it out of her own pocket without suspicion being directed to her.

Her first impulse was simply to say to the child: “I wonder if I know anything about it,” and then to tell how she had picked it up. But Nellie Hungerford’s next remark prevented her doing so.

“Mother is quite certain that she lost it in the train, for she remembers taking the parcel out when she was looking for some sandwiches in her bag; she noticed then that the string was loose. Mother is convinced that she lost it in the train. Oh dear! oh dear! I should not mind quite so badly if Pauline was not wearing hers. There, Fred – do you see her?” continued the little girl. “It is shining on her arm, and that horrid ruby is gleaming like a bit of fire. I am miserable without mine and, although mother will get me another, it won’t be at all the same thing not wearing it on break-up day.”

“Well, dear – it cannot be helped now,” said the brother, “and I see one of the teachers calling you. I suppose you must take your place. You look very nice indeed, Nellie, and no one will miss the bangle.”

“Do I really look nice?” asked Nellie, fixing her pretty eyes on her brother’s face.

“Of course you do,” he answered.

“You look charming, Miss Hungerford,” suddenly interposed Brenda, “and if I may venture to give an opinion, I prefer little girls without bangles.”

This was a remark which at once pleased young Hungerford and displeased his sister.

“I suppose my mamma knows what little girls ought to wear,” she said with great dignity, and then she moved off to take her seat amid the other girls.

When she was gone, Brenda felt a curious flutter at her heart. If Mrs Hungerford was sure that she had lost her bangle in the train, why need wicked Brenda ever return it to her? Surely, she might keep it as her own delightful possession. She might wear it at Marshlands-on-the-Sea, and attract the attention of that most desirable youth whom she hoped to secure as her future husband.