“But you’d better be quick about it, for we mean always to live well in the future. Joey and I think that we might order a crab for supper to-night – papa loves crabs.”

Brenda was silent.

“When can we have our talk?” continued Fanchon.

“Well, I don’t think just at present; will you give me until evening? Order what you wish to-day, but don’t be too extravagant, you’ll only have an illness. I give you plain food, for it is really best from every point of view, and your father’s allowance of housekeeping money is very limited.”

“I can ask him, of course, what he does give,” said Fanchon.

“No, no; don’t do that – ”

“And,” continued Fanchon, as though she had not heard the last remark, “I can find out what the butcher’s bills, and the green grocer’s, and the grocer’s come to per week. I shall be rather clever about these things in future.”

Brenda made no reply. After a minute’s pause, she said:

“Would you really like me to leave you?”

“I think, on the whole, I should very much.”

“You would wish to give up going to Marshlands-on-the-Sea?”

“No – that would be a disappointment.”

“You can’t go there without me.”

“Oh – I suppose we could get some one else.”

“There is no one else whom your father would trust.”

Fanchon was silent and a little thoughtful.

“I have a plan to propose to you, Fanchon,” said her governess suddenly; “but I shall not propose it now – I will keep it until to-night. To-night, at ten o’clock, come to my room and I will talk to you. In the meantime, tell the other girls that for to-day, just for to-day, they may do as they please. Now let me be alone; I have a headache.”

Fanchon danced off to communicate this news to her sisters.

“The cat’s caving in like anything,” she said. “We shall have a jolly, jolly time in future!”

“What can we have to eat at tea-time?” was Nina’s remark.

“Oh – you little goose,” exclaimed Fanchon, “you can’t possibly be hungry yet.”

“But I shall be hungry when tea-time comes.”

“Well, get what you like, both of you.”

“Let’s go to the shops this blessed minute,” said Nina, turning to Josephine.

They started off arm in arm. They did not mind the fact that they were wearing their only white frocks – their Sunday-go-to-meeting frocks, and that Nina’s was already sadly stained with some juice from the raspberry tart. They did not mind the fact also that they had outgrown these frocks, and that the people stared at the rector’s daughters when they were at all respectably attired. They were too excited to think of anything but the victory they were having over old pussy-cat – which was their present name for their hitherto beloved Brenda.

They went to the shops where Brenda dealt, and ordered rich plum cake for tea, two sorts of jam, some more fruit and some more cream; and for supper they ordered crabs – two crabs to be sent up dressed, from the fishmonger’s, also a lobster, and also a large plate of prawns. Having thus wilfully expended money which might have kept the rectory on its ordinary régime for weeks, they returned home in the best of spirits.

’Tis a little sad to relate that even mice, in their moments of triumph over their legendary foe – the domestic cat – may sometimes overdo things. For two of these little mice felt decidedly ill that night from the direful effects of overeating. Nina spent that night, which she had felt would be of such triumph, rolling from side to side in bed and crying out with pain, and Josephine had the most appalling succession of nightmares. But Fanchon was more moderate in her eating and, therefore, did not suffer. She had her work cut out for her; and that evening, at the appointed hour – regardless of Nina’s cries and Josephine’s frightened exclamations in her sleep – she went off to interview her governess in her bedroom.

Brenda was waiting for her, and was quite ready. She had been frightened, terribly frightened, in the morning, but she was alarmed no longer. She had been given time to think, to consider, to form her plans. The discovery which those tiresome children had made was altogether most unpleasant. Had it been made by older people, it would almost have been dangerous. But Brenda felt that she could manage the children. She must sacrifice something, it is true, but she need not sacrifice everything.

The girls had never been trained in high principles. They had been brought up anyhow. The rector was not a specially admirable man. It is true, he lived according to his lights, but these did not carry him far. His children were motherless, and it did not occur to him to suspect the girl into whose care he placed them. He was devoted to his poorer parishioners, and was kindness itself to them, denying himself many things for their benefit. But it was his object in life to do what he could for his orphans, and he thought he had done so when he put such a pretty, charming girl as Brenda Carlton over their heads. He believed fully in Brenda, and admired her immensely. He thought her a truly Christian young woman; for she was regular in her attendance at church, and always looked – he considered – so sweet and interested when he preached to her. It was wonderful how he found himself preaching directly to her, Sunday after Sunday, suiting his words to her need and thinking of her as he addressed, or was supposed to address, his congregation.

As to the children’s education, he expected them to go to Sunday school; but as their teacher there was no other than Brenda herself, it cannot be said that they gained much by this special instruction.

Brenda looked very pretty when she taught her class. Most of the time she told them good little stories, which they listened to when they were not too restless, and when Brenda herself was not too charmingly attired. On the whole, the girls were ripe for a fall, and Brenda had no compunction in saving herself at their expense. These three girls had, however, a considerable amount of character, and, strange as it may seem, the one the governess most dreaded was the youngest. For Nina was exceedingly fearless, and also rather cunning, and Brenda was not quite certain that if she gave her word she would keep it. The governess felt pretty sure that she could manage Fanchon and Josephine, but Nina was different. All things considered, however, she had to make the best of a bad job, and if she could only get through that happy time at Marshlands-on-the-Sea, she felt convinced that all would be well with her in the future. She, accordingly, welcomed Fanchon now with a smile, and immediately took the lead.

“Just for all the world,” repeated Fanchon afterwards when she gave her sisters a partial account of this interview, “as if she were in the right and I was her little culprit at the bar!”

“Sit down, dear Fanchon,” said Brenda. “Take this cosy seat by the open window – isn’t the night very warm?”

“Yes – very,” said Fanchon.

She took the proffered seat and the governess placed herself on the window ledge near by.

“We shall enjoy our time at the sea,” said Brenda, “shall we not?”

Fanchon did not answer. She was gazing in surprise at Brenda, who, prettily dressed in soft white muslin, looked more charming even than usual.

“The cool sea breezes will be so refreshing,” continued the governess – “I am picturing the whole scene. I am going to be, of course, very particular with regard to Josie and Nina; but you, Fanchon, who are so tall for your age, can come out with me in the evening and listen to the band and – and – partake of any sort of fun that is going on.”

“Can I really?” said Fanchon, her eyes sparkling, and, for a minute, she forgot that she was really the judge and Brenda the criminal.

“Of course you can, dear; I mean you to have a good time.”

“But can’t we settle that afterwards?” said Fanchon. “The other thing has to be arranged first, hasn’t it?”

“What other thing, my dear?”

“Oh, Brenda – you know – don’t pretend that you forget. I gave you a fright – a big fright – this morning, and you – you cried. What are you going to do about the money? you have it – you know, and it isn’t yours, it’s ours.”

“I have it, of course,” said Brenda, “I have not denied it. I told you that I thought of spending it at Marshlands; there’ll be sure to be nice shops there, and we can see the things that’ll be suitable. You don’t suppose, you poor children, that you can manage with only those pink muslin dresses – that would never, never do – I had no such thought, I assure you.”

“But,” persisted Fanchon, “you said this morning that you had spent all the money on us, and that we owed you for the gloves. Oh, how knowing you are, Brenda, but you have overstepped the mark this time, and poor papa, if he knew – ”

Brenda lowered her eyes. She had very thick and very curling jet-black lashes, and they looked sweet as they rested against her blooming cheeks. Fanchon could not help noticing them and, further, she could not help observing the gentle smile that played round her lips.

“Now, listen,” said Brenda. “I want to confide in you. You can believe in me or not – just as you please. I cannot possibly force your belief, nor can I force you to do anything but what you wish. I am, to a certain extent, in your power, and in the power of the other two girls. You can tell your father, and he will dismiss me, and – I shall be ruined – ”

“Oh, I don’t suppose papa will be so very hard with you. He’s quite fond of you, you know,” said Fanchon.

“He would be terribly severe,” said Brenda. “He is a dear good man, but he would be terrible, fearful, if you told him – you three – what you have found out. I tell you, Fanchon, why he would be so fearful. Because I have done what I have done entirely for the sake of deceiving him.”

“Oh dear! dear! Then you are even more wicked than I thought,” said Fanchon.

“Listen – the position is a very strange one. I seem to forget, as I am talking to you, that I am your governess, and that you and your sisters are my little pupils, but the facts are those: I look upon you, Fanchon, as very much older than your years. You have, in many ways, the mind of a grown-up woman. Of course you are very young, quite unformed, but you will be grown up sooner than most girls; and you have an understanding way, and I think you will follow me now if I try hard to explain myself.”

“I wish you would begin,” said Fanchon then, restlessly, “you do so beat about the bush. You said this morning that you hadn’t a penny over, and that we owed you for the gloves; and then, afterwards, you confessed that you had something over – an awful lot over – and that you meant to spend it at Marshlands. You told one lie, anyway.”

“Yes, I told one lie, anyway,” responded Brenda, intense sadness in her tone. “I told one dreadful, wicked lie, and I am very, very sorry – ”

“Oh, I wonder if you are!”

“Yes, I am – I am; that was why I cried that time.”

“It wasn’t – you cried because you were in a funk.”

“Fanchon, my dear child, your blunt words hurt me exceedingly.”

“Well, well,” said Fanchon, kicking one leg against the wainscoting as she spoke – “do go on, hurry up – won’t you? We’ll forget about the lie number one, and remember that you have confessed to having the money. We’ll even try to believe that you meant to spend it on us at Marshlands. Go on from that point, do.”

“I will explain things to you,” said Brenda. “You know your dear father is very ignorant with regard to dress. His simplicity on these matters is most sweet, but at times it almost provokes a smile. Now, if I had spent three pounds on each of you in the little shops at Rocheford; and if Nina, and Josephine, and you – my dear Fanchon, in your silly way – had lost your heads over the pretty things I had bought, he would have been dreadfully startled and would have accused himself of great extravagance in giving you so much money, and when the next occasion came when my dear little pupils wanted pretty clothes, I should have had nothing like as much to spend on you. So your Brenda was – well – cunning, if you choose to call it so, and determined to outwit dear papa; and quite resolved that her little pupils should be charmingly attired at a place where he was not likely to see them.” Fanchon did not speak at all for a minute. After a pause, she said:

“And that was your reason for keeping back the money?”

“Certainly – just to deceive your poor papa; for his good, dear – for his good, and for yours.”

“You’re awfully clever, Brenda,” was Fanchon’s next remark.

Brenda coloured.

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

“Because – because – I know it. You made up that story to-day when you were by yourself, and it’s wonderfully clever – it really is. I suppose you think that we girls believe you.”

“You’ll believe in your pretty frocks, and nice hats, and nice shoes and charming gloves, and also in the little treats at the different tea shops which I mean to give you all out of dear papa’s money – ”

“That is, of course, if we don’t tell,” said Fanchon. “Oh, you can please yourself about that,” said Brenda. “You can tell, and everything will be at an end. I shall go away from here; I will give him back the money – I have it in that drawer – and he will take my poor little character as well, and I’ll wander forth into the world, a desolate and ruined girl. You won’t go to the sea – you’ll stay at home. You’ll have your victory. In a few weeks a horrid, elderly governess with spectacles, and perhaps with a squint, will come here. I’m sure your father will be afraid to get any one young and – and – pretty – again. When she comes, she will give you – ”

“Beans!” said Fanchon. “I know the sort – I – I don’t want a horrible thing like that in the house.”

“No – poor Brenda is better than that, isn’t she?”

“Oh, Brenda, you are so clever,” laughed Fanchon. When Brenda heard that laugh, she knew that her victory was assured.

“My dear girl,” she said, “believe me or not; that was my real reason for keeping back the money, and your terrible little Nina can keep an account of all that I spend at Marshlands, and satisfy her wise, odious little head with the fact that I am not holding back one penny for myself. She can do that, and you can all have a good time. Now – what do you say?”

“It sounds – if you had not told that first lie – it sounds almost as if it could just be believed,” said Fanchon.

“It can be acted on, whether it is believed or not,” remarked Brenda.

Fanchon was silent. Brenda watched her narrowly. “I have something to say to you,” she remarked, all of a sudden. “Of course you won’t speak to your papa and get me dismissed, and lose all your own fun – no three girls would be so mad. But I have something more to say. I want you, Fanchon, to be my friend.”

“Oh – I!” said Fanchon – “but mice are never friendly with cats, are they?”

“You mustn’t think of me as a cat, dear, nor of yourself as a mouse. The simile is very painful, and you know how I have talked to you about the pleasant time I trust to have at Marshlands; and you shall help me, and look very, very smart when you come out with me in the evenings. Do you remember my telling you that if you are my friend, I might get you a little bangle to wear?”

“Oh, yes – but I am certain it would be a horrid gilt thing not worth anything.”

“Fanchon – you are unkind! I told you in the utmost confidence that I had been left a tiny legacy – a little, little sum of money, very precious to poor me, but very small. Well, I did not forget my pupil, and I have bought her a bangle.”

“Oh, Brenda, have you?”

“Yes, dear; and it is made of the best gold for the purpose —eighteen carat gold! You must on no account tell the others a single word about it; but I will give it you sometimes to wear when you and I go out by ourselves in the evenings. It shall shine on your little wrist then, Fanchon, and – how sweet you will look in it!”

“Oh – but may I see it?” said Fanchon, her lips trembling as she spoke.

“Not until you most faithfully promise that you will not say a word about it to the other girls. There are, occasionally, times when I may even want to wear it myself. But it will belong to you – it will be your property, and when we come back from the sea, I will present it to you absolutely. Make me a faithful promise that you will say nothing about the bangle, and you shall constantly wear it when the others are not looking on – and – when we return, it shall be yours!”

“Oh, I promise,” said Fanchon. “I expect I was a sort of a brute this morning – I didn’t understand you could be so kind. Are you making a fool of me, Brenda – do you mean what you say?”

“Of course I mean what I say. You faithfully promise?”

“I do– indeed – indeed; and I will explain things to the others, and I’ll force them to believe me – they generally do everything that I wish. You will buy us all the lovely clothes, won’t you, darling Brenda!”

“I have said so, Fanchon.”

“And you will take me out in the evenings when the other two are in bed?”

“Most certainly I will.”

“Then I will promise everything– I will be your friend through thick and thin, and I’m awfully sorry I was cross to you and – and disbelieved you. Of course, I see that dear papa has to be managed; he is so funny about our dress – so different from other men.”

“Your father is a most saint-like man, and you must never say that he is funny, for that is not right. But saint-like men have to be managed in this unsaintlike world, that is all, dear – every woman understands that, she wouldn’t be worth her salt if she didn’t.”

“Please, please show me the bracelet,” said Fanchon. Then Brenda went to the drawer where her treasures were and took out the little old box where her false jewellery had reposed, and where now the beautiful bangle lay in all its pristine freshness. She hated beyond words to see Fanchon even touch it, but she felt that she had to pay this price to secure her own safety, and she even permitted the girl to clasp it round her wrist, and to look at it with the colour flaming into her cheeks and the light of longing in her dull eyes.

“Oh – isn’t it just —too perfect!” said Fanchon.

“Be my friend and it shall be yours when we return from the sea. I bought it for you – for you; real, real gold too, of the best quality – and such an exquisite turquoise! You needn’t be ashamed to wear this wherever you appear – even when, by-and-by, you are married to some rich, great man, you can still wear the little bracelet – the very best of its kind. See, I will write your name now before your eyes on the little box.” Brenda took up a pencil and hastily wrote the following words on the back of the box: “Fanchon Amberley’s gold and turquoise bracelet.”

“Why don’t you say that you have given it to me?” said Fanchon.

“No, no – I can add that by-and-by. If people happen to ask you the story about it, it may not be wise for it to appear that such a beautiful thing was given to you by a poor governess. Well now, here it is back again in the drawer, and you can go to bed, Fanchon. You are a very rich girl, and I am not quite as bad as you painted me, am I?”

“No, no!” said Fanchon, who was completely won over, “you’re a darling!”

“Not a cat,” whispered Brenda – “not a horrid pussy-cat?”

“No – a darling, and my friend,” said Fanchon and then she left the room a little giddily, for the thought of the bracelet seemed to weigh her down with uncontrollable bliss; she scarcely understood her own sensations.

Chapter Twelve
A Terrible Alternative

Nina was very poorly the next day and was forced to stay in bed. She could not eat any of the good things which had been provided for breakfast, and thought of herself as a much abused little martyr.

Brenda’s conduct to this naughty, greedy child was all that was exemplary. She gave her proper medicines and saw that her bedroom was made comfortable, and came in and out of the room like a ministering angel – as Mr Amberley said.

Soon after noon, Nina was better, and as she had not the slightest idea what had taken place between Fanchon and her governess the night before, she said somewhat rudely to that pretty young woman, who was hemming some of the Reverend Josiah’s handkerchiefs as she sat by the bedside:

“Do go away please, Brenda, and send Fanchon to me.”

Brenda gave an angelic smile and immediately complied. A few minutes later Fanchon entered the room accompanied by Josephine.

“Oh, you are better, are you?” said Fanchon, regarding her younger sister with small favour. “Well – I hope you have received your lesson and won’t eat unlimited plum cake again, and finish off with lobster and crabs.”

“I hate l-lobsters and crabs!” moaned the victim. “They make me so s-sick – horrid things!”

“Well, you’re better now, so forget about them,” said Fanchon.

“Yes – I am better; she– the cat – she says that I am to have gruel for dinner! I don’t want it – horrid thing!”

“Serves you right, say I!” cried Fanchon.

“Oh, please, Fanchon,” said Nina, whose tears had trickled weakly forth, for she had really been rather bad, “don’t scold me, but tell me what you have arranged with Cat last night.”

“She’s not a cat – we made a mistake about that,” said Fanchon.

“What on earth do you mean now, Fanchon?” exclaimed Josie.

“She explained things to me. She’s very good-natured, and very wise.”

“Very ill-natured and only self-wise!” exclaimed Josie.

“No, no – you don’t know!” and then Fanchon proceeded to explain to both her sisters all about that wonderful point of view which Brenda, in her cleverness, had managed to impress on her mind. The money was kept back on purpose. It was on account of dear papa and dear papa’s eccentricity. The money would be spent at Marshlands, and Nina, if she liked, could keep accounts.

“She cried about it, poor thing!” said Fanchon. “She admits, of course, that the money is there for us, and she will buy us just what we want and give us a good time, and some treats besides in the different tea shops. She really was awfully nice about it.”

“Oh, Fanchon,” said Josephine, “you are taken in easily.”

“No, I’m not – I didn’t believe her myself at first.”

“You mean to say you do now?” said Nina.

“Y-yes, I do now.”

Notwithstanding her weakness, Nina laughed.

“Well, then – I don’t – do you, Joey?”

“I?” said Josephine. “I believe her less than ever. She is found out, and she means to save herself by spending the money on us. She’s a worse old cat than ever – that’s what I call her.”

“Well – of course,” said Fanchon, “you can tell papa – she told me last night that I could.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” said Nina.

“Well, I don’t think so. I believe her – I really and truly do. She confesses she told that lie about not having money, for she wished to have the thing a secret until we got to the seaside; but that is the whole of her offending. Of course you, girls, can tell papa, but it’ll be very serious, particularly as that awful Miss Juggins has come home to live with her mother.”

“What in the wide world has Miss Juggins to do with it?” exclaimed both sisters.

“Well – she’s out of a situation, and papa is safe and certain to get her to come to us. It was Brenda herself who spoke of her last night. She did not mention her name, but she must have had her in her mind. She is between forty and fifty if she’s a day, and she wears spectacles and has a cast in her eye and she’s a perfect terror. If we get poor Brenda away, we don’t go to the sea, and Juggins comes. It’s because of Juggins that I believe in Brenda – it is really.”

This frank avowal of the cause of her belief had a great influence on the other girls. Josephine sat quite still, evidently in deep thought. Nina lay back against her pillows.

“It would be awful to have Juggins!” she said, after a pause, “she would be worse than Brenda.”

“She would be honest, though,” said Josephine.

“Oh, yes – that she would. But think of our fun and – and – we know enough about Brenda now to force her to give us a good time.”

“I think, girls, we had best accept the situation,” was Fanchon’s final judgment.

Whatever the other girls might have remarked, and whatever their resolve would have been, must be left partly to conjecture. But something occurred at that moment to cause them to come altogether to Fanchon’s point of view; for, just at that instant, there was a tap at Nina’s door, and who should walk in but – Miss Jemima Juggins herself!

She came close up to Nina’s bedside, and asked abruptly where the Reverend Josiah was.

“Why are you lying in bed, you lazy child?” she said. “What is the matter?”

Now certainly Miss Juggins made a great contrast to pretty Brenda, and, when she removed her blue glasses and fixed her rather crooked eyes on Nina, Nina made up her mind on the spot to believe in Brenda, in Marshlands, in the pretty clothes which were yet to be bought, in a good time by the sea.

“I will go and find papa,” said Fanchon. “I know he’ll be glad to see you, Miss Juggins.”

“I hope he will, indeed,” said Miss Juggins. “I have come to speak to him on business. I want a new situation. How untidy your room is, girls! Shameful, I call it – three great hulking lasses like you not to be able to keep your own bedroom straight! But get your father at once, please, Fanny.”

“My name is Fanchon,” said that young lady. “Fanny – I prefer to call you; I hate French names.” Fanchon withdrew. The Reverend Josiah was discovered, and was borne up to little Nina’s room. Miss Juggins was seated by the bed.

“How do you do!” she said when the rector entered. “You don’t mind my finding my way about this house, I hope, Mr Amberley, seeing that I knew your sainted wife so well. I came to ask you if you could find me a situation. This child is a little ill from overeating, and ought to get up and take a good walk. I will go down with you to your study, Mr Amberley, for I must have a private talk. Good-bye, children. Take my advice, and tidy up your room. Really, Rector, you don’t bring your girls up at all in the way their dear mother would have liked.”

The door slammed behind Miss Juggins. The girls looked at each other.

“We mustn’t get rid of Pussy-cat,” said Nina then. “She would be fifty times worse. Well, I’ll keep the sums awfully carefully, and I’ll – ”

“You’ll have to believe in her, you know, and try to be agreeable,” said Fanchon.

“Oh – any fate in preference to Juggins!” was Josephine’s remark.