Turquoise and Ruby

Joe Burbery did not put in an appearance, and Harry, after walking up and down the Esplanade two or three times with Brenda and Fanchon, managed to make his escape to that new siren who was at present occupying his fickle affections.

Brenda’s rage and disappointment scarcely knew any bounds; but she would not show her feelings for the world, and walked up and down with Fanchon until the usual hour for retiring.

“It’s a great pity one of us had not the bangle on,” said the eldest pupil, as she walked with her governess. “He would have been interested in that: every one is who sees it – it’s so very lovely.”

“Think of my giving it to you, Fanchon!” exclaimed Brenda. “Can you ever thank me enough?”

“I will thank you as long as I live when once you allow me to wear it properly,” said Fanchon.

Brenda made no answer to this.

“We’ll go out to-morrow evening, won’t we?” asked the young pupil of the careful governess, “and you’ll let me put it on them, won’t you, darling Brenda – darling Brenda!”

“No – I won’t – and that’s flat!” exclaimed Brenda. “We shall have a very good time, though, to-morrow, Fanchon; for Harry says that he’ll take us to a play down in the town. There’s a very good travelling company now at Marshlands. You have never seen a play, have you?”

“Indeed, no – how perfectly delightful – I didn’t know you had arranged that!”

“Yes, I have. I think really why he left us was to go at once and enquire for tickets.”

“Oh, no – it wasn’t,” said Fanchon; “I saw him walking with a girl with black hair – a very tall, showy-looking girl – and they were laughing loudly.”

Brenda bit her lips. She knew this fact quite well, but had trusted that Fanchon had not noticed it. When they returned to the house, the two younger girls were really sound asleep, and Brenda and her pupil got quietly into bed – Brenda to think of what means she could adopt to bring fickle Harry, that merchant prince, once again to her side; and Fanchon to wonder if by any possible plan she could induce Brenda to allow her to wear the bracelet on the following evening.

Meanwhile, plans were being made in another quarter which were likely to upset the most astute calculations on the part of Brenda and her eldest pupil. After breakfast, Mademoiselle managed to have a word alone with Nina Amberley. There and then, Nina told her that she had discovered how very wise Mademoiselle was – that Fanchon really had an ugly old cheap bangle, which she knew only cost a shilling, and that beyond doubt the said bangle would appear on Nina’s wrist that very evening when Mademoiselle took Josie and herself for their surprise treat. Mademoiselle could have hugged Nina as she spoke. Little as she cared for the plain face of that extraordinary child, she thought that same face almost beautiful at that moment. But she had her work to do. She meant to be thoroughly sure of her facts; and, after parting from Nina and cautioning her not to reveal a word but to trust absolutely to the poor Frenchwoman for an evening of such intense fascination that she could never forget it as long as she lived, she hurried from the child’s presence, went up to her room, and there she dressed herself in her very best.

Mademoiselle’s best was plain, but it was eminently suitable. She ran downstairs, and entered Mrs Dawson’s parlour.

“I should not be the least surprised,” she said in a low voice, “if you and I, dear Madame, did obtain our little, our very little reward for the eighteen carat gold bangle with the beautiful turquoise stone in the clasp. But I tell you no more; only, Madame, you will miss me to-day at my mid-day meal; for I must repair to Castle Beverley in order to see my two beloved pupils – Miss Honora and Miss Penelope.”

Of course Mrs Dawson was all curiosity, and of course Mademoiselle was all mystery. Nothing would induce the French governess to reveal so much as a pin’s point of how she knew what she knew. In the end Mademoiselle departed, making first the necessary proviso that Mrs Dawson should not repeat to any of the ladies of the pension where the French governess had gone.

“For the sake of ourselves, it is best not to do so, I you do assure,” said Mademoiselle, and then she started to walk to Castle Beverley.

Mademoiselle had by no means a good complexion; but then she never flushed, or looked the least hot; and when that long walk had come to an end, she had not a speck of dust on her neat black dress, for she had taken the precaution to bring with her a tiny clothes brush, with which she carefully removed what she had gathered from the dusty highroad; and her hair was as fresh as though she had just arranged it before the best looking-glass in the world. She drew on a pair of new gloves, which she did not wear while she was walking, and, with her dainty parasol unfurled, and her exquisite feet perfectly shod, she appeared quite a stylish-looking person when she enquired of the powdered footman if Miss Beverley was within.

Yes, Miss Beverley was within. Mademoiselle produced her neat card, and begged that it might be conveyed to the young lady. Meanwhile, the servant asked her into one of the sitting-rooms. There, a few minutes later, Honora joined her.

Honora was not glad to see her, but that did not greatly matter. She was hospitable to her finger-ends, and would not allow the tired governess to go away until she was thoroughly refreshed after her long walk.

“My pupil most dear!” said Mademoiselle, when Honora entered, “I could not rest so near your home the most beautiful without calling upon you. Alas, yes! I walked! But what of that, when I had such a joy at the end of the weary kilometres!”

“You must stay now you have come,” said Honora. “Will you come into the garden? It is beautifully cool under the cedar tree, and you will find most of us there. We shall have lunch by-and-by, and you will not return until the cool of the evening.”

Mademoiselle murmured her thanks, and was very glad to join the others under the cedar. She made the usual suitable remarks and, as there were several of her pupils present, they all gave her, more or less, a cordial welcome.

“I see you not again,” she said, tears springing to her eyes. “I return to my land, heart-rent for the absence of those I so fondly love.”

Little Pauline Hungerford had the warmest heart in the world. She did not like Mademoiselle at all when she was at school, but she was truly sorry for her now. She ran up to her and flung her arms round her neck.

“Why must you go?” she said. “Is Mrs Hazlitt angry with you?”

“I know not, mon enfant. I cannot imagine why I leave the good school where my loved pupils dwell, but the decree is gone forth, and I must submit. You will remember me when you conjugate your verbs, my little Pauline, will you not?”

As Mademoiselle spoke, she passed her arm round the child’s waist, and drew her close to her. The others were now talking to one another at a little distance.

“You have your pretty bangle on,” said the governess. “Have you heard of the recovery of its – so to speak – twin sister?”

“No, no,” said Pauline, “we don’t talk of it at all: it is quite lost, but Nellie is getting good; she doesn’t cry any more; she is resigned. Mother will get her one, I know, to replace the lost one, by-and-by.”

“Your sister Nellie is of the angel type; but perhaps – I say not anything to a certainty – she may be rewarded sooner than she thinks.”

“Why, Mademoiselle,” cried Pauline, opening her eyes in astonishment, “do you know anything?”

“Whisper it not, dear. I have at present nothing to say. At present– remember; but there may be news in the future. Allow me, my little one, to examine your bangle with its heart of the ruby – still more close than I have hitherto done.”

Pauline allowed the bangle to be removed from her wrist Mademoiselle noticed the curious and very beautiful engraving of the delicate gold.

“And the other was an exact counterpart, was it not?” she queried.

“Precisely the same,” said Pauline, “only that it held a turquoise and mine holds a ruby.”

Mademoiselle took a pencil from her pocket, and also a little notebook. She made some almost invisible tracings in the notebook and then returned the bangle to Pauline.

“You will speak no words,” she said, “but you will cultivate a soupçon of that precious hope which sustains the heart.”

Pauline promised, and went away, feeling more uncomfortable than glad. Mademoiselle spent the rest of her day in quite an agreeable manner. She had dropped all those traits which had made her disliked at Hazlitt Chase, and amused the young people by her witty talk and her gay demeanour. The strange children at Castle Beverley thought her altogether delightful: her pupils also considered her delightful, but with a reserve in their minds which confined that delight to holidays and differentiated it from the working days.

Mademoiselle could not be induced to stay to supper. No, she said she must hurry home. She was staying in the same house where that sweet girl, Brenda Carlton, with her dear little pupils, was living.

“I have a small attic there,” she said humbly. “The terms are moderate, and I am filled with sweet content. But I have promised to take some disconsolate little children for a treat to-night, and I would not disappoint them for the world.”

To Penelope, Mademoiselle hardly spoke; but before she went away, she went up to the young lady and uttered some extravagant words of praise of her sister.

“But you yourself are coming to see us. We look forward to your visit with the delight supreme,” said Mademoiselle.

“I am coming in to Marshlands to-morrow,” said Penelope. “Brenda has asked me to spend a part of the day there.”

Mademoiselle expressed her increased pleasure at this news, and presently took her departure, walking back again all the way to Marshlands. But on the middle of the dusty highroad she took out her notebook, and carefully examined the little drawing she had made in it. She gave a low laugh of absolute contentment; and when she sat down to the supper table in the boarding-house, there was no person more cheerful or who looked more absolutely fresh than Mademoiselle.

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.”