Turquoise and Ruby

“Do right,” whispered a voice in her ear. This voice spoke light and clear from the conscience of Penelope Carlton, and it was so startling in its tone that it seemed to her that some one spoke to her. She started and looked out, gazing to right and left. As she did this, some one who was walking below, saw her. That some one was Honora. She observed the white, very white face of the girl and noticed its agony. All of a sudden, Honora came to a resolve.

“There is something wrong,” she thought to herself. “It’s not an ordinary headache. I don’t like that sister of hers a bit – we none of us do. She has done something to make poor little Pen unhappy. I just think that I’ll force myself on her this very night. She is too miserable to be left alone; of that I am sure.”

Mary L’Estrange and Cara Burt, walking arm in arm, came now into view.

“What is the matter, Honora?” said Mary.

“Why do you ask?” questioned Nora.

Mary gave a laugh.

“You look something like what you did that evening when you refused to take the part of Helen of Troy.”

“Oh, we needn’t bother about that now,” said Honora, a slight tone of vexation in her voice. Then she added, suddenly: “I am not quite happy about Pen; I don’t think she is well. I am going to her.”

“But she has only a headache,” said Cara, “and no wonder, out all this hot day in the sun.”

“I feel somehow that it’s more than a headache,” said Honora. “I saw her just now looking out of her window, and somehow, I feel she may want me: in any case, I am going to her. Will you, Cara, and you, Mary, just lead the games, and don’t let the children stay out very much longer; it’s time for the young ones, at least, to go to bed.”

Cara and Mary promised, and immediately turned away.

“I,” said Cara, addressing her companion, “also thought there was something queer about Penelope to-night. It is odd that Honora should have worn the expression she did when she refused to act as Helen of Troy.”

“And another thing is also odd.”

“What do you mean?” asked Cara.

“Why, at supper to-night, it seemed to me that Penelope looked as she did when she made that extraordinary request of us, asking us to give her five pounds apiece for her to take the part.”

“I didn’t notice that expression,” exclaimed Mary. “But it was very queer of her to want the money. I didn’t like her a bit then, did you, Cara?”

“Of course not,” said Cara. “I despised her utterly.”

“So did I, until she acted Helen, and then I could not help admiring her – she was quite, quite splendid.”

“And since she has come here,” continued Cara, “she has been very, very nice. Honora is wonderfully taken with her. Honora told me to-day that she loves her dearly and means to help her after she has left school. Honora says she’s such a lady, and so different from her elder sister.”

“Oh, she’s quite an impossible person,” said Mary. “But here come some of the stragglers. Now we must resume our play. Hullo! Nellie; is it my turn to be blindfolded?”

The elder girls, the boys, and the little girls continued their play, Honora ran up to Penelope’s room and tapped at the door. Penelope started, and at first did not reply. But the tap was repeated, and she was forced to say, “Who’s there?”

“It is I – Honora,” called a voice.

“Oh, Nora – I am just going to bed,” answered Penelope.

“No, you’re not, dear. Let me in, please.”

There was another moment of hesitation. Then the door was unlocked, and Honora entered. The room was full of moonlight, for Penelope had not lighted any candle.

“What is it, Nora?” she said.

“I thought I’d come and sit with you for a little, for – you naughty thing – you’ve not gone to bed; I happened to see you from the garden below. What is the matter, Pen?”

“I want to be alone to-night so very badly,” said Penelope.

“You’re very unhappy, Pen – I want to know what is the matter.”

“I am unhappy – but I can’t tell you, Honora.”

“What is the good of a friend if you can’t confide in her?” said Honora.

“If,” said Penelope, speaking very slowly, “I do what I ought to do, you will never be my friend again; you will never wish even to have my name mentioned. And if I do what I ought not to do, then perhaps, you will be my friend – but I shall be unworthy of you.”

“I don’t know anything whatever about that,” said Honora; “but I do know one thing. If you are in any sort of trouble (and perhaps your sister has got you into some trouble – for, to tell you the truth, Penelope, I do not greatly care for your sister, and I must say so just now), you will, of course do what is right.”

“That is the dreadful thing my conscience said just now,” said Penelope.

“Then you really are in great trouble, dear?”

“Don’t call me dear,” said Penelope. “I am in great trouble.”

“On your own account?”

“Practically. I did wrong a little time ago, and it is reflecting on me; and anyhow, of course it is my trouble – and it’s – Oh, Nora – don’t touch me – don’t look at of! Go away, please – I’m not fit for you to look at me. I belong to – to – the wicked people! Go away, Nora – you’re so pure, and so – so – sort of – holy. I am frightened when I see you – let me be alone to-night!”

“It’s your sister Brenda, it’s not you!” said Honora, startled.

“Oh, don’t blame her too much – please, please! She is my only sister. Oh, what shall I do!”

Penelope flung herself on her bed and burst into a tempest of weeping. Perhaps those tears really saved her brain, for the poor girl was absolutely distracted. While she wept, and wept, and wept, Honora knelt by her, now and then patting her shoulder gently, now and then uttering a word of prayer to God. For this was the sort of occasion when Honora’s real religious training came strongly to the fore. She knew that her friend was tempted, that something had happened which could scarcely by any possibility come into her own life, and that if she did not stand by her now, she might fall.

“But I won’t let her,” thought the girl. “I’ll stick by her through thick and thin. I love her – I didn’t when I was at school, but I do now.”

After a time, however, poor Penelope’s tears ceased. Honora bent down and put her arm round her neck.

“I want to whisper something to you,” she said. “I want to confide something. I was not nice to you at school. I thought you, somehow, not a bit the sort of girl that I could ever care for. Then, when I saw you act as Helen of Troy and look so transformed, it seemed to me that my eyes were opened about you, and I wanted to have you here much more badly than I wished to have any other girl here; and since you came, I have learned to love you. Now I don’t love very, very easily – I mean I don’t give my deepest love. Having given it, however, I cannot possibly take it back – it is yours for what it is worth. I know something terrible has happened, and I want you to do right, not wrong, for it is never worth while to do wrong. I want you to try and understand that here, and to-night – it is always worth while to do right, and never worth while to do wrong. So choose the right, darling; I will ask God to help you.”

“But you don’t know – you can’t even guess!” sobbed Penelope.

“Do you think you could bring yourself to tell me? We are all alone here, in this dark room, for even the moon will soon set, and I am your true friend. Don’t you think you could just tell me everything?”

“Oh, I don’t know – no, I couldn’t – I couldn’t!” Penelope rose. “I have no words to thank you,” she continued. “You have comforted me, and perhaps – anyhow, I must have until the morning to think.”

“Very well,” said Honora, “I will go away to my own room and think of you all night, and pray for you, and in the morning, at seven o’clock, I will come back to you. Then, perhaps you will tell me – for you have got something to do, have you not?”

“I have to do something, or not to do something.”

“If you do that something, what will happen?”

“Apparently nothing, only I – ”

“I understand,” said Honora. “The thing you have got to do is wrong. Suppose you don’t do it – ”

“Then – then – oh, Honora – I could wish to-night that I had never lived to grow up to my present age. I’m nearly mad with misery!”

“I will come to you in the morning,” said Honora. “But before I go, I wish to say something – that of course you won’t do whatever the thing is; for if you keep yourself right, other things must come right somehow.”

Then Honora kissed Penelope, and left the room.

Chapter Twenty Three

A Wonderful Dream

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.