Turquoise and Ruby

“She is writing a letter.”

“A letter?” said Mrs Hazlitt. “Did you see her writing one?”

“Oh, yes – at least I think so.”

Deborah coloured, for she knew that Penelope had hastily put a sheet of paper over the letter when the English teacher had entered the bedroom. Deborah never would tell tales of the pupils whom she loved, nor did Mrs Hazlitt expect her to. Nevertheless, that good woman gazed now intently at the English governess.

“Deborah,” she said, “I cannot help confiding in you. There is a spirit at present abroad in this school which I feel, without being able to differentiate. It is an unholy and a mischievous spirit and it has never been in our midst before. There are certain girls in the school who are acting in a sort of conspiracy. I cannot tell why, but I feel assured on that point, and I believe that the head of the conspiracy is no less a person than Penelope Carlton.”

“Now, my dear Mrs Hazlitt,” said Deborah Duke, “I never did hear you give way to such unchristian sentiments before. You will forgive me, my dear friend, my best friend – but why should you accuse poor little Penelope of anything so base?”

“I accuse her of nothing, but I have a feeling about her. I know for a fact that five letters left this house a couple of days ago – on the evening of the day when it was decided that Penelope was to take the part of Helen of Troy. I also know that five letters in reply were received this morning, and that they gave universal satisfaction. During the time of suspense between the departure of the letters and their replies four of my pupils were absolutely good for nothing – uneasy, incapable of work; in short, quite unlike themselves. It is my rule not to open my pupils’ letters; nevertheless, I am full of suspicions, and my suspicions particularly centre round the girl who is to take the part of Helen of Troy. Why did she volunteer for the part? I can put up with her, but she is not suitable. Do you know anything about it, Deborah?”

“All I know is this,” replied Deborah – “that Honora Beverley would not take the part because she was full of horror with regard to the character. I thought ‘A Dream of Fair Women’ was practically at an end when Penelope – of all people – came forward. I believe she was very much pressed by the other girls to do this. They thought of her because she is fair.”

Mrs Hazlitt looked full at Miss Duke. After a minute, she said abruptly:

“You say that Penelope is at present writing a letter?”

“That is true.”

“When she has finished it, she will drop it into the post box, will she not?”

“Yes; that is true also.”

“I shall do something which I am not accustomed to doing, but I must do it for the sake of the school,” said Mrs Hazlitt. “I shall open Penelope’s letter before it goes, and acquaint myself with the contents.”

Miss Duke gave a start.

“You will not do that,” she said. “It would distress Penelope very much.”

“She need never know. If the letter is straightforward and above board, nothing will occur. If the spirit of mischief – nay, more, of intrigue – is abroad, the sooner I can nip it in the bud, the better. I sent for you to consult you. I am within my rights in this matter. Don’t say a word to any one. I think that is all.”

“I am very much distressed,” said Deborah. “I wish you would not do this thing.”

“I have made up my mind, dear friend; we will not argue the point. I will read the contents of the letter, and it shall reach its destination if there is nothing in it. No harm will be done. If there is mischief in it, I shall at least know where I stand.”

Deborah sighed profoundly and left the room.

Now, upstairs a girl, who had hastily finished a hasty scrawl and had thrust it into its envelope, was busily engaged putting on her hat and drawing some cotton gloves over her hands.

“I daren’t put the letter into the post box,” she said. “I wish Deborah hadn’t come into my room; she saw quite well that I was writing. I must manage somehow to get to the village and will post the letter myself.”

She flew downstairs. A minute later, she was out of doors. She looked swiftly round her; there was not a soul in sight. The children, who were her constant companions, were playing happily in the distant woods. The girls whom she trusted were in the Queen Anne parterre or in the Queen Elizabeth garden. All the world seemed still and sleepy. Penelope made a hasty calculation. Mrs Hazlitt’s oak parlour looked out on the Queen Anne parterre. There was no one to see her. The village was a mile away; yes, she could get there; she would get there. By running fast she would accomplish this feat and yet be back just within time for afternoon school.

Outside Hazlitt Chase was just the reverse of peace and quietude. There was a wide and dusty road over which motors flew at intervals; and heavy carts, drawn, some by horses and some by oxen, toiled over the road; carriages, pony traps, governess carts also traversed the King’s highway, and amongst them, flying in and out, ran a girl in a dusty brown holland dress, her fair face suffused by ugly colour, her eyes full of dust, her lips parched.

All in good time she reached the village and dropped the letter, which she had already stamped, into the post box. She was safe. She drew a long breath of relief. Nothing would induce the village postmistress to give up her letter; all was right now; Brenda would be happy to-morrow morning and she – she could perform her task with a light heart.

She had done a great deal for her beloved sitter. Deborah had given the whole show away by coming to visit her in her room. Penelope was quick enough, to be certain that there was something up, or the English teacher would not have come in looking so distraite and unlike herself. Deborah was the last person in the world ever to ask Penelope to take care of the younger children. Yes; it was all too plain; Mrs Hazlitt’s suspicions were aroused. Well, they would never be verified, for the letter was posted. If only Penelope could get back in safety – could creep up to her own room without being observed, she might snap her fingers at the enemy; all would, all must be – well.

She returned to the school by the same dusty highway, entered by a back door, went to her room, threw herself on her bed for five minutes, then washed her face and hands and went downstairs for afternoon school. Not a soul had seen her go; not a soul had witnessed her return.

Mrs Hazlitt watched her as she took her place in class – her face flushed, her lips dry. Miss Duke raised a guilty and startled face when the girl – whose secret, if she had one, was so soon to be exposed – took her usual place and went through her usual tasks with that skill and ability which always characterised her. Mrs Hazlitt was more determined than ever to take steps to discover what she felt was wrong; but she looked in vain in the letter box. Childish productions from more than one member of the school were there, but there was no letter addressed to Miss Brenda Carlton – no letter of any sort in Penelope Carlton’s upright and somewhat remarkable handwriting. What could have happened? Had the girl dared to go to that extreme of disobedience? Had she posted her letter herself?

Chapter Six

Preparations for the Visit

For a few days Mrs Hazlitt examined the post box, but there was no letter of any sort from Penelope. In the end, she was obliged to confess to Deborah that she had been – she supposed – quite mistaken in the girl.

“I am distressed about her,” she said; “for she doesn’t look well or happy. But there is no doubt that she has not written anything which I ought to see. Do not make yourself unhappy therefore, Deborah dear, but let us continue our usual pleasant life and trust that my suspicions have not been justified.”

“Oh, I am certain they have not,” said Deborah. “Meanwhile,” continued Mrs Hazlitt, “we are exceedingly busy; I find the tableaux are going to be much better than I expected. The little plays too, and the garden of roses – an extravaganza – will be quite sweet. But I am really putting all my strength and energy into Tennyson’s poem; I am only vexed that Honora Beverley cannot be Helen of Troy.”

“But what do you think of the present Helen?” enquired Miss Duke.

“She is much more remarkable than I thought it possible she could be. I am most anxious to see her to-night, when we have a dress rehearsal and she will wear her costume for the first time. She is a queer girl, and not a happy one. I wonder what sort of creature that sister of hers is.”

“By the way,” said Miss Duke, “she came to me this morning with a petition. She wants to know if she may invite her sister to the performance. It seems that Miss Brenda Carlton could take an early train from where she is now staying and reach here in time for the day’s festivities; and Penelope would take it as a great favour if she might sleep in her room that night.”

“No,” replied Mrs Hazlitt with decision. “That I do not allow. Were I to accede to Penelope’s wish, the same request would be presented to me by each of my pupils. The girls will especially require their night’s rest after the excitement of the day. I don’t know anything about Miss Brenda, but I am quite willing to invite her here as Penelope’s relation, only she cannot sleep in the house.”

“I will speak to Penelope and tell her what you say,” remarked Miss Duke.

She moved away rather sadly. She was fully convinced, in spite of herself, that there was something not quite right in the school, but not for worlds would she give hint to Mrs Hazlitt with regard to the matter.

She found Penelope, as usual, surrounded by some of the younger girls. She dismissed them with a playful word and then, taking her pupil’s hand, led her into the oak parlour where such a serious conversation had taken place between herself and the headmistress.

“What in the world is it, Deborah?” said Penelope.

She had a sort of defiant manner in these days – quite different from her old way which, although languid, provokingly so at times, was at least downright and matter-of-fact.

“What is it?” she said. “Why are you so mysterious?”

“I thought you wanted your sister to come to see the tableaux.”

“Oh, Brenda – yes, she says she will come; I heard from her only this morning. Is Mrs Hazlitt agreeable?”

“Quite agreeable.”

“And may she share my room and bed?”

“That is just the point that I want to speak to you about, Penelope. She may not do so. Mrs Hazlitt’s ideas on that subject are quite fixed and cannot by any possibility be altered. If your sister comes, we must find a room for her in the village.”

“It doesn’t much matter whether she comes or not,” said Penelope, shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t suppose she will care to go to the expense of a room in the village. She is very young too, and can’t sleep alone at a hotel.”

“But you would like her to see you as Helen of Troy?”

“Like it!” said Penelope – “yes, perhaps I should. I hate the whole thing as I never hated anything in all my life before, but it might be a sort of satisfaction to have Brenda there. I’d do a good deal – yes, a good deal for Brenda; but I don’t think she will stay in the village.”

“You want to write to her to-day about it, don’t you?”

“I may as well write to-day. She is making her plans; she is going to the seaside with her pupils, but could come to me on her way. But don’t let us fuss about it, please. I don’t really – greatly care.”

“But I care that you should have pleasure,” said little Miss Duke. “You know well how much I care. Wait a second until I get the time-table.”

She flew out of the room, returning in a few minutes with a Bradshaw. By dint of careful searching, she discovered that a train could be found which would take Miss Brenda Carlton back to her rectory about midnight on the day of the break-up. Penelope condescended to seem pleased.

“Thank you,” she said, “I will let her know. She may not care to come, for I think her principal reason was to have a chat with me; but there is no saying. I will tell her the train, anyhow.”

Penelope did write to Brenda, giving her full particulars with regard to the train.

“My Dear Brenda,” she wrote: “Your sleeping with me and having – as you express it – a cosy chat, is out of the question. Cause why: headmistress doesn’t allow cosy chats between schoolgirls and their sisters. Reason for this: can’t say – excites bad motives, in my opinion. Anyhow, if you want to see Helen of Troy in all her pristine splendour, you must take the train which leaves Harroway at nine in the morning; that will get you here by noon. You will have a hearty welcome and will mingle with the other guests, and I find there is a train back to Harroway at ten o’clock, which gets there sharp at twelve. Don’t come if you don’t want to: that’s the best I can do for you.

“Your affectionate sister, —

“Penelope.”

Now this letter reached Miss Brenda Carlton on a certain morning when she was pouring out very weak coffee for the small daughters of the Reverend Josiah Amberley. There were three Misses Amberley, and they wore about as commonplace young ladies as could be found in the length and breadth of England. Their manners were atrocious; their learning very nearly nil, and their power of self-control nowhere. Why Brenda Carlton, of all people under the sun, had been deputed governess to these three romps, must remain a puzzle to any thoughtful reader. But the Reverend Josiah was always pleased to see a pretty face; was always taken with a light and agreeable manner; and, knowing nothing whatever about the bringing up of children, was glad to find a girl who would undertake the duty for the small sum of thirty pounds per annum. This money Brenda Carlton received quarterly. She also had a month’s holiday some time in the year – not in the summer, for that would be specially inconvenient to the Reverend Josiah, who wished his young people to enjoy the benefit of the sea breezes and could not possibly take them to any seaside resort himself.

He was a little sandy-haired man of over fifty years of age; devoted, after a fashion, to his work, and absolutely easy-going as regarded his establishment.

Mrs Amberley had died when Nina, the youngest of the three sisters, was five years old. Nina was now ten; Josephine, the next girl, was between eleven and twelve; and Brenda’s eldest pupil, Fanchon – as for some extraordinary reason she was called – would soon be fourteen. The three sisters resembled their father. They were short in stature, thickset, with very sandy hair and small blue eyes. They had no special capabilities, nor any gifts which took them out of the ordinary line. But they were all fond of Brenda, who could do with them exactly what she willed. She made them her confidantes, but taught them little or nothing.

On the day when she received her letter from Penelope, she continued to pour out the coffee until the whole family were supplied. Then she sat down, and deliberately read it. As she did so, three pairs of eyes were fixed on her face.

Nina, whose privilege it was always to sit near her governess, looked mysterious and full of mischief. The other girls showed by their faces that they were devoured by curiosity. But the Reverend Josiah required to be humoured. To talk nonsense or of such frivolities as dress in his presence was not to be thought of. Brenda had taught her pupils to respect his scruples in that matter. In reality, poor man, they did not exist; but she thought it well to keep her pupils in a certain awe of him – so she was fond of saying:

“As a clergyman, my dears, your father must condemn the dress that makes a woman look pretty; and if you talk about it in his presence, I shall never be able to get your nice frocks for our seaside jaunt, for he will not give me the money.”

This was a terrible thought to the three Misses Amberley, and, in consequence, they seemed as innocent with regard to the muslins and chiffons and voile as though these materials did not exist.

The Reverend Josiah believed that dresses were divided into two categories: cotton dresses for the morning, and silk dresses for the afternoon. He had not the faintest idea that any other textures could be procured. It grieved him sometimes to think that his little daughters did not wear silk on those rare occasions when his parishioners came to visit him, but as he couldn’t afford it, he did not give the matter another thought. Brenda read her letter, folded it up, and put it into her pocket. The Reverend Mr Amberley, having eaten an excellent meal, rose to leave the room. As he was doing so, Brenda raised her voice:

“I am very sorry to interrupt you, Mr Amberley, but can I see you presently in your study?”

The rector signified his assent to this proposition. He was always glad to have an interview with Miss Carlton, for he considered himself in rare luck to have such a nice stylish girl with his little orphans – as he was fond of calling them.

“I shall be in my study at eleven o’clock,” he said, “and quite at your service, Miss Carlton.”

Brenda smiled, showing her brilliant teeth and starry blue eyes, and the rector went away thinking what a dazzling creature she was, and how lucky it was for Fanchon and Josephine and Nina to have such a nice governess to instruct them.

“How my sainted wife – could she speak – would bless that girl!” was his thought. “How happy she makes my dear little ones, and how nice she always manages to look herself!”

“Now, please – please, Brenda!” said Nina, catching her governess by the sleeve the moment the door had closed behind the rector. “That letter – we want to know all about it.”

“Yes, of course we do,” said Josephine.

“Out with the news!” exclaimed Fanchon.

“There isn’t a great deal of news to relate,” replied Brenda. “I am invited to spend the eighth of July with my dear sister at that celebrated school, Hazlitt Chase. She has simply written me an itinerary of trains. I fear I shall have to leave here very early in the morning, and you – my dear petites– will be deprived of your governess for the entire day, for I shall not be home until midnight.”

“Oh dear!” cried Nina. “We thought you were going to spend the night away!”

She looked slightly disappointed and glanced at her sisters.

“Any little fun on?” asked Brenda, interpreting the glances between the three according to her own sweet will.

“No, no – nothing in particular – nothing at all in particular; only we thought you would have so much to tell us when you came back again.”

“I shall have a good deal to tell you. Do you know; that my wonderful young sister is to be Helen of Troy?”

“Whoever is she?” yawned Fanchon.

“Never heard of her, and never want to,” cried Nina.

“Is she one of the dead-and-gones?” exclaimed Josephine. “I hate all dead-and-gones, don’t you, girls?”

“Yes – loathe them!” exclaimed the other sisters.

Brenda laughed.

“Look here,” she said. “I must have a special dress, and a very, very pretty one to go to Hazlitt Chase. I was thinking of getting a pale blue silk – ”

“Blue – silk!” exclaimed all three.

“Silk, Brenda? But surely your money – I mean your salary, poor darling, doesn’t run to that!” cried Nina, who had a more caressing way than her sisters.

“Whether my salary runs to it or not, I mean to get it,” said Brenda – “a very pale shade and plenty of white lace with it, and a white lace scarf, such as is worn so much now, on my shoulders. Ah, your governess will look one of the prettiest girls at the fête, and won’t you be pleased, mes enfants?”

Brenda scarcely knew a word of French, but was fond of interlarding her conversation with a few simple sentences. These had an excellent effect as far as the Reverend Josiah was concerned, but the girls had no respect for them, being well aware of the shallowness of their darling Brenda’s pretensions with regard to the French tongue.

“Well,” said Nina – “and how are you going to get the dress?”

“I am going now – in a few minutes – to see your father, and will ask him to let us have the pony and trap. Then we can all drive to Rocheford, where there is a very good draper’s shop. There I will buy a silk and get Madame Declassé, in the High Street, to make it for me in time.”

“But father won’t know you in blue silk.”

“I don’t want him to. Do you suppose, for a minute, you little geese, that I am going to tell him it is on my account I want the pony and trap? Is it likely he would accede to the wishes of a poor little governess? Not I, mes enfants– not I. You three dear things are to be the innocent cause of our drive to Rocheford. Don’t you suppose that you want any cotton frocks for the seaside?”

“Oh, yes – yes!” said Nina, “we want frocks, but not cotton ones.”

“Muslins are quite as cheap,” said Brenda. “I shall call them cotton to your father, and will buy muslin dresses for you – a pale pink muslin each – how will they look, chéries?”

“Sweet, sweet!” said Josephine.

“Entrancing!” exclaimed Nina; while Fanchon smacked her lips in anticipation of her own appearance in pink muslin.

Now Brenda knew quite well that these sandy-haired young people with freckled faces and flat features would by no means look their best in pink, be it muslin or cotton, but as she meant them to be foils to herself, she decided to leave them in crass ignorance on this point. The very name, pink muslin, had a delicious sound, and, as there was little time to waste, she told the girls that she would excuse lessons that morning and go upstairs to the school-room to make some mental calculations. Then, having estimated the exact amount of money which the different dresses would cost, she would invade the Reverend Josiah at the hour named.

That good man was busy preparing his sermon when Brenda’s gentle but distinct knock was heard at the door.

“I am so sorry to disturb you, sir,” she said on entering, and she dropped the prettiest imaginable little curtsey. It was quite old-fashioned, and delighted the rector.

“Please don’t apologise, Miss Carlton,” he said. “You want to speak to me, and I am prepared to listen. What is it all about? I hope my dear girl is not dissatisfied in any way. I know your life here must be a little – a little – dull; but I trust that you are not thinking of leaving us.”

“Leaving you – my dear kind sir?” replied Brenda. “Far indeed are such ideas from my thoughts. I am nothing but a dependent, and lonely at that. Dear Mr Amberley, have I not heard you talk of your sweet children as orphans? Well, am I not an orphan, too?”

“Alas – that it should be the case!” said Mr Amberley.

“It is the case. My darling sister and I were left without parents when she was a very little child and I was a young girl. She has been fortunate enough to be admitted into one of the best schools anywhere in this part of England, or indeed, I may say in England at all. I allude to Hazlitt Chase. You must have heard of the name, sir.”

“Hazlitt Chase?” said Mr Amberley. “Of course I know the name. Lady Sophia L’Estrange has two daughters there – Mary and Juliet. Sweet young girls. Lady Sophia lives about four miles from here. I had not the slightest idea that you had a sister at such a distinguished school, Miss Carlton.”

“I have that privilege,” said Brenda, dropping her eyelids so that her long, curly, black eyelashes could rest in the most becoming manner against her peach-bloomy cheeks.

The rector looked at her with admiration.

“She certainly is a very sweet creature,” he thought.

“What is the name of your sister?” he asked, after a moment’s pause.

“She is called Penelope.”

“How quaint and old-fashioned!”

“She is about to take a somewhat old-fashioned part,” continued Brenda. “I don’t pretend to know the old stories as I ought to; you, sir, who are such a good Greek scholar, must have heard of the character of Helen of Troy.”

“Beautiful Helen!” whispered Mr Amberley, under his breath.

“My sister is to take part in some tableaux which Mrs Hazlitt is presenting of Tennyson’s ‘Dream of Fair Women.’ She wants me to see it, and I am anxious to go. I think that if I leave here by an early train, I can spend the greater part of the day at Hazlitt Chase and return here soon after midnight.”

“That will be a late hour to ask the servants to sit up.”

“But if you will entrust me with a latch-key – ”