Turquoise and Ruby

“We might have been dressed like duchesses,” said Nina. She burst out crying. “Oh – this horrid frock!” she said, and she kicked the offending pink muslin to the opposite side of the summerhouse. “I’ll never wear it —that I won’t!” she cried. “I’ll disgrace her, that I will – horrid thief of a thing!”

As to Fanchon – she walked deliberately out of the summerhouse. With steady steps this young lady, who was very wise for her years, approached her father’s study. The Reverend Josiah was supposed to be busy with his sermon. At such times, it was considered exceedingly ill-advised to molest him. Brenda would never do it. She said that all muses ought to be respected – the sacred muse most of all. But there was no respect in Fanchon’s heart just then. She opened the door with violence and – alas! – it must be owned – aroused Josiah out of a profound sleep. His head had been bent down on the historic pages of old Josephus, and sweet slumber had there visited him.

He started up angrily when detected in his nap by his eldest daughter. He would have forgiven Brenda, but Fanchon had not at all charming ways.

“My dear,” he said, “you know when I am busy with my sermon that I will not be disturbed.”

“Yes, papa – of course, papa,” said Fanchon. “I just wanted to ask you a question, and I will go away again. How much money do you give Brenda every year to spend on clothes for us?”

“What a funny question to ask me, my dear. I have no stated sum; I give just what I can afford.”

“And are you satisfied with the way your daughters are clothed, papa?” said Fanchon, kicking out a long leg as she spoke and showing an untidily shod and very large foot.

“Oh, my dear – my dear! I know nothing about ladies’ dress. I can’t afford silk – I wish I could; I should love to see you in silk; but in my present state, and with my poor stipend, it has to be cotton. I told dear Brenda so, and she agreed with me. Cotton in summer, and a sort of thick stuff – I think they call it linsey-woolsey, but I am not sure – for the cold days. I cannot do better, Fanchon – there is no use in your scolding me.”

“I am not scolding you, papa. You gave Brenda three pounds for each of us – didn’t you – the other day, to get our things for the seaside?”

“Yes, of course I did: that was the very least she said she could possibly have. I gave it to her with her own quarter’s salary, which the dear girl required a fortnight in advance; there was nothing in that. Her quarter’s salary was seven pounds ten, and the money for you three – nine pounds. Brenda said it was very little, but it really seemed a great lot to me, and I regret it when I think of my poor parishioners. But there’s nothing cheaper than cotton – at least, I have never heard of it; of course, if there were, it would be my duty to clothe you in it.”

“Did you ever hear of art muslin, papa?” asked Fanchon. “That is cheaper, but I won’t disturb you any more.” She went up to him and gave him a kiss. Then she left the room.

Having obtained her information, Fanchon went deliberately into the filbert walk. There she paced about for some time, her eyes fixed on the ground, her hands locked tightly together in front of her. She was not exactly depressed, but she was troubled. She was old enough to see the advantage of the revelation being arrived at which little Nina had so cleverly accomplished, and she was determined to make it in every way available for her own purposes. But to do this, she must put her sisters off the scent. At dinner time, she ate a very scanty meal. She hardly spoke to them, but, after dinner, she had a long conference with them both.

“Now, look here, Nina,” she said.

“Yes,” said Nina.

“I want you to make me a promise.”

“Oh, I do hate promises,” said Nina.

“I don’t,” said Josephine, “they’re rather interesting; nothing cheerful ever comes in our way, and even to make a promise seems better than nothing.”

“Well, the promise I want you two to make to me is this: that you won’t breathe a word of what I have said to you, either to father or Brenda – that you will keep it entirely to yourselves and allow me to manage Miss Brenda. I think I can promise that if you do this you will both have rather pretty frocks at the seaside, and that Nina shall have her flounces. Go on finishing the pink muslins, girls, for they’ll be a help, and certainly better than nothing, and let me approach Brenda to-morrow morning.”

“Oh dear!” said Nina, “how clever you are! I am sure I, for my part, will be only too delighted. But how dare you?” she added. “Does it mean that you would go – and – put her in prison?”

“I put her in prison – you little goose! What do you mean? No, no! But she’ll buy our clothes for us out of father’s own money or – there! don’t let’s talk any more about it.”

Josephine hesitated for a moment, then she flew to her sister’s side, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her heartily.

“I think we ought to be awfully pleased with Nina,” was Fanchon’s response, “for she’s quite a little brick, and I tell you what it is, girls – we’ll go and pick some fruit for tea and I shall send Molly for two-pennyworth of cream to eat with it; we may as well enjoy ourselves. Brenda has left a few pence with me in case of necessities. She warned me to be awfully careful, but I think she won’t scold us much about the cream when I have said a few things to her I mean to say.”

“Mightn’t we have some currant buns?” said Nina. “I was so hungry at lunch – there didn’t seem to be a scrap of meat on that bone.”

“Yes – we’ll have currant buns, too. She left me eleven-pence. You can run to the village, Nina, if you like, and get the buns. Mrs Simpson must have them out of the oven by now.”

Off scampered Nina. Josephine and Fanchon had a little further conversation, and, by the time Nina returned, the whole matter with regard to Brenda and her shortcoming: was left in the elder sister’s hands.

Chapter Ten

A Cosy Little Supper

Mr Amberley was one of the most unsuspicious of men, but he, too, had his own slightly cunning ways. He allowed Brenda so much money each week for housekeeping, and it must be said that she kept the family on short commons. There were even times when the Reverend Josiah was slightly hungry. This being the case, and as he, in reality, held the purse-strings, he was wont to provide himself with bread, butter, and cheese and some bottles of ale which he kept in a private cupboard in his study. By the aid of these, he managed to quell his rising appetite and to sleep soundly at nights.

But Brenda knew nothing of the delicate cheese supply by this reverend gentleman, of the butter which he himself brought home from the nearest dairy, nor of the dainty bread which he slipped into his pocket on his way home from his parochial rounds. Now, however, his intention was to give the pretty little governess a charming surprise when she returned that evening. She should have that rarest of all dainties – in his opinion – Welsh rabbit, made from a receipt handed down to him by his grandmother. Accordingly, by his own clever hands, as the hour approached midnight, he put everything into preparation – the little stove on which the dainty was to be prepared (he regretted much that they must eat it on bread, not on toast), a bottle of the very best ale that could be purchased: in short, a charming little meal for two.

He had missed Brenda sorely during the day. In her presence the girls were quite delightful, but without her they were tiresome, plain, rather disagreeable girls. It was too late to take the pony to the station, but he himself would walk there in order that Brenda should come home under his safe convoy. This plan of his Brenda had not counted on. He took the precaution, indeed, not to appear on the platform, but met her just as she was emerging out of the shade of a thick wood just beyond the village. He thought how charming she looked in her white serge coat – how different from his own unruly girls. But Brenda herself was snappish and by no means inclined to respond to his kind attentions.

“I wish you had not come out, Mr Amberley. It really is ridiculous to suppose that a woman of my age,” – (Brenda was very fond of making herself appear old when she spoke to Josiah) – “a woman of my age,” she continued, “cannot walk the short distance from the station to your house.”

“But at midnight – my dear girl,” protested Josiah, “I really could not hear of it. I hope I know what is due to any girl whom I respect, and it is only a pleasure to serve you – you know that.”

“Dreadful old goose!” thought Brenda to herself.

But she saw that she must humour him. She had had, on the whole, a good day and, although she had not excited the admiration she had expected, she was the richer by a very valuable gold bangle. So she chatted as lightly and airily as she could and, when they entered the house, she even assisted to cat a tiny portion of the Welsh rabbit and to sip a little of the sparkling beer. She asked no questions, too, with regard to the manner in which Josiah got these dainties into the house. But although she said nothing, she thought a good deal and resolved to feed the good clergyman slightly better in future and not to save quite so much of the housekeeping money for her own purposes.

When she had finished supper, she yawned profoundly, protested that she could not keep her eyes open a minute longer, and, giving Josiah a scant “good-night,” ran off to bed.

When she left him, he sat for a little time musing. Brenda had managed that he should not even get a glimpse of her blue silk dress, but he had noticed the dainty hat with its perfect trimmings, the white serge coat which covered the governess’ pretty person from head to foot, and the neat and lovely white gloves. He had thought how wonderful it was that she could wear such nice things. That coat, in particular, took his fancy. It was of a wonderful material which he did not think that he recognised. Silk it was not; cotton it was not; linsey-woolsey it was not. What was it made of? It must be cheap, or poor little Brenda could not afford it. Brenda had so often and so pathetically told him how necessary it was that she should save almost every penny of her income. She used to say to him with those sweet blue eyes of hers, so different from the eyes of his own daughters, looking into his face:

“It is my duty to prepare for the rainy day. It may come, you know, and if I have not saved money, where shall I be?”

He had smiled at her on these occasions and once had even gone the length of patting her little white hand and had said that he wished all other girls were so wise. Yes, dear Brenda was saving up her poor little salary; and that nicely made white coat – of course she must have made it herself – must be composed of a very cheap material. He wondered if dresses of the same material could be got for his poor orphans. He always spoke of his children to himself as his poor orphans. They had been very tiresome orphans on the day that had just gone by – Nina in the morning, Fanchon later on. They had, it seemed to him, almost complained with regard to their clothes – those clothes which he so laboured to get them. It was annoying, very; but if they might have coats, or frocks, or whatever the article of dress was called, of the material which Brenda wore, he would feel that he had done his duty by them.

He went to bed at last, resolved to speak to the governess on the subject by-and-by. When Brenda reached her room, she first of all proceeded to lock her door. She then carefully removed her white serge coat, shook it, brushed it over tenderly, and folded it up, with tissue paper between the folds. She then laid this elegant garment in the bottom drawer of her wardrobe. It must not be seen again until she was safe at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. Having removed the coat, she stood for a time surveying her own reflection in the cracked mirror, which, after all, was the best looking-glass the rectory could afford. She moved her head slightly to right, slightly to left; she pushed her hat in different positions, and contemplated herself with great admiration. Then, putting her hand into her pocket, she took out the beautiful little bangle and clasped it on her wrist. The bangle really gave her great finish. It seemed to raise her in the social scale. It was so absolutely good – not the least bit jim-crack. That gold was at least eighteen carat, and that exquisite turquoise must have cost a mint of money; it was just the right size for her, too. She held up her arm, and contemplated the effect of the bangle in this position. She laid her hand across her knee, and looked at it from that point of view. She arranged it and rearranged it, and loved it more and worshipped it more deeply the longer she looked at it.

At last, with a deep sigh of satisfaction, she took it off, folded it softly in some tissue paper, and, opening her purse, took from it the key of a drawer which she always kept locked. The people who surrounded the rectory, the few domestics who worked there, were all honest as the day. Had this not been the case, Brenda’s drawer in her wardrobe might have been found worth robbing before now. For in it were those savings which she had secured from the housekeeping money, and that seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence which still belonged to the girls’ wardrobes and the four five-pound notes which Penelope had sent her. In short, Brenda felt that she was quite a wealthy girl. She had not an idea of any Nemesis at hand.

She laid the stolen bracelet in a little box which had held hitherto some mock jewellery, and having locked her drawer, proceeded to take off her pale blue dress, to fold it up, put it away, to do ditto with her hat and gloves, and finally to undress and get into bed.

Brenda Carlton slept soundly that night, for she was really very tired. She was also quite hopeful and happy. But towards morning, she was disturbed by a dream. The dream was a curious mixture of Helen of Troy as she had appeared – silent and stately in the dusky wood – of Penelope, with her eyes red from crying, of her pupils and their clothes, and, last but not least, the Reverend Josiah.

It seemed to her in her dream that Josiah was exceedingly angry, that all that gentleness and suavity of manner which, as a rule, characterised him, had departed; that he was looking at her – yes, at her – with little angry eyes, and that he was accusing her of something which was very terrible and, which, try as she would, she could not disprove. She awoke from this dream trembling and with the dews of perspiration on her forehead. She started up in bed to wipe them away and, as she did so, she was aware of the fact that some one was thumping at her bedroom door.

“Yes – what is it?” she called out crossly.

“It is only me,” answered the voice of her eldest pupil. “I thought you would be tired and have brought you your breakfast.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” said Brenda, relieved and gratified, for she really was intensely thirsty.

She sprang out of bed, unlocked the door, then, running across the room, got into bed once more and sat up, looking exceedingly pretty with her slightly flushed cheeks and befrilled nightdress of fine lawn. Fanchon entered with the breakfast tray, which was quite common, being made of iron that had once been japanned; but this decorative process had gradually been removed by the fingers of time, and Brenda was far too careful with regard to the laundry to allow extra cloths for breakfast trays or any such little dainties.

Fanchon placed the tray on a table close to Brenda’s bed; then having, as she considered, performed her duty, she jumped up on the side of the bed and sat gazing at her governess. Fanchon had made all her preparations. Brenda should have food before the thunder clap fell on her devoted head. Accordingly, Fanchon Amberley began by making friendly enquiries with regard to the governess’ success on the previous day.

“Drink your tea and eat your toast,” she said. “There’s no butter in the house – you didn’t leave us money to buy any, and that egg is, I am afraid, stale. But it is the last one left from your purchases of last week. You must make the best of it, I am afraid. But never mind,” continued the young lady, swinging her foot backwards and forwards, “you must have gorged so on the good things of life yesterday, that I don’t suppose you are overpowered with an appetite.”

“I didn’t gorge,” said Brenda gently. “I never gorge, as you know, Fanchon. But I am thirsty, and it is very thoughtful and kind of you, dear, to bring me up my breakfast.”

Fanchon made no reply to this. Brenda poured herself out a cup of tea. She drank it off thirstily and then looked at her pupil.

“How untidy you are, my dear child.”

“Am I? That doesn’t matter,” said Fanchon. “Tell me, Brenda, how you enjoyed yourself. Was it quite as wonderful as you expected?”

“Oh, quite, quite,” said Brenda, who had no idea but of making the very best of things to her pupil.

“It was really worth your pale blue silk dress and your serge coat, and your hat, and your gloves, and your new parasol?” pursued Fanchon.

“I wish, Fanchon,” said the governess, “that you would not give me an inventory of my clothes whenever you speak to me. I suppose I must be dressed like other people, mustn’t I?”

“Of course,” said Fanchon. “Well, let us leave the dress alone. How did you get on with your sister? was she as nice as that dead-and-gone body – whatever her name is?”

“Oh, she was wonderful!” said Brenda, with real enthusiasm. “She has a real gift for acting, there’s no doubt of that.”

“I suppose you’ll tell us about it sometime, won’t you?”

“I am telling you now – what do you mean by sometime?”

“I mean,” said Fanchon, “that Nina and Joey and I want all the particulars, not just a few bare facts, but every little tiny incident made as full as possible; and in especial, we are anxious to know if you met any he’s, and if you did meet one special he; and in that case, what he said to you, and what you said to him – a sort of ‘consequence’ game, you understand. And in particular, we want to learn the compliments he paid you; for some day, when we three are dressed like you in pale blue silk, etc, we may have similar compliments ourselves. That is what we want to know.”

“What is the matter with you, Fanchon?” said her governess.

“Do you like your breakfast, Brenda?” was Fanchon’s response.

“Not much,” answered Brenda crossly. “The bread is stale; there is no butter, and the egg is uneatable. I must jump up at once in order to attend to the housekeeping.”

“You needn’t, really, Brenda. Joey went round to the shops this morning and ordered things in. We’re going to have a couple of ducks for dinner, and green peas – ”

“What do you mean?” said Brenda, her eyes flashing. “A couple of ducks and green peas! You know how expensive ducks are.”

“I don’t,” said Fanchon calmly – “all I know about them is that they are good to eat and Joey has ordered them. Oh – and we’re going to have raspberry and currant pie too, and a lot of cream with it – ”

“And you expect me to pay for these luxuries out of the housekeeping money?”

“Of course we do, Brenda – who else would pay for them?”

“But I tell you I can’t – you don’t understand how little your father gives me; it is absolutely impossible – you must countermand that order at once, Fanchon – go and do it this minute while I get up. I shall send cook out presently for a bit of steak, and potatoes from the garden will do; there are no peas, and it is the height of extravagance to buy them.”

“You’ll be a great deal too late, for they are all in the house; and I think cook has put the ducks in the oven. Anyhow,” continued Fanchon, suddenly changing her tone, “I don’t mean to stop either Joey or Nina. They’re buying food – proper food – for us, and you’ve got to pay for it.”

“I don’t understand you – you are exceedingly impertinent. I must speak to your father.”

“You can of course, if you like,” answered Fanchon, with great calmness, “but all the same, I don’t think you will; I’ve got something to say to you, Brenda, and it is something rather dreadful.”

“What?” said Brenda.

She longed to rouse herself into a towering passion, but she had the memory of her dream still over her, and the thought of Mr Amberley’s face with its changed and quite awful expression. She was more tired, too, than she cared to own. She found her eyes fixed upon those of her eldest pupil. What a dreadful-looking girl she was – so singularly plain and ungainly – all legs and arms, and with that truly disagreeable face! Brenda contrasted her with a girl she had seen at Hazlitt Chase, and wondered how she had endured her own position so long. And now this girl was actually bullying her – a girl not fifteen years of age!

Fanchon seemed to read some of her governess’ discomfiture and amazement; in short, she was enjoying herself mightily. It was delightful to turn the tables; it was delicious for the slave to be, even for a short time, the master. She, therefore, continued in a calm voice:

“I’d best tell you everything, and then you will know what is to be done. To begin with: I think you partly owe the discovery we have made to the fact that you, in your spirit of parsimony, would not give poor little Nina flounces to her dress.”

Brenda gasped, but was speechless.

“And,” continued Fanchon, “Nina, although she is not yet eleven years of age, is no fool, and so yesterday, when you were out of the way – you know the old proverb, ‘When the cat’s away, the mice will play,’ – well, that poor little mouse, Nina, thought she would have a gambol on her own account yesterday, and Joey and I joined in. We quizzed father with great dexterity and – in short, Madam Cat! – we found you out!”

These last words were quite terrible. From Fanchon’s pale eyes a steely fire shot forth. It seemed to scorch the miserable Brenda, who shrank lower on her pillows and longed for the ceiling to fall on her.

“I,” – she began tremblingly – “I think you are quite the most impertinent – and I wish – I wish – you would go. I shall speak – to – to your dear father. I’ll just get dressed and go to him.”

Here Brenda burst into tears.

“Your tears won’t do any good, Madam Cat,” said Fanchon, “and I am not a bit impertinent, and as to telling father, why, you can tell him anything you like, after you have listened to me. The girls know that I am talking to you, so we won’t be disturbed. Now then – stop crying – you’re in my power, and you’re in Joey’s power, and you’re in Nina’s power, and the sooner you realise that fact, the better for you.” Brenda uttered a deep sigh. She thought she saw a loop-hole of hope. The girls, after all, did not matter – not greatly – whatever those impertinent little creatures had discovered. It was the Reverend Josiah whom she really dreaded, and if she were in his power, he would not have given her Welsh rabbit on the previous night, nor been so very, very kind, nor have looked at her so admiringly. If Fanchon had not gone too far, there was still hope. She, therefore, wiped her eyes and sat up.

“What is it?” she said meekly. “I am a poor prisoner at your bar, Fanchon – out with the indictment – tell the prisoner of what offence she is guilty.”

“I’ll tell you first of all what we suspect, and afterwards I will tell you what we know,” said Fanchon.

“You terrible, impertinent child – how dare you suspect me of anything!”

“We three suspect that you don’t spend all the money papa gives you for housekeeping, on the housekeeping. Cause why: We are always so dreadfully hungry and the meals are so shocking poor – and – cause why: We know that you save money for yourself in other quarters – ”

“Do you think I would steal a farthing– of your dear papa’s money, you dreadful, dreadful – horrible child!” said Brenda.

“I don’t think about what I know,” replied Fanchon. “Now listen. Look at that sum.” Here she thrust a carefully made out account into Brenda’s hand. Brenda read the items, tears rushing back to her eyes and her heart palpitating wildly. The grand total of one pound, three shillings, and a penny stared her in the face. “And now,” continued Fanchon, “having discovered that this was exactly what you spent on our poor little clothes, we should like to know what you propose to do with the balance.”