Chapter Eight.
Break-Up Day.
Nothing at all happened to Brenda of the least importance during her journey to Hazlitt Chase. She went second-class as far as Rocheford. There she changed for first-class, for she had every intention of doing the thing in style.
When she arrived at the little station, she saw several smart-looking carriages waiting to take guests up to The Chase and, going up to the driver of one, requested him immediately to convey her there. He looked at the very smart lady, admired her blue eyes and the radiant and truly natural colour in her cheeks, and signified to her that if she would enter the low victoria, he would take her to The Chase. She did so, wrapping her white serge cloak daintily round her, and leaning back in her seat with evident enjoyment.
She was reaching her goal—the goal she had been aspiring to for so many long weeks now; and that twenty pounds—yes, and a little more besides, some of the Reverend Josiah Amberley’s money (that money which he had given her to clothe his own little daughters)—reposed snugly in her purse at home. Her conscience did not trouble her, for Brenda had never cultivated that excellent monitor. It lay quiet and asleep within her breast. Her whole nature was full of anticipation and ripe for mischief. She was anxious to see her sister and the school, and to make a first-rate impression there.
As she sat leaning back in the little victoria, her white and dainty parasol unfurled, her white gloves gleaming in the summer sunshine, a lady, considerably older than herself, came out of the station and, going up to the driver, asked if she could have a seat also up to The Chase. This lady’s name was Mrs Hungerford, and she had two young daughters at the school. She was a fashionable woman, beautifully dressed, and when she took her seat by Brenda’s side, Brenda felt that she could not do better than make her her friend. Accordingly, she entered into what she considered a very delightful conversation. She talked simply, and yet suitably, with regard to herself, and did what she could to add to Mrs Hungerford’s comfort. For instance, the astute young woman proposed that her white parasol should shade both of them from the sun. Mrs Hungerford was a dark-complexioned woman and she immediately agreed to the offer. As a matter of fact, she did not much mind whether the sun’s rays fell on her face and neck or not. She noticed, although she made no remark at the time, that Brenda did not greatly care either; for she was absorbed in shading herself from the slightest fleck of undue light.
At last they reached The Chase. The little carriage drew up daintily at the front door, where a number of pupils were assembled and where Mrs Hazlitt herself stood to welcome her visitors. The girls in the school were all dressed in white—some in white washing silk, some in white lace, some only in white muslin. But whatever the dress, they looked neat and fresh and, in Brenda’s eyes, were elegant.
She looked anxiously around for Penelope, who was not immediately in sight. Mrs Hungerford got quickly out of the carriage, for she saw her own two little girls, who rushed to her with cries of delight. As she did so, something glittered at Brenda’s feet. She was stepping out when she saw it. It was a little gold bangle with a blue turquoise clasp. It was very pretty and dainty, and altogether the sort of thing which a girl like Brenda would covet. She had no immediate idea, however, of stealing it. She stooped to pick it up immediately, to avoid its being stepped upon, and was about to give it to Mrs Hungerford, whose property she supposed it to be, when that lady went straight into the house, without taking the slightest notice of her. With trembling fingers, Brenda slipped the gold bangle into her pocket. She longed most earnestly to be able to wear it. It was of beautiful workmanship, and the turquoise which clasped it together was of unusual size and purity of colour. It was quite a girlish-looking thing and would be, Brenda felt sure, most unsuitable for dark, stately Mrs Hungerford.
All these thoughts with regard to it rushed through her mind as she stood for a minute, unnoticed, on the green sward which swept up to the house at each side of the principal entrance.
Other carriages had immediately followed the little victoria, which rolled swiftly away out of sight, and, for a minute, no one spoke to Brenda. Then Mrs Hazlitt herself came up to her.
“Ah, how do you do, my dear?” she said. “You are—”
“I am Brenda Carlton,” said Brenda, raising those lovely melting blue eyes to the good lady’s face. “It is so kind of you to invite me here. And where is Penelope?”
Mrs Hazlitt looked around. She was annoyed at Penelope not being in sight, and immediately called Honora Beverley to take her place.
“Honora,” she said—“this is Miss Carlton. I suppose Penelope has not finished dressing; will you kindly take Miss Carlton to her sister’s room? I am sorry, my dear, that I have not a corner to offer you to sleep in to-night; but on break-up days we are always overfull.”
Brenda made a becoming reply, and followed in the wake of beautiful, fair Honora. Her own dress, it seemed to her, was most stylish—most absolutely all that any girl could desire, until she noticed Honora’s white lace robe. It clung softly to her lissom young figure, and had an indescribable air about it which not even Madame Declassé could achieve. In short, it bore the hall-mark of Paris, for Honora Beverley was one of the richest girls in the school. She had always been accustomed to being well dressed, and had, therefore, never given the matter a thought.
She was a most kind-hearted, high-principled girl, and was anxious to do what she could for Brenda, whom she, in her heart of hearts, could not help dubbing as second-class, notwithstanding the girl’s real beauty.
“I am so sorry,” she said, “that Penelope was not present when you arrived; but she always does take a long time over her toilette. We must all assemble in the hall, however, in a quarter of an hour, so you will probably find her fully dressed. That is the way to her room. Have you come from a distance, Miss Carlton?”
Brenda mentioned the obscure village where the Reverend Josiah lived. Honora had never heard of it, neither was she deeply interested. She chatted in a pleasant voice of the different events of the day, and said how delightful everything was, and how singularly kind she thought it of Penelope to take the part of Helen of Troy.
“For I couldn’t do it,” she said. “It is just a case of conscience.”
There was something in her tone and in her gentle look which made Brenda gaze at her, not only with envy, but with dislike.
“Why should your conscience be more tender than my sister’s?” was her answer. “And who was Helen of Troy? I never heard of her.”
Honora opened her brown eyes. She had not believed that any one existed in the wide world who had not, at one time or another, made the acquaintance of this celebrated woman.
“Penelope will tell you about her,” she said gently. “Of course you know, Miss Carlton, what is wrong for one need not be necessarily wrong for another. We have each to answer for our own conscience, have we not? Ah, and this is Penelope’s room.” She knocked at the door. “Penelope, your sister has come.”
Hurried steps were heard inside the chamber. The door was flung open and Penelope, all in white and looking almost pretty, stood on the threshold. Honora immediately withdrew, and the two sisters found themselves for a few minutes alone.
“Do take off your cloak and let me look at you,” said Penelope. “I have been telling the girls so much about you, and most of them are all agog to see you. Dear, dear! pale blue silk! Well, it is rather pretty, only I wish you had been in white; but you look very nice all the same, dear.”
“You ate highly dissatisfied, Penelope; and I’m sure I’ve done all that mortal could to oblige you,” said Brenda.
“And I to oblige you,” retorted Penelope. “I can tell you, I had trouble about those five-pound notes, but you got them safely, didn’t you?”
“Yes, of course I did: I only wish you could have managed more. This dress is much prettier than your insipid white. White is all very well for schoolgirls, but I am grown up, remember.”
“Yes, yea—and you look very nice,” said Penelope. “It’s more than you do, Penelope; you’re not a bit pretty,” said frank Brenda.
“I know it—and it seems so highly ridiculous that I should be forced to take the part of Helen of Troy. Of course, Honora was the girl absolutely made on the very model, but she refused.”
“Who is Honora?” asked Brenda.
“Why, that lovely girl in the white lace—(it’s all real, I can tell you, and was sent to her from Paris)—who brought you to my door.”
“Oh—that girl!” said Brenda. “I don’t think her at all remarkable.”
“Don’t you? Well, most people do—she’s quite the belle of the school.”
“And what does the belle of the school signify?” said Brenda, who was feeling decidedly cross. “If a girl could be called the belle of the season, that might be something to aspire to—but the belle of a school! Who cares about that?”
“Well, the schoolgirls do, and while we are at school, it is our world,” said Penelope. “But now I must bring you downstairs, and put you into your place. You must get a seat on one of the benches near the front, or you won’t see one half that is going on. Come along, you may be sure I will fly to you whenever I have a second, but I shall be very busy all day.”
“Will there be gentlemen present?” asked Brenda.
“Oh—certainly. The brothers and cousins and fathers and uncles of the pupils.”
“I don’t care anything at all about the fathers and uncles, but I should like to be introduced to some of the brothers and cousins.”
“Well, I daresay that can be managed—”
“Penelope—do come!” called Cara’s voice in the distance, and Penelope, accompanied by her sister, had to fly downstairs.
A few minutes later, Brenda found herself in the wide, open court. She was partly sheltered by a great awning. Here the prizes were to be given away, a few speeches were to be made, and a few recitations given by some of the most accomplished girls and teachers.
No one took any special notice of her, and this acute young person discovered that if she did not play her own cards well and immediately, she would be out of the fun. Now, this was the last thing she wished. The slight feeling of discomfort which had arisen in her breast when she saw Honora Beverley in her simple and exquisite dress had vanished: the colour brightened in her cheeks; she felt assured that she looked well, and assuredly she was pretty, although second-class.
She deliberately took a seat near two young men who were brothers of two of the older girls. She asked one of them quite an innocent question, to which he replied. She decided that he was good-looking and that she could have a pleasant day in his company, and immediately requested him, in that simple and pathetic voice which always so strongly appealed to the Reverend Josiah, to tell her all about the company—who was who, and what was what. She said that she herself was a lonely girl who had come from a distance to behold her dear sister in that exquisite creation, Helen of Troy. She talked of Helen as though she had been that good woman’s intimate friend from her youth up, and managed to impress both young men with a lively sense of her pleasantness and her frank, daring sort of beauty.
Presently, one of the little Hungerford girls came along. She belonged to the smaller girls of the school. She came straight up to the young man who was talking to Brenda, and, leaning against him, said in a disconsolate voice:
“It is quite lost; mother did promise that I should have it. Pauline has got hers—hers has a ruby clasp, but mine with the blue turquoise can’t be found anywhere!”
“Why, what is it, Nelly?” said the young man. “Nelly, may I introduce you to this young lady.”
“My name is Carlton—Brenda Carlton. I am the sister of your friend Penelope, who is to be Helen of Troy,” said Brenda. “Is anything wrong, dear?” she continued, speaking kindly, and bending forward so as almost to caress the child by her manner.
Young Hungerford’s dark face quite flushed, and he made room for his little sister to sit between him and Brenda for a minute.
“Tell her—perhaps she will know. Now that I remember, she drove up in the victoria with mother from the station.”
“It is my bangle!” said Nelly. “Mother brought one for me, and the other for Pauline. Mine had a turquoise clasp. She got them from Paris and they are so very, very, very pretty; and Pauline is wearing hers, and mine is gone!”
“Oh, but—how provoking! It must be found, of course,” said Brenda, putting on an air of great sympathy, and wondering how she could get it out of her own pocket without suspicion being directed to her.
Her first impulse was simply to say to the child: “I wonder if I know anything about it,” and then to tell how she had picked it up. But Nellie Hungerford’s next remark prevented her doing so.
“Mother is quite certain that she lost it in the train, for she remembers taking the parcel out when she was looking for some sandwiches in her bag; she noticed then that the string was loose. Mother is convinced that she lost it in the train. Oh dear! oh dear! I should not mind quite so badly if Pauline was not wearing hers. There, Fred—do you see her?” continued the little girl. “It is shining on her arm, and that horrid ruby is gleaming like a bit of fire. I am miserable without mine and, although mother will get me another, it won’t be at all the same thing not wearing it on break-up day.”
“Well, dear—it cannot be helped now,” said the brother, “and I see one of the teachers calling you. I suppose you must take your place. You look very nice indeed, Nellie, and no one will miss the bangle.”
“Do I really look nice?” asked Nellie, fixing her pretty eyes on her brother’s face.
“Of course you do,” he answered.
“You look charming, Miss Hungerford,” suddenly interposed Brenda, “and if I may venture to give an opinion, I prefer little girls without bangles.”
This was a remark which at once pleased young Hungerford and displeased his sister.
“I suppose my mamma knows what little girls ought to wear,” she said with great dignity, and then she moved off to take her seat amid the other girls.
When she was gone, Brenda felt a curious flutter at her heart. If Mrs Hungerford was sure that she had lost her bangle in the train, why need wicked Brenda ever return it to her? Surely, she might keep it as her own delightful possession. She might wear it at Marshlands-on-the-Sea, and attract the attention of that most desirable youth whom she hoped to secure as her future husband.
“Do you know—I quite agree with you,” said a voice in her ear.
She turned to confront the dark eyes of Fred Hungerford.
“What about?” she asked, forgetting herself for the moment.
“I would rather my little sisters did not wear ornaments while they are so young, but mother was specially anxious to please them, and insisted on buying the bangles when we were in Paris a fortnight ago. They were very pretty and simple of their kind, and, I know, good too. The turquoise one, strange to say, was the more expensive of the two. Mother would have liked to get a turquoise for each, but they are such an untidy pair she felt certain one would get lost, and so decided that Pauline should be responsible for the ruby, and dear little Nellie for the turquoise. Then, I wanted her to have them sent to the children by registered post, instead of bringing them to-day, but she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t even bring them in boxes, but just slipped them into a piece of tissue paper the last moment, and, of course, one of them has got lost!”
“Do you think it is likely to be found?” asked Brenda.
“I should say most unlikely; unless one of the officials happened to see it before somebody else got into the carriage. It is exactly the sort of thing which an unscrupulous person would pick up and keep.”
“An unscrupulous person!” echoed Brenda.
“Well—yes. Of course you look so innocent and so—so—young, that of course you cannot be a bit aware of the fact that there are lots of dishonest persons in the world. Poor, dear little Nell! Well, she will cheer up in a minute, and forget all about it.”
Brenda leaned back in her seat. She had now quite made up her mind to keep the bracelet. All she had to do was never to wear it in the presence of the Hungerfords, whom she was scarcely likely to see again, or in the presence of her sister, Penelope. But she could make good use of it at Marshlands-on-the-Sea.
The events of the day began and continued, and Brenda enjoyed herself vastly. Young Mr Hungerford introduced her to one or two friends of his, and during the entire day she hardly spoke to a schoolgirl or to a woman of any sort. The ladies who were present by no means admired her. The schoolgirls themselves had no time to give her a thought. The crowning scene of the day was to be “A Dream of Fair Women,” which was put on with exquisite effect; the scene being a dusky wood, with the moonlight shining through. Even Brenda felt moved as she watched the curtain rise over the little act, and observed, for the first time, with particular attention Mrs Hazlitt’s noble face and figure as she stood in the shadowy part of the background and began to recite Tennyson’s words:
“At last methought that I had wandered far
In an old wood: fresh wash’d in coolest dew
The maiden splendours of the morning star
Shook in the steadfast blue.
”...
“And from within a clear undertone
Thrilled through mine ears in that unblissful clime,
‘Pass freely thro’: the wood is all thine own,
Until the end of time.’
“At length I saw a lady within call,
Stiller than chisell’d marble, standing there;
A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,
And most divinely fair.”
There was a stir of surprise from the audience, as the girlish figure was dimly discernible: the hair glittering in its fairness, the eyes soft, and yet full of hidden fire, the whole attitude one of extreme grace. For Penelope’s soul had been fired with the music of that great song of songs; and the arrangement of the stage, the simplicity of the dress, the marvellous effects of light and shade had produced what—in very truth—seemed to be that very Helen who had driven men mad with love and longing so many centuries ago. Even Brenda held her breath. Wonder filled her soul, an emotion quite new to her stirred in her breast. She could not take her eyes from the figure at once so stately, so serene, so unlike that little Penelope whom she had always somewhat despised. Great, indeed, was Penelope’s success when Brenda, the most matter-of-fact person in the world, forgot that she was her sister at that moment and realised within her breast and through that frail and fickle heart of hers something of the greatness of immortal love.
The other figures dimly moved forward in their order: Cleopatra in her swarthy greatness; Jephtha’s daughter, who so gladly obeyed her father’s behest and died for the cause of Jehovah; Fair Rosamond, Iphigenia, the rest of that great group. But Brenda could only think of Helen.
At last, the mistress’ voice died away. The passionate words no longer filled the air. The young actors rushed out of sight, some to change their dresses, some to be congratulated by their friends. The last event of all the events was over. Congratulation and enthusiasm rose to a great height. Mrs Hazlitt was surrounded by friends who assured her that they had seldom seen anything finer in its way. Helen of Troy stood for a minute apart. There was a swelling lump in her throat. She had been the success of the evening. But for her, the tableaux might almost have been ridiculous. It was just because she forgot, and did the thing; just because for the time she was no longer Penelope—poor, plain, a girl who had to earn her bread by-and-by—but some other soul had inspired her—that Tennyson’s “Dream of Fair Women” had become something to talk of in all the future days of the old school. But the enthusiasm which had filled her breast faded now. She was puzzled and frightened at her own emotions. She wandered a little way into the wood and, leaning her head against the trunk of a tree, burst into tears.
It was there that Honora Beverley found her.
“Why, surely, Helen—I mean Penelope,” she said—
“Oh, leave me,” said Penelope, turning swiftly. “Something is hurt in my heart—I don’t know what it is, and yet—yes—I do know.”
“You did it splendidly! I couldn’t have believed it of you—no one could.”
“It wasn’t me,” replied Penelope. “I did it because I couldn’t help myself. Just for a minute I was raised into something else. Perhaps it was Mrs Hazlitt’s voice; wasn’t she wonderful?”
“Yes,” said Honora, “but I am thinking of you as you are. Come and be congratulated: you are the heroine of the evening.”
“No, I cannot: I don’t want them to see me; I would rather just creep away and put on my plain dress and say good-bye to Brenda; I have hardly seen her all day.”
“Oh, but your sister has been quite happy: she has not been neglected, I can assure you.”
“Still, I must talk to her for a minute or two, and she has to catch her train. Let me go, Honora. Don’t tell any one that I cried. I am rather ashamed of myself: I don’t—I don’t quite know why.”
Honora bent down. She was taller than Penelope, and much more slim. She kissed the girl on her forehead. Penelope suddenly clung to her.
“Why didn’t you do it—you who could?”
“That is just it: I couldn’t. I don’t pretend that I am not more beautiful than you in face, but that has nothing to do with one’s personating the part. If you really feel it, you take the character of the part until it grows into your face. I could never have been Helen. You did it splendidly, no one could have looked more lovely. Just remember that you have had a great triumph and be happy and, Penelope—one minute—”
“Yes,” said Penelope, pausing.
“I want to have a talk with you to-morrow.”
“Very well.”
“We shall all leave during the course of the day, but you are staying at the school.”
“I am.”
“Come to my room at ten o’clock. Good-bye for the present.”
Penelope flew out of sight. She rushed upstairs, changed her Greek dress for a pretty, simple white one, in which she had been apparelled during the early part of the day and, after considerable searching, found her sister. Brenda was refreshing herself with cake and claret cup when Penelope came up to her.
“Oh—good gracious!” she said, when she saw Penelope’s face very pale now, with her eyes looking lighter and more faded than usual because of the sudden tears she had shed. “I do wish to goodness I had not seen you again to-night.”
“What a fearfully unkind thing to say, Brenda, when I have been just longing to be with you.”
“I could have gone home and dreamt all night that I had a beautiful sister,” continued Brenda—“but now—”
Just then young Mr Hungerford appeared.
“Ah,”—he said to Brenda—“you have found your sister. May I congratulate you!” he said; and he looked at poor, dowdy little Penelope with that wonder which his honest eyes could not but reflect. For how was it possible that she had ever been got to present one of the most majestic figures in ancient story!
Penelope murmured something and then turned to her sister.
“I must get out of this,” she said. “I simply can’t stand their congratulations. I ought never to have done it—I only wish I hadn’t.”
“Well, come with me to the station; I don’t suppose Mrs Hazlitt will mind. You should have worn your Greek costume for the rest of the evening; these people would have gone on admiring you.”
“No, they wouldn’t. Helen with the limelight and the dark wood and the voice talking above her was not me. She was something quite foreign to me: somebody else got into me just for a minute.”
“Oh, how wildly and impossibly you do talk, Penelope! I see you’re going to be queer as well as plain. Well, unless you wish to say good-bye at once, come to the station with me.”
“I will—I should like to,” said Penelope.
She rushed upstairs and came down in her hat and jacket. The same little victoria which had brought Brenda from the station was waiting to convey her back. Penelope was feeling dead tired.
“I shall have a sickening time,” she said, “during the holidays all alone with Mademoiselle in this great place and nothing whatever to do. I don’t love books and I don’t care for work and—oh dear—I envy you; you can go to the seaside and have a good time. I hope you will get use out of your twenty pounds.”
“I should think so, indeed.”
“But you must have spent a lot of it over that dress, and I don’t think I admire it.”
“Never mind what use I have made of the money. When I write to tell you that I am engaged, and can, perhaps, offer you a home in the future, then you will understand how useful it has been.”
Penelope was silent for a minute or two. Then, just as they were approaching the station, she said to her sister:
“Did you hear about the lost bangle?—it does seem so queer. The Hungerfords will make a great fuss about it, that I am sure of.”
“Oh, no, they won’t,” said Brenda.
“Why—have you heard anything?”
“I was talking to that nice boy who came here with his mother. They seemed quite certain that it slipped out of her hand in the train. They can’t blame anybody at the school.”
“Of course not,” said Penelope. “What do you mean?”
Brenda was glad that the night was dark enough to prevent her sister seeing the colour which flew to her cheeks.
“I meant nothing at all,” she said. “Only of course when things are lost, everybody gets suspected. In this case, suspicion falls upon the passengers on the line and the railway officials, so we are well out of it. Good night, Helen of Troy. Oh, to think that you—you little insignificant creature—should ever have represented her!”
The whistle of the train was heard as it approached the station. Brenda sprang from the carriage, waved a kiss to her sister, and hurried on to the platform. A minute later, she was borne out of sight, the gold bangle with its turquoise clasp lying securely in the pocket of her dress.