But, it so happened that Penelope was obliged always to spend her holidays at the school. That was the only difference made between her and the others. She had not seen Brenda for years. But Brenda had written to her little sister and had made all use possible of that sister’s affection. She had worked up her feelings with regard to her own dreadful poverty and, in short, had got Penelope to blackmail four girls of the school for her sake.
“It was a dreadful thing to do,” thought Penelope to herself, as she sat now under the shade of the elm-tree. “I don’t think I’d have done it if I’d known. I wonder if she really wanted the money so very badly. There’s some one who loves her, and she must look nice for his sake. But all the same—I wish I hadn’t done it, and I wish she were not going to Marshlands-on-the-Sea. For she is just the sort to make it unpleasant for me, and to expect the Beverleys to ask her to Beverley Castle; and oh—I am disappointed in her!”
Again Penelope cried, not hard or much, for this was not her nature, but sufficiently to relieve some of the load at her heart. Then, all of a sudden, she started to her feet. Mademoiselle d’Etienne was coming down the central lawn to meet her. Mademoiselle was in many respects an excellent French governess, but had the usual faults of the proverbial Frenchwoman. She was both ugly and vain. She could not in the least read character, but she had the knack of discovering which was the girl whose acquaintance was most worth cultivating.
Mrs Hazlitt had made a mistake in introducing this woman into the school. She had not interviewed her in advance, and was altogether disappointed when she arrived. It was her intention to get another French governess to take her place at the beginning of next term. Mademoiselle had, in fact, received notice to this effect and was exceedingly annoyed. She was in that state when she must vent her spleen on some one, and, as Penelope was the only girl now at Hazlitt Chase, she went up to her crossly.
“What are you doing here, mon enfant?” she cried. “You leave the poor French mademoiselle all alone—it is sad—it is strange—it is wrong. Come this minute into the house. I have my woes to relate, and I want even a petite like you to listen. Come at once, and sit no longer under this shade, but make of yourself a use.”
Penelope rose, looking more grim and forbidding than usual. She followed Mademoiselle up the garden, past the wood, and into the house.
“Behold the desolation!” cried Mademoiselle, when they got indoors. She spread out her two fat, short arms and looked around her. “Not a petite in sight—not a sound—the whole mansion empty, and Madame gone—gone with venom! She have left me my dismissal; she say, ‘You teach no more les enfants in this school.’ She gave no reason, but say, ‘I find another and you teach no more!’ Who was that spiteful and most méchant enfant who reveals secrets of poor Mademoiselle to Madame?”
“I don’t know,” said Penelope. “I hadn’t an idea you were going. I know nothing about it,” she continued. “Aren’t we going to have any lunch? I am so hungry.”
“And so am I,” cried Mademoiselle, who was exceedingly greedy. “I starve—I ache from within. Sonnez, mon enfant—I entreat; let us have our déjeuner—my vitals can stand the strain no longer.”
Penelope rang the bell, and presently a towsled-looking housemaid appeared, to whom Mademoiselle spoke in a volley of bad English and excellent French.