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.