“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.