by L. T. Meade
herbreast. She could not take her eyes from the figure at once so stately,so serene, so unlike that little Penelope whom she had always somewhatdespised. Great, indeed, was Penelope's success when Brenda, the mostmatter-of-fact person in the world, forgot that she was her sister atthat moment and realised within her breast and through that frail andfickle heart of hers something of the greatness of immortal love.
The other figures dimly moved forward in their order: Cleopatra in herswarthy greatness; Jephtha's daughter, who so gladly obeyed her father'sbehest and died for the cause of Jehovah; Fair Rosamond, Iphigenia, therest of that great group. But Brenda could only think of Helen.
At last, the mistress' voice died away. The passionate words no longerfilled the air. The young actors rushed out of sight, some to changetheir dresses, some to be congratulated by their friends. The lastevent of all the events was over. Congratulation and enthusiasm rose toa great height. Mrs Hazlitt was surrounded by friends who assured herthat they had seldom seen anything finer in its way. Helen of Troystood for a minute apart. There was a swelling lump in her throat. Shehad been the success of the evening. But for her, the tableaux mightalmost have been ridiculous. It was just because she forgot, and didthe 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 soulhad inspired her--that Tennyson's "Dream of Fair Women" had becomesomething to talk of in all the future days of the old school. But theenthusiasm which had filled her breast faded now. She was puzzled andfrightened at her own emotions. She wandered a little way into the woodand, 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 inmy 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 onecould."
"It wasn't me," replied Penelope. "I did it because I couldn't helpmyself. Just for a minute I was raised into something else. Perhaps itwas Mrs Hazlitt's voice; wasn't she wonderful?"
"Yes," said Honora, "but I am thinking of you as you are. Come and becongratulated: you are the heroine of the evening."
"No, I cannot: I don't want them to see me; I would rather just creepaway and put on my plain dress and say good-bye to Brenda; I have hardlyseen her all day."
"Oh, but your sister has been quite happy: she has not been neglected, Ican assure you."
"Still, I must talk to her for a minute or two, and she has to catch hertrain. Let me go, Honora. Don't tell any one that I cried. I amrather 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 morebeautiful than you in face, but that has nothing to do with one'spersonating the part. If you really feel it, you take the character ofthe part until it grows into your face. I could never have been Helen.You did it splendidly, no one could have looked more lovely. Justremember 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 atthe 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 Greekdress for a pretty, simple white one, in which she had been apparelledduring the early part of the day and, after considerable searching,found her sister. Brenda was refreshing herself with cake and claretcup when Penelope came up to her.
"Oh--good gracious!" she said, when she saw Penelope's face very palenow, with her eyes looking lighter and more faded than usual because ofthe sudden tears she had shed. "I do wish to goodness I had not seenyou again to-night."
"What a fearfully unkind thing to say, Brenda, when I have been justlonging to be with you."
"I could have gone home and dreamt all night that I had a beautifulsister," continued Brenda--"but now--"
Just then young Mr Hungerford appeared.
"Ah,"--he said to Brenda--"you have found your sister. May Icongratulate you!" he said; and he looked at poor, dowdy little Penelopewith that wonder which his honest eyes could not but reflect. For howwas it possible that she had ever been got to present one of the mostmajestic 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 theircongratulations. 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 willmind. You should have worn your Greek costume for the rest of theevening; these people would have gone on admiring you."
"No, they wouldn't. Helen with the limelight and the dark wood and thevoice talking above her was not me. She was something quite foreign tome: somebody else got into me just for a minute."
"Oh, how wildly and impossibly you do talk, Penelope! I see you'regoing to be queer as well as plain. Well, unless you wish to saygood-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 samelittle victoria which had brought Brenda from the station was waiting toconvey her back. Penelope was feeling dead tired.
"I shall have a sickening time," she said, "during the holidays allalone 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 useout 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 thinkI admire it."
"Never mind what use I have made of the money. When I write to tell youthat 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 wereapproaching the station, she said to her sister:
"Did you hear about the lost bangle?--it does seem so queer. TheHungerfords 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. Theyseemed quite certain that it slipped out of her hand in the train. Theycan'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 sisterseeing the colour which flew to her cheeks.
"I meant nothing at all," she said. "Only of course when things arelost, everybody gets suspected. In this case, suspicion falls upon thepassengers on the line and the railway officials, so we are well out ofit. Good night, Helen of Troy. Oh, to think that you--you littleinsignificant creature--should ever have represented her!"
The whistle of the train was heard as it approached the station. Brendasprang from the carriage, waved a kiss to her sister, and hurried on tothe platform. A minute later, she was borne out of sight, the goldbangle with its turquoise clasp lying securely in the pocket of herdress.
CHAPTER NINE.
THREE SISTERS CONSULT TOGETHER.
Meanwhile, at the old rectory at Harroway, the girls who were leftbehind were passing a day not without a certain interest. It was Ninawho began all the excitement. Their father, having been disappointed atnot seeing Brenda off, had gone early on a long round of parochialvisits, and the three girls had the breakfast table to themselves.
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bsp; Josephine insisted on pouring out tea. Fanchon quarrelled with her overthis privilege and managed, in the dispute, to spill the contents of themilk jug. Nina sat quiet and thoughtful, making up a little plan in hersmall brain. She was really a very precocious child for her ten years.
"First come, first served!" cried Josephine in her somewhat raspingvoice. "I was down first, and I took possession of the tea tray. Ifyou don't behave yourself, Fanchon, I shall put so much water in yourtea that you won't be able to drink it. See what a horrid mess you havemade! Nina--get up and ring the bell this minute."
"No, I won't," said Nina. "Get up and ring it yourself."
"Well--how horrid!" cried Josephine, who knew that if she left hercoveted post of tea-maker, it would be immediately secured by Fanchon."I suppose we must stand this mess, and there's only a little milk inthe other jug."
"You're quite detestable!" said Fanchon, snapping her fingers withpassion. "What a mercy it is that dear Brenda is with us on other days,or what a frightful mess we'd get into!"
"_Dear_ Brenda, indeed!" cried Nina, in a scornful tone.
"Yes, you do make a fuss about her at times," said Josephine. "But sheis gone for a day--and a good thing, too. You know how cross you areoften with her dictatorial ways and the silly manner in which shemanages to take in poor papa."
"I know something that you don't know," said Fanchon, resigning herselfas passively as she could to a humble seat at the side of the breakfasttable.
"What do you know, Fanchon? Oh, do tell us!" cried Nina.
"Well--I saw _the_ dress last night!"
"What--the dress that Brenda went away in?"
"Yes."
"You _didn't_ see it--she positively refused to let any of us look atit--and I thought it so beastly churlish of her!" said Nina.
"Well, she showed it to me," said Fanchon carelessly, helping herself toa piece of bread and jam as she spoke, "and it was--oh, I tell you,girls, it was just ripping! I never saw such a beautiful creature asBrenda looked in it. I will describe it to you presently, outside inthe garden, but not now. When I have a bit of fun, and a secret totell, I like to make as much of it as possible. I suppose we'll have agood time ourselves some day, although not at present."
"I have something to talk about too in the garden," said Nina; "butfirst I want to have a little chat with papa."
She looked very mysterious and the other girls glanced at her, notparticularly, however, troubling themselves with regard to herappearance. It was Nina's _role_ to be sometimes the mere baby--themost kittenish, babyish thing on earth--and at other times to beinscrutable like the Sphinx. But these things did not really matter toher sisters, who, as they expressed it, saw through her little games.On this occasion, she suddenly darted from her seat and ran out of theroom. She had caught sight of the somewhat greasy coat of the ReverendJosiah, who had returned unexpectedly and was passing the window on hisway to his study.
"There's papa!" screamed Nina--"the very man I want. I'll be backby-and-by."
"What can she be up to now? Little minx!" said Fanchon. "Dear, dear!do you like those pink muslins, Josie? I can't say that I do."
"I don't think about them," said Josephine. "Whatever we wear, we lookfrights."
"Well, sometimes--sometimes I think that dear Brenda rather likes us tolook frights," said Fanchon. "I ought not to say it, for she really hasbeen very good to me--particularly last night--and I believe our bestpolicy at present is to humour her up to the top of her bent. Then ifshe could get engaged, and were married--"
"Engaged! and married!" cried Josephine. "What _do_ you mean, Fanchon?"
"Well--that is what she expects. There's a _he_ somewhere in the worldwho seems to want her, and she thinks he'll be at Marshlands-on-the-Sea,and--and--it _will_ be fun to watch them together. Little Nina shallcreep into the bushes behind them in the evening and listen to what theyare saying--what a joke that'll be!"
"Yes, of course," said Josephine, brightening up very much, "it'll tellus the sort of thing that goes on and prepare us for our own turns," sheadded.
Fanchon laughed.
"Girls like us sometimes have no turns," she continued, "that's theworst of it. Red hair and freckles _are_ so hopeless--you can neverdress up to them; everything depends on how you dress, and somehow, itcan't be done--at least, that is what Brenda says."
"Would you really be glad if Brenda were to leave us?" asked Josephine.
"I think I should--_I_ should be mistress here then, and of course papa,who is so devoted to her, would give her a good wedding and that _would_be sport--and we'd have to have nice frocks for that, and that would besport too!"
"Oh, yes--on the whole it would be nice for Brenda to go, only some oneelse horrid might take her place."
"Well, don't let's sit here any longer in this choking hot room. Let usgo into the garden: we have no lessons of any sort to-day. We can getout the frills of our muslins and continue hemming them."
"I do wonder what is keeping Nina," said Josephine. But Nina herselfhad forgotten her sisters, so great was the interest of this importantoccasion. To begin with--she had caught dear papa. She took dear papaby the button-hole and, slipping her hand through his arm, led him intohis study. The Reverend Josiah was very hot, and the study was cool.Nina was well aware which was dearest papa's most comfortable chair, andshe placed him in it, put a pillow to his head and brought him some coldwater to drink, and then sat down by him without talking.
She had a little shock head of very carroty hair. That hair neitherwaved nor curled. It stood in stubborn awkwardness round her smallface; for it was thick and short and decidedly jagged. Her face waspale, except for its freckles, and her features had the appearance ofbeing put on by the wide palm of a very flat hand. Her eyes wereminute, and she was nearly destitute of eyelashes and eyebrows. Hermouth was a little slit without much colour, but, notwithstanding herdecided plainness, there was a great deal of knowingness in Nina, andshe might be as dangerous a woman by-and-by as was pretty Brenda herselfat the present moment.
"Father,"--she said now--"why did you come back? I thought you weregoing out for the whole livelong day."
"So I did, my dear; but I had not gone a mile before I discovered thatBess had cast a shoe and I was obliged to take her to the forge to beput right. The day is uncommonly hot, and I doubt if I shall begin tocall on my parishioners until the evening."
"I wouldn't if I were you, papa darling," said Nina. "The parishionersdon't care to be bothered in the morning--do they, papa?"
"That is not the question, my dear," said the Reverend Josiah. "Aclergyman's visits ought not to be spoken of as bothers. The peopleought to be truly glad to have spiritual ministrations offered to them."
"I do not understand what that means," said Nina, patting the devotedJosiah's decidedly fat leg. "But I do know that, if I were cookingdinner, or gardening, or any of the sort of things that poor folks do, Iwould be frightfully flustered if you came to see me; and I suppose,papa, what I feel, the parishioners feel."
"No, they don't. They hold me in much too great respect," said MrAmberley, looking with some displeasure at his little daughter.
"Well--p'r'aps so," said Nina, who really didn't care a pin about theparishioners, and whose object in sitting with her father at that momentwas not concerned in the very least with them. "Papa," she said, aftera pause, "I thought when I saw you passing the window how glad you wouldbe to have your little Nina with you."
"And so I am, child--so I am. You are having a holiday to-day onaccount of--of Miss Carlton's being away--Brenda, I mean. You must missher terribly, my dear."
"Oh, no, papa--I don't miss her at all."
"Nina--I am _shocked_ to hear you speak in that tone! When I considerthe expense I go to, to give you the luxury of _such_ an excellentgoverness--such a friend--such a companion, I am _amazed_ at yourremarks!"
"Oh, well,"--said Nina, who did not wish to speak against Miss Carlton,for that would not do at
present--"a holiday is a change to any girl,and we're going to sit out in the garden and hem the flounces of thoselittle cheap frocks you gave us to wear at the seaside."
"What little cheap frocks, my dear? I am not aware that I gave you anyfrocks."
"But that precious Brenda bought them for us out of your money."
"Oh, you mean your nice cottons that you are to wear atMarshlands-on-the-Sea. Well, child, I did the best I could, and I thinkit is unkind of you to talk to me about cheap frocks; for when I allowedthe sum of three pounds for each of my daughters, I could not affordmore. It was a great, great deal of money, Nina, and so you will findyourself when you come to earn it." Nina had just got the informationshe desired. But all she said was--raising solemn eyes to her father'sface:
"The frocks _are_ cheap--they cost sixpence three farthings a yard!"
Mr Amberley got up impatiently.
"I have got to study a passage from Josephus," he said, "which haspuzzled me for some little time; and I don't
