L. Meade - Turquoise and Ruby

That good man was busy preparing his sermon when Brenda’s gentle but distinct knock was heard at the door.

“I am so sorry to disturb you, sir,” she said on entering, and she dropped the prettiest imaginable little curtsey. It was quite old-fashioned, and delighted the rector.

“Please don’t apologise, Miss Carlton,” he said. “You want to speak to me, and I am prepared to listen. What is it all about? I hope my dear girl is not dissatisfied in any way. I know your life here must be a little – a little – dull; but I trust that you are not thinking of leaving us.”

“Leaving you – my dear kind sir?” replied Brenda. “Far indeed are such ideas from my thoughts. I am nothing but a dependent, and lonely at that. Dear Mr Amberley, have I not heard you talk of your sweet children as orphans? Well, am I not an orphan, too?”

“Alas – that it should be the case!” said Mr Amberley.

“It is the case. My darling sister and I were left without parents when she was a very little child and I was a young girl. She has been fortunate enough to be admitted into one of the best schools anywhere in this part of England, or indeed, I may say in England at all. I allude to Hazlitt Chase. You must have heard of the name, sir.”

“Hazlitt Chase?” said Mr Amberley. “Of course I know the name. Lady Sophia L’Estrange has two daughters there – Mary and Juliet. Sweet young girls. Lady Sophia lives about four miles from here. I had not the slightest idea that you had a sister at such a distinguished school, Miss Carlton.”

“I have that privilege,” said Brenda, dropping her eyelids so that her long, curly, black eyelashes could rest in the most becoming manner against her peach-bloomy cheeks.

The rector looked at her with admiration.

“She certainly is a very sweet creature,” he thought.

“What is the name of your sister?” he asked, after a moment’s pause.

“She is called Penelope.”

“How quaint and old-fashioned!”

“She is about to take a somewhat old-fashioned part,” continued Brenda. “I don’t pretend to know the old stories as I ought to; you, sir, who are such a good Greek scholar, must have heard of the character of Helen of Troy.”

“Beautiful Helen!” whispered Mr Amberley, under his breath.

“My sister is to take part in some tableaux which Mrs Hazlitt is presenting of Tennyson’s ‘Dream of Fair Women.’ She wants me to see it, and I am anxious to go. I think that if I leave here by an early train, I can spend the greater part of the day at Hazlitt Chase and return here soon after midnight.”

“That will be a late hour to ask the servants to sit up.”

“But if you will entrust me with a latch-key – ”

“No, no, my dear girl: I will sit up for you myself with pleasure. Of course you shall go.”

“Thank you,” said Brenda: “you are more than kind.” She fidgeted a little, then continued: “It will be a very gay party, and people from many parts of England will assemble there to witness the different events of the day. Tennyson’s ‘Dream of Fair Women’ is, I believe, to take the most distinguished place in the day’s proceedings and, in short, sir – I want to be suitably dressed.”

“Of course – of course,” said Mr Amberley, looking a little confused, as he always was when the subject of money was even approached. “Eh – a neat cotton, eh?”

“Well, sir – it must be something rather better on this occasion; but if I might ask for my quarter’s salary, I have no doubt I can manage.”

“My poor, dear girl! have I forgotten it? How long is it due?”

“It won’t be due for a fortnight, sir; but I thought, under the circumstances, that you might – I mean that you would be so kind – ”

“You shall have a cheque immediately. Let me see – your salary is thirty pounds a year, that means seven pounds ten a quarter. I will write you a cheque for the amount; you can cash it at the bank. Get a pretty cool-looking cotton, my dear Miss Carlton – something with rosebuds on it: you are – so like a rosebud yourself.”

“One minute please, sir. I cannot get the sort of dress I want at Harroway. I must go to Rocheford to make my purchase and I think it would be a good opportunity to get the girls’ dresses for the seaside at the same time.”

“Oh dear, dear, dear!” said Mr Amberley. “Haven’t they got enough dresses from last year?”

“Oh, no!” said Brenda, shaking her head. “They are growing so quickly; you quite forget that.”

“I only know that my funds are very low and that there are a great many sick people in the parish,” said the rector.

“Still your children must be clothed,” said Brenda, putting on a severe air. “You have taken lodgings for them at the sea, and I can’t walk about with girls who are not presentable. I would rather, painful as it seems, resign my post – though of course I don’t really mean to do it, but – ”

The rector looked really terrified.

“You must not neglect my poor orphans! What would my children do without you? But what is necessary? What do you think each will require?”

“I can manage with three pounds for each: that is, nine pounds for the three and seven pounds ten for myself. I know it seems a great deal of money, but you cannot imagine how careful I will be.”

“I am sure – I am certain you will.”

Mr Amberley drew a cheque for the amount. He could not help sighing more than once as he did so. It represented a very large sum to him, and would preclude the possibility of his taking any holiday himself; for little Joe Hoskins and Mary Miller must go to the seaside at any cost. Nevertheless, the picture of his home without Brenda Carlton, and his three orphans neglected and forsaken, was greater than his patience could abide; and he made up his mind to do what Brenda wished, let the consequences be what they might. She had her way also with regard to the horse and trap and returned to her pupils with a cheque in her hand for sixteen pounds ten and a most triumphant expression on her pretty face.

Not the most remote idea had she of spending three pounds on each girl; but she could get them a flimsy muslin each, some brown shoes to wear on the sands, and a cheap hat for each sandy-covered head, which would delight their small minds. The rest of the money would be her own. Thus she would be able to make herself look distinguished, and yet not touch the twenty pounds which Penelope had sent her from school.

“Hurrah!” she cried, as she joined her pupils. “The good little papa has come up to the scratch. You shall have your pink muslins, and hats, and gloves, and shoes besides. Only the muslins must be made at home, and I myself will trim the hats. Now then – prepare for a happy holiday. The pony trap will be at the door by twelve o’clock. Nina, run to cook, and tell her to make up some sandwiches for us and a bottle of lemonade. We need not spend our precious fairings at the confectioner’s if we take home-made provisions with us.”

Nina, in rapture at the happy time which she felt was before her, flew off to obey Brenda’s behests and, sharp at twelve, the little party left the old rectory and drove down through the shady village street.

Brenda drove. She was a capital whip, and never looked better than when she was so employed. More than one person turned to gaze with admiration at the handsome showy girl, and her heart swelled within her with pride and satisfaction as she noticed this fact. At the bank she changed the cheque, taking care that her pupils did not see the amount which swelled her little purse.

They arrived at Rocheford in about an hour, and there a silk of the palest shade of blue was chosen with soft French lace for trimming. Nina was absolutely open-mouthed with admiration as she saw the exquisite fabric being told off in yards by the shopman. After the dress was bought, Brenda purchased very pretty pink muslins for her pupils, and white hats which she meant to trim with cheap white muslin.