Chapter 22 A Bevy of Girls by L. T. Meade
Wrong Set Right
Mr Carter hurried home about six o’clock. He had spent a busy day in Newcastle, and had gone through a few worries. He took the worries of life hard. He was exacting on all nice points of honour, and one of his clerks had deceived him. His mind, therefore, was especially sore as he sank back in the luxurious carriage which was to convey him back to Court Prospect. Halfway back he also remembered the affair of the sovereign. The loss of the sovereign was a mere nothing, but the fact that one of his dependents could steal from a private purse kept in one of his drawers, meant a great deal.
“Of course, it’s that girl,” he thought. “She’s as bad in her way as young Hanson is in his. I am sorry for them both, of course, but as I said to Hanson, if he had told me that he was in money difficulties, I would have helped him out; but instead of that he thought he’d help himself. Well, he has helped himself out of my service for ever; that’s plain, that’s only justice, and that girl, Betty Wren, if she doesn’t confess, she’ll go the same road; I vow it, and I’m a man who never yet broke my word.”
But as he got nearer to the house, more pleasurable thoughts succeeded the dismal ones. There was Jim—his eldest son, his pride, his boy. He had had a business letter from Jim that morning which had not arrived at Court Prospect, but had been sent to his father’s big offices in Newcastle, and in that letter it turned out that Jim had done splendidly. He had acted with tact and diplomacy, and would soon be back again.
“Won’t I give him a good time for this?” thought the father. “He is a lad to be proud of. Hullo, though, who’s that?”
He had turned into the avenue now; the horses were going under the beautiful beech trees at a spanking trot, and a girl was coming slowly to meet him.
“Why, if that isn’t my own Pen,” he said.
He was so amazed and startled that he pulled the check string, and the carriage stopped.
“Hullo, Pen!” he said. “What in the name of wonder are you doing here? What is the matter? Here, jump in, child.”
Pen obeyed.
“I want you, father,” she spoke in a tremulous voice—“I want you to come into the study the very minute you get home. I have something to say to you.”
Mr Carter turned round and gazed at Pen in surprise.
“Have you been ill?” he asked. “Why didn’t you go with the others to Whitby?”
“I’ll tell you when we get in the study.”
He looked at her again, and a frown came between his brows. He did not know why he was suddenly reminded of young Hanson and of Betty Wren, but he was. Oh, of course it was all nonsense, his little Pen—and yet she kept her face averted.
Presently they reached the house. Her father helped her out of the carriage.
“Now, come along, child,” he said with a sort of gentle roughness. “I guess by your manner that you have got into a bit of a scrape. I cannot make out what it is, but you are right to come to the old father; the old father will help you, if he can. What on earth are you trembling for?”
“Oh, come at once to the study, father.”
Pen pulled him along. He was tired, he had gone through a hard day; he wanted his customary cup of tea; he wanted to go into the garden and talk to Archer. He loved his garden, he enjoyed counting his peaches and gloating over his fruit trees, and considering how he could make more and more money out of the old place. He was terribly keen about money making. He was interested in money, it was a power, and he meant to have it whatever else he failed in.
But there was Pen, why had she not gone with the others to Whitby? Something ailed her; she was his youngest. He was fonder of Penelope than of any of his other children, except Jim. Jim, of course, was altogether on a different platform; there was no one like Jim in the world. It was worth struggling hard to make a fortune for a boy like Jim.
So he hurried as fast as Pen could wish, and presently she burst open the door of his study. There, standing by the window, was the white-robed vision which had so startled, so stirred, so moved Pen herself a few hours ago. The white vision came forward slowly, and Mr Carter looked with dazzled eyes at the girl he most wished to know, Angela St. Just. She was in his study, she was coming to meet him.
“I must introduce myself,” she said. “You have, of course, met my father in business matters, Mr Carter, but I want to see you on quite a different subject.”
“Miss St. Just,” said the startled man.
“Yes, I am Angela St. Just, Penelope’s friend.”
Mr Carter turned and looked at Pen as though he suddenly loved her passionately.
“Penelope’s friend; and I trust I may be able to help her through a rather difficult matter.”
“Now, what in the name of fortune does this mean?” said Mr Carter. “You here, Miss St. Just, you here in your old home, when they said that neither you nor your father could abide to come near the place, and yet you are here! What does it mean? I don’t understand.”
“Penelope will explain,” said Angela very gently. Then Penelope came forward. She made a valiant struggle, and after a minute or two some words came to her lips.
“Clay says that perhaps you will kill me. I don’t think you can forgive me. Father, it was I who took that sovereign out of your purse—the purse you always put money in to pay the men’s wages. I took it in the middle of the week, father.”
Mr Carter had forgotten Angela by this time. What was this—what was the matter? He was so absorbed, so stunned by Pen’s words that he could scarcely contain himself. He made one step forward, seized her hand, drew her to the light.
“What?” he said. “Say those words again.”
“I took your sovereign.”
“You—you, my child, stole my money!”
Angela now moved slowly across the room and put her hand on Pen’s shoulder.
“She is very, very sorry,” said Angela. “She feels heartbroken; she failed just in the one thing, she had not the courage to confess. But because you discovered the theft she would not go to Whitby to-day; she was determined to stay and brave it out.”
“And she came,” said Pen, “and she told me that I ought to tell you.”
There was no word about Jim. Pen had determined that Jim was to be left out of the matter.
But just at that moment there was a noise in the hall, a hurried step, a cheerful tone, and Jim himself burst into the room.
“Oh, father! You here, Pen? Oh, my darling, I am ever so sorry! Father, I forgot all about it in the other excitement, but it’s all right, it’s all right. We’re all right, everything is all right, and—and Pen told me. I said I would speak to you, but when you sent me away in such a hurry, I forgot, and Pen, I suppose she was frightened. Pen, can you forgive me?”
“Then you never got my letter?” said Pen. “I sent it to the Holroyds’, I knew you were there.”
Mr Carter looked troubled. He went up and took Jim’s hand.
“I am ever so puzzled,” he said. “I accused that girl, Betty Wren, and it seems—but tell me the whole story, Pen. I must hear it from beginning to end. Then I shall be able to decide.”
So Pen told him the story. Angela stood very gravely by. She stood a little bit in the background, and the shadow of the great curtain partly concealed her face, but the light of evening fell across her white dress, so that her whole appearance was like that of a pitying angel, who was waiting for the moment when the sinner was to be forgiven. Mr Carter looked from one of his children to the other, then at Angela.
“You have pretty high ideas of honour,” he said. “You know what this sort of thing means. Now, tell me what you would do if you were in my shoes.”
“There is no doubt whatever about what you will do,” said Angela.
“You think, don’t you—I believe saints always do—that sin ought to be punished.”
“We have the Divine Example,” said Angela in a low tone.
Mr Carter looked at her.
“You said a strange thing a minute ago; you said you were Penelope’s friend,” he remarked.
“So I am, from this day forward, as long as we both live.”
“You are in rare luck,” said Carter, looking gloomily at Pen, “to have a friend like that.” He walked to the other end of the room and began to stride up and down. He was hurt beyond anything he could have imagined. What was he to do? How was he to endure his own misery? It was bad enough to have a servant in the house who could be dishonest, bad enough to have a clerk who could steal, but here was his own child.
“Did I ever deny you anything?” he said.
“No, father.”
“Couldn’t you come to me and ask me for the money?”
“I was so terrified and afraid—oh, I have no excuse.”
“That is it,” said Angela. “She has no excuse whatever. It is not a case of excuse, it is a case of a girl having done wrong, and being bitterly sorry, and having confessed her fault. Now you come in, sir.”
“I come in, pray?” he said.
He forgot that the speaker was Miss St. Just, she was just a girl addressing him. But there was wonderful power in her voice.
“Of course you come in. What would God do in such a case?”
Carter turned away.
“Oh, father, you will, you will forgive me.”
“I come in, forsooth!” said the man. “I, who made a fool of myself this morning, and told that poor girl that she certainly had done it, but that if she confessed I would forgive her!”
“Then there is a similar case,” said Angela. “Penelope has confessed, so you ought to forgive her.”
“I don’t know—I don’t know,” he said.
“Oh, father, mayn’t I bring Betty down, and may I tell her that I was the real thief?”
“No good in that, child. No good in making it public.”
“Of course, father, you’ll have to forgive Pen,” said Jim’s sturdy young voice at that moment.
“If you wish it, Jim—if you wish it, of course there is nothing more to be said. What do you feel about it? You have metal in you; you’re made of the right stuff. What do you feel about this matter?”
“I feel that I have never loved Pen more than I do at this moment. I never was so proud of her. She has grit in her, she is worth all the rest of us, to my way of thinking.”
“No, that is not so; but if you wish it, Jim, and you, Miss St. Just.”
“I do wish it,” said Angela.
“Then I will say nothing more. Pen, I am disappointed; I am bitterly hurt, but I will say nothing more.”
He took the child’s hand, held it for a minute, looked into her face, and said:
“Why, I do believe you have suffered, you poor bit of a thing.”
Then he abruptly kissed her on her forehead and left the room.