by L. T. Meade
induce Sir Edwardand his daughter to come here and stay for the night I think I canmanage the old gentleman."
Here a peculiar knowing expression passed over Mr Carter's face. Clarawatched him.
"What a clever old dad it is," she said.
"You'd like it, wouldn't you, Clay?" he said, putting his hand under herchin and turning her face round until he looked at her. "Upon my wordyou have a look of your mother, child. I was very fond of her," hecontinued, and then he stooped and printed an unlooked-for kiss onClara's young cheek.
She was unaccustomed to special attentions from her parent.
"I'd be ever so glad if they came," she said. "And I'm sure if you wishit they will come."
"Yes, it's all right now that you've been introduced to Miss Angela.Now, look here; couldn't we send them a present of fruit--fruit from thegarden? They'd like some fruit from their own old garden, wouldn't theynow?"
Clara saw no impropriety in that.
"Fruit and vegetables; we'd send some vegetables, too," said Mr Carter."Those marrowfat peas are just in their prime. We might send them acouple of pecks, and--and some peaches; they are just getting perfectlyripe now in the hothouses--peaches, nectarines, apricots, peas, and afew melons wouldn't be unacceptable, would they? What do you say, eh?"
"Just as you like, Dad, of course."
Clara went off to the house to inform her sisters of what was happening.Penelope had gone to bed.
"Why, where is Pen?" she said.
"I don't know; she seems to be sulky, and she said she had a headache.She'll sleep it off; don't bother about her," said Annie, with a yawn.
The elder sister sat down and divulged to the younger ones what wasabout to happen.
"We've got," she said, "rather to drop the Aldworths--they're all verywell in their way, but with the exception of Marcia, father doesn't wantus to see too much of them."
"I'm heartily glad," said Mabel; "I'm about sick of them."
"I call it beastly meant--" said Jim, raising his face from where he wasapparently buried in the pages of a magazine.
"Hullo!" cried Clara. "You there? What are you listening to us for?"
"Well, I don't care--I call it beastly mean to drop people when you haveonce taken them up so strongly, more particularly when you have achievedyour object."
"And pray what's that?"
"You know quite well you have been angling to get an introduction toMiss Angela St Just. Well, I happen to know that you've got it, andnow you want to drop the girls."
"Not Marcia," said Clay; "we are quite willing to be friends with her.She must come and stay with us--it is her turn. It will be delightfulto have her here with Angela St Just."
"I call it beastly free of you to call her by her Christian name."
"Jim, I wish you'd mind your manners. I'm sure I'm not half so rude inmy speech as you are, and of course I wouldn't call her that to herface."
"I should hope not indeed," said Jim. "I don't understand girls, andthat's the truth."
He marched away. The night was a dark one, but warm. He went downthrough the shrubbery; he passed a little arbour where Clara andPenelope had had their interrupted conference a little earlier in theevening. He thought he heard some one sobbing. The sound smote on hisear.
"Hullo," he said, "who's there?"
The sobs ceased; there was dead silence. He went in, struck a match,and saw Penelope crouched in a corner.
"Why you poor little wretch," he said, "what in the world is wrong withyou? Why are you out here by yourself, and crying as though your heartwould break? Why, a poacher might come across you, and then what afright you'd get!"
"A poacher? You don't really think so, Jim?"
"Of course I don't; but you are as cold as charity. Here, snuggle up tome. What's the matter, old girl?"
"Oh, Jim, I stole a sovereign from father to-day; I took it out of hispurse in his bedroom when all the visitors were here. I opened thedrawer and took a sovereign out of the purse and slipped it into mypocket. At the time I thought I'd tell him, but now I haven't thecourage. I thought perhaps Clay would tell him, but I couldn't get itout--Oh, I'm a very miserable girl. I don't know what to do--"
"But tell me," said Jim, "what in the world did you want with asovereign? To think that my sister should steal just like thecommonest, lowest-minded, most unprincipled girl."
"Oh, don't rub it in so hard, Jim. Don't, don't," said Penelope.
"Well, tell me all about it."
She did tell him.
"It was Nesta--we had a bet--it was about Clay and that horrid St Justgirl. We made a bet that if Clay got an introduction through MarciaAldworth that Nesta should have a sovereign; but if it was the otherway, I was to have the sovereign. I didn't think about it, for I knewshe could never pay it if she lost, but somehow or other it all cameabout as she wished, and she came tearing over with that horrid friendof hers, Flossie Griffiths, and dashed into the middle of our party.She would speak to me, and she took me away and demanded the money. Idid what I could to put her off; but she said she'd go straight tofather and tell him before every one that I had made a bet and brokenit. So I was desperate; I took the only money I could find. Oh, whatam I to do; what am I to do? Do you think father will be frightfullyangry?"
"I expect he won't much like it."
"Oh, Jim, what am I to do?"
"I'll see about it," said Jim. "Now, look here, Pen, I'm not going tolet you off altogether; it would not be right; but you are a good, bravechild to have told me, and I am glad to know: You might have done worse,and you might have done better. I didn't know that a sister of minecould be bullied by that sort of girl. I should like to give that Nestaa piece of my mind. I vow I should."
"But what will father say on Saturday?"
"You'll have to own up. I could give you the sovereign, of course, andyou could put it back into his purse, but that wouldn't teach you alesson. We fellows at school--we boys, wouldn't do a thing of thatsort, and it wouldn't be straight for me to shield you, and let you putthe money back without telling him anything about it. But I'll help youto tell father. Now, you can go straight off to bed. I'll help you,old girl, when you are telling him. Good-night, good-night."
"You are a brick! You are a dear," said Pen. She crushed her faceagainst his cheek; he felt her tears and rubbed them away shamefacedlyafterwards.
For some time he sat on in the little summerhouse in which Angela StJust had sat when a child, and which had not yet been destroyed for amore elegant and modern edifice. When he went back to the house it wasto ponder over many things. Jim was the most thoughtful of the family;he had grit in him, which was more than any of the other Carters, theirfather excepted, possessed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
RELIEF INTERCEPTED.
It is an old proverb that man proposes and God disposes. Certainly whenJim Carter went to bed that night he had not the most remote idea of nothelping his little sister through her difficulties. But a veryunexpected and strange thing happened. His father went up to him in theearly hours of the morning and told him that young as he was he wasabout to send him on a very delicate mission, which no one else couldexecute so skilfully.
"You know, Jim," he said, "you are older than your years, and you are toleave school next term and enter my business. My clerk, Hanson, whoought to have attended to this business, has absconded, taking somemoney with him, and I have no one who can fill his place. I want you,my lad, to go over to Paris for me, and to deliver this letter in personto the firm, the address of which you will find on the back. You cantalk French nearly as well as a native; you have never been therebefore, but I want you to catch the very earliest train, the one thatleaves Newcastle at half-past six in the morning. You will then be intime to catch the mail to Paris. When you have done my commission, youmay go to one of the hotels and amuse yourself for two or three days.You must stay there until I get my answer. I want the thing doneprivately. It is a very important piece of business,
and I cannotattend to it myself, for I am so busy in Newcastle just now that Icannot possibly be spared. But you will do it, Jim, and if you manageit well I won't forget you, my lad. Here is forty pounds. You won'tspend anything like that in Paris, but you may as well have the money inyour pocket as not. You can go first-class, if you please; showyourself a gentleman, and act with discretion. You won't be questionedwith regard to anything, and no one is to know where you are. Now then,up you get, and