CHAPTER III.LADY LYSLE.
At about a quarter to four that same afternoon three girls prepared to walk over to Meredith Manor. It was for such golden opportunities that Molly and Isabel kept their best frocks; it was for just such occasions that they arrayed themselves most neatly and becomingly. Their dress, it must be owned, was limited in quantity and also in quality; but on the present occasion, in their pretty white spotted muslins, with pale-blue sashes round their waists and white muslin hats to match, they looked as charming a young pair of English girls as could be found in the length and breadth of the land. It is true their feet were not nearly as perfectly shod as Maggie’s, nor were their gloves quite so immaculate; but then they were going to play tennis, and shoes and gloves did not greatly matter in the country. Maggie thought otherwise. Her tan tennis-shoes exactly toned with her neatly fitting brown holland dress. The little hat she wore on her head was made of brown straw trimmed very simply with ribbon; it was an ugly hat, but on Maggie’s head it seemed to complete her dress, to be a part of her, so that no one noticed in the least what she wore except that she looked all right.
Two boys with worshiping eyes watched the trio as they stepped down the rectory avenue and disappeared from view. Two boys fought a little afterward, but made it up again, and then lay on the grass side by side and discussed Maggie, pulling her to pieces in one sense, but adoring her all the same.
Meanwhile the girls themselves chatted as girls will when the heart is light and there is no care anywhere. It was very hot, even hotter than it had been in the morning; but when they reached the road shaded so beautifully by the elm-trees they found a delicious breeze which fanned their faces. Somehow, Maggie never seemed to suffer from weather at all. She was never too cold; she was never too hot; she was never ill; no one had ever heard her complain of ache or pain. She was always joyous, except when she was sympathizing with somebody else’s sorrow, and then her sympathy was detached—that is, it did not make her personally sad, although it affected and helped the person who was the recipient of it to a most remarkable extent. One of Maggie’s great attractions was her absolute health, her undiminished strength, the fact that she could endure almost any exertion without showing a trace of fatigue.16
Molly and Isabel were also strong, hearty, well-made girls, and the excitement of this expedition caused them to chatter more volubly than usual. Maggie had a good deal to tell them with regard to the new school, and they had a great deal to tell her with regard to the Cardews.
Just as they were entering the avenue Maggie turned and faced her two companions. “May I say something?” she asked eagerly.
“Why, of course, Mags,” said Molly.
“Well, it’s this: from what you told me of your friends, they must be the most profoundly uninteresting girls.”
“Oh no, indeed they are not!” said Isabel stanchly. “Merry has a great deal in her, and Cicely is so nice-looking! We think she will be beautiful by-and-by; but Merry undoubtedly has the most character. Then there is something dignified and aristocratic about them, and yet they are not really proud, although they might be, for they are so rich, and Meredith Manor is such a wonderful old house.”
“Didn’t you tell me,” said Maggie, “that Meredith Manor belonged to Mrs. Cardew?”
“Did I?” said Isabel, coloring in some confusion. “I am sure I don’t know; I don’t remember saying it. I don’t think Mrs. Cardew is the sort of woman who would call anything hers apart from her husband. She is devoted to him, and no wonder, for he is quite charming. He is nearly as charming as father, and that’s saying a great deal.”
“Do let’s come on. We’ll be late!” said Molly impatiently.
“No, not quite yet, please,” said Maggie. “I want to understand the position. Mrs. Cardew was a Miss Meredith?”
“Yes, dear Maggie; but what does that matter?”
“And,” continued Maggie, “she was the heiress of Meredith Manor?”
“I suppose so. Father can tell you exactly.”
“Oh, I don’t want to question him, but I want to get my bearings. On the mother’s side, the Cardew girls belong to the country. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, yes, yes. Do come on.”
“But their father,” continued Maggie, “he is in trade, isn’t he?”
“He’s a perfect gentleman,” said Isabel stoutly; “no one looks down on trade in these days.”
“Of course not. I adore trade myself,” said Maggie. She now proceeded to walk very slowly up the avenue. She was evidently thinking hard. After a time she said, “I mean to get those girls to come to school with you, Molly, and with you, Isabel, in September.”
Both the Tristrams burst into a peal of merry laughter. “Oh Mags!” they cried, “we never did think before that you were conceited. You certainly overrate even your powers when you imagine that you will get Mr. Cardew to change his mind.”
“What do you mean by his changing his mind?”17
“Why, this,” said Belle. “He has set his face from the very first against his girls leaving home. He wishes them to have a home education, and that alone.”
“Oh, that is all right,” said Maggie cheerfully. “Well, what will you bet, girls, that I have my way?”
“We don’t want you to lose, Maggie; but you certainly will not get your way in this particular.”
“Well, now, I am going to be generous. I am not rich; but I have got two gold bracelets at home, and I will give one to each of you for your very own if I succeed in bringing Cicely and Merry Cardew to Mrs. Ward’s school.”
“Oh! oh!” exclaimed both the Tristram girls.
“You’ll get your bracelets,” said Maggie in a most confident tone, “and I can assure you they are beauties; my darling father brought them from India years and years ago. He brought a lot of jewels for mother and me, and I will get the bracelets for you—one each—if I succeed; but you must allow me to manage things my own way.”
“But you won’t do anything—anything—to upset the Cardews?” said Isabel.
“Upset them!” said Maggie. “Well, yes, I do mean to upset them. I mean to alter their lives; I mean to turn things topsyturvy for them; but I’ll manage it in such a fashion that neither you, nor Molly, nor your father, nor your mother, nor anyone will suspect how I have got my way, but get it I will. I thought I’d tell you, that’s all. You’d like to have them at school with you, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh yes, very much indeed,” said Molly.
“I am not so sure,” said Isabel. “It’s rather fun coming back to the rectory in the holidays and telling the Cardew girls all about what we do and how we spend our time. There’ll be nothing to tell them if we all go to the same school.”
“Well,” said Maggie, “I don’t agree with you. I expect, on the contrary, you’ll find a vast lot more to talk about. But come, let’s hurry now; I want to be introduced to them, for I have no time to lose.”
Neither Isabel nor Molly could quite make out why they felt a certain depression after Maggie Howland had explained her views. The thought of the possible possession of the bracelets did not greatly elate them. Besides, there was not the most remote chance of even such a fascinating young person as Maggie succeeding in her project. She would meet her match, if not in Mrs. Cardew, then in Mr. Cardew. There was no doubt whatever on that point. But they greatly wished she would not try. They did not want her to upset the placid existence of their young friends. The girls who lived at the Castle, the girls who pursued their sheltered, happy, refined life, were in a manner mysterious and remote to the young Tristrams, and they thought that they would not love them any more if they were brought into closer contact with them.18
A turn in the avenue now brought the old manor-house into view. Some friends of Mrs. Cardew’s had arrived, but there were no other young people to be seen. Cicely and Merry were standing talking to a lady of middle age who had come to pay an afternoon call, when Cicely found herself changing color and glancing eagerly at Merry.
“Oh, will you excuse me?” she said in her pretty, refined voice. “Our special friends the Tristrams, the rector’s daughters, and a friend of theirs, a Miss Howland, are coming up the avenue.”
“Certainly, my dear,” said Lady Lysle; and Cicely and Merry were off down the avenue like arrows from the bow to meet their friends.
Lady Lysle watched the two girls, and then turned to speak to Mrs. Cardew.
“What name was that I heard Cicely say?” was her remark. “Of course I know the Tristrams, but who was the girl who was with them?”
“A special friend of theirs, a Miss Howland. She has been their school companion abroad. She is staying with them at the rectory. Why, what is the matter, Lady Lysle? Do you know anything about her?”
“I don’t know her,” said Lady Lysle, “but I know a little bit about her mother. I should not have supposed the Tristram girls and Miss Howland were in the same set.”
“Why, what is wrong?” said Mrs. Cardew, who was exceedingly particular as regarded the people whom her daughters knew.
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” said Lady Lysle. “I happen not particularly to like Mrs. Howland; but doubtless I am prejudiced.”
She turned to talk to a neighbor, and by this time the five girls had met. There was an eager interchange of greetings, and then Maggie found herself walking up the avenue by Merry’s side, while Cicely found a place between the two Tristram girls.
“I am so glad you’ve come!” said Merry in her gentle, polite voice.
“It is kind of you to ask me,” replied Maggie. “Do you know,” she added, turning and fixing her curious eyes on her companion’s face, “that I am one of those poor girls who have never seen a beautiful house like yours before.”
“I am so glad you like our house,” said Merry; “but you haven’t seen it yet.”
“I am looking at it now. So this is what I am accustomed to hear spoken of as one of the ‘Homes of England’?”
“It certainly is a home,” said Merry, “and an old one, too. Parts of the Manor have been centuries in existence, but some parts, of course, are comparatively new.”
“Will you take me all over it, Miss Cardew?” asked Maggie.
“Indeed, I shall be delighted; but you must come another19day for that, for we want to make up some sets of tennis without any delay. We have all our afternoon planned out. There are three or four young people who may arrive any moment, so that we shall be able to make two good sets.”
“How wonderful it all is!” said Maggie, who kept on looking at the house with ever-increasing admiration, and did not seem particularly keen about tennis.
“Don’t you like tennis, Miss—Miss Howland?” said Merry.
“Oh yes,” replied Maggie after a pause; “but then I think,” she added, after yet another pause, “that I like every nice thing in all the world.”
“How delightful that must be!” said Merry, becoming more and more attracted by Maggie each moment. “And you know a lot, too, don’t you? For you have seen so much of the world.”
“I know very little,” replied Maggie; “and as to having seen the world, that is to come. I am quite young, you know—only just sixteen.”
“But Isabel and Molly told me that you knew more than any other girl of their acquaintance.”
Maggie gave a cheerful laugh, and said, “You mustn’t mind what they say, poor darlings! The fact is, they’re fond of me, and they magnify my knowledge; but in reality it doesn’t exist. Only, I must tell you, Miss Cardew, I mean to see everything, and to know everything. I mean to have a glorious future.”
The enthusiasm in the charming voice was also seen, to shine through those queer, narrow eyes. Merry felt her heart beat. “I am going to tell you something in return,” she said, speaking, for a wonder, without diffidence, for she was naturally very shy and retiring. “I wish with all my heart that I could live a glorious life such as you describe.”
“And surely you can?” said Maggie.
“No, I must be satisfied with a very quiet life. But we won’t talk of it now. I am really very happy. I should consider myself a most wicked, discontented girl were I anything else. And, please, may I take you to see mother?”
Merry brought up her new friend to introduce her to Mrs. Cardew, who for the first moment, remembering what Lady Lysle had said, was a trifle stiff to Maggie Howland, but two minutes afterward was chatting to her in a pleasant and very friendly manner. She even went the length of personally introducing Maggie to Lady Lysle, excusing herself for the act by saying that Lady Lysle knew her mother.
Maggie also succeeded in charming Lady Lysle, who said to Mrs. Cardew afterward, “I am glad you have introduced the girl to me. She is not in the least like her commonplace, affected mother. She seems a very good sort, and I like plain girls.”
“But is she plain?” said Mrs. Cardew in some astonishment. “Do you know, I never noticed it.”20
Lady Lysle laughed. “You never noticed how remarkably plain that girl is, my dear friend?” she said.
“To be frank with you,” said Mrs. Cardew, “I didn’t think of her face at all. She has a pretty manner and a nice, sensible, agreeable way of talking. I do not think my girls can suffer injury from her.”
“They seem to like her, at any rate,” said Lady Lysle, looking significantly as she spoke at the distant part of the grounds, where Maggie, with Cicely at one side of her and Merry at the other, was talking eagerly. “Oh yes, she seems a nice child,” continued the great lady, “and it would be unfair to judge a girl because her mother is not to one’s taste.”
“But is there anything really objectionable in the mother?” asked Mrs. Cardew.
“Nothing whatsoever, except that she is pushing, vulgar, and shallow. I am under the impression that the Howlands are exceedingly poor. Of course they are not to be blamed for that, but how the mother can manage to send the girl to expensive schools puzzles me.”
“Ah, well,” said Mrs. Gardew in her gentle voice, “the child is evidently very different from her mother, and I must respect the mother for doing her best to get her girl well educated.”
“Your girls are not going to school, are they, Sylvia?” asked Lady Lysle.
“Mine? Of course not. Their father wouldn’t hear of it.”
“On the whole, I think he is right,” said Lady Lysle, “though there are advantages in schools. Now, that school at Kensington, Aylmer House, which my dear friend Mrs. Ward conducts with such skill and marvelous dexterity, is a place where any girl might receive advantages.”
“Is it possible,” said Mrs. Cardew, “that Mrs. Ward is your friend?”
“My very great friend, dear. I have known her all my life. Aylmer House is particularly select. My niece Aneta is at the school, and her mother is charmed with it.”
“But that is very strange,” said Mrs. Gardew after a pause. “You must talk to-night to our rector when he comes. Oh yes, of course you’ll stay to supper.”
“I cannot, I regret to say.”
“Well, then, if you won’t, there’s no use in pressing you. But I have something curious to say. The rector’s two little girls are going to Aylmer House in September, and that little Miss Howland whom I just introduced to you is also one of the girls under Mrs. Ward’s care.”
“Then she will do well,” said Lady Lysle alter a pause, during which her face looked very thoughtful.
“I wonder if she knows your niece,” said Mrs. Cardew.
Lady Lysle laughed. “I presume she does. The school only contains twenty boarders—never any more. I happen to know that there are two vacancies at the present moment.21Really, if I were you, Sylvia, I would give your girls a couple of years there. It would do them a world of good, and they would acquire some slight knowledge of the world before they enter it.”
“Impossible! quite impossible!” said Mrs. Cardew; “their father would never consent.”
CHAPTER IV.POWER WAS EVERYTHING TO MAGGIE.
Meanwhile the young people enjoyed themselves vastly. Maggie was very modest with regard to her tennis, but she quickly proved that she could play better than any one else at the Manor that day. The visitors walking about the grounds paused to remark on her excellent play and to inquire who she was. She took her little triumph very modestly, saying that she was rather surprised at herself, and supposed that it was the fresh and delicious air of the country which had put her into such good form.
“She is ridiculously overmodest,” said Isabel Tristram to Merry, “for she always did play every sort of game better than the rest of us. She is not quite so good at her books; except, indeed, at certain things, such as recitation. I wish you could see and hear her then. She is almost a genius. She looks like one inspired.”
“I think her quite delightful,” said Merry; “and as to being plain––”
“I told you, didn’t I?” said Belle, “that you’d never notice her looks after you had seen her for a minute or two.”
By-and-by it was time for the family to go into the house for supper at Meredith Manor. The three girls from the rectory were taken upstairs, to a spacious bedroom to wash their hands and brush their hair. Molly and Isabel were both most anxious to know what Maggie thought of Cicely and Merry.
“What I think of them?” said Maggie. “Oh, they’re first-rate, and not really dull at all; and the whole place is lovely, and all the people I met to-day were so nice, except, indeed, that Lady Lysle.”
“Lady Lysle!” exclaimed Molly in a tone of astonishment. “Why, she is Mrs. Cardew’s greatest friend. Do you mean to say you were introduced to her?”
“Yes, Mrs. Cardew was kind enough to do so, though I am sure I didn’t want it at all.”
“But I can’t imagine why she did it,” said Molly in a tone of astonishment. “Mrs. Cardew never introduces either of us to the grown-up people.”
“Well, her ostensible reason,” said Maggie, “was that Lady Lysle knows my mother.”
“Does she, indeed?” said Isabel in a tone of great respect.22
“But that doesn’t make me like her any the better,” said Maggie. “And now I will tell you why, girls, only you must faithfully promise you won’t repeat it to any one.”
“Of course not,” said the girls eagerly, who were accustomed to receive secrets from their schoolfellows, though Maggie, as a rule, never gave her secrets to anyone.
“Well, I will tell you,” said Maggie, the color flushing into her face and then leaving it pale again. “Aneta Lysle is one of the girls at Aylmer House. She is Lady Lysle’s niece; and—well—you know I am tolerant enough, but I can’t bear Aneta Lysle.”
Molly and Isabel were silent for a minute.
“Ifyoucan’t bear her,” said Isabel, “then I don’t suppose we’ll like her either when we go to the school.”
“Oh yes, you will; you’ll adore her—sure to. Now promise once again that you will never repeat this.”
“We certainly will not,” said Molly.
Isabel nodded emphatically. “We don’t tell secrets,” she said. Then she added, “We had best go downstairs now, if you’re quite tidy, Mags.”
During supper that night Mrs. Cardew, who found herself seated near her favorite rector, began to ply him with questions with regard to Aylmer House. How had he heard of it, and why had he specially fixed on that establishment for his daughters?
The rector smiled. He had twinkling dark eyes, and they now looked down the long table until they rested for a brief moment on Maggie’s young figure. She was talking to Mr. Cardew, who, stately and reserved as he was, took her remarks with good-natured tolerance.
“A nice, unaffected child,” he kept saying to himself, and neither did he remark how plain she was.
“That young person yonder,” said Mr. Tristram to Mrs. Cardew, “is the influence that has induced me to make arrangements for my girls at Aylmer House.”
“Miss Howland! You don’t mean to say that you are influenced by a schoolgirl?”
Mr. Tristram looked grave. “In this case I may as well confess at once that I have been influenced,” he said. “I have heard a great deal of the child from Molly and Isabel, for they were all three at the same excellent school in Hanover. I met little Miss Howland when I was in London at Christmas. Being such a great friend of my children’s, I naturally talked to her. She told me of Mrs. Ward and of the new delightful school to which she was going. She certainly never once pressed me to send my girls there, but it occurred to me that I would visit Mrs. Ward and see if it could be arranged. My girls are quite proficient for their ages in foreign languages; but I want them now thoroughly to learn literature and English history, and also those numerous small accomplishments which are so necessary for a gentlewoman. There is also no place in the world like London,23in my opinion, for hearing good music and seeing good art. I saw Mrs. Ward. A short interview with her was all-sufficient. I could not desire to put my girls in safer hands.”
Mrs. Cardew listened very attentively.
“Then you think, Mr. Tristram,” she said after a pause, “that school-life is really good for girls?”
“In my humble opinion, Mrs. Cardew, it is essential. A girl must find her level. She can only find it at school.”
“Then what about my dear girls?” said Mrs. Cardew.
The rector bowed in a very courteous manner. “School-life may not be really necessary for them,” he said; “although you know my opinion—in short you know what I would do with them did they belong to me.”
Mrs. Cardew was silent for a minute or two. Then she continued the conversation by saying, “It is really a curious fact that Lady Lysle, my great friend, who was here this afternoon, spoke to me in terms of the warmest approbation with regard to Mrs. Ward and Aylmer House. She says that her own niece Aneta is a member of the school. She further said that there were two vacancies at present, and she urged me to send my girls there. But, alas I cannot do that, for their father would not hear of it.”
“I do wish he would hear of it,” said Mr. Tristram with some feeling. “You will never have your girls properly taught unless they go to school. It is impossible at this distance from London to command the services of the best masters and governesses. You will not have a resident governess in the house—forgive me if I speak freely, dear lady, but I love your children as though they were my own—and if you could persuade Mr. Cardew to seize this opportunity and let them go to school with Molly and Isabel I am certain you would never regret it.”
“I wish I could persuade him,” said Mrs. Cardew; “more particularly as that excellent music master, Mr. Bennett, has just written to say he must discontinue giving his music-lessons, as the distance from Warwick is too far for his health, and Miss Beverley, their daily governess, has also broken down. But there, I know my husband never will agree to part with the girls.”
“Then the next best thing,” said Mr. Tristram, speaking in a cheerful tone, “is for you to take up your abode in your London house, and give the girls the advantages of masters and mistresses straight from the Metropolis. Why, you will be bringing them out in a couple of years, Mrs. Cardew, and you would like them to have all possible advantages first.”
“Something must be done, certainly,” said Mrs. Cardew; “and I like that girl, Miss Howland, although Lady Lysle seemed prejudiced against her at first.”
“Oh, she is a girl in a thousand,” said Mr. Tristram; “so matter-of-fact and amiable and agreeable. See how she is talking to your husband at this very moment! I never saw24a nicer or more modest young creature, but she is so exceedingly clever that she will push her own way anywhere. She has bowled over my two young urchins already, although she has been only a few hours at the rectory. What could Lady Lysle have to say against Maggie Howland?”
“Oh, nothing—nothing at all, and I ought not to have spoken; but it seems she does not much care for Mrs. Howland.”
“I think I can explain that,” said Mr. Tristram. “Mrs. Howland means well, but is a rather silly sort of woman. The girl manages her in the sweetest way. The girl herself takes after her father, poor Howland the African explorer, who lost his life in his country’s cause. He had, I am told, a most remarkable personality.”
When Molly and Isabel Tristram, accompanied by Maggie Howland, the rector, and his wife, walked back to the rectory that evening, Maggie was in excellent spirits. It was natural that the three young people should start on in front. Maggie talked on various subjects; but although the Tristrams were most anxious to get opinions from her with regard to the Cardews, she could not be led to talk of them until they were approaching the house.
It was now nearly eleven o’clock, and a perfect summer night. The boys, Jack and Andrew, had gone to bed, but a few lights were twinkling here and there in the dear old rectory.
“Oh, I am not a scrap sleepy”, said Maggie. “This air stimulates one; it is splendid. By the way, girls,” she added, suddenly turning and facing her companions, “would you like your bracelets to have rubies in them or sapphires?”
“Nonsense!” said Molly, turning crimson.
Belle laughed. “You don’t suppose you are accomplishing that?” she said.
Maggie spoke rather slowly. “Mother has one dozen bracelets in her jewelry-case. Father brought them to her in the course of his travels. Some he got in India and some in Africa. They are very valuable and exceedingly quaint, and I recall now to my memory, and can-see clearly in my mind’s eye one lovely gold bracelet fashioned like a snake and with eyes of ruby, and another (which I think he must have got at Colombo) that consists of a broad gold band studded here and there with sapphires. How pretty those bracelets would look on your dear little arms, Molly and Isabel; and how glad—how very, very glad—your Maggie will be to give them to you!”
“And, of course, when you do give them to us we’ll be delighted to have them,” said Molly and Isabel.
Then Isabel laughed and said, “But what is the good of counting your chickens before they’re hatched?”
“I consider my chickens hatched,” was Maggie’s remark, “What fun we shall all have together next winter! Aneta won’t have much chance against us. Yes, girls, of course25I like your friends Cicely and Merry; but they’ll be twice three times—the girls they are when they have been for a short time at Mrs. Ward’s school.”
“Aren’t you tired, Maggie?” was Molly’s remark. “Wouldn’t you like to go to bed?”
“I am not a scrap tired, and I don’t want to go to bed at all; but I suppose that means that you would?”
“Well, I must own to feeling a little sleepy,” said Molly.
“And so am I,” said Belle.
“Girls, girls, come in; your father wants to lock up,” called Mrs. Tristram at that moment.
The girls all entered the house, lit their candles, and went upstairs to their rooms.
As Maggie was wishing her two dear friends good-night she said quietly, “I hope you won’t mind; but Merry Cardew—or, as I ought to call her, Miss Cardew—has asked me to go over to the Manor to-morrow morning in order to show me the old house. I said I’d be there at ten o’clock, and could then get back to you in time for lunch. I do trust you don’t mind.”
“Of course we don’t,” said Molly in a hearty tone. “Now, good-night, Mags.”
“But if you think, Maggie,” said Isabel, “that you will succeed in that scheme of yours you will find yourself vastly mistaken.”
Maggie smiled gently, and the next moment she found herself alone. She went and stood by the open window. There was a glorious full moon in the sky, and the garden, with its deep shadows and brilliant avenues of light, looked lovely. But Maggie was not thinking of the scenery. Her thoughts were busy with those ideas which were always running riot in her busy little head. She was not unamiable; she was in reality a good-hearted girl, but she was very ambitious, and she sighed, above all things for power and popularity.
When she came to visit Molly and Isabel she had not the faintest idea of inducing Cicely and Merry to join that select group who were taught by Mrs. Ward at Aylmer House. But when once the idea had entered her brain, she determined, with her accustomed quickness, to carry it into execution. She had never yet, in the whole course of her life, met with defeat. At the various schools where she had been taught she had always been popular and had won friends and never created an enemy-but at Aylmer House, extraordinary and delightful as the life was, there was one girl who excited her enmity—who, in short, roused the worst that was in her. That girl’s name was Aneta Lysle. No sophistries on the part of Maggie, no clever speeches, no well-timed and courteous acts, could win the approval of Aneta; and just because she was impossible to get at, because she carried her young head high, because she had that which Maggie could never have—a stately and wonderful26beauty—Maggie was jealous of her, and was determined, if she could not win Aneta over to be her friend, to use her own considerable powers against the girl. She had not for a single moment, however, thought that she could be helped by Cicely and Merry in this direction, and had intended to get them to come to the school simply because they were aristocratic and rich, in the first instance. But when she saw Lady Lysle—Lady Lysle, who hated her mother and before whom her mother trembled and shrank; Lady Lysle, who was Aneta’s aunt—she knew that Cicely and Merry might be most valuable aids to her in carrying out her campaign against Aneta, and would help her to establish herself once and for all as the most powerful and important person in Mrs. Ward’s school.
Power was everything to Maggie. By power she meant to rule her small school-world, and eventually by the aid of that same gift to take her position in the greater world that lies beyond school. In her heart of hearts she considered Cicely and Merry tiresome, silly, ignorant little girls; but they could be made to play into her hands. They must come to Aylmer House—oh yes! and already she felt certain she had put the thin end of the wedge beneath that opposition which she knew she must expect from Mr. Cardew. She would see him again on the morrow. Indeed, greater schemes than hers could be carried into effect within a fortnight.
Maggie was the soul of common-sense, however, and had no idea of wearing herself out thinking when she ought to be asleep. She accordingly soon turned from the window, and, getting into bed, dropped at once into healthy slumber.
When she awoke she felt remarkably light-hearted and cheerful. She got up early, and went with Andrew and Jack to see the adorable rabbits. So judicious was she on this occasion that both boys returned with her to breakfast in the highest good-humor.
“Mother, mother,” cried Jackdaw, “she loves Fanciful because he’s so beautiful.”
“And she adores Spot-ear because he’s so ugly,” said Peterkins.
The boys were exceedingly happy at being allowed to sit at breakfast one on each side of Maggie, who, when she did not speak to them—for she wanted to ingratiate herself with every one present, and not with them alone—contrived to pat their hands from time to time, and so keep them in a subdued state of exceeding good-humor.
Soon after breakfast she flew up to her room, put on that strangely becoming brown hat, which would have suited no other girl but herself, and went off to the Manor. She was met at the gate by Merry, who was anxiously waiting for her appearance.
“I am so sorry that Cicely isn’t here too,” said Merry; “but mother wanted Cicely to drive into Warwick with her27this morning. We’re going for a long motor-ride this afternoon. Don’t you love motors?”
“I have never been in one in my life,” replied Maggie.
“Oh dear!” said Merry; “then you shall come with us, although I know I can’t ask you to-day, but perhaps to-morrow we could manage.”
“I must not be too much away from Molly and Isabel, for it would not be kind—would it, Miss Cardew?”
“Do call me Merry. ‘Miss Cardew’ sounds so stiff, and you know I feel that I have known you all my life, for Molly and Isabel have always been talking about you. Mother was so pleased when she heard that you wanted to see the old house; and, do you know, Maggie––You don’t mind my saying Maggie?”
“Of course not, Merry—dear Merry.”
“Well—would you believe it?—father is going to show you the manuscript-room himself. I can tell you that is an honor.”
“I am so delighted!” said Maggie. “Your father is a most charming man.”
“Indeed, that he is,” said Merry; “but I never saw him get on so well with a young girl before.”
“Oh,” said Maggie in her modest way, “it was just that I wanted to listen to him; what he said was so very interesting.”
The girls were now walking up the avenue.
“Please,” said Merry suddenly, “tell me more about your school—I mean that new, wonderful school you are at in London.”
“Aylmer House?” said Maggie.
“Yes, Aylmer House. Mother was talking about it this morning. She was quite interested in it.”
“Your mother was talking about it?”
“Yes. It seems Mr. Tristram had been praising it to her like anything last night.”
“Well, he can’t say too much in its favor,” said Maggie. “Any girl who didn’t get good from it ought to be ashamed of herself.”
“What is that you are saying, Miss Howland?” said the voice of Mr. Cardew at that moment.
“Oh father! I never saw you,” cried Merry.
Mr. Cardew came up and shook hands with Maggie. “I was walking just behind you on the grass,” he said, “and I heard your enthusiastic remarks with regard to the school that the young Tristrams are going to. I am heartily pleased; I take a great interest in the Tristrams.”
“Oh sir,” said Maggie suddenly, “I only wish—oh! I hardly dare to say it—but I only do wish that your girls were coming too!”
Merry turned crimson and then grew pale. “Father doesn’t approve of schools,” she said in a faint voice.
“As a rule, I do not,” said Mr. Cardew decidedly; “but28of course I am bound to say there are schools and schools. You shall tell me all about your school presently, Miss Howland. And now, I will allow my daughter to entertain you.”
“But, father darling, you promised to show Maggie the manuscript-room yourself.”
“Are you interested in black-letter?” said Mr. Cardew.
“I am interested in everything old,” replied Maggie.
“Well, then, I will show you the manuscript-room with pleasure; but if you want to go over the Manor you have a heavy morning’s work before you, and Merry is an excellent guide. However, let me see. I will meet you in the library at a quarter to twelve. Until then, adieu.”
CHAPTER V.“WHAT DID YOU TALK ABOUT?”
Maggie and Merry had now reached the great porch which overshadowed the entrance to the old house. The next instant they found themselves in the hall. This, supported by graceful pillars, was open up to the roof of the house. It was a magnificent hall, and Merry began enthusiastically to explain its perfections. Maggie showed not a pretended but a real interest. She asked innumerable and sensible questions. Her queer, calm, narrow eyes grew very bright. She smiled now and then, and her face seemed the personification of intelligence. With that smile, and those gleaming white teeth, who could have thought of Maggie Howland as plain?
They went from the hall into the older part of the house, and there Merry continued her duties as guide. Never before had she been in the company of so absolutely charming a companion. Maggie was the best listener in the world. She never interrupted with tiresome or irrelevant questions. When she did speak it was with the utmost intelligence, showing clearly that she understood what she was being told.
By-and-by they found themselves in the picture-gallery. There Merry insisted on their sitting down for a time and taking a rest. She touched a bell as she spoke, and then motioned Maggie to recline in a deep arm-chair which faced the picture of a beautiful lady who was the grandmother of the present Mrs. Cardew.
“That lady’s name,” said Merry, “was Cicely Meredith, and she was the wife of the last Meredith but one who owned the Manor. It was little supposed in those days that my darling mother would inherit the place, and that Cardews should live at Meredith Manor after all. Ah, here comes Dixon!—Dixon, will you put our lunch on that small table? Thank you very much.”
One of the servants in the Cardew livery had appeared.29He was bearing a small tray of tempting drinks, fruit, and cake.
“Now, Maggie, eat; do eat,” said Merry.
“I declare I am as hungry as a hawk,” said Maggie, and she munched cake and ate fruit and felt that she was, as she expressed it to herself—although she would not have used the words aloud—in clover.
Nevertheless, she was not going to lose sight of that mission which she had set herself. She turned and looked thoughtfully at Merry. Merry had a pretty profile, with the short upper-lip and the graceful appearance of a very high-bred girl.
“Do you,” said Maggie after a pause, “happen to know Aneta Lysle?”
“Why, of course,” said Merry. “Do you mean Lady Lysle’s niece?”
“Yes,” replied Maggie.
“I don’t know her well, but she has stayed here once or twice. Is she a friend of yours, Maggie?”
“Oh no; scarcely a friend, although we are schoolfellows.”
“How stupid of me!” said Merry, speaking with some warmth. “Of course, I quite forgot that she is at Mrs. Ward’s school. She is older than you, isn’t she, Maggie?”
“Yes, a year older, as days are counted; but she appears even more than her age, which is just seventeen. Don’t you think her very beautiful, Merry?”
“Now that I recall her, I do; but she never made a special impression on me. She never stayed here long enough.”
“Nevertheless, she is a sort of cousin of yours?”
“Yes, Lady Lysle is mother’s cousin; but then one doesn’t love all one’s relations,” said Merry carelessly. “Have another piece of cake, Maggie.”
“Thanks,” said Maggie, helping herself. “How delicious it is!”
“And put some more cream over your raspberries. The raspberries at Meredith Manor are celebrated.”
Maggie helped herself to some more cream. “I do wish” she said suddenly.
“That I would go on telling you about the pictures?” said Merry. “But you must be tired. I never knew any one take in interesting things so quickly.”
“I am glad you think I do; but it so happens that I do not want to hear about the pictures this morning. I think perhaps I am, after all, a bit tired. It is the pleasure, the delight of knowing you and your sister, and of being with those sweet girls Molly and Isabel.”
“Yes, aren’t they darlings’?” said Merry.
“I want you to tell me a lot about yourself,” said Maggie.
“We have half-an-hour yet before I am to meet your father in the manuscript-room. Begin at the beginning, and tell me just everything. You are not schoolgirls?”30
“Oh, no,” said Merry, speaking slowly. “We are taught at home.”
“But have you a resident governess?”
“No; father objects. This is holiday-time of course; but as a rule we have a daily governess and masters.”
“It must be dull,” said Maggie, speaking in a low tone—so low that Merry had to strain her ears to hear it.
She replied at once, “’Tisn’t nearly so interesting as school; but we—we are—quite—quitesatisfied.”
“I wonder you don’t go to school,” said Maggie.
“Father doesn’t wish it, Maggie.”
“But you’d like it, wouldn’t you?”
“Like it!” said Merry, her eyes distended a little. “Like to see the world and to know other girls? Well, yes, I should like it.”
“There’d be discipline, you know,” said Maggie. “It wouldn’t be all fun.”
“Of course not,” said Merry. “How could one expect education to be all fun?”
“And you would naturally like to be very well educated, wouldn’t you?” said Maggie.
“Certainly; but I suppose we are—that is, after a fashion.”
“Yes,” said Maggie, “after a fashion, doubtless; but you will go into society by-and-by, and you’ll find—well, that home education leaves out a great many points of knowledge which cannot possibly be attained except by mixing with other girls.”
“I suppose so,” said Merry, speaking with a slight degree of impatience; “but then Cicely and I can’t help it. We have to do what father and mother wish.”
“Yes, exactly, Merry; and it’s so awfully sweet and amiable of you! Now, may I describe to you a little bit of school-life?”
“If you like, Maggie. Molly and Isabel have often told me of what you did in Hanover.”
“Oh, Hanover?” said Maggie with a tone of slight contempt. “We don’t think of Hanover now in our ideas of school-life. We had a fairly good time, for a German school; but to compare it with Mrs. Ward’s house! Oh, I cannot tell you what a dream of a life I have lived during the last term! It is only to see Mrs. Ward to love her; and all the other mistresses are so nice, and the girls are so very select and lady-like. Then we take a keen interest in our lessons. You’re the musical one, aren’t you, Merry?”
“Yes. How ever did you find that out?”
“Well,” said Maggie, “I looked at you, and I guessed it. Besides, I heard you hum an air under your breath yesterday, and I knew at once that you had a lovely voice.”
“I am sure I haven’t; and I’m too young to begin singing-lessons.”
“Not a bit of it. That’s quite an exploded idea. If, for instance––Oh, of course I know you won’t be there; but31if you were so lucky as to be a pupil at Mrs. Ward’s you would be taught to sing, and, what is more valuable, you would hear good, wonderful, beautiful singing, and wonderful, beautiful music of all sorts. Once a week we all go to a concert at Queen’s Hall. Have you ever been there?”
“No! I don’t know London at all.”
“Well, then, another day in the week,” continued Maggie, “we go to the different museums and picture-galleries, and we get accustomed to good art, and we are taught to discern good from bad. We learn architecture at St. Paul’s and the Abbey and some of the other churches. You see, Mrs. Ward’s idea is to teach us everything first-hand, and during the summer term she takes us on long expeditions up the river to Kew and Hampton Court and all those dear old places. Then, in addition, she has what she calls reunions in the evenings. We all wear evening-dress, and she invites two or three friends, and we sing and play among ourselves, and we are taught the little observances essential to good society; and, besides all the things that Mrs. Ward does, we have our own private club and our own debating society, and—oh, it is a full life!—and it teaches one, it helps one.”
Merry’s soft brown eyes were very bright, and her cheeks had a carnation glow on them, and her pretty red lips were slightly parted. “You do all these things at school—at school?” she said.
“Why, of course; and many, many more things that you can’t even imagine, for it’s the whole influence of the place that is so delightful. Then you make friends—great friends—and you get to understand character, and you get to understand the value of real discipline, and you are taught also that you are not meant to live a worldly and selfish life, for Mrs. Ward is very philanthropic. Each girl in her school has to help a poor girl in East London, and the poor girl becomes in a sort of manner her property. I have got a dear little lame girl. Her name is Susie Style. I am allowed to see her once or twice a year, and I write her a letter every week, and she writes back to me, and I collect enough money to keep her in a cripples’ home. I haven’t enough of my own, for I am perhaps the poorest girl in the school; but that makes no difference, for Mrs. Ward doesn’t allow the word money or rank to be spoken of—she lives above all that. She says that money is a great talent, and that people who are merely purse-proud are detestable. Oh, but I’ve told you enough, haven’t I?”
“Yes, oh yes!” said Merry. “Thanks very, very much. And so Aneta is there; and as Molly and Isabel will be there, they will tell me more at Christmas. Perhaps we ought to go down now to meet father in the manuscript-room.”
Maggie rose with alacrity. She followed her companion32quite cheerfully. She felt assured within herself that the thin end of the wedge had been well inserted by now.
Mr. Cardew was exceedingly courteous and pleasant, and Maggie charmed him by her intelligence and her marvellous gift of assimilating knowledge. Not a word was said with regard to the London school, and at ten minutes to one Maggie bade good-bye to Mr. Cardew and Merry, and went back to the rectory in considerable spirits.
Molly and Isabel were all impatience for her return.
“Well, what did you do?” said Molly. “Who was there to meet you?”
“Only Merry. Cicely had gone with Mrs. Cardew to Warwick.”
“Oh, well, Merry is the jollier of the two, although they are both perfectly sweet,” said Molly. “And did she show you all the house, Maggie?”
“No,” said Maggie; “I really couldn’t take it all in; but she took me round the armory and into the old tower, and then we went into the picture-gallery.”
“Oh, she took you into the picture-gallery! There are Romneys and Gainsboroughs and Sir Joshua Reynoldses, and all sorts of magnificent treasures there.”
“Doubtless,” said Maggie. “But when I tell you what we did you will laugh.”
“What did you do? Do tell us, Mags.”
“We sat in easy-chairs. I faced the portrait of a very beautiful lady after whom Cicely Cardew is called.”
“Of course I know her well—I mean her picture,” said Isabel. “That is a Gainsborough. Didn’t you admire it?”
“Yes; but I want to look at it again; I’m going to do the gallery another day, and on that occasion I think I shall ask Cicely to accompany me.”
“Why, what do you mean? Don’t you like our sweet little Merry?”
“Like her? I quite love her,” said Maggie; “but the fact is, girls, I did my duty by her this morning, and now I want to do my duty by Cicely.”
“Oh Mags, you are so mysterious!” said Molly; “but come upstairs and take off your hat, for the gong will sound for lunch in a moment.”
Maggie went upstairs, Molly and Isabel following her. “Come into my room, girls,” she said. Then she added, dropping her voice, “I think those bracelets are pretty secure.”
Molly colored. Isabel looked down.
“You will never succeed,” said Molly.
Then Isabel said, “Even if you do, I don’t think we ought, perhaps, to—to take them, for it would seem as though they were a sort of—sort of—bribe.”
“Oh, you old goose!” said Maggie, kissing her. “How could they be a bribe when I don’t ask you to do anything at all? But now, listen. We were tired when we got to33the gallery; therefore that sweet little Merry of yours ordered fruit and milk and cake, and we ate and talked.”
“What did you talk about?”
“School, dear.”
“What was the good of your talking about school to Merry when she can’t go?”
“Can’t go?” said Maggie. “Why, she is going; only, it was my bounden duty to make her want to go. Well, I succeeded in doing that this morning. There’s the gong, and, notwithstanding my lunch, I am quite hungry.”
“Well, Andrew and Jack are perfectly mad to see you; you’ll have to devote a bit of your time to them. Dear me, Mags!” said Molly, “it must be tiresome to be a sort of universal favorite, as you are.”
“Tiresome!” said Maggie, glancing round with her queer, expressive eyes, “when I love it like anything? Let’s get up a sort of play between ourselves this afternoon, and let the boys join in; and, oh! couldn’t we—don’t you think we might—get your two friends Cicely and Merry to join us, just for an impromptu thing that we could act beautifully in the hay-field? Wouldn’t their father consent?”
“Why, of course he would. I’ll run round the minute lunch is over and get them,” said Isabel. “You are a girl for planning things, Mags! It’ll be quite glorious.”
“We might have tea in the hay-field too,” continued Maggie. “I am sure Peterkins and Jackdaw will help us.”
“Capital! capital! and we’ll get David”—David was the gardener’s boy—“to pick lots of fruit for the occasion.”