CHAPTER IX.THE NEWS.
Mr. Cardew arrived at Meredith Manor very late that evening. The long and happy day had come to an end. The Tristram girls and Maggie Howland had returned to the rectory. Cicely and Merry were having a long, confidential chat together. They were in Merry’s bedroom. They had dismissed their maid. They were talking of the pleasures of the day, and in particular were discussing the delightful fact that their beautiful cousin Aneta had wired to say she would be with them in two days’ time.
They had not seen Aneta for some years, but they both remembered her vividly. Her memory shone out before them both as something specially dazzling and specially beautiful. Maggie Howland, too, had spoken of Aneta’s beauty. Maggie had been told that Aneta was coming, and Maggie had expressed pleasure. Whatever Maggie’s private feelings may have been, she was very careful now to express delight at Aneta’s appearance at Meredith Manor.
“What a darling she is!” said Merry. “I doubt very much—I suppose it’s rank heresy to say so, Cicely, but I really greatly doubt whether I shall ever prefer Aneta to Maggie. What are mere looks, after all, when one possesses such charm as Maggie has? That seems to me a much greater gift.”
“We need not compare them, need we?” said Cicely.
“Oh, certainly not,” said Merry; “but, Cicely darling, doesn’t it seem funny that such a lot of girls who are all to meet in September at Aylmer House should be practically staying with us at the present moment?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Cicely. “I feel almost as though I belonged to it, which of course is quite ridiculous, for we shall never by any chance go there.”
“Of course not,” said Merry, and she sighed.
After a time Cicely said, “I wonder what father went to town for to-day.”
“Well, we don’t know, so where’s the use of troubling?” said Merry.
“I asked mother,” said Cicely, “why he went to town, and56she said she couldn’t tell me; but she got rather red as she spoke.”
“Cicely,” said Merry after a long pause, “when these glorious holidays come to an end, and the Aylmer House girls have gone to Aylmer House, what shall you and I do?”
“Do,” said Cicely—“do? I suppose what we’ve always done. A fresh governess will be found, and another music-master, and we’ll work at our lessons and do the best we can.”
Merry gave a deep sigh.
“We’ll never talk French like Belle Tristram,” she said, “and we’ll never play so that any one will care to listen to us. We’ll never, never know the world the way the others know it. There seems very little use in being rich when one can’t get education.”
It was just at that moment that there came a light tap at the girls’ door. Before they could reply, it was opened and Mrs. Cardew came in. She looked as though she had been crying; nevertheless, there was a joyful sort of triumph on her face. She said quickly, “I thought, somehow, you two naughty children would not be in bed, and I told father that I’d come up on the chance of finding you. Father has come back from London, and has something important to tell you. Will you come down with me at once?”
“Oh mother! mother! what is it?” said Merry in a tone of excitement which was slightly mingled with awe.
“Your father will tell you, my darling,” said Mrs. Cardew.
She put her arm round Merry’s slight waist and held Cicely’s hand, and they came down to the great drawing-room where Mr. Cardew was waiting for them.
He was pacing slowly up and down the room, his hands folded behind his back. His face was slightly tired, and yet he too wore that odd expression of mingled triumph and pain which Mrs. Cardew’s eyes expressed.
When the mother and the girls entered the room he at once shut the door. Mr. Cardew looked first of all at Merry. He held out his hand to her. “Come to me, little girl,” he said.
She flew to him and put her arms round his neck. She kissed him several times. “Oh dad! dad!” she said, “I know I was downright horrid and unkind and perfectly dreadful yesterday, and I don’t—no, Idon’t—want to leave you and mother. If I was discontented then, I am not now.”
Merry believed her own words at that moment, for the look on her father’s face had struck to her very heart.
He disengaged her pretty arms very gently, and, still holding her hand, went up to Cicely, who was clinging to her mother. “I have just got some news for you both,” he said. “You know, of course, that Miss Beverley cannot teach you any longer?”
“Poor old Beverley,” said Cicely; “we are so sorry. But you’ll find another good governess for us, won’t you, dad?”
“I am afraid I can’t,” said Mr. Cardew, “So I sent for you57to-night to tell you that I have broken the resolve which I always meant to keep.”
“You have what?” said Merry.
“I have turned my back on a determination which I made when you were both very little girls, and to-day I went up to town and saw Mrs. Ward.”
“Oh!” said Merry. She turned white and dropped her father’s hand, and, clasping her own two hands tightly together, gazed at him as though she would devour his face.
“Well, it’s all settled, children,” said Mr. Cardew, “and: when September comes you will go with your friends Molly and Belle to Aylmer House.”
This announcement was received at first in total silence. Then Merry flew to her father and kissed him a great many times, and Cicely kissed her mother.
Then Merry said, “We can’t talk of it to-night; we can’t quite realize it to-night; but—but—we are glad!”
Then she took Cicely’s hand, and they went out of the room. Mr. and Mrs. Cardew watched them as the little figures approached the door. Merry opened it, and they both passed out.
“I wonder,” said Mr. Cardew, looking at his wife, “if they are going out of our lives.”
“Indeed, no,” said Mrs. Cardew; “from what you have told me of Mrs. Ward, she must be a good woman—one of the best.”
“She is one of the very, very best, Sylvia; and I think the very happiest thing for us both would be to run up to town to-morrow, and for you to see her for yourself.”
“Very well, darling; we will do so,” said Mrs. Cardew.
CHAPTER X.ANETA.
So everything was settled. Cicely and Merry scarcely slept at all that night. They were too much excited; the news was too wonderful. Now that their wish was granted, there was pain mingled with their joy. It seems as though perfect joy must have its modicum of pain to make it perfect.
But when the next morning dawned the regret of the night before seemed to have vanished. In the first place, Mr. and Mrs. Cardew had gone early to London; and the mere fact that their father and mother were not present was a sort of relief to the excited girls. The picnic need not be postponed, for Mr. and Mrs. Tristram could act as chaperons on this auspicious occasion.
They were all to meet at the Manor at eleven o’clock; and, punctual to the hour, a goodly array of happy young people walked up the avenue and entered the porch of the old-house. Andrew, devoted to Maggie, was present. Jack, equally Maggie’s slave, was also there. Maggie herself, looking58neat and happy, was helping every one. Molly and Belle, all in white, and looking as charming as little girls could, were full of expectation of their long and delightful day.
One wagonette could hold the whole party, and as it drove round to the front door the boys fiercely took possession of the box-seat, fighting with the coachman, who said that there would be no room for Miss Howland to sit between them.
“Well then, Mags, if that is the case,” said Peterkins, “you get along in at once, and take this corner close to me; then, whenever we want, we can do a bit of whispering.”
“You won’t whisper more than your share,” said Jackdaw. “I’ve a frightful lot to say to Mags this morning.”
“Hush, boys!” said Maggie; “if you quarrel about me I shall not speak to either of you.”
This threat was so awful that the boys glanced at each other, remained silent and got quietly into their places. Then the hampers were put on the floor just under their feet.
Presently Cicely and Merry came out to join the group. They were wearing pretty pink muslins, with pink sashes to match. Merry’s beautiful dark eyes were very bright. Mr. and Mrs. Tristram inquired for their host and hostess.
“Oh, I have news for you!” said Merry.
“Yes,” said Cicely, “Merry will tell.”
“Well, it’s Just this,” said Merry, almost jerking out her words in excitement: “Father and mother have been obliged to go rather unexpectedly to town.”
“Why?” said Maggie; then she restrained herself, knowing that it was not her place to speak.
“They have gone to town,” said Merry, scarcely looking at Maggie now, and endeavoring with all her might and main not to show undue excitement, “because a great and wonderful thing has happened; something so unexpected that—that Cicely and I can scarcely believe it.”
Maggie glanced at the sweet little faces. She said to herself, “All right,” and got calmly into the wagonette, where she sat close under the box-seat which contained those obstreperous young heroes Andrew and Jack. The others clustered round Merry.
“As I said, I can scarcely believe it,” said Merry; “but father has done the most marvelous thing. Oh Belle! oh Molly! it is too wonderful! For after all—after all, Cicely and I are to go with you to Aylmer House in September, and—and—that is why father and mother have gone to town. Father went up yesterday and saw Mrs. Ward, and he—he settled it; and father and mother have gone up to-day—both of them—to see her, and to make final arrangements. And we’re to go! we’re togo!”
“Hurrah!” cried Molly. Immediately the boys, and Maggie and Belle, and even Mr. and Mrs. Tristram, took up the glad “Hurrah!”59
“Well, children,” said Mr. Tristram when the first excitement had subsided, “I must say I am heartily pleased. This is delightful! I take some credit to myself for having helped on this most excellent arrangement.”
“No one thanks me for anything,” thought Maggie; but she had the prudence to remain silent.
“We had better start on our picnic now,” said Mr. Tristram, and immediately the whole party climbed into the wagonette. The horses started; the wheels rolled. They were off.
By-and-by Merry felt her hand taken by Maggie. Maggie just squeezed that hand, and whispered in that very, very rich and wonderfully seductive voice of hers, “Oh, I am glad! I am very, very glad!”
Merry felt her heart thrill as Maggie uttered those words. She answered back, turning her face to her young companion, “To be with you alone would be happiness enough for me.”
“Is it true, Cicely,” said Mrs. Tristram at the moment, “that your cousin, Aneta Lysle, is coming to stay with you?”
“Oh yes; but I had half-forgotten it in all this excitement,” said Cicely. “She will arrive to-morrow.—Maggie, you’ll be glad, won’t you?”
“More than delighted,” said Maggie.
“It is too wonderful,” said Cicely. “Why, it will soon come to pass that half Mrs. Ward’s school will be all together during the holidays. Fancy, we two, and you two”—she touched one of the Tristram girls—“and you, Maggie, and then dear Aneta; why, that’ll make six. What a lot we shall have to talk about! Maggie, you and Aneta will be our two heroines; we shall always be applying to you for information.”
The conversation was here interrupted by Jackdaw, who pinched Maggie on the arm. “You’re not attending to us,” he said.
“Nonsense, Jackdaw!”
“Well, stand up for a minute; I want to whisper to you.”
Maggie, who never lost a chance of ingratiating herself with any one, obeyed.
“Jack dear, don’t be troublesome,” said his mother.
“I am not,” said Jackdaw. “She loves it, the duck that she is!”
“Be quick, Jackdaw; it’s very difficult for me to keep my hold standing up,” said Maggie.
“How many chocolates can you eat at a pinch?” whispered Jackdaw in her ear.
“Oh, forty,” replied Maggie; “but I should be rather ill afterwards.”
“We’ve got some in our pockets. They’re a little bit clammy, but you don’t mind that?”
“I don’t want any just now, dear boy; and I’ll tell you60why. I want to be really starving hungry when the picnic begins.”
“That’s a good notion, isn’t it?” said Jackdaw.—“I say, Andrew, she wants to be starving hungry when the picnic begins!”
Maggie resumed her seat, and the boys went on whispering together, and kicking each other at intervals, and rather upsetting that very stolid personage, Mr. Charles, the Meredith Manor coachman.
The picnic was a perfect success. When people are very happy there is no room for discontent in their hearts, and all the members of that party were in the highest spirits. The Cardew girls had no time yet for that period of regret which must invariably follow a period of intense excitement. They had no time yet to realize that they must part with their father and mother for the greater portion of the year.
To children so intensely affectionate as Cicely and Merry such a parting must mean considerable pain. But even the beginning of the pain did not come to them on that auspicious day, and they returned to the house after the picnic in the highest good-humor.
Mr. and Mrs. Tristram, however, were wise in their generation; and although Cicely and Merry begged and implored the whole party to come to the Manor for supper, they very firmly declined. It is to be regretted that both Jack and Andrew turned sulky on this occasion.
As the rectory girls and Maggie and the boys and Mr. and Mrs. Tristam were all going homewards the two girls and Maggie fell behind.
“Isn’t this real fun? Isn’t it magnificent?” said Molly Tristram.
“It’s a very good thing indeed for your friends Cicely and Merry,” said Maggie. Then she added, “Didn’t I tell you, girls, that you would win your bracelets?”
Belle felt herself changing color.
“We don’t want them a bit—we really don’t,” said Molly.
“Of course we don’t want them,” said Isabel.
“You’ll have them all the same,” said Maggie. “They are my present to you. Surely you won’t refuse my present?”
“But such a very rich and handsome present we ought not to accept,” said Molly.
“Nonsense, girls! I shall be unhappy unless you wear them. When I return to mother—which, alas! I must do before many days are over—I shall send you the bracelets.”
“I wish you wouldn’t, Maggie,” said Belle Tristram; “for I am certain father and mother would not like us to wear jewelry while we are so young.”
“Well, then,” said Maggie, “I will give them to you when we all meet at Aylmer House. You must take them; you know you promised you would. You will hurt me most frightfully if you don’t.”61
As Molly and Isabel certainly did not wish to hurt Maggie, they remained silent, and during the rest of the walk the three girls scarcely spoke. Meanwhile Cicely and Merry entered the Manor House and waited impatiently for the return of their father and mother.
“We must get everything extra nice for them,” said Cicely to her sister. “I do think it is so wonderfully splendid of them to send us to school.”
The sun had already set, and twilight had come on; but it would be quite impossible for Mr. and Mrs. Cardew to arrive at the Manor until about ten o’clock. What, therefore, was the amazement of the girls when they heard carriage-wheels in the distance!
“Father and mother could not possibly have done their business and caught the early train,” said Merry in some excitement. “Who can be coming now?”
The next moment their doubts were set at rest, for Aneta Lysle entered the hall.
“I came to-day after all,” she said. “Auntie thought it would be more convenient. You got my telegram, didn’t you?”
These words were uttered while her two cousins, in rapture and delight, were kissing her.
“No, no,” said Merry, “we got no telegram; but, oh, Aneta! we are glad to see you.”
“Here’s the telegram on the hall-table,” said Aneta, and she took up a yellow envelope. This was addressed to “Cardew, Meredith Manor.” “Yes, I know this must be from me,” said Aneta. “But why didn’t you open it?”
“Well, the fact is,” said Cicely, “father and mother were in London, and the rest of us were out on a picnic. But it doesn’t matter a bit; you’ve come, and the sooner the better. Oh, it is nice to see you again! But how tall you are, Neta, and how grown up you look!”
“I am seventeen, remember,” said Aneta. “I don’t feel grown-up, but auntie says I look it.”
“Oh, come into the light—do,” said Merry, “and let’s see you! We’ve heard so very much of you lately, and we want to look at your darling face again.”
“And I want to look at you both,” said Aneta in her affectionate manner.
The servants had conveyed Miss Lysle’s luggage into the house, and now the three girls, with their arms twined round each other, entered the same big drawing-room where Mr. Cardew had given his wonderful news of the night before. There was a blaze of electric light, and this, judiciously softened with rose-colored silk, was most becoming to all those who came under its influence. But the strongest glare of light could not disfigure any one so absolutely beautiful as Aneta Lysle. Her delicate complexion, the wonderful purity and regularity of her features, her sweet, tender young mouth, her charming blue eyes, and her great luxuriance62of golden hair made people who looked at her once long to study that charming face again and yet again.
There was no vanity about this young girl; her manner, her expression, were simplicity itself. There was a certain nobility about her fine forehead, and the shape of her head was classical, and showed undoubted talent. Her clear, musical voice was in itself a charm. Her young figure was the very personification of grace. Beside her, Cicely and Merry felt awkward and commonplace; not that they were so, but very few people could attain to Aneta Lysle’s incomparable beauty.
“Well, girls,” she said, “you do look sweet, both of you!”
“Oh Neta, what a darling you are!” said Merry, who worshipped beauty, and had never come across any one so lovely as her cousin. “It’s two years since we met,” she continued, “and you have altered, and not altered. You’re more grown-up and more—more stately, but your face is the same. Whenever we want to think of the angels we think of you too, Neta.”
“That is very sweet of you, darlings; but, indeed, I am far from being an angel. I am just a very human girl; and, please, if you don’t mind, we won’t discuss my looks any more.”
Cicely and Merry both save their cousin a thoughtful glance. Then they said eagerly, “You must come to your room and wash your hands, and get refreshed for supper, for of course you are starving.”
“I shall like to have something to eat,” said Aneta. “What room am I to have, girls?”
“Oh, the white room, next to ours; we arranged it all this morning,” said Cicely.
“Well, come along at once,” said Aneta.
Soon the three girls found themselves in the beautiful bedroom which had been arranged for Aneta’s reception. As soon as ever they got there Cicely clasped one of her cousin’s arms and Merry the other.
“We have news for you—news!” they said.
“Yes?” said Aneta, looking at them with her bright, soft eyes.
“Most wonderful—most extraordinary—most—most beautiful!” said Merry, speaking almost with passion. “We’re going to your school; yes, to yours—to Aylmer House, in September. Could you have believed it? Think of father consenting, and just because I felt a little discontented. Oh, isn’t he an angel? Father, of all people, who until now would not hear of our leaving home! But we’re going.”
“Well,” said Aneta, “I am not greatly surprised, for I happen to know that your father, Cousin Cyril, came to see auntie yesterday, and afterwards he went to visit Mrs. Ward, and after his visit we saw Mrs. Ward; and, although he had not quite made up his mind then whether he would send you or not, we quite thought he would do so. Yes, this is63splendid. I’ll he able to tell you lots about the school; but, after all, it isn’t the school that matters.”
“Then what matters, Aneta?”
“It’s Mrs. Ward herself,” said Aneta; “it’s she who makes the whole thing so perfect. She guides us; she enlightens us. Sometimes I can scarcely talk of her, my love for her and my passion for her are so deep.”
Cicely and Merry looked thoughtful for a minute.
“I’m ready now to come downstairs,” said Aneta; and they went down, to find supper prepared for them, and the old butler waiting to attend on his young ladies.
After the meal was over the girls retired to the drawing-room, where they all three sat by one of the windows waiting for Mr. and Mrs. Cardew’s return.
Merry then said, “It is so funny of you, Aneta, to speak as though the school was Mrs. Ward.”
“But it is,” said Aneta.
“Surely, surely,” said Merry, “it’s the girls too.”
“You will be surprised, perhaps, Aneta, to hear,” said Cicely, “that our dear, darling friends—our greatest girl-friends, except yourself perhaps, and you’re a sort of sister—Molly and Isabel Tristram are also going to Aylmer House in September. They are so nice—you will like them; and then, of course, there’s Maggie Howland, one of the most charming girls we have come across.”
“Whom did you say?” asked Aneta.
“Maggie Howland. She is here.”
“In this house?” said Aneta.
“No; she is at the rectory. She is a special friend of Molly and Isabel. She has been at school with them before in Hanover. You know her, of course? She is one of the girls at Aylmer House.”
“I know her—oh yes, I know her,” said Aneta.
“And you like her, you feel her charm, you—you almost worship her, don’t you, Neta?”
Aneta was silent.
“Oh, I know she is considered plain,” said Merry, “but there’s something about her which prevents one even considering her features. She is the most unselfish, most fascinating girl we have ever come across. You love her, don’t you, Neta?”
There had come a curious change over Aneta’s face. After a brief pause she said, “I have no right to say it, but you two are my cousins”––
“Yes, yes! What does this mean?” said Cicely with great eagerness.
“Well, I know you will be faithful and not repeat it to any one; but I don’t love Maggie Howland.”
“Oh, Neta!”
“And,” continued Aneta, “you; as my cousins, I most earnestly hope, will not make her your special friend at Aylmer House.”64
“But we have done so already, Neta. Oh, Neta darling! you are mistaken in her.”
“I say nothing whatever against her,” said Aneta, “except that personally I do not care for her. I should be very glad if I found that I had misjudged her.”
“Then why don’t you want us to be friends with her? We are friends with her.”
“I cannot control you, darlings. When you come to school you will see a variety of girls, and most of them—indeed, all of them—nice, I think.”
“Then why shouldn’t we like poor Maggie?”
“You do like her, it seems, already.”
“Yes; but you are so mysterious, Neta.”
“I cannot say any more; you must forgive me,” answered Aneta. “And I hear the sound of wheels. Your father and mother are coming.”
“Yes, yes, the darlings!” said Merry, rushing into the hall to meet her parents.
Aneta and Cicely followed her example, and there was great excitement and much talk. Mrs. Cardew was now as anxious that the girls should go to Aylmer House as though she herself had always wished for such an arrangement, while Mr. Cardew could not say enough in Mrs. Ward’s praise.
“You agree with me, Aneta,” said Mrs. Cardew, “that the school is quite unique and above the ordinary.”
“Mrs. Ward is unique and above the ordinary,” was Aneta’s reply.
When the girls retired to their own rooms that night, Cicely and Merry met for a brief moment.
“How funny of Aneta not to like Maggie!” said Merry.
“Well, if I were you, Merry,” said Cicely, “I wouldn’t talk about it. I suppose Aneta is prejudiced.”
“Yes,” said Merry; “but against Maggie, of all people! Well, I, for my part, will never give her up.”
“I suppose,” said Cicely, who was more conscientious than her sister, “that we ought to think something of Aneta’s opinion.”
“Oh, that’s very fine,” said Merry; “but we ought to think something, too, of Molly’s opinion, and Belle’s opinion. They have known Maggie longer than Aneta has.”
“Yes,” replied Cicely; “I forgot that. But isn’t Aneta herself delightful? It’s a pure joy to look at her.”
“It certainly is,” said Merry; “and of course I love her dearly and am very proud of her; but I confess I did not quite like her when she spoke in that queer way about dear little Maggie. I, at least, am absolutely determined that nothing will induce me to give Maggie up.”
“Of course we won’t give her up,” said Cicely. But she spoke with thought.65
CHAPTER XI.TEN POUNDS.
In perfect summer weather, when the heart is brimful of happiness, and when a great desire has been unexpectedly fulfilled, what can there possibly be more delightful than an open-air life? This was what the girls who belonged to the rectory and the girls who belonged to the Manor now found. Mr. and Mrs. Cardew and Mr. and Mrs. Tristram could not do enough for their benefit. Maggie could only stay for one week longer with her friends; but Aneta had changed her mind with regard to Belgium, and was to go with the young Cardews to the seaside, and Mrs. Cardew had asked the Tristram girls to accompany them. She had also extended her invitation to Maggie, who would have given a great deal to accept it. She wrote to her mother on the subject. Mrs. Howland made a brief reply: “You know it is impossible, Maggie. You must come back to me early next week. I cannot do without you, so say no more about it.”
Maggie was a girl with a really excellent temper, and, recognizing that her mother had a good reason for not giving her the desired holiday, made the best of things.
Meanwhile Cicely and Merry watched her carefully. As to Aneta, she was perfectly cordial with Maggie, not talking to her much, it is true, but never showing the slightest objection to her society. Nevertheless, there was, since the arrival of Aneta on the scene, a strange, undefinable change in the atmosphere. Merry noticed this more than Cicely. It felt to her electrical, as though there might be a storm brewing.
On the day before Maggie was to return to London to take up her abode in her mother’s dull house in Shepherd’s Bush, a magnificent picnic on a larger scale even than usual was the order of the hour. Some young girls of the name of Heathfield who lived a little way off were asked to Meredith Manor to spend the night, and these girls, who were exceedingly jolly and bright and lively, were a fresh source of delight to all those whom they happened to meet. Their names were Susan and Mary Heathfield. They were older than the Tristrams and the Cardews, and had, in fact, just left school. Their last year of school-life had been spent in Paris; they were highly educated, and had an enviable proficiency in the French tongue.
Mr. and Mrs. Heathfield, the parents of these girls, were also guests at the Manor, so that the picnic on this last day of Maggie’s visit to the rectory was quite a large one. They drove nearly twenty miles to a beautiful place not far from Warwick. There the usual picnic arrangements were made with great satisfaction; dinner was eaten out-of-doors, and presently there was to be a gipsy-tea. This all the girls66looked forward to, and Andrew and Jack were wild with delight over the prospect of making the kettle boil. This particular task was given to them, and very proud they were of the trust reposed in them.
But now, dinner being over, the older people took shelter from the fierce rays of the sun under the wide-spreading trees, and the young people moved about in groups or in couples. Merry Cardew found herself alone with Maggie Howland. Without intending to do so, she had slightly, very slightly, avoided Maggie during the last day or two; but Maggie now seized her arm and drew her down a shady glade.
“Come with me, Merry,” she said; “I have a lot I want to say to you.”
Merry looked at her. “Of course I will come with you, Maggie,” she answered.
“I want just to get quite away from the others,” continued Maggie, “for we shall not meet again until we meet in the autumn at Aylmer House. You don’t know, perhaps—do you, Merry—that you owe the great joy of coming to that lovely school to me?”
“To you!” said Merry in the utmost amazement.
“Yes,” replied Maggie in her calmest tone, “to me.”
“Oh, dear Maggie!” replied Merry, “you surely must be mistaken.”
“I don’t intend to explain myself,” said Maggie; “I simply state what is a fact. You owe your school-life to me. It was I who inserted the thin end of the wedge beneath your father’s fixed resolution that you were to be educated at home. It was I, in short, who acted the part of the fairy princess and who pulled those silken reins which brought about the desire of your heart.”
“I don’t understand you, Maggie,” said Merry in a distressful tone; “but I suppose,” she added, “as you say so, it is the case. Only, I ought to tell you that what really and truly happened was this”––
“Oh, I know quite well what really and truly happened,” interrupted Maggie. “Let me tell you. I know that there came a certain day when a little girl who calls herself Merry Cardew was very discontented, and I know also that kind Mr. Cardew discovered the discontent of his child. Well, now, who put that discontent into your mind?”
“Why, I am afraid it was you,” said Merry, turning pale and then red.
Maggie laughed. “Why, of course it was,” she said; “and you suppose I didn’t do it on purpose?”
“But, Maggie, you didn’t really mean—you couldn’t for a minute mean—that I was to be miserable at home if father didn’t give his consent?”
“Of course not,” said Maggie lightly; “but, you see, I meant him to give his consent—I meant it all the time. I own that there were several favoring circumstances; but67I want to tell you now, Merry, in the strictest confidence of course, that from the moment I arrived at the rectory I determined that you and Cicely were to come with Molly and Isabel to Aylmer House.”
“It was very kind of you, Maggie,” said Merry; but she felt a certain sense of distress which she could not quite account for as she spoke.
“Why do you look so melancholy?” said Maggie, turning and fixing her queer, narrow eyes on the pretty face of her young companion.
“I am not really melancholy, only I would much rather you had told me openly at the time that you wished me to come to school.”
Maggie gave a faint sigh. “Had I done so, darling,” she said, “you would never have come. You must leave your poor friend Maggie to manage things in her own way. But now I have something else to talk about.”
They had gone far down the glade, and were completely separated from their companions.
“Sit down,” said Maggie; “it’s too hot to walk far even under the shade of the trees.”
They both sat down.
Maggie tossed off her hat. “To-morrow,” she said, “you will perhaps be having another picnic, or, at any rate, the best of good times with your friends.”
“I hope so,” replied Merry.
“But I shall be in hot, stifling London, in a little house, in poky lodgings; to-morrow, at this hour, I shall not be having what you call a good time.”
“But, Maggie, you will be with your mother.”
“Yes, poor darling mother! of course.”
“Don’t you love her very much?” asked Merry.
Maggie flashed round an excited glance at her companion. “Love her? Yes,” she said, “I love her.”
“But you must love her tremendously,” said Merry—“as much as I love my mother.”
“As a rule all girls love their mothers,” said Maggie. “We are not talking about that now, are we?”
“What do you want to say to me in particular, Maggie?” was Merry’s response.
“This. We shall meet at school on the 20th of September. There will be, as I have told you already, twenty boarders at Aylmer House. You will arrive at the school as strangers; so will Molly and Isabel arrive as strangers; but you will have two friends—Aneta Lysle and myself. You’re very much taken, with your cousin Aneta, are you not?”
“Taken with her?” said Merry. “That seems to me a curious expression. She is our cousin, and she is beautiful.”
“Merry, I must tell you something. At Aylmer House there are two individuals who lead the school.”
“Oh,” said Merry, “I thought Mrs. Ward led the school.”68
“Of course, of course, Mrs. Ward is just splendid; but, you see, you, poor Merry, know nothing of school-life. School-life is really controlled—I mean the inner part of it—by the girls themselves. Now, there are two girls at Aylmer House who control the school: one of them is your humble servant, Maggie Howland; the other is your cousin, Aneta Lysle. Aneta does not love me; and, to be frank with you, I hate her.”
Merry found herself turning very red. She remembered Aneta’s words on the night of her arrival.
“She has already told you,” said Maggie, “that she doesn’t like me.”
Merry remained silent.
“Oh, you needn’t speak. I know quite well,” said Maggie.
Merry felt more and more uncomfortable.
“The petition I have to make to you is this,” continued Maggie: “that at school you will, for a time at least—say for the first month or so—beneutral. I want you and Cicely and Molly and Isabel to belong neither to Aneta’s party nor to mine; and I want you to do this because—because I have been the person who has got you to Aylmer House. Just remain neutral for a month. Will you promise me that?”
“I don’t understand you. You puzzle me very much indeed,” said Merry.
“You will understand fast enough when you get to Aylmer House. I wish I were not going away; I wish I hadn’t to return to mother. I wish I could go with you all to Scarborough; but I am the last girl on earth to neglect my duties, and my duty is to be with poor dear mother. You will understand that what I ask is but reasonable. If four new girls came to the school, and altogether went over to Aneta’s side, where should I be? What chance should I have? But I do not ask you to come to my side; I only ask you to be neutral. Merry, will you promise?”
“You distress me more than I can say,” replied Merry. “I feel so completely in the dark. I don’t, of course, want to take any side.”
“Ah, then you will promise?” said Maggie.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Let me present a picture to you,” continued Maggie. “There are two girls; they are not equally equipped for the battle of life. I say nothing of injustice in the matter; I only state a fact. One of them is rich and highly born, and endowed with remarkable beauty of face. That girl is your own cousin, Aneta Lysle. Then there is the other girl, Maggie Howland, who is ugly.”
“Oh no—no!” said Merry affectionately.
“Yes, darling,” said Maggie, using her most magnetic voice, “really ugly.”
“Not in my eyes,” said Merry.
“She is ugly,” repeated Maggie, speaking with great calm; “and—yes—she is poor. I will tell you as a great secret—I69have never breathed it to a soul yet—that it would be impossible for this girl to be an inmate of Aylmer House if Mrs. Ward, in the kindness of her great heart, had not offered her very special terms. You will never breathe that, Merry, not even to Cicely?”
“Oh, poor Maggie!” said Merry, “are you really—really as poor as that?”
“Church mice aren’t poorer,” said Maggie. “But never mind; I have got something which even your Aneta hasn’t got. I have talent, and I have the power—the power of charming. I want most earnestly to be your special friend, Merry. I have a very affectionate heart, and I love you and Cicely and Molly and Isabel more than I can say; but of all you four girls I love you the best. You come first in my heart; and to see you at my school turning away from me and going altogether to Aneta’s side would give me agony. There, I can’t help it. Forgive me. I’ll be all right in a minute.”
Maggie turned her face aside. She had taken out her handkerchief and was pressing it to her eyes. Real tears had filled them, for her emotions were genuine enough.
“Don’t you think,” she said after a pause, “that you, who are so rich in this world’s goods, might be kind and loving to a poor little plain girl who loves you but who has got very little?”
“Indeed, indeed, I shall always love you, dear Maggie,” said Merry.
“Then you will do what I want?”
“I don’t like to make promises, and I am so much in the dark; but I can certainly say this—that, whatever happens, I shall be your friend at school. I shall look to you to help me in a hundred ways.”
“Will you indeed, darling Merry?”
“Of course I shall. I always intended to, and I think Cicely will do just the same.”
“I don’t want you to talk to Cicely about this. She doesn’t care for me as much as you do.”
“Perhaps not quite,” said honest Merry.
“Oh, I am sure—certain of it. Then you will be my friend as I shall be yours, and when we meet at Aylmer House you will talk of me to others as your friend?”
“Of course I shall.”
“That’s what I require. The thought of your friendship when I love you so passionately makes sunshine in my heart. I sha’n’t be miserable at all to-morrow after what you have said. I shall think of our pleasant talk under this great oak-tree; I shall recall this lovely, perfect day. Merry, you have made me very happy!”
“But please understand,” said Merry, “that, although I am your friend, I cannot give up Aneta.”
“Certainly not, dear; only, don’t take what you call sides. It is quite reasonable to suppose that girls who have only70just come to school would prefer to be there at first quite free and untrammeled; and to belong to a certain set immediately trammels you.”
“Well, I, for one, will promise—at any rate at first—that I won’t belong to any set,” said Merry. “Now, are you satisfied, Maggie?”
“Oh, truly I am! Do let me kiss you, darling.”
The girls kissed very affectionately.
Then Maggie said, “Now I am quite happy.” After a pause, she continued as though it were an after-thought, “Of course you won’t speak of this to any one?”
“Unless, perhaps, to Cicely,” said Merry.
“No, not even to Cicely; for if you found it hard to understand, she would find it impossible.”
“But,” said Merry, “I never had a secret from her in my life. She is my twin, you know.”
“Please, please,” said Maggie, “keep this little secret all to yourself for my sake. Oh, do think how important it is to me, and how much more you have to be thankful for than I have!”
“If you feel it like that, poor Maggie,” said Merry, “I will keep it as my own secret.”
“Then I have nothing further to say.” Maggie sprang to her feet. “There are the boys running to meet us,” she said. “I know they’ll want my help in preparing the fire for the gipsy-kettle.”
“And I will join the others. There’s Susan Heathfield; she is all alone,” said Merry. “But one moment first, please, Maggie. Are you going to make Molly and Isabel bind themselves by the same promise?”
“Dear me, no!” said Maggie. “They will naturally be my friends without any effort; but you are the one I want, for you are the one I truly love.”
“Hallo! there you are,” called Andrew’s voice, “hobnobbing, as usual, with Merry Cardew.”
“I say, Merry,” cried Jack, “it is unfair of you to take our Maggie away on her last day.”
The two boys now rushed up.
“I am going to cry bottles-full to-morrow,” said Andrew; “and, although I am a boy, about to be a man, I’m not a bit ashamed of it.”
“I’ll beat you at that,” said Jackdaw, “for I’ll cry basins-full.”
“Dear me, boys, how horrid of you!” said Maggie. “What on earth good will crying do to me? And you’ll both be so horribly limp and damp after it.”
“Well, come now,” said Jackdaw, pulling her by one arm while Peterkin secured the other.—“You’ve had your share of her, Merry, and it’s our turn.”
Maggie and her devoted satellites went off in the direction where the bonfire was to be made; and Merry, walking slowly, joined Susan Heathfield.71
Susan was more than two years older than Merry, and on that account the younger girls looked up to her with a great deal of respect. Up to the present, however, they had had no confidential talk.
Susan now said, “So you are to be a schoolgirl after all?”
“Yes. Isn’t it jolly?” said Merry.
“Oh, it has its pros and cons,” replied Susan. “In one sense, there is no place like school; but in the best sense of all there is no place like home.”
“Were you long at school, Susan?”
“Of course; Mary and I went to a school in Devonshire when we were quite little girls. I was eleven and Mary ten. Afterwards we were at a London school, and then we went to Paris. We had an excellent time at all our schools; but I think the best fun of all was the thought of the holidays and coming home again.”
“That must be delightful,” said Merry. “Did you make many friends at school?”
“Well, of course,” said Susan. “But now let me give you a word of advice, Merry. You are going to a most delightful school, which, alas! we were not lucky enough to get admitted to, although mother tried very hard. It may be different at Aylmer House from what it is in the ordinary school, but I would strongly advise you and Cicely not to join any clique at school.”
“Oh dear, how very queer!” said Merry, and she reddened deeply.
“Why do you look like that?” said Susan.
“Nothing, nothing,” said Merry.
Susan was silent for a minute or two. Then she said, “That’s a curious-looking girl.”
“What girl?” said Merry indignantly.
“I think you said her name was Howland—Miss Howland.”
“She is one of the most delightful girls I know,” replied Merry at once.
“Well, I don’t know her, you see, so I can’t say. Aneta tells me that she is a member of your school.”
“Yes; and I am so delighted!” said Merry.
Again Susan Heathfield was silent, feeling a little puzzled; but Merry quickly changed the conversation, for she did not want to have any more talk with regard to Maggie Howland. Merry, however, had a very transparent face. Her conversation with her friend had left traces of anxiety and even slight apprehension on her sweet, open face. Merry Cardew was oppressed by the first secret of her life, and it is perhaps to be regretted, or perhaps the reverse, that she found it almost impossible to keep a secret.
“Well,” Cicely said to her as they were hurrying from the shady woods in the direction of the picnic-tea, “what is wrong with you, Merry? Have you a headache?”
“Oh no; I am perfectly all right,” said Merry, brightening72up. “It’s only—well, to say the truth, I am sorry that Maggie is going to-morrow.”
“You are very fond of her, aren’t you?” said Cicely.
“Well, yes; that is it, I am,” said Merry.
“We’ll see plenty of her at school, anyway,” said Cicely.
“I wish she were rich,” said Merry. “I hate to think of her as poor.”
“Is she poor?” asked Cicely.
“Oh yes; she was just telling me, poor darling!”
“I don’t understand what it means to be poor,” said Cicely. “People say it is very bad, but somehow I can’t take it in.”
“Maggie takes it in, at any rate,” said Merry. “Think of us to-morrow, Cicely, having more fun, being out again in the open air, having pleasant companions all round us, and our beautiful home to go back to, and our parents, whom we love so dearly; and then, next week, of the house by the sea, and Aneta and Molly and Isabel our companions.”
“Well, of course,” said Cicely.
“And then think of poor Maggie,” continued Merry. “She’ll be shut up in a musty, fusty London lodging. I can’t think how she endures it.”
“I don’t know what a musty, fusty lodging is,” said Cicely; “but she could have come with us, because mother invited her.”
“She can’t, because her own mother wants her. Oh dear! I wish we could have her and her mother too.”
“Come on now, Merry, I don’t think we ought to ask father and mother to invite Mrs. Howland.”
“Of course not. I quite understand that,” replied Merry. “Nevertheless, I am a little sad about dear Maggie.”
Merry’s sadness took a practical form. She thought a great deal about her friend during the rest of that day, although Maggie rather avoided her. She thought, in particular, of Maggie’s poverty, and wondered what poverty really meant. The poor people—those who were called poor at Meredith—did not really suffer at all, for it was the bounden duty of the squire of the Manor to see to all their wants, to provide them with comfortable houses and nice gardens, and if they were ill to give them the advice of a good doctor, also to send them nourishing food from the Manor. But poor people of that sort were quite different from the Maggie Howland sort. Merry could not imagine any lord of the manor taking Maggie and Mrs. Howland in hand and providing them with all the good things of life.
But all of a sudden it darted through her eager, affectionate little heart that she herself might be lord of the manor to Maggie, and might help Maggie out of her own abundance. If it were impossible to get Maggie Howland and her mother both invited to Scarborough, why should not she, Merry, provide Maggie with means to take her mother from the fusty, dusty lodgings to another seaside resort?
Merry thought over this for some time, and the more she73thought over it the more enamored she was of the idea. She and Cicely had, of course, no special means of their own, nor could they have until they came of age. Nevertheless, they were allowed as pocket-money ten pounds every quarter. Now, Merry’s ten pounds would be due in a week. She really did not want it. When she got it she spent it mostly on presents for her friends and little gifts for the villagers; but on this occasion she might give it all in one lump sum to Maggie Howland. Surely her father would let her have it? She might give it to Maggie early to-morrow morning. Maggie would not be too proud to accept it just as a tiny present.
Merry had as little idea how far ten pounds would go toward the expenses of a visit to the seaside as she had of what real poverty meant. But it occurred to her as a delightful way of assuring Maggie of her friendship to present Maggie with her quarter’s pocket-money.
On their way home that evening, therefore, she was only too glad to find herself by her father’s side.
“Well, little girl,” he said, “so you’re forsaking all your young companions and wish to sit close to the old dad?”
The old dad, it may be mentioned, was driving home in a mail-phaeton from the picnic, and Merry found herself perched high up beside him as he held the reins and guided a pair of thoroughbred horses.
“Well, what is it, little girl?” he said.
“I wonder, father, if you’d be most frightfully kind?”
“What!” he answered, just glancing at her; “that means that you are discontented again. What more can I do for you, Merry?”
“If I might only have my pocket-money to-night.”
“You extravagant child! Your pocket-money! It isn’t due for a week.”
“But I do want it very specially. Will you advance it to me just this once, dad?”
“I am not to know why you want it?”
“No, dad darling, you are not to know.”
Mr. Cardew considered for a minute.
“I hope you are not going to be a really extravagant woman, Merry,” he said. “To tell the truth, I hate extravagance, although I equally hate stinginess. You will have no lack of money, child, but money is a great and wonderful gift and ought to be used to the best of best advantages. It ought never to be wasted, for there are so many people who haven’t half enough, and those who are rich, my child, ought to help those who are not rich.”
“Yes, darling father,” said Merry; “and that is what I should so awfully like to do.”
“Well, I think you have the root of the matter in you,” said Mr. Cardew, “and I, for one, am the last person to pry on my child. Does Cicely also want her money in advance?”
“Oh no, no! I want it for a very special reason.”74
“Very well, my little girl. Come to me in the study to-night before you go to bed, and you shall have your money.”
“In sovereigns, please, father?”
“Yes, child, in sovereigns.”
“Thank you ever so much, darling.”
During the rest of the drive there was no girl happier than Merry Cardew. Mr. Cardew looked at her once or twice, and wondered what all this meant. But he was not going to question her.
When they got home he took her away to his study, and, opening a drawer, took out ten sovereigns.
“I may as well tell you,” he said as he put them into her hand, “that when you go to school I shall raise your pocket-money allowance to fifteen pounds a quarter. That is quite as large a sum as a girl of your age ought to have in the year. I do this because I well understand that at Mrs. Ward’s school there will be special opportunities for you to act in a philanthropic manner.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, father!” said Merry.