CHAPTER VI.FORBIDDEN FRUIT.
Meanwhile a little girl stood all alone on one of the terrace walks at Meredith Manor. Mrs. Cardew and Cicely would not arrive until rather late for lunch, and Merry and her father were to partake of it alone. Merry paced up and down very slowly. What a lovely day it was, and how beautiful the place looked with its long lines of stately trees, and its background of woods, and its terraces of bright flowers and green, green grass!
As far as the eye could reach the land belonged to the Cardews, and yet Merry Cardew, the joint-heiress with Cicely of all this wealth, did not feel either happy or contented at that moment. A girl had come into her life who had suddenly turned her gold to gray, her sunshine to shadow. She was a very nice girl, too—exceedingly nice. There was something about her which Merry found impossible to define, for Merry had no acquaintances just then in her sheltered life who possessed the all-important and marvelous power of charm. Merry knew quite well that Maggie Howland was neither rich nor beautiful. She was34just a little schoolgirl, and yet she could not get Maggie out of her head. She sighed for the girl’s companionship, and she sighed yet more for the forbidden fruit which Maggie had placed so enticingly before her mental vision: the school-life, the good life, the energetic, purposeful life. Music—oh, how passionately Merry loved the very little music she had ever heard! And art—Merry and Cicely had learned a little bit of art in their own picture-gallery; but of all there was outside they knew nothing. Then that delightful, wonderful scheme of having an East End girl for your very own to train, and help, and write to, and support; and the companionship, and all the magical things which the Tristrams had more or less enjoyed in foreign schools, but which seemed to have reached a delicacy of perfection at Aylmer House!
Yes, doubtless these were forbidden fruits; but she could not help, as she paced alone on the terrace, contrasting her mode of education with that which was put within the reach of her friends Molly and Isabel, and of Maggie herself. How dull, after all, were her lessons! The daily governess, who was always tired when she arrived, taught her out of books which even Molly and Isabel declared to be out of date; who yawned a good deal; who was always quite, quite kind, but at the same time had no enthusiasm; who said, “Yes, my dears; very nicely done,” but never even punished; and who only uttered just that mild phrase which was monotonous by reason of its repetition. Where was the good of reading Racine aloud to Miss Beverley day after day, and not being able to talk French properly at all? And where was the use of struggling through German with the same instructress?
Then the drawing-master who came from Warwick: he was better than Miss Beverley; but, after all, he taught what Molly and Isabel said was now quite exploded—namely, freehand—and he only came once a week. Merry’s passion was for music more than for drawing; it was Cicely who pleased Mr. Vaughan, the drawing-master, best. Then there was the music-master, Mr. Bennett; but he never would allow her to sing a note, and he taught very dull, old-fashioned pieces. How sick she was of pieces, and of playing them religiously before her father at least once a week! Her dancing was better, for she had to go to Warwick to a dancing-class, and there were other girls, and they made it exciting. But compared to school, and in especial Mrs. Ward’s school, Merry’s mode of instruction was very dull. After all, Molly and Isabel, although they would be quite poor girls, had a better time than she and Cicely with all their wealth.
“A penny for your thoughts, my love,” said her father at that moment, and Merry turned her charming little face towards him.
“I ought not to tell them to you, dad,” she said, “for35they are—I’m ever so sorry—they are discontented thoughts.”
“You discontented, my dear child! I did feel that I had two little girls unacquainted with the meaning of the word.”
“Well, I’ll just tell you, and get it over, dad. I’ll be perfectly all right once I have told you.”
“Then talk away my child; you know I have your very best interests at heart.”
“Indeed I know that, my darling father. The fact is this,” said Merry; “I”––She stopped; she glanced at her father. He was a most determined and yet a most absolutely kind man. Merry adored him; nevertheless, she was a tiny little bit in awe of him.
“What is the matter?” he said, looking round at her. “Has your companion, that nice little Miss Howland, been putting silly thoughts into your head? If so, she mustn’t come here again.”
“Oh father, don’t say that! You’ll make me quite miserable. And indeed she has not been putting silly thoughts into my head.”
“Well, then, what are you so melancholy about?”
“The fact is—there, I will have it out,” said Merry—“I’d give anything in the world to go to school.”
“What?” said Mr. Cardew.
“Yes,” said Merry, gaining courage as she spoke; “Molly and Isabel are going, and Aneta Lysle is there, and Maggie Howland is there, and I’d like to go, too, and I’m sure Cicely would; and, oh, father! I know itcan’tbe; but you asked me what was the matter. Well, that’s the matter. I do want most awfully to go to school!”
“Has that girl Miss Howland been telling you that you ought to go to school?”
“Indeed no, she has not breathed such a word. But I am always interested, as you know—or as perhaps you don’t know—in schools; and I have always asked—and so has Cicely—Molly and Isabel to tell us all about their lives at school.”
“I did not know it, my little Merry.”
“Well, yes, father, Cicely and I have been curious; for, you see, the life is so very different from ours. And so to-day, when Maggie and I were in the picture-gallery, I asked her to tell me about Aylmer House, and she—she did.”
“She made a glowing picture, evidently,” said Mr. Cardew.
“Oh father, it must be so lovely! Think of it, father—to get the best music and the best art, and to be under the influence of a woman like Mrs. Ward. Oh, it must be good! Do you know, father, that every girl in her school has an East End girl to look after and help; so that some of the riches of the West should be felt and appreciated by those who live in the East. Oh father! I could not help feeling a little jealous.”
“Yes, darling, I quite understand. And you find your life36with Miss Beverley and Mr. Vaughan and Mr. Bennett a little monotonous compared to the variety which a school-life affords?”
“That is it, father darling.”
“I don’t blame you in the least, Merry—not in the very least; but the fact is, I have my own reasons for not approving of school-life. I prefer girls who are trained at home. If, indeed, you had to earn your living it would be a different matter. But you will be rich, dear, some day, and––Well, I am glad you’ve spoken to me. Don’t think anything more about it. Come in to lunch now.”
“I’ll try not to think of it, father; and you’re not really angry?”
“Angry!” said Mr. Gardew. “I’ll never be angry with you, Merry, when you tell me all the thoughts of your heart.”
“And you won’t—you won’t,” said Merry in an anxious tone—“vex darling mother by talking to her about this?”
“I make no promises whatsoever You have trusted me; you must continue to trust me.”
“I do; indeed I do! You are not angry with dear, nice Miss Howland, are you, father?”
“Angry with her! Why should I be? Most certainly not. Now, come in to lunch, love.”
At that meal Mr. Cardew did his very utmost to be pleasant to Merry; and as there could be no man more charming when he pleased, soon the little girl was completely under his influence, and forgot that fascinating picture of school-life which Maggie had so delicately painted for her edification.
Soon after lunch Mrs. Cardew and Cicely returned; and Merry, the moment she was with her sister, felt her sudden fit of the blues departing, and ran out gaily with Cicely into the garden. They were seated comfortably in a little arbor, when Isabel’s voice was heard calling them. She was hot and panting. She had come up to tell them of the proposed arrangements for the afternoon, and to beg of them both to come immediately to the rectory.
“How more than delightful!” said Merry.—“Cicely, you stay still, for you’re a little tired. I’ll run up to the house at once and ask father and mother if we may go.”
“Yes, please do,” said Isabel; “and I’ll rest here for a little, for really the walk up to your house is somewhat fatiguing.” She mopped her hot forehead as she spoke. “You might as well come back with me, both of you girls,” she added. But she only spoke to Cicely, for Merry had already vanished.
“Father! mother!” said the young girl, bursting abruptly into their presence. “Belle Tristram has just come up to ask us to spend the afternoon at the rectory. Tea in the hay-field, and all kinds of fun! May we go?”
“Of course you may, dears,” said Mrs. Cardew at once. “We intended motoring, but we can do that another day.”37
Mr. Cardew looked dubious for a moment. Then he said, “All right, only you must not be out too late. I’ll send the pony-trap down to the rectory for you at half-past eight o’clock.”
“Oh, but, father,” said Merry, “we can walk home.”
“No dear; I will send the little carriage. Now, go and enjoy yourself, my child.”
He looked at her with great affection, and she felt herself reddening. Had she hurt that most dear father after all? Oh! no school that ever existed was worth that.
CHAPTER VII.DISCONTENT.
On that special afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Cardew happened to be alone. The girls had gone down to the rectory. This was not Mrs. Cardew’s At Home day, and she therefore did not expect any visitors. She was a little tired after her long drive to Warwick, and was glad when her husband suggested that they should go out and have tea all alone together under one of the wide-spreading elm-trees.
Mrs. Cardew said to herself that this was almost like the old, old times of very long ago. She and her husband had enjoyed an almost ideal married life. They had never quarreled; they had never even had a small disagreement. They were blessed abundantly with this world’s good things, for when Sylvia Meredith of Meredith Manor had accepted the hand of Cyril Cardew she had also given her heart to him.
He and she were one in all particulars. Their thoughts were almost identical. She was by no means a weak-minded woman—she had plenty of character and firmness; but she deferred to the wishes of her husband, as a good wife should, and was glad! to feel that he was slightly her master. Never, under any circumstances, did he make her feel the yoke. Nevertheless, she obeyed him, and delighted in doing so.
The arrival of their little twin-daughters was the crown of their bliss. They never regretted the fact that no son was born to them to inherit the stately acres of Meredith Manor; they were the last sort of people to grumble. Mrs. Cardew inherited the Meredith property in her own right, and eventually it would be divided between her two daughters.
Meanwhile the children themselves absorbed the most loving care of their parents. Mr. Cardew was, as has already been said, a great merchant-prince. He often went to London to attend to his business affairs, but he spent most of his time in the exquisite country home. It was quite true that discontent seemed far, very far away from so lovely a spot as Meredith Manor. Nevertheless, Mr. Cardew had seen it to-day on the face of his best-loved child,38his little Merry. The look had hurt him; and while he was having lunch with her, and joking with her, and talking, in his usually bright and intelligent way, her words, and still more the expression of her face and the longing look in her sweet brown eyes, returned to him again and again.
He was, therefore, more thoughtful than usual as he sat by his wife’s side now under the elm-tree. He had a pile of newspapers and magazines on the grass at his feet, and his favorite fox-terrier Jim lay close to his master. Mrs. Cardew had her invariable knitting and a couple of novels waiting to occupy her attention when Mr. Cardew took up one of the newspapers. But for a time the pair were silent. Mrs. Cardew was thinking of something which she wanted to say, and Mr. Cardew was thinking of Merry. It was, as is invariably the case, the woman who first broke the silence.
“Well, Cyril,” said his wife, “to find ourselves seated here all alone, without the children’s voices to listen to reminds me of the old times, the good times, the beautiful times when we were first married.”
“My dear,” he answered, starting slightly as she spoke, “those were certainly good and beautiful times, but surely not more good and beautiful than now, when our two dear little girls are growing up and giving us such great happiness.”
“That is true. Please don’t misunderstand me, love; but you come even before the children.”
He felt touched as she said this, and glancing at her, said to himself that he was indeed in luck to have secured so priceless a woman as his wife.
“We have had happy times together, Cyril,” she said, returning his glance.
“Yes, Sylvia,” he answered, and once again he thought of Merry’s face.
“Nothing can alter that,” she continued.
“Nothing, my love,” he said.
Then he looked at her again, and saw that she was a little troubled about something; and, as was his custom, he determined to take the bull by the horns.
“You have something on your mind, Sylvia. What is it?”
“I have,” she said at once; “and something of very great importance. I have a sort of fear that to talk of it with you may possibly trouble you a little. Shall we defer it, dear? The day is so peaceful, and we are so happy.”
“No, no,” he replied at once. “We will take the opportunity of the children being perfectly happy at the rectory to discuss the thing that worries you. But what can it be?” he continued. “That is more than I can imagine. I have never seen you worried before.”
Again he thought of Merry, but it was impossible to connect his wife’s trouble with his child’s discontent.
“Well, I will tell you just out, Cyril,” said his wife. “I39urge nothing, but I feel bound to make a suggestion. I know your views with regard to the girls.”
“My views, dear! What do you mean?”
“With regard to their education, Cyril.”
“Yes, yes, Sylvia; we have done our very best. Have you any reason to find fault with Miss Beverley or with Vaughan or Bennett?”
“Unfortunately,” said Mrs. Cardew, “Miss Beverley, who, you know, is an admirable governess, and whom we can most thoroughly trust, wrote to me yesterday morning saying that she was obliged to resign her post as daily governess to our girls. She finds the distance from Warwick too far; in fact, she has her physician’s orders to take work nearer home. She regrets it immensely, but feels that she has no alternative.”
“Provoking!” said Mr. Cardew; “but really, Sylvia, I wouldn’t allow it to upset me if I were you. Surely there are plenty of other Miss Beverleys in the world; and”—again he thought of Merry—“we might perhaps find some one a little less old-fashioned.”
“I am afraid, dear, that is impossible, for you will not allow a resident governess in the house.”
“I will not,” said Mr. Cardew with decision. “Such an arrangement would break in on our family life. You know my views.”
“Yes, dear; and I must say I approve of them.”
“You must find some one else in Warwick who is not too tired to take the train journey. Doubtless it would be quite easy,” said Mr. Cardew.
“I went to Warwick this morning in order to make inquiries,” said Mrs. Cardew in her gentle voice, “and I grieve to say there is no one who can in the least take the post which dear Miss Beverley has so worthily filled. But I have further bad news to give you. Mr. Bennett is leaving Warwick for a better post in London, and we shall be at our wits’ end to get the girls good music-lessons for next term.”
“How provoking! how annoying!” said Mr. Cardew, and his irritation was plainly shown in his face. “It does seem hard,” he said after a moment’s pause, “that we, with all our wealth, should be unable to give our girls the thorough education they require.”
“The fact is this, dear,” said Mrs. Cardew, “and I must speak out plainly even at the risk of displeasing you—Cicely and Merry are exceedingly clever girls, but at the present moment they are very far behind other girls of their age. Their knowledge of foreign languages is most deficient. I have no doubt Miss Beverley has grounded them well in English subjects; but as to accomplishments, they are not getting the advantages their rank in life and their talent demand. Dear Cyril, we ought to forget ourselves and our interests for the children.”
“What has put all this into your head?” said Mr. Cardew.40“As, for instance—” He paused. “It seemed impossible––”
“What, dear?” asked his wife very earnestly.
“Well, I may as well say it. Has Merry been talking to you?”
“Our little Merry!” said Mrs. Cardew in astonishment. “Of course not. What in the world do you mean?”
“I will not explain just at present, dear. You have some idea in your head, or you wouldn’t speak to me as you do.”
“Well, the fact is, when my cousin, Lucia Lysle, was here yesterday she spoke very strongly to me on the subject of the girls’ education, and urged me to do what I knew you would never for a moment consent to.”
“And what is that?” asked Mr. Gardew. “I seem to be an awful bugbear in this business.”
“No, dear, no. I quite understand your scruples, and—and—respect them. But Lucia naturally wanted us to seize the opportunity of two vacancies at Aylmer House, Mrs. Ward’s school.”
“I shall soon begin to hate the name of Mrs. Ward,” said Cardew with some asperity.
“My cousin spoke most highly of the school,” continued Mrs. Cardew. “She said that two years there, or perhaps a little longer, would give the girls that knowledge of life which will be all-essential to them in the future.”
“Home education is best; I know it is best,” said Mr. Cardew. “I hate girls’ schools.”
“I gave her to understand, dear, that those were your views; but I have something else to tell you. You know how attached we both are to the dear Tristrams.”
“Of course, of course,” said Mr. Cardew with impatience.
“Well, at supper yesterday evening Mr. Tristram began to talk to me on the very same subject as my cousin, Lady Lysle, had spoken of earlier in the day.”
“Very interfering of Tristram,” replied Mr. Cardew.
“He didn’t mean it in that way, I assure you, my love; nothing could be nicer than the way he spoke. I was telling him—for I had not mentioned the fact to you, and it was troubling me a little—about Miss Beverley and Mr. Bennett, and asking his advice, as I often do. He immediately urged Aylmer House as the best possible substitute for Miss Beverley and Mr. Bennett. I repeated almost the same words I had used to Lucia Lysle—namely, that you were dead-set against girls’ schools.”
“That was scarcely polite, my love, seeing that he sends his own daughters to school.”
“Well, yes,” said Mrs. Cardew; “but of course their circumstances are very different.”
“I would be sorry if he should feel that difference, Sylvia. Tristram is a most excellent fellow.”
“He is—indeed he is!” said Mrs. Cardew. “Feeling for41him, therefore, as you do, dear, you may perhaps be more inclined to listen to an alternative which he proposed to me.”
“And what is that, my dear?”
“Well, he thinks we might occupy our house in London during the school terms of each year––”
“During the school terms of each year!” echoed Mr. Cardew in a voice of dismay. “But I hate living in London.”
“Yes, dearest; but you see we must think of our girls. If you and I took the children to town they could have governesses and masters—the very best—and would thus be sufficiently educated to take their place in society.”
Mr. Cardew was quite silent for a full minute after his wife had made this suggestion. To tell the truth, she had done a somewhat extraordinary thing. Amongst this great lady’s many rich possessions was a splendid mansion in Grosvenor Street; but, as she hated what is called London society, it had long been let to different tenants, for nothing would induce the Cardews to leave their delightful home, with its fresh air and country pursuits, for the dingy old house in town. They knew that when the girls came out—a far-distant date as yet—they would have to occupy the house in Grosvenor Street for the season; but Mrs. Cardew’s suggestion that they should go there almost immediately for the sake of their daughters’ education was more annoying to her husband than he could possibly endure.
“I consider the rector very officious,” he said. “Nothing would induce me to live in town.”
“I thought you would feel like that, dear. I was certain of it.”
“You surely would not wish it yourself, Sylvia?”
“I should detest it beyond words,” she replied.
“Besides, the house is occupied,” said Mr. Cardew, catching at any excuse not to carry out this abominable plan, as he termed it.
“Well, dear, at the present moment it is not. I had a letter a week ago from our agent to ask if he should relet it for the winter and next season, and I have not yet replied to him.”
“Nonsense, nonsense, Sylvia! We cannot go to live there.”
“I don’t wish it, my love.”
The pair sat quite silent after Mrs. Cardew had made this last remark.
After a time her husband said, “We’re really placed in a very cruel dilemma; but doubtless there are schools and schools. Now, I feel that the time has arrived when I ought to tell you about Merry.”
“What about the dear child?” asked her mother. “Isn’t she well?”
“Absolutely and perfectly well, but our dear little girl is consumed by the fever of discontent.”
“My dear, you must be mistaken.”
“I am not. Listen, and I will tell you what has happened.”42
Mr. Cardew then related his brief interview with Merry, and Merry’s passionate desire to go to Aylmer House.
“And what did you say to her, love?” asked his wife.
“I told her it was impossible, of course.”
“But it really isn’t, dear, you know,” said Mrs. Cardew in a low tone; “and as you cannot make up your mind to live in London, those two vacancies at Aylmer House seem providential.”
At these words Mr. Cardew sprang to his feet. “Nothing will ever shake my opinion with regard to school-life,” he said.
“And yet the life in town––”
“That is impossible. Look me straight in the face, Sylvia. If by any chance—don’t, please, imagine that I’m giving way—but if, by any possible chance, I were to yield, could you, my darling, live without your girls?”
“With you—I could,” she answered, and she held out her hand to him, which he raised to his lips and kissed.
“Well, I am upset,” he said. “If only Miss Beverley and Bennett were not so silly, we should not be in this awkward fix. I’ll go for a ride, if you don’t mind, Sylvia, and be back with you in an hour’s time.”
During that ride Mr. Cardew felt as a strong man does when his most cherished wishes are opposed, and when circumstance, with its overpowering weight, bears down every objection. Beyond doubt the girls must be educated. Beyond doubt the scheme of living in London could not be entertained. Country life was essential. Meredith Manor must not be deserted for the greater part of the year. He might visit the girls whenever he went to London; but, after all, he was now more or less a sleeping partner in his great firm. There was no necessity for him to go to London more than four or five times a year. Oh! school was hateful, but little Merry had longed for it. How troublesome education was! Surely the girls knew enough.
He was riding home, his thoughts still in a most perturbed condition, when he suddenly drew up just in front of a little figure who stood by the roadside, attired as a gipsy, with a scarlet bandana handkerchief twisted round her head, a short skirt reaching not quite to her ankles made also of scarlet, and a little gay blue shawl across her shoulders. She was carrying a tambourine in one hand and in the other a great bunch of many-colored ribbons.
This little, unexpected figure was seen close to the rectory grounds, and Mr. Cardew was so startled by it, and so also was his horse, that he drew up abruptly and looked imperiously at the small suppliant for his favor.
“If you please, sir,” said Maggie Howland, speaking in her most enticing voice, and knowing well that her dress magnified her charms, “will you, kind sir, allow me to cross your hand with silver and let me tell your fortune?”
Mr. Cardew now burst into a merry laugh.43
“Why, Miss Howland,” he said, “I beg your pardon; I did not recognize you.”
Maggie dropped a low curtsy. “I’m the gipsy girl Caranina, and I should like to tell your fortune, kind and generous sir.”
Just then the pretty face of Cicely was seen peeping over the rectory grounds. She was dressed as a flower-girl, and looked more lovely than he had ever seen her before.
“Why, dad, dad,” she cried, “oh! you must come in and join our fun. Mustn’t he, Maggie?”
“I am Caranina, the gipsy girl,” said Maggie, dropping another low curtsy, and holding her little tambourine in the most beseeching attitude; “and you are Flora, queen of the flowers.”
“Well, really, this is entertaining,” said Mr. Cardew. “What queer little minxes you all are! And may I really come in and see the fun?”
“Indeed you may, dad,” said the flower-girl. “Oh, and please we want you to look at Merry. Merry’s a fairy, with wings. We’re going to have what we call an evening revel presently, and we are all in our dress for the occasion. But Maggie—I mean Caranina—is telling our fortunes—that is, until the real fun begins.”
“Do please come in, Mr. Cardew. This is the height of good luck,” said Mrs. Tristram, coming forward herself at this moment. “Won’t you join my husband and me under the shadow of the tent yonder? The young people are having such a good time.”
“I will come for a minute or two,” said Cardew, dismounting as he spoke. “Can some one hold Hector for me?”
David was quickly summoned, and Mr. Cardew walked across the hay-field to where the hastily improvised tent was placed.
“No one can enter here who doesn’t submit to the will of the gipsy,” remarked Caranina in her clear and beautiful voice. “This is my tent, and I tell the fortunes of all those kind ladies and gentlemen who will permit me to do so.”
“Then you shall tell mine, with pleasure, little maid,” said Mr. Cardew, who felt wonderfully cheered and entertained at thisal frescoamusement.
Quick as thought Maggie had been presented with a silver coin. With this she crossed the good gentleman’s palm, and murmured a few words with regard to his future. There was nothing whatever remarkable in her utterance, for Maggie knew nothing of palmistry, and was only a very pretense gipsy fortune-teller. But she was quick—quicker than most—in reading character; and as she glanced now into Mr. Cardew’s face an inspiration seized her.
“He is troubled about something,” thought the girl. “It’s the thin end of the wedge; I’ll push it in a little farther.”
Her voice dropped to a low tone. “I see in your hand, kind sir,” she said, “all happiness, long life, and prosperity;44but I also see a little cross, just here—” she pointed with her pretty finger—“and it means self-sacrifice for the sake of a great and lasting good. Kind sir, I have nothing more to add.”
Mr. Cardew left the tent and sat down beside the rector and his wife. Maggie’s words were really unimportant. As one after the other the merry group of actors went to have their fortunes told he paid no attention whatever to them. Gipsy fortune-tellers always mixed a little sorrow with their joyful tidings. It was a bewitching little gipsy after all. He could not quite make out her undefined charm, but he was interested in her; and after a time, when the fortune-telling had come to an end and Maggie was about to change her dress for what they called the evening revels, he crossed the field and stood near her.
“So you, Miss Howland, have been telling my daughter Merry a good many things with regard to your new school?”
She raised her queer, bright eyes, and looked him full in the face. “I have told Merry a few things,” she said; “but, most of all, I have assured her that Aylmer House is the happiest place in the world.”
“Happier than home? Should you say it was happier than home, Miss Howland?”
“Happier than my home,” said Maggie with a little sigh, very gentle and almost imperceptible, in her voice. “Oh, I love it!” she continued with enthusiasm; “for it helps—I mean, the life there helps—to make one good.”
Mr. Cardew said nothing more. After a time he bade his friends good-by and returned to Meredith Manor. In course of time the little pony-carriage was sent down to the rectory for the Cardew girls, who went back greatly elated.
How delightful their evening had been, and what a marvelous girl Maggie Howland was.’
“Why, she even manages to subdue and to rule those really tiresome boys,” said Cicely.
“Yes,” remarked Merry, “she is like no one else.”
“You have quite fallen in love with her, haven’t you, Merry?”
“Well, perhaps I have a little bit,” said Merry. She looked thoughtful. She longed to say to Cicely, “How I wish beyond all things on earth that I were going to the same school!” But a certain fidelity to her father kept her silent.
She was startled, therefore, when Cicely herself, who was always supposed to be much calmer than Merry, and less vehement in her desires, clasped her sister’s hand and said with emphasis, “I don’t know, after all, if it is good for us to see too much of Maggie Howland.”
“Why, Cissie? What do you mean?”
“I mean this,” said Cicely: “she makes me—yes, I will say it—discontented.”
“And me too,” said Merry, uttering the words with an emphasis which astonished herself.
“We have talked of school over and over again,” said45Cicely, “with Molly and Belle; but notwithstanding their glowing accounts we have been quite satisfied with Miss Beverley, and dear, gray-haired Mr. Bennett, and Mr. Vaughan; but now I for one, don’t feel satisfied any longer.” “Nor do I,” said Merry.
“Oh Merry!”
“It is true,” said Merry. “I want to go to Aylmer House.”
“And I am almost mad to go there,” said Cicely.
“I’ll tell you something, Cissie. I spoke to father about it to-day.”
“Merry! you didn’t dare?”
“Well, I just did. I couldn’t help myself. It is hateful to be under-educated, and you know we shall never be like other girls if we don’t see something of the world.”
“He didn’t by any chance agree with you?” said Cicely.
“Not a bit of it,” said Merry. “We must bear with our present life, only perhaps we oughtn’t to see too much of Maggie Howland.”
“Well,” said Cicely, “I’ve something to tell you, Merry.”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t know just at present why mother and I went to Warwick this morning?”
“No,” said Merry, who was rather uninterested. “I had a very good time with Maggie, and didn’t miss you too dreadfully.”
“Well, you will be interested to know why we did go, all the same,” said Cicely. “It’s because Miss Beverley is knocked up and can’t teach us any more, and Mr. Bennett is going to London. Mother can’t hear of anyone to take Miss Beverley’s place, or of any music-teacher equal to Mr. Bennett; so, somehow or other, I feel that there are changes in the air. Oh Merry, Merry! suppose––”
“There’s no use in it,” said Merry. “Father will never change. We’ll get some other dreadfully dull daily governess, and some other fearfully depressing music-master, and we’ll never be like Molly and Belle and Maggie and our cousin Aneta. It does seem hard.”
“We must try not to be discontented,” said Cicely.
“Then we had best not ask Maggie here too often,” replied Merry.
“Oh, but they’re all coming up to-morrow morning, for I have asked them,” said Cicely.
“Dear, dear!” replied Merry.
“We may as well have what fun we can,” remarked Cicely, “for you know we shall be going to the seaside in ten days.”
CHAPTER VIII.MRS. WARD’S SCHOOL.
It is to be regretted that Mr. Cardew spent a restless night. Mrs. Cardew, on the contrary, slept with the utmost peace.46She trusted so absolutely in her husband’s judgment and in in his power to do the very best he could on all possible occasions for her and hers that she was never deeply troubled about anything. Her dear husband must not be forced to live in London if he did not like to do so, and some arrangement must be made for the girls’ home education if he could not see his way to sending them to school.
Great, therefore, was her astonishment on the following morning when he came hastily into her room.
“My dear,” he said, “I am off to London for the day.”
“What for?” she asked.
“I will tell you, darling, when I return to-night.”
“Cyril, may I not come with you?”
“I think not, my love. Make all the young people as happy as you can. I’m just off to the station, in the motor-car.”
Mr. Cardew left his wife’s room. The girls were told at breakfast that their father had gone to London; but as this frequently happened, and was invariably connected with that business which they knew nothing whatever about, they were not keenly interested. As a matter of fact, they were much more absorbed in getting things ready for the entertainment of their friends; and in this Mrs. Cardew very heartily joined them. She proposed that during Maggie Howland’s visit the five girls should have as happy a time together as possible; and as the weather was perfect the invariable picnics and gipsy teas were arranged for their benefit.
“You can all make yourselves happy here to-day, my darlings,” said Mrs. Cardew, addressing Cicely and Merry. “To-morrow, when your father is here, the Tristrams, he and I, and you girls will have a very pleasant picnic to the Aldersleigh woods. We will arrange it to-day, for there is nothing your father enjoys more than a whole, long, happy day in the open air. I will speak to Mrs. Fairlight, and tell her to have all things in readiness for our picnic.”
“Oh mummy, how good! how good!” said Merry, clasping her mother’s hand. Then she added, “Mummy, is it true that Miss Beverley is never going to teach us any more?”
“I am afraid it is only too true, Merry; but this is holiday-time, darling; we needn’t talk of your education just at present.”
“Only, we must be educated—mustn’t we, mother?”
“Of course, dearest. Your father will see to that.”
Merry ran off to join her sister, and it is not too much to say that the whole of that glorious day was one of unalloyed pleasure. The Tristram girls were always delightful to the Cardew girls, but now that they were accompanied by Maggie Howland there was a great addition to their charm. Nevertheless, Maggie, with her purpose full in view, with her heart beating a little more quickly than usual when she heard that Mr. Cardew had gone to London, religiously avoided the subject of the life at Aylmer House.47She felt, somehow, that she had done her part. A great deal of her own future depended on these two girls coming to Aylmer House. She would make use of them—large use of them—at school. She was fond of Molly and Belle; but they were poor. Maggie herself was poor. She wanted to have rich friends. The Cardews were rich. By their means she would defeat her enemy, Aneta Lysle, and establish herself not only in the school but with regard to her future life. Maggie felt that she could make herself indispensable to Cicely and Merry. Oh yes, they would certainly go to Aylmer House in September. She need not worry herself any further, therefore, with regard to that matter. Little would they guess how much she had really done toward this desirable goal, and how fortunate circumstances had been in aiding her to the accomplishment of her desire. It was enough for Maggie that they were certainly going. She could, therefore, give herself up to enjoyment.
With Maggie Howland enjoyment meant a very different thing from what it does to the average English girl. She enjoyed herself with all her heart and soul, without one single reservation. To see her face at such moments was to behold pure sunshine; to hear her voice was to listen to the very essence of laughter and happiness. She had a marvelous power of telling stories, and when she was happy she told them with such verve that all people within earshot hung on her words. Then she could improvise, and dance, and take off almost any character; in short, she was the life of every party who admitted her within their circle.
Meanwhile a rather tired and rather sad man found himself, very much against his will, in London. He said to himself, “This wonderful Mrs. Ward will not be at Aylmer House now. These are the holidays, and she will be probably miles away. I will go to see her. Yes, but she won’t be in; that alone will clinch the matter. But first I will pay a visit to Lucia Lysle; she said she would be in London—she told my dear wife so. But Lucia is so erratic, it is most improbable that she either will be at home.”
Mr. Cardew drove first of all to Lady Lysle’s house in Hans Place. He asked if she was within, and, very much to his annoyance, the servant replied in the affirmative. He entered Lady Lysle’s drawing-room feeling rather silly. The first person he saw there was a tall, slim, lovely girl, whom he did not recognize at first, but who knew him and ran up to him and introduced herself as Aneta.
“Why, my dear,” he said, “how are you? How you have grown!”
“How is dear Cousin Sylvia, and how are Cicely and Merry?” asked Aneta. “Oh, I am very well indeed, Mr. Cardew; I don’t suppose anybody could be anything but well who was lucky enough to be at Aylmer House.”
“Mrs. Ward’s school?” said Mr. Cardew, feeling rather shy and almost self-conscious.48
“Of course. Don’t you know Mrs. Ward, Mr. Cardew?”
“No, my dear, I don’t.”
“It’s the most marvelous school in the world,” said Aneta with enthusiasm. “I do wish you would send Cicely and Merry there. They would have a good time.”
“Is your aunt in?” said Mr. Cardew, a little restlessly.
“Oh yes; she’ll be down in a minute.”
Lady Lysle now hurried into the room.
“How do you do, Cyril?” she said. “I didn’t expect to find you in town just now. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I am rather anxious to have a chat with you,” replied Mr. Cardew.
“Aneta darling, you had better leave us,” said her aunt.
The girl went off with a light laugh. “Auntie,” she said, “I’ve just been telling Mr. Cardew that he ought to send Cicely and Merry to Aylmer House.” She closed the door as she made this parting shot.
“As a matter of fact, I agree with Aneta,” said Lady Lysle. “A couple of years at that splendid school would do the girls no end of good.”
Mr. Cardew was silent for a minute. “I may as well confess something to you, Lucia,” he said then.
“What is it, Cyril?”
“I have by no means made up my mind; but we are very much annoyed at the illness of our daily governess Miss Beverley, and at the girls’ music-master Mr. Bennett removing to London. So I just thought I would ask you a question or two about this wonderful Mrs. Ward. I don’t suppose for a single moment I should dream of sending the children there; and, besides, she is not in London now, is she?”
“Yes, she is,” replied Lady Lysle. Mr. Cardew felt at that moment that he hated Mrs. Ward. “She came to see me only last evening. She is leaving town to-morrow; but if by any chance you would like to go and see her, and thus judge of the school for yourself—it would commit you to nothing, of course—she will, I know, be at home all this morning.”
“Dear, dear!” said Mr. Cardew. “How very provoking!”
“What do you mean, Cyril?”
“Nothing, nothing, of course, Lucia. But if, as you say, the school is so popular, there will be no vacancies, for I think some one told me that Mrs. Ward only took a limited number of pupils.”
“There are two vacancies at the present moment,” said Lady Lysle in her calm voice, “although they are likely to be filled up immediately, for Mrs. Ward has had many applications; but then she is exceedingly particular, and will only take girls of high birth and of very distinguished character.”
“Doubtless she has filled up the vacancies by this morning,” said Mr. Cardew, rising with some alacrity. “Well, thank you, Lucia. As I am in town—came up on business49you know—I may as well just have a look at Aylmer House and Mrs. Ward. It will satisfy my dear wife.”
“Why, surely you don’t for a minute really intend to send the girls there?” said Lady Lysle with a superior smile.
“I cannot tell what I may do. When a man is distracted, and when a valuable daily governess breaks down, and—and—don’t question me too closely, Lucia, and keep our little interview to yourself. As I have just said, nothing will probably come of this; but I will go and see the lady just to satisfy myself.”
“Aneta will be delighted if you do send the girls to Aylmer House,” was Lady Lysle’s last word.
She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Cardew found himself turning rather red. He left her, called a hansom, and got into it.
“Of course the vacancies will be filled up,” he said to himself as he was driving in the direction of South Kensington. He further thought, “Although that good Mrs. Ward is remaining for such an unconscionable time in town, she will very probably be out this morning. If she is out that puts an end to everything; but even if she is in, she must ave filled up her vacancies. Then I shall be able to return to the Manor with a quiet mind. I’ll have done my best, and the thing will be taken out of my hands. Dear little Merry! I didn’t like that discontent on her sweet face. Ah, well, she can’t guess what school is like. It’s not home; but I suppose the educational advantages would be greater, and a man must sacrifice himself for his children. Odd what that queer little Miss Howland told me last night: that I was approaching a deed of self-sacrifice. She’s a queer girl, but quite nice; and Aneta is a charming creature. I could never desire even one of my own precious girls to look nicer than Aneta does. Well, here I am. Now, then, what will Fate decide?”
Mr. Cardew sprang from the hansom, desired the man to wait, ran up some low steps, and rang the bell at the front door of a stately mansion.
A smiling, very bright-looking maid-servant opened it for him.
“Is Mrs. Ward, within?” questioned Cardew.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good heavens!” murmured Cardew under his breath.
“Is she disengaged, and can she give me a few moments of her time?” continued the much-disappointed gentleman.
“Certainly, sir. Will you come into the drawing-room? What name shall I say?”
Cardew produced one of his cards.
“Have the goodness to tell your mistress that if she is particularly engaged I can ”—he hesitated—“call another time.”
“I will tell her, sir; but Mrs. Ward is not particularly engaged. She will see you, I am sure, directly.”50
The girl withdrew, and Cardew sank into a low chair.
He had to wait a few minutes, and during that time had abundant leisure to look round the beautiful room in which he found himself. It was so furnished as to resemble a fresh country room. The wall-paper was white; the pictures were all water-colors, all original, and all the works of well-known artists. They mostly represented country scenes, but there were a few admirable portraits of charming girls just in the heyday of youth and happiness. The floor was of polished oak and had a large pale-blue drugget in the center, which could be rolled up at any moment if an impromptu dance was desirable. The large windows had boxes of flowers outside, which were fresh and well kept, and had evidently been recently watered, for some sparkling drops which looked almost like summer rain still glistened on them. The room itself was also decked with flowers in every available corner, and all these flowers were fresh and beautifully arranged. They were country flowers—and of course roses, roses everywhere. There were also great bowls of mignonette and large glass vases filled with sweet peas.
The air of the room was fresh and full of delicate perfume. Mr. Cardew had to admit to himself that this was a room in which the most refined young ladies in the world might sit with pleasure and profit. There was a shelf for books running round the dado, and the books therein were good of their kind and richly and handsomely bound. There were no small tables anywhere. Mr. Cardew was glad of that—he detested small tables; but there was a harp standing close to the magnificent grand piano, and several music stands, and a violin case on a chair near by.
The furniture of the room was covered with a cool, fresh chintz. In short, it was a charming room, quite different from the rooms at Meredith Manor, which, of course, were old and magnificent and stately; but it had a refreshing, wholesome look about it which, in spite of himself, Mr. Cardew appreciated.
He had just taken in the room and its belongings when the door was opened and a lady of about thirty-five years of age entered. She was dressed very simply in a long dress made in a sort of Empire fashion. The color was pale blue, which suited her calm, fair face, her large, hazel-brown eyes, and her rich chestnut hair to perfection. She came forward swiftly.
“I am Mrs. Ward,” she said, and held out her hand.
Mr. Cardew considered himself a connoisseur as regards all women, and he was immediately impressed by a certain quality in that face: a mingling of sweetness and power, of extreme gentleness and extreme determination. There was a lofty expression in the eyes, too, and round the mouth, which further appealed to him; and the hands of the lady were perfect—they were white, somewhat long, with tapering fingers51and well-kept nails. There was one signet ring on the left hand, worn as a guard to the wedding-ring—that was all.
Mr. Cardew was a keen observer, and he noted these things at a glance.
“I have come to talk to you, Mrs. Ward,” he said; “and, if you will forgive me, I should like to be quite frank with you.”
“There is nothing I desire better,” said Mrs. Ward in her exceedingly high-bred and sympathetic voice.
That voice reminded Cardew of Maggie Howland, and yet he felt at once that it was infinitely superior to hers.
“Sit down, won’t you, Mr. Cardew?” said Mrs. Ward, and she set him the example by seating herself in a low chair as she spoke.
“I hope I am not taking up too much of your time,” he said; “for, if so, as I said to your servant, I can call again.”
“By no means,” said Mrs. Ward; “I have nothing whatever to do this morning. I am, therefore, quite at your service. You will tell me what you wish?” she said in that magnetic voice of hers.
“The fact is simply this,” he said. “My friend Tristram, who is rector of Meredith, in Warwickshire, is sending his two daughters to your school.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Ward gently. “Molly and Isabel are coming to me next term.”
“I am Tristram’s near neighbor,” said Mr. Cardew, “I live at Meredith Manor. At the present moment the Tristram girls have another pupil of yours staying with them—Miss Howland.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Ward very quietly.
“Lady Lysle’s niece Aneta is also one of your pupils.”
“That is true, Mr. Cardew.”
“Lady Lysle is my wife’s cousin.”
Mrs. Ward bowed very slightly.
“I will come to the point now, Mrs. Ward. I am the father of two little girls. They are of the same age as Molly and Isabel Tristram; that is, they are both just sixteen. They are twins. They are my only children. Some day they will be rich, for we have no son, and they will inherit considerable property.” Mrs. Ward looked scarcely interested at this. “Hitherto,” continued Mr. Cardew, “I have stoutly opposed school-life for my children, and in consequence they have been brought up at home, and have had the best advantages that could be obtained for them in a country life. Things went apparently all right until two or three days ago, when I discovered that my girl—her name is Meredith; we call her Merry for short—was exceedingly anxious to change her home-life for school-life. At the same time, our excellent daily governess and the music-master who taught the children have been obliged to discontinue their work.52The girls are at an age when education is essential; and, although Ihateschools, I have come here to talk over the possibility of your receiving them.”
“Had you delayed coming to me, Mr. Cardew, until this evening I should have had no vacancy, for at the present moment I have twelve applications for the two vacancies which are to be filled at Aylmer House. But do you really wish me to consider the proposal of taking your girls when you hate school-life for young ladies?”
Mr. Cardew could not help smiling. “Then you are not anxious to have them?”
“Certainly not, unless you yourself and Mrs. Cardew most earnestly desire to send them to me. Suppose, before we go any further, that I take you over the house.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Cardew in a tone of relief.
Mrs. Ward rose immediately, and for the next hour the head-mistress and the owner of Meredith Manor went from one dainty room to another. They visited the gymnasium; they entered the studio. All the different properties of the music-room were explained to the interested visitor. The excellent playground was also inspected.
By-and-by, when Mr. Cardew returned to the drawing-room, Mrs. Ward said, “My number of pupils is limited. You have seen for yourself that sisters are provided with a room together, and that girls who are not related have rooms to themselves. The house is well warmed in winter, and at all seasons of the year I keep it bright and cheerful with flowers and everything that a judicious expenditure of money can secure. I have my own special plan for educating my girls. I believe in personal influence. In short, Mr. Cardew, I am not at all ashamed to tell you that I believe in my own influence. I have never yet met a girl whom I could not influence.”
“If by any chance my Cicely and Merry come to you,” said Mr. Cardew, “you will find them—I may at least say it—perfect ladies in word and thought and deed.”
Mrs. Ward bowed. “I could receive no others within this establishment,” she said. “If,” continued Mrs. Ward, “you decide to entrust your daughters to me, I will leave no stone unturned to do my best for them, to educate them in a three-fold capacity: to induce their minds to work as God meant them to work—without overtoil, without undue haste, and yet with intelligence and activity; to give them such exercises as will promote health to their bodies; and to teach them, above all things, to live for others, not for themselves. Please, Mr. Cardew, give me no answer now, but think it over. The vacancies at Aylmer House will remain at your disposal until four o’clock this afternoon. Will you send me before that hour a telegram saying ‘Yes’ or ‘No’?”
“I thank you,” said Mr. Cardew. He wrung Mrs. Ward’s hand and left the house.
The hall was as spacious and nearly as beautiful as the53drawing-room, and the pretty, bright parlor-maid smiled at the gentleman as he went out. Mrs. Ward remained for a time alone after her visitor had left.
“I should like to have those girls,” she said to herself. “Any girls related to such a splendid, lofty character as Aneta could not but be welcome to me. Their poor father, he will feel parting with them; but I have no doubt that I shall receive them next September at this house.”
The thought had scarcely passed through her mind before there came a brisk ring at the front door, and Lady Lysle and Aneta were announced.
“Oh, dear Mrs. Ward!” said Lady Lysle, speaking in her quick, impulsive manner, “have you seen my dear friend and cousin, Mr. Cardew?”
“And are the girls coming to the school?” asked Aneta.
“I have seen Mr. Cardew,” said Mrs. Ward. “He is a very charming man. He will decide whether he will send his daughters here or not during the course of to-day.”
“But,” said Lady Lysle, “didn’t you urge him?”
“No, dear friend; I never urge any one to put a girl in my care. I should feel myself very wrong in doing so. If Mr. Cardew thinks well of what he has seen here he may send his daughters to me, but I certainly did nothing to urge him.”
“Oh dear!” said Aneta, “I should so like them to come. You can’t think, Mrs. Ward, what nice people the Cardews are; and the girls—they do want school-life. Don’t they, auntie darling?”
“Such a school as this would do them a world of good,” said Lady Lysle.
“Well, I really hope they will come,” said Mrs. Ward; “but I quite understand their father’s objections. They are evidently very precious treasures, and he has the sort of objection which exists in the minds of many country gentlemen to sending his girls to school.”
“Ah,” said Aneta, “but there are schools and schools!”
“The girls will be exceedingly rich,” said Lady Lysle. “Their mother was a Meredith and belonged to an old county family. She inherits vast wealthandthe old family place. Their father is what may be termed a merchant-prince. By-and-by all the money of the parents will go to these girls. They are very nice children, but know nothing whatever of the world. It seems to me a cruel thing that they should be brought up with no knowledge of the great world where they must eventually live.”
“I hope they will come here,” said Mrs. Ward. “Great wealth means great responsibility. They can make magnificent use of their money. I should be interested to have them.”
“I know you would, my dear friend,” said Lady Lysle, “and they are really quite sweet girls. Now, come, Aneta; we must not keep Mrs. Ward any longer.”54
When her visitors had left her Mrs. Ward still remained in the pleasant drawing-room. She sank into a low chair, folded her hands in her lap, and remained very still. Although she was only thirty-five years of age, she had been a widow for over ten years. She had married when quite a young girl, and had lost her husband and child before she was five-and-twenty. It was in her generous and noble nature to love most passionately and all too well. For a time after her terrible trouble she scarcely know how to bear her grief. Then she took it to the one place where such sorrow can be borne—namely, to the foot of the throne of God; and afterwards it occurred to her to devote her life to the education of others. She was quite well-off, and did not need to work for her living. But work, to a nature such as hers, was essential. She also needed the sympathy of others, and the love of others; and so, aided by her friends, her small but most select school in South Kensington was started.
From the very first it was a success. It was unlike many other schools, for the head-mistress had broader and nobler views of life. She loved all her girls, and they all loved her; but it was impossible for her not to like some girls more than others, and of all the girls at present at her school Aneta Lysle was the one she really loved best. There was also, it is sad to relate, a girl there whom she did not love, and that girl was Maggie Howland. There was nothing whatever with regard to Maggie that her mistress could lay hold of. She was quite aware of the girl’s fascination, and of her powerful influence over her schoolfellows. Nevertheless, she never thought of her without a sense of discomfort.
Maggie was one of the girls who were educated at Aylmer House for a very low fee; for Mrs. Ward was quite rich enough and generous enough to take girls who could not afford her full terms for very much less. Maggie’s fees, therefore, were almost nominal, and no one knew this fact better than Maggie herself and her mother, Mrs. Howland. None of her schoolfellows knew, for she learned just what they did, and had precisely the same advantages. She was treated just like the others. No one could guess that her circumstances were different. And certainly Maggie would never tell, but none the less did she in her heart hate her position.
As a matter of fact, Molly and Isabel Tristram were also coming to the school on specially low terms; but no one would know this. Maggie, however, suspected it, and intended, if necessary, to make the fact an added power over her young friends when they all assembled at Aylmer House.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Ward, half-aloud, half to herself, “I don’t quite trust Maggie Howland. But I cannot possibly dismiss her from the school. I may win her round to a loftier standard of life, but at present there is no doubt she55has not that high ideal in view which I think my other girls aim at.”
Between three and four o’clock that day Mrs. Ward received a telegram from Mr. Cardew. It contained the following words:
“After consideration, I have made up my mind to do myself the great honor of confiding my girls to your care. Their mother and I will write to you fully in a day or two.”
Mrs. Ward smiled when she received the telegram. “I will do my best for those children,” she said to herself.