The School Queens

“Please be quick, Tildy, and go,” said Maggie in a determined voice.

Matilda cleared the table, but before she would take her departure she required definite instructions with regard to dinner, tea, and supper.

Mrs. Howland raised a distracted face. “Really, I can’t think,” she said, “my head is so weak.”

“Well, mum,” said Matilda, “s’pose as missus and me does the ’ousekeepin’ for you to-day. You ain’t fit, mum; it’s but to look at you to know that. It’s lyin’ down you ought to be, with haromatic vinegar on your ’ead.”

“You’re quite right, Matilda. Well, you see to the things to-day. Have them choice, but not too choice; fairly expensive, but not too expensive, you understand.”

“Yus, ’um,” said Tildy, and left the room.

Maggie found herself alone with her mother. “Mother,” she said eagerly, “now I will tell you why I was not home for breakfast this morning.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter, Maggie,” said Mrs. Howland; “I am too weak to be worried, and that’s a fact.”

“It won’t worry you, mother. I breakfasted with Mr. Martin.”

“What – what!” said Mrs. Howland, astonishment in her voice, and with eyebrows raised almost to meet her hair.

“And an excellent breakfast we had,” said Maggie. “He isn’t a bad sort at all, mother.”

“Well, I am glad you’ve found that out. Do you suppose your mother would marry a man who was not most estimable in character?”

“He is quite estimable, mother; the only unfortunate thing against him is that he is not in your rank in life.”

“A woman who lives in these rooms,” said Mrs. Howland, “has no rank in life.”

“Well, dear mother, I cannot agree with you. However, as I said, I breakfasted with him.”

“Then you’re coming round?” said Mrs. Howland. “You’re going to be good, and a comfort to us both?”

“No, mother, I haven’t come round a bit. When I was breakfasting with Mr. Martin I fully explained to him what a fearful trial I should be to him; how, day by day and hour by hour, I’d annoy him.”

“You did that! Oh you wicked child!”

“I thought it best to be frank, mother. I made an impression on him. I did what I did as much for your sake as for mine.”

“Then he’ll break off the engagement – of course he will!” said Mrs. Howland. She took a moist handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her eyes.

“Not he. He is just devoted to you, mother; you need have no such apprehension.”

“What else did you say to him?”

“Well, mother darling, I said what I thought right.”

“Oh, of course you won’t confide in me.”

“I think not. I will let him do that. He is coming to tea this afternoon, and he has given me a sovereign” – how Maggie felt inclined to kick that sovereign! – “to go and have some pleasure somewhere. So I mean to take the train to Richmond, and perhaps get a boatman to take me out on the river for a little.”

“He is certainly more playful and amusing when you are not here,” said Mrs. Howland, a faint smile dawning on her face.

“I am certain of that,” said Maggie; “and what’s more, he is very fond of good living. I mean to go out presently and get some excellent things for his tea.”

“Will you, Maggie? Will you, my child? Why, that will be quite sweet of you.”

“I will do it with pleasure, mother. But now I want you to do something for me.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Howland, “I thought you were coming to that.”

“Well, it is this,” said Maggie. “When he talks to you about me, don’t oppose him. He will most probably propound a scheme to you, as his own perhaps; and you are to be quite certain to let him think that it is his own scheme. And you might make out to him, mother, that I am really very disagreeable, and that nothing in all the world would make me anything else. And if you are a very wise little mother you will tell him that you are happier alone with him.”

“Which I am – I am,” said Mrs. Howland. “He is a dear, quite a dear; and so comical and amusing!”

“Then it’s all right,” said Maggie. “You know I told you yesterday that nothing would induce me to live at Laburnum Villa; but I will certainly come to you, mums, in the holidays, if you wish it.”

“But, dear child, there is no money to keep you at that expensive school. There isn’t a penny.”

“Oh, well, well, mother, perhaps that can be managed. But now we needn’t talk any more about my future until after Mr. Martin has had tea with you to-day. If you have any news for me when I return from Richmond you can let me know.”

“You are a very independent girl to go to Richmond by yourself.”

“Oh, that’ll be all right,” said Maggie in a cheerful tone.

“Have you anything else to say to me?”

“Yes. You know all that beautiful jewellery that my dear father brought back with him from those different countries where he spent his life.”

Mrs. Howland looked mysterious and frightened.

“It was meant for me eventually, was it not?” said Maggie.

“Oh, well, I suppose so; only, somehow, I have a life-interest in it.”

“You won’t want for jewellery when you are Mr. Martin’s wife.”

“Indeed no; why, he has given me a diamond ornament for my hair already. He means to take me out a great deal, he says.”

“Out! – oh mother – in his set!”

“Well, dear child, I shall get accustomed to that.”

“Don’t you think you might give me father’s jewellery?” said Maggie.

“Is it worth a great deal?” said Mrs. Howland. “I never could bear to look at it – that is, since he died.”

“You haven’t given it to Mr. Martin, have you, mother?”

“No, nor said a word about it to him either.”

“Well, suppose, now that we have a quiet time, we look at the jewellery?” said Maggie.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Howland. Then she added, “I was half-tempted to sell some of it; but your father was so queer, and the things seemed so very ugly and unlike what is worn, that I never had the heart to part with them. I don’t suppose they’d fetch a great deal.”

“Let’s look at them,” said Maggie.

Mrs. Howland half-rose from her chair, then sank back again.

“No,” she said, “I am afraid of them. Your father told me so many stories about each and all. He courted death to get some of them, and others came into his hands through such extraordinary adventures that I shudder at night when I recall what he said. I want to forget them. Mr. Martin would never admire them at all. I want to forget all my past life absolutely. You’re like your father, and perhaps you admire that sort of thing; but they are not to my taste. Here’s the key of my wardrobe. You will find the tin boxes which hold the jewels. You can take them; only never let out a word to your stepfather. He doesn’t know I posses them – no one does.”

“Thank you, mother,” said Maggie in a low voice. “Will you lie down on the sofa, mums? Oh, here’s a nice new novel for you to read. I bought it coming up in the train yesterday. You read and rest and feel quite contented, and let me go to the bedroom to look at the jewels.”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Howland; “you can have them. I consider them of little or no importance; only don’t tell your stepfather.”

“He is not that yet, mums.”

“Well, well,” said Mrs. Howland, “what does a fortnight matter? He’ll be your stepfather in a fortnight. Yes, take the key and go. I shall be glad to rest on the sofa. You’re in a much more reasonable frame of mind to-day.”

“Thank you, dear mother,” said Maggie.

She entered the bedroom and closed the door softly behind her. She held her mother’s bunch of keys in her hand. First of all she unlocked the wardrobe, and then, removing the tin boxes, laid them on the table which stood at the foot of the bed. She took the precaution first, however, to lock the bedroom door. Having done this, she seated herself at the table, and, selecting the proper keys, unlocked the two tin boxes. One of them contained the twelve famous bracelets which Maggie had described to Molly and Isabel Tristram. She would keep her word: she would give a bracelet to each girl. She recognized at once the two which she considered suitable for the girls, and then examined the others with minute care.

Her mother could not admire what was strange in pattern and dimmed by neglect; but Maggie, with her wider knowledge, knew well that she possessed great treasures, which, if possible, she would keep, but which, if necessary, she could sell for sums of money which would enable her to start in life according to her own ideas.

She put the twelve bracelets back into their case, and then, opening the second tin box, took from it many quaint curios, the value of which she had no means of ascertaining. There was a great deal of gold and silver, and queer beaten-work in brass, and there were pendants and long chains and brooches and queer ornaments of all kinds.

“Poor father!” thought the girl. She felt a lump in her throat – a choking sensation, which seemed to make her mother’s present conduct all the more intolerable. How was she to live in the future with the knowledge that her father’s memory was, as she felt, profaned? But at least she had got his treasures.

She relocked the two tin boxes, and, stowing them carefully away in her own trunk, transferred the keys from her mother’s bunch to her own, and brought her mother’s keys back to Mrs. Howland.

“Have you looked at them? Are they worth anything, Maggie?”

“Memories mostly,” said Maggie evasively.

“Oh, then,” said Mrs. Howland, “I am glad you have them; for I hate memories.”

“Mother,” said Maggie, and she went on her knees to her parent, “you have really given them to me?”

“Well, of course, child. Didn’t I say so? I don’t want them. I haven’t looked at the things for years.”

“I wonder, mums, if you would write something on a piece of paper for me.”

“Oh dear! oh dear!” said Mrs. Howland. “Mr. Martin doesn’t approve of what he calls documents.”

“Darling mother, you’re not Mr. Martin’s wife yet. I want you to put on paper that you have given me father’s curios. He always meant them for me, didn’t he?”

“He did! he did!” said Mrs. Howland. “One of the very last things he said – in his letter, I mean, for you know he died in Africa – was: ‘The treasures I am sending home will be appreciated by my little girl.’”

“Oh mother! yes, and they are. Please, mother, write something on this bit of paper.”

“My head is so weak. I haven’t an idea what to say.”

“I’ll dictate it to you, if I may.”

“Very well, child; I suppose I can’t prevent you.”

Maggie brought paper, blotting-pad, and pen, and Mrs. Howland presently wrote: “I have given, on the eve of my marriage to Mr. Martin, her father’s treasures to my daughter, Margaret Howland.”

“Thank you, mother,” said Maggie.

The date was affixed. Mrs. Howland added the name she was so soon to resign, and Maggie almost skipped into the bedroom.

“It’s all right now,” she said to herself.

She unlocked her trunk, also unlocking one of the tin boxes. In the box which contained the twelve bracelets she put the piece of paper in her mother’s handwriting. She then relocked the box, relocked the trunk, and came back to her mother, restored to perfect good-humor.

Maggie was in her element when she was planning things. Yesterday was a day of despair, but to-day was a day of hope. She sat down by her mother’s desk and wrote a long letter to Molly Tristram, in which she told Molly that her mother was about to be married again to a very rich man. She mentioned the coming marriage in a few brief words, and then went on to speak of herself, and of how delightful it would be to welcome Molly and Isabel when they arrived at Aylmer House. Not by the faintest suggestion did she give her friend to understand the step down in the social scale which Mrs. Howland’s marriage with Mr. Martin meant.

Having finished her letter, she thought for a minute, then wrote a careful line to Merry Cardew. She did not tell Merry about her mother’s approaching marriage, but said that Molly would have news for her. In other respects her letter to Merry was very much more confidential than her letter to Molly. She assured Merry of her deep love, and begged of her friend to regard this letter as quite private. “If you feel you must show it to people, tear it up rather than do so,” said Maggie, “for I cannot bear that our great and sacred love each for the other should be commented on.”

When Merry received the letter she neither showed it to any one else nor tore it up. She could not forget Maggie’s face as she parted from her, and the fact that she had refused to accept the ten pounds which the little girl had wanted to give her in order to remove her from musty, fusty lodgings had raised Maggie considerably in her friend’s estimation.

Meanwhile Maggie Howland, having finished her letters, went out and posted them. She then changed her sovereign, and bought some excellent and appetizing fruit and cakes for her mother’s and Mr. Martin’s tea. She consulted with Tildy as to how these dainties were to be arranged, and Tildy entered into the spirit of the thing with effusion, and declared that they were perfect crowns of beauty, and that most assuredly they would melt in Mr. Martin’s mouth.

On hearing this Maggie hastened to change the conversation; but when she had impressed upon Tildy the all-importance of a snowy cloth being placed upon the ugly tray, and further begged of her to polish up the teapot and spoons, Tildy thought that Miss Maggie was more wonderful than ever.

“With them as is about to step into the life-matrimonial, pains should be took,” thought Tildy, and she mentioned her sentiments to Mrs. Ross, who shook her head sadly, and replied that one ought to do the best one could for the poor things.

At three o’clock Maggie put on her hat, drew her gloves on, and, taking up a parasol, went out.

“Good-bye, darling,” she said to her mother.

After all, she did not go to Richmond; it was too far off, and she was feeling a little tired. Besides, the thought of her father’s wonderful treasures filled her mind. She determined to go to South Kensington and look at similar jewels and ornaments which she believed she could find there. It occurred to her, too, that it might be possible some day to consult the manager of the jewel department with regard to the worth of the things which her dear father had sent home; but this she would not do to-day.

Her visit to the South Kensington Museum made her feel positively assured that she had articles of great value in the tin boxes.

Meanwhile Mrs. Howland waited impatiently for Mr. Martin. She was puzzled about Maggie, and yet relieved. She wondered much what Maggie could have said to Mr. Martin that day when she breakfasted with him. She was not really alarmed. But had she been able to look into Mr. Martin’s mind she would have felt a considerable amount of surprise. The worthy grocer, although an excellent man of business, knew little or nothing about law. Maggie’s words had made him distinctly uncomfortable. Suppose, after all, the girl could claim a right in her father’s beggarly hundred and fifty pounds a year? Perhaps the child of the man who had settled that little income on his wife must have some sort of right to it? It would be horrible to consult lawyers; they were so terribly expensive, too.

There was a man in the shop, however, of the name of Howard. He was the principal shopwalker, and Mr. Martin had a great respect for him. Without mentioning names, he put the case before him – as he himself expressed it – in a nutshell.

Howard thought for a few minutes, then said slowly that he had not the slightest doubt that a certain portion of the money should be spent on the child – in fact, that the child had a right to it.

Martin did not like this. A heavy frown came between his brows. The girl was a smart and clever girl, not a bit like Little-sing, and she could make herself very disagreeable. Her modest request for sixty pounds a year did not seem unreasonable. He thought and thought, and the more he thought the more inclined he felt to give Maggie her way.

When he arrived at Mrs. Ross’s house he did not look quite as cheerful as usual. He went upstairs, as Tildy expressed it, “heavy-like”; and although both she and Mrs. Ross watched for that delightful scene when he was “Bo-peep” to “Little-sing,” Martin entered the drawing-room without making any exhibition of himself. The room looked quite clean and inviting, for Maggie had dusted it with her own hands, and there was a very nice tea on the board, and Mrs. Howland was dressed very prettily indeed. Martin gave a long whistle.

“I say, Little-sing,” he remarked, “whoever has been and done it?”

“What do you mean, James?” said Mrs. Howland.

“Why, the place,” said Martin; “it looks sort of different.”

“Oh, it’s Maggie,” said Mrs. Howland. “She went out and bought all those cakes for you herself.”

“Bless me, now, did she?” said Martin. “She’s a smart girl – a ver-ry smart girl.”

“She’s a very clever girl, James.”

“Yes, that’s how I put it – very clever. She has a way about her.”

“She has, James. Every one thinks so.”

“Well, Little-sing, give me a good meal, and then we’ll talk.”

Mrs. Howland lifted the teapot and was preparing to pour out a cup of tea for Mr. Martin, when he looked at her, noticed her extreme elegance and grace, and made a spring toward her.

“You haven’t give Bo-peep one kiss yet, you naughty Little-sing.”

Mrs. Howland colored as she kissed him. Of course she liked him very much; but somehow Maggie had brought a new atmosphere into the house. Even Mrs. Howland felt it.

“Let’s eat, let’s eat,” said Martin. “I never deny myself the good things of life. That girl knows a thing or two. She’s a ver-ry clever girl.”

“She is, James; she is.”

“Now, what on earth do you call me James for? Ain’t I Bo-peep – ain’t I?”

“Yes, Bo-peep, of course you are.”

“And you are Little-sing. You’re a wonderfully elegant-looking woman for your years, Victoria.”

CHAPTER XIV.

IN THE PARK

Mrs. Howland did not like to have her years mentioned. Mr. Martin had been careful never to do so until Maggie appeared on the scene. On the contrary, he had dropped hints that his birdling, his Little-sing, his Victoria, was in the early bloom of youth. But now he said that she was a wonderful woman for her years.

Mrs. Howland bridled slightly. “I am not old, James,” she said.

“Come, come,” said the good-natured grocer; “no ‘Jamesing’ of me. I’m your Bo-peep. What does it matter whether you are old or young, Victoria, if you suit me and I suit you? This is a first-rate tea, and that girl’s clever – uncommon clever. By the way, how old may she happen to be?”

“Sixteen her last birthday,” said Mrs. Howland. “I was very, very young, a mere child, when I married, James.”

“There you are with your ‘James’ again! Strikes me, you’re a bit huffy to-day, Little-sing.”

“No, I am not; only I’ve been worried since Maggie came back. She was so rude to you yesterday. I felt it terribly.”

“Did you now? Well, that was very sensible of you. We’ll finish our tea before we begin our talk. Come, Little-sing, eat your cake and drink your tea, and make yourself agreeable to your Bo-peep.”

Mrs. Howland felt cheered. She did enjoy her meal; and, if she liked it, Mr. Martin liked it immensely also.

“What a useful girl that would be!” he said. “We could make her housekeeper at Laburnum Villa in no time. She has a head on her shoulders.”

Mrs. Howland was silent. She was dreading inexpressibly the little scene which she felt must be endured between her and her intended.

“We’ll ring the bell now,” said Martin, wiping a few crumbs from his mouth and dusting his trousers with his pocket-handkerchief. “We’ll get Tildy to remove all these things, and then what do you say to my taking you for a drive to the Park?”

“Oh, I should like that!” said Mrs. Howland in surprise,

“Thought so. Never say that Bo-peep isn’t thoughtful. – Ah, here you be, Tildy. You clear away – smart, my girl, and then whistle for a ’ansom. Do you hear me? A ’ansom, not a four-wheeler. Look as sharp as you can, my girl, and I’ll give you sixpence.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Tildy. She looked with admiring eyes at the pair who were so close to the matrimonial venture, and quickly removed all traces of the meal.

“Now then, Little-sing, go into your room and get dressed for your drive.”

Mrs. Howland did so. She put on an elegant sort of bonnet-hat which had been presented to her by Martin, a lace fichu over her shoulders, and a pair of long white gloves. She had also been presented with a white parasol by Martin. He thought that no one could look more beautiful than his ladylove when she reappeared in the drawing-room.

“The ’ansom’s at the door,” he said. “We’ll go now and start on our drive.”

Mrs. Howland rose, and Tildy agreed with Martin as to Mrs. Howland’s appearance when she stepped into that hansom. Tildy said she looked bride-like. Mrs. Ross remarked that as elegant women before now had become widows in no time. Tildy shuddered, and said that Mrs. Ross should not say things of that sort. Mrs. Ross replied that she invariably spoke the truth, and then returned to her dismal kitchen.

Meanwhile Martin and Mrs. Howland were driven swiftly in the direction of Hyde Park. London society people were fast going out of town, for it was very nearly the end of July; but still there were a few carriages about, and some fine horses, and some gaily dressed ladies and several smart-looking men. Martin provided a couple of chairs for himself and his future wife, and they sat for some little time enjoying the fresh air and looking on at the gay scene.

“It is wonderful,” said Martin, “what a sight of money is wasted in this sort of thing.”

“But they enjoy it, don’t they?” said Mrs. Howland.

“Yes, my pet,” he replied, “but not as you and me will enjoy Laburnum Villa. And now, Little-sing, can you attend to business?”

“I have a very weak head for business, Bo-peep,” was the reply.

“Don’t I know it, my pet; and I am the last person on earth to allow you to be worried; but I tell you what it is, Victory, if your head is weak as regards money matters, your girl has a topping good brain in that direction. Now, I have a notion in my head about her.”

“You can’t do anything with her,” said Mrs. Howland; “she is quite impossible. I never thought she would treat you as she did. I could weep when I think of it. I shouldn’t be surprised if, on account of her rudeness and ingratitude, we broke off the engagement. I shouldn’t really, James.”

“What do you take me for?” said James. “It isn’t the girl I want to marry! it’s you.”

“Oh dear!” said Mrs. Howland; “of course, I know.”

“She ain’t a patch on you, Little-sing – that is, I mean as regards looks. But now, don’t you fret. If you have been turning things over in your mind, so have I been turning things over in my mind, and the sum and substance of it all is that I believe that girl’s right after all.”

“Right after all! But dear, dear James, the child can’t live on nothing!”

“Who said she was to live on nothing?” said Martin. “Don’t tremble, Little-sing; it’s more than I can stand. I have been thinking that a sharp young miss like that wants a bit more training. She wants breaking in. Now, I’ve no mind to the job. I can manage my shop-people – not one of them can come round me, I can tell you – but a miss like your daughter, brought up altogether, I will say, above her station, is beyond me. What I have been turning over in my mind is this, that a year or two’s training longer will do her no sort of harm.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Howland. She was trembling exceedingly.

“I think, too,” continued Martin, “that Laburnum Villa might not be agreeable to her at present; and if it ain’t agreeable to her she’ll put on the sulks, and that’s more than I can abide. Cheerfulness I must have. My joke I must be allowed to make. My fun in my own way I must enjoy. You and me – we’ll hit it off splendid, and let the girl go for the present.”

“But she must go somewhere,” said Mrs. Howland.

“Good gracious, my lady! do you suppose I’d allow the girl to be destitute? No; I’m ready to do the generous; and now, I’ll tell you something. You mustn’t blame her too much. She repented of her ill-natured manner last night, and came to me as pretty as you please this morning, and asked me to breakfast with her. I was taken aback, but she came round me, and we went to Harrison’s and had a topping meal. Then she spoke to me very sensible, and explained that she wanted more ‘parlez-vooing’ and more ‘pi-annofortying,’ and all the rest of the so-called ladies’ accomplishments. She consulted me very pretty and very proper indeed; and the long and the short of it is that I am willing to allow her forty pounds a year for her education at that blessed Aylmer House where all the swells go, and to keep her there for two years certain; and I am willing, further, to give her twenty pounds a year to spend on dress. Of course she takes her holidays with us. Then, if at the end of that time she turns out what I hope she will, I will make her an accountant in the shop; it will be a first-rate post for her, and I am sure, from the way she talks, she has a splendid head for business. Now, what do you say to that, Little-sing?”