The School Queens

CHAPTER V.

“WHAT DID YOU TALK ABOUT?”

Maggie and Merry had now reached the great porch which overshadowed the entrance to the old house. The next instant they found themselves in the hall. This, supported by graceful pillars, was open up to the roof of the house. It was a magnificent hall, and Merry began enthusiastically to explain its perfections. Maggie showed not a pretended but a real interest. She asked innumerable and sensible questions. Her queer, calm, narrow eyes grew very bright. She smiled now and then, and her face seemed the personification of intelligence. With that smile, and those gleaming white teeth, who could have thought of Maggie Howland as plain?

They went from the hall into the older part of the house, and there Merry continued her duties as guide. Never before had she been in the company of so absolutely charming a companion. Maggie was the best listener in the world. She never interrupted with tiresome or irrelevant questions. When she did speak it was with the utmost intelligence, showing clearly that she understood what she was being told.

By-and-by they found themselves in the picture-gallery. There Merry insisted on their sitting down for a time and taking a rest. She touched a bell as she spoke, and then motioned Maggie to recline in a deep arm-chair which faced the picture of a beautiful lady who was the grandmother of the present Mrs. Cardew.

“That lady’s name,” said Merry, “was Cicely Meredith, and she was the wife of the last Meredith but one who owned the Manor. It was little supposed in those days that my darling mother would inherit the place, and that Cardews should live at Meredith Manor after all. Ah, here comes Dixon! – Dixon, will you put our lunch on that small table? Thank you very much.”

One of the servants in the Cardew livery had appeared. He was bearing a small tray of tempting drinks, fruit, and cake.

“Now, Maggie, eat; do eat,” said Merry.

“I declare I am as hungry as a hawk,” said Maggie, and she munched cake and ate fruit and felt that she was, as she expressed it to herself – although she would not have used the words aloud – in clover.

Nevertheless, she was not going to lose sight of that mission which she had set herself. She turned and looked thoughtfully at Merry. Merry had a pretty profile, with the short upper-lip and the graceful appearance of a very high-bred girl.

“Do you,” said Maggie after a pause, “happen to know Aneta Lysle?”

“Why, of course,” said Merry. “Do you mean Lady Lysle’s niece?”

“Yes,” replied Maggie.

“I don’t know her well, but she has stayed here once or twice. Is she a friend of yours, Maggie?”

“Oh no; scarcely a friend, although we are schoolfellows.”

“How stupid of me!” said Merry, speaking with some warmth. “Of course, I quite forgot that she is at Mrs. Ward’s school. She is older than you, isn’t she, Maggie?”

“Yes, a year older, as days are counted; but she appears even more than her age, which is just seventeen. Don’t you think her very beautiful, Merry?”

“Now that I recall her, I do; but she never made a special impression on me. She never stayed here long enough.”

“Nevertheless, she is a sort of cousin of yours?”

“Yes, Lady Lysle is mother’s cousin; but then one doesn’t love all one’s relations,” said Merry carelessly. “Have another piece of cake, Maggie.”

“Thanks,” said Maggie, helping herself. “How delicious it is!”

“And put some more cream over your raspberries. The raspberries at Meredith Manor are celebrated.”

Maggie helped herself to some more cream. “I do wish” she said suddenly.

“That I would go on telling you about the pictures?” said Merry. “But you must be tired. I never knew any one take in interesting things so quickly.”

“I am glad you think I do; but it so happens that I do not want to hear about the pictures this morning. I think perhaps I am, after all, a bit tired. It is the pleasure, the delight of knowing you and your sister, and of being with those sweet girls Molly and Isabel.”

“Yes, aren’t they darlings’?” said Merry.

“I want you to tell me a lot about yourself,” said Maggie.

“We have half-an-hour yet before I am to meet your father in the manuscript-room. Begin at the beginning, and tell me just everything. You are not schoolgirls?”

“Oh, no,” said Merry, speaking slowly. “We are taught at home.”

“But have you a resident governess?”

“No; father objects. This is holiday-time of course; but as a rule we have a daily governess and masters.”

“It must be dull,” said Maggie, speaking in a low tone – so low that Merry had to strain her ears to hear it.

She replied at once, “’Tisn’t nearly so interesting as school; but we – we are – quite —quite satisfied.”

“I wonder you don’t go to school,” said Maggie.

“Father doesn’t wish it, Maggie.”

“But you’d like it, wouldn’t you?”

“Like it!” said Merry, her eyes distended a little. “Like to see the world and to know other girls? Well, yes, I should like it.”

“There’d be discipline, you know,” said Maggie. “It wouldn’t be all fun.”

“Of course not,” said Merry. “How could one expect education to be all fun?”

“And you would naturally like to be very well educated, wouldn’t you?” said Maggie.

“Certainly; but I suppose we are – that is, after a fashion.”

“Yes,” said Maggie, “after a fashion, doubtless; but you will go into society by-and-by, and you’ll find – well, that home education leaves out a great many points of knowledge which cannot possibly be attained except by mixing with other girls.”

“I suppose so,” said Merry, speaking with a slight degree of impatience; “but then Cicely and I can’t help it. We have to do what father and mother wish.”

“Yes, exactly, Merry; and it’s so awfully sweet and amiable of you! Now, may I describe to you a little bit of school-life?”

“If you like, Maggie. Molly and Isabel have often told me of what you did in Hanover.”

“Oh, Hanover?” said Maggie with a tone of slight contempt. “We don’t think of Hanover now in our ideas of school-life. We had a fairly good time, for a German school; but to compare it with Mrs. Ward’s house! Oh, I cannot tell you what a dream of a life I have lived during the last term! It is only to see Mrs. Ward to love her; and all the other mistresses are so nice, and the girls are so very select and lady-like. Then we take a keen interest in our lessons. You’re the musical one, aren’t you, Merry?”

“Yes. How ever did you find that out?”

“Well,” said Maggie, “I looked at you, and I guessed it. Besides, I heard you hum an air under your breath yesterday, and I knew at once that you had a lovely voice.”

“I am sure I haven’t; and I’m too young to begin singing-lessons.”

“Not a bit of it. That’s quite an exploded idea. If, for instance–Oh, of course I know you won’t be there; but if you were so lucky as to be a pupil at Mrs. Ward’s you would be taught to sing, and, what is more valuable, you would hear good, wonderful, beautiful singing, and wonderful, beautiful music of all sorts. Once a week we all go to a concert at Queen’s Hall. Have you ever been there?”

“No! I don’t know London at all.”

“Well, then, another day in the week,” continued Maggie, “we go to the different museums and picture-galleries, and we get accustomed to good art, and we are taught to discern good from bad. We learn architecture at St. Paul’s and the Abbey and some of the other churches. You see, Mrs. Ward’s idea is to teach us everything first-hand, and during the summer term she takes us on long expeditions up the river to Kew and Hampton Court and all those dear old places. Then, in addition, she has what she calls reunions in the evenings. We all wear evening-dress, and she invites two or three friends, and we sing and play among ourselves, and we are taught the little observances essential to good society; and, besides all the things that Mrs. Ward does, we have our own private club and our own debating society, and – oh, it is a full life! – and it teaches one, it helps one.”

Merry’s soft brown eyes were very bright, and her cheeks had a carnation glow on them, and her pretty red lips were slightly parted. “You do all these things at school – at school?” she said.

“Why, of course; and many, many more things that you can’t even imagine, for it’s the whole influence of the place that is so delightful. Then you make friends – great friends – and you get to understand character, and you get to understand the value of real discipline, and you are taught also that you are not meant to live a worldly and selfish life, for Mrs. Ward is very philanthropic. Each girl in her school has to help a poor girl in East London, and the poor girl becomes in a sort of manner her property. I have got a dear little lame girl. Her name is Susie Style. I am allowed to see her once or twice a year, and I write her a letter every week, and she writes back to me, and I collect enough money to keep her in a cripples’ home. I haven’t enough of my own, for I am perhaps the poorest girl in the school; but that makes no difference, for Mrs. Ward doesn’t allow the word money or rank to be spoken of – she lives above all that. She says that money is a great talent, and that people who are merely purse-proud are detestable. Oh, but I’ve told you enough, haven’t I?”

“Yes, oh yes!” said Merry. “Thanks very, very much. And so Aneta is there; and as Molly and Isabel will be there, they will tell me more at Christmas. Perhaps we ought to go down now to meet father in the manuscript-room.”

Maggie rose with alacrity. She followed her companion quite cheerfully. She felt assured within herself that the thin end of the wedge had been well inserted by now.

Mr. Cardew was exceedingly courteous and pleasant, and Maggie charmed him by her intelligence and her marvellous gift of assimilating knowledge. Not a word was said with regard to the London school, and at ten minutes to one Maggie bade good-bye to Mr. Cardew and Merry, and went back to the rectory in considerable spirits.

Molly and Isabel were all impatience for her return.

“Well, what did you do?” said Molly. “Who was there to meet you?”

“Only Merry. Cicely had gone with Mrs. Cardew to Warwick.”

“Oh, well, Merry is the jollier of the two, although they are both perfectly sweet,” said Molly. “And did she show you all the house, Maggie?”

“No,” said Maggie; “I really couldn’t take it all in; but she took me round the armory and into the old tower, and then we went into the picture-gallery.”

“Oh, she took you into the picture-gallery! There are Romneys and Gainsboroughs and Sir Joshua Reynoldses, and all sorts of magnificent treasures there.”

“Doubtless,” said Maggie. “But when I tell you what we did you will laugh.”

“What did you do? Do tell us, Mags.”

“We sat in easy-chairs. I faced the portrait of a very beautiful lady after whom Cicely Cardew is called.”

“Of course I know her well – I mean her picture,” said Isabel. “That is a Gainsborough. Didn’t you admire it?”

“Yes; but I want to look at it again; I’m going to do the gallery another day, and on that occasion I think I shall ask Cicely to accompany me.”

“Why, what do you mean? Don’t you like our sweet little Merry?”

“Like her? I quite love her,” said Maggie; “but the fact is, girls, I did my duty by her this morning, and now I want to do my duty by Cicely.”

“Oh Mags, you are so mysterious!” said Molly; “but come upstairs and take off your hat, for the gong will sound for lunch in a moment.”

Maggie went upstairs, Molly and Isabel following her. “Come into my room, girls,” she said. Then she added, dropping her voice, “I think those bracelets are pretty secure.”

Molly colored. Isabel looked down.

“You will never succeed,” said Molly.

Then Isabel said, “Even if you do, I don’t think we ought, perhaps, to – to take them, for it would seem as though they were a sort of – sort of – bribe.”

“Oh, you old goose!” said Maggie, kissing her. “How could they be a bribe when I don’t ask you to do anything at all? But now, listen. We were tired when we got to the gallery; therefore that sweet little Merry of yours ordered fruit and milk and cake, and we ate and talked.”

“What did you talk about?”

“School, dear.”

“What was the good of your talking about school to Merry when she can’t go?”

“Can’t go?” said Maggie. “Why, she is going; only, it was my bounden duty to make her want to go. Well, I succeeded in doing that this morning. There’s the gong, and, notwithstanding my lunch, I am quite hungry.”

“Well, Andrew and Jack are perfectly mad to see you; you’ll have to devote a bit of your time to them. Dear me, Mags!” said Molly, “it must be tiresome to be a sort of universal favorite, as you are.”

“Tiresome!” said Maggie, glancing round with her queer, expressive eyes, “when I love it like anything? Let’s get up a sort of play between ourselves this afternoon, and let the boys join in; and, oh! couldn’t we – don’t you think we might – get your two friends Cicely and Merry to join us, just for an impromptu thing that we could act beautifully in the hay-field? Wouldn’t their father consent?”

“Why, of course he would. I’ll run round the minute lunch is over and get them,” said Isabel. “You are a girl for planning things, Mags! It’ll be quite glorious.”

“We might have tea in the hay-field too,” continued Maggie. “I am sure Peterkins and Jackdaw will help us.”

“Capital! capital! and we’ll get David” – David was the gardener’s boy – “to pick lots of fruit for the occasion.”

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 was just 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, “for they 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 it can’t be; 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 life with 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.”

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.