Chapter 11 The School Queens by L. T. Meade
TEN POUNDS
In perfect summer weather, when the heart is brimful of happiness, and when a great desire has been unexpectedly fulfilled, what can there possibly be more delightful than an open-air life? This was what the girls who belonged to the rectory and the girls who belonged to the Manor now found. Mr. and Mrs. Cardew and Mr. and Mrs. Tristram could not do enough for their benefit. Maggie could only stay for one week longer with her friends; but Aneta had changed her mind with regard to Belgium, and was to go with the young Cardews to the seaside, and Mrs. Cardew had asked the Tristram girls to accompany them. She had also extended her invitation to Maggie, who would have given a great deal to accept it. She wrote to her mother on the subject. Mrs. Howland made a brief reply: “You know it is impossible, Maggie. You must come back to me early next week. I cannot do without you, so say no more about it.”
Maggie was a girl with a really excellent temper, and, recognizing that her mother had a good reason for not giving her the desired holiday, made the best of things.
Meanwhile Cicely and Merry watched her carefully. As to Aneta, she was perfectly cordial with Maggie, not talking to her much, it is true, but never showing the slightest objection to her society. Nevertheless, there was, since the arrival of Aneta on the scene, a strange, undefinable change in the atmosphere. Merry noticed this more than Cicely. It felt to her electrical, as though there might be a storm brewing.
On the day before Maggie was to return to London to take up her abode in her mother’s dull house in Shepherd’s Bush, a magnificent picnic on a larger scale even than usual was the order of the hour. Some young girls of the name of Heathfield who lived a little way off were asked to Meredith Manor to spend the night, and these girls, who were exceedingly jolly and bright and lively, were a fresh source of delight to all those whom they happened to meet. Their names were Susan and Mary Heathfield. They were older than the Tristrams and the Cardews, and had, in fact, just left school. Their last year of school-life had been spent in Paris; they were highly educated, and had an enviable proficiency in the French tongue.
Mr. and Mrs. Heathfield, the parents of these girls, were also guests at the Manor, so that the picnic on this last day of Maggie’s visit to the rectory was quite a large one. They drove nearly twenty miles to a beautiful place not far from Warwick. There the usual picnic arrangements were made with great satisfaction; dinner was eaten out-of-doors, and presently there was to be a gipsy-tea. This all the girls looked forward to, and Andrew and Jack were wild with delight over the prospect of making the kettle boil. This particular task was given to them, and very proud they were of the trust reposed in them.
But now, dinner being over, the older people took shelter from the fierce rays of the sun under the wide-spreading trees, and the young people moved about in groups or in couples. Merry Cardew found herself alone with Maggie Howland. Without intending to do so, she had slightly, very slightly, avoided Maggie during the last day or two; but Maggie now seized her arm and drew her down a shady glade.
“Come with me, Merry,” she said; “I have a lot I want to say to you.”
Merry looked at her. “Of course I will come with you, Maggie,” she answered.
“I want just to get quite away from the others,” continued Maggie, “for we shall not meet again until we meet in the autumn at Aylmer House. You don’t know, perhaps – do you, Merry – that you owe the great joy of coming to that lovely school to me?”
“To you!” said Merry in the utmost amazement.
“Yes,” replied Maggie in her calmest tone, “to me.”
“Oh, dear Maggie!” replied Merry, “you surely must be mistaken.”
“I don’t intend to explain myself,” said Maggie; “I simply state what is a fact. You owe your school-life to me. It was I who inserted the thin end of the wedge beneath your father’s fixed resolution that you were to be educated at home. It was I, in short, who acted the part of the fairy princess and who pulled those silken reins which brought about the desire of your heart.”
“I don’t understand you, Maggie,” said Merry in a distressful tone; “but I suppose,” she added, “as you say so, it is the case. Only, I ought to tell you that what really and truly happened was this”–
“Oh, I know quite well what really and truly happened,” interrupted Maggie. “Let me tell you. I know that there came a certain day when a little girl who calls herself Merry Cardew was very discontented, and I know also that kind Mr. Cardew discovered the discontent of his child. Well, now, who put that discontent into your mind?”
“Why, I am afraid it was you,” said Merry, turning pale and then red.
Maggie laughed. “Why, of course it was,” she said; “and you suppose I didn’t do it on purpose?”
“But, Maggie, you didn’t really mean – you couldn’t for a minute mean – that I was to be miserable at home if father didn’t give his consent?”
“Of course not,” said Maggie lightly; “but, you see, I meant him to give his consent – I meant it all the time. I own that there were several favoring circumstances; but I want to tell you now, Merry, in the strictest confidence of course, that from the moment I arrived at the rectory I determined that you and Cicely were to come with Molly and Isabel to Aylmer House.”
“It was very kind of you, Maggie,” said Merry; but she felt a certain sense of distress which she could not quite account for as she spoke.
“Why do you look so melancholy?” said Maggie, turning and fixing her queer, narrow eyes on the pretty face of her young companion.
“I am not really melancholy, only I would much rather you had told me openly at the time that you wished me to come to school.”
Maggie gave a faint sigh. “Had I done so, darling,” she said, “you would never have come. You must leave your poor friend Maggie to manage things in her own way. But now I have something else to talk about.”
They had gone far down the glade, and were completely separated from their companions.
“Sit down,” said Maggie; “it’s too hot to walk far even under the shade of the trees.”
They both sat down.
Maggie tossed off her hat. “To-morrow,” she said, “you will perhaps be having another picnic, or, at any rate, the best of good times with your friends.”
“I hope so,” replied Merry.
“But I shall be in hot, stifling London, in a little house, in poky lodgings; to-morrow, at this hour, I shall not be having what you call a good time.”
“But, Maggie, you will be with your mother.”
“Yes, poor darling mother! of course.”
“Don’t you love her very much?” asked Merry.
Maggie flashed round an excited glance at her companion. “Love her? Yes,” she said, “I love her.”
“But you must love her tremendously,” said Merry – “as much as I love my mother.”
“As a rule all girls love their mothers,” said Maggie. “We are not talking about that now, are we?”
“What do you want to say to me in particular, Maggie?” was Merry’s response.
“This. We shall meet at school on the 20th of September. There will be, as I have told you already, twenty boarders at Aylmer House. You will arrive at the school as strangers; so will Molly and Isabel arrive as strangers; but you will have two friends – Aneta Lysle and myself. You’re very much taken, with your cousin Aneta, are you not?”
“Taken with her?” said Merry. “That seems to me a curious expression. She is our cousin, and she is beautiful.”
“Merry, I must tell you something. At Aylmer House there are two individuals who lead the school.”
“Oh,” said Merry, “I thought Mrs. Ward led the school.”
“Of course, of course, Mrs. Ward is just splendid; but, you see, you, poor Merry, know nothing of school-life. School-life is really controlled – I mean the inner part of it – by the girls themselves. Now, there are two girls at Aylmer House who control the school: one of them is your humble servant, Maggie Howland; the other is your cousin, Aneta Lysle. Aneta does not love me; and, to be frank with you, I hate her.”
Merry found herself turning very red. She remembered Aneta’s words on the night of her arrival.
“She has already told you,” said Maggie, “that she doesn’t like me.”
Merry remained silent.
“Oh, you needn’t speak. I know quite well,” said Maggie.
Merry felt more and more uncomfortable.
“The petition I have to make to you is this,” continued Maggie: “that at school you will, for a time at least – say for the first month or so – be neutral. I want you and Cicely and Molly and Isabel to belong neither to Aneta’s party nor to mine; and I want you to do this because – because I have been the person who has got you to Aylmer House. Just remain neutral for a month. Will you promise me that?”
“I don’t understand you. You puzzle me very much indeed,” said Merry.
“You will understand fast enough when you get to Aylmer House. I wish I were not going away; I wish I hadn’t to return to mother. I wish I could go with you all to Scarborough; but I am the last girl on earth to neglect my duties, and my duty is to be with poor dear mother. You will understand that what I ask is but reasonable. If four new girls came to the school, and altogether went over to Aneta’s side, where should I be? What chance should I have? But I do not ask you to come to my side; I only ask you to be neutral. Merry, will you promise?”
“You distress me more than I can say,” replied Merry. “I feel so completely in the dark. I don’t, of course, want to take any side.”
“Ah, then you will promise?” said Maggie.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Let me present a picture to you,” continued Maggie. “There are two girls; they are not equally equipped for the battle of life. I say nothing of injustice in the matter; I only state a fact. One of them is rich and highly born, and endowed with remarkable beauty of face. That girl is your own cousin, Aneta Lysle. Then there is the other girl, Maggie Howland, who is ugly.”
“Oh no – no!” said Merry affectionately.
“Yes, darling,” said Maggie, using her most magnetic voice, “really ugly.”
“Not in my eyes,” said Merry.
“She is ugly,” repeated Maggie, speaking with great calm; “and – yes – she is poor. I will tell you as a great secret – I have never breathed it to a soul yet – that it would be impossible for this girl to be an inmate of Aylmer House if Mrs. Ward, in the kindness of her great heart, had not offered her very special terms. You will never breathe that, Merry, not even to Cicely?”
“Oh, poor Maggie!” said Merry, “are you really – really as poor as that?”
“Church mice aren’t poorer,” said Maggie. “But never mind; I have got something which even your Aneta hasn’t got. I have talent, and I have the power – the power of charming. I want most earnestly to be your special friend, Merry. I have a very affectionate heart, and I love you and Cicely and Molly and Isabel more than I can say; but of all you four girls I love you the best. You come first in my heart; and to see you at my school turning away from me and going altogether to Aneta’s side would give me agony. There, I can’t help it. Forgive me. I’ll be all right in a minute.”
Maggie turned her face aside. She had taken out her handkerchief and was pressing it to her eyes. Real tears had filled them, for her emotions were genuine enough.
“Don’t you think,” she said after a pause, “that you, who are so rich in this world’s goods, might be kind and loving to a poor little plain girl who loves you but who has got very little?”
“Indeed, indeed, I shall always love you, dear Maggie,” said Merry.
“Then you will do what I want?”
“I don’t like to make promises, and I am so much in the dark; but I can certainly say this – that, whatever happens, I shall be your friend at school. I shall look to you to help me in a hundred ways.”
“Will you indeed, darling Merry?”
“Of course I shall. I always intended to, and I think Cicely will do just the same.”
“I don’t want you to talk to Cicely about this. She doesn’t care for me as much as you do.”
“Perhaps not quite,” said honest Merry.
“Oh, I am sure – certain of it. Then you will be my friend as I shall be yours, and when we meet at Aylmer House you will talk of me to others as your friend?”
“Of course I shall.”
“That’s what I require. The thought of your friendship when I love you so passionately makes sunshine in my heart. I sha’n’t be miserable at all to-morrow after what you have said. I shall think of our pleasant talk under this great oak-tree; I shall recall this lovely, perfect day. Merry, you have made me very happy!”
“But please understand,” said Merry, “that, although I am your friend, I cannot give up Aneta.”
“Certainly not, dear; only, don’t take what you call sides. It is quite reasonable to suppose that girls who have only just come to school would prefer to be there at first quite free and untrammeled; and to belong to a certain set immediately trammels you.”
“Well, I, for one, will promise – at any rate at first – that I won’t belong to any set,” said Merry. “Now, are you satisfied, Maggie?”
“Oh, truly I am! Do let me kiss you, darling.”
The girls kissed very affectionately.
Then Maggie said, “Now I am quite happy.” After a pause, she continued as though it were an after-thought, “Of course you won’t speak of this to any one?”
“Unless, perhaps, to Cicely,” said Merry.
“No, not even to Cicely; for if you found it hard to understand, she would find it impossible.”
“But,” said Merry, “I never had a secret from her in my life. She is my twin, you know.”
“Please, please,” said Maggie, “keep this little secret all to yourself for my sake. Oh, do think how important it is to me, and how much more you have to be thankful for than I have!”
“If you feel it like that, poor Maggie,” said Merry, “I will keep it as my own secret.”
“Then I have nothing further to say.” Maggie sprang to her feet. “There are the boys running to meet us,” she said. “I know they’ll want my help in preparing the fire for the gipsy-kettle.”
“And I will join the others. There’s Susan Heathfield; she is all alone,” said Merry. “But one moment first, please, Maggie. Are you going to make Molly and Isabel bind themselves by the same promise?”
“Dear me, no!” said Maggie. “They will naturally be my friends without any effort; but you are the one I want, for you are the one I truly love.”
“Hallo! there you are,” called Andrew’s voice, “hobnobbing, as usual, with Merry Cardew.”
“I say, Merry,” cried Jack, “it is unfair of you to take our Maggie away on her last day.”
The two boys now rushed up.
“I am going to cry bottles-full to-morrow,” said Andrew; “and, although I am a boy, about to be a man, I’m not a bit ashamed of it.”
“I’ll beat you at that,” said Jackdaw, “for I’ll cry basins-full.”
“Dear me, boys, how horrid of you!” said Maggie. “What on earth good will crying do to me? And you’ll both be so horribly limp and damp after it.”
“Well, come now,” said Jackdaw, pulling her by one arm while Peterkin secured the other. – “You’ve had your share of her, Merry, and it’s our turn.”
Maggie and her devoted satellites went off in the direction where the bonfire was to be made; and Merry, walking slowly, joined Susan Heathfield.
Susan was more than two years older than Merry, and on that account the younger girls looked up to her with a great deal of respect. Up to the present, however, they had had no confidential talk.
Susan now said, “So you are to be a schoolgirl after all?”
“Yes. Isn’t it jolly?” said Merry.
“Oh, it has its pros and cons,” replied Susan. “In one sense, there is no place like school; but in the best sense of all there is no place like home.”
“Were you long at school, Susan?”
“Of course; Mary and I went to a school in Devonshire when we were quite little girls. I was eleven and Mary ten. Afterwards we were at a London school, and then we went to Paris. We had an excellent time at all our schools; but I think the best fun of all was the thought of the holidays and coming home again.”
“That must be delightful,” said Merry. “Did you make many friends at school?”
“Well, of course,” said Susan. “But now let me give you a word of advice, Merry. You are going to a most delightful school, which, alas! we were not lucky enough to get admitted to, although mother tried very hard. It may be different at Aylmer House from what it is in the ordinary school, but I would strongly advise you and Cicely not to join any clique at school.”
“Oh dear, how very queer!” said Merry, and she reddened deeply.
“Why do you look like that?” said Susan.
“Nothing, nothing,” said Merry.
Susan was silent for a minute or two. Then she said, “That’s a curious-looking girl.”
“What girl?” said Merry indignantly.
“I think you said her name was Howland – Miss Howland.”
“She is one of the most delightful girls I know,” replied Merry at once.
“Well, I don’t know her, you see, so I can’t say. Aneta tells me that she is a member of your school.”
“Yes; and I am so delighted!” said Merry.
Again Susan Heathfield was silent, feeling a little puzzled; but Merry quickly changed the conversation, for she did not want to have any more talk with regard to Maggie Howland. Merry, however, had a very transparent face. Her conversation with her friend had left traces of anxiety and even slight apprehension on her sweet, open face. Merry Cardew was oppressed by the first secret of her life, and it is perhaps to be regretted, or perhaps the reverse, that she found it almost impossible to keep a secret.
“Well,” Cicely said to her as they were hurrying from the shady woods in the direction of the picnic-tea, “what is wrong with you, Merry? Have you a headache?”
“Oh no; I am perfectly all right,” said Merry, brightening up. “It’s only – well, to say the truth, I am sorry that Maggie is going to-morrow.”
“You are very fond of her, aren’t you?” said Cicely.
“Well, yes; that is it, I am,” said Merry.
“We’ll see plenty of her at school, anyway,” said Cicely.
“I wish she were rich,” said Merry. “I hate to think of her as poor.”
“Is she poor?” asked Cicely.
“Oh yes; she was just telling me, poor darling!”
“I don’t understand what it means to be poor,” said Cicely. “People say it is very bad, but somehow I can’t take it in.”
“Maggie takes it in, at any rate,” said Merry. “Think of us to-morrow, Cicely, having more fun, being out again in the open air, having pleasant companions all round us, and our beautiful home to go back to, and our parents, whom we love so dearly; and then, next week, of the house by the sea, and Aneta and Molly and Isabel our companions.”
“Well, of course,” said Cicely.
“And then think of poor Maggie,” continued Merry. “She’ll be shut up in a musty, fusty London lodging. I can’t think how she endures it.”
“I don’t know what a musty, fusty lodging is,” said Cicely; “but she could have come with us, because mother invited her.”
“She can’t, because her own mother wants her. Oh dear! I wish we could have her and her mother too.”
“Come on now, Merry, I don’t think we ought to ask father and mother to invite Mrs. Howland.”
“Of course not. I quite understand that,” replied Merry. “Nevertheless, I am a little sad about dear Maggie.”
Merry’s sadness took a practical form. She thought a great deal about her friend during the rest of that day, although Maggie rather avoided her. She thought, in particular, of Maggie’s poverty, and wondered what poverty really meant. The poor people – those who were called poor at Meredith – did not really suffer at all, for it was the bounden duty of the squire of the Manor to see to all their wants, to provide them with comfortable houses and nice gardens, and if they were ill to give them the advice of a good doctor, also to send them nourishing food from the Manor. But poor people of that sort were quite different from the Maggie Howland sort. Merry could not imagine any lord of the manor taking Maggie and Mrs. Howland in hand and providing them with all the good things of life.
But all of a sudden it darted through her eager, affectionate little heart that she herself might be lord of the manor to Maggie, and might help Maggie out of her own abundance. If it were impossible to get Maggie Howland and her mother both invited to Scarborough, why should not she, Merry, provide Maggie with means to take her mother from the fusty, dusty lodgings to another seaside resort?
Merry thought over this for some time, and the more she thought over it the more enamored she was of the idea. She and Cicely had, of course, no special means of their own, nor could they have until they came of age. Nevertheless, they were allowed as pocket-money ten pounds every quarter. Now, Merry’s ten pounds would be due in a week. She really did not want it. When she got it she spent it mostly on presents for her friends and little gifts for the villagers; but on this occasion she might give it all in one lump sum to Maggie Howland. Surely her father would let her have it? She might give it to Maggie early to-morrow morning. Maggie would not be too proud to accept it just as a tiny present.
Merry had as little idea how far ten pounds would go toward the expenses of a visit to the seaside as she had of what real poverty meant. But it occurred to her as a delightful way of assuring Maggie of her friendship to present Maggie with her quarter’s pocket-money.
On their way home that evening, therefore, she was only too glad to find herself by her father’s side.
“Well, little girl,” he said, “so you’re forsaking all your young companions and wish to sit close to the old dad?”
The old dad, it may be mentioned, was driving home in a mail-phaeton from the picnic, and Merry found herself perched high up beside him as he held the reins and guided a pair of thoroughbred horses.
“Well, what is it, little girl?” he said.
“I wonder, father, if you’d be most frightfully kind?”
“What!” he answered, just glancing at her; “that means that you are discontented again. What more can I do for you, Merry?”
“If I might only have my pocket-money to-night.”
“You extravagant child! Your pocket-money! It isn’t due for a week.”
“But I do want it very specially. Will you advance it to me just this once, dad?”
“I am not to know why you want it?”
“No, dad darling, you are not to know.”
Mr. Cardew considered for a minute.
“I hope you are not going to be a really extravagant woman, Merry,” he said. “To tell the truth, I hate extravagance, although I equally hate stinginess. You will have no lack of money, child, but money is a great and wonderful gift and ought to be used to the best of best advantages. It ought never to be wasted, for there are so many people who haven’t half enough, and those who are rich, my child, ought to help those who are not rich.”
“Yes, darling father,” said Merry; “and that is what I should so awfully like to do.”
“Well, I think you have the root of the matter in you,” said Mr. Cardew, “and I, for one, am the last person to pry on my child. Does Cicely also want her money in advance?”
“Oh no, no! I want it for a very special reason.”
“Very well, my little girl. Come to me in the study to-night before you go to bed, and you shall have your money.”
“In sovereigns, please, father?”
“Yes, child, in sovereigns.”
“Thank you ever so much, darling.”
During the rest of the drive there was no girl happier than Merry Cardew. Mr. Cardew looked at her once or twice, and wondered what all this meant. But he was not going to question her.
When they got home he took her away to his study, and, opening a drawer, took out ten sovereigns.
“I may as well tell you,” he said as he put them into her hand, “that when you go to school I shall raise your pocket-money allowance to fifteen pounds a quarter. That is quite as large a sum as a girl of your age ought to have in the year. I do this because I well understand that at Mrs. Ward’s school there will be special opportunities for you to act in a philanthropic manner.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, father!” said Merry.