Chapter 12 The School Queens by L. T. Meade
SHEPHERD’S BUSH
While Merry was in a state of high rejoicing at this simple means of helping her friend, Maggie Howland herself was not having quite such a good time. She had been much relieved by her conversation with Merry, but shortly after the picnic-tea Aneta had come up to her.
“Would you like to walk with me,” said Aneta, “as far as the giant oak? It isn’t a great distance from here, and I’ll not keep you long.”
“Certainly I will come with you, Aneta,” said Maggie; but she felt uncomfortable, and wondered what it meant.
The two girls set off together. They made a contrast which must have been discernible to the eyes of all those who saw them: Aneta the very essence of elegance; Maggie spotlessly neat, but, compared to her companion, downright plain. Aneta was tall and slim; Maggie was short. Nevertheless, her figure was her good point, and she made the most of it by having perfectly fitting clothes. This very fact, however, took somewhat from her appearance, and gave her the look of a grown-up girl, whereas she was still only a child.
As soon as ever the girls got out of earshot, Aneta turned to Maggie and said gravely, “My cousins the Cardews are to join us all at Aylmer House in September.”
Maggie longed to say, “Thank you for nothing,” but she never dared to show rudeness to Aneta. No one had ever been rude to the stately young lady.
“Yes,” she said. Then she added, “I am so glad! Aren’t you?”
“For some reasons I am very glad,” said Aneta.
“But surely for all, aren’t you?”
“Not for all,” replied Aneta.
How Maggie longed to give her companion a fierce push, or otherwise show how she detested her!
“I will tell you why I regret it,” said Aneta, turning her calm, beautiful eyes upon Maggie’s face.
“Thank you,” said Maggie.
“I regret it, Maggie Howland, because you are at the school.”
“How very polite!” said Maggie, turning crimson.
“It is not polite,” said Aneta, “and I am sorry that I have to speak as I do; but it is necessary. We needn’t go into particulars; but I have something to say to you, and please understand that what I say I mean. You know that when first you came to the school I was as anxious as any one else to be kind to you, to help you, to be good to you. You know the reason why I changed my mind. You know what you did. You know that were Mrs. Ward to have the slightest inkling of what really occurred you would not remain another hour at Aylmer House. I haven’t told any one what I know; but if you, Maggie, tamper with Cicely and Merry Cardew, who are my cousins and dear friends – if you win them over to what you are pleased to call your side of the school – I shall consider it my duty to tell Mrs. Ward what I have hitherto kept back from her.”
Maggie was trembling very violently.
“You could not be so cruel,” she said after a pause.
“I have long thought,” continued Aneta, speaking in her calm, gentle voice, “that I did wrong at the time to keep silent; but you got my promise, and I kept it.”
“Yes, yes,” said Maggie, “I got your promise; you wouldn’t dare to break it?”
“You are mistaken,” said Aneta. “If the circumstances to which I have just alluded should arise I would break that promise. Now you understand?”
“I think you are the meanest, the cruellest – I think you are–There, I hate you!” said Maggie.
“You have no reason to. I will not interfere with you if you, on your part, leave those I love alone. Cicely and Merry are coming to the school because I am there, because my aunt recommends the school, because it is a good school. Leave off doing wrong, and join us, Maggie, in what is noble and high; but continue your present course at your peril. You would do anything for power; you go too far. You have influenced one or two girls adversely already. I am convinced that Mrs. Ward does not trust you. If you interfere with Cicely or Merry, Mrs. Ward will have good reason to dislike you, for I myself shall open her eyes.”
“You will be an informer, a tell-tale?”
“You can call me any names you like, Maggie; I shall simply do what I consider my duty.”
“Oh, but–I hate you!” said Maggie again.
“I am sorry you hate me, for it isn’t necessary; and if I saw you in the least like others I should do all in my power to help you. Now, will you give me your promise that you won’t interfere with Cicely and Merry?”
“But does this mean – does this mean,” said Maggie, who was almost choking with rage, “that I am to have nothing to do with the Cardews?”
“You are on no account to draw the Cardews into the circle of your friends, who are, I am thankful to say, limited. If you do, you know the consequences, and I am not the sort of girl to go back when I have firmly made up my mind on a certain point.”
Maggie suddenly clutched hold of her companion’s arm.
“I am miserable enough already,” she said, “and you make my life unendurable! You don’t know what it is to have a mother like mine, and to be starvingly poor.”
“I am very sorry you are poor, Maggie, and I am very sorry for you with regard to your mother, although I do not think you ought to speak unkindly of her. But your father was a very good man, and you might live up to his memory. I saw you and Merry together to-day. Beware how you try to influence her.”
“Oh, I can’t stand you!” said Maggie.
“I have said my say. Shall we return to the others?” said Aneta in her calm voice.
“If she would only get into a rage and we might have a hand-to-hand fight I should feel better,” thought Maggie. But she was seriously alarmed, for she well remembered something which had happened at school, which Aneta had discovered, and which, if known, would force Mrs. Ward to dismiss her from the establishment. Such a course would spell ruin. Maggie had strong feelings, but she had also self-control; and by the time the two joined the others her face looked much as usual.
On the following morning early a little girl ran swiftly from the Manor to the rectory. Maggie was to leave by the eleven o’clock train. Merry appeared on the scene soon after nine.
“I want you, Maggie, all quite by yourself,” said Merry, speaking with such excitement that Molly and Belle looked at her in unbounded amazement.
“You can’t keep her long,” said Peterkins and Jackdaw, “for it is our very last day, and Spot-ear and Fanciful want to say good-bye to her. You can’t have the darling more than three minutes at the most.”
“I am going to keep Maggie for ten minutes, and no longer. – Come along at once, Maggie,” said Merry Cardew.
They went out into the grounds, and Merry, putting her hand into her pocket, took out a little brown leather bag. She thrust it into her companion’s hand.
“What is it?” said Maggie.
“It is for you – for you, darling,” said Merry. “Take it, as a loan, if you like – only take it. It is only ten pounds. I am afraid you will think it nothing at all; but do take it, just as a mere loan. It is my pocket-money for the next quarter. Perhaps you could go from the musty, fusty lodgings to some fresher place with this to help you. Do – do take it, Maggie! I shall so love you if you do.”
Maggie’s narrow eyes grew wide. Maggie’s sallow face flushed. There came a wild commotion in her heart – a real, genuine sense of downright love for the girl who had done this thing for her. And ten pounds, which meant so very little to Merry Cardew, held untold possibilities for Maggie.
“You will hurt me frightfully if you refuse,” said Merry.
Maggie trembled from head to foot. Suppose, by any chance, it got to Aneta’s ears that she had taken this money from Merry; suppose it got abroad in the school! Oh, she dared not take it! she must not!
“What is it, Maggie? Why don’t you speak?” said Merry, looking at her in astonishment.
“I love you with all my heart and soul,” said Maggie; “but I just can’t take the money.”
“Oh Maggie! but why?”
“I can’t, dear; I can’t. It – it would not be right. You mustn’t lower me in my own estimation. I should feel low down if I took your money. I know well I am poor, and so is dear mother, and the lodgings are fusty and musty, but we are neither of us so poor as that. I’ll never forget that you brought it to me, and I’ll love you just more than I have ever done; but I can’t take it.”
“Do come on, Maggie!” shouted Jackdaw. “Fanciful is dying for his breakfast; and as to Peterkins, he has got Spot-ear out of his cage. Peterkins is crying like anything, and his tears are dropping on Spot-ear, and Spot-ear doesn’t like it. Do come on!”
“Yes, yes; I am coming,” said Maggie – “Good-bye, darling Merry. My best thanks and best love.”
That evening, or in the course of the afternoon, Maggie appeared at Shepherd’s Bush. She had been obliged to travel third-class, and the journey was hot and dusty.
She lay back against the cushions with a tired feeling all over her. For a time she had been able to forget her poverty. Now it had fully returned to her, and she was not in the mood to be good-natured. There was no need to show any charm or any kindliness to her neighbors, who, in their turn, thought her a disagreeable, plain girl, not worth any special notice.
It was, therefore, by no means a prepossessing-looking girl who ran up the high flight of steps which belonged to that lodging-house in Shepherd’s Bush where Mrs. Howland was staying. Maggie knew the lodgings well, although she had never spent much time there. As a rule, she contrived to spend almost all her holidays with friends; but on this occasion her mother had sent for her in a very summary manner; and, although Maggie had no real love for her mother, she was afraid to disobey her.
Mrs. Howland occupied the drawing-room floor of the said lodgings. They were kept by a Mrs. Ross, an untidy and by no means too clean-looking woman. Mrs. Ross kept one small “general,” and the general’s name was Tildy. Tildy had bright-red hair and a great many freckles on her round face. She was squat in figure, and had a perpetual smut either on her cheek or forehead. In the morning she was nothing better than a slavey, but in the afternoon she generally managed to put on a cap with long white streamers and an apron with a bib. Tildy thought herself very fine in this attire, and she had donned it now in honor of Miss Howland’s arrival. She had no particular respect for Mrs. Howland, but she had a secret and consuming admiration for Maggie.
Maggie had been kind to Tildy once or twice, and had even given the general a cast-off dress of her own. Maggie was plain, and yet people liked her and listened to her words.
“Oh miss,” said Tildy when she opened the front door, “it’s me that’s glad to see you! Your ma is upstairs; she’s took with a headache, but you’ll find her lyin’ down on the sofy in the drawin’-room.”
“Then I’ll run up at once, Matilda,” said Maggie. “And how are you?” she added good-naturedly. “Oh, you’ve got your usual smut.”
“Indicate the spot, miss, and it shall be moved instancious,” said Tildy. “Seems to me as if never could get rid of smuts, what with the kitchen-range, and missus bein’ so exacsheous, and Tildy here, Tildy there; Tildy do this, Tildy do t’other, soundin’ in my hears all day long.”
“You are a very good girl,” said Maggie, “and if I were in your place I’d have a hundred smuts, not one. But take it off now, do; it’s on the very center of your forehead. And bring me some tea to the drawing-room, for I’m ever so thirsty.”
“You’ve been in a blessed wondrous castle since, haven’t you, missie?” said Matilda in a voice of suppressed awe.
“I know some young ladies who live in a castle; but I myself have been at a rectory,” said Maggie. “Now, don’t keep me. Oh, here’s a shilling for the cabman; give it to him, and get my box taken upstairs.”
Maggie flew up the steep, badly carpeted stairs to the hideous drawing-room. Her spirits had been very low; but, somehow, Tildy had managed to revive them. Tildy was plain, and very much lower than Maggie in the social scale; but Tildy admired her, and because of that admiration made her life more or less endurable in the fusty, musty lodgings. She had always cultivated Tildy’s good will, and she thought of the girl now with a strange sense of pity.
“Compared to her, I suppose I am well off,” thought Maggie. “I have only five weeks at the most to endure this misery; then there will be Aylmer House.”
She opened the drawing-room door and entered. Mrs. Howland was lying on a sofa, which was covered with faded rep and had a broken spring. She had a handkerchief wrung out of aromatic vinegar over her forehead. Her eyes were shut, and her exceedingly thin face was very pale. When her daughter entered the room she opened a pair of faded eyes and looked at her, but no sense of pleasure crossed Mrs. Howland’s shallow face. On the contrary, she looked much worried, and said, in a cross tone, “I wish you would not be so noisy, Maggie. Didn’t Tildy tell you that I had an acute headache?”
“Yes, mother; and I didn’t know I was noisy,” replied Maggie. “I came upstairs as softly as possible. That door” – she pointed to the door by which she had entered – “creaks horribly. That is not my fault.”
“Excusing yourself, as usual,” said Mrs. Howland.
“Well, mother,” said Maggie after a pause, “may I kiss you now that I have come back against my will?”
“I knew you’d be horribly discontented,” said Mrs. Howland; “but of course you may kiss me.”
Maggie bent down and touched her mother’s cheek with her young lips.
“I was having a beautiful time,” she said, “and you don’t seem glad now that I have come back. What is the matter?”
“I have something to communicate to you,” said Mrs. Howland. “I did not think I could write it; therefore I was obliged to have you with me. But we won’t talk of it for a little. Have you ordered tea?”
“Yes, mother. Tildy is bringing it.”
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Howland. “What a hot day it is!” she continued.
“This room is stifling,” replied Maggie. “Do you mind if I pull down the Venetian blinds? That will keep some of the sun out.”
“The blinds are all broken,” said Mrs. Howland. “I have spoken to that woman Ross till I am tired, but she never will see to my wishes in any way.”
“I can’t imagine why we stay here, mother.”
“Oh! don’t begin your grumbles now,” said Mrs. Howland. “I have news for you when tea is over.”
Just then the drawing-room door was opened by means of a kick and a bump, and Tildy entered, weighed down by an enormous tea-tray. Maggie ran to prepare a table for its reception, and Tildy looked at her with eyes of fresh admiration. Mrs. Howland raised herself and also looked at the girl.
“Have you kept the cakes downstairs, and the muffins that I ordered, and the gooseberries?”
“No, um,” said Tildy. “I brought them up for Miss Maggie’s tea.”
“I told you they were not to be touched till Mr. Martin came.”
“Yes, um,” said Tildy; “but me and Mrs. Ross thought as Miss Maggie ’u’d want ’em.”
Mrs. Howland glanced at her daughter. Then all of a sudden, and quite unexpectedly, her faded face grew red. She perceived an expression of inquiry in Maggie’s eyes which rather frightened her.
“It’s all right,” she said. “Now that you’ve brought the things up, Tildy, leave them here, and go. When Mr. Martin comes, show him up. Now leave us, and be quick about it.”
Tildy departed, slamming the door behind her.
“How noisy that girl is!” said Mrs. Howland. “Well, I am better now; I’ll just go into our bedroom and get tidy. I’ll be back in a few minutes. I mustn’t be seen looking this fright when Mr. Martin comes.”
“But who is Mr. Martin?” said Maggie.
“You will know presently,” said Mrs. Howland. “It’s about him that I have news.”
Maggie felt her heart thumping in a very uncomfortable manner. The bedroom which she and her mother shared together – that is, when Maggie was with her mother – was at the back of the drawing-room. Mrs. Howland remained there for about five minutes, and during that time Maggie helped herself to a cup of tea, for she was feverishly hot and thirsty.
Her mother returned at the end of five minutes, looking wonderfully better, and in fact quite rejuvenated. Her dress was fairly neat. She had a slight color in her pale cheeks which considerably brightened her light-blue eyes. Her faded hair was arranged with some neatness, and she had put on a white blouse and a blue alpaca skirt.
“Oh mother,” said Maggie, hailing this change with great relief, “how much better you look now! I am a comfort to you, am I not, mums? I sha’n’t mind coming back and giving up all my fun if I am a real comfort to you.”
“I wouldn’t have sent for you but for Mr. Martin,” said Mrs. Howland. “It was he who wished it. Yes, I am much better now, though I cannot honestly say that you are the cause. It’s the thought of seeing Mr. Martin that cheers me up; I must be tidy for him. Yes, you may pour out a cup of tea for me; only see that you keep some really strong tea in the teapot for Mr. Martin, for he cannot bear it weak. He calls weak tea wish-wash.”
“But whoever is this mysterious person?” said Maggie.
“I will tell you in a minute or two. You may give me one of those little cakes. No, I couldn’t stand muffins; I hate them in hot weather. Besides, my digestion isn’t what it was; but I shall be all right by-and-by; so will you too, my dear. And what I do, I do for you.”
“Well, I wish you would tell me what you are doing for me, and get it over,” said Maggie. “You were always very peculiar, mums, always – even when dear father was alive – and you’re not less so now.”
“That’s a very unkind way for a child to speak of her parent,” said Mrs. Howland; “but I can assure you, Maggie, that Mr. Martin won’t allow it in the future.”
Maggie now sprang to her feet.
“Good gracious, mother! What has Mr. Martin to do with me? Is he – is he – it cannot be, mother!”
“Yes, I can,” said Mrs. Howland. “I may as well have it out first as last. I am going to marry Mr. Martin.”
“Mother!”
There was a wailing cry in Maggie’s voice. No girl can stand with equanimity her mother marrying a second time; and as Maggie, with all her dreams of her own future, had never for an instant contemplated this fact, she was simply staggered for a minute or two.
“You will have to take it in the right spirit, my dear,” said her mother. “I can’t stand this life any longer. I want money, and comforts, and devotion, and the love of a faithful husband, and Mr. Martin will give me all these things. He is willing to adopt you too. He said so. He has no children of his own. I mean, when I say that, that his first family are all settled in life, and he says that he wouldn’t object at all to a pleasant, lively girl in the house. He wants you to leave school.”
“Leave Aylmer House!” said Maggie. “Oh no, mother!”
“I knew you’d make a fuss about it,” said Mrs. Howland. “He has a great dislike to what he calls fine folks. He speaks of them as daisies, and he hates daisies.”
“But, mother – mother dear – before he comes, tell me something about him. Where did you meet him? Who is he? A clergyman – a barrister? What is he, mother?”
Mrs. Howland remained silent for a minute. Then she pressed her hand to her heart. Then she gave way to a burst of hysterical laughter.
“Just consider for a minute, Maggie,” she said, “what utter nonsense you are talking. Where should I be likely to meet a clergyman or a barrister? Do clergymen or barristers or people in any profession come to houses like this? Do talk sense when you’re about it.”
“Well, tell me what he is, at least.”
“He is in – I am by no means ashamed of it – in trade.”
Now, it so happened that it had been duly impressed upon Maggie’s mind that Mr. Cardew of Meredith Manor was also, so to speak, in trade; that is, he was the sleeping partner in one of the largest and wealthiest businesses in London. Maggie therefore, for a minute, had a glittering vision of a great country-house equal in splendor to Meredith Manor, where she and her mother could live together. But the next minute Mrs. Howland killed these glowing hopes even in the moment of their birth.
“I want to conceal nothing from you,” she said. “Mr. Martin keeps the grocer’s shop at the corner. I may as well say that I met him when I went to that shop to get the small articles of grocery which I required for my own consumption. He has served me often across the counter. Then one day I was taken rather weak and ill in the shop, and he took me into his back-parlor, a very comfortable room, and gave me a glass of excellent old port; and since then, somehow, we have been friends. He is a widower, I a widow. His children have gone into the world, and each one of them is doing well. My child is seldom or never with her mother. It is about a week ago since he asked me if I would accept him and plenty, instead of staying as I am – a genteel widow with so little money that I am half-starved. His only objection to our marriage is the thought of you, Maggie; for he said that I was bringing you up as a fine lady, with no provision whatever for the future. He hates fine ladies, as he calls them; in fact, he is dead nuts against the aristocracy.”
“Oh mother!” wailed poor Maggie; “and my father was a gentleman!”
“Mr. Martin has quite a gentlemanly heart,” said Mrs. Howland. “I don’t pretend for a moment that he is in the same position as my late lamented husband; but he is ten times better off, and we shall live in a nice little house in Clapham, and I can have two servants of my own; he is having the house refurnished and repapered for me – in his own taste, it is true, for he will not hear of what he calls Liberty rubbish. But it is going to be very comfortable, and I look forward to my change of surroundings with great satisfaction.”
“Yes, mother,” said Maggie, “you always did think of yourself first. But what about me?”
“You had better not talk to me in that strain before Mr. Martin. He is very deeply devoted to me,” said Mrs. Howland; “and do not imagine that we have not given you careful consideration. He is willing to adopt you, but insists on your leaving Aylmer House and coming to Laburnum Villa at Clapham. From what he says, you are quite sufficiently educated, and your duty now is to look after your mother and your new father, to be pleasant to me all day long, and to be bright and cheerful with him when he comes back from business in the evening. If you play your cards well, Maggie, he will leave you well provided for, as he is quite rich – of course, not rich like those people you are staying near, but rich for his class. I am very much pleased myself at the engagement. Our banns were called last Sunday in church, and we are to be married in a fortnight. After that, you had best stay on here until we desire you to join us at Laburnum Villa.”
“I can’t, mother,” said Maggie. “I can’t – and I won’t.”
“Oh, come, I hear a step on the stairs,” said Mrs. Howland. “That is Mr. Martin. Now, you will restrain yourself for my sake.”
There was a step on the stairs – firm, solid, heavy. The drawing-room door was opened about an inch, but no one came in.
Mrs. Howland said in a low whisper to her daughter, “He doesn’t know you have returned; he is very playful. Just stay quiet. He really is a most amusing person.”
“Bo-peep!” said a voice at the door; and a round, shining, bald head was popped in and then disappeared.
“Bo-peep!” said Mrs. Howland in response.
She stood up, and there came over her faded face a waggish expression. She held up her finger and shook it playfully. The bald head appeared again, followed immediately by a very round body. The playful finger continued to waggle.
“Ducksie dear!” said Mr. Martin, and he clasped Mrs. Howland in his arms.
Maggie gave a smothered groan.
“It’s the child,” said Mrs. Howland in a whisper. “She is a bit upset; but when she knows you, James, she’ll love you as much as I do.”
“Hope so,” said Mr. Martin. “I’m a duckle, Little-sing; ain’t I, Victoria?” Here he chuckled the good lady under the chin. “Ah, and so this is Maggie? – How do, my dear? How do, Popsy-wopsy?”
“How do you do?” said Maggie.
“Come, come,” said Mr. Martin. “No flights and vapors, no fine airs, no affected, mincing ways. A little girl should love her new parent. A little girl should kiss her new parent.”
“I won’t kiss you, Mr. Martin,” said Maggie.
“Oh, come, come – shy, is she? Let me tell you, Popsy-wopsy, that every man wouldn’t want to kiss you. – She is not a bit like you, my dear Victoria. Wherever did she get that queer little face? She is no beauty, and that I will say. – Now, your mother, Popsy, is a most elegant woman; any one can see that she is a born aristocrat; but I hate ’em, my dear – hate ’em! I am one of those who vote for the abolition of the House of Lords. Give me the Commons; no bloated Lords for me. Well, you’re a bit took aback, ain’t you? Your mother and me – we settled things up very tidy while you were sporting in the country. I like you all the better, my dear, for being plain. I don’t want no beauties except my beloved Victoria. She’s the woman for me. – Ain’t you, my Little-sing? Eh dear! Eh dear! It’s we three who’ll have the fun. – I’ll take you right into my heart, Popsy-wopsy, and snug and comfortable you’ll find yourself there.”
Poor Maggie! The overwhelming contrast between this scene and the scenes of yesterday! The awful fact that her mother was going to marry such a being as Mr. Martin overpowered her with such a sense of horror that for the time she felt quite dumb and stupid.
Mr. Martin, however, was in a radiant humor. “Now then, Little-sing,” he said, addressing Mrs. Howland, “where’s the tea! Poor Bo-peep wants his tea. He’s hungry and he’s thirsty, is Bo-peep. Little-sing will pour out Bo-peep’s tea with her own pretty, elegant hands, and butter his muffins for him, and Cross-patch in the corner can keep herself quiet.”
“May I go into our bedroom, mother?” said Maggie at that juncture.
“No, miss, you may not,” said Martin, suddenly rousing himself from a very comfortable position in the only easy-chair the room afforded. “I have something to say to you, and when I have said it you may do what you please.”
“Stay quiet, dear Maggie, for the present,” said Mrs. Howland.
The poor woman felt a queer sense of shame. Bo-peep and Little-sing had quite an agreeable time together when they were alone. She did not mind the boisterous attentions of her present swain; but with Maggie by there seemed to be a difference. Maggie made her ashamed of herself.
Maggie walked to the window, and, taking a low chair, sat down. Her heart was beating heavily. There was such a misery within her that she could scarcely contain herself. Could anything be done to rescue her mother from such a marriage? She was a very clever girl; but, clever as she was, she could see no way out.
Meanwhile Mr. Martin drank his tea with huge gulps, ate a quantity of muffins, pooh-poohed the gooseberries as not worth his attention, and then said, “Now, Victoria, my dearest dear, I am ready to propound my scheme to your offspring. – Come forward, Popsy-wopsy, and listen to what new pa intends to do for you.”
Maggie rose, feeling that her limbs were turned to ice. She crossed the room and stood before Mr. Martin.
“Well?” she said.
“None of those airs, Popsy.”
“I want to know what you mean to do,” said Maggie, struggling hard to keep her temper.
“Well, missie miss, poor Bo-peep means to marry your good ma, and he wants a nice ’ittle dirl to come and live with ma and pa at Clapham; pretty house, solid furniture, garden stocked with fruit-trees, a swing for good ’ittle dirl, a nice room for dear Popsy to sleep in, no more lessons, no more fuss, no more POVERTY! That’s what new pa proposes to ma’s ’ittle dirl. What does ’ittle dirl say?”
There was a dead silence in the room. Mrs. Howland looked with wild apprehension at her daughter. Mr. Martin had, however, still a jovial and smiling face.
“Down on its knees ought Popsy-wopsy to go,” he said. “Tears might come in Popsy-wopsy’s eyes, and the ’ittle dirl might say, ‘Dearest pa that is to be, I love you with all my heart, and I am glad that you’re going to marry ma and to take me from horrid school.’”
But there was no sign on the part of Maggie Howland of fulfilling these expectations on the part of the new pa. On the contrary, she stood upright, and then said in a low voice, “This has been a very great shock to me.”
“Shock!” cried Martin. “What do you mean by that, miss?”
“I must speak,” said Maggie. “You must let me, sir; and, mother, you must let me. It is for the last time. Quite the last time. I will never be here to offend you any more.”
“’Pon my word!” said Martin, springing to his feet, and his red, good-humored face growing crimson. “There’s gratitude for you! There’s manners for you! – Ma, how ever did you bring her up?”
“Let me speak,” said Maggie. “I am sorry to hurt your feelings, sir. You are engaged to my mother.”
“Ra-ther!” said Mr. Martin. “My pretty birdling hopped, so to speak, into my arms. No difficulties with her; no drawing back on the part of Little-sing. She wanted her Bo-peep, and she – well, her Bo-peep wanted her.”
“Yes, sir,” said Maggie. “I am exceedingly sorry – bitterly sorry – that my mother is going to marry again; but as she cares for you”–
“Which I do!” said Mrs. Howland, who was now reduced to tears.
“I have nothing more to say,” continued Maggie, “except that I hope she will be happy. But I, sir, am my father’s daughter as well as my mother’s, and I cannot for a single moment accept your offer. It is impossible. I must go on with my own education as best I can.”
“Then you re-fuse,” said Martin, “to join your mother and me?”
“Yes,” said Maggie, “I refuse.”
“Has she anything to live on, ma?” asked Mr. Martin.
“Oh, dear James,” said Mrs. Howland, “don’t take all the poor child says in earnest now! She’ll be down on her knees to you to-morrow. I know she will. Leave her to me, James dear, and I’ll manage her.”
“You can manage most things, Little-sing,” said Mr. Martin; “but I don’t know that I want that insolent piece. She is very different from you. If she is to be about our pleasant, cheerful home snubbing me and putting on airs – why, I’ll have none of it. Let her go, Victoria, I say – let her go if she wants to; but if she comes to me she must come in a cheerful spirit, and joke with me, and take my fun, and be as agreeable as you are yourself, Little-sing.”
“Well, at least,” said Mrs. Howland, “give us till to-morrow. The child is surprised; she will be different to-morrow.”
“I hope so,” said Mr. Martin; “but if there’s any philandering, or falling back, or if there’s any on-gratitude, I’ll have naught to do with her. I only take her to oblige you, Victoria.”
“You had best leave us now, dear,” said Mrs. Howland. “I will talk to Maggie, and let you know.”
Mr. Martin sat quite still for a minute. Then he rose, took not the slightest notice of Maggie, but, motioning Mrs. Howland to follow him, performed a sort of cake-walk out of the room.
When he reached the door and had said good-bye, he opened it again and said, “Bo-peep!” pushing a little bit of his bald head in, and then withdrawing it, while Mrs. Howland pretended to admire his antics.
At last he was gone; but by this time Maggie had vanished into the bedroom. She had flung herself on her knees by the bed, and pushed her handkerchief against her mouth to stifle the sound of her sobs. Mrs. Howland gently opened the door, looked at her daughter, and then shut it again. She felt thoroughly afraid of Maggie.
An hour or two later a pale, subdued-looking girl came out of the bedroom and sat down by her mother.
“Well,” said Mrs. Howland, “he is very pleasant and cheerful, isn’t he?”
“Mother, he is horrible!”
“Maggie, you have no right to say those things to me. I want a good husband to take care of me. I am very lonely, and no one appreciates me.”
“Oh mother!” said poor Maggie – “my father!”
“He was a very good man,” said Mrs. Howland restlessly; “but he was above me, somehow, and I never, never could reach up to his heights.”
“And you really tell me, his child, that you prefer that person?”
“I think I shall be quite happy with him,” said Mrs. Howland. “I really do. He is awfully kind, and his funny little ways amuse me.”
“Oh mother!”
“You will be good about it, Maggie; won’t you?” said Mrs. Howland. “You won’t destroy your poor mother’s happiness? I have had such lonely years, and such a struggle to keep my head above water; and now that good man comes along and offers me a home and every comfort. I am not young, dear; I am five-and-forty; and there is nothing before me if I refuse Mr. Martin but an old age of great poverty and terrible loneliness. You won’t stand in my way, Maggie?”
“I can’t, mother; though it gives me agony to think of your marrying him.”
“But you’ll get quite accustomed to it after a little; and he is really very funny, I can assure you; he puts me into fits of laughter. You will get accustomed to him, darling; you will come and live with your new father and me at Laburnum Villa?”
“Mother, you must know that I never will.”
“But what are you to do, Maggie? You’ve got no money at all.”
“Oh mother!” said poor Maggie, “it costs very little to keep me at Aylmer House; you know that quite, quite well. Please do let me go on with my education. Afterwards I can earn my living as a teacher or in some profession, for I have plenty of talent. I take after father in that.”
“Oh yes, I know I always was a fool,” said Mrs. Howland; “but I have a way with people for all that.”
“Mother, you have a great deal that is quite sweet about you, and you’re throwing yourself away on that awful man! Can’t we go on as we did for a year or two, you living here, and I coming to you in the holidays? Then, as soon as ever I get a good post I shall be able to help you splendidly. Can’t you do it, mother? This whole thing seems so dreadful to me.”
“No, I can’t, and won’t,” said Mrs. Howland in a decided voice. “I am exceedingly fond of my Bo-peep – as I call him – and greatly enjoy the prospect of being his wife. Oh Maggie, you have not returned to be a thorn in our sides? You will submit?”
“Never, never, never!” said Maggie.
“Then I don’t know what you are to do; for your new father insists on my keeping the very little money I have for my own personal use, and if you refuse to conform to his wishes he will not allow me to spend a farthing of it on you. You can’t live on nothing at all.”
“I can’t,” said Maggie. “I don’t know quite what to do. Are you going to be so very cruel as to take away the little money you have hitherto spent on me?”
“I must, dear; in fact, it is done already. Mr. Martin has invested it in the grocery business. He already provides for all my wants, and we are to be married in a fortnight. I have nothing whatever to spend on you.”
“Well, mother, we’ll say no more to-night. I have a headache, but I’ll sleep on the sofa here; it’s less hot than the bedroom.”
“Won’t you sleep with your poor old mother?”
“No, I can’t, really. Oh, how dreadfully hot this place is!”
“You are spoilt by your fine life, Maggie; but I grant that these lodgings are hot. The house at Clapham, however, is very cool and fresh. Oh Maggie! My dear Bo-peep is getting such a sweet little bedroom ready for you. I could cry when I think of your cross obstinacy.”
But even the thought of the sweet little bedroom didn’t move Maggie Howland. Tildy presently brought up a meagre supper, of which the mother and daughter partook almost in silence. Then Mrs. Howland went to her room, where she fell fast asleep, and Maggie had the drawing-room to herself. She had arranged a sort of extempore bed on the hard sofa, and was about to lie down, when Tildy opened the door.
“I say,” said Tildy, “ain’t he cunnin’?”
“What do you mean, Matilda?” said Maggie.
“Oh my,” said Tildy, “wot a ’arsh word! Does you know, missie, that he’s arsked me to go down to Clap’am presently to ’elp wait on your ma? If you’re there, miss, it’ll be the ’eight of ’appiness to me.”
“I may as well say at once, Matilda, that I shall not be there.”
“You don’t like ’im, then?” said Tildy, backing a step. “And ’e is so enticin’ – the prettiest ways ’e ’ave – at least, that’s wot me and Mrs. Ross thinks. We always listen on the stairs for ’im to greet your ma. We like ’im, that we do.”
“I have an old dress in my trunk, Tildy, which I will give you. You can manage to make it look quite nice for your new post as parlor-maid at Laburnum Villa. But now go, please; for I must be alone to think.”
Tildy went. She crept downstairs to the kitchen regions. There she met Mrs. Ross.
“The blessed young lady’s full of ructions,” said Tildy.
“And no wonder,” replied Mrs. Ross. “She’s a step above Martin, and Martin knows it.”
“I ’ope as she won’t refuse to jine us at Laburnum Villa,” said Tildy.
“There’s no sayin’ wot a spirited gel like that’ll do,” said Mrs. Ross; “but ef she do go down, Martin ’ll be a match for ’er.”
“I don’t know about that,” replied Tildy. “She ’ave a strong, determined w’y about ’er, has our Miss Maggie.”
If Mrs. Howland slept profoundly, poor Maggie could not close her eyes. She suddenly found herself surrounded by calamity. The comparatively small trials which she had thought big enough in connection with Aylmer House and Cicely and Merry Cardew completely disappeared before this great trouble which now faced her. Her mother’s income amounted to a hundred and fifty pounds a year, and out of that meagre sum the pair had contrived to live, and, owing to Mrs. Ward’s generosity, Maggie had been educated. But now that dreadful Mr. Martin had secured Mrs. Howland’s little property, and the only condition on which it could be spent on Maggie was that she should accept a home with her future stepfather. This nothing whatever would induce her to do. But what was to be done?
She had no compunction whatever in leaving her mother. They had never been really friends, for the girl took after her father, whom her mother had never even pretended to understand. Mrs. Howland, when she became Mrs. Martin, would be absolutely happy without Maggie, and Maggie knew well that she would be equally miserable with her. On the other hand, how was Maggie to live?
Suddenly it flashed across her mind that there was a way out, or at least a way of providing sufficient funds for the coming term at Aylmer House. Her mother had, after all, some sort of affection for her, and if Maggie made her request she was certain it would not be refused. She meant to get her mother to give her all that famous collection of jewels which her father had collected in different parts of the world. In especial, the bracelets flashed before her memory. These could be sold, and would produce a sum which might keep Maggie at Aylmer House, perhaps for a year – certainly for the approaching term.