The School Queens Part 20

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 circ.u.mstances; 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 pet.i.tion 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.