The School Queens

“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.