The School Queens

“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.”