The School Queens

“It is worth at least two hundred,” said the elder Mr. Pearce. “Where did you say she lived?”

“She is one of the young ladies at Aylmer House – Miss Howland.”

“What! from Mrs. Ward’s school?”

“Yes.”

“You had better give me that brooch, Alfred,” said his brother. “We’ll have to consider what is to be done. We can’t rob the young lady of it. We had best consult Mrs. Ward.”

“Oh, as to that,” said the younger Pearce, “that sounds almost as shabby as giving the schoolgirl too little money.”

“Well, lock it up for the present,” said the elder Pearce; “but I am an honest tradesman, and I can’t see even a schoolgirl robbed.”

“She was up to some little lark,” said the younger man, “and evidently did not know the value of the brooch. Why, I think she’d have taken a pound for it. But what she did know the value of was her precious time; she was very much annoyed at being kept waiting and at being asked for her address. It is plain she got out without leave; and although the brooch may belong to her – I am sure I hope it does – she has broken a rule, you mark my words. Those schoolgirls are always up to larks. Well, I’d never have thought it of one of Mrs. Ward’s girls.”

“It is a pity you didn’t consult me, Alfred,” said his brother. “The best thing to do now is to put the brooch carefully away. We’ll consider what is best to be done with it; but as to giving the young lady only five pounds for what we can sell any day at Christie’s for a couple of hundred, that is not to be thought of.”

CHAPTER XIX.

THE LETTER

Maggie got out and came back again without any apparent adventure. She had five pounds in her pocket, and thought herself rich beyond the dreams of avarice. What a delightful fairy-gift had been handed down to her by her dear dead father! She did not miss the brooch in the least, but she valued the small sum she had obtained for it exceedingly.

But while Maggie thought herself so secure, and while the pleasant jingle of the sovereigns as she touched them with her little hand comforted her inexpressibly, things quite against Maggie Howland’s supposed interests were transpiring in another part of the school.

It was a strange fact that on this special afternoon both the queens should be prostrated with headache. It is true that Queen Maggie’s headache was only a fiction, but poor Queen Aneta’s was real enough. She was lying down in her pretty bedroom, hoping that quiet might still the throbbing of her temples, when the door was very softly opened, and Merry Cardew brought in a letter and laid it by her side.

“May I bring you some tea upstairs, Aneta?” she said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Oh no, darling,” said Aneta. “I can’t eat or drink; but if I stay very still I shall be better by-and-by. Leave me now, dear; all I want is perfect quiet.”

“I am so sorry for you, Aneta,” said Merry.

“What are you doing downstairs?” said Aneta as the girl turned away.

“Well, Maggie has a headache too.”

“Oh!” said Aneta.

“So we are without our queens,” continued Merry; “but Maggie’s girls have taken possession of our sitting-room, and we are all in the schoolroom. We’re having great fun and are very happy, so don’t worry about us at all, Aneta.”

“I won’t,” said Aneta, closing her eyes, while a feeling of drowsy relief stole over her.

Her anxiety with regard to Maggie was really making her ill. Her sense of responsibility with reference to the Cardew girls seemed to oppress her usually calm spirit. She could not conceal the fact from herself that Merry loved Maggie, most passionately. The knowledge, therefore, that Maggie was not downstairs gave her such a sense of comfort that she dropped into a doze, and when she awoke a short time afterwards her headache was gone.

Yes, her headache had departed, but there lay by her pillow what is a great treasure to all schoolgirls – an unopened letter. She looked at the handwriting, and saw that it was from her aunt, Lady Lysle. Aneta was very fond of Lady Lysle; and, sitting up against her pillows, she tore open the letter and began to read. She was surprised to see that it was dated from Meredith Manor.

“My dear Aneta” – it ran – “I have been staying with the dear Cardews for the last week. We have been having a very pleasant time; although, of course, the house is vastly different without Cicely and Merry. But the dear Cardews are so sensible that they never would regret anything that was for the real benefit of their children.

“Your letter assuring me that the children were happy at school gave me great delight, and when I told the Cardews they were equally pleased. Altogether, this school-venture seems likely to turn out most satisfactory, and the dear children will be properly equipped for the brilliant life which lies before them.

“But now I have a curious piece of information for you. You told me about Miss Howland and her mother’s second marriage to one of the Martyns of The Meadows. Well, dear, we went there yesterday, and I happened incidentally to speak on the subject; and, whatever may be the position of Miss Howland’s stepfather, he certainly is no relation to our dear friends the Martyns. They have no uncles or cousins in England at all. All their people come from Australia, and they assured me that such a marriage as I have described has, in the first place, never reached their ears, and, in the next, is impossible, for they have no marriageable relations in the country. I mention this to show that your friend has made a mistake. At the same time, it is strange of her to say that her mother, has married into such a well-known and distinguished family. I can add no more now. – Yours, with love, and in haste,

    Lucia Lysle.”

Aneta thought over this letter for some time. Her face was very grave as she tried to put two and two together. She rose from her bed, dressed herself with her usual immaculate neatness, and came down to supper, which took place each evening at half-past seven.

All the girls were present, and each and all were in the best of good-humor. Maggie was radiant. Why not? She had performed a difficult task discreetly, and she had five lovely golden sovereigns in her drawer upstairs. She could put the required money into the bag for the school-treat, and she would have plenty over to buy chocolates and little things that she might require for herself. She did not in the least miss that one small brooch which her father had left her; but she thought with a feeling of intense satisfaction of her treasures. She need no longer be a penniless girl. She had but at rare intervals to visit Pearce the jeweler, and her pocket would be well lined. She had no romantic feeling with regard to those beautiful things which her father had collected on his travels. She had been so poor all her life that money to her represented power. She even thought of getting a couple of new dresses made by a fashionable dressmaker. She resolved to consult Lucy on the subject. She was never quite as well dressed as the other girls, although very plain clothes were the order of the hour at school.

Immediately after supper those girls who required to look over their lessons went into the schoolroom and spent a quiet time there; but the others, as a rule, joined Mrs. Ward in the drawing-room. There those who could play were requested to do so, and those who could sing did likewise. Mrs. Ward was very fond of needlework. She could do rare and wonderful embroideries, and knew some of the tapestry stitches which were in vogue hundreds of years ago. The girls who cared to be taught those things she was only too glad to instruct; but she never pressed any one into her working-party. This was always an hour of relaxation for those girls who had all their lessons ready for the following day.

Maggie, who was exceedingly clever and learned with the utmost ease, was generally a member of the drawing-room coterie. She wore a white dress on this evening, with a somewhat crude pink sash round her waist. She hated the crudity of the color, and it occurred to her that she could get some soft and becoming sashes out of part of the money which Pearce had given her for the brooch.

By-and-by she found herself near Aneta. Aneta was working a center-piece which she meant to present to Lady Lysle at Christmas. Maggie was no good whatever at needlework, and seldom joined the band of needlewomen. But Aneta now motioned the girl to come and sit by her side. Maggie did so. Aneta looked full in her face.

“Is your headache better, Maggie?” she asked.

Maggie had to reflect for a time, she had so absolutely forgotten that she had pretended to have a headache that afternoon! Then she said, with a slight flush and a suspicious narrowing of her eyes, “Oh yes; thank you, I am quite all right again.” Maggie had not heard of Aneta’s headache. She, therefore, did not ask about it.

“I pity people who have headaches,” said Aneta. “I suffer from them very badly myself. Nothing cures me but perfect rest. I was lying down all the afternoon. Merry came to see me, and told me that you were also prostrated with headache. I was sorry for you.”

“Oh, thank you so much!” said Maggie. “Mine is quite gone; is yours?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Aneta sat quiet and very still. When her face was in repose she never moved her body. There was an absolute sense of rest about her which was refreshing to those who really knew her well. But Maggie hated it. She wanted to leave her; she wanted to go and talk to Merry, who was playing a solitary game of patience in a distant part of the drawing-room; she wanted to do anything rather than remain by Aneta’s side.

Then Aneta looked up. “I had a letter this afternoon from my aunt, Lady Lysle.”

“Oh!” said Maggie. She could not quite understand why her heart beat so fast, but she had undoubtedly a premonition of some sort of trouble ahead.

“Aunt Lucia is staying with the Cardews,” continued Aneta.

“Is she?” said Maggie. “Oh, that sweet and beautiful place!” she continued.

“Yes,” said Aneta, “Meredith Manor will always be lovely. There is no season of the year when it is not, in my opinion, more charming than any other place I know.”

“Is your aunt going to stay there long?” asked Maggie, who felt that she need not say anything further with regard to the delights of Meredith Manor just now.

“I cannot tell you,” replied Aneta. “She mentioned something rather curious. It is connected with you.”

“With poor little me?” said Maggie.

“With you,” said Aneta. “You remember telling me that your stepfather is one of the Martyns of The Meadows?”

Maggie’s face grew crimson, then turned pale.

“Well,” said Aneta, bringing out her words with great calmness, “it turns out to be a mistake. Your stepfather is no relation whatever to our friends the Martyns. Aunt Lucia and Mrs. Cardew went to call on them the other day, and asked the question. You made a mistake in announcing your stepfather as being a connection of our friends.”