“I am sure I haven’t; and I’m too young to begin singing-lessons.”
“Not a bit of it. That’s quite an exploded idea. If, for instance–Oh, of course I know you won’t be there; but if you were so lucky as to be a pupil at Mrs. Ward’s you would be taught to sing, and, what is more valuable, you would hear good, wonderful, beautiful singing, and wonderful, beautiful music of all sorts. Once a week we all go to a concert at Queen’s Hall. Have you ever been there?”
“No! I don’t know London at all.”
“Well, then, another day in the week,” continued Maggie, “we go to the different museums and picture-galleries, and we get accustomed to good art, and we are taught to discern good from bad. We learn architecture at St. Paul’s and the Abbey and some of the other churches. You see, Mrs. Ward’s idea is to teach us everything first-hand, and during the summer term she takes us on long expeditions up the river to Kew and Hampton Court and all those dear old places. Then, in addition, she has what she calls reunions in the evenings. We all wear evening-dress, and she invites two or three friends, and we sing and play among ourselves, and we are taught the little observances essential to good society; and, besides all the things that Mrs. Ward does, we have our own private club and our own debating society, and – oh, it is a full life! – and it teaches one, it helps one.”
Merry’s soft brown eyes were very bright, and her cheeks had a carnation glow on them, and her pretty red lips were slightly parted. “You do all these things at school – at school?” she said.
“Why, of course; and many, many more things that you can’t even imagine, for it’s the whole influence of the place that is so delightful. Then you make friends – great friends – and you get to understand character, and you get to understand the value of real discipline, and you are taught also that you are not meant to live a worldly and selfish life, for Mrs. Ward is very philanthropic. Each girl in her school has to help a poor girl in East London, and the poor girl becomes in a sort of manner her property. I have got a dear little lame girl. Her name is Susie Style. I am allowed to see her once or twice a year, and I write her a letter every week, and she writes back to me, and I collect enough money to keep her in a cripples’ home. I haven’t enough of my own, for I am perhaps the poorest girl in the school; but that makes no difference, for Mrs. Ward doesn’t allow the word money or rank to be spoken of – she lives above all that. She says that money is a great talent, and that people who are merely purse-proud are detestable. Oh, but I’ve told you enough, haven’t I?”
“Yes, oh yes!” said Merry. “Thanks very, very much. And so Aneta is there; and as Molly and Isabel will be there, they will tell me more at Christmas. Perhaps we ought to go down now to meet father in the manuscript-room.”
Maggie rose with alacrity. She followed her companion quite cheerfully. She felt assured within herself that the thin end of the wedge had been well inserted by now.
Mr. Cardew was exceedingly courteous and pleasant, and Maggie charmed him by her intelligence and her marvellous gift of assimilating knowledge. Not a word was said with regard to the London school, and at ten minutes to one Maggie bade good-bye to Mr. Cardew and Merry, and went back to the rectory in considerable spirits.
Molly and Isabel were all impatience for her return.
“Well, what did you do?” said Molly. “Who was there to meet you?”
“Only Merry. Cicely had gone with Mrs. Cardew to Warwick.”
“Oh, well, Merry is the jollier of the two, although they are both perfectly sweet,” said Molly. “And did she show you all the house, Maggie?”
“No,” said Maggie; “I really couldn’t take it all in; but she took me round the armory and into the old tower, and then we went into the picture-gallery.”
“Oh, she took you into the picture-gallery! There are Romneys and Gainsboroughs and Sir Joshua Reynoldses, and all sorts of magnificent treasures there.”
“Doubtless,” said Maggie. “But when I tell you what we did you will laugh.”
“What did you do? Do tell us, Mags.”
“We sat in easy-chairs. I faced the portrait of a very beautiful lady after whom Cicely Cardew is called.”
“Of course I know her well – I mean her picture,” said Isabel. “That is a Gainsborough. Didn’t you admire it?”
“Yes; but I want to look at it again; I’m going to do the gallery another day, and on that occasion I think I shall ask Cicely to accompany me.”
“Why, what do you mean? Don’t you like our sweet little Merry?”
“Like her? I quite love her,” said Maggie; “but the fact is, girls, I did my duty by her this morning, and now I want to do my duty by Cicely.”
“Oh Mags, you are so mysterious!” said Molly; “but come upstairs and take off your hat, for the gong will sound for lunch in a moment.”
Maggie went upstairs, Molly and Isabel following her. “Come into my room, girls,” she said. Then she added, dropping her voice, “I think those bracelets are pretty secure.”
Molly colored. Isabel looked down.
“You will never succeed,” said Molly.
Then Isabel said, “Even if you do, I don’t think we ought, perhaps, to – to take them, for it would seem as though they were a sort of – sort of – bribe.”
“Oh, you old goose!” said Maggie, kissing her. “How could they be a bribe when I don’t ask you to do anything at all? But now, listen. We were tired when we got to the gallery; therefore that sweet little Merry of yours ordered fruit and milk and cake, and we ate and talked.”
“What did you talk about?”
“School, dear.”
“What was the good of your talking about school to Merry when she can’t go?”
“Can’t go?” said Maggie. “Why, she is going; only, it was my bounden duty to make her want to go. Well, I succeeded in doing that this morning. There’s the gong, and, notwithstanding my lunch, I am quite hungry.”
“Well, Andrew and Jack are perfectly mad to see you; you’ll have to devote a bit of your time to them. Dear me, Mags!” said Molly, “it must be tiresome to be a sort of universal favorite, as you are.”
“Tiresome!” said Maggie, glancing round with her queer, expressive eyes, “when I love it like anything? Let’s get up a sort of play between ourselves this afternoon, and let the boys join in; and, oh! couldn’t we – don’t you think we might – get your two friends Cicely and Merry to join us, just for an impromptu thing that we could act beautifully in the hay-field? Wouldn’t their father consent?”
“Why, of course he would. I’ll run round the minute lunch is over and get them,” said Isabel. “You are a girl for planning things, Mags! It’ll be quite glorious.”
“We might have tea in the hay-field too,” continued Maggie. “I am sure Peterkins and Jackdaw will help us.”
“Capital! capital! and we’ll get David” – David was the gardener’s boy – “to pick lots of fruit for the occasion.”
CHAPTER VI.
FORBIDDEN FRUIT
Meanwhile a little girl stood all alone on one of the terrace walks at Meredith Manor. Mrs. Cardew and Cicely would not arrive until rather late for lunch, and Merry and her father were to partake of it alone. Merry paced up and down very slowly. What a lovely day it was, and how beautiful the place looked with its long lines of stately trees, and its background of woods, and its terraces of bright flowers and green, green grass!
As far as the eye could reach the land belonged to the Cardews, and yet Merry Cardew, the joint-heiress