The School Queens Part 22

"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 nouris.h.i.+ng 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.

Merry had as little idea how far ten pounds would go toward the expenses of a visit to the seaside as she had of what real poverty meant. But it occurred to her as a delightful way of a.s.suring Maggie of her friends.h.i.+p to present Maggie with her quarter's pocket-money.

On their way home that evening, therefore, she was only too glad to find herself by her father's side.

"Well, little girl," he said, "so you're forsaking all your young companions and wish to sit close to the old dad?"

The old dad, it may be mentioned, was driving home in a mail-phaeton from the picnic, and Merry found herself perched high up beside him as he held the reins and guided a pair of thoroughbred horses.

"Well, what is it, little girl?" he said.

"I wonder, father, if you'd be most frightfully kind?"

"What!" he answered, just glancing at her; "that means that you are discontented again. What more can I do for you, Merry?"

"If I might only have my pocket-money to-night."

"You extravagant child! Your pocket-money! It isn't due for a week."

"But I do want it very specially. Will you advance it to me just this once, dad?"

"I am not to know why you want it?"

"No, dad darling, you are not to know."

Mr. Cardew considered for a minute.

"I hope you are not going to be a really extravagant woman, Merry," he said. "To tell the truth, I hate extravagance, although I equally hate stinginess. You will have no lack of money, child, but money is a great and wonderful gift and ought to be used to the best of best advantages. It ought never to be wasted, for there are so many people who haven't half enough, and those who are rich, my child, ought to help those who are not rich."

"Yes, darling father," said Merry; "and that is what I should so awfully like to do."

"Well, I think you have the root of the matter in you," said Mr.

Cardew, "and I, for one, am the last person to pry on my child. Does Cicely also want her money in advance?"

"Oh no, no! I want it for a very special reason."

"Very well, my little girl. Come to me in the study to-night before you go to bed, and you shall have your money."