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In trembling triumph, Andrew brought his new friend to see his darlings. He greatly hoped that Jack would not appear on the scene just now. While Maggie was up in her bedroom taking off, her hat, he had, with herculean strength, managed to move an old wooden door and put it in such a position that Jack’s hutch was completely hidden, while his hutch shone forth in all its glory, with those fascinating creatures Spot-ear, Angelus, Dove, and Clover looking through their prison-bars at the tempting meal that awaited them.

“Here they are! here they are!” said Andrew. “Beauties, all four; my own – my very own! Maggie, you may share one of them with me while you are here. He must live in his hutch, but he shall be yours and mine. Would you like Spot-ear? He is a character. He’s the finest old cove you ever came across in your life. Look at him now, pretending he doesn’t care anything at all for his lettuce, and he’s just dying for it. Clover is the greedy one. Clover would eat till he-burst if I let him. As to Angelus, she squeaks sometimes – you’ll hear her if you listen hard – that’s why I called her Angelus; and Dove – why, she’s a dear pet; but the character of all is Spot-ear. You’d like to share him with me, wouldn’t you, Maggie?”

“Yes, yes; he is so ugly; he is quite interesting,” said Maggie. She flung herself on the ground by the side of the hutch, and gazed in at the occupants as though her only aim in life was to worship rabbits.

“You take that leaf of lettuce and give it to Spot-ear your very own self,” said Peterkins. “He’ll love you ever after; he’s a most affectionate old fellow.”

Maggie proceeded to feed the rabbit. Peterkins hopped about in a state of excitement which he had seldom experienced before. Maggie asked innumerable questions. Belle seated herself on the fallen trunk of an old oak-tree and looked on in wonder.

Maggie was a curious girl. She seemed to have a power over every one. There was Andrew – such a shy little fellow as a rule – simply pouring out his heart to her.

Suddenly Belle rose. “It’s time for lunch,” she said, “and you must be hungry. Andrew, go straight to the house and wash your face and hands. No lady would sit down to lunch with such a dirty boy as you are.”

“Oh, I say, am I?” said Andrew. “Do you think so, Maggie?”

“You are a most disreputable-looking little scamp,” said Maggie.

“Then I won’t be – I won’t, most truly. I’ll run off at once and get clean, and I’ll get into my Sunday best if you wish it.”

“Dear me, no!” said Maggie; “I don’t wish it. But clean hands and face – well, they are essential to the ordinary British boy, if he’s a gentleman.”

“I am your gentleman – for evermore,” said Andrew.

“I think you are, Peterkins.”

“Then I’m off to clean up,” said the small boy.

“I say, Andrew,” cried his sister; “before you go take that door away from Jack’s hutch. He’ll be so furious at your keeping the light and air away from his rabbits.”

“Not I. I can’t be bothered,” said Peterkins.

“Please take it away at once,” said Maggie.

Andrew’s brow puckered into a frown.

“But you’ll see ’em, and he’s got five!” he said in a most distressed voice.

“Honor bright,” said Maggie, “I’ll turn my back and shut my eyes. Jackdaw shall show me his rabbits himself.”

Peterkins immediately removed the door, dragging it to its former place, where it leaned against a high wall. He then rushed up to Maggie.

“I’ve done it,” he said. “Promise you won’t like his bunnies.”

“Can’t,” said Maggie, “for I’ll love ’em.”

“Well, at least promise you won’t love him.”

“Can’t,” said Maggie again, “for I shall.”

“I’ll die of raging jealousy,” said Peterkins.

“No, you won’t, you silly boy. Get off to the house and make yourself tidy. Come along, Belle.”

“I say, Maggie,” said Belle, “you mustn’t set those two boys by the ears. They’re fond enough of each other.”

“Of course I’ll do nothing of the kind,” said Maggie. “That’s a charming little chap, and Spot-ear is my rabbit as well as his. Jackdaw shall share two of his rabbits with me. Oh, it is such fun turning people round your little finger!”

Just then Molly, rather red in the face, ran up.

“Oh, you darling, darling Maggie!” she said. “So you’ve come!”

“Come!” cried Maggie. “I feel as if I’d been here for ever.”

“I am delighted to see you,” said Molly.

She kissed her friend rapturously. Maggie presented a cool, firm, round cheek.

“Oh, how sweet you look, Mags!”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Molly; I’m not a bit sweet-looking.”

“To me,” said Molly with fervor, “You’re the loveliest girl in all the wide world.”

“I’m very ugly, and you know that perfectly well,” said Maggie; “but now don’t let’s talk of looks.”

“Whatever were you doing in this part of the garden?” inquired Molly.

“Oh, she was making love to Andrew,” remarked Belle. “She calls him Peterkins, and he allows it, and he has given her one-half of Spot-ear; and she means to make love to Jack, and he’s to give her a couple of his rabbits – I mean, to share them with her. She’s more extraordinary than ever, more altogether out of the common.”

“As if I didn’t know that,” said Molly. “It’s all right about this afternoon, Maggie. Oh, what do you think? We’re to stay to supper, and I have a special invitation for father and mother to come and join us then. Won’t it be fun! I do wonder, Maggie, if you will like the Cardew girls.”

“Probably not,” replied Maggie in a very calm voice; “but at least I can promise you one thing: they’ll both like me.”

“No doubt whatever on that point,” replied Belle with fervor.

They entered the house, and soon found themselves seated round the table. Mr. Tristram greeted Maggie with his usual gentle dignity. Molly delivered herself of her message from the Castle. Mr. and Mrs. Tristram said that they would be delighted to join the Cardews at supper.

The meal was proceeding cheerfully, and Maggie was entertaining her host and hostess by just those pleasant little pieces of information which an exceedingly well-bred girl can impart without apparently intending to do so, when a shy and very clean little figure glided into the room, a pair of bright-brown eyes looked fixedly at Maggie, and then glared defiance at Belle, who happened to be seated near that adorable young person.

Peterkins was making up his mind that in future that coveted seat should be his – for he and Maggie could talk in whispers during the meal about Spot-ear, Angelus, and the rest – when his father said, “Sit down, my boy; take your place at once. You are rather late.”

The boy slipped into his seat.

“I am glad to see you looking so tidy, Andrew,” said his mother approvingly.

Andrew looked across at Maggie. Maggie did not once glance at him. She was talking in her gentle, lady-like tone to the rector.

Presently another boy came in, bigger and broader than Andrew.

Andrew said in a raised voice, “Here’s Jack, and his hands aren’t a bit clean.”

“Hush!” said the rector.

Jack flushed and looked defiantly at Maggie.

Maggie raised her eyes and gave him a sweet glance. “Are you really Jack?” she said. “I am so glad to know you. I have been making friends with your brother Andrew, whom I call Peterkins. I want to call you Jackdaw. May I?”

Jack felt a great lump in his throat. His face was scarlet. He felt unable to speak, but he nodded.

“I have been looking at Peterkins’s rabbits,” continued Maggie. “I want to see yours after lunch.”

“They’re beauties!” burst from Jack. “They’re ever so many times better than Andrew’s. I’ve got a cream-colored Angora. His name is Fanciful, and I’ve got–”

“Hush, my boy, hush!” said the rector. “Not so much talking during meals. Well, Maggie, my dear – we must, of course, call you by your Christian name–”

“Of course, Mr. Tristram; I should indeed feel strange if you didn’t.”

“We are delighted to see you,” continued the rector, “and you must tell the girls all about your new school.”

“And you too, sir,” said Maggie, in her soft, rich voice. “Oh! you’ll be delighted – delighted; there never was such a woman as Mrs. Ward.”

“I took a very great liking to her,” said the rector. “I think my girls fortunate to be placed under her care. She has been good, very good and kind, to me and mine.”

“I wonder what he means by that,” thought Maggie; but she made no remark aloud.

CHAPTER III.
LADY LYSLE

At about a quarter to four that same afternoon three girls prepared to walk over to Meredith Manor. It was for such golden opportunities that Molly and Isabel kept their best frocks; it was for just such occasions that they arrayed themselves most neatly and becomingly. Their dress, it must be owned, was limited in quantity and also in quality; but on the present occasion, in their pretty white spotted muslins, with pale-blue sashes round their waists and white muslin hats to match, they looked as charming a young pair of English girls as could be found in the length and breadth of the land. It is true their feet were not nearly as perfectly shod as Maggie’s, nor were their gloves quite so immaculate; but then they were going to play tennis, and shoes and gloves did not greatly matter in the country. Maggie thought otherwise. Her tan tennis-shoes exactly toned with her neatly fitting brown holland dress. The little hat she wore on her head was made of brown straw trimmed very simply with ribbon; it was an ugly hat, but on Maggie’s head it seemed to complete her dress, to be a part of her, so that no one noticed in the least what she wore except that she looked all right.

Two boys with worshiping eyes watched the trio as they stepped down the rectory avenue and disappeared from view. Two boys fought a little afterward, but made it up again, and then lay on the grass side by side and discussed Maggie, pulling her to pieces in one sense, but adoring her all the same.

Meanwhile the girls themselves chatted as girls will when the heart is light and there is no care anywhere. It was very hot, even hotter than it had been in the morning; but when they reached the road shaded so beautifully by the elm-trees they found a delicious breeze which fanned their faces. Somehow, Maggie never seemed to suffer from weather at all. She was never too cold; she was never too hot; she was never ill; no one had ever heard her complain of ache or pain. She was always joyous, except when she was sympathizing with somebody else’s sorrow, and then her sympathy was detached – that is, it did not make her personally sad, although it affected and helped the person who was the recipient of it to a most remarkable extent. One of Maggie’s great attractions was her absolute health, her undiminished strength, the fact that she could endure almost any exertion without showing a trace of fatigue.

Molly and Isabel were also strong, hearty, well-made girls, and the excitement of this expedition caused them to chatter more volubly than usual. Maggie had a good deal to tell them with regard to the new school, and they had a great deal to tell her with regard to the Cardews.

Just as they were entering the avenue Maggie turned and faced her two companions. “May I say something?” she asked eagerly.

“Why, of course, Mags,” said Molly.

“Well, it’s this: from what you told me of your friends, they must be the most profoundly uninteresting girls.”

“Oh no, indeed they are not!” said Isabel stanchly. “Merry has a great deal in her, and Cicely is so nice-looking! We think she will be beautiful by-and-by; but Merry undoubtedly has the most character. Then there is something dignified and aristocratic about them, and yet they are not really proud, although they might be, for they are so rich, and Meredith Manor is such a wonderful old house.”

“Didn’t you tell me,” said Maggie, “that Meredith Manor belonged to Mrs. Cardew?”

“Did I?” said Isabel, coloring in some confusion. “I am sure I don’t know; I don’t remember saying it. I don’t think Mrs. Cardew is the sort of woman who would call anything hers apart from her husband. She is devoted to him, and no wonder, for he is quite charming. He is nearly as charming as father, and that’s saying a great deal.”

“Do let’s come on. We’ll be late!” said Molly impatiently.

“No, not quite yet, please,” said Maggie. “I want to understand the position. Mrs. Cardew was a Miss Meredith?”

“Yes, dear Maggie; but what does that matter?”

“And,” continued Maggie, “she was the heiress of Meredith Manor?”

“I suppose so. Father can tell you exactly.”

“Oh, I don’t want to question him, but I want to get my bearings. On the mother’s side, the Cardew girls belong to the country. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes, yes, yes. Do come on.”

“But their father,” continued Maggie, “he is in trade, isn’t he?”

“He’s a perfect gentleman,” said Isabel stoutly; “no one looks down on trade in these days.”

“Of course not. I adore trade myself,” said Maggie. She now proceeded to walk very slowly up the avenue. She was evidently thinking hard. After a time she said, “I mean to get those girls to come to school with you, Molly, and with you, Isabel, in September.”

Both the Tristrams burst into a peal of merry laughter. “Oh Mags!” they cried, “we never did think before that you were conceited. You certainly overrate even your powers when you imagine that you will get Mr. Cardew to change his mind.”

“What do you mean by his changing his mind?”

“Why, this,” said Belle. “He has set his face from the very first against his girls leaving home. He wishes them to have a home education, and that alone.”

“Oh, that is all right,” said Maggie cheerfully. “Well, what will you bet, girls, that I have my way?”

“We don’t want you to lose, Maggie; but you certainly will not get your way in this particular.”

“Well, now, I am going to be generous. I am not rich; but I have got two gold bracelets at home, and I will give one to each of you for your very own if I succeed in bringing Cicely and Merry Cardew to Mrs. Ward’s school.”

“Oh! oh!” exclaimed both the Tristram girls.

“You’ll get your bracelets,” said Maggie in a most confident tone, “and I can assure you they are beauties; my darling father brought them from India years and years ago. He brought a lot of jewels for mother and me, and I will get the bracelets for you – one each – if I succeed; but you must allow me to manage things my own way.”

“But you won’t do anything – anything – to upset the Cardews?” said Isabel.

“Upset them!” said Maggie. “Well, yes, I do mean to upset them. I mean to alter their lives; I mean to turn things topsyturvy for them; but I’ll manage it in such a fashion that neither you, nor Molly, nor your father, nor your mother, nor anyone will suspect how I have got my way, but get it I will. I thought I’d tell you, that’s all. You’d like to have them at school with you, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh yes, very much indeed,” said Molly.

“I am not so sure,” said Isabel. “It’s rather fun coming back to the rectory in the holidays and telling the Cardew girls all about what we do and how we spend our time. There’ll be nothing to tell them if we all go to the same school.”

“Well,” said Maggie, “I don’t agree with you. I expect, on the contrary, you’ll find a vast lot more to talk about. But come, let’s hurry now; I want to be introduced to them, for I have no time to lose.”

Neither Isabel nor Molly could quite make out why they felt a certain depression after Maggie Howland had explained her views. The thought of the possible possession of the bracelets did not greatly elate them. Besides, there was not the most remote chance of even such a fascinating young person as Maggie succeeding in her project. She would meet her match, if not in Mrs. Cardew, then in Mr. Cardew. There was no doubt whatever on that point. But they greatly wished she would not try. They did not want her to upset the placid existence of their young friends. The girls who lived at the Castle, the girls who pursued their sheltered, happy, refined life, were in a manner mysterious and remote to the young Tristrams, and they thought that they would not love them any more if they were brought into closer contact with them.

A turn in the avenue now brought the old manor-house into view. Some friends of Mrs. Cardew’s had arrived, but there were no other young people to be seen. Cicely and Merry were standing talking to a lady of middle age who had come to pay an afternoon call, when Cicely found herself changing color and glancing eagerly at Merry.

“Oh, will you excuse me?” she said in her pretty, refined voice. “Our special friends the Tristrams, the rector’s daughters, and a friend of theirs, a Miss Howland, are coming up the avenue.”

“Certainly, my dear,” said Lady Lysle; and Cicely and Merry were off down the avenue like arrows from the bow to meet their friends.

Lady Lysle watched the two girls, and then turned to speak to Mrs. Cardew.

“What name was that I heard Cicely say?” was her remark. “Of course I know the Tristrams, but who was the girl who was with them?”

“A special friend of theirs, a Miss Howland. She has been their school companion abroad. She is staying with them at the rectory. Why, what is the matter, Lady Lysle? Do you know anything about her?”

“I don’t know her,” said Lady Lysle, “but I know a little bit about her mother. I should not have supposed the Tristram girls and Miss Howland were in the same set.”

“Why, what is wrong?” said Mrs. Cardew, who was exceedingly particular as regarded the people whom her daughters knew.

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” said Lady Lysle. “I happen not particularly to like Mrs. Howland; but doubtless I am prejudiced.”

She turned to talk to a neighbor, and by this time the five girls had met. There was an eager interchange of greetings, and then Maggie found herself walking up the avenue by Merry’s side, while Cicely found a place between the two Tristram girls.

“I am so glad you’ve come!” said Merry in her gentle, polite voice.

“It is kind of you to ask me,” replied Maggie. “Do you know,” she added, turning and fixing her curious eyes on her companion’s face, “that I am one of those poor girls who have never seen a beautiful house like yours before.”

“I am so glad you like our house,” said Merry; “but you haven’t seen it yet.”

“I am looking at it now. So this is what I am accustomed to hear spoken of as one of the ‘Homes of England’?”

“It certainly is a home,” said Merry, “and an old one, too. Parts of the Manor have been centuries in existence, but some parts, of course, are comparatively new.”

“Will you take me all over it, Miss Cardew?” asked Maggie.

“Indeed, I shall be delighted; but you must come another day for that, for we want to make up some sets of tennis without any delay. We have all our afternoon planned out. There are three or four young people who may arrive any moment, so that we shall be able to make two good sets.”

“How wonderful it all is!” said Maggie, who kept on looking at the house with ever-increasing admiration, and did not seem particularly keen about tennis.

“Don’t you like tennis, Miss – Miss Howland?” said Merry.

“Oh yes,” replied Maggie after a pause; “but then I think,” she added, after yet another pause, “that I like every nice thing in all the world.”

“How delightful that must be!” said Merry, becoming more and more attracted by Maggie each moment. “And you know a lot, too, don’t you? For you have seen so much of the world.”

“I know very little,” replied Maggie; “and as to having seen the world, that is to come. I am quite young, you know – only just sixteen.”

“But Isabel and Molly told me that you knew more than any other girl of their acquaintance.”

Maggie gave a cheerful laugh, and said, “You mustn’t mind what they say, poor darlings! The fact is, they’re fond of me, and they magnify my knowledge; but in reality it doesn’t exist. Only, I must tell you, Miss Cardew, I mean to see everything, and to know everything. I mean to have a glorious future.”

The enthusiasm in the charming voice was also seen, to shine through those queer, narrow eyes. Merry felt her heart beat. “I am going to tell you something in return,” she said, speaking, for a wonder, without diffidence, for she was naturally very shy and retiring. “I wish with all my heart that I could live a glorious life such as you describe.”

“And surely you can?” said Maggie.

“No, I must be satisfied with a very quiet life. But we won’t talk of it now. I am really very happy. I should consider myself a most wicked, discontented girl were I anything else. And, please, may I take you to see mother?”

Merry brought up her new friend to introduce her to Mrs. Cardew, who for the first moment, remembering what Lady Lysle had said, was a trifle stiff to Maggie Howland, but two minutes afterward was chatting to her in a pleasant and very friendly manner. She even went the length of personally introducing Maggie to Lady Lysle, excusing herself for the act by saying that Lady Lysle knew her mother.

Maggie also succeeded in charming Lady Lysle, who said to Mrs. Cardew afterward, “I am glad you have introduced the girl to me. She is not in the least like her commonplace, affected mother. She seems a very good sort, and I like plain girls.”

“But is she plain?” said Mrs. Cardew in some astonishment. “Do you know, I never noticed it.”

Lady Lysle laughed. “You never noticed how remarkably plain that girl is, my dear friend?” she said.

“To be frank with you,” said Mrs. Cardew, “I didn’t think of her face at all. She has a pretty manner and a nice, sensible, agreeable way of talking. I do not think my girls can suffer injury from her.”

“They seem to like her, at any rate,” said Lady Lysle, looking significantly as she spoke at the distant part of the grounds, where Maggie, with Cicely at one side of her and Merry at the other, was talking eagerly. “Oh yes, she seems a nice child,” continued the great lady, “and it would be unfair to judge a girl because her mother is not to one’s taste.”

“But is there anything really objectionable in the mother?” asked Mrs. Cardew.

“Nothing whatsoever, except that she is pushing, vulgar, and shallow. I am under the impression that the Howlands are exceedingly poor. Of course they are not to be blamed for that, but how the mother can manage to send the girl to expensive schools puzzles me.”

“Ah, well,” said Mrs. Gardew in her gentle voice, “the child is evidently very different from her mother, and I must respect the mother for doing her best to get her girl well educated.”

“Your girls are not going to school, are they, Sylvia?” asked Lady Lysle.

“Mine? Of course not. Their father wouldn’t hear of it.”

“On the whole, I think he is right,” said Lady Lysle, “though there are advantages in schools. Now, that school at Kensington, Aylmer House, which my dear friend Mrs. Ward conducts with such skill and marvelous dexterity, is a place where any girl might receive advantages.”

“Is it possible,” said Mrs. Cardew, “that Mrs. Ward is your friend?”

“My very great friend, dear. I have known her all my life. Aylmer House is particularly select. My niece Aneta is at the school, and her mother is charmed with it.”

“But that is very strange,” said Mrs. Gardew after a pause. “You must talk to-night to our rector when he comes. Oh yes, of course you’ll stay to supper.”

“I cannot, I regret to say.”

“Well, then, if you won’t, there’s no use in pressing you. But I have something curious to say. The rector’s two little girls are going to Aylmer House in September, and that little Miss Howland whom I just introduced to you is also one of the girls under Mrs. Ward’s care.”

“Then she will do well,” said Lady Lysle alter a pause, during which her face looked very thoughtful.

“I wonder if she knows your niece,” said Mrs. Cardew.

Lady Lysle laughed. “I presume she does. The school only contains twenty boarders – never any more. I happen to know that there are two vacancies at the present moment. Really, if I were you, Sylvia, I would give your girls a couple of years there. It would do them a world of good, and they would acquire some slight knowledge of the world before they enter it.”

“Impossible! quite impossible!” said Mrs. Cardew; “their father would never consent.”