DISCONTENT.
On that special afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Cardew happened to be alone.
The girls had gone down to the rectory. This was not Mrs. Cardew's At
Home day, and she therefore did not expect any visitors. She was a
little tired after her long drive to Warwick, and was glad when her
husband suggested that they should go out and have tea all alone
together under one of the wide-spreading elm-trees.
Mrs. Cardew said to herself that this was almost like the old, old
times of very long ago. She and her husband had enjoyed an almost
ideal married life. They had never quarreled; they had never even had
a small disagreement. They were blessed abundantly with this world's
good things, for when Sylvia Meredith of Meredith Manor had accepted
the hand of Cyril Cardew she had also given her heart to him.
He and she were one in all particulars. Their thoughts were almost
identical. She was by no means a weak-minded woman--she had plenty of
character and firmness; but she deferred to the wishes of her husband,
as a good wife should, and was glad! to feel that he was slightly her
master. Never, under any circumstances, did he make her feel the yoke.
Nevertheless, she obeyed him, and delighted in doing so.
The arrival of their little twin-daughters was the crown of their
bliss. They never regretted the fact that no son was born to them to
inherit the stately acres of Meredith Manor; they were the last sort
of people to grumble. Mrs. Cardew inherited the Meredith property in
her own right, and eventually it would be divided between her two
daughters.
Meanwhile the children themselves absorbed the most loving care of
their parents. Mr. Cardew was, as has already been said, a great
merchant-prince. He often went to London to attend to his business
affairs, but he spent most of his time in the exquisite country home.
It was quite true that discontent seemed far, very far away from so
lovely a spot as Meredith Manor. Nevertheless, Mr. Cardew had seen it
to-day on the face of his best-loved child, his little Merry. The
look had hurt him; and while he was having lunch with her, and joking
with her, and talking, in his usually bright and intelligent way, her
words, and still more the expression of her face and the longing look
in her sweet brown eyes, returned to him again and again.
He was, therefore, more thoughtful than usual as he sat by his wife's
side now under the elm-tree. He had a pile of newspapers and magazines
on the grass at his feet, and his favorite fox-terrier Jim lay close
to his master. Mrs. Cardew had her invariable knitting and a couple of
novels waiting to occupy her attention when Mr. Cardew took up one of
the newspapers. But for a time the pair were silent. Mrs. Cardew was
thinking of something which she wanted to say, and Mr. Cardew was
thinking of Merry. It was, as is invariably the case, the woman who
first broke the silence.
"Well, Cyril," said his wife, "to find ourselves seated here all
alone, without the children's voices to listen to reminds me of the
old times, the good times, the beautiful times when we were first
married."
"My dear," he answered, starting slightly as she spoke, "those were
certainly good and beautiful times, but surely not more good and
beautiful than now, when our two dear little girls are growing up and
giving us such great happiness."
"That is true. Please don't misunderstand me, love; but you come even
before the children."
He felt touched as she said this, and glancing at her, said to himself
that he was indeed in luck to have secured so priceless a woman as his
wife.
"We have had happy times together, Cyril," she said, returning his
glance.
"Yes, Sylvia," he answered, and once again he thought of Merry's
face.
"Nothing can alter that," she continued.
"Nothing, my love," he said.
Then he looked at her again, and saw that she was a little troubled
about something; and, as was his custom, he determined to take the
bull by the horns.
"You have something on your mind, Sylvia. What is it?"
"I have," she said at once; "and something of very great importance. I
have a sort of fear that to talk of it with you may possibly trouble
you a little. Shall we defer it, dear? The day is so peaceful, and we
are so happy."
"No, no," he replied at once. "We will take the opportunity of the
children being perfectly happy at the rectory to discuss the thing
that worries you. But what can it be?" he continued. "That is more
than I can imagine. I have never seen you worried before."
Again he thought of Merry, but it was impossible to connect his wife's
trouble with his child's discontent.
"Well, I will tell you just out, Cyril," said his wife. "I urge
nothing, but I feel bound to make a suggestion. I know your views with
regard to the girls."
"My views, dear! What do you mean?"
"With regard to their education, Cyril."
"Yes, yes, Sylvia; we have done our very best. Have you any reason to
find fault with Miss Beverley or with Vaughan or Bennett?"
"Unfortunately," said Mrs. Cardew, "Miss Beverley, who, you know, is
an admirable governess, and whom we can most thoroughly trust, wrote
to me yesterday morning saying that she was obliged to resign her post
as daily governess to our girls. She finds the distance from Warwick
too far; in fact, she has her physician's orders to take work nearer
home. She regrets it immensely, but feels that she has no
alternative."
"Provoking!" said Mr. Cardew; "but really, Sylvia, I wouldn't allow it
to upset me if I were you. Surely there are plenty of other Miss
Beverleys in the world; and"--again he thought of Merry--"we might
perhaps find some one a little less old-fashioned."
"I am afraid, dear, that is impossible, for you will not allow a
resident governess in the house."
"I will not," said Mr. Cardew with decision. "Such an arrangement
would break in on our family life. You know my views."
"Yes, dear; and I must say I approve of them."
"You must find some one else in Warwick who is not too tired to take
the train journey. Doubtless it would be quite easy," said Mr.
Cardew.
"I went to Warwick this morning in order to make inquiries," said Mrs.
Cardew in her gentle voice, "and I grieve to say there is no one who
can in the least take the post which dear Miss Beverley has so
worthily filled. But I have further bad news to give you. Mr. Bennett
is leaving Warwick for a better post in London, and we shall be at our
wits' end to get the girls good music-lessons for next term."
"How provoking! how annoying!" said Mr. Cardew, and his irritation was
plainly shown in his face. "It does seem hard," he said after a
moment's pause, "that we, with all our wealth, should be unable to
give our girls the thorough education they require."
"The fact is this, dear," said Mrs. Cardew, "and I must speak out
plainly even at the risk of displeasing you--Cicely and Merry are
exceedingly clever girls, but at the present moment they are very far
behind other girls of their age. Their knowledge of foreign languages
is most deficient. I have no doubt Miss Beverley has grounded them
well in English subjects; but as to accomplishments, they are not
getting the advantages their rank in life and their talent demand.
Dear Cyril, we ought to forget ourselves and our interests for the
children."
"What has put all this into your head?" said Mr. Cardew. "As, for
instance--" He paused. "It seemed impossible----"
"What, dear?" asked his wife very earnestly.
"Well, I may as well say it. Has Merry been talking to you?"
"Our little Merry!" said Mrs. Cardew in astonishment. "Of course not.
What in the world do you mean?"
"I will not explain just at present, dear. You have some idea in your
head, or you wouldn't speak to me as you do."
"Well, the fact is, when my cousin, Lucia Lysle, was here yesterday
she spoke very strongly to me on the subject of the girls' education,
and urged me to do what I knew you would never for a moment consent
to."
"And what is that?" asked Mr. Gardew. "I seem to be an awful bugbear
in this business."
"No, dear, no. I quite understand your scruples, and--and--respect
them. But Lucia naturally wanted us to seize the opportunity of two
vacancies at Aylmer House, Mrs. Ward's school."
"I shall soon begin to hate the name of Mrs. Ward," said Cardew with
some asperity.
"My cousin spoke most highly of the school," continued Mrs. Cardew.
"She said that two years there, or perhaps a little longer, would give
the girls that knowledge of life which will be all-essential to them
in the future."
"Home education is best; I know it is best," said Mr. Cardew. "I hate
girls' schools."
"I gave her to understand, dear, that those were your views; but I
have something else to tell you. You know how attached we both are to
the dear Tristrams."
"Of course, of course," said Mr. Cardew with impatience.
"Well, at supper yesterday evening Mr. Tristram began to talk to me on
the very same subject as my cousin, Lady Lysle, had spoken of earlier
in the day."
"Very interfering of Tristram," replied Mr. Cardew.
"He didn't mean it in that way, I assure you, my love; nothing could
be nicer than the way he spoke. I was telling him--for I had not
mentioned the fact to you, and it was troubling me a little--about
Miss Beverley and Mr. Bennett, and asking his advice, as I often do.
He immediately urged Aylmer House as the best possible substitute for
Miss Beverley and Mr. Bennett. I repeated almost the same words I had
used to Lucia Lysle--namely, that you were dead-set against girls'
schools."
"That was scarcely polite, my love, seeing that he sends his own
daughters to school."
"Well, yes," said Mrs. Cardew; "but of course their circumstances are
very different."
"I would be sorry if he should feel that difference, Sylvia. Tristram
is a most excellent fellow."
"He is--indeed he is!" said Mrs. Cardew. "Feeling for him, therefore,
as you do, dear, you may perhaps be more inclined to listen to an
alternative which he proposed to me."
"And what is that, my dear?"
"Well, he thinks we might occupy our house in London during the school
terms of each year----"
"During the school terms of each year!" echoed Mr. Cardew in a voice
of dismay. "But I hate living in London."
"Yes, dearest; but you see we must think of our girls. If you and I
took the children to town they could have governesses and masters--the
very best--and would thus be sufficiently educated to take their place
in society."
Mr. Cardew was quite silent for a full minute after his wife had made
this suggestion. To tell the truth, she had done a somewhat
extraordinary thing. Amongst this great lady's many rich possessions
was a splendid mansion in Grosvenor Street; but, as she hated what is
called London society, it had long been let to different tenants, for
nothing would induce the Cardews to leave their delightful home, with
its fresh air and country pursuits, for the dingy old house in town.
They knew that when the girls came out--a far-distant date as
yet--they would have to occupy the house in Grosvenor Street for the
season; but Mrs. Cardew's suggestion that they should go there almost
immediately for the sake of their daughters' education was more
annoying to her husband than he could possibly endure.
"I consider the rector very officious," he said. "Nothing would induce
me to live in town."
"I thought you would feel like that, dear. I was certain of it."
"You surely would not wish it yourself, Sylvia?"
"I should detest it beyond words," she replied.
"Besides, the house is occupied," said Mr. Cardew, catching at any
excuse not to carry out this abominable plan, as he termed it.
"Well, dear, at the present moment it is not. I had a letter a week
ago from our agent to ask if he should relet it for the winter and
next season, and I have not yet replied to him."
"Nonsense, nonsense, Sylvia! We cannot go to live there."
"I don't wish it, my love."
The pair sat quite silent after Mrs. Cardew had made this last
remark.
After a time her husband said, "We're really placed in a very cruel
dilemma; but doubtless there are schools and schools. Now, I feel that
the time has arrived when I ought to tell you about Merry."
"What about the dear child?" asked her mother. "Isn't she well?"
"Absolutely and perfectly well, but our dear little girl is consumed
by the fever of discontent."
"My dear, you must be mistaken."
"I am not. Listen, and I will tell you what has happened."
Mr. Cardew then related his brief interview with Merry, and Merry's
passionate desire to go to Aylmer House.
"And what did you say to her, love?" asked his wife.
"I told her it was impossible, of course."
"But it really isn't, dear, you know," said Mrs. Cardew in a low tone;
"and as you cannot make up your mind to live in London, those two
vacancies at Aylmer House seem providential."
At these words Mr. Cardew sprang to his feet. "Nothing will ever shake
my opinion with regard to school-life," he said.
"And yet the life in town----"
"That is impossible. Look me straight in the face, Sylvia. If by any
chance--don't, please, imagine that I'm giving way--but if, by any
possible chance, I were to yield, could you, my darling, live without
your girls?"
"With you--I could," she answered, and she held out her hand to him,
which he raised to his lips and kissed.
"Well, I am upset," he said. "If only Miss Beverley and Bennett were
not so silly, we should not be in this awkward fix. I'll go for a
ride, if you don't mind, Sylvia, and be back with you in an hour's
time."
During that ride Mr. Cardew felt as a strong man does when his most
cherished wishes are opposed, and when circumstance, with its
overpowering weight, bears down every objection. Beyond doubt the
girls must be educated. Beyond doubt the scheme of living in London
could not be entertained. Country life was essential. Meredith Manor
must not be deserted for the greater part of the year. He might visit
the girls whenever he went to London; but, after all, he was now more
or less a sleeping partner in his great firm. There was no necessity
for him to go to London more than four or five times a year. Oh!
school was hateful, but little Merry had longed for it. How
troublesome education was! Surely the girls knew enough.
He was riding home, his thoughts still in a most perturbed condition,
when he suddenly drew up just in front of a little figure who stood by
the roadside, attired as a gipsy, with a scarlet bandana handkerchief
twisted round her head, a short skirt reaching not quite to her ankles
made also of scarlet, and a little gay blue shawl across her
shoulders. She was carrying a tambourine in one hand and in the other
a great bunch of many-colored ribbons.
This little, unexpected figure was seen close to the rectory grounds,
and Mr. Cardew was so startled by it, and so also was his horse, that
he drew up abruptly and looked imperiously at the small suppliant for
his favor.
"If you please, sir," said Maggie Howland, speaking in her most
enticing voice, and knowing well that her dress magnified her charms,
"will you, kind sir, allow me to cross your hand with silver and let
me tell your fortune?"
Mr. Cardew now burst into a merry laugh.
"Why, Miss Howland," he said, "I beg your pardon; I did not recognize
you."
Maggie dropped a low curtsy. "I'm the gipsy girl Caranina, and I
should like to tell your fortune, kind and generous sir."
Just then the pretty face of Cicely was seen peeping over the rectory
grounds. She was dressed as a flower-girl, and looked more lovely than
he had ever seen her before.
"Why, dad, dad," she cried, "oh! you must come in and join our fun.
Mustn't he, Maggie?"
"I am Caranina, the gipsy girl," said Maggie, dropping another low
curtsy, and holding her little tambourine in the most beseeching
attitude; "and you are Flora, queen of the flowers."
"Well, really, this is entertaining," said Mr. Cardew. "What queer
little minxes you all are! And may I really come in and see the fun?"
"Indeed you may, dad," said the flower-girl. "Oh, and please we want
you to look at Merry. Merry's a fairy, with wings. We're going to have
what we call an evening revel presently, and we are all in our dress
for the occasion. But Maggie--I mean Caranina--is telling our
fortunes--that is, until the real fun begins."
"Do please come in, Mr. Cardew. This is the height of good luck," said
Mrs. Tristram, coming forward herself at this moment. "Won't you join
my husband and me under the shadow of the tent yonder? The young
people are having such a good time."
"I will come for a minute or two," said Cardew, dismounting as he
spoke. "Can some one hold Hector for me?"
David was quickly summoned, and Mr. Cardew walked across the hay-field
to where the hastily improvised tent was placed.
"No one can enter here who doesn't submit to the will of the gipsy,"
remarked Caranina in her clear and beautiful voice. "This is my tent,
and I tell the fortunes of all those kind ladies and gentlemen who
will permit me to do so."
"Then you shall tell mine, with pleasure, little maid," said Mr.
Cardew, who felt wonderfully cheered and entertained at this _al
fresco_ amusement.
Quick as thought Maggie had been presented with a silver coin. With
this she crossed the good gentleman's palm, and murmured a few words
with regard to his future. There was nothing whatever remarkable in
her utterance, for Maggie knew nothing of palmistry, and was only a
very pretense gipsy fortune-teller. But she was quick--quicker than
most--in reading character; and as she glanced now into Mr. Cardew's
face an inspiration seized her.
"He is troubled about something," thought the girl. "It's the thin end
of the wedge; I'll push it in a little farther."
Her voice dropped to a low tone. "I see in your hand, kind sir," she
said, "all happiness, long life, and prosperity; but I also see a
little cross, just here--" she pointed with her pretty finger--"and it
means self-sacrifice for the sake of a great and lasting good. Kind
sir, I have nothing more to add."
Mr. Cardew left the tent and sat down beside the rector and his wife.
Maggie's words were really unimportant. As one after the other the
merry group of actors went to have their fortunes told he paid no
attention whatever to them. Gipsy fortune-tellers always mixed a
little sorrow with their joyful tidings. It was a bewitching little
gipsy after all. He could not quite make out her undefined charm, but
he was interested in her; and after a time, when the fortune-telling
had come to an end and Maggie was about to change her dress for what
they called the evening revels, he crossed the field and stood near
her.
"So you, Miss Howland, have been telling my daughter Merry a good many
things with regard to your new school?"
She raised her queer, bright eyes, and looked him full in the face. "I
have told Merry a few things," she said; "but, most of all, I have
assured her that Aylmer House is the happiest place in the world."
"Happier than home? Should you say it was happier than home, Miss
Howland?"
"Happier than my home," said Maggie with a little sigh, very gentle
and almost imperceptible, in her voice. "Oh, I love it!" she continued
with enthusiasm; "for it helps--I mean, the life there helps--to make
one good."
Mr. Cardew said nothing more. After a time he bade his friends good-by
and returned to Meredith Manor. In course of time the little
pony-carriage was sent down to the rectory for the Cardew girls, who
went back greatly elated.
How delightful their evening had been, and what a marvelous girl
Maggie Howland was.'
"Why, she even manages to subdue and to rule those really tiresome
boys," said Cicely.
"Yes," remarked Merry, "she is like no one else."
"You have quite fallen in love with her, haven't you, Merry?"
"Well, perhaps I have a little bit," said Merry. She looked
thoughtful. She longed to say to Cicely, "How I wish beyond all things
on earth that I were going to the same school!" But a certain fidelity
to her father kept her silent.
She was startled, therefore, when Cicely herself, who was always
supposed to be much calmer than Merry, and less vehement in her
desires, clasped her sister's hand and said with emphasis, "I don't
know, after all, if it is good for us to see too much of Maggie
Howland."
"Why, Cissie? What do you mean?"
"I mean this," said Cicely: "she makes me--yes, I will say
it--discontented."
"And me too," said Merry, uttering the words with an emphasis which
astonished herself.
"We have talked of school over and over again," said Cicely, "with
Molly and Belle; but notwithstanding their glowing accounts we have
been quite satisfied with Miss Beverley, and dear, gray-haired Mr.
Bennett, and Mr. Vaughan; but now I for one, don't feel satisfied any
longer." "Nor do I," said Merry.
"Oh Merry!"
"It is true," said Merry. "I want to go to Aylmer House."
"And I am almost mad to go there," said Cicely.
"I'll tell you something, Cissie. I spoke to father about it to-day."
"Merry! you didn't dare?"
"Well, I just did. I couldn't help myself. It is hateful to be
under-educated, and you know we shall never be like other girls if we
don't see something of the world."
"He didn't by any chance agree with you?" said Cicely.
"Not a bit of it," said Merry. "We must bear with our present life,
only perhaps we oughtn't to see too much of Maggie Howland."
"Well," said Cicely, "I've something to tell you, Merry."
"What's that?"
"You don't know just at present why mother and I went to Warwick this
morning?"
"No," said Merry, who was rather uninterested. "I had a very good time
with Maggie, and didn't miss you too dreadfully."
"Well, you will be interested to know why we did go, all the same,"
said Cicely. "It's because Miss Beverley is knocked up and can't teach
us any more, and Mr. Bennett is going to London. Mother can't hear of
anyone to take Miss Beverley's place, or of any music-teacher equal to
Mr. Bennett; so, somehow or other, I feel that there are changes in
the air. Oh Merry, Merry! suppose----"
"There's no use in it," said Merry. "Father will never change. We'll
get some other dreadfully dull daily governess, and some other
fearfully depressing music-master, and we'll never be like Molly and
Belle and Maggie and our cousin Aneta. It does seem hard."
"We must try not to be discontented," said Cicely.
"Then we had best not ask Maggie here too often," replied Merry.
"Oh, but they're all coming up to-morrow morning, for I have asked
them," said Cicely.
"Dear, dear!" replied Merry.
"We may as well have what fun we can," remarked Cicely, "for you know
we shall be going to the seaside in ten days."