"He didn't mean it in that way, I a.s.sure 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 subst.i.tute 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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sionate 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 circ.u.mstance, 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 att.i.tude; "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.