The School Queens Part 26

"I won't kiss you, Mr. Martin," said Maggie.

"Oh, come, come--shy, is she? Let me tell you, Popsy-wopsy, that every man wouldn't want to kiss you.--She is not a bit like you, my dear Victoria. Wherever did she get that queer little face? She is no beauty, and that I will say.--Now, your mother, Popsy, is a most elegant woman; any one can see that she is a born aristocrat; but I hate 'em, my dear--hate 'em! I am one of those who vote for the abolition of the House of Lords. Give me the Commons; no bloated Lords for me. Well, you're a bit took aback, ain't you? Your mother and me--we settled things up very tidy while you were sporting in the country. I like you all the better, my dear, for being plain. I don't want no beauties except my beloved Victoria. She's the woman for me.--Ain't you, my Little-sing? Eh dear! Eh dear! It's we three who'll have the fun.--I'll take you right into my heart, Popsy-wopsy, and snug and comfortable you'll find yourself there."

Poor Maggie! The overwhelming contrast between this scene and the scenes of yesterday! The awful fact that her mother was going to marry such a being as Mr. Martin overpowered her with such a sense of horror that for the time she felt quite dumb and stupid.

Mr. Martin, however, was in a radiant humor. "Now then, Little-sing,"

he said, addressing Mrs. Howland, "where's the tea! Poor Bo-peep wants his tea. He's hungry and he's thirsty, is Bo-peep. Little-sing will pour out Bo-peep's tea with her own pretty, elegant hands, and b.u.t.ter his m.u.f.fins for him, and Cross-patch in the corner can keep herself quiet."

"May I go into our bedroom, mother?" said Maggie at that juncture.

"No, miss, you may not," said Martin, suddenly rousing himself from a very comfortable position in the only easy-chair the room afforded. "I have something to say to you, and when I have said it you may do what you please."

"Stay quiet, dear Maggie, for the present," said Mrs. Howland.

The poor woman felt a queer sense of shame. Bo-peep and Little-sing had quite an agreeable time together when they were alone. She did not mind the boisterous attentions of her present swain; but with Maggie by there seemed to be a difference. Maggie made her ashamed of herself.

Maggie walked to the window, and, taking a low chair, sat down. Her heart was beating heavily. There was such a misery within her that she could scarcely contain herself. Could anything be done to rescue her mother from such a marriage? She was a very clever girl; but, clever as she was, she could see no way out.

Meanwhile Mr. Martin drank his tea with huge gulps, ate a quant.i.ty of m.u.f.fins, pooh-poohed the gooseberries as not worth his attention, and then said, "Now, Victoria, my dearest dear, I am ready to propound my scheme to your offspring.--Come forward, Popsy-wopsy, and listen to what new pa intends to do for you."

Maggie rose, feeling that her limbs were turned to ice. She crossed the room and stood before Mr. Martin.

"Well?" she said.

"None of those airs, Popsy."

"I want to know what you mean to do," said Maggie, struggling hard to keep her temper.

"Well, missie miss, poor Bo-peep means to marry your good ma, and he wants a nice 'ittle dirl to come and live with ma and pa at Clapham; pretty house, solid furniture, garden stocked with fruit-trees, a swing for good 'ittle dirl, a nice room for dear Popsy to sleep in, no more lessons, no more fuss, no more POVERTY! That's what new pa proposes to ma's 'ittle dirl. What does 'ittle dirl say?"

There was a dead silence in the room. Mrs. Howland looked with wild apprehension at her daughter. Mr. Martin had, however, still a jovial and smiling face.

"Down on its knees ought Popsy-wopsy to go," he said. "Tears might come in Popsy-wopsy's eyes, and the 'ittle dirl might say, 'Dearest pa that is to be, I love you with all my heart, and I am glad that you're going to marry ma and to take me from horrid school.'"

But there was no sign on the part of Maggie Howland of fulfilling these expectations on the part of the new pa. On the contrary, she stood upright, and then said in a low voice, "This has been a very great shock to me."

"Shock!" cried Martin. "What do you mean by that, miss?"

"I must speak," said Maggie. "You must let me, sir; and, mother, you must let me. It is for the last time. Quite the last time. I will never be here to offend you any more."

"'Pon my word!" said Martin, springing to his feet, and his red, good-humored face growing crimson. "There's grat.i.tude for you! There's manners for you!--Ma, how ever did you bring her up?"

"Let me speak," said Maggie. "I am sorry to hurt your feelings, sir.

You are engaged to my mother."

"Ra-_ther_!" said Mr. Martin. "My pretty birdling hopped, so to speak, into my arms. No difficulties with her; no drawing back on the part of Little-sing. She wanted her Bo-peep, and she--well, her Bo-peep wanted her."

"Yes, sir," said Maggie. "I am exceedingly sorry--bitterly sorry--that my mother is going to marry again; but as she cares for you"----

"Which I _do_!" said Mrs. Howland, who was now reduced to tears.

"I have nothing more to say," continued Maggie, "except that I hope she will be happy. But I, sir, am my father's daughter as well as my mother's, and I cannot for a single moment accept your offer. It is impossible. I must go on with my own education as best I can."

"Then you _re-fuse_," said Martin, "to join your mother and me?"

"Yes," said Maggie, "I refuse."

"Has she anything to live on, ma?" asked Mr. Martin.

"Oh, dear James," said Mrs. Howland, "don't take all the poor child says in earnest now! She'll be down on her knees to you to-morrow. I know she will. Leave her to me, James dear, and I'll manage her."

"You can manage most things, Little-sing," said Mr. Martin; "but I don't know that I want that insolent piece. She is very different from you. If she is to be about our pleasant, cheerful home snubbing me and putting on airs--why, I'll have none of it. Let her go, Victoria, I say--let her go if she wants to; but if she comes to me she must come in a cheerful spirit, and joke with me, and take my fun, and be as agreeable as you are yourself, Little-sing."

"Well, at least," said Mrs. Howland, "give us till to-morrow. The child is surprised; she will be different to-morrow."

"I hope so," said Mr. Martin; "but if there's any philandering, or falling back, or if there's any _on_-grat.i.tude, I'll have naught to do with her. I only take her to oblige you, Victoria."

"You had best leave us now, dear," said Mrs. Howland. "I will talk to Maggie, and let you know."

Mr. Martin sat quite still for a minute. Then he rose, took not the slightest notice of Maggie, but, motioning Mrs. Howland to follow him, performed a sort of cake-walk out of the room.

When he reached the door and had said good-bye, he opened it again and said, "Bo-peep!" pushing a little bit of his bald head in, and then withdrawing it, while Mrs. Howland pretended to admire his antics.

At last he was gone; but by this time Maggie had vanished into the bedroom. She had flung herself on her knees by the bed, and pushed her handkerchief against her mouth to stifle the sound of her sobs. Mrs.

Howland gently opened the door, looked at her daughter, and then shut it again. She felt thoroughly afraid of Maggie.

An hour or two later a pale, subdued-looking girl came out of the bedroom and sat down by her mother.

"Well," said Mrs. Howland, "he is very pleasant and cheerful, isn't he?"

"Mother, he is horrible!"

"Maggie, you have no right to say those things to me. I want a good husband to take care of me. I am very lonely, and no one appreciates me."

"Oh mother!" said poor Maggie--"my father!"

"He was a very good man," said Mrs. Howland restlessly; "but he was above me, somehow, and I never, never could reach up to his heights."

"And you really tell me, his child, that you prefer that person?"

"I think I shall be quite happy with him," said Mrs. Howland. "I really do. He is awfully kind, and his funny little ways amuse me."

"Oh mother!"

"You will be good about it, Maggie; won't you?" said Mrs. Howland.

"You won't destroy your poor mother's happiness? I have had such lonely years, and such a struggle to keep my head above water; and now that good man comes along and offers me a home and every comfort. I am not young, dear; I am five-and-forty; and there is nothing before me if I refuse Mr. Martin but an old age of great poverty and terrible loneliness. You won't stand in my way, Maggie?"

"I can't, mother; though it gives me agony to think of your marrying him."