And now, dear, I have something interesting to tell you. You remember the story about my friend, the planter in Ceylon, whose crop of cinchona died down so disastrously? I told it to you the night when you were so distressed about not being able to go home for the holidays. You said at the time that this disappointment was different to yours, because it had not affected my own personal happiness; but you were wrong, Mildred dear, for if that crop had been a success, instead of a failure, I should have been the planter’s wife long ago, and you would not have had “Mardie” at Milvern House! Years have passed since then, but now things look brighter, though there is no prospect of a second fortune, and I am going to live in Ceylon, Mildred, in the very bungalow of which we spoke together.
I am afraid you will not find me at school when you return after the holidays, for we are going to be married very soon; but Mr Lytton will be in England for six months to come, and that wonderful person, his future wife, will, I feel sure, pay many visits to Milvern House, to see the dear girls whose affection has been a comfort to her during the days of her loneliness. Are you very much surprised, Mildred? You must write and tell me what you think of my great news, and tell Bertha and Lois to write too. By the way, Mr Lytton brought a friend to call upon me the other day, a Mr Muir, who is a neighbour in Ceylon. He told me that he had met you at a picnic the other day, and intrusted me with a message which I was to give the next time I wrote: “Give Miss Mildred my love, and tell her that I am quite of her opinion.” What did he mean, dear? I am curious.
Mildred gave a loud shriek of excitement when she came to that thrilling word “wife”, the effect of which was to bring Bertha and Lois flying to peer over her shoulder. Together the three girls read the letter, together they gasped, and groaned, and exclaimed, together they burst into a chorus of lamentation when the end was reached.
“School without Mardie!”
“Lessons without Mardie!”
“Milvern House without Mardie! Oh, oh, oh! how shall we bear it?”
“I hate Mr Lytton!” cried Mildred vindictively, then repenting; “at least, I don’t exactly mean that. It is only natural that he should want Mardie if he can get her; but I call him selfish. What are we to do, I should like to know?”
“Perhaps he would think we were selfish to want to keep her to ourselves,” said Bertha pensively. “I am glad that Mardie is going to be happy, but I can’t imagine school without her. Who will welcome the new girls, and comfort them when they are homesick? Who will take us out on half-holidays, and read aloud in the evening? Who will nurse us when we are ill?”
“Who will have her room when she is gone? I can’t think how she can find it in her heart to leave that sweet little room!” cried Lois, in her turn. “But she must be anxious to go, I suppose, or she would not have promised to marry him.”
“I wouldn’t like to live in a country where you met snakes when you went out for afternoon strolls; but I think Indian people are nice,” declared Mildred. “That Mr Muir had such a nice, sunburnt face, and such kind, twinkling eyes! If Mardie’s husband is like that, I’ll forgive him for taking her away. But I’ll work like a slave, so as to be able to leave school as soon as possible. ‘Mrs Lytton!’ Gracious! We shall have to give her a present. I wish the wedding were not quite so soon, for I have only two and twopence in the world. Perhaps we could join together.”
“I think it would be a good thing if the whole school joined, and gave her something really handsome—a dressing-bag, for instance.”