A Friend from the Bush
Ulyth Stanton was a decided personality in the Lower Fifth. If not
exactly pretty, she was a dainty little damsel, and knew how to make the
best of herself. Her fair hair was glossy and waved in the most becoming
fashion, her clothes were well cut, her gloves and shoes immaculate. She
had an artistic temperament, and loved to be surrounded by pretty
things. She was rather a favourite at The Woodlands, for she had few
sharp angles and possessed a fair share of tact. If the girls laughed
sometimes at what they called her "high-falutin' notions" they
nevertheless respected her opinions and admired her more than they
always chose to admit. It was an accepted fact that Ulyth stuck to her
word and generally carried through anything that she once undertook. She
alone of six members of her form who had begun to correspond with girls
abroad, at the instigation of the magazine editor, had written
regularly, and had cultivated the overseas friendship with enthusiasm.
The element of romance about the affair had appealed to Ulyth. It was so
strange to receive letters from someone you had never seen. To be sure,
Rona had only given a somewhat bald account of her home and her doings,
but even this outline was so different from English life that Ulyth's
imagination filled the gaps, and pictured her unknown correspondent
among scenes of unrivalled interest and excitement. Ulyth had once seen
a most wonderful film entitled "Rose of the Wilderness", and though the
scenes depicted were supposed to be in the region of the Wild West, she
decided that they would equally well represent the backwoods of New
Zealand, and that the beautiful, dashing, daring heroine, so aptly
called "the Prairie Flower", was probably a speaking likeness of Rona
Mitchell. When she learnt that owing to her letters Rona's father had
determined to send his daughter to school at The Woodlands, her
excitement was immense. She had at once petitioned Miss Bowes to have
her as a room-mate, and was now awaiting her advent with the very
keenest anticipation.
There was a little uncertainty about the time of the new girl's arrival,
for it depended upon the punctuality of the ocean liner, a doubtful
matter if there were a storm; and the feeling that she might be expected
any hour between 9 a.m. and 4 p.m. made havoc of Ulyth's day. It was
impossible to attend to lessons when she was listening for the sound of
a taxi on the drive, and even the attractions of tennis could not decoy
her out of sight of the front door.
"I must be the very first to welcome her," she persisted. "Of course
it's not the same to all the rest of you--I understand that. She's to be
my special property, my Prairie Rose!"
"All serene! If you care to waste your time lounging about the steps you
can. We're not in such a frantic state to see your paragon," laughed the
girls as they ran down the garden to the courts. After all, the waiting
was in vain. Tea-time came without a sign of the new-comer. It was
unlikely that she would turn up now until the evening train, and Ulyth
resigned herself to the inevitable. But when the school was almost
half-way through its bread and butter and gooseberry jam, a sudden
commotion occurred in the hall. There was a noise such as nobody ever
remembered to have heard at The Woodlands before.
"Thank goodness gracious I've got meself here at last!" cried a loud
nasal voice. "Where'll I stick these things? Oh yes, there's heaps more
inside that automobile! Travelling's no joke, I can tell you; I'm tired
to death. Any tea about? I could drink the sea. My gracious, I've had a
time of it coming here!"
At the first word Miss Bowes had glided from the room, and the voice
died away as the door of her private study closed. Sounds suggestive of
the carrying upstairs of luggage followed, and a hinnying laugh echoed
once down the stairs. The girls looked at one another; there was a
shadow in Ulyth's eyes. She did not share in the general smile that
passed round the table, and she finished her tea in dead silence.
"Going to sample your new property?" whispered Mary Acton as the girls
pushed back their chairs.
"What's the formula for swearing an undying friendship?" giggled Addie
Knighton.
"Was it Rose of Sharon you called her?" twinkled Christine Crosswood.
"Or Lily of the Valley?"
Ulyth did not reply. She walked upstairs very slowly. The nasal twang of
that high-pitched voice in the hall had wiped the bloom off her
anticipation. The small double dormitory in which she slept was No. 3,
Room 5. The door was half-open, so she entered without knocking. Both
beds, the chairs, and most of the floor was strewn with an assortment of
miscellaneous articles. On the dressing-table was a tray with the
remains of tea. Over a large cabin trunk bent a girl of fourteen. She
straightened herself as she heard footsteps.
Alas! alas! for Ulyth's illusions. The enchanting vision of the prairie
flower faded, and Rona Mitchell stood before her in solid fact. Solid
was the word for it--no fascinating cinema heroine this, but an
ordinary, well-grown, decidedly plump damsel with brown elf locks, a
ruddy sunburnt complexion, and a freckled nose.
Where, oh, where, were the delicate features, the fairy-like figure, and
the long rich clustering curls of Rose of the Wilderness? Ulyth stood
for a moment gazing as one dazed; then, with an effort, she remembered
her manners and introduced herself.
"Proud to meet you at last," replied the new-comer heartily. "You and
I've had a friendship switched on for us ready-made, so to speak. I
liked your letters awfully. Glad they've put us in together."
"Did--did you have a nice journey?" stammered Ulyth.
It was a most conventional enquiry, but the only thing she could think
of to say.
"Beastly! It was rough or hot all the time, and we didn't get much fun
on board. Wasn't it a sell? Too disappointing for words! Mrs. Perkins,
the lady who had charge of me coming over, was just a Tartar. Nothing I
did seemed to suit her somehow. I bet she was glad to see the last of
me. Then I was sea-sick, and when we got into the hot zone--my, how bad
I was! My face was just skinned with sunburn, and the salt air made it
worse. I'd not go to sea again for pleasure, I can tell you. I say, I'll
be glad to get my things fixed up here."
"This is your bed and your side of the room," returned Ulyth hastily,
collecting some of the articles which had been flung anywhere, and
hanging them in Rona's wardrobe; "Miss Moseley makes us be very tidy.
She'll be coming round this evening to inspect."
Rona whistled.
"Guess she'll drop on me pretty often then! No one's ever called
neatness my strong point. Are those photos on the mantelpiece your home
folks? I'm going to look at them. What a lot of things you've got:
books, and albums, and goodness knows what! I'll enjoy turning them over
when I've time."
At half-past eight that night a few members of the Lower Fifth, putting
away books in their classroom, stopped to compare notes.
"Well, what do you think of your adorable one, Ulyth?" asked Stephanie
Radford, a little spitefully. "You're welcome to her company so far as
I'm concerned."
"Rose of the Wilderness, indeed!" mocked Merle Denham.
"Your prairie rose is nothing but a dandelion!" remarked Christine
Crosswood.
"I never heard anyone with such an awful laugh," said Lizzie Lonsdale.
"Don't!" implored Ulyth tragically. "I've had the shock of my life.
She's--oh, she's too terrible for words! Her voice makes me cringe. And
she pawed all my things. She snatched up my photos, and turned over my
books with sticky fingers; she even opened my drawers and peeped
inside."
"What cheek!"
"Oh, she hasn't the slightest idea of how to behave herself! She asked
me a whole string of the most impertinent questions: what I'd paid for
my clothes, and how long they'd have to last me. She's unbearable. Yes,
absolutely impossible. Ugh! and I've got to sleep in the same room with
her to-night."
"Poor martyr, it's hard luck," sympathized Lizzie. "Why did you write
and ask the Rainbow to put you together? It was rather buying a pig in a
poke, wasn't it?"
"I never dreamt she'd be like this. It sounded so romantic, you see,
living on a huge farm, and having two horses to ride. I shall go to Miss
Bowes, first thing to-morrow morning, and ask to have her moved out of
my room. I only wish there was time to do it this evening. Oh, why did I
ever write to her and make her want to come to this school?"
"Poor old Ulyth! You've certainly let yourself in for more than you
bargained for," laughed the girls, half sorry for her and half amused.
Next morning, after breakfast, the very instant that Miss Bowes was
installed in her study, a "rap-tap-tap" sounded on her door.
"Come in!" she called, and sighed as Ulyth entered, for she had a shrewd
suspicion of what she was about to hear.
"Please, Miss Bowes, I'm sorry to have to ask a favour, but may Rona be
changed into another dormitory?"
"Why, Ulyth, you wrote to me specially and asked if you might have her
for a room-mate!"
"Yes, I did; but I hadn't seen her then. I thought she'd be so
different."
"Isn't it a little too soon to judge? You haven't known her twenty-four
hours yet."
"I know as much of her as I ever want to. Oh, Miss Bowes, she's
dreadful! I'll never like her. I can't have her in my room--I simply
can't!"
There was a shake, suggestive of tears, in Ulyth's voice. Her eyes
looked heavy, as if she had not slept. Miss Bowes sighed again.
"Rona mayn't be exactly what you imagined, but you must remember in
what different circumstances she has been brought up. I think she has
many good qualities, and that she'll soon improve. Now let us look at
the matter from her point of view. You have been writing to her
constantly for two years. She has come here specially to be near you.
You are her only friend in a new and strange country where she is many
thousand miles away from her own home. You gave her a cordial invitation
to England, and now, because she does not happen to realize your quite
unfounded expectations, you want to back out of all your obligations to
her. I thought you were a girl, Ulyth, who kept her promises."
Ulyth fingered the corner of the tablecloth nervously for a moment, then
she burst out:
"I can't, Miss Bowes, I simply can't. If you knew how she grates upon
me! Oh, it's too much! I'd rather have a bear cub or a monkey for a
room-mate! Please, please don't make us stop together! If you won't move
her, move me! I'd sleep in an attic if I could have it to myself."
"You must stay where you are until the end of the week. You owe that to
Rona, at any rate. Afterwards I shall not force you, but leave it to
your own good feeling. I want you to think over what I have been saying.
You can come on Sunday morning and tell me your decision."
"I know what the answer will be," murmured Ulyth, as she went from the
room.
She was very angry with Miss Bowes, with Rona, and with herself for her
own folly.
"It's ridiculous to expect me to take up this savage," she argued. "And
too bad of Miss Bowes to make out that I'm breaking my word. Oh dear!
what am I to write home to Mother? How can I tell her? I believe I'll
just send her a picture post card, and only say Rona has come, and no
more. Miss Bowes has no right to coerce me. I'll make my own friends.
No, I've quite made up my mind she shan't cram Rona down my throat. To
have that awful girl eternally in my bedroom--I should die!"
After all her heroics it was a terrible come-down for poor Ulyth now the
actual had taken the place of the sentimental. Her class-mates could not
forbear teasing her a little. It was too bad of them; but then they had
resented her entire pre-appropriation of the new-comer, and, moreover,
had one or two old scores from last term to pay off. Ulyth began to
detest the very name of "the Prairie Flower". She wondered how she could
ever have been so silly.
"I ought to have been warned," she thought, trying to throw the blame on
to somebody else. "No one ever suggested she'd be like this. The editor
of the magazine really shouldn't have persuaded us to write. It's all
his fault in the beginning."
Though the rest of the girls were scarcely impressed with Rona's
personality, they were not utterly repelled.
"She's rather pretty," ventured Lizzie Lonsdale. "Her eyes are the
bluest I've ever seen."
"And her teeth are so white and even," added Beth Broadway. "She looks
jolly when she smiles."
"Perhaps she'll smarten up soon," suggested Addie Knighton. "That blue
dress suits her; it just matches her eyes."
To Ulyth's fastidious taste Rona's clothes looked hopelessly ill-cut and
colonial, especially as her room-mate put them on anyhow, and seemed to
have no regard at all for appearances. A girl who did not mind whether
she looked really trim, spruce and smart, must indeed have spent her
life in the backwoods.
"Didn't you even have a governess in New Zealand?" she ventured one day.
She did not encourage Rona to talk, but for once her curiosity overcame
her dislike of the high-pitched voice.
"Couldn't get one to stop up-country, where we were. Mrs. Barker, our
cowman's wife, looked after me ever since Mother died. She was the only
woman about the place. One of our farm helps taught me lessons. He was a
B.A. of Oxford, but down on his luck. Dad said I'd seem queer to English
girls. I don't know that I care."
Though Rona might not be possessed of the most delicate perceptions, she
nevertheless had common sense enough to realize that Ulyth did not
receive her with enthusiasm.
"I suppose you're disappointed in me?" she queried. "Dad said you would
be, but I laughed at him. Pity if our ready-made friendship turned out a
misfit! I think you're no end! Dad said I'd got to copy you; it'll take
me all my time, I expect. Things are so different here from home."
Was there a suspicion of a choke in the words?
Ulyth had a sudden pang of compunction. Unwelcome as her companion was
to her, she did not wish to be brutal.
"You mustn't get home-sick," she said hastily. "You'll shake down here
in time. Everyone finds things strange at school just at first. I did
myself."
"I guess you were never as much a fish out of water as me, though,"
returned Rona, and went whistling down the passage.
Ulyth tried to dismiss her from her thoughts. She did not intend to
worry over Rona more than she could possibly help. Fortunately they were
not together in class, for Rona's entrance-examination papers had not
reached the standard of the Lower Fifth, and she had been placed in IV
B.
Ulyth was interested in her school-work. She stood well with her
teachers, and was an acknowledged force in her form. She came from a
very refined and cultured home, where intellectual interests were
cultivated both by father and mother. Her temperament was naturally
artistic; she was an omnivorous reader, and could devour anything in the
shape of literature that came her way. The bookcase in her dormitory was
filled with beautiful volumes, mostly Christmas and birthday gifts. She
rejoiced in their soft leather bindings or fine illustrations with a
true book-lover's enthusiasm. It was her pride to keep them in daintiest
condition. Dog-ears or thumb-marks were in her opinion the depths of
degradation. Ulyth had ambitions also, ambitions which she would not
reveal to anybody. Some day she planned to write a book of her own. She
had not yet fixed on a subject, but she had decided just what the cover
was to be like, with her name on it in gilt letters. Perhaps she might
even illustrate it herself, for her love of art almost equalled her love
of literature; but that was still in the clouds, and must wait till she
had chosen her plot. In the interim she wrote verses and short stories
for the school magazine, and her essays for Miss Teddington were
generally returned marked "highly creditable".
This term Ulyth intended to study hard. It was a promotion to be in the
Upper School; she was beginning several new subjects, and her interest
in many things was aroused. It would be a delightful autumn as soon as
she had got rid of this dreadful problem, at present the one serious
obstacle to her comfort. But in the meantime it was only Friday, and
till at least the following Monday she would be obliged to endure her
uncongenial presence in her bedroom.