Rona receives News
Ulyth and Lizzie Lonsdale were sitting cosily in the latter's bedroom.
It was Shrove Tuesday, and, with perhaps some idea of imitating the
Continental habit of keeping carnival, Miss Bowes for that one day
relaxed her rule prohibiting sweets, and allowed the school a special
indulgence. Needless to say, they availed themselves of it to the
fullest extent. Some had boxes of chocolate sent them from home; others
visited the village shop and purchased delicacies from the big bottles
displayed in the windows; while a favoured few managed to borrow pans
from the kitchen and perform some cookery with the aid of friends.
Lizzie had been concocting peppermint creams, and she now leant back
luxuriously in a basket-chair and handed the box to Ulyth. The two girls
were friends, and often met for a chat. Ulyth sometimes wished they
could be room-mates. Though Rona was immensely improved, she was still
not an entirely congenial companion. Her lack of education and early
training made it difficult for her to understand half the things Ulyth
wanted to talk about, and it was troublesome always to have to explain.
In an equal friendship there must be give and take, and to poor Rona
Ulyth was constantly giving her very best, and receiving nothing in
return. Lizzie, on the contrary, was inspiring. She played and painted
well, was fond of reading, and was ready to help to organize any forward
movement in the school. She and Ulyth pottered together over
photography, mounted specimens for the museum, tried new stitches in
embroidery, and worked at the same patterns in chip carving. The two
girls were at about the same level of attainment in most things, for if
Ulyth had greater originality, Lizzie was the more steady and plodding.
It was Ulyth's failing to take things up very hotly at first, and then
grow tired of them. She was apt to have half a dozen unfinished pieces
of fancywork on hand, and her locker in the carpentry-room held several
ambitious attempts that had never reached fruition.
Lizzie, as she munched her peppermint creams, turned over the pages of a
volume of Dryden's poems, and made an occasional note. Each form kept a
"Calendar of Quotations" hung up in its classroom, the daily extracts
for which were supplied by the girls in rotation. It was Lizzie's turn
to provide the gems for the following week, and she was hunting for
something suitable.
"I wish Miss Bowes had given me Shakespeare," she said. "I could have
got heaps of bits out of my birthday-book, just suitable for the month,
too. I don't know why she should have pitched on Dryden. No one's going
to be particularly cheered next week with my quotations. I've got:
"'MONDAY
"'When I consider life, 't is all a cheat;
Yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceit,
Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay;
To-morrow's falser than the former day.'
"'TUESDAY
"'All human things are subject to decay,
And when Fate summons, monarchs must obey.'"
"That's dismal, in all conscience!" put in Ulyth.
"'WEDNESDAY
"'Great wits are sure to madness near allied,
And thin partitions do their bounds divide.'
"That sounds quite as dismal, does it not? I wonder why Scott calls
Dryden 'glorious John'? I think he's rather a dismal poet. Listen to
this:
"'In dreams they fearful precipices tread,
Or, shipwrecked, labour to some distant shore,
Or in dark churches walk amongst the dead:
They wake with horror, and dare sleep no more.'
Shall I put it down for Thursday?"
"For goodness' sake don't! You'll give us all the creeps," laughed
Ulyth.
"Well, it won't be a champion week."
"I'll tell you what you might do. Draw some illustrations round the
mottoes. That would make them more interesting."
"Oh, I dare say! I haven't time to bother."
"Nonsense, you have! I'll do some of them for you. You needn't be
original. It doesn't take long to copy things."
"Will you do four, then, if I do three?"
"All serene. I'll begin this evening if you'll give me the cards."
Ulyth dashed off quite a pretty little pen-and-ink sketch in ten minutes
after tea, and put the cards by in her drawer, intending to finish them
during "handicraft hour" the next day; but she completely forgot all
about them, and never remembered their existence till Saturday, when she
came across them by accident, and was much dismayed at her discovery.
"I'll have to do them somehow, or Lizzie'll never forgive me," she
ruminated. "I must knock them off just as fast as I can. I could copy
those little figures from the _American Gems_; they're in outline, and
will be very easy. Oh, bother! It's cataloguing day, and one's not
supposed to use the library. What atrocious luck!"
Twice during the term the books of the school library were called in for
purposes of review by the librarian, and on those days nobody was
allowed to borrow any of the volumes. It was most unfortunate for Ulyth
that this special Saturday should be the one devoted by the monitresses
to the purpose. She had failed Lizzie so often before in their joint
projects that she did not wish to encounter fresh reproaches. Somehow
three illustrations had to be provided, and that within the space of
about half an hour. Ulyth was fairly clever at drawing, but she was not
capable of producing the pictures out of her head. She must obtain a
copy, and that quickly.
"Helen Cooper's librarian this month," she thought. "I wonder if she's
finished checking the catalogue yet? I saw her walking down the stream
five minutes ago with Mabel Hoyle. Why shouldn't I have the _American
Gems_ for half an hour? It wouldn't do any harm. It really is the merest
red tape that we mayn't use the books. I shall just take French leave
and borrow it."
Ulyth went at once to the library. Helen had evidently been at work
there, for the list lay open, with a sheet of paper near, recording the
condition of some of the copies. A glue-pot and some rolls of
transparent gummed edging showed that Helen had been busy mending
battered covers and torn pages. She probably meant to finish them after
tea. The book of American gems was in its usual place on the shelf. The
temptation was irresistible. Ulyth did not notice, as she was taking it
down, that someone with a smooth head of sleek fair hair was peeping
round the corner of the door, and that a pair of not too friendly blue
eyes were watching the deed. If flying footsteps whisked along the
corridor and out into the garden, she was blissfully unconscious of the
fact. She took the volume to her own form-room and settled herself at
her desk with her drawing materials, cardboard, pencil, india-rubber,
fine pen, and a bottle of Indian ink. The little figures were exactly
what she wanted, quite simple in outline, but most effective, and not at
all difficult. They would certainly improve Lizzie's calendar for the
week, and relieve the sombre character of the Dryden quotations. She
worked away very rapidly, sketching them lightly in pencil, intending to
finish them in ink afterwards. She grew quite interested, especially
when she reached the pen part. That little face with its laughing mouth
and aureole of hair was really very pretty; she had copied it without
having to use the india-rubber once.
"Ulyth Stanton, what are you doing with that book?" said a voice from
behind her desk.
Beside her stood Helen Cooper and Stephanie Radford, the former hugely
indignant, the latter with a non-committal expression. Ulyth started so
violently that the bottle of Indian ink overturned and spread itself out
in three streams.
"Oh Jemima!" shrieked Ulyth in consternation.
"Now you've done it!" exclaimed Helen angrily. "Ink all over the page.
What a disgraceful mess! For goodness' sake stop; you're making it
worse. Give it to me."
Ulyth, who was frantically mopping up the black streams with her pocket
handkerchief, surrendered the book to the outraged librarian. Nemesis
had indeed descended upon her guilty head.
"You knew perfectly well that you weren't allowed to take it to-day,"
scolded Helen. "You sneaked into the library and got it while I was
out."
"Someone else has been sneaking too," thought Ulyth, with a glance at
Stephanie's face. "I fancy I know who turned informer." Then aloud she
said: "I'm fearfully sorry. I'll buy a new copy of the book."
"I don't believe you can; it's one Mrs. Arnold gave to the school, and
is published in America. I'll try sponging it with salts of lemon, but
I'm afraid nothing will take out the stain. I thought better of you,
Ulyth Stanton. One doesn't expect such things from V B. You'll borrow no
more books till the end of the month. Do you understand?"
Ulyth responded with what meekness she could muster. She admitted that
the monitress had reason for wrath, and that she had really no excuse
worthy of urging in extenuation of her crime. It was hard to be debarred
the use of the library for more than a fortnight, but, Helen, she knew,
would enforce that discipline rigidly. The unfortunate motto-cards had
come in for the bulk of the ink, and were completely spoilt. Ulyth
carried the ruins to Lizzie's bedroom and pleaded _peccavi_.
"Well, I suppose it can't be helped. I've done my three cards with
pictures of flowers, and the rest of the calendar will have to be
plain," said Lizzie. "You were rather an idiot, Ulyth."
"I know. I'd have asked Helen for the book if she'd been anywhere near,
and I meant to tell her afterwards that I'd taken it."
"Didn't you explain that to her?"
"No. It didn't come well when she'd just caught me."
"You let her think the worst of you."
"It couldn't be helped. I'm sure Stephanie hunted her up and told her."
"Stephanie doesn't like you."
"No, because I champion Rona, and Stephanie can't bear her."
"There's nothing so much wrong with the poor old Cuckoo now; she's
wonderfully inoffensive."
"Yes, but she's not aristocratic. Stephie rubs that in to her
continually. She calls her 'a daughter of the people'."
"Stephanie Radford can be uncommonly snobbish sometimes."
Stephanie from the very first had resented Rona's presence at The
Woodlands, and since the practical joke which the latter had played upon
her she had disliked her heartily. She lost no opportunity of showing
her contempt, and of trying to make Rona seem of small account. She
revived an ancient tradition of the school which made it a breach of
etiquette for girls to go into other form-rooms than their own, thus
banishing Rona from V B, where she had often been brought in by Ulyth or
good-natured Addie to share the fun that went on. If obliged to take
Rona's hand in figure-dancing, she would only give the extreme tips of
her fingers, and if forced on any occasion to sit next to her, she would
draw away her skirts as if she feared contamination.
"The Woodlands isn't what it used to be," she would assure a select
circle of listeners. "When my eldest sister was here there were the
Courtenays and the Derringtons and the Vernons and quite a number of
girls of really good family. Miss Bowes would never have dreamt then of
taking a girl she knew nothing about; she was so particular whom she
received."
"The poor old Cuckoo has her points," volunteered Addie. "I'm afraid
most of us aren't 'county'!"
"All schools are more mixed than they used to be," admitted Stephanie
candidly; "but I'd draw the line at specimens straight from the
backwoods."
Few of the girls really liked Stephanie, nevertheless her opinions
carried weight. A school-mate who dresses well, talks continually of
highborn friends, and "gives herself airs" can nearly always command a
certain following among the more unthinking of her comrades, and such
girls as Beth Broadway, Alice and Merle Denham, and Mary Acton were
easily impressed by Stephanie's attitude of superiority, and ready to
follow her lead on a question of caste. It gave them a kind of reflected
credit to belong to Stephanie's circle, and they liked to pride
themselves upon their exclusiveness.
Though Rona was many thousand miles away from her home, she evidently
did not forget her New Zealand friends, and looked out anxiously for the
thin foreign letters which arrived from time to time. She never showed
them to anybody, and spoke little of old associations, but a word would
slip out here and there to reveal that she cared more than she would
give her schoolfellows to suppose. One afternoon, shortly before the New
Zealand mail was expected, Rona was working in her portion of the
garden, when Mary Acton brought her a message.
"Some visitors to see you. They're waiting in the practising-room,"
announced Mary.
"Visitors to see me!" exclaimed Rona, throwing down her rake. "Whoever
can they be?"
"I'm sure I don't know," replied Mary stolidly. "They asked for Miss
Mitchell, so I suppose that's you. There isn't anyone else in the school
named Mitchell."
"It must be me!"
Rona's eyes were wide with excitement. Visitors for herself! It was such
an utter surprise. For one moment a wild idea flashed across her mind.
Her face suddenly hardened.
"What are they like? Do you know them?" she gasped.
"Not from Adam, or rather Eve. They're just two very ordinary-looking
females."
Much agitated, Rona flew into the house to wash her hands, slip off her
gardening-apron, and change her shoes. When this very hasty toilet was
completed, she walked to the practising-room and entered nervously. Two
ladies were sitting near the piano, with their backs to the window. They
were not fashionably dressed, but perhaps they were cold, for both wore
their large coat collars turned up. Their felt hats had wide floppy
brims. One carried a guide to North Wales, and the other held an open
motor-map in her hand, as if she had been studying the route.
"Miss Mitchell? How d'you do?" said the taller of the two as Rona
entered. "I dare say you'll be surprised to see us, and you won't know
who we are. I'm Mrs. Grant, and this is my cousin, Miss Smith. We live
in New Zealand, and know some of your friends there. We're visiting
England at present, and as we found ourselves motoring through North
Wales, we thought we would call and see you."
"It's very good of you," faltered Rona. "Which friends of mine do you
know?"
"The Higsons. They sent you all kinds of messages."
"Oh! How are they? Do tell me about them!"
Rona's cheeks were flushed and her lips quivering.
"Pamela has grown, of course. Connie and Minnie have had measles. Billy
had a fall from his horse and sprained his ankle badly, but he's all
right again now."
"And Jake?"
"Spends most of his time with the Johnson girls."
"Who are they? I never heard of them."
"They came after you left."
"To which farm?"
"Oh, not very far away, I believe!"
"I wonder Pamela didn't tell me all that in her letter. Which farm can
it possibly be? Surely not Heathlands?"
"I believe that was the name."
"Then have the Marstons gone?"
"Yes, to the North Island."
"Oh! I'm very sorry. Why didn't they write to me? Did you hear any other
news, please?"
"Pamela told me something about your home."
A shadow crossed Rona's face.
"Is it--is it Mrs. Barker?" she asked nervously.
"Yes, it's about her."
"What has she been doing?"
"Getting married again."
"Oh! Oh! Who would have her?"
"Your father."
"No!" shrieked Rona, her eyes ablaze. "It can't be! That dreadful,
drinking woman! Oh, I can't--I won't believe it!"
"She's your stepmother now, whether you like it or not."
"Daddy! Daddy! It can't be! How could you? You knew she drank!"
"He's drinking himself--like a fish."
"No! My daddy?"
Rona, a moment ago furious, had turned white as a ghost. She put out a
trembling hand and clutched the piano blindly; then, with a pitiful,
broken cry, she fell, half-fainting, half-sobbing, on to the floor. At
that moment Ulyth, with her music-case, entered the room.
"What's the matter? Rona! Rona, dear! Are you ill? Who are
these--people?"
She might well ask, for the behaviour of the two strangers was most
unprecedented. They were leaning on each other's shoulders and roaring
with laughter. One of them suddenly threw up her hat, and turned down
her collar, revealing the familiar features of Stephanie Radford.
"Done you brown!" she exploded. "Paid you back in your own coin for your
precious Eau de Venus sell! I'm even with you now, Rona Mitchell! Come
along, Beth." And the pair disappeared, guffawing.
Rona picked herself up shakily, and subsided on to a chair, with her
face in her hands.
"It's not true then?" she quavered.
"What isn't true?"
"They told me Dad had married Mrs. Barker, and that he was--drinking!"
"Stephanie told you that?"
"Yes. Oh, I'm queer still!"
"Rona, darling, of course it's nothing but a black, wicked lie. Don't
cry so. There isn't a word of truth about it. They were only ragging
you. Oh, don't take it so hard! I'll settle with Stephanie for this."
Half an hour afterwards a very grim, determined Ulyth, supported by
Lizzie Lonsdale, sought out the masqueraders and spoke her mind.
"She ragged me, so why shouldn't I turn the tables on her? It's nothing
to make such a hullabaloo about!" yapped Stephanie.
"But it is. The trick she played on you was only fun after all. Yours
was the cruellest thing you could think of to hurt and wound her. You
may pride yourself on your family, Stephanie Radford, but I'm sure the
very commonest person would have had nicer feelings than to do this. I
can never think the same of you and Beth again."
"Oh, of course you take up the cudgels for your precious Cuckoo!"
snapped Stephanie. "Don't make such an absurd fuss. I shall do what I
like, without you setting yourself up to lecture me. So there! If you
don't like it, you may lump it."
"Not a very aristocratic form of expression for a scion of the Radfords
of Stoke Radford!" commented Lizzie, as she and Ulyth stalked away.