A Surprise
The storm-clouds that had gathered round the mystery of the lost pendant
seemed to clear the air, and sunshine once more reigned at The
Woodlands. The juniors were on their very best behaviour; they indulged
in no more surreptitious expeditions and abandoned their truculent
attitude towards the elder girls, who, while careful to preserve their
dignity as seniors, were ready to wipe off old scores and start afresh.
Some manoeuvres in connection with the Camp-fire League proved a bond
of union, for here there was no distinction between Upper and Lower
School, since all were novices to the new work and had to learn alike.
None, indeed, had any time at present to get into mischief. As the end
of the term, with its prospects of examinations, drew near, even the
most hardened shirkers were obliged to put their shoulders to the wheel,
and show a certain amount of intimacy with their textbooks. A nodding
acquaintance with French verbs or the rules of Latin Grammar might
suffice to shuffle through the ordinary lessons in form, but would be a
poor crutch when confronted with a pile of foolscap paper and a set of
questions, and likely to lead to disparaging items in their reports.
In every department, therefore, there was a flood-tide of effort.
Nature-study diaries, roughly kept, were neatly copied; lists of birds
and flowers were revised; the geological specimens in the museum were
rearranged and labelled, the art treasures in the studio touched up,
while pianos seemed sounding from morning to night. The school was on
its mettle to appear at high-water mark. Miss Bowes had lately
instituted an Old Girls' Union for The Woodlands, the first gathering of
which was to be held in conjunction with the breaking-up festivity.
Quite a number of past pupils had accepted the invitation, and people of
influence in the neighbourhood were also expected to be present.
"You must show the 'old girls' what you can do," said Miss Bowes, who
was naturally anxious to make a good impression on the visitors. "I want
them to think the standard raised, not lowered. Some of our ways will be
new to them, and we must prove that the changes have been for the
better."
It certainly seemed a goal to work for. Even the most irresponsible
junior would feel humiliated if the "old girls" were to consider that
the school had gone down, and all took a just pride in keeping up its
reputation.
"Noëlle Derrington and Phyllis Courtenay have accepted"--it was
Stephanie who volunteered the information. "They have both been
presented. And Irene Vernon has promised to come. She's been out two
years now. I do hope those wretched kids in IV B will behave themselves.
Manners have gone off at The Woodlands in my opinion, even if the
work's better. When my sister was a junior, she says, they would as soon
have thought of ragging the mistresses as of cheeking the seniors."
"O tempora! O mores!" laughed Addie. "When you're an old lady, Stephie,
you'll spend all your time lamenting the good old days of your youth,
and telling the children just how much better-behaved girls used to be
when you were at school."
"I shan't say so of our juniors, at any rate," snorted Stephanie.
"Have you heard yet who's coming from the neighbourhood?" Beth enquired.
"Mr. and Mrs. Arnold, of course, and Colonel and Mrs. Hepworth, and the
Mowbrays, and the Langtons."
"Lord and Lady Glyncraig have accepted; Miss Harding told me so just
now," remarked Christine.
"Oh, what luck!" Stephanie's eyes sparkled. "It will just give the
finishing touch to the affair."
"Did you say that Lord and Lady Glyncraig are coming to our breaking-up
party?" asked Rona quickly. She had joined the group in company with
Winnie and Hattie.
"So I understand; but you needn't excite yourself. It isn't likely
they'll notice juniors, though they'll probably speak to a few seniors
whom they already know."
"Including Miss Stephanie Radford, of course," scoffed Winnie. "We
shall expect to see you walking arm in arm with them round the grounds."
"And hear them giving you a most pressing invitation to Plas Cafn,"
Hattie added. "You don't get asked there as often as one would suppose,
considering you're so intimate with them."
"The cheek of juniors grows beyond all bounds!" declared Stephanie,
stalking away. "I'm afraid I know what Irene Vernon will think of the
school."
It was of course impossible for all the parents of the girls to come to
the "At Home", but a certain proportion had promised to be present.
There was a good hotel at Llangarmon, and they could put up there, and
drive over for the occasion. The neighbourhood was so beautiful that
several would take the opportunity of spending a few days in
sightseeing.
"I've news to tell you," said Ulyth to Rona one morning, her face
radiant as she showed a letter. "Who do you think are coming to the
party? Motherkins and Oswald! Ossie'll just be home in time, so they're
jaunting off to Elwyn Bay like a pair of honeymooners. Motherkins hasn't
been very well, and Dad says the sea air will do her good--he can't
leave business himself, more's the pity! Won't it be glorious to see
them here! I could stand on my head, I'm so glad."
The prospect of meeting any members of the Stanton family again was a
great pleasure to Rona, who treasured the memory of the Christmas
holidays as her happiest experience in England. Mrs. Fowler was also to
be present, so she would see the friend who had been kind to her at
Eastertide as well.
"I'm glad my mother's coming," said Winnie. "When most of the other
girls have somebody, its so horrid to be left out. Poor old Rona! I wish
you'd got some relations of your own who could be here. It's hard luck!"
A shade crossed Rona's face. She hesitated, as if about to speak, then,
apparently changing her mind, kept silence.
"What an idiotic duffer you are!" whispered Hattie to Winnie. "You
needn't be always reminding her what a cuckoo she is."
"The Cuckoo's got its feathers now, and has grown a very handsome bird,"
said Winnie, watching Rona as the latter walked away.
The At Home was to be chiefly a gathering for the Old Girls' Union, but
the present pupils were to provide a short programme, consisting of
music and recitations, to occupy a portion of the afternoon. Only the
brightest stars were selected to perform.
"The school's got to show off!" laughed Gertie. "It's to try and take
the shine out of the old girls. Miss Bowes doesn't exactly like to say
so, but that's what she means."
"No inferior talent permitted," agreed Addie. "Only freshwater oysters
may wag their tails."
"Metaphor's a little mixed, my hearty. Perhaps you'll show us an
oyster's tail?"
"Well, they've got beards, at any rate."
"To beard the lion with?"
"If you like. I suppose Lord Glyncraig will be the lion of the
afternoon. We shall have to perform before him."
"Oh, I'm so thankful I'm not clever enough to be on the programme!"
After careful consideration of her pupils' best points, Miss Ledbury,
the music-mistress, had at last compiled her list. She put Rona down for
a song. Rona's voice had developed immensely since she came to school.
For a girl of her age it had a wonderfully rich tone and wide compass.
Miss Ledbury thought it showed promise of great things later on, and,
while avoiding overstraining it, she had made Rona practise most
assiduously. There was rather a dearth of good solo voices in the school
at present, most of the seniors having more talent for the piano than
for singing, otherwise a junior might not have obtained a place on the
coveted programme.
"But of course Rona's not exactly a junior," urged Ulyth in reply to
several jealous comments. "She's fifteen now, although she's only in IV
B, and she's old for her age. She's miles above the kids in her form. I
think Teddie realizes that. I shouldn't be at all surprised if Rona
skips a form and is put into the Upper School next term. She'd manage
the work, I believe. It's been rather rough on her to stay among those
babes."
"Well, I say Miss Ledbury might have chosen a soloist from V B,"
returned Beth icily. She was not a Rona enthusiast.
"Who? Stephie's playing the piano and Gertie's reciting, Merle croaks
like a raven, you and Chris don't learn singing, Addie's no ear for
tune, and the rest of us, as Leddie says, 'have no puff'. I'm glad Rona
can do something well for the school. She's been here three terms, and
she's as much a Woodlander now as anyone else."
Rona herself seemed to regard her honour with dismay. The easy
confidence which she had brought from New Zealand had quite disappeared,
thanks to incessant snubbing; she was apt now to veer to the side of
diffidence.
"Do you think I'll break down?" she asked Ulyth nervously.
"Not a bit of it. Why should you? You know the song and you know you can
sing it. Just let yourself go, and don't think of the audience."
"Very good advice, no doubt, but a trifle difficult to follow," pouted
Rona. "Don't think of the audience, indeed, when they'll all be sitting
staring at me. Am I to shut my eyes?"
"You can look at your song, at any rate, and fancy you're alone with
Miss Ledbury."
"Imagination's not my strong point. I wish the wretched performance was
over and done with."
There were great preparations on the morning of 29th July. Outside, the
gardeners were giving a last roll to the lawns, and a last sweep to the
paths. In the kitchen the cook was setting out rows of small cakes, and
the parlour-maid in the pantry was counting cups and spoons, and
polishing the best silver urn. In the school department finishing
touches were put everywhere. Great bowls of roses were placed in the
drawing-room, and jars of tall lilies in the hall. The studio, arranged
yesterday with its exhibits of arts and handicrafts, was further
decorated with picturesque boughs of larch and spikes of foxgloves. Two
curators were told off to explain the museum to visitors, and
tea-stewards selected to help to hand round cups and cakes. A band of
special scouts picked raspberries and arranged them on little green
plates. Chairs were placed in the summer-house and under the trees in
view of the lawn. The rustic seats were carefully dusted in the glade by
the stream.
By three o'clock the school was in a flutter of expectation.
"Do I look--decent?" asked Rona anxiously, taking a last nervous peep at
her toilet in the wardrobe mirror.
"Decent!" exclaimed Ulyth. "You're for all the world like a Sir Joshua
Reynolds portrait. I'd like to frame you, just as you are, and hang you
on the wall."
"You wouldn't feel ashamed of me if--if you happened to be my relation?
I've improved a little since I came here, haven't I? I was a wild sort
of goose-girl when I arrived, I know."
"The goose-girl is a Princess to-day," said her room-mate exultantly.
Ulyth thought Rona had never looked so sweet. The pretty white dress
trimmed with pale blue edgings suited her exactly, and set off her
lovely colouring and rich ruddy-brown hair. Her eyes shone like
diamonds, and the mingled excitement and shyness in her face gave a
peculiar charm to her expression.
"She's far and away the prettiest girl in the school," reflected Ulyth.
"If there were a beauty prize, she'd win it."
Everybody was waiting in the garden when the guests arrived. The scene
soon became gay and animated. There were delighted welcomings of
parents, enthusiastic meetings between old school chums, and a hearty
greeting to all visitors. Mrs. Stanton and Oswald had driven in a taxi
from Elwyn Bay, and were received with rapture by Ulyth.
"Motherkins! Oh, how lovely to see you again! I must have you all to
myself for just a minute or two before I share you with anybody--even
Rona!"
"Is that Rona over there?" asked Oswald, gazing half amazed at the
friend who seemed to have added a new dignity to her manner as well as
inches to her stature since Christmas-tide.
"Yes, go and fetch her to speak to Motherkins."
"I hardly like to. She looks so stately and grown-up now."
"What nonsense! Ossie, you can't be shy all of a sudden. What's come
over you, you silly boy? There, I'll beckon to Rona. Ah, she sees us,
and she's coming! No, I'm afraid she can't sit next to us at the
concert, because she's one of the performers, and will have to be in the
front row."
The ceremonies were to take place in the hall, after which tea would be
served to the company out-of-doors.
"Lord Glyncraig is to act as chairman," whispered Addie. "Stephie is so
fearfully excited. She means to go and speak to him and Lady Glyncraig
afterwards. I hope to goodness they won't have forgotten her. She'd be
so woefully humiliated. She wants us all to see that she knows them.
She's been just living for this afternoon, I believe."
Rona, her hands tightly clasped, watched the tall figure mount the
platform. Lord Glyncraig, with his clear-cut features, iron-grey hair,
and commanding air, looked a born leader of men, and well fitted to take
his share in swaying a nation's destiny. She could picture him a power
in Parliament. It was good of him to come this afternoon to speak at a
girls' school. Lady Glyncraig, handsome, well-dressed, and aristocratic,
sat in the post of honour next to Miss Bowes. Rona noticed her gracious
reception of the beautiful bouquet handed to her by Catherine, and
sighed as she looked.
There were no prizes at The Woodlands this year, for the girls had asked
to devote the money to the Orphanage; but the examination lists and the
annual report were read, and some pleasant comments made upon the scope
of the Old Girls' Union. Lord Glyncraig had a happy gift of speech, and
could adapt his remarks to the occasion. Everybody felt that he had said
exactly the right things, and Principals, mistresses, parents, and
pupils past or present were wreathed in smiles. These opening ceremonies
did not take very long, and the concert followed immediately.
Marjorie's Prelude, Evie's Nocturne, Stephanie's Mazurka, and Gertie's
recitation all went off without a hitch, and received their due reward
of appreciation. It was now Rona's turn. For a moment she grew pale as
she mounted the platform, then the coral flushed back into her cheeks.
She had no time to think of the audience. Miss Ledbury was already
playing the opening bars:
"Come out, come out, my dearest dear!
Come out and greet the sun!"
Mellow and tuneful as a blackbird's, Rona's clear rich young voice rang
out, so fresh, so joyous, so natural, so full of the very spirit of
maying and the glory of summer's return, that the visitors listened as
one hearkens to the notes of a bird that is pouring forth its heart from
a tree-top in the orchard. There was no mistake about the applause.
Guests and girls clapped their hardest. Rona, all unwilling, was
recalled, and made to sing an encore, and as she left the platform
everybody felt that she had scored the triumph of the occasion.
"Glad the juniors weren't excluded. It's a knock-down for Steph,"
whispered Addie.
"Trust Miss Ledbury not to leave out Rona. She'll be our champion
soloist now," returned Christine.
The rest of the little programme was soon finished, and the audience
adjourned to the garden for tea. Stephanie, with a tray of raspberries
and cream, came smilingly up to Lord and Lady Glyncraig, and,
introducing herself, reminded them of the delightful visit she had paid
to Plas Cafn. If they had really forgotten her, they had the good
manners not to reveal the fact, and spoke to her kindly and pleasantly.
"By the by," said Lord Glyncraig, "where is your schoolfellow who sang
so well just now? I don't see her on the lawn."
"Rona Mitchell? I suppose she is somewhere about," replied Stephanie
casually.
"Do you happen to know if she comes from New Zealand?"
"Yes, she does."
"I wonder if you could find her and bring her here? I should like very
much to speak to her."
Stephanie could not refuse, though her errand was uncongenial. She could
not imagine why an ex-Cabinet Minister should concern himself with a
girl from the backwoods.
"Lord Glyncraig wants you; so hurry up, and don't keep him waiting," was
the message she delivered, not too politely.
Rona blushed furiously. She appeared on the very point of declining to
obey the summons.
"Go, dear," said Mrs. Stanton quietly. "Perhaps he wishes to
congratulate you on the success of your song. Yes, Rona, go. It would be
most ungracious to refuse."
With a face in which shyness, nervousness, pride, and defiance strove
for the mastery, Rona approached Lord Glyncraig. He held out his hand to
her.
"Won't you bury the hatchet, and let us be friends at last, Rona?" he
said. "I'm proud of my granddaughter to-day. You're a true chip of the
old block, a Mitchell to your finger-tips--and" (in a lower tone) "with
your mother's voice thrown into the bargain. Blood is thicker than
water, child, and it's time now for bygones to become bygones. I shall
write to your father to-night, and set things straight."
* * * * *
"How is it that you've actually been a whole year at The Woodlands and
never let anybody have the least hint that Lord Glyncraig is your
grandfather? Don't you know what an enormous difference it would have
made to your position in the school? Stephie is quite hysterical about
it. Why was it such a dead secret?" asked Ulyth of her room-mate, as
they took off their party dresses, when the guests had gone.
"It's rather a long story," replied Rona, sitting down on her bed. "In
the first place, I dare say you've guessed that Dad was the prodigal of
the family. He never did anything very bad, poor dear, but he was packed
off to the colonies in disgrace, and told that he might stay there. At
Melbourne he met a lovely opera singer, who was on tour in Australia,
and married her. That made my grandfather more angry than anything else
he had done. I'm not ashamed of my mother. She was very clever, and sang
like an angel, I'm told, though I can't remember her. When she died, Dad
went to New Zealand and started farming. Mrs. Barker was hardly an ideal
person to bring me up, but she was the only woman we could get to stop
in such an out-of-the-way place. I must have been an awful specimen of a
child; I don't like to remember what things I did then. When I was about
ten, Father went away for a few weeks to the North Island, and while he
was gone, Mrs. Barker went off in the gig to have a day's shopping at
the nearest store. She left me alone in the house. I wasn't frightened,
for I was quite accustomed to it. No one but a chance neighbour ever
came near. Yet that day was just the exception that proves the rule.
Early in the afternoon a grand travelling motor drove up, and a lady and
gentleman knocked at the door, and enquired for Dad. I was a little wild
rough thing then, and I was simply scared to death at the sight of
strangers. I told them Dad was away. Then they asked if they might come
in, and the gentleman said he was my grandfather, and the lady was his
new wife, so that she was my step-grandmother. Now Mrs. Barker had
always rubbed it in to me that if I was left alone I must on no account
admit strangers. That was the only thing I could think of. I was in a
panic, and I slammed the door on them and bolted it, and then ran to the
window and pulled faces, hoping to make them go away. They stood for a
minute or two quite aghast, trying to get me to listen to reason through
the window, but I only grew more and more frightened, and called them
all the ugly names I could.
"'It's no use attempting to tame such a young savage,' said the lady at
last. Then they got into their car again and drove away.
"By the time Mrs. Barker arrived I was ashamed of myself, so I said
nothing about my adventure, and I never dared to tell Dad a word of it.
I suppose his father had come to hunt him up; but he was evidently
discouraged at the reception he had received at the farm, and went back
to England without making another attempt at a meeting. I don't believe
he and Dad ever wrote to each other from year's end to year's end. I
tried to forget this, but it stuck in my memory all the same. Time went
by, my friendship with you began, and it was decided that I should be
sent to The Woodlands. I knew my grandfather lived at Plas Cafn, for Dad
had told me about his old home, but I did not know it was so near to the
school. You ask why I did not tell the girls that I was related to Lord
Glyncraig? There were several reasons. In the first place, I was really
very much ashamed of my behaviour the day he had come to our farm. I
thought he had cast us off completely, and would not be at all pleased
to own me as granddaughter. I would not confess it to any of you, but I
felt so rough and uncouth when I compared myself with other girls that I
did not want Lord Glyncraig to see me, or to know that I was in the
neighbourhood. Perhaps some day, so I thought, I might grow more like
you, if I tried hard, and then it would be time enough to tell him of my
whereabouts. Then, because he had disowned us, I felt much too proud to
boast about the relationship at school. If you could not like me for
myself, I wouldn't make a bid for popularity on the cheap basis of
being his granddaughter. I'm a democrat at heart, and I think people
ought to be valued on their own merits entirely. I'd rather be an
outsider than shine with a reflected glory."
"You'll be popular now," said Ulyth. "Are you to spend the holidays at
Plas Cafn?"
"Yes. Miss Bowes says I must, though I'd far rather have accepted your
invitation. Lady Glyncraig was very kind and sweet; she kissed me and
said she hoped so much that we should be friends. They have promised to
ask Dad to come over for next Christmas and have a big family reunion."
"You won't let them take you away from The Woodlands? We don't want to
lose you, dear. You must stay here now--for the sake of the school."
"For my own sake!" cried Rona, flinging her arms round her friend.
"Ulyth, I owe everything in the world to you. I understand now how good
it was of you to take me into your room and teach me. I was a veritable
cuckoo in your nest then, a horrid, tiresome, trespassing bird, a
savage, a bear cub, a 'backwoods gawk' as the girls called me. It's
entirely thanks to you if at last I'm----"
"The sweetest Prairie Rose that ever came out of the wilderness!"
finished Ulyth warmly.