Rosemary's Secret
The fresh year flew on wings. The snowdrops--fair maids of
February--faded in the school garden, and their pale, ethereal,
green-tipped blossoms were replaced by golden daffodils that seemed to
reflect the stronger sunshine. Mezereon and other fragrant shrubs put
out sweet-scented flowers, and the great white arum lilies were throwing
up their sheaths. Violets and early primroses might be searched for
under sheltered hedgerows, and the Japanese cherry-trees were bursting
into bud. Mother Nature seemed to be shaking her garments, and getting
ready for the great carnival of Spring.
With the longer days, Lorraine was often up at Windy Howe. It was the
sort of household where you could arrive at any time without presenting
an apology for your intrusion.
"You must take us just as you find us," said Claudia. "You know I'm glad
to see you, Lorraine, but I shan't treat you as a visitor, and have you
shown into the drawing-room. You don't mind?"
Claudia was sitting in the nursery, rocking the latest addition to the
Castleton family, a tiny white bundle, with golden down on its pink
head. She nursed it dutifully, patting its back with the experience
gained with seven other younger brothers and sisters.
"Yes, it's rather sweet," she agreed, in answer to a comment from
Lorraine. "I'd like them all right if they didn't cry so much; it's such
a nuisance when they're perpetually squalling. The fact is I'm fed up
with children. I never seem able to get away from them here. I've the
greatest difficulty in doing my home lessons. Violet's always asking me
to take the baby or Perugia, and Lilith and Constable are generally
tearing about somewhere, to say nothing of Beata and Romola and Madox.
Lorraine, I've _quite_ made up my mind. I'm seventeen now, and I'm
leaving school this summer. I'm _not_ going to stay at home and just
help with the children! It isn't good enough!"
"What would you like to do?" asked Lorraine, watching with sympathy
while her friend made another effort to soothe the obstreperous new
little brother to sleep.
"I don't know!" said Claudia forlornly. "I don't seem good for anything
except to do odd jobs. Perhaps I'll go on the land. It would be a change
to make hay and hoe turnips. I should be away from Violet, anyhow. We've
been squabbling again dreadfully of late. I can't stand it much longer.
If Morland's called up, I'm going off too. I don't care where!"
She spoke resentfully, almost desperately; Lorraine had not seen her in
such a mood before. She had sometimes guessed that her friend was not
altogether happy at home, though until to-day she had never received
such a big slice of Claudia's confidence.
"Couldn't you go to college--or to study something?" she suggested
vaguely.
The baby was crying so lustily that conversation was difficult.
Claudia's remarks were punctuated by the regular tap-tap of the rockers
on her chair.
"I've asked Father, but it's no use; he won't send me. He says it's
Beata's and Romola's turn now, and they must go to school. Life's
horrid--I just hate it all!"
The baby, lifting up a despairing wail, also protested against the evils
of existence.
"Poor little man! He doesn't like life either!" soothed Claudia. "There!
There! Are his toes cold? Sissie'll warm them for him. It's no use; I
shall have to take him to Violet, and she's trying to write letters!"
This little peep behind the scenes at Windy Howe made Lorraine feel
worried about Claudia. The next time she went to the studio by the
harbour, she talked the matter over. Margaret Lindsay knew the Castleton
family so well that she might be counted upon for advice.
"Claudia's simply fed up!" explained Lorraine. "It's partly the
children, but principally Violet. I don't think I should like to live
with Violet myself."
"Perhaps not, yet she has her good points. On the whole I think she's
very decent to all those step-children. With her own little tribe as
well, it must be difficult to manage the household. But I sympathize
with Claudia. When she leaves school I'm sure it will be far the best
plan for her to go away from home for a while."
"But her father won't let her!"
"Suppose she could win a scholarship? I fancy that would smooth the
way."
"Oh, do you think she could?"
"Suppose you ask Miss Kingsley if she can suggest any career for
Claudia? She's sure to be interested in her pupils' plans for the
future. I certainly think it's a shame for the girl to be kept at home
acting nursemaid to the younger ones. I'd willingly tackle Mr. Castleton
some day and have a little talk with him about Claudia, if there's any
plan to propose. I knew her own mother, so that gives me a pull. I'd
speak to Violet, too. I dare say she'd be quite nice about it."
"Oh, Carina, I wish you would! I think Claudia has a wretched time. Do
you know, the children got hold of the album I gave her for her
birthday, and they scribbled all over it? And Violet didn't even scold
them. Wasn't it trying? She lets them scramble about everywhere and do
what they like. Claudia's so worried, she says her hair's beginning to
fall out."
"I didn't know her hair was falling out. She'd better cut it short, in
that case. She mustn't on any account let that lovely hair be
neglected."
Miss Kingsley, on being appealed to, was deeply interested. She talked
things over with Miss Janet, and they came at once to a conclusion.
There was nothing for it but a good kindergarten training. There were
several open scholarships for a kindergarten college whose principal was
an intimate friend of theirs. They would write about it at once, and
Claudia must go in for the examination. They would make a point of
coaching her specially. In their minds the whole matter was already
decided. It would be a splendid chance for the girl, so they said. That
wise old Greek slave Æsop, who knew human nature so well that his fables
are as true to life now as they were two thousand years ago, tells the
story of a king who wished to fortify his castle. He asked advice, and
the mason recommended bricks, the carpenter wood, and the tanner
leather. Each thought his own trade supreme. The Misses Kingsley were
perfectly sure that Claudia, who was experienced with children, would
succeed admirably in kindergarten work. They even saw visions of her
being established some day at The Gables in the capacity of a mistress.
Claudia, on being introduced to her future prospects, gasped a little.
She acquiesced, but did not look quite as grateful as her friends had
anticipated.
"I'd get away from home, at any rate! And that would be something!" was
all she would say to Lorraine.
"It would be a career!" said Lorraine, fresh from a brainy, bracing
talk with Miss Janet. "Once you've got your training, you'll be
independent and able to earn your own living."
"Um--yes----" Claudia spoke without enthusiasm. "I wonder what the
college would be like? Jolly hard work, I expect!"
"Miss Janet says it's adorable!"
"Oh! There are several scholarships. I wish you'd go in for one and come
too; then we should be together."
It was Lorraine's turn to look blank. It is one thing to recommend a
vocation to a friend, and quite another to take it up yourself. Viewed
from her own standpoint, the joys of a kindergarten training did not
seem so attractive. She began to wonder whether Miss Janet had
overstated them and the delights of independence.
"I--I don't know yet whether I want to leave home, and if I do, I'm
going to study art!" she stammered lamely.
"I wish I could study music, but there's not the faintest little atom of
a chance of doing that," returned Claudia bitterly.
Nevertheless, at Miss Kingsley's insistence, she set to work diligently
to read up for the open scholarship examination. Miss Janet kindly
coached her, and gave up many hours of leisure on her behalf. Claudia
was quite clever at lessons when she chose to apply herself. The
progress she made under this private tuition delighted Miss Janet. Miss
Kingsley wrote fully to her friend the principal of the college, and
received a most encouraging reply.
"The girl you mention seems just the kind of student we wish to procure
at present," wrote Miss Halden. "I am allowed a certain liberty of
selection, and, so long as a candidate's marks do not fall below a given
standard, I may make my own choice. I am not necessarily obliged to
award the scholarships to those who send in the best papers, but to
those who, after a personal interview, I consider would in the end make
the most successful teachers. There are other qualifications to consider
besides examination points. Charm of manner is an extremely valuable
asset in dealing with children; and I would rather train a girl who is
gifted with imagination and tact than the most erudite student who is
deficient in these necessary qualities. If Claudia Castleton is what you
say, and you can coach her sufficiently to gain a pass, I think she may
be almost sure of a scholarship."
The Misses Kingsley were most excited at the receipt of this letter.
They did not tell Claudia its full contents for fear she might slack off
work, but they could not help throwing out hints.
"It's something to have friends at Court!" beamed Miss Janet, as she put
on her pince-nez and took her pupil for Latin construction. "You see, we
know Miss Halden so very well. I fancy there's luck in store for you,
Claudia!"
"Yes," said Claudia dolefully, as she looked up a last word in the
dictionary.
Margaret Lindsay had taken the opportunity of a visit to the studio at
Windy Howe to speak to Mr. Castleton on the subject of the possible
scholarship. He was busy painting at the time, and far more interested
in the proper perspective of his background than in his daughter's
future prospects. He agreed abstractedly with anything that was
suggested.
"If they'll give her a free training, let her go by all means--don't you
think that pearly grey throws the cliff into relief?--I've no doubt Miss
Kingsley's right--I think that gorse-bush is an improvement--yes, she's
getting a big girl, I suppose--I had made the cliff darker, but I like
the sun on it--the children grow up so fast--I'm glad you like that
shade of brown under the rock, because I consider it brings out the
whole picture."
Young, pretty Mrs. Castleton, on being appealed to, burst into tragic
tears.
"I'm sure _I_ don't want to stand in the girl's light," she sobbed. "If
it's the right thing for her to leave home, I suppose she must; but
nobody need say _I've_ turned her out. I shouldn't have thought it would
be any more fun teaching kindergarten than helping to look after her own
brothers and sisters! However, that's a matter of opinion, and I've
always tried to do my best by my husband's children, but it's small
thanks one gets for it all."
The examination for the scholarship was to be held in London, and
candidates were required to fill up beforehand certain papers of
application and forward them to the College. The forms arrived on the
very last day of term. Miss Janet summoned Claudia to the study and gave
them to her.
"They must be signed by your father," she explained, "and you must post
them not later than the sixth. The envelope is already addressed, and my
sister and I have filled in our part of the application. All you have to
do is to get Mr. Castleton's signature. When Miss Halden receives these
papers, she will send you a card of admission for the examination. That
will not be for three weeks, so I shall see you again before you have to
go up to London. Be sure to go on with your work during the holidays,
and give special attention to Latin grammar."
"Yes, Miss Janet," said Claudia dutifully, taking the large envelope and
slipping it into her coat pocket.
"Post it to-morrow," urged Miss Janet, as she dismissed her pupil from
the study.
The advent of Easter saw Rosemary again at Porthkeverne. She not only
returned for the holidays, but "came back for good". The secret which
had haunted and puzzled Lorraine since Christmas was out at last.
Rosemary had written home and told the plain, unvarnished, brutal truth.
"Signor Arezzo says it's no use my going on. He'll never be able to make
anything of my voice. I've been at the Coll. two terms, and tried my
best, but he says it's futile--I'm only fit to warble in a small
drawing-room to friends who are not over-critical, and it's a waste of
money to stop on here!"
This was indeed a blow. It was a very crushed, disappointed, miserable
little Rosemary who returned to the bosom of her bewildered family. At
first they would not believe the severe decision, and passed through the
stages of denial, indignation, and annoyance to realization and
resignation. It is so very humiliating to find out that your swan, about
whom you have cackled so proudly, turns out to be only an ordinary,
domestic, farm-yard bird after all.
Evidently the first thing to be done was to comfort Rosemary. She needed
it badly. She went about the house a pathetic little figure, with big
wistful eyes.
"I'm heart-broken, Muvvie!" she sobbed in confidence.
"Never mind, darling; we want you at home if they don't want you at the
College! You can go in for V.A.D. work, and help at the Red Cross
Hospital. It's delightful for me to have my daughter back. You don't
know how I shall appreciate your company!"
"But I feel I'm such a failure!"
"Not at all! You simply haven't slipped into your right niche yet.
People sometimes make bad shots before they find their vocations. Cheer
up! Your singing is a great pleasure to us, if it's not fit for a
concert platform."
"I never want to sing another note in all my life!" declared Rosemary.
Little by little details of the tragedy leaked out. Lorraine heard many
of them, sitting on her sister's bed, while Rosemary ruefully unpacked
the boxes of music and the tea-things and all the other treasured
trifles she had taken to the College.
"He says I haven't the physique for a singer. I've not got enough 'puff'
in my lungs. You should see Maudie Canning, his favourite pupil. She has
the most enormous chest, and such a throat! Just look at mine!"
(Rosemary was examining herself in the glass as she spoke.) "It stands
to reason, if an organ hasn't proper pipes and bellows, it can't sound.
You want such a big voice to fill a concert-hall."
"But couldn't you go on with music just for yourself?"
"Signor Arezzo doesn't care to bother with amateurs. His time is so
valuable that he gives it all to promising students only. No, I've quite
made up my mind never to sing again! Don't argue with me! It's no use,
and only makes me feel irritable. I tell you I'm heart-broken!"
It was terrible to have Rosemary in such a disconsolate mood. It seemed
to throw a blight over the whole family. Lorraine was immensely
concerned. In her trouble she turned instinctively to the studio by the
harbour. Margaret Lindsay, who herself had weathered many troubles, was
an expert in the art of comfort.
"Rosemary's heart is broken!" said Lorraine tragically, sitting on the
window-seat in the sunshine, and squeezing her friend's arm.
"Poor child! Tell her that some of the best things in the world have
been done on broken hearts! She's very young yet, and I'm sure she's
wanted at home."
"That's what Mother says."
"And perhaps she mightn't have liked public singing. It isn't all
applause and bouquets. I know several professionals, and they talk of
long, weary railway journeys, and uncomfortable hotels, and many
disagreeables that show a very shady lining to the life. Somehow I can
far more easily fancy little Rosemary happily married and settled down
in a home of her own, than touring about to concerts. You mustn't let
her give up her singing! She'll make a most delightful amateur."
"She scorns the word 'amateur'."
"She's feeling sore at present, but she'll get over that stage, I hope.
I'm not sure if an amateur hasn't infinitely the best of it. I often
wish I were an amateur artist. You skim the cream in the matter of
enjoyment, without any of the responsibility. In six months I hope
Rosemary will think differently, and will be the star of the musical
parties at Porthkeverne, if she can't shine on the stage."
"It's a come-down for her, all the same," groaned Lorraine. "I wish she
could marry a duke! But no dukes ever come to Porthkeverne. Perhaps she
won't marry at all. Some of the nicest people I know haven't married."
Margaret Lindsay looked out far away over the dancing, gleaming water
before she answered; Lorraine could not see the shadow in her eyes.
"Sometimes it's the person whom you _don't_ marry whom you love the
most: the beautiful ideal is never shattered by the actual--it stays up
in the clouds always, instead of trailing down to earth."
Lorraine was lost in contemplation of her sister's future prospects.
"If she doesn't marry, she'll have to brace up and go in for some other
vocation," she decided. "Miss Kingsley says one ought to look years
ahead, but somehow I can't imagine Rosemary ever being middle-aged."
"It's an art to grow grey gracefully," smiled Margaret Lindsay.