RETALIATION.
The Seniors accepted the Middlers' fun in good part. Even Mary forgave
Elizabeth the wearing of her new gown.
"Oh, well," Mary had exclaimed after the affair was over, and a group of
girls had gathered in her room, "'Every dog has his day.' We had ours last
year; and next year you will pay the fiddler for a new set of Middlers."
"If they don't pay before that," said Landis, sententiously.
"It's a long lane that has no turning," said Min.
"But we will leave before the turn comes," laughed Elizabeth.
"What will you do?"
"Jump the fence and take to the fields," was Elizabeth's reply.
"If I wear my orange gown to-night will I look like Nancy?" asked Nora
O'Day.
"I hope not," said Nancy, while a chorus of strong negatives arose from
the other girls.
"Then I'll wear it," said Nora.
The excellent spirit with which the Seniors took their imprisonment was
quite enough to awaken suspicion in the minds of Middlers had they been in
a cautious mood. But they were too uplifted with their recent success to
think of aught else. Beside, there was little time now for planning and
executing vengeance. Dr. Morgan gave a tea to the Seniors and their
friends late that afternoon. Thursday evening was the date for the ball
and banquet. Friday the general exodus would begin.
"What have you on hand for this morning?" asked Mary, as she and Elizabeth
were dressing for breakfast.
"There's plenty. I'm undecided what to do. One party is going boating;
another plans to take a tally-ho ride, and have lunch under the trees
which mark the place of the Wyoming massacre. The Freshmen are having a
small "feed" down in room B. Everyone in this hall is invited. It's a mild
affair. Just drop in, eat a sandwich and salad, exchange addresses, and
bow yourself out. I think I'll go out boating first and then attend the
Freshmen's 'drop-in.' And you?"
Mary sighed. "I must rest a little for Dr. Morgan's 'at home.' I haven't
had enough sleep for a week. I know I look like Medusa. I'll start my
packing, sort of get my personal belongings into shape. If I have time, I
may walk down to the boat-house. But don't wait for me. Any one of a score
of trifles may delay me."
This conversation took place about eight o'clock. That was the last the
two girls saw of each other until Mary, decked out in her new gown, came
down the hall on the way to Dr. Morgan's apartments. Elizabeth, dusty and
tired, had that moment returned from the day's outing.
"You've been out in the sun, with only that brimless cap on your head,"
was Mary's greeting. "I should have warned you how sunny that boat ride
is. I see two new freckles on the bridge of your nose now."
"Well, if there's only two, I shan't mind. When will you be back?"
"In half an hour or so. Put on your cream colored dress for dinner.
There's to be doings afterward, and you'll be ready. Were any of our girls
with you?"
"No; I haven't seen one to-day; neither at the boat-house nor on our
ride."
During commencement week, the regular order of meals was infringed upon.
Dinner began earlier and lasted later than usual. The students took second
place, giving precedence to the guests and Seniors. So it came about that
the Middlers and Freshmen had scarcely finished before time for the
beginning of the evening festivities.
"Every one is to go to chapel after dinner," someone started the order. It
was passed on and on until all the girls of the first and second classes
received the word.
The dresses which they had worn to dinner answered for such an informal
affair as this must be, to judge from the manner of issuing the
invitations.
As they quitted the dining-hall, Elizabeth looked about for Mary, but
could not find her. Nora, Landis, Min and Anna Cresswell also were among
the missing. Then she hurried to join Nancy and Mame.
"Mary is not to be found. Perhaps she has already gone to chapel."
The audience hall was almost filled when they entered. Bright fans on the
wing looked like a swarm of gay butterflies. The subdued hush of
conversation came from all parts of the room. Elizabeth looked about but
could not see her roommate.
"How perfectly awful the stage looks!" whispered Mame, who possessed the
artistic temperament. "I think I could have decorated it better than that.
I feel mournful at the mere looking at it."
The stage had been robbed of its furniture. A high-backed chair and
reading-desk of black walnut were the only pieces in sight. White roses
were there in profusion but not one bit of color.
While conversation buzzed, and fans fluttered, Azzie, dressed as somberly
as the rostrum looked, walked slowly down the main aisle. Her gown was of
some thin black stuff. She suited her walk and expression to match the
color of her dress. She wore no flowers. A big roll of music was in her
hand.
"She's going to play." Each one straightened her shoulders and leaned
eagerly forward, fairly holding her breath in anticipation, for Azzie's
fame as a pianist was far-reaching.
Moving slowly to the front of the rostrum, she seated herself at the
piano. So she sat for a few moments without touching the keys.
Slowly following her came Anna Cresswell, in gown but no cap. Her linen
collar and cuffs showed white against the dead black of her student's
robe. With glances neither to right nor left, she slowly advanced, mounted
the rostrum, and solemnly seated herself in the high-backed chair of
polished walnut. Then Azzie touched the keys and gave expression to the
most melancholy dirge one could conceive. So sympathetic was her music
that a hush fell over the chattering audience.
"What has possessed the girl?" whispered Mame Welch, almost in tears but
determined to keep a brave front. "I feel as though I was about to attend
my own funeral. This is so unlike Azzie. Her music is generally
brilliant."
Still the wail of sorrow sobbed itself out from beneath Azzie's fingers.
In a moment more, the audience would have been in tears. She sat for a
moment silent. When she touched the keys again, it was to give expression
to a march, measured, heavy, solemn. At this, emerging from the rear of
the chapel came the Seniors, in caps and gowns, two by two, with heads
bowed, and "faces as long as the moral law," whispered Mame to Elizabeth.
The first six carried between them a long narrow box, over which the
Middler class colors, green and white, had been draped, and on which
rested a stiff wreath of white artificial flowers tied with streamers of
vivid green. Advancing to the front, the six bearers deposited their
burden before the rostrum, then took their places with the other robed
figures upon the front seats. All the while Azzie played her solemn dead
march.
At the conclusion, Miss Cresswell arose to announce they would begin the
services by singing the popular ballad "Go tell Aunt Nancy." At this, the
mournful singers, with Azzie accompanying them, sang in wailing,
heart-broken voices:
"Go, tell Doc Morgan,
Go, tell Doc Morgan,
Go, tell Doc Morgan,
Her Middler Class is dead.
"They're unreliable,
They're unreliable,
They're unreliable,
Is what she's often said.
"Their heads illustrate,
Their heads illustrate,
Their heads illustrate,
What a perfect vacuum is.
"Ofttimes she said this,
Ofttimes she said this,
Ofttimes she said this,
Teaching the Seniors 'phis.'
"Go, tell the doctor,
Go, tell the doctor,
Go, tell the doctor,
Wherefore the class is dead.
"An idea came floating,
An idea came floating,
An idea came floating,
And struck its empty head."
Each Senior did her part well, maintaining an expression which was the
picture of grief. At the close of the song, Miss Cresswell advanced to the
reading-stand. She assumed an oratorical tone. There was a note of pathos
in all she said. "There came to Exeter Hall some ten months ago," she
began, "the class whose early demise we are now making famous with these
ceremonies. They were young then. They continued to remain young--"
"So young," came in a sad-voiced chorus from the singers.
"They were green,--they remained so until their passing away. I repeat,
they were green--"
"Oh, so green," came the sobbing chorus.
"The faculty looked upon them and sighed, a great sigh of disappointment.
Yet with that noble heartedness, that philanthropic desire to feed the
hungry, clothe the naked, minister unto the feeble-minded which marks our
honored Dr. Morgan and her fellow workers, they took up the burden,
determined to do their best. Yet, despite their great efforts, the class
did not advance as other classes have done. Nor yet could it retrograde
for it stood in a position where any backward movement was impossible. It
was known throughout Exeter as the 'caudal appendage' class, being 'away
back.'
"The Seniors, too, did all that lay in their power to enlighten these
Middlers both intellectually and morally. But our efforts were like
'casting pearls before swine.' The Middlers were not only no better for
our efforts, but seemed wholly unconscious that they stood in need of
moral and intellectual support.
"Yet none of us regret the work that we did in their behalf. We planted
the seed, but the soil was barren. Our efforts toward their cultivation
was like breathing a concord of sweet sound into a vacuum. There was no
volume of matter to perpetuate and carry it forth. It is not that we wish
to censure them. Lacking the capacity to enjoy the higher life of school,
we can not blame them that they amused themselves with mere toys. We
Seniors who wear the philosopher's cap and gown must bear in mind that it
would ill become the clown or jester. We listen to the music which rolls
down the ages; but the tinkle of the bells won the ears of the Middlers.
It is ever so. The world cannot be all of the higher ideal element. They
cannot all be Seniors."
She paused to touch the colors of the Middler class--green and white.
"These are the symbols of the late lamented Middler class. How
appropriate! The white represents the conditions of the examination sheets
they habitually handed in--not a line, not a letter. Blank, quite blank.
It is the opinion of the faculty that this also represented the condition
of their brains. I do not fully agree with this. I believe that at rare
intervals, and when under the influence of proper environment, for
example, the presence of some Senior, the minds of the Middlers did
receive some impression;--slight, we acknowledge. Yet we hold an
impression, a faint suggestion of an idea, was there.
"The second color! Green! How beautiful, how appropriate. It represents
our lamented Middlers as they stood before the world. They were so
verdant!
"As to the age of the departed class, both much and little might be said.
The records show that as a class they existed just ten short months; to
the faculty and Seniors it seems like ten long years.
"During their sojourn, the hospital of Exeter has been filled
with--teachers suffering from nervous prostration. Dr. Morgan's ebony
locks have turned silver. During the holidays Miss Wilhelm, who tried to
teach them classics, in a fit of desperation sought refuge in matrimony.
We might speak more fully of the effects of their being among us were it
not that we believe in interring the evil they have done with their
bones.
"With this short eulogy, I close. Miss Stoner, a Senior, who has suffered
much because of the shortcomings of the Middlers, will sing a solo
appropriate to the occasion, the others joining in the chorus."
Landis advanced. Azzie struck up an accompaniment, while the whole class
of Seniors came out strong on the refrain.
"They were so young, this Middler class of ours.
They brought to mind the newly-opened flowers.
They to the grasses closely were related.
They were so green, so unsophisticated.
(Refrain)
Softly speak, and lowly bow your head,
We are alone. The Middler class is dead.
"We did our best. No duty left undone
Weighs on our hearts at the setting of the sun.
What though their choice was weeds instead of flowers
Censure not us. The fault was never ours.
From early dawn until the dim twilight
We were to them a bright and shining light.
(Refrain)
Weep if you can; slowly, lightly tread.
They are gone. The Middler class is dead.
Th' Middler--class--is--d-e-a-d."
With this, the Seniors arose. Six again took possession of the long box.
The procession filed slowly from the room, while Azzie played a dirge.
The Middlers and Freshmen followed after them, and the laughing and
chattering began again. Every one was humming "The Middler--class--is
dead."
The line of girls passed down the main hall, the audience following them
to see what new thing was to take place.
The members of the faculty, with Dr. Morgan, stood here. At the sight of
their smile-wreathed faces, the gravity of the Seniors gave way. Landis
laughed aloud. The others followed her example. The lines broke. The girls
gathered about the teachers, talking and making merry over their
escapade.
"I never realized what a nervous strain it is to control oneself so long,"
said Nora, joining Dr. Morgan. "I felt as though I must shriek and laugh,
and there I had to sit and pretend to be overcome with sorrow."
Dr. Morgan had been glancing over a special edition of the evening paper.
She folded it quickly as Nora came up to her. "You did admirably, Miss
O'Day," she said. "I could not be present all the while."
Nora O'Day did not hear. She was leaning forward, her lips parted; her
eyes, bright with excitement, were upon the paper.
"May I see this for a moment, Dr. Morgan?" she asked excitedly. "What is
it about the strike?"
She had the paper in her hand, reading the article before Dr. Morgan had
time to reply. It was a full resume of the trouble at Bitumen from early
fall until the present, telling of the threatened attack upon
Superintendent Hobart and the new miners and the call for State troops.
The correspondent prophesied that the militia could not arrive in time to
prevent bloodshed, the capital being two hundred miles from the scene of
trouble, and the railway up the mountain having already been destroyed by
the miners.
Nora grasped the meaning instantly. There was no mention made of the name
of Dennis O'Day. He was not a miner. In the eyes of the world, he had no
power. Miners themselves did not realize that it was he alone who
instigated the strike, and that their leaders had been his choice.
Outwardly, Dennis O'Day had washed his hands of the whole affair. So long
as he escaped legal responsibility, he would shrug his shoulders, and
stand by to watch the fight. He could be eliminated without effecting the
result. But Nora O'Day, who understood her father as no one else had ever
understood him, saw his work here. She knew that for years he had been the
unseen moving power.
The bubble of laughter and fun was about her. She looked up piteously into
Dr. Morgan's face, her lips trembling with emotion. She loved her father.
Shame and fear for him overwhelmed her.
"I--I know--some--some people there. That is why I--I was anxious."
"I wish you would not mention the matter to anyone. We see no reason to
distress Miss Hobart unnecessarily. Her knowing the condition of affairs
would result in needless worry without helping matters any."
"Why--Elizabeth--is she--has she--"
"Her father, you know, Miss O'Day, is the superintendent of the Bitumen
mines."
At that Nora O'Day gave a startled cry, and buried her face in her hands.
"I didn't--know--I didn't know. Poor Elizabeth--" she sobbed.
Her behavior was claiming the attention of others. To shield her from the
attention of the passing throng, Dr. Morgan drew her within the private
office. She anticipated comforting an hysterical girl. But in a moment
Miss O'Day controlled herself.
"When will the troops reach Bitumen?" she asked, drawing herself up, afire
with purpose.
"Not before to-morrow night. That is the earliest possible time. It is
presumed the miners, hearing of the call for help, will bring matters to a
climax at once."
"Dr. Morgan, will you telephone McCantey's livery? They know my father
down there. Tell them to send the man Jefferies if they can, and fast
horses. Elizabeth Hobart and I will go to Bitumen to-night. I'll stop the
trouble."
"Dear child, you're--crazy," said Dr. Morgan, surprised by such a
suggestion.
"Far from it. I'm going, with or without your permission. Please telephone
now, and I'll explain while I await their coming. Tell them it's a matter
of life and death. If I kill the horses with hard driving, I'll pay twice
what they're worth. Every minute counts! Won't you telephone?"
Dr. Morgan obeyed the peremptory request. She believed that news of the
strike had affected Nora until she did not know what she was about. She
would accede to her request, and perhaps by the time the horses were at
the Hall, Miss O'Day would listen to reason.
"Now," said Nora, the order having been given, "I'll tell you some facts
about myself and my family you never knew. I know who has brought this
strike about, and I know how to stop it." She spoke calmly, methodically.
Dr. Morgan seated herself to listen. Miss O'Day began her story. When she
had finished, the horses were at the door, Jefferies with them. Dr. Morgan
hesitated.
"I've known Jefferies for years. He is a friend of my father. He will take
care of us," said Nora, studying the expression of Dr. Morgan's face.
"Then go, Nora. My prayers go with you."
A few minutes later, Elizabeth, the center of a laughing group, was drawn
hurriedly aside by Nora.
"Here's a long storm coat. Put it on over your light dress. We have no
time to change. Put on the cap, and tie a heavy veil upon it. It is
raining; but it will matter little." The speaker was enveloped in a long,
dark, travelling cloak, beneath which her orange colored gown showed. A
soft hat swathed in a heavy veil hid her head and face.
Elizabeth did as she was bid, being wholly carried away by the excitement
and force in the speaker's voice.
"Why--what--" she began.
"Don't waste time talking. There, you are ready. Come!"
"Go with your friend," said Dr. Morgan. "She will tell you on the way."
She walked with them to the door. The girls passed out into the storm and
the night.