Aunt Louise was opposed to the public school.
Uncle Charlie said he feared Aunt Louise did not appreciate the
democratic institutions of her country.
Emmy Lou caught the word--democratic; later she had occasion to consider
it further.
Aunt Louise said that Uncle Charlie was quite right in his fear, and the
end was that Emmy Lou was started at private school.
But it was not a school--it was only a Parlour; and there being a pupil
more than there were accommodations, and Emmy Lou being the new-comer,
her portion was a rocking-chair and a lap-board.
There was not even a real teacher, only an old lady who called one "my
dear."
At home Emmy Lou cried with her head buried in Aunt Cordelia's new
bolster sham; for how could she confess to Hattie and to Rosalie that it
was a parlour and a lap-board?
Upon consultation, Uncle Charlie said, let her do as she pleased, since
damage to her seemed to be inevitable either way. So, Emmy Lou,
rejoicing, departed one morning for the Grammar School.
Public school being different from private school, Emmy Lou at once
began to learn things. For instance, at Grammar School, one no longer
speaks of boys in undertones. One assumes an attitude of having always
known boys. At Grammar School, classes attend chapel. There are boys in
Chapel, still separated from the girls, to be sure, after the manner of
the goats from the sheep; but after one learns to laugh from the corners
of one's eyes at boys, a dividing line of mere aisle is soon abridged.
Watching Rosalie, Emmy Lou discovered this.
There was a boy in Chapel whom she knew, but it takes courage to look
out of the corners of one's eyes, and Emmy Lou could only find
sufficient to look straight, which is altogether a different thing. But
the boy saw her. Emmy Lou looked away quickly.
Once the boy's name had been Billy; later, at dancing school, it was
Willie; now, the Principal who conducted Chapel Exercises called him
William.
Emmy Lou liked this Principal. He had white hair, and when it fell into
his eyes he would stand it wildly over his head, running his fingers
through its thickness; but one did not laugh because of greater interest
in what he said.
Emmy Lou asked Rosalie the Principal's name, but Rosalie was smiling
backward at a boy as the classes filed out of Chapel. Afterward she
explained that his name was Mr. Page.
At Grammar School Emmy Lou continued to learn things. The pupils of a
grammar school abjure school bags; a Geography now being a folio volume
measurable in square feet, it is the thing to build upon its basic
foundation an edifice of other text-books, and carry the sum total to
and fro on an aching arm.
Nor do grammar-school pupils bring lunch; they bring money, and buy
lunch--pies, or doughnuts, or pickles--having done with the infant
pabulum of primary bread and butter.
Nor does so big a girl as a grammar-school pupil longer confess to any
infantile abbreviation of entitlement; she gives her full baptismal name
and is written down, as in Emmy Lou's case, Emily Louise Pope MacLauren,
which has its drawbacks; for she sometimes fails to recognise the
unaccustomed sound of that name when called unexpectedly from the
platform.
For at twelve years, an Emmy Lou finds herself dreaming, and watching
the clouds through the school-room windows. The reading lesson concerns
one Alnaschar, the Barber's Fifth Brother; and while the verses go
droningly round, the kalsomined blue walls fade, and one wanders the
market-place of Bagdad, amid bales of rich stuffs, and trays of golden
trinkets and mysteries that trouble not, purveyors and Mussulmen,
eunuchs and seraglios, khans, mosques, drachmas--one has no idea what
they mean, nor does one care: on every hand in Life lie mysteries, why
not in books? The thing is, to seize upon the Story, and to let the
other go.
And so Emily Louise fails to answer to the baptismal fulness of her name
spoken from the platform, until at a neighbour's touch she springs up,
blushing.
[Illustration: "One finds one's self dreaming, and watching the clouds
through the school-room window."]
But, somehow, she did not take the reproach in Miss Amanda's voice to
heart; Miss Amanda was given to saying reproachfully, "Please,
p-ple-e-ase--young _la_dies," many times a day, but after a brief pause
one returned to pleasant converse with a neighbour.
Jokes were told about Miss Amanda among the girls, and, gathering at
recess about her desk, her pupils would banter Miss Amanda as to who was
her favourite, whereupon, she, pleased and flattered, would make long
and detailed refutation of any show of partiality.
Miss Amanda pinned a bow in her hair, and wore a chain, and rings, and
was given to frequent patting and pushing of her hair into shape; was it
possible Miss Amanda felt herself to be--_pretty_?
Ordinarily, however, Emily Louise did not think much about her one way
or another, except at those times when Miss Amanda tried to be funny;
then she quite hated her with unreasoning fierceness.
Right now Miss Amanda was desiring Emily Louise MacLauren to give
attention.
[Illustration: "Miss Amanda, pleased and flattered, would make long,
detailed refutation of any show of partiality."]
Once a week there was public recitation in the Chapel. Mr. Page
considered it good for boys and girls to work together, which was a new
way of regarding it peculiar to grammar school, for hitherto, boys,
like the skull and cross-bones bottles in Aunt Cordelia's closet, had
been things to be avoided.
[Illustration: "Hitherto boys, like skull and cross-bones bottles, had
been things to be avoided."]
"To-morrow," Miss Amanda was explaining, "the chapel recitation will be
in grammar; you will conjugate," Miss Amanda simpered, "the verb--to
love," with playful meaning in her emphasis; "but I need have no fear,
young ladies," archly, "that you will let yourselves be beaten at this
lesson."
[Illustration: "After one has learned to smile out one's eyes, a
dividing line of aisle is soon bridged."]
Miss Amanda meant to be funny. Emily Louise, for one, looked stonily
ahead; not for anything would she smile.
But the weekly recitation varied, and there came a week when the classes
were assembled for a lesson in composition.
Mr. Page laughed at what he called flowery effusions. "Use the matter
and life about you," he said.
"There is one boy," he went on to state, "whose compositions are
generally good for that reason. William, step up, sir, and let us hear
what you have made of this."
William arose. He was still square, but he was no longer short; there
was a straight and handsome bridge building to his nose, and he had
taken to tall collars. William's face was somewhat suffused at this
summons to publicity, but his smile was cheerful and unabashed. His
composition was on "Conscience." So were the compositions of the others;
but his was different.
"A boy has one kind of a conscience," read William, "and a girl has
another kind. Two girls met a cow. 'Look her right in the face and
pretend like we aren't afraid,' said the biggest girl; but the littlest
girl had a conscience. 'Won't it be deceiving the cow?' she wanted to
know."
Emily Louise blushed; how could William! For Emily Louise was "the
littlest girl;" Hattie was the other, and William had come along and
driven the cow away.
William was still reading: "There was a girl found a quarter in the
snow. She thought how it would buy five pies, or ten doughnuts, or
fifteen pickles, and then she thought about the person who would come
back and find the place in the snow and no quarter, and so she went and
put the quarter back."
How could William! Mr. Page, his hair wildly rumpled, was clapping hand
to knee; even the teachers were trying not to smile. Emily Louise
blushed hotter, for Emily Louise, taking the quarter back, had met
William.
"Boys are different," stated William's composition. "There was a boy
went to the office to be whipped. The strap hit a stone in his pocket.
So the Principal, who went around on Saturdays with a hammer tapping
rocks, let the boy off. He didn't know the boy got the rock out the
alley on purpose. But I reckon boys have some kind of a conscience. That
boy felt sort of mean."
It was the teachers who were laughing now, while Mr. Page, running his
fingers through his hair, wore a smile--arrested, reflective,
considering. But it broadened; there are Principals, here and there, who
can appreciate a William.
The cheek of Emily Louise might be hot, but in her heart was a newer
feeling; was it pleasure? Something, somewhere, was telling Emily Louise
that William liked her the better for these things he was laughing at.
Was she pleased thereat? Never. Her cheek grew hotter. Yet the
pleasurable sensation was there. Suddenly she understood. It was because
of this tribute to the condition of her conscience. Of course it would
be perfectly proper, therefore, to determine to keep up this reputation
with William.
There was other proof that William liked her. At grammar school it was
the proper thing to own an autograph album. William's page in the album
of Emily Louise was a triumph in purple ink upon a pinkish background.
Not that William had written it. Jimmy Reed had written it for him.
Jimmy wielded a master pen in flourish and shading, upon which he put a
price accordingly. A mere name cost the patrons of Jimmy a pickle, while
a pledge to eternal friendship or sincerity was valued at a doughnut.
For the feelings in verse, one paid a pie.
[Illustration: "For one's feelings in verse one paid a pie."]
William had paid a pie, and his sentiments at maximum price thus set
forth declared:
"True friendship is a golden knot
Which angles' hands have tied,
By heavenly skill its textures wrought
Who shall its folds divide?"
Emily Louise wondered about the "angles hands." What were they? It never
suggested itself that a master of the pen such as Jimmy might be weak
in spelling.
One has to meet new responsibilities at grammar school, too; one has to
be careful with whom she associates.
Associate was Isobel's word; she used many impressive words, but then
Isobel was different; she spelled her name with an o, and she did not
live in a home; Isobel lived in a hotel, and her papa was the holder of
a government position. Hattie's papa, someone told Emily Louise, had
wanted to hold it, but Isobel's papa got it.
Isobel said a person must discriminate. This Emily Louise found meant,
move in groups that talked each about the others. Isobel and Rosalie
pointed out to Emily Louise that the nice girls were in their group.
Yet Hattie was not in it; Emily Louise wondered why.
"It depends on who you are," said Isobel, with the sweeping calmness of
one whose position is assured. "My papa is own second cousin to the
Attorney-General of the United States."
And that this claim conveyed small meaning to the group about Isobel,
made her family connections by no means the less impressive and to be
envied. The Isobels supply their part of the curriculum of grammar
school.
Emily Louise went home anxious. "Have I a family?" she inquired.
"It's hard to say, since you abandoned it," said Uncle Charlie.
Emily Louise blushed; she did not feel just happy in her mind yet about
those dolls buried in a mausoleum-like trunk in the attic.
She explained: the kind of family that has a tree? Did she belong to a
family? Had she a tree?
"The only copper beech in town," said Uncle Charlie.
But Aunt Cordelia's vulnerable spot was touched; she grew quite heated.
Emily Louise learned that she was a Pringle and a Pope.
"And a MacLauren?" queried Emily Louise.
But Aunt Cordelia's enthusiasm had cooled.
There came a time when Emily Louise divined why. All at once talk began
at school, about a thing looming ahead, called an Election. It seemed a
disturbing thing, keeping Uncle Charlie at the office all hours. And
when in time it actually arrived, Emily Louise could not go to school
that day because the way would take her past the Polls, yet ordinarily
this was only the grocery; but so dreadful a place is it when it becomes
a poll, that Aunt Cordelia could not go to it for her marketing.
Hitherto, except when Miss Amanda wanted to be funny, Emily Louise had
felt her to be inoffensive; but as election became the absorbing topic
of Grammar School, a dreadful thing came to light--Miss Amanda was a
Republican.
Hattie told Emily Louise; her voice was low and full of horror. For
Hattie reflected the spirit of her State and age; the State was in the
South, the year was preceding the '80's.
Emily Louise lowered her voice, too; it was to ask just what is a
Republican. She was conscious of a vagueness.
Hattie looked at her, amazed. "A Republican--why--people who are not
Democrats--of course."
"How does one know which one is?" asked Emily Louise, feeling that it
would be disconcerting, considering public opinion, to find herself a
Republican.
Hattie looked tried. "You're what your father is, naturally. I should
think you'd know that, Emily Louise."
On the way from school William joined Emily Louise.
"What's a Republican, William?" she asked.
His countenance changed. "It's--well--it's the sort you don't want to
have anything to do with," said William, darkly.
Emily Louise, knowing how William regarded her conscientiousness, was
uneasy because of a certain recollection. She must get to the bottom of
this. She sought Aunt Louise privately. "Aren't you a Democrat?" she
inquired.
The indignant response of Aunt Louise was disconcerting. "What else
could you dream I am?" she demanded with asperity.
"You said you didn't approve of Democratic Institutions," explained
Emily Louise, recalling.
"I approve of nothing under Republican domination," said Aunt Louise
haughtily--which was muddling.
"What's Papa?" asked Emily Louise, suddenly.
Aunt Louise, dressing for a party, shut her door sharply.
One could ask Aunt Cordelia. But Aunt Cordelia turned testy, and even
told Emily Louise to run away.
Uncle Charlie was gone.
There was Aunt M'randa and Tom, so Emily Louise sought the kitchen. It
was after supper. Tom was spelling the news from a paper spread on the
table, and Aunt M'randa was making up the flannel cakes for breakfast.
"Who? Yo' paw?" said Tom; "he's a Republican; he done edit that kinder
paper over 'cross the Ohier River, he does."
There was unction in the glib quickness of Tom's reply. Then he dodged;
it was just in time.
"Shet yo' mouf," said Aunt M'randa with wrath; "ain't I done tol' how
they've kep' it from the chile."
Emily Louise was swallowing hard. "Then--then--am I a Republican?" Her
voice sounded way off.
Aunt M'randa turned a scandalised face upon her last baby in the
family. "Co'se yer ain't chile; huccome yer think sech er thing? Ain't
yer done learned its sinnahs is lumped wi' 'publicans--po' whites, an'
cul'd folks an' sech?"
The comfort in Aunt M'randa's reassuring was questionable. "But--you
said--my papa--" said Emily Louise.
The tension demanded relief. Aunt M'randa turned on Tom. "I lay I bus'
yo' haid open ef yer don't quit yo' stan'in' wi' yer mouf gapin' at the
trouble yer done made."
Aunt M'randa was sparring for time.
"Don' yer worry 'bout dat, honey"--this to Emily Louise--"hit's jes' one
dese here mistakes in jogaphy, seem like, same es yer tell erbout
gettin' kep' in foh. Huccome a gen'man like yo' paw, got bawn y'other
side de Ohier River, 'ceptin' was an acci-dent? Dess tell me dat? But
dere's 'nough quality dis here side de fam'ly to keep yer a good
Dem'crat, honey--" and Aunt M'randa, muttering, glared at Tom.
For Emily Louise was gazing into a gulf wider than the river rolling
between home--and papa, a gulf called war; nor did Emily Louise know, as
Aunt M'randa knew, that it was a baby's little fists clutching at Aunt
Cordelia that had bridged that gulf.
Emily Louise turned away--her papa was that thing for lowered voice and
bated breath--her papa--was a Republican.
Then Emily Louise was a Republican also. Hattie said so; Aunt M'randa
did not know. At twelve one begins determinedly to face facts.
Yet the very next day Emily Louise made discovery that a greater than
her papa had been that thing for lowered tones. She was working upon her
weekly composition, and this week the subject was "George Washington."
Emily Louise had just set forth upon legal cap her opening conclusions
upon the matter. She had gone deep into the family annals of George,
for, by nature, Emily Louise was thorough, and William had testified
that she was conscientious.
"George Washington was a great man and so was his mother."
Here she paused, pen suspended; for the full meaning of a statement in
the history spread before her had suddenly dawned upon her; for that
history declared George Washington "a firm advocate for these republican
principles."
Should an Emily Louise then turn traitor to her father, or should she
desert an Aunt Cordelia and an Aunt Louise?
Life is complex. At twelve a pucker of absorption and concentration
begins to gather between the brows.
On the homeward way, William was waiting at the corner. "What is a
person when they are not either Democrat or Republican?" Emily Louise
asked as they went along.
William's tones were uncompromising. "A mugwump," he said, and he said
it with contempt.
It sounded unpleasant, and as though it ought to merit the contempt of
William.
And grammar was becoming as complex as life itself. One forenoon Emily
Louise was called upon to recite the rule. Every day it was a different
rule, which in itself was discouraging. But the exceptions were worse
than the rule; for a rule is a matter of a mere paragraph, while the
exceptions are measurable by pages.
But Emily Louise knew the rule. Even with town one background for flag
and bunting; even with the streets one festive processional; even with
the advent, in her city, of the President of the United States on his
tour of the South; even with this in her civic precincts, Emily Louise,
arising, was able correctly to recite the rule.
"An article should only be used once before a complex description of one
and the same object."
"An example," said Miss Amanda.
Emily Louise stood perplexed, for none had been given in the book.
"Simply apply the rule and make your own," said Miss Amanda.
But it did not seem simple; Emily Louise was still thinking in the
concrete.
Hattie had grasped abstractions. Hattie waved her hand. There was a
scarlet spot upon her cheek. Before school there had been words between
Hattie and Isobel. The politics of the President of the United States
had figured in it, and Emily Louise had learned that the President was a
Republican. And yet flags! And processions!