Hattie arose. "There is a single, only, solitary Republican pupil in
this class," said she promptly and with emphasis.
Miss Amanda might proceed to consider the proposition grammatically, her
mind being on the rule, and not the import, but the class interpreted it
as Hattie meant they should. In their midst! And unsuspected!
Emily Louise grew hot. Could Hattie, would Hattie, do this thing?
Hattie, accuse her thus? Yet who else could Hattie mean? The heart of
Emily Louise swelled--Hattie to do this thing!
And Hattie was wrong. She should know that she was wrong. She should
read it in her own autograph album, just brought to Emily Louise for her
inscribing. Emily Louise remained in at recess. Verse was beyond her.
She recognised her limitations. Some are born to prose and some to
higher things. She applied herself to a plain statement in Hattie's
album:
Dear Hattie: I am a Mugwump and your true friend.
Emily Louise Maclauren.
Then she put the book on Hattie's desk as the bell rang.
With the class came a visible and audible excitement. Mr. Page followed,
his hair wildly erect, and he conversed with Miss Amanda hurriedly.
With visual signalling and labial dumb show, Emily Louise implored
enlightenment.
"Ours is the honour class, so we're to be chosen," enunciated Hattie, in
a staccato whisper.
Rosalie was nearer. "There's to be a presentation--in the Chapel,"
whispered Rosalie; "sh-h--he's going to choose us--now----"
Mr. Page and Miss Amanda were surveying the class. Some two score pairs
of eager eyes sought each to stay those glances upon themselves. Perhaps
Mr. Page lacked courage.
"The choice I leave to you," said he to Miss Amanda. Then he went.
Miss Amanda was also visibly excited. She settled her chain and puffed
the elaborate coiffure of her hair, the while she continued to survey
the class. She looked hesitant and undecided, glancing from row to row;
then, as from some inspiration, her face cleared and she grew arch,
shaking a finger playfully. "To the victors belong the spoils," she said
with sprightly humour, "and it will, at least, narrow the choice. I will
ask those young ladies whose fathers chance to be of a Republican way of
thinking to please arise."
A silence followed--a silence of disappointment to the many; then Emily
Louise MacLauren arose.
Was retribution following thus fast because of that subterfuge of
Mugwump? Alas for that conscientiousness of which she had once been
proud! Was it the measure of her degradation she read on Rosalie's
startled face--Rosalie's face of stricken incredulity and amaze? But no;
Rosalie's transfixed gaze was not on Emily Louise--it passed her, to----
To where in the aisle beyond stood another--Isobel.
But the head of Isobel was erect, and her eyes flashed triumph; the
throw of Isobel's shoulders flung defiance back in the moment of being
chosen.
Excitement quivered the voice of Miss Amanda's announcement. "The wife
of the President of the United States, young ladies, having signified
her intention of to-day visiting our school, the young ladies standing
will report to the office at once, to receive instructions as to their
part in the programme; though first, perhaps"--did Miss Amanda read sex
through self--"a little smoothing of hair--and ribbons----"
Emily Louise on this day carried her news home doubtfully, for Aunt
Louise and Aunt Cordelia were of such violent Democracy.
"You were chosen"--Aunt Louise repeated--"Isobel, to make the speech and
you to present the flowers?" Aunt Louisa's face was alight with
excitement and inquiry. "And what did you do, Emmy Lou?"
"I gave them to her up on the platform; it was a pyramid in a lace
paper--the bouquet."
"And then?" Aunt Louise was breathless with attention.
"She kissed me," said Emily Louise, "on the cheek."
Aunt Louise gave a little laugh of gratification and pride. "The wife of
the President--why, Emmy Lou----"
"I'll write to her Aunt Katie this very afternoon," said Aunt Cordelia.
"Better look to the family tree," said Uncle Charlie. "There's danger of
too rich soil in these public honours."
But, instead, Emily Louise went out and sat on the side-door step; she
needed solitude for the readjustment of her ideas.
Aunt Cordelia was pleased, and Aunt Louise was proud.
And Emily Louise, with the kiss of Republicanism upon her cheek, had
stepped down from the Chapel platform into ovation and adulation, to
find herself the centre of a homeward group jostling for place beside
her. Hattie had carried her books, Rosalie her jacket. William had
nodded to her at one corner, to be waiting at the next, where he nodded
again with an incidental carelessness of manner, and joined the group.
Emily Louise had stolen a glance at William, anxiously. Had William's
opinion of her fallen? It would seem not.
Yet Isobel had gone home alone. Emily Louise had seen her starting, with
sidewise glance and lingering saunter should any be meaning to overtake
her. But she had gone on alone.
"Because she never told," said Hattie.
"Until she wanted to be chosen," said Rosalie.
"But I never told," said Emily Louise.
Hattie was final. "It's different," said Hattie.
"Oh, very," said Rosalie.
They travel through labyrinthian paths who seek for understanding.
The sun went down; the dusk grew chill. Emily Louise sat on the
door-step, chin in palm.