It was gratifying to be attached to a name again. As a Freshman,
personality had been lost in the High School by reason of overwhelming
numbers. The under-world seems always to be over-populated and valued
accordingly. But progress in the High School, by rigorous enforcement of
the survival of the fittest, brings ultimately a chance for identity.
Emmy Lou, a survivor, found a personality awaiting her in her Sophomore
year. Henceforth she was to be Miss MacLauren.
The year brought further distinction. Along in the term Miss MacLauren
received notification that she had been elected to membership in the
Platonian Society.
"On account of recognised literary qualifications," the note set forth.
Miss MacLauren read the note with blushes, and because of the secret joy
its perusal afforded, she re-read it in private many times more. The
first-fruits of fame are sweet; and as an Athenian might have regarded
an invitation into Olympus, so Miss MacLauren looked upon this opening
into Platonia.
As a Freshman, on Friday afternoons, she had noted certain of the upper
pupils strolling about the building after dismissal, clothed, in lieu of
hats and jackets, with large importance. She had learned that they were
Platonians, and from the out-courts of the un-elect she had watched
them, in pairs and groups, mount the stairs with laughter and chatter
and covert backward glances. She did not wonder, she would have glanced
backward, too, for wherein lies the satisfaction of being elect, but in
a knowledge of the envy of those less privileged?
And mounting the stairs to the mansard, their door had shut upon the
Platonians; it was a secret society.
And now this door stood open to Miss MacLauren.
She took her note to Hattie and to Rosalie, who showed a polite but
somewhat forced interest.
"Of course if you have time for that sort of thing," said Hattie.
"As if there was not enough of school and learning, now, Emily," said
Rosalie.
Miss MacLauren felt disconcerted, the bubble of her elation seemed
pricked, until she began to think about it. Hattie and Rosalie were not
asked to become Platonians; did they make light of the honour because it
was not their honour?
Each seeks to be victor in some Field of Achievement, but each is
jealous of the other's Field. Hattie thought Rosalie frivolous, and
Rosalie scribbled notes under the nose of Hattie's brilliant
recitations. Miss MacLauren, on the neutral ground of a non-combatant,
was expected by each to furnish the admiration and applause.
Hattie's was the Field of Learning, and she stood, with obstacles trod
under heel, crowned with honours. Hattie meant to be valedictorian some
day, nor did Miss MacLauren doubt Hattie would be.
Rosalie's was a different Field. Hers was strewn with victims; victims
whose names were Boys.
It was Rosalie's Field, Miss MacLauren, in her heart, longed to enter.
But how did Rosalie do it? She raised her eyes and lowered them, and the
victims fell. But everyone could not be a Rosalie.
And Hattie looked pityingly upon Rosalie's way of life, and Rosalie
laughed lightly at Hattie.
Miss MacLauren admired Hattie, but, secretly, she envied Rosalie. If she
had known how, she herself would have much preferred Boys to Brains; one
is only a Minerva as second choice.
To be sure there was William. Oh, William! He is taken for granted, and
besides, Miss MacLauren is becoming sensitive because there was no one
but William.
The next day she was approached by Hattie and Rosalie, who each had a
note. They mentioned it casually, but Hattie's tone had a ring. Was it
satisfaction? And Rosalie's laugh was touched with gratification, for
the notes were official, inviting them, too, to become Platonians.
"Thinking it over," said Hattie, "I'll join; one owes something to
class-spirit."
"It's so alluring--the sound," said Rosalie. "A secret anything."
Miss MacLauren, thinking it over, herself, after she reached home that
day, suddenly laughed.
It was at dinner. Uncle Charlie looked up at his niece, whom he knew as
Emmy Lou, not, as yet, having met Miss MacLauren. He had heard her laugh
before, but not just that way; generally she had laughed because other
people laughed. Now she seemed to be doing it of herself. There is a
difference.
Emmy Lou was thinking of the changed point of view of Hattie and
Rosalie, "It's--it's funny--" she explained, in answer to Uncle
Charlie's look.
"No!" said Uncle Charlie. "And you see it? Well!"
What on earth was Uncle Charlie talking about?
"I congratulate you," he continued. "It will never be so hard again."
"What?" asked Emmy Lou.
"Anything," said Uncle Charlie.
What was he talking about?
"A sense of humour," said Uncle Charlie, as though one had spoken.
Emma Lou smiled absently. Some of Uncle Charlie's joking which she was
used to accepting as mystifying.
But it was funny about Rosalie and Hattie; she was smiling again, and
she felt patronisingly superior to them both.
Miss MacLauren was still feeling her superiority as she went to school
the next morning. It made her pleased with herself. It was a frosty
morning; she drew long breaths, she felt buoyant, and scarcely conscious
of the pavements under her feet.
At the corner she met William with another boy. She knew this other boy,
but that was all; he had never shown any disposition to have her know
him better. But this morning things were different. William and the
other boy joined her, William taking her books, while they all walked
along together.
Miss MacLauren felt the boy take a sidewise look at her. Something told
her she was looking well, and an intuitive consciousness that the boy,
stealing a look at her, thought so too, made Miss MacLauren look better.
[Illustration: "At the High School gate Miss MacLauren raised her eyes
again."]
Her spirits soared intoxicatingly. This was a new sensation. Miss
MacLauren did not know herself, the sound of her gay chatting and
laughter was strange in her ears. Perhaps it was an unexpected
revelation to the others, too. William was not looking pleased, but the
other boy was looking at her.
Something made Miss MacLauren feel daring. She looked up--suddenly--at
the other boy--square. To be sure, she looked down quicker, that part
being involuntary, as well as the blush that followed. The blush was
disconcerting, but the sensation, on the whole, was pleasurable.
At the High School gate, Miss MacLauren raised her eyes again. The
lowering and the blush could be counted on; the only hard part was to
get them raised.
She was blushing as she turned to go in, she was laughing, too, to hide
the blush. And this was the Elixir of which Rosalie drank; it mounted to
the brain. Intuitively, Miss MacLauren knew, if she could, she would
drink of it again. She looked backward over her shoulder; the boy was
looking backward, too. Hattie had said that Rosalie was frivolous, that
her head was turned; no wonder her head was turned.
The next Friday, the three newly elect mounted the stairs to the
Platonian doorway.
Lofty altitudes are expected to be chilly, and the elevation of the
mansard was as nothing to the mental heights upon which Platonia was
established. Platonian welcome had an added chilliness, besides, by
reason of its formality.
The new members hastily found seats.
On a platform sat Minerva, enthroned; no wonder, for she was a Senior as
well as a President. The lesser lights, on either side, it developed,
were Secretary and Treasurer; they looked coldly important. The other
Platonians sat around.
The Society was asked to come to order. The Society came to order. There
was no settling, and re-settling and rustling, and tardy subsidal, as in
the class-room, perhaps because the young ladies, in this case, wanted
the order.
It went on, though Miss MacLauren was conscious that, for her part, she
comprehended very little of what it was all about, though it sounded
impressive. You called it Parliamentary Ruling. To an outsider, this
seemed almost to mean the longest way round to an end that everybody had
seen from the beginning. Parliamentary Ruling also seemed apt to lead
its followers into paths unexpected even by them, from which they did
not know how to get out, and it also led to revelations humiliating to
new members.
The report of the Treasurer was called for.
It showed a deficit.
"Even with the initiation fees and dues from new members?" asked the
President.
Even so.
"Then," said the President, "we'll have to elect some more. Any new
names for nomination?"
Names, it seemed, were unflatteringly easy to supply, and were rapidly
put up and voted upon for nomination.
[Illustration: "The three newly elect mounted the stairs to the
Platonian doorway."]
But suddenly a Platonian was upon her feet; she had been counting. The
membership was limited and they had over-stepped that limit. The
nominations were unconstitutional.
The Treasurer, at this, was upon her feet, reading from the
Constitution: "The revenues of said Society may be increased only by
payment of dues by new members"--she paused, and here reminded them that
the Society was in debt.
Discussion waxed hot. A constitution had been looked upon as
invulnerable.
At last a Platonian arose. She called attention to the fact that time
was passing, and moved that the matter be tabled, and the Society
proceed with the programme for the day.
Fiercer discussion ensued at this. "Business before pleasure," said a
sententious member. "What's a programme to a matter concerning the
Constitution itself?"
The sponsor for the motion grew sarcastic. It developed later she was on
the programme. Since the business of the Society was only useful as a
means of conducting the programme, which was the primary object of the
Society's being, she objected to the classing of the programme as
unimportant.
But the programme was postponed. When people begin to handle red tape,
there is always a chance that they get enmeshed in its voluminous
tangles.
It was dark when the Society adjourned. Platonians gave up dinner and
Friday afternoons to the cause, but what Platonian doubted it being
worth it?
Miss MacLauren and Hattie walked home together. At the corner they met a
boy. It was the other boy whose name, as it chanced, was Chester. He
joined them and they walked along together. Something made Miss
MacLauren's cheek quite red; it was her blush when the boy joined them.
A few steps farther on, they met Miss Kilrain, the new teacher at the
High School. It was just as Miss MacLauren was laughing an embarrassed
laugh to hide the blush. Miss Kilrain looked at them coldly, one was
conscious of her disapproval.
Miss Kilrain's name had been up that very afternoon in the Society for
honorary membership. All teachers were made honorary members.
With the Sophomore year, High School pupils had met several new things.
Higher Education was one of them. They met it in the person of Miss
Kilrain. It looked forbidding. She lowered her voice in speaking of it,
and brought the words forth reverently, coupling it with another
impressively uttered thing, which she styled Modern Methods.
Miss Kilrain walked mincingly on the balls of her feet. She frequently
called the attention of her classes to this, which was superfluous, for
so ostentatiously did she do her walking, one could not but be aware of
some unnatural quality in her gait. But Miss Kilrain, that they might
remember to do the same, reminded her classes so often, they all took to
walking on their heels. Human nature is contrary.
Miss Kilrain also breathed from her diaphragm, and urged her pupils to
try the same.
"Don't you do it," Rosalie cautioned Emmy Lou. "Look at her waist."
Miss Kilrain came into the High School with some other new things--the
new text-books.
There had been violent opposition to the new books, and as violent
fight for them. The papers had been full of it, and Emmy Lou had read
the particulars of it.
A Mr. Bryan had been in favour of the change. Emmy Lou remembered him,
as a Principal, way back in the beginning of things. Mr. Bryan was
quoted in the papers as saying:
"Modern methods are the oil that lubricates the wheels of progress."
Professor Koenig, who was opposed to the change, was Principal at the
High School. He said that the text-books in use were standards, and that
the Latin Series were classics.
"Just what is a classic?" Emmy Lou had asked, looking up from the paper.
Uncle Charlie had previously been reading it himself.
"Professor Koenig is one," said he.
Professor Koenig was little, his beard was grizzled, and the dome of his
head was bald. He wore gold spectacles, and he didn't always hear, at
which times he would bend his head sideways and peer through his
glasses. "Hey?" Professor Koenig would say. But he knew, one felt that
he knew, and that he was making his classes know, too. One was
conscious of something definite behind Professor Koenig's way of closing
the book over one forefinger and tapping upon it with the other. It was
a purpose.
What, then, did Uncle Charlie mean by calling Professor Koenig a
classic?
"Just what does it mean, exactly--classic?" persisted Emmy Lou.
"That which we are apt to put on the shelf," said Uncle Charlie.
Oh--Emmy Lou had thought he was talking about Professor Koenig; he meant
the text-books--she understood now, of course.
But the old books went and the new ones came, and Miss Kilrain came with
them.
She came in mincingly on the balls of her feet the opening day of
school, and took her place on the rostrum of the chapel with The
Faculty. Once one would have said with "the teachers," but in the High
School one knew them as The Faculty. Miss Kilrain took her place with
them, but she was not of them; the High School populace, gazing up from
the groundling's point of view, in serried ranks below, felt that. It
was as though The Faculty closed in upon themselves and left Miss
Kilrain, with her Modern Methods, outside and alone.
But Miss Kilrain showed a proper spirit, and proceeded to form her
intimacies elsewhere; Miss Kilrain grew quite intimate and friendly with
certain of the girls.
And now her name had come up for honorary membership in the Platonian
Society.
"We've always extended it to The Faculty," a member reminded them.
"Besides, she won't bother us," remarked another. "They never come."
Miss Kilrain was accorded the honour.
But she surprised them. She did come; she came tripping up on the balls
of her feet the very next Friday. They heard her deprecating little
cough as she came up the stairs. When one was little, one had played
"Let's pretend." But in the full illusion of the playing, if grown-up
people had appeared, the play stopped--short.
It was like that, now--the silence.
"Oh," said Miss Kilrain, in the doorway, "go on, or I'll go away."
They went on lamely enough, but they never went on again. Miss Kilrain,
ever after, went on for them, and perforce, they followed.
But to-day they went on. The secretary had been reading a communication.
It was from the Literary Society of the Boy's High School, proposing a
debate between the two; it was signed by the secretary, who chanced to
be a boy whose name was Chester.
Miss MacLauren, in spite of herself, grew red; she had been talking
about the Platonians and their debates with him quite recently.
The effect of the note upon the Platonians was visible. A tremendous
fluttering agitated the members. It was a proposition calculated to
agitate them.
Rosalie was on that side opposed to the matter. Why was obvious, for
Rosalie preferred to shine before boys, and she would not shine in
debate.
Hattie was warmly in favour of it, for she was one who would shine.
Miss MacLauren did not express herself, but when it came to the vote,
Miss MacLauren said "Aye."
The "Ayes" had it.
Then, all at once, the Platonians became aware of Miss Kilrain, whom
they had momentarily forgotten. Miss Kilrain was sitting in deprecating
silence, and the Platonians had a sudden consciousness that it was the
silence of disapproval. She sat with the air and the compressed lips of
one who could say much, but since her opinion is not asked----
But just before adjournment Miss Kilrain's lips unclosed, as she arose
apologetically and begged permission to address the chair. She then
acknowledged her pleasure at the compliment of her membership, and
expressed herself as gratified with the earnestness with which some of
the members were regarding this voluntarily chosen opportunity for
self-improvement. These she was sorry to see were in the minority; as
for herself, she must express disapproval of the proposed Debate with
the young gentlemen of the Male High School. It could but lead to
frivolity and she was sorry to see so many in favour of it. Young ladies
whose minds are given to boys and frivolity, are not the material of
which to make a literary society.
As she spoke, Miss Kilrain looked steadily at two members sitting side
by side. Both had voted for the Debate, and both had been seen by Miss
Kilrain, one, at least, laughing frivolously, in company with--a boy.
The two members, moving uneasily beneath Miss Kilrain's gaze, were
Hattie and Miss MacLauren.
Miss Kilrain then went on to say, that she had taught in another school,
a school where the ideals of Higher Education were being realised by the
use of Modern Methods. The spirit of this school had been Earnestness,
and this spirit had found voice in a school paper. As a worthier field
for the talent she recognised in the Platonian Society, Miss Kilrain now
proposed this society start a paper, which should be the organ for the
School.
It was only a suggestion, but did it appeal to the talent she recognised
before her, they could bear in mind that she stood ready to assist them,
with the advice and counsel of one experienced in the work.
Going down stairs, Miss Kilrain put her arm about one of the girls, and
said it was a thing she admired, an earnest young spirit. The girl was
Rosalie, who blushed and looked embarrassed.
That meeting was the last of the Platonian gatherings that might be
called personally conducted. The Platonians hardly knew whether they
wanted a paper or not, when they found themselves full in the business
of making one. Miss Kilrain was the head and front of things. She
marshalled her forces with the air of one who knows what she wants. Her
forces were that part of the Society which had voted against the Debate.
Miss Kilrain was one of those who must lead, at something; if she could
not be leader on the rostrum, she descended to the ranks.
Miss MacLauren was deeply interested, and felt she had a right to be,
for these things, newspapers and such, were in her family. Considering
her recognised literary qualifications, she even had secret aspirations
toward a position on the staff. On a scrap of paper in class she had
surreptitiously tried her hand on a tentative editorial, after this
fashion:
"It is our desire to state at the start that this paper does not intend
to dabble in the muddy pool of politics."
Miss MacLauren heartily indorsed the proposed paper, and like Miss
Kilrain, felt that it would be a proper field for unused talent.
But her preference for a staff position was not consulted. Rosalie,
however, became part of that body. Rosalie was a favourite with Miss
Kilrain. Hattie, the hitherto shining light, was detailed to secure
subscribers; was this all that honours in Algebra, Latin, and Chemistry
could do for one?
Miss MacLauren found herself on a committee for advertisements. By means
of advertisements, Miss Kilrain proposed to make the paper pay for
itself.
The treasurer, because of a proper anxiety over this question of
expenditure, was chairman; in private life the treasurer was Lucy--Lucy
Berry.
"Write to this address," said Miss Kilrain to the committee, giving them
a slip of paper. "I met one of the firm when he was in the city last
week to see a friend of mine, Professor Bryan, on business." Miss
Kilrain, always gave the details of her private happenings to her
listeners. "Just mention my name in writing, and say I told you to ask
for an advertisement."
The Chairman gave the slip to Miss MacLauren to attend to. Miss
MacLauren had seen the name before on all the new text-books this year
introduced into the High School.
"How will I write this?" Emmy Lou inquired of Uncle Charlie that night.
"This letter to the International School Book Company?"
"What's that?" asked Uncle Charlie.
Emmy Lou explained.
Uncle Charlie looked interested. "Here to see Professor Bryan, was he?
H'm. Moving against Koenig faster even than I predicted."
Miss Kilrain had instructed her committee further as to what to do.
"You meet me on Saturday," said Lucy to Emily, "and we will do Main
Street together."
She met Lucy on Saturday. Lucy had a list of places.
"You--you're chairman," said Emmy Lou, "you ask----"
It was at the door of the first place on the list, a large, open
doorway, and it and the sidewalk were blocked with boxes and hogsheads
and men rolling things into drays.
Lucy and Emmy Lou went in; they went on going in, back through a lane
between sacks and things stacked high; it was dark and cellar-like, and
smelled of sugar and molasses. At last they reached a glass door, which
was open. Emmy Lou stopped and held back, so did Lucy.
"You--you're chairman--" said Emmy Lou. It was mean, she felt it was
mean, she never felt meaner.
Lucy went forward; she was pretty, her cheeks were bright and her hair
waved up curly despite its braiding. She was blushing.
A lot of men were at desks, dozens of men it seemed at first, though
really there were four, three standing, one in his shirt sleeves. They
looked up.
The fourth man was in a revolving chair; he was in shirt sleeves, too,
and had a cigar in his mouth; his face was red, and his hat was on the
back of his head.
"Well?" said the man, revolving just enough to see them. He looked
cross.
Lucy explained. Her cheeks were very red now.
At first the man was testy, he did not seem to understand.
Lucy's cheeks were redder, so Emmy Lou came forward, thinking she might
make it plainer. She was blushing, too. They both explained; they both
gazed at the man eagerly while they explained; they both looked pretty,
but then they did not know that.
The man wheeled round a little more and listened. Then he got up. He
pushed his hat back and scratched his head and nodded as he surveyed
them. Then he put a hand in pocket and pursed his lips as he looked down
on them.
"And what am I to get, if I give you the advertisement?" asked the man.
He was smiling jocosely, and here he pinched Lucy's cheek playfully
between a thumb and forefinger.
Emmy Lou had kept her wits. She carried much paraphernalia under her
arm. Miss Kilrain had posted them thoroughly as to their business.
"And what, then, do I get?" repeated the man.
Emmy Lou was producing a paper. "A receipt," said Emmy Lou.
The man shouted. So did the other men.
Emmy Lou and Lucy were bewildered.
"It's worth the price," said the man. He promised them the
advertisement, and walked back through the cellar-like store with them
to the outer door.
"Come again," said the man.
On the way to the next place they met Emmy Lou's Uncle Charlie. It was
near his office. He was a pleasant person to meet downtown, as it
usually meant a visit to a certain alluring candy-place. He was feeling
even now in his change pocket as he came up.
"How now," said he; "and where to?"
Emmy Lou explained. She had not happened to mention this part about the
paper at home.
"What?" said Uncle Charlie, "you have been--Say that over again----"
Emmy Lou said it over again.
No more advertisements were secured that morning. No more were
solicited. Emmy Lou found herself going home with a lump in her throat.
Uncle Charlie had never spoken to her in that tone before.
Lucy had gone on to her father's store, as Uncle Charlie had suggested
she ask permission before she seek business farther.
There were others of Uncle Charlie's way of thinking. On Monday the
Platonians were requested to meet Professor Koenig in his office.
Professor Koenig was kindly but final. He had just heard of the paper
and its methods. He had aimed to conduct his school on different lines.
It was his request that the matter be dropped.
Miss Kilrain was indignant. She was excited; she was excited and
unguarded. Miss Kilrain said more, perhaps, than she realised.
"He's only helping to pull the roof down on his own head," said Miss
Kilrain; "it's only another proof of his inability to adapt himself to
Modern Methods."
Next month was December. The High School adjourned for the holidays. But
the Platonians were busy. They were preparing for a debate, a debate
with the High School boys. Professor Koenig had thought the debate an
excellent thing, and offered his library to the Society for use in
preparation, saying that a friendly rivalry between the two schools
would be an excellent and stimulating thing.
These days Miss Kilrain was holding aloof from the Society and its
deteriorating tendencies. She shook her head and looked at the members
sorrowfully.
The debate was set for the first Friday in the new year.
One morning in the holidays Uncle Charlie looked up from his paper. "You
are going to have a new Principal," said he.
"New Principal--" said Emmy Lou, "and Professor Koenig?"
"Like other classics," said Uncle Charlie, "he is being put on the
shelf. They have asked him to resign."
"And who is the new one?" asked Emmy Lou.
"The gentleman named as likely is Professor Bryan."
"Oh," said Emmy Lou, "no."
"I am of the opinion, therefore," said Uncle Charlie, "that the
'Platonian's Mercurial Gazette' will make its appearance yet."
"If it is Professor Bryan," said Emmy Lou, "there's no need of my
working any more on the Debate."
"Why not?" said Uncle Charlie.
"If it's Mr. Bryan, he'll never let them come, he thinks they are awful
things--boys."
Miss MacLauren was right about it; the debate did not take place.
Platonian affairs seemed suddenly tame. Would a strictly feminine
Olympus pall?
She came into Aunt Cordelia's room one afternoon. "There's to be a
dancing club on Friday evenings," she explained, "and I'm invited."
Which was doubly true, for both William and Chester had asked her. She
was used to having William say he'd come round and go along; she had had
a boy join her and walk home--but this----
"You can't do it all," said Aunt Cordelia positively. "That Society
keeps you till dark."
[Illustration: "She stood, fingering the window curtain, irresolute."]
Emmy Lou knew when Aunt Cordelia's tones were final. She had feared
this. She stood--fingering the window-curtain--irresolute. In her heart
she felt her literary qualifications were not being appreciated in
Platonian circles anyway. A dancing club--it sounded alluring. The
window was near the bureau with its mirror--she stole a look. She
was--yes--she knew now she was pretty.
Late that afternoon Miss MacLauren dropped a note in the post. It was a
note tendering her resignation to the Platonian Society.