“And it leaves so much unsaid! I should like to describe her a little bit so that future pupils might know what she was like. If they read that, they would imagine her just like anyone else,” objected Bertha, frowning. “I suppose it wouldn’t do to say something about her—er—‘engaging ugliness!’ or some expression like that?”
Howls of indignation greeted this audacious proposition, and Bertha was alternately snubbed, reproached, and abused, until she grew sulky and retired from the discussion. Rhoda herself came to the rescue, and with the critical spirit of the true artist acknowledged the defect in her own work.
“Bertha is right! What I have written gives no idea of Tom herself. It’s a pity, but I don’t see how it can be helped. What words could describe Tom to anyone who had not seen her? Now, here’s another idea! Why not make a rule that every girl who has had her name inscribed on the Record Wall must present a framed portrait to the school? All the frames would be alike, and they would be hung in rows in the Great Hall, so that future generations of pupils might be able to see what the girls were like, and feel more friendly towards them!”
“Rhoda! What a h–eavenly idea!” cried Irene rapturously. “How s–imply lovely! Why in the world have we never thought of that before?”
“I never heard of anything so splendid!” cried the girls in chorus, while Rhoda sat beaming with gratified smiles. Well, if her own name would never be printed in that roll of honour, at least she had composed the inscription of one of the most important tablets, and had suggested a new idea which bade fair to be as much appreciated as the Wall itself! Already the girls were debating eagerly together as to its inauguration, and deciding that the different “Heads” should be deputed to write to those old members of each house who had been honoured with tablets, to ask for portraits taken as nearly as possible about the date of leaving school. Irene, of course, would communicate with Tom to inform her of the step about to be taken by her companions, and to direct her to be photographed at the first possible moment.
“And—er—you might just drop a hint about her attire!” said Rhoda, anxiously, as a remembrance of the dress and coiffure of Erley Chase rose before her. Nothing more likely than that Tom would elect to do honour to her companions by putting on her very best clothes for their benefit, and imagine the horror of the Blues at seeing their old Head decked out in such fashion! “We should like best to see her as she used to look here.”
“She must wear the old blue dress, and stand with her back to the fireplace, with her hands in her pockets,” cried Kathleen firmly. “We don’t want to see Tom lying in a hammock against a background of palms, or smirking over a fan—not much! It’s the genuine article we want, and no make-up. What will she say, I wonder, when she hears she is going to have a tablet? Will she be pleased or vexed?”
“She must be pleased—who could help it?—but she will pretend she is not. Mark my words, she’ll write back and say it’s a piece of ridiculous nonsense.”
So prophesied Irene; but the result proved that she was wrong, for Tom, as usual, refused to be anticipated. Instead of protesting that she had done nothing worthy of such an honour, and beseeching her companions not to make themselves ridiculous, she dismissed the subject in a couple of lines, in which she declared the proposed scheme to be “most laudable,” and calmly volunteered to contribute half-a-crown!
The Blues agreed among themselves that such behaviour came perilously near “callousness,” but Rhoda recalled that last peep through the bars of the station gate, and could not join in the decision. She believed that Tom would be profoundly touched by the honour, so touched and so proud that she dared not trust herself to approach the subject from a serious view. And she was right, for if imagination could have carried her old companions to the study where Tom was then domiciled, they would have seen her chalking an immense red cross on her calendar against the date when Irene’s letter had arrived, and mentally recording it as the proudest day of her life.