Emily of New Moon
now this horrible woman was going to read them to the whole jeering,
giggling school.
But Miss Brownell realized that the time was too short for that.
She had to content herself with reading over the titles, with some
appropriate comments.
Meanwhile Perry Miller was relieving his feelings by bombarding Rhoda
Stuart with spit pills, so craftily timed that Rhoda had no idea from
what quarter of the room they were coming and so could not “tell” on
any one. They greatly interfered with her enjoyment of Emily’s scrape,
however. As for Teddy Kent, who did not wage war with spit pills but
preferred subtler methods of revenge, he was busy drawing something on
a sheet of paper. Rhoda found the sheet on her desk the next morning;
on it was depicted a small, scrawny monkey, hanging by its tail from
a branch; and the face of the monkey was as the face of Rhoda Stuart.
Whereat Rhoda Stuart waxed wroth, but for the sake of her own vanity
tore the sketch to tatters and kept silence regarding it. She did not
know that Teddy had made a similar sketch, with Miss Brownell figuring
as a vampirish-looking bat, and thrust it into Emily’s hand as they
left school.
“‘The Lost Dimond--a Romantic Tale,’” read Miss Brownell. “‘Lines on
a Birch Tree’--looks to me more like lines on a very dirty piece of
paper, Emily--‘Lines Written on a Sundial in our Garden’--ditto--‘Lines
to my Favourite Cat’--another romantic _tail_, I presume--‘Ode to
Ilse’--‘Thy neck is of a wondrous pearly sheen’--hardly that, I should
say. Ilse’s neck is very sunburned--‘A Deskripshun of Our Parlour,’
‘The Violets Spell’--I hope the violet _spells_ better than you do,
Emily--‘The Disappointed House’--
“‘Lilies lifted up white cups
For the bees to _dr--r--i--i--nk_.’”
“I didn’t write it that way!” cried tortured Emily.
“‘Lines to a Piece of Brokade in Aunt Laura’s Burow Drawer,’ ‘Farewell
on Leaving Home,’ ‘Lines to a Spruce Tree’--‘It keeps off heat and sun
and glare, Tis a goodly tree I ween’--are you quite sure that you know
what ‘ween’ means, Emily?--‘Poem on Mr. Tom Bennet’s Field’--‘Poem on
the Vew from Aunt Elizabeth’s Window’--you are strong on ‘v-e-w-s,’
Emily--‘Epitaff on a Drowned Kitten,’ ‘Meditashuns at the tomb of my
great great grandmother’--poor lady--‘To my Northern Birds’--‘Lines
composed on the bank of Blair Water gazing at the stars’--h’m--h’m--
“‘Crusted with uncounted gems,
Those stars so distant, cold and true,’
Don’t try to pass those lines off as your own, Emily. You couldn’t have
written them.”
“I did--I did!” Emily was white with sense of outrage. “And I’ve
written lots far better.”
Miss Brownell suddenly crumpled the ragged little papers up in her hand.
“We have wasted enough time over this trash,” she said. “Go to your
seat, Emily.”
She moved towards the stove. For a moment Emily did not realize
her purpose. Then, as Miss Brownell opened the stove door, Emily
understood and bounded forward. She caught at the papers and tore them
from Miss Brownell’s hand before the latter could tighten her grasp.
“You _shall not_ burn them--you shall not have them,” gasped Emily. She
crammed the poems into the pocket of her “baby apron” and faced Miss
Brownell in a kind of calm rage. The Murray look was on her face--and
although Miss Brownell was not so violently affected by it as Aunt
Elizabeth had been, it nevertheless gave her an unpleasant sensation,
as of having roused forces with which she dared not tamper further.
This tormented child looked quite capable of flying at her, tooth and
claw.
“Give me those papers, Emily,”--but she said it rather uncertainly.
“I will not,” said Emily stormily. “They are mine. You have no right to
them. I wrote them at recesses--I didn’t break any rules. You”--Emily
looked defiantly into Miss Brownell’s cold eyes--“You are an unjust,
tyrannical _person_.”
Miss Brownell turned to her desk.
“I am coming up to New Moon to-night to tell your Aunt Elizabeth of
this,” she said.
Emily was at first too much excited over saving her precious poetry to
pay much heed to this threat. But as her excitement ebbed cold dread
flowed in. She knew she had an unpleasant time ahead of her. But at all
events they should not get her poems--not one of them, no matter what
they did to _her_. As soon as she got home from school she flew to the
garret and secreted them on the shelf of the old sofa.
She wanted terribly to cry but she would not. Miss Brownell was coming
and Miss Brownell should _not_ see her with red eyes. But her heart
burned within her. Some sacred temple of her being had been desecrated
and shamed. And more was yet to come, she felt wretchedly sure. Aunt
Elizabeth was certain to side with Miss Brownell. Emily shrank from the
impending ordeal with all the dread of a sensitive, fine strung nature
facing humiliation. She would not have been afraid of justice; but she
knew at the bar of Aunt Elizabeth and Miss Brownell she would not have
justice.
“And I can’t write Father about it,” she thought, her little breast
heaving. The shame of it all was too deep and intimate to be written
out, and so she could find no relief for her pain.
They did not have supper at New Moon in winter time until Cousin Jimmy
had finished his chores and was ready to stay in for the night. So
Emily was left undisturbed in the garret.
From the dormer window she looked down on a dreamland scene that would
ordinarily have delighted her. There was a red sunset behind the white,
distant hills, shining through the dark trees like a great fire; there
was a delicate blue tracery of bare branch shadows all over the crusted
garden; there was a pale, ethereal alpenglow all over the southeastern
sky; and presently there was a little, lovely new moon in the silvery
arch over Lofty John’s bush. But Emily found no pleasure in any of them.
Presently she saw Miss Brownell coming up the lane, under the white
arms of the birches, with her mannish stride.
“If my father was alive,” said Emily, looking down at her, “you would
go away from this place with a flea in your ear.”
The minutes passed, each seeming very long to Emily. At last Aunt Laura
came up.
“Your Aunt Elizabeth wants you to come down to the kitchen, Emily.”
Aunt Laura’s voice was kind and sad. Emily fought down a sob. She hated
to have Aunt Laura think she had been naughty, but she could not trust
herself to explain. Aunt Laura would sympathize and sympathy would
break her down. She went silently down the two long flights of stairs
before Aunt Laura and out to the kitchen.
The supper table was set and the candles were lighted. The big
black-raftered kitchen looked spookish and weird, as it always did
by candlelight. Aunt Elizabeth sat rigidly by the table and her face
was very hard. Miss Brownell sat in the rocking-chair, her pale eyes
glittering with triumphant malice. There seemed something baleful and
poisonous in her very glance. Also, her nose was very red--which did
not add to her charm.
Cousin Jimmy, in his grey jumper, was perched on the edge of the
wood-box, whistling at the ceiling, and looking more gnome-like than
ever. Perry was nowhere to be seen. Emily was sorry for this. The
presence of Perry, who was on her side, would have been a great moral
support.
“I am sorry to say, Emily, that I have been hearing some very bad
things about your behaviour in school to-day,” said Aunt Elizabeth.
“No, I don’t think you are sorry,” said Emily, gravely.
Now that the crisis had come she found herself able to confront it
coolly--nay, more, to take a curious interest in it under all her
secret fear and shame, as if some part of her had detached itself from
the rest and was interestedly absorbing impressions and analyzing
motives and describing settings. She felt that when she wrote about
this scene later on she must not forget to describe the odd shadows the
candle under Aunt Elizabeth’s nose cast upward on her face, producing a
rather skeletonic effect. As for Miss Brownell, could _she_ ever have
been a baby--a dimpled, fat, laughing baby? The thing was unbelievable.
“Don’t speak impertinently to _me_,” said Aunt Elizabeth.
“You see,” said Miss Brownell, significantly.
“I don’t mean to be impertinent, but you are _not_ sorry,” persisted
Emily. “You are angry because you think I have disgraced New Moon, but
you are a little glad that you have got some one to agree with you that
I’m bad.”
“What a _grateful_ child,” said Miss Brownell--flashing her eyes up at
the ceiling--where they encountered a surprising sight. Perry Miller’s
head--and no more of him--was stuck down out of the “black hole” and
on Perry Miller’s upside-down face was a most disrespectful and impish
grimace. Face and head disappeared in a flash, leaving Miss Brownell
staring foolishly at the ceiling.
“You have been behaving disgracefully in school,” said Aunt Elizabeth,
who had not seen this by-play. “I am ashamed of you.”
“It was not as bad as that, Aunt Elizabeth,” said Emily steadily. “You
see it was this way--”
“I don’t want to hear anything more about it,” said Aunt Elizabeth.
“But you must,” cried Emily. “It isn’t fair to listen only to _her_
side. I was a little bad--but not so bad as she says--”
“Not another word! I have heard the whole story,” said Aunt Elizabeth
grimly.
“You heard a pack of lies,” said Perry, suddenly sticking his head down
through the black hole again.
Everybody jumped--even Aunt Elizabeth, who at once became angrier than
ever because she _had_ jumped.
“Perry Miller, come down out of that loft instantly!” she commanded.
“Can’t,” said Perry laconically.
“At once, I say!”
“Can’t,” repeated Perry, winking audaciously at Miss Brownell.
“Perry Miller, come down! I _will_ be obeyed. I am mistress here
_yet_.”
“Oh, all right,” said Perry cheerfully. “If I must.”
He swung himself down until his toes touched the ladder. Aunt Laura
gave a little shriek. Everybody else seemed to be stricken dumb.
“I’ve just got my wet duds off,” Perry was saying cheerfully, waving
his legs about to get a foothold on the ladder while he hung to the
sides of the black hole with his elbows. “Fell into the brook when I
was watering the cows. Was going to put on dry ones--but just as you
say--”
“Jimmy,” implored poor Elizabeth Murray, surrendering at discretion.
_She_ could not cope with the situation.
“Perry, get back into that loft and get your clothes on this minute!”
ordered Cousin Jimmy.
The bare legs shot up and disappeared. There was a chuckle as mirthful
and malicious as an owl’s beyond the black hole. Aunt Elizabeth gave a
convulsive gasp of relief and turned to Emily. She was determined to
regain ascendancy and Emily must be thoroughly humbled.
“Emily, kneel down here before Miss Brownell and ask her pardon for
your conduct to-day,” she said.
Into Emily’s pale cheek came a scarlet protest. She could not do
this--she would ask pardon of Miss Brownell but not on her knees. To
kneel to this cruel woman who had hurt her so--she could not--would not
do it. Her whole nature rose up in protest against such a humiliation.
“Kneel down,” repeated Aunt Elizabeth.
Miss Brownell looked pleased and expectant. It would be very satisfying
to see this child who had defied her kneeling before her as a penitent.
Never again, Miss Brownell felt, would Emily be able to look levelly
at her with those dauntless eyes that bespoke a soul untamable and
free, no matter what punishment might be inflicted upon body or mind.
The memory of this moment would always be with Emily--she could never
forget that she had knelt in abasement. Emily felt this as clearly as
Miss Brownell did and remained stubbornly on her feet.
“Aunt Elizabeth, _please_ let me tell my side of the story,” she
pleaded.