Emily of New Moon
“I’m going to take the poor child up to bed--she’s worn right out.”
Emily opened her eyes and looked drowsily about her.
“Can I have Mike?” she said.
“Who is Mike?”
“My cat--my big grey cat.”
“A cat!” exclaimed Aunt Elizabeth in a shocked tone. “You must not have
a cat in your bedroom!”
“Why not--for once?” pleaded Laura.
“Certainly not!” said Aunt Elizabeth. “A cat is a most unwholesome
thing in a sleeping apartment. I’m surprised at you, Laura! Take the
child up to bed and see that there are plenty of bedclothes. It’s a
cold night--but let me hear no more talk of sleeping with cats.”
“Mike is a clean cat,” said Emily. “He washes himself--every day.”
“Take her up to bed, Laura!” said Aunt Elizabeth, ignoring Emily.
Aunt Laura yielded meekly. She carried Emily upstairs, helped her
undress, and tucked her into bed. Emily was very sleepy. But before
she was wholly asleep she felt something, soft and warm and purry and
companionable, snuggling down by her shoulder. Aunt Laura had sneaked
down, found Mike and brought him up to her. Aunt Elizabeth never knew
and Ellen Greene dared not say a word in protest--for was not Laura a
Murray of New Moon?
CHAPTER IV
A FAMILY CONCLAVE
Emily wakened at daylight the next morning. Through her low,
uncurtained window the splendour of the sunrise was coming in, and one
faint, white star was still lingering in the crystal-green sky over the
Rooster Pine. A fresh sweet wind of dawn was blowing around the eaves.
Ellen Greene was sleeping in the big bed and snoring soundly. Except
for that the little house was very still. It was the chance for which
Emily had waited.
Very carefully she slipped from her bed, tiptoed across the room and
opened the door. Mike uncoiled himself from the mat on the middle of
the floor and followed her, rubbing his warm sides against her chilly
little ankles. Almost guiltily she crept down the bare, dark staircase.
How the steps creaked--surely it would waken everybody! But nobody
appeared and Emily got down and slipped into the parlour, drawing a
long breath of relief as she closed the door. She almost ran across the
room to the other door.
Aunt Ruth’s floral pillow still covered the glass of the casket. Emily,
with a tightening of the lips that gave her face an odd resemblance to
Aunt Elizabeth, lifted up the pillow and set it on the floor.
“Oh, Father--Father!” she whispered, putting her hand to her throat to
keep something down. She stood there, a little shivering, white-clad
figure, and looked at her father. This was to be her good-bye; she must
say it when they were alone together--she would not say it before the
Murrays.
Father looked so beautiful. All the lines of pain had vanished--his
face looked almost like a boy’s except for the silver hair above it.
And he was smiling--such a nice, whimsical, wise little smile, as if he
had suddenly discovered something lovely and unexpected and surprising.
She had seen many nice smiles on his face in life but never one just
like this.
“Father, I didn’t cry before them,” she whispered. “I’m sure I didn’t
disgrace the Starrs. Not shaking hands with Aunt Ruth wasn’t disgracing
the Starrs, was it? Because she didn’t really want me to--oh, Father,
I don’t think any of them like me, unless perhaps Aunt Laura does a
little. And I’m going to cry a little bit now, Father, because I can’t
keep it back _all_ the time.”
She laid her face on the cold glass and sobbed bitterly but briefly.
She must say good-bye before any one found her. Raising her head she
looked long and earnestly at the beloved face.
“Good-bye, dearest darling,” she whispered chokingly.
Dashing away her blinding tears she replaced Aunt Ruth’s pillow, hiding
her father’s face from her forever. Then she slipped out, intent on
speedily regaining her room. At the door she almost fell over Cousin
Jimmy, who was sitting on a chair before it, swathed in a huge, checked
dressing-gown, and nursing Mike.
“S-s-h!” he whispered, patting her on the shoulder. “_I_ heard you
coming down and followed you. _I_ knew what you wanted. I’ve been
sitting here to keep them out if any of them came after you. Here, take
this and hurry back to your bed, small pussy.”
“This” was a roll of peppermint lozenges. Emily clutched it and fled,
overcome with shame at being seen by Cousin Jimmy in her nightgown.
She hated peppermints and never ate them, but the fact of Cousin Jimmy
Murray’s kindness in giving them to her sent a thrill of delight to her
heart. And he called her “small pussy,” too,--she liked that. She had
thought nobody would ever call her nice pet names again. Father had had
so many of them for her--“sweetheart” and “darling” and “Emily-child”
and “dear wee kidlet” and “honey” and “elfkin.” He had a pet name for
every mood and she had loved them all. As for Cousin Jimmy, he was
nice. Whatever part of him was missing it wasn’t his heart. She felt so
grateful to him that after she was safely in her bed again she forced
herself to eat one of the lozenges, though it took all her grit to
worry it down.
The funeral was held that forenoon. For once the lonesome little house
in the hollow was filled. The coffin was taken into the parlour and
the Murrays as mourners sat stiffly and decorously all round it, Emily
among them, pale and prim in her black dress. She sat between Aunt
Elizabeth and Uncle Wallace and dared not move a muscle. No other Starr
was present. Her father had no near living relatives. The Maywood
people came and looked at his dead face with a freedom and insolent
curiosity they would never have presumed on in life. Emily hated to
have them looking at her father like that. They had no right--they
hadn’t been friendly to him while he was alive--they had said harsh
things of him--Ellen Greene had sometimes repeated them. Every glance
that fell on him hurt Emily; but she sat still and gave no outward
sign. Aunt Ruth said afterwards that she had never seen a child so
absolutely devoid of all natural feeling.
When the service was over the Murrays rose and marched around the
coffin for a dutiful look of farewell. Aunt Elizabeth took Emily’s
hand and tried to draw her along with them but Emily pulled it back
and shook her head. She had said her good-bye already. Aunt Elizabeth
seemed for a moment to be on the point of insisting; then she grimly
swept onward, alone, looking every inch a Murray. No scene must be made
at a funeral.
Douglas Starr was to be taken to Charlottetown for burial beside his
wife. The Murrays were all going but Emily was not to go. She watched
the funeral procession as it wound up the long, grassy hill, through
the light grey rain that was beginning to fall. Emily was glad it was
raining; many a time she had heard Ellen Greene say that happy was the
corpse the rain fell on; and it was easier to see Father go away in
that soft, kind, grey mist than through sparkling, laughing sunshine.
“Well, I must say the funeral went off fine,” said Ellen Greene at
her shoulder. “Everything’s been done regardless. If your father was
looking down from heaven at it, Emily, I’m sure he’d be pleased.”
“He isn’t in heaven,” said Emily.
“Good gracious! Of all the children!” Ellen could say no more.
“He isn’t there _yet_. He’s only on the way. He said he’d wait around
and go slow until I died, too, so that I could catch up with him. I
hope I’ll die soon.”
“That’s a wicked, wicked thing to wish,” rebuked Ellen.
When the last buggy had disappeared Emily went back to the
sitting-room, got a book out of the bookcase, and buried herself in the
wing-chair. The women who were tidying up were glad she was quiet and
out of the way.
“It’s well she can read,” said Mrs. Hubbard gloomily. “Some little
girls couldn’t be so composed--Jennie Hood just screamed and shrieked
after they carried her mother out--the Hoods are all such a _feeling_
people.”
Emily was not reading. She was thinking. She knew the Murrays would be
back in the afternoon; and she knew her fate would probably be settled
then. “We’ll talk the matter over when we come back,” she had heard
Uncle Wallace saying that morning after breakfast. Some instinct told
her just what “the matter” was; and she would have given one of her
pointed ears to hear the discussion with the other. But she knew very
well she would be sent out of the way. So she was not surprised when
Ellen came to her in the twilight and said:
“You’d better go upstairs, Emily. Your aunts and uncles are coming in
here to talk over the business.”
“Can’t I help you get supper?” asked Emily, who thought that if she
were going and coming around the kitchen she might catch a word or two.
“No. You’d be more bother than help. March, now.”
Ellen waddled out to the kitchen, without waiting to see if Emily
marched. Emily got up reluctantly. How could she sleep to-night if she
did not know what was going to happen to her? And she felt quite sure
she would not be told till morning, if then.
Her eyes fell on the oblong table in the centre of the room. Its cloth
was of generous proportions, falling in heavy folds to the floor. There
was a flash of black stockings across the rug, a sudden disturbance
of drapery, and then--silence. Emily, on the floor under the table,
arranged her legs comfortably and sat triumphant. She would hear what
was decided and nobody would be any the wiser.
She had never been told that it was not considered strictly honourable
to eavesdrop, no occasion for such instruction ever having arisen in
her life with her father; and she considered that it was a bit of pure
luck that she had thought of hiding under the table. She could even see
dimly through the cloth. Her heart beat so loudly in her excitement
that she was afraid they would hear it; there was no other sound save
the soft, faraway singing of frogs through the rain, that sounded
through the open window.
In they came; down they sat around the room; Emily held her breath; for
a few minutes nobody spoke, though Aunt Eva sighed long and heavily.
Then Uncle Wallace cleared his throat and said,
“Well, what is to be done with the child?”
Nobody was in a hurry to answer. Emily thought they would _never_
speak. Finally Aunt Eva said with a whine,
“She’s such a difficult child--so odd. _I_ can’t understand her at all.”
“I think,” said Aunt Laura timidly, “that she has what one might call
an artistic temperament.”
“She’s a spoiled child,” said Aunt Ruth very decidedly. “There’s work
ahead to straighten out _her_ manners, if you ask me.”
(The little listener under the table turned her head and shot a
scornful glance at Aunt Ruth through the tablecloth. “_I_ think that
your own manners have a slight curve.” Emily did not dare even to
murmur the words under her breath, but she shaped them with her mouth;
this was a great relief and satisfaction.)
“I agree with you,” said Aunt Eva, “and I for one do not feel equal to
the task.”
(Emily understood that this meant Uncle Wallace didn’t mean to take her
and she rejoiced thereat.)
“The truth is,” said Uncle Wallace, “Aunt Nancy ought to take her. She
has more of this world’s goods than any of us.”
“Aunt Nancy would never dream of taking her and you know it well
enough!” said Uncle Oliver. “Besides, she’s entirely too old to have
the bringing up of a child--her and that old witch Caroline. Upon my
soul, I don’t believe either of them is human. I would like to take
Emily--but I feel that I can hardly do it. I’ve a large family to
provide for.”
“She’ll not likely live long to bother any one,” said Aunt Elizabeth
crisply. “She’ll probably die of consumption same as her father did.”
(“I won’t--I won’t!” exclaimed Emily--at least she _thought_ it with
such vim that it almost seemed that she exclaimed it. She forgot that