Emily of New Moon
she had wanted to die soon, so that she could overtake Father. She
wanted to live now, just to put the Murrays in the wrong. “I haven’t
_any_ intention of dying. I’m going to live--for ages--and be a famous
_authoress_--you’ll just see if I don’t, Aunt Elizabeth Murray!”)
“She _is_ a weedy looking child,” acknowledged Uncle Wallace.
(Emily relieved her outraged feelings by making a face at Uncle Wallace
through the tablecloth. “If I ever possess a pig I am going to name
it after _you_,” she thought--and then felt quite satisfied with her
revenge.)
“Somebody has to look after her as long as she’s alive though, you
know,” said Uncle Oliver.
(“It would serve you all right if I _did_ die and you suffered terrible
remorse for it all the rest of your lives,” Emily thought. Then in
the pause that happened to follow, she dramatically pictured out her
funeral, selected her pall-bearers, and tried to choose the hymn verse
that she wanted engraved on her tombstone. But before she could settle
this Uncle Wallace began again.)
“Well, we are not getting anywhere. We have to look after the child--”
(“I _wish_ you wouldn’t call me ‘_the child_,’” thought Emily bitterly.)
“--and some of us must give her a home. Juliet’s daughter must not be
left to the mercy of strangers. Personally, I feel that Eva’s health is
not equal to the care and training of a child--”
“Of _such_ a child,” said Aunt Eva.
(Emily stuck her tongue out at Aunt Eva.)
“Poor little soul,” said Aunt Laura gently.
(Something frozen in Emily’s heart melted at that moment. She was
pitifully pleased over being called “poor little soul” so tenderly.)
“I do not think you need pity her overmuch, Laura,” said Uncle Wallace
decidedly. “It is evident that she has very little feeling. I have not
seen her shed a tear since we came here.”
“Did you notice that she would not even take a last look at her
father?” said Aunt Elizabeth.
Cousin Jimmy suddenly whistled at the ceiling.
“She feels so much that she has to hide it,” said Aunt Laura.
Uncle Wallace snorted.
“Don’t you think _we_ might take her, Elizabeth?” Laura went on timidly.
Aunt Elizabeth stirred restlessly.
“I don’t suppose she’d be contented at New Moon, with three old people
like us.”
(“I would--I would!” thought Emily.)
“Ruth, what about you?” said Uncle Wallace. “You’re all alone in that
big house. It would be a good thing for you to have some company.”
“I don’t like her,” said Aunt Ruth sharply. “She is as sly as a snake.”
(“I’m _not_!” thought Emily.)
“With wise and careful training many of her faults may be cured,” said
Uncle Wallace, pompously.
(“I don’t _want_ them cured!” Emily was getting angrier and angrier
all the time under the table. “I like _my_ faults better than I do
_your_--_your_--” she fumbled mentally for a word--then triumphantly
recalled a phrase of her father’s--“your _abominable_ virtues!”)
“I doubt it,” said Aunt Ruth, in a biting tone. “What’s bred in the
bone comes out in the flesh. As for Douglas Starr, I think that it was
perfectly disgraceful for him to die and leave that child without a
cent.”
“Did he do it on purpose?” asked Cousin Jimmy blandly. It was the first
time he had spoken.
“He was a miserable failure,” snapped Aunt Ruth.
“He wasn’t--he wasn’t!” screamed Emily, suddenly sticking her head out
under the tablecloth, between the end legs of the table.
For a moment the Murrays sat as silent and motionless as if her
outburst had turned them to stone. Then Aunt Ruth rose, stalked to the
table, and lifted the cloth, behind which Emily had retired in dismay,
realising what she had done.
“Get up and come out of that, Em’ly Starr!” said Aunt Ruth.
“Em’ly Starr” got up and came out. She was not specially
frightened--she was too angry to be that. Her eyes had gone black and
her cheeks crimson.
“What a little beauty--what a regular little beauty!” said Cousin
Jimmy. But nobody heard him. Aunt Ruth had the floor.
“You shameless little eavesdropper!” she said. “There’s the Starr blood
coming out--a Murray would never have done such a thing. You ought to
be whipped!”
“Father wasn’t a failure!” cried Emily, choking with anger. “You had no
right to call him a failure. Nobody who was loved as much as he was
could be a failure. I don’t believe anybody _ever_ loved you. So it’s
_you_ that’s a failure. And I’m _not_ going to die of consumption.”
“Do you realize what a shameful thing you’ve been guilty of?” demanded
Aunt Ruth, cold with anger.
“I wanted to hear what was going to become of me,” cried Emily. “I
didn’t know it was such a dreadful thing to do--I didn’t know you were
going to say such horrid things about me.”
“Listeners never hear any good of themselves,” said Aunt Elizabeth
impressively. “Your mother would _never_ have done that, Emily.”
The bravado all went out of poor Emily. She felt guilty and
miserable--oh, so miserable. She hadn’t known--but it seemed she had
committed a terrible sin.
“Go upstairs,” said Aunt Ruth.
Emily went, without a protest. But before going she looked around the
room.
“While I was under the table,” she said, “I made a face at Uncle
Wallace and stuck my tongue out at Aunt Eva.”
She said it sorrowfully, desiring to make a clean breast of her
transgressions; but so easily do we misunderstand each other that
the Murrays actually thought that she was indulging in a piece of
gratuitous impertinence. When the door had closed behind her they
all--except Aunt Laura and Cousin Jimmy--shook their heads and groaned.
Emily went upstairs in a state of bitter humiliation. She felt that she
had done something that gave the Murrays the right to despise her, and
they thought it was the Starr coming out in her--and she had not even
found out what her fate was to be.
She looked dismally at little Emily-in-the-glass.
“I didn’t know--I didn’t know,” she whispered. “But I’ll know after
this,” she added with sudden vim, “and I’ll never, _never_ do it
again.”
For a moment she thought she would throw herself on her bed and cry.
She _couldn’t_ bear all the pain and shame that were burning in her
heart. Then her eyes fell on the old yellow account book on her little
table. A minute later Emily was curled up on her bed, Turk-fashion,
writing eagerly in the old book with her little stubby lead pencil.
As her fingers flew over the faded lines her cheeks flushed and her
eyes shone. She forgot the Murrays although she was writing about
them--she forgot her humiliation--although she was describing what had
happened; for an hour she wrote steadily by the wretched light of her
smoky little lamp, never pausing, save now and then, to gaze out of the
window into the dim beauty of the misty night, while she hunted through
her consciousness for a certain word she wanted; when she found it she
gave a happy sigh and fell to again.
When she heard the Murrays coming upstairs she put her book away. She
had finished; she had written a description of the whole occurrence and
of that conclave ring of Murrays, and she had wound up by a pathetic
description of her own deathbed, with the Murrays standing around
imploring her forgiveness. At first she depicted Aunt Ruth as doing
it on her knees in an agony of remorseful sobs. Then she suspended
her pencil--“Aunt Ruth couldn’t _ever_ feel as bad as _that_ over
anything,” she thought--and drew her pencil through the line.
In the writing, pain and humiliation had passed away. She only felt
tired and rather happy. It _had_ been fun, finding words to fit Uncle
Wallace; and what exquisite satisfaction it had been to describe Aunt
Ruth as “a dumpy little woman.”
“I wonder what my uncles and aunts would say if they knew what I
_really_ think of them,” she murmured as she got into bed.
CHAPTER V
DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND
Emily, who had been pointedly ignored by the Murrays at breakfast, was
called into the parlour when the meal was over.
They were all there--the whole phalanx of them--and it occurred to
Emily as she looked at Uncle Wallace, sitting in the spring sunshine,
that she had not just found the exact word after all to express his
peculiar quality of grimness.
Aunt Elizabeth stood unsmilingly by the table with slips of paper in
her hand.
“Emily,” she said, “last night we could not decide who should take you.
I may say that none of us feel very much like doing so, for you have
behaved very badly in many respects--”
“Oh, Elizabeth,--” protested Laura. “She--she is our sister’s child.”
Elizabeth lifted a hand regally.
“_I_ am doing this, Laura. Have the goodness not to interrupt me. As I
was saying, Emily, we could not decide as to who should have the care
of you. So we have agreed to Cousin Jimmy’s suggestion that we settle
the matter by lot. I have our names here, written on these slips of
paper. You will draw one and the one whose name is on it will give you
a home.”
Aunt Elizabeth held out the slips of paper. Emily trembled so violently
that at first she could not draw one. This was terrible--it seemed as
if she must blindly settle her own fate.
“Draw,” said Aunt Elizabeth.
Emily set her teeth, threw back her head with the air of one who
challenges destiny, and drew. Aunt Elizabeth took the slip from the
little shaking hand and held it up. On it was her own name--“Elizabeth
Murray.” Laura Murray suddenly put her handkerchief to her eyes.
“Well, that’s settled,” said Uncle Wallace, getting up with an air of
relief. “And if I’m going to catch that train I’ve got to hurry. Of
course, as far as the matter of expense goes, Elizabeth, I’ll do my
share.”
“We are not paupers at New Moon,” said Aunt Elizabeth rather coldly.
“Since it has fallen to me to take her, I shall do all that is
necessary, Wallace. I do not shirk my duty.”
“_I_ am her duty,” thought Emily. “Father said nobody ever liked a
duty. So Aunt Elizabeth will never like me.”
“You’ve got more of the Murray pride than all the rest of us put
together, Elizabeth,” laughed Uncle Wallace.
They all followed him out--all except Aunt Laura. She came up to Emily,
standing alone in the middle of the room, and drew her into her arms.
“I’m so glad, Emily--I’m so glad,” she whispered. “Don’t fret, dear
child. I love you already--and New Moon is a nice place, Emily.”
“It has--a pretty name,” said Emily, struggling for self-control.
“I’ve--always hoped--I could go with you, Aunt Laura. I think I am
going to cry--but it’s not because I’m sorry I’m going there. My
manners are _not_ as bad as you may think, Aunt Laura--and I wouldn’t
have listened last night if I’d known it was wrong.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” said Aunt Laura.
“But I’m not a Murray, you know.”
Then Aunt Laura said a queer thing--for a Murray.
“Thank heaven for that!” said Aunt Laura.
Cousin Jimmy followed Emily out and overtook her in the little hall.
Looking carefully around to ensure privacy, he whispered,
“Your Aunt Laura is a great hand at making an apple turnover, pussy.”
Emily thought apple turnover sounded nice, though she did not know what
it was. She whispered back a question which she would never have dared
ask Aunt Elizabeth or even Aunt Laura.
“Cousin Jimmy, when they make a cake at New Moon, will they let me
scrape out the mixing-bowl and eat the scrapings?”
“Laura will--Elizabeth won’t,” whispered Cousin Jimmy solemnly.
“And put my feet in the oven when they get cold? And have a cooky
before I go to bed?”
“Answer same as before,” said Cousin Jimmy. “_I’ll_ recite my poetry
to you. It’s very few people I do that for. I’ve composed a thousand
poems. They’re not written down--I carry them here.” Cousin Jimmy
tapped his forehead.
“Is it very hard to write poetry?” asked Emily, looking with new
respect at Cousin Jimmy.