Emily Climbs (29 page)

She imagined slurs in everything Principal Hardy said – covert insults in every remark or look of her schoolmates.
Only Evelyn Blake posed as friend and defender, and this was the most unkindest cut of all. Whether alarm or malice was behind Evelyn’s pose, Emily did not know – but she did know that Evelyn’s parade of friendship and loyalty and staunch belief in the face of overwhelming evidence was something that seemed to smirch her more than all the gossip could. Evelyn went about assuring every one that
she
wouldn’t believe one word against “poor dear Emily.” Poor dear Emily could have cheerfully watched her drown – or thought she could.

Meanwhile, Aunt Ruth, who had been confined to her house for several weeks with sciatica and had been so crusty with it that neither friends nor enemies had dared to hint anything to her of the gossip concerning her niece, was beginning to take notice. Her sciatica had departed and left her faculties free to concentrate on other things. She recalled that Emily’s appetite had been poor for days and Aunt Ruth suspected that she had not been sleeping. The moment this suspicion occurred to Aunt Ruth she took action. Secret worries were not to be tolerated in her house.

“Emily, I want to know what is the matter with you,” she demanded, one Saturday afternoon when Emily, pale and listless, with purple smudges under her eyes, had eaten next to nothing for dinner.

A little colour came into Emily’s face. The hour she had dreaded so was upon her. Aunt Ruth must be told all. And Emily felt miserably that she had neither the courage to endure the resultant heckling nor the spirit to hold her own against Aunt Ruth’s whys and wherefores. She knew so well how it would all be: horror over the John house episode – as if anybody could have helped it: annoyance over the gossip – as if Emily were responsible for it: several assurances that she had always expected something like this: and then intolerable weeks
of reminders and slurs. Emily felt a sort of mental nausea at the whole prospect. For a minute she could not speak.

“What have you been doing?” persisted Aunt Ruth.

Emily set her teeth. It was unendurable, but it must be endured. The story had to be told – the only thing to do was to get it told as soon as possible.

“I haven’t done anything wrong, Aunt Ruth. I’ve just done something that has been misunderstood.”

Aunt Ruth sniffed. But she listened without interruption to Emily’s story. Emily told it as briefly as possible, feeling as if she were a criminal in the witness box with Aunt Ruth as judge, jury and prosecuting attorney all in one. When she had finished she sat in silence waiting for some characteristic Aunt Ruthian comment.

“And what are they making all the fuss about?” said Aunt Ruth.

Emily didn’t know exactly what to say. She stared at Aunt Ruth.

“They– they’re thinking – and saying all sorts of horrible things,” she faltered. “You see – down here in sheltered Shrewsbury they didn’t realise what a storm it was. And then, of course, every one who repeated the story coloured it a little – we were
all
drunk by the time it filtered through Shrewsbury.”

“What exasperates me,” said Aunt Ruth, “is to think you told about it in Shrewsbury at all. Why on earth didn’t you keep it all quiet?”

“That would have been
sly
.” Emily’s demon suddenly prompted her to say this. Now that the story was out she felt a rebound of spirit that was almost laughter.

“Sly! It would have been common sense,” snorted Aunt Ruth. “But, of course, Ilse couldn’t hold her tongue. I’ve often told you, Emily, that a fool friend is ten times more dangerous
than an enemy. But what are you killing yourself worrying for?
Your
conscience is clear. This gossip will soon die out.”

“Principal Hardy says I ought to resign from the presidency of the class,” said Emily.

“Jim Hardy! Why, his father was a hired boy to my grandfather for years,” said Aunt Ruth in tones of ineffable contempt. “Does Jim Hardy imagine that
my niece
would behave improperly?”

Emily felt herself all at sea. She thought she really must be dreaming. Was this incredible woman Aunt Ruth? It couldn’t be Aunt Ruth. Emily was up against one of the contradictions of human nature. She was learning that you may fight with your kin – disapprove of them – even hate them, but that there is a bond between you for all that. Somehow, your very nerves and sinews are twisted with theirs. Blood is always thicker than water. Let an outsider attack – that’s all. Aunt Ruth had at least one of the Murray virtues – loyalty to clan.

“Don’t worry over Jim Hardy,” said Aunt Ruth. “I’ll soon settle him. I’ll teach people to keep their tongues off the Murrays.”

“But Mrs. Tolliver has asked me to let her cousin take my stall in the bazaar,” said Emily. “You know what that means.”

“I know that Polly Tolliver is an upstart and a fool,” retorted Aunt Ruth. “Ever since Nat Tolliver married his stenographer, St. John’s Church hasn’t been the same place. Ten years ago she was a barefooted girl running round the back streets of Charlottetown. The cats themselves wouldn’t have brought her in. Now she puts on the airs of a queen and tries to run the church. I’ll soon clip
her
claws. She was pretty thankful a few weeks ago to have a Murray in her stall. It was a rise in the world for
her
. Polly Tolliver, forsooth. What is this world coming to?”

Aunt Ruth sailed upstairs, leaving a dazed Emily looking at vanishing bogies. Aunt Ruth came down again, ready for the warpath. She had taken out her crimps, put on her best bonnet, her best black silk, and her new sealskin coat. Thus arrayed she skimmed uptown to the Tolliver residence on the hill. She remained there half an hour closeted with Mrs. Nat Tolliver. Aunt Ruth was a short, fat, little woman, looking very dowdy and old-fashioned in spite of her new bonnet and sealskin coat. Mrs. Nat was the last word in fashion and elegance, with her Paris gown, her lorgnette and her beautifully marcelled hair – marcels were just coming in then and Mrs. Nat’s was the first in Shrewsbury. But the victory of the encounter did not perch on Mrs. Tolliver’s standard. Nobody knows just what was said at that notable interview. Certainly Mrs. Tolliver never told. But when Aunt Ruth left the big house Mrs. Tolliver was crushing her Paris gown and her marcel waves among the cushions of her davenport while she wept tears of rage and humiliation; and Aunt Ruth carried a note in her muff to Mrs. Tolliver’s “Dear Emily,” saying that her cousin was not going to take part in the bazaar and would “Dear Emily” be so kind as to take the stall as at first planned. Dr. Hardy was next interviewed, and again Aunt Ruth went, saw, conquered. The maid in the Hardy household heard and reported one sentence of the confab, though nobody ever believed that Aunt Ruth really said to stately, spectacled Dr. Hardy,

“I know you’re a fool, Jim Hardy, but for heaven’s sake pretend you’re not for five minutes!”

No, the thing was impossible. Of course, the maid invented it.

“You won’t have much more trouble, Emily,” said Aunt Ruth on her return home. “Polly and Jim have got their craws full. When people see you at the bazaar they’ll soon realise
what way the wind blows and trim their sails accordingly. I’ve a few things to say to some other folks when opportunity offers. Matters have come to a pretty pass if decent boys and girls can’t escape freezing to death without being slandered for it. Don’t you give this thing another thought, Emily. Remember, you’ve got a family behind you.”

Emily went to her glass when Aunt Ruth had gone downstairs. She tilted it at the proper angle and smiled at Emily-in-the-Glass – smiled slowly, provocatively, alluringly.

“I wonder where I put my Jimmy-book,” thought Emily. “I must add a few more touches to my sketch of Aunt Ruth.”

W
hen Shrewsbury people discovered that Mrs. Dutton was backing her niece, the flame of gossip that had swept over the town died down in an incredibly short time. Mrs. Dutton gave more to the various funds of St. John’s Church than any other member – it was a Murray tradition to support your church becomingly. Mrs. Dutton had lent money to half the business men in town – she held Nat Tolliver’s note for an amount that kept him wakeful o’ nights. Mrs. Dutton had a disconcerting knowledge of family skeletons – to which she had no delicacy in referring. Therefore, Mrs. Dutton was a person to be kept in good humour, and if people had made the mistake of supposing that because she was very strict with her niece, it was safe to snub that niece, why, the sooner they corrected that mistake the better for all concerned.

Emily sold baby jackets and blankets and bootees and bonnets in Mrs. Tolliver’s stall at the big bazaar and wheedled elderly gentlemen into buying them, with her now famous smile: everybody was nice to her and she was happy again, though the experience had left a scar. Shrewsbury folks in after
years said that Emily Starr had never really forgiven them for having talked about her – and added that the Murrays never did forgive, you know. But forgiveness did not enter into the matter. Emily had suffered so horribly that henceforth the sight of any one who had been connected with her suffering was hateful to her. When Mrs. Tolliver asked her, a week later, to pour tea at the reception she was giving her cousin, Emily declined politely, without troubling herself to give any excuse. And something in the tilt of her chin, or in the level glance of her eyes, made Mrs. Tolliver feel to her marrow that she was still Polly Riordan of Riordan Alley, and would never be anybody else in the sight of a Murray of New Moon.

But Andrew was welcomed quite sweetly when he somewhat sheepishly called the following Friday night. It may be that he felt a little doubtful of his reception, in spite of the fact that he was sealed of the tribe. But Emily was markedly gracious to him. Perhaps she had her own reasons for it. Again, I call attention to the fact that I am Emily’s biographer, not her apologist. If she took a way to get even with Andrew which I may not approve, what can I do but deplore it? For my own satisfaction, however, I may remark in passing that I do think Emily went too far when she told Andrew – after his report of some compliments his manager had paid him – that he was certainly a wonder. I cannot even excuse her by saying that she spoke in sarcastic tones. She did not: she said it most sweetly with an upward glance followed by a downward one that made even Andrew’s well-regulated heart skip a beat. Oh, Emily, Emily!

Things went well with Emily that spring. She had several acceptances and cheques, and was beginning to plume herself on being quite a literary person. Her clan began to take her scribbling mania somewhat seriously. Cheques were unanswerable things.

“Emily has made fifty dollars by her pen since New Year’s,” Aunt Ruth told Mrs. Drury “I begin to think the child has an easy way of making a living.”

An easy way! Emily, overhearing this as she went through the hall, smiled and sighed. What did Aunt Ruth – what did any one know of the disappointments and failures of the climbers on Alpine Paths? What did she know of the despairs and agonies of one who
sees
but cannot
reach
. What did she know of the bitterness of one who conceives a wonderful tale and writes it down, only to find a flat and flavourless manuscript as a reward for all her toil? What did she know of barred doors and impregnable editorial sanctums? Of brutal rejection slips and the awfulness of faint praise? Of hopes deferred and hours of sickening doubt and self-distrust?

Aunt Ruth knew of none of these things, but she took to having fits of indignation when Emily’s manuscripts were returned.

“Impudence
I
call it,” she said. “Don’t send that editor another line. Remember, you’re a Murray!”

“I’m afraid he doesn’t know that,” said Emily, gravely.

“Then why don’t you tell him?” said Aunt Ruth.

Shrewsbury had a mild sensation in May when Janet Royal came home from New York with her wonderful dresses, her brilliant reputation, and her chow dog. Janet was a Shrewsbury girl, but she had never been home since she had “gone to the States” twenty years ago. She was clever and ambitious and she had succeeded. She was the literary editor of a big metropolitan woman’s magazine and one of the readers for a noted publishing house. Emily held her breath when she heard of Miss Royal’s arrival. Oh, if she could only see her – have a talk with her – ask her about a hundred things she wanted to know! When Mr. Towers told her in an
off-hand manner to go and interview Miss Royal and write it up for the
Times
, Emily trembled between terror and delight. Here was her excuse. But
could
she – had she assurance enough? Wouldn’t Miss Royal think her unbearably presumptuous? How could
she
ask Miss Royal questions about her career and her opinion of the United States’ foreign policy and reciprocity? She could never have the courage.

“We both worship at the same altar – but she is high priestess and I am only the humblest acolyte,” wrote Emily in her journal.

Then she indited a very worshipful letter to Miss Royal, and rewrote it a dozen times, asking permission to interview her. After she had mailed it she could not sleep all night because it occurred to her that she should have signed herself “yours truly” instead of “yours sincerely.” “Yours sincerely” smacked of an acquaintanceship that did not exist. Miss Royal would surely think her presuming.

But Miss Royal sent back a charming letter – Emily has it to this day.

Emily thrilled to the ends of her toes when she read this letter. “Yours fraternally” – oh, heavenly! She knelt at her window and looked out with enraptured eyes into the slender firs of the Land of Uprightness and the dewy young clover fields beyond. Oh, was it possible that some day she would be a brilliant, successful woman like Miss Royal? That letter made it seem possible – made every wonderful dream seem possible. And on Friday – four more days – she was going to see and talk intimately with her high priestess.

Mrs. Angela Royal, who called to see Aunt Ruth that evening, didn’t exactly seem to think Janet Royal a high priestess or a wonder. But then, of course, a prophetess is apt to have scant honour in her own country and Mrs. Royal had brought Janet up.

“I don’t say but what she’s got on well,” she confided to Aunt Ruth. “She gets a big salary. But she’s an old maid for all that. And as odd in some ways as Dick’s hat-band.”

Emily, studying Latin in the bay window, went on fire with indignation. This was nothing short of
lèse-majesté
.

“She is very fine looking yet,” said Aunt Ruth. “Janet was always a nice girl.”

“Oh, yes, she’s nice enough. But I was always afraid she was too clever to get married, and I was right. And she’s full of foreign notions. She’s never on time for her meals – and it really makes me sick the fuss she makes over that dog of hers – Chu-Chin, she calls it.
He
rules the house. He does
exactly
as he likes and nobody dare say a word. My poor cat can’t call her soul her own. Janet is so touchy about him. When I complained about him sleeping on the plush davenport she was so vexed she wouldn’t speak for a day. That’s a thing I don’t like about Janet. She gets so high and mighty when she’s offended. And she gets offended at things nobody else would dream of minding. And when she’s offended with one she’s offended with everybody. I hope nothing will upset her before you come on Friday, Emily. If she’s out of humour she’ll visit it on you. But I will say for her that she doesn’t often get vexed and there’s nothing mean or grudging about her. She’d work her fingers to the bone to serve a friend.”

When Aunt Ruth had gone out to interview the grocer’s boy, Mrs. Royal added hurriedly,

“She’s greatly interested in you, Emily. She’s always fond of having pretty, fresh girls about her – says it keeps her feeling young. She thinks your work shows real talent. If she takes a fancy to you it would be a great thing for you. But, for pity’s sake, keep on good terms with that chow! If you offend
him
, Janet wouldn’t have anything to do with you supposing you were Shakespeare himself.”

Emily awoke Friday morning with the conviction that this was to be one of the crucial days of her life – a day of dazzling possibilities. She had had a terrible dream of sitting spellbound before Miss Royal, unable to utter a word except “Chu-Chin,” which she repeated parrot-like whenever Miss Royal asked her a question.

It poured rain all the forenoon, much to her dismay, but at noon it cleared up brilliantly and the hills across the harbour scarfed themselves in fairy blue. Emily hurried home from school, pale with the solemnity of the occasion. Her toilet was an important rite. She must wear her new navy-blue silk – no question about that. It was positively long and made her look fully grown up. But how should she do her hair? The Psyche knot had more distinction, suited her profile, and showed to better advantage under her hat. Besides, perhaps a bare forehead made her look more intellectual. But Mrs. Royal had said that Miss Royal liked pretty girls. Pretty, therefore, she must be at all costs. The rich black hair was dressed low on her forehead and crowned by the new spring hat which Emily had dared to buy with her latest cheque, in spite of Aunt Elizabeth’s disapproval and Aunt Ruth’s unvarnished statement that a fool and her money were soon parted. But Emily was glad now that she had bought the hat. She
couldn’t
have gone to interview Miss Royal in her plain black sailor. This hat was very becoming with its cascade of purple violets that fell from it over the lovely, unbroken waves of hair, just touching the milk-whiteness of her neck. Everything about her was exquisitely neat and dainty: she looked – I like the old phrase – as if she had just stepped from a band-box. Aunt Ruth, prowling about the hall, saw her coming downstairs and realised, with something of a shock, that Emily was a young woman.

“She carries herself like a Murray,” thought Aunt Ruth.

The force of commendation could no further go, though it was really from the Starrs that Emily had inherited her slim elegance. The Murrays were stately and dignified, but stiff.

It was quite a little walk to Ashburn, which was a fine old white house set far back from the street amid great trees. Emily went up the gravel walk, edged with its fine-fringed
shadows of spring, as a worshipper approaching a sacred fane. A fairly large, fluffy white dog was sitting half-way up the gravel walk. Emily looked at him curiously. She had never seen a chow dog. She decided that Chu-Chin was handsome, but not clean. He had evidently been having a glorious time in some mud puddle, for his paws and breast were reeking. Emily hoped he would approve of her, but keep his distance.

Evidently he approved of her, for he turned and trotted up the walk with her, amiably waving a plumy tail – or rather a tail that would have been plumy had it not been wet and muddy. He stood expectantly beside her while she rang the bell, and as soon as the door was opened he made a joyous bound on the lady who stood within, almost knocking her over.

Miss Royal herself had opened the door. She had, as Emily saw at once, no beauty, but unmistakable distinction, from the crown of her gold-bronze hair to the toes of her satin slippers. She was arrayed in some marvellous dress of mauve velvet and she wore pince-nez with tortoise-shell rims, the first of their kind to be seen in Shrewsbury.

Chu-Chin gave one rapturous, slobbery wipe at her face with his tongue, then rushed on into Mrs. Royal’s parlour. The beautiful mauve dress was spotted from collar to hem with muddy paw-marks. Emily thought that Chu-Chin fully deserved Mrs. Royal’s bad opinion and mentally remarked that if he were
her
dog he should behave better. But Miss Royal did not reprove him in any way, and perhaps Emily’s secret criticism was subconsciously prompted by her instant perception that Miss Royal’s greeting, while perfectly courteous, was very cold. From her letter Emily had somehow expected a warmer reception.

“Won’t you come in and sit down?” said Miss Royal. She ushered Emily in, waved to a comfortable chair, and sat
down on a stiff and uncompromising Chippendale one. Somehow, Emily, sensitive at all times and abnormally so just now, felt that Miss Royal’s selection of a chair was ominous. Why hadn’t she sunk chummily into the depths of the big velvet morris? But there she sat, a stately, aloof figure, having apparently paid not the slightest attention to the appalling mud-stains on her beautiful dress. Chu-Chin had jumped on the big plush davenport, where he sat, cockily looking from one to the other as if enjoying the situation. It was all too evident that, as Mrs. Royal had foreboded, something had “upset” Miss Royal, and Emily’s heart suddenly sank like lead.

“It’s – a lovely day,” she faltered. She knew it was an incredibly stupid thing to say, but she had to say something when Miss Royal wouldn’t say anything. The silence was too awful.