Emily Climbs (30 page)

“Very lovely,” agreed Miss Royal, not looking at Emily at all but at Chu-Chin, who was thumping a beautiful silk and lace cushion of Mrs. Royal’s with his wet tail. Emily hated Chu-Chin. It was a relief to hate him, since as yet she did not dare to hate Miss Royal. But she wished herself a thousand miles away. Oh, if she only hadn’t that little bundle of manuscripts on her lap! It was so evident what it was. She would never dare to show one of them to Miss Royal. Was this outraged empress the writer of that kind, friendly letter? It was impossible to believe it. This must be a nightmare. Her dream was “out” with a vengeance. She felt crude and bread-and-buttery and ignorant and dowdy – and young! Oh, so horribly young!

The moments passed – not so very many, perhaps, but seeming like hours to Emily. Her mouth was dry and parched, her brain paralysed. She couldn’t think of a solitary thing to
say A horrible suspicion flashed across her mind that, since writing her letter, Miss Royal had heard the gossip about the night in the old John house and that her altered attitude was the result.

In her misery Emily squirmed in her chair and her little packet of manuscripts slipped to the floor. Emily stooped to retrieve it. At the same moment Chu-Chin made a flying leap from the davenport at it. His muddy paws caught the spray of violets hanging from Emily’s hat and tore it loose. Emily let go of her packet and clutched her hat. Chu-Chin let go of the violets and pounced on the packet. Then, holding that in his mouth, he bolted out of the open glass door leading to the garden.

“Oh, what a relief it would be to tear my hair,” thought Emily violently.

That diabolical chow had carried off her latest and best story and a number of choice poems. Heaven knew what he would do with them. She supposed she would never see them again. But, at least, there was fortunately now no question of showing them to Miss Royal.

Emily no longer cared whether Miss Royal was in a bad humour or not. She was no longer desirous of pleasing her – a woman who would let her dog behave like that to an invited guest and never reprove him! Nay, she even seemed to be amused at his antics. Emily was sure she had detected a fleeting smile on Miss Royal’s arrogant face as she looked at the ruined violets scattered over the floor.

There suddenly popped into Emily’s mind a story she had heard of Lofty John’s father, who was in the habit of telling his wife,

“When people do be after snubbing you, Bridget, pull up your lip, Bridget, pull up your lip.”

Emily pulled up her lip.

“A very playful dog,” she said sarcastically.

“Very,” agreed Miss Royal composedly.

“Don’t you think a little discipline would improve him?” asked Emily.

“No, I do not think so,” said Miss Royal meditatively.

Chu-Chin returned at this moment, capered about the room, knocked a small glass vase off a taboret with a whisk of his tail, sniffed at the ensuing fragments, then bounded up on the davenport again, where he sat panting. “Oh, what a good dog am I!”

Emily picked up her note-book and pencil.

“Mr. Towers sent me to interview you,” she said.

“So I understand,” said Miss Royal, never taking her eyes off her worshipped chow.

Emily:
“May I trouble you to answer a few questions?”

Miss Royal, with exaggerated amiability:
“Charmed.”

(Chu-Chin, having saved enough breaths, springs from the davenport and rushes through the half-opened folding doors of the dining-room.)

Emily, consulting note-book and recklessly asking the first question jotted down therein:
“What do you think will be the result of the Presidential election this fall?”

Miss Royal:
“I never think about it.”

(Emily, with compressed lips, writes down in her notebook: “She never thinks about it.” Chu-Chin reappears, darts through parlour and out into the garden, carrying a roast chicken in his mouth.)

Miss Royal:
“There goes my supper.”

Emily, checking off first question:
“Is there any likelihood that the United States Congress will look favourably on the recent reciprocity proposals of the Canadian Government?”

Miss Royal: “Is
the Canadian Government making reciprocity proposals? I never heard of them.”

(Emily writes, “She never heard of them.” Miss Royal refits her pince-nez.)

Emily, thinks:
“With a chin and a nose like that you’ll look very witch-like when you grow old.”
Says:
“Is it your opinion that the historical novel has had its day?”

Miss Royal, languidly:
“I always leave my opinions at home when I take a holiday.”

(Emily writes, “She always leaves her opinions home when she takes a holiday,” and wishes savagely she could write her own description of this interview, but knows Mr. Towers wouldn’t print it. Then consoles herself by remembering that she has a virgin Jimmy-book at home and takes a wicked delight in thinking of the account that will be written in it that night. Chu-Chin enters. Emily wonders if he could have eaten the chicken in that short time. Chu-Chin, evidently feeling the need of some dessert, helps himself to one of Mrs. Royal’s crocheted tidies, crawls under the piano with it and falls to chewing rapturously.)

Miss Royal, fervently: “Dear
dog!”

Emily, suddenly inspired:
“What do you think of chow dogs?”

Miss Royal:
“The most adorable creatures in the world.”

Emily, to herself:
“So you’ve brought
one
opinion with you.”
To Miss Royal:
“I do not admire them.”

Miss Royal, with an icy smile:
“It is evident that your taste in dogs must be quite different from mine.”

Emily, to herself:
“I wish Ilse were here to call you names for me.”

(A large, motherly grey cat passes across the doorstep outside. Chu-Chin bolts out from under the piano, shoots
between the legs of a tall plant stand, and pursues the flying cat. The plant stand has gone over with a crash and Mrs. Royal’s beautiful rex begonia lies in ruins on the floor, amid a heap of earth and broken pottery.)

Miss Royal, unsympathetically:
“Poor Aunt Angela! Her heart will be broken.”

Emily:
“But that doesn’t matter, does it?”

Miss Royal, gently:
“Oh, no; not at all.”

Emily, consulting note-book:
“Do you find many changes in Shrewsbury?”

Miss Royal:
“I find a good many changes in the people. The younger generation does not impress me favourably.”

(Emily writes this down. Chu-Chin again reappears, evidently having chased the cat through a fresh mud puddle, and resumes his repast of the tidy, under the piano.)

Emily shut her note-book and rose. Not for any number of Mr. Towers would she prolong this interview. She looked like a young angel, but she was thinking terrible things. And she hated Miss Royal – oh, how she hated her!

“Thank you, that will be all,” she said, with a haughtiness quite equal to Miss Royal’s. “I’m sorry to have taken so much of your time. Good afternoon.”

She bowed slightly and went out to the hall. Miss Royal followed her to the parlour door.

“Hadn’t you better take your dog, Miss Starr?” she asked sweetly.

Emily paused in the act of shutting the outer door and looked at Miss Royal.

“Pardon me.”

“I said, hadn’t you better take your dog?”

“My
dog?
“

“Yes. He hasn’t quite finished the tidy, to be sure, but you might take it along. It won’t be much good to Aunt Angela now.”

“He – he – isn’t
my
dog,” gasped Emily.

“Not your dog? Whose dog is he then?” said Miss Royal.

“I – I thought he was yours – your chow,” said Emily.

M
iss Royal looked at Emily for a moment. Then she seized her wrist, shut the door, drew her back to the parlour, and firmly pushed her down into the morris chair. This done, Miss Royal threw herself on the muddy davenport and began to laugh – long and helplessly. Once or twice she rocked herself forward, gave Emily’s knee two wild whacks, then rocked back and continued to laugh. Emily sat, smiling faintly. Her feelings had been too deeply harrowed to permit of Miss Royal’s convulsions of mirth, but already there was glimmering in her mind a sketch for her Jimmy-book. Meanwhile, the white dog, having chewed the tidy to tatters, spied the cat again, and again rushed after her.

Finally Miss Royal sat erect and wiped her eyes.

“Oh, this is priceless, Emily Byrd Starr – priceless! When I’m eighty I’ll recall this and howl over it. Who will write it up, you or I? But
who
does own that brute?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Emily demurely. “I never saw him in my life before.”

“Well, let’s shut the door before he can return. And now,
dear thing, sit here beside me – there’s one clean spot here under the cushion. We’re going to have our real talk now. Oh, I was so beastly to you when you were trying to ask me questions. I was
trying
to be beastly. Why didn’t you throw something at me, you poor insulted darling?”

“I wanted to. But now I think you let me off very easily, considering the behaviour of my supposed dog.”

Miss Royal went off in another convulsion.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you for thinking that horrid curly white creature was my glorious red-gold chow. I’ll take you up to my room before you go and you shall apologise to him. He’s asleep on my bed. I locked him there to relieve dear Aunt Angela’s mind about her cat. Chu-Chin wouldn’t hurt the cat – he merely wants to play with her, and the foolish old thing runs. Now, you know, when a cat runs, a dog simply can’t help chasing her. As Kipling tells us, he wouldn’t be a proper dog if he didn’t. If only that white fiend had confined himself to chasing the cat!”

“It is too bad about Mrs. Royal’s begonia,” said Emily, regretfully.

“Yes, that
is
a pity. Aunt Angela’s had it for years. But I’ll get her a new one. When I saw you coming up the walk with that dog frisking around you, of course I concluded he was yours. I had put on my favourite dress because it really makes me look almost beautiful – and I wanted you to love me; and when the beast muddied it all over and you never said a word of rebuke or apology, I simply went into one of my cold rages. I
do
go into them – I can’t help it. It’s one of my little faults. But I soon thaw out if no fresh aggravation occurs. In this case fresh aggravation occurred every minute. I vowed to myself that if you did not even try to make your dog behave I would not suggest that you should. And I
suppose
you
were indignant because I calmly let
my
dog spoil your violets and eat your manuscripts?”

“I was.”

“It’s too bad about the manuscripts. Perhaps we can find them – he can’t really have swallowed them, but I suppose he has chewed them to bits.”

“It doesn’t matter. I have other copies at home.”

“And your questions! Emily, you were too delicious. Did you really write down my answers?”

“Word for word. I meant to print them just so, too. Mr. Towers had given me a list of questions for you, but of course I didn’t mean to fire them off point-blank like that. I meant to weave them artfully into our conversation as we went along. But here comes Mrs. Royal.”

Mrs. Royal came in, smiling. Her face changed as she saw the begonia. But Miss Royal interposed quickly.

“Dearest Aunty, don’t weep or faint – at least not before you’ve told me who around here owns a white, curly, utterly mannerless, devilish dog?”

“Lily Bates,” said Mrs. Royal in a tone of despair. “Oh, has she let that creature out again? I had a most terrible time with him before you came. He’s really just a big puppy and he
can’t
behave. I told her finally if I caught him over here again I’d poison him. She’s kept him shut up since then. But now – oh, my lovely rex.”

“Well, this dog came in with Emily. I supposed he was her dog. Courtesy to a guest implies courtesy to her dog – isn’t there an old proverb that expresses it more concisely? He embraced me fervently upon his entrance, as my dearest dress testifies. He marked up your davenport – he tore off Emily’s violets – he chased your cat – he overturned your begonia – he broke your vase – he ran off with our chicken – ay, groan,
Aunt Angela, he did! – and yet I, determinedly composed and courteous, said not a word of protest. I vow my behaviour was worthy of New Moon itself – wasn’t it, Emily?”

“You were just too mad to speak,” said Mrs. Royal ruefully, fingering her wrecked begonia.

Miss Royal stole a sly glance at Emily.

“You see, I can’t put anything over on Aunt Angela. She knows me too well. I admit I was not my usual charming self But, Aunty darling, I’ll get you a new vase a new begonia – think of all the fun you’ll have coaxing it along. Anticipation is always so much more interesting than realisation.”

“
I’ll
settle Lily Bates,” said Mrs. Royal, going out of the room to look for a dustpan.

“Now, dear thing, let’s gab,” said Miss Royal, snuggling down beside Emily.

This
was the Miss Royal of the letter. Emily found no difficulty in talking to
her
. They had a jolly hour and at the end of it Miss Royal made a proposition that took away Emily’s breath.

“Emily, I want you to come back to New York with me in July. There’s a vacancy on the staff of
The Ladies’ Own
– no great thing in itself. You’ll be sort of general handy man, and all odd jobs will be turned over to you – but you’ll have a chance to work up. And you’ll be in the centre of things. You can write – I realised that the moment I read
The Woman Who Spanked the King
. I know the editor of
Roche’s
and I found out who you were and where you lived. That’s really why I came down this spring – I wanted to get hold of you. You mustn’t waste your life here – it would be a crime. Oh, of course, I know New Moon is a dear, quaint, lovely spot – full of poetry and steeped in romance. It was just the place for you to spend your childhood in. But you must have a chance to grow and
develop and be yourself You must have the stimulus of association with great minds – the training that only a great city can give. Come with me. If you do, I promise you that in ten years’ time Emily Byrd Starr will be a name to conjure with among the magazines of America.”

Emily sat in a maze of bewilderment, too confused and dazzled to think clearly. She had never dreamed of this. It was as if Miss Royal had suddenly put into her hand a key to unlock the door into the world of all her dreams, and hopes, and imaginings. Beyond that door was all she had ever hoped for of success and fame. And yet – and yet – what faint, odd, resentment stirred at the back of all her whirling sensations? Was there a sting in Miss Royal’s calm assumption that if Emily did
not
go with her her name would forever remain unknown? Did the old dead-and-gone Murrays turn over in their graves at the whisper that one of their descendants could never succeed without the help and “pull” of a stranger? Or
had
Miss Royal’s manner been a shade too patronising? Whatever it was it kept Emily from figuratively flinging herself at Miss Royal’s feet.

“Oh, Miss Royal, that would be wonderful,” she faltered. “I’d love to go – but I’m afraid Aunt Elizabeth will never consent. She’ll say I’m too young.”

“How old
are
you?”

“Seventeen.”

“I was eighteen when I went. I didn’t know a soul in New York – I had just enough money to keep me for three months. I was a crude, callow little thing – yet I won out.
You
shall live with me. I’ll look after you as well as Aunt Elizabeth herself could do. Tell her I’ll guard you like the apple of my eye. I have a dear, cozy, little flat where we’ll be as happy as queens, with my adored and adorable Chu-Chin. You’ll love Chu-Chin, Emily.”

“I think I’d like a cat better,” said Emily firmly.

“Cats! Oh, we couldn’t have a cat in a flat. It wouldn’t be amenable enough to discipline. You must sacrifice your pussies on the altar of your art. I’m sure you’ll like living with me. I’m
very
kind and amiable, dearest, when I feel like it – and I generally do feel like it – and I
never
lose my temper. It freezes up occasionally, but, as I told you, it thaws quickly. I bear other people’s misfortunes with equanimity. And I
never
tell any one she has a cold or that she looks tired. Oh, I’d really make an adorable house-mate.”

“I’m sure you would,” said Emily, smiling.

“I never saw a young girl before that I wanted to live with,” said Miss Royal. “You have a sort of luminous personality, Emily. You’ll give off light in dull places and empurple drab spots. Now,
do
make up your mind to come with me.”

“It is Aunt Elizabeth’s mind that must be made up,” said Emily ruefully. “If she says I can go I’ll –”

Emily found herself stopping suddenly.

“Go,” finished Miss Royal joyfully. “Aunt Elizabeth will come around. I’ll go and have a talk with her. I’ll go out to New Moon with you next Friday night. You
must
have your chance.”

“I can’t thank you enough, Miss Royal, so I won’t try. But I must go now. I’ll think this all over – I’m too dazzled just now to think at all. You don’t know what this means to me.”

“I think I do,” said Miss Royal gently. “I was once a young girl in Shrewsbury, eating my heart out because I had no chance.”

“But you made your own chance – and won out,” said Emily wistfully.

“Yes – but I had to go away to do it. I could never have got anywhere here. And it was a horribly hard climb at first. It took my youth. I want to save you some of the hardships
and discouragements. You will go far beyond what I have done – you can create – I can only build with the materials others have made. But we builders have our place – we can make temples for our gods and goddesses if nothing else. Come with me, dear Girl Emily, and I will do all I can to help you in every way.”

“Thank you – thank you,” was all Emily could say. Tears of gratitude for this offer of ungrudging help and sympathy were in her eyes. She had not received too much of sympathy or encouragement in her life. It touched her deeply. She went away feeling that she
must
turn the key and open the magic door beyond which now seemed to lie all the beauty and allurement of life – if only Aunt Elizabeth would let her.

“I can’t do it if she doesn’t approve,” decided Emily.

Half-way home she suddenly stopped and laughed. After all, Miss Royal had forgotten to show her Chu-Chin.

“But it doesn’t matter,” she thought, “because in the first place I can’t believe that, after this, I’ll ever feel any real interest in chow dogs. And in the second place I’ll see him often enough if I go to New York with Miss Royal.”