Emily of Deep Valley

by Maud Hart Lovelace

  She knew that Cab’s gesture was extremely casual. She didn’t overestimate the importance of his invitation. Cab Edwards took out first one girl and then another; she remembered having heard that about him. The astonishing thing was that he had put her in the category of girls whom men invited.

  Had it happened just because she had put her hair up? Had it happened because her angry mood gave her a light and sparkle which she usually lacked? She didn’t know.

  But she did know that even though she thought so much of Don—“I’m really in love with him, I suppose”—it did her boundless good to be invited to a dance.

  She got up at last and walked to the millinery shop. Mrs. Murdock brought out half a dozen beautiful hats. Emily selected a broad-brimmed brown velvet with one rose underneath, and a small fox cap which matched her furs.

  “It will be nice for walking, and skating,” she thought, all her normal interest in clothes aroused by Cab’s invitation.

  She would wear her Class Day dress to the dance, she decided, but she went to the Lion Department Store and bought a party cap. The frivolous little caps, made of tulle, net or lace, were much in fashion.

  Emerging from the Lion she heard a blare of music. The high school band was coming up Front Street. It actually took her a moment to remember that it must be returning from the St. John game.

  “Cheer, cheer, the gang’s all here!”

  The rooters were marching and singing with their arms around each other’s shoulders. Excited children ran along beside them.

  “Who won?” Emily called.

  “We did!”

  “What was the score?”

  “Ten to nothing.”

  She was pleased, but it didn’t seem important.

  That night after supper she sat down at the piano. She played Paderewski’s “Minuet,” which she had been studying when she stopped taking lessons in her busy senior year, and some of the hymns her grandfather loved.

  “It seems good, Emmy,” he said, “to hear a little music again.”

  “I’m going to play every night after supper like I used to. That is, when I’m not going out. I’m going to a party next Saturday.”

  “That’s nice,” he answered, beaming.

  She went to the bookcase and took out The Talisman. “And we must get at this! I think Scott belongs to the winter, don’t you, Grandpa? He’s so long-winded, and winter evenings are so long.”

  “You’re exactly right,” he answered.

  The next day at church, while the minister prayed, Emily said her own prayer, a prayer of thankfulness.

  Monday afternoon she took her skates and went over to the pond. The pond was so shallow that it froze quickly, and it was already covered with boys. They had built a fire; orange flames were leaping. It was good to be on the ice again, she thought, sailing down the pond with her hands in her muff.

  During the week she pressed the corn-colored silk. She cleaned her long white gloves and hung them to air and shook out her opera cape.

  On the night of the party she dressed her hair with care.

  “This psyche knot brought me luck,” she thought, inspecting it in a hand mirror. She put on the party cap but after a long thoughtful scrutiny she took it off.

  “It doesn’t belong to me. It isn’t my type,” she decided.

  But she had to wear something in her hair; headdresses were elaborate now. She rummaged through the jewel box and found a square gold comb. That might be good. It was! It looked well with her mother’s locket, too.

  She put on her opera cape and gazed into the mirror, into glowing eyes, unlike her own. She felt excited and strange and uncertain, but happy. She was going to a dance!

  Waiting in the little parlor, she felt a familiar twinge. It did look so old fashioned! But probably she could manage it so Cab wouldn’t come in.

  She kissed her grandfather. “Leave the lamp lighted for me; won’t you, Grandpa?”

  “I will, Emmy. Have a good time.”

  She stood by the door and slipped out when she saw Cab coming up the walk.

  Two other couples were waiting in the automobile—Dennis Farisy, Winona Root, Lloyd Harrington and Alice Morrison. They had all been in high school with Cab. Lloyd had gone on to the U but had dropped out last year. The girls had finished Teachers’ College and were teaching near Deep Valley.

  Cab presented her breezily. “See what I found when I robbed the cradle?”

  “You want to watch out for these graybeards, Emily,” said Winona. She was a tall angular brunette, very full of fun.

  “I’ll take care of you,” said blond Alice Morrison, tucking her hand under Emily’s arm.

  At the Elks Club the three girls left their wraps in the dressing room, touched up their hair, put on powder and came out into the parlors together.

  It was a distinctly mixed group so far as age was concerned. There were a few girls from Emily’s class, men and girls from graduating classes of several years previous and married couples—young, middle-aged and old.

  Cab introduced a number of men. “Miss Webster” sounded agreeably odd. They wrote their names on her dancing card and he scrawled his own in the vacant places.

  Lamm’s Orchestra, Deep Valley’s best, was seated on a platform at one end of the room. The music of the opening waltz soared across the floor:

  “To you, beautiful lady,

  I raise my eyes…”

  Emily wished ardently that she were a better dancer.

  “I ought to take some lessons,” she thought, after getting out of step for the third time. But Cab was good natured about her mistakes.

  She felt exhilarated by the music and the crowded room with its rhythmically revolving couples. The women looked so fashionable and gay in their tube-like skirts, some slit to the knee. Those who didn’t wear party caps wore feathers or bands of tulle in their hair. Emily was glad she had found the comb.

  She was quiet at first, but Cab brought out her laughter. She found herself having a very good time. A buffet supper was served at midnight, and for this they joined a group which made a wide half-circle in one of the parlors. Wilson’s election was being discussed.

  After supper, she felt more at ease. These people liked her. It didn’t matter to them that she hadn’t been popular with boys in high school. No one even knew it, and if they did they wouldn’t care. High school wasn’t important to them.

  She fitted in well with a crowd like this—better than she had with a high school crowd. They weren’t so silly, and her dignity—a disadvantage in high school—really helped. They were interested, too, in more of the things she was interested in. She had thoroughly enjoyed that talk about the election.

  “We’re glad Cab robbed the cradle,” said Winona when they parted.

  “Let’s get together again,” Alice suggested. “You know, Emily, after you’re out of school you don’t stick to your own high school class. You mix up with all the other crowds.”

  “Even graybeards like us,” said Dennie, poking Lloyd.

  The others were going home, but Cab took Emily to the Moorish Café where they had rarebit and coffee.

  Emily had never been there before. The long room with its oriental hangings was lighted dimly from brass lamps and an orchestra was playing softly. He told her that he was going to Minneapolis for the Wisconsin game.

  “Scid wants me to come.”

  “How did it happen,” Emily asked, “that you didn’t go to college?”

  Cab’s face sobered. “Why, I had to pitch in and support the family. My father died just after I finished my junior year in high school. Old Mr. Loring ran the store in father’s place, but he needed a helper and there wasn’t money to pay for one. I learned the business, and when Mr. Loring died I took over.”

  “How did you—feel about it?” Emily asked diffidently. “About giving up college, I mean?”

  “Badly,” Cab answered. “I thought I wanted to be an engineer. But do you know, Emily, I’d have made a darn poor engineer. An
d I’m a good businessman. I really like the store. What’s more, I’ve got a head start on a lot of other boys who’ll go into business eventually.”

  Emily was silent.

  “It was a satisfaction to be able to send Scid to the U, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t stay more than a year or so. I’ve a hunch he’s a businessman, too. Now the next in line, my little sister, she’s different. She’ll profit by college.”

  “Yes,” Emily broke in passionately. “And so would I.” She stopped in flooding embarrassment, for they hadn’t been discussing her. She had had no intention of talking about herself. The exclamation had burst out because of the fullness of her heart.

  Cab asked quietly, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean…” she floundered, blushing deeply, “I’m like your sister. I’m a student, too. I want more education terribly.”

  “And you can’t go to college on account of your grandfather, I suppose.” Cab looked troubled. “Well, I found education here. Old Mr. Loring educated me. The U would have been just four years of play.”

  “It wouldn’t be for me,” said Emily, but she stopped abruptly. She knew that Cab was sympathetic and interested, but she was ashamed of her outburst. It was so unlike her. She never confided. Besides, in the Moorish Café, after a dance, she ought to keep the conversation light.

  Summoning all her poise she smiled and changed the subject. “I remember your class,” she said. “I remember Betsy Ray and Tib Muller…”

  “We had a lot of fun,” Cab replied, sounding relieved. “Did you ever hear how Betsy Ray taught me Ivanhoe?”

  He told her the story, which was so funny that Emily began to laugh. Cab ordered more coffee and went on to other tales of his crowd. To her infinite relief Emily saw that he hadn’t been too much disturbed by her impetuous confidences.

  He took her home in Mr. Thumbler’s hack and told her at the door that it had been swell. They must do it again sometime. He sounded as though he meant it, too.

  “Maybe this is the answer,” Emily thought, back in her own little room, undressing. “Maybe social life is the answer, going around with an older crowd.”

  10

  Emily Musters Her Wits

  AT CHURCH NEXT DAY Dr. MacDonald said something that helped her. Emily’s mind kept drifting away from the sermon to last night’s fun. But suddenly this sentence flashed out—it was a quotation from Shakespeare, she thought:

  “Muster your wits: stand in your own defense.”

  She had no idea in what sense he had used it, but it seemed to be a message aimed directly at her.

  “Muster your wits: stand in your own defense,” she kept repeating to herself on the long walk home. After dinner she sat down in her rocker, looked out at the snow and proceeded to muster her wits.

  “I’m going to fill my winter and I’m going to fill it with something worth while,” she resolved. “I’m not going to neglect Grandpa, either.”

  One thing she could do, beside housekeeping and cooking: she could practise the piano. She enjoyed playing, and it would be a satisfaction to try to master the instrument.

  “I’ll start taking lessons again,” she planned. “Another thing I can do, of course, is read—not the way I’ve been doing, but to some purpose.” She knit her brows.

  “I’ll read Scott to Grandpa, but perhaps there’s something else he’d enjoy that I’d enjoy, too—something we could study together.” She smiled broadly. “Abraham Lincoln! Grandpa would like anything about Lincoln, and I’ve never read a good biography of him. I’ll ask Miss Fowler which one would be best.”

  And then an idea swept across her mind like a wind sweeping away gray clouds to show a sky of sparkling promise.

  “I wonder whether I could get a group together to study something under Miss Fowler. We could study Browning!”

  She still hadn’t got past the ballads. In fact, she seldom opened the little brown and gold book. But it was more precious than anything she owned. “Except my mother’s locket, maybe,” she thought.

  She knew that she wanted Browning for Don’s sake. But there could be nothing wrong in seeking the same pleasures he was enjoying.

  “The first thing to do is ask Miss Fowler whether she would take such a group. If she will, then I’ll go to Alice Morrison.” She remembered what Alice had said about getting together. “Perhaps she’d like to join and would help me find others.”

  She jumped to her feet. “I’ll go and ask Miss Fowler right now. And while I’m about it, I’ll go to Miss Cobb’s, too.”

  She went to Miss Cobb’s first. She was more than a little in awe of Miss Fowler who, although so small and cordial, had a definitely regal air. Miss Cobb was an old friend.

  She was a large, gentle woman with blue eyes and white skin and reddish-gold hair, now growing gray.

  “She must have been really beautiful when she was young,” Emily thought as they sat talking in the warm little parlor which held two pianos—a grand and an upright—for four-piano arrangements at recitals.

  She thought of Miss Cobb’s story. She had known it all her life, but it had never seemed real until this afternoon. It struck her poignantly now that Miss Cobb had been just a little older than she was when she broke her engagement to marry because her sister had died of tuberculosis, leaving four children.

  Miss Cobb had started teaching the piano and had made a home for them. But the first three had died of their mother’s disease, one by one, when they came to adolescence. Only Bobby remained—the champion wrestler of the fifth grade—making a snowman now on the front lawn. What struggle and suffering and sacrifice Miss Cobb had known, Emily thought, and yet she was always cheerful! She was smiling now with real affection.

  “I’m so glad you have time for your music again. I remember how well you played Paderewski’s ‘Minuet.’”

  “I was studying that when I stopped my lessons,” Emily replied.

  “Well, we’ll begin with it! When would you like to start?”

  “After Thanksgiving,” Emily answered. The return of the crowd seemed such an epochal event that she couldn’t get her mind on music until it was over.

  Miss Fowler lived in a small apartment in a big private house on Broad Street. The little Bostonian answered Emily’s ring herself.

  “I was just going to make myself some tea. Now you can join me,” she said, taking Emily’s furs and coat.

  When Miss Fowler went to the kitchen, Emily looked around the living room with pleasure. There were oriental rugs on the polished floor. The walls were lined with bookcases, and the table bore a new Atlantic Monthly, an Outlook, a Theatre Magazine, and several books still in their paper jackets.

  Emily picked one up—How to Live on Twenty-four Hours a Day, by Arnold Bennett.

  Over the mantel, beneath which a fire was crackling, hung a brown sepia picture of the Church of Notre Dame in Paris. On another wall was a pinkish-colored picture of St. Mark’s Square in Venice. Emily recognized copies of a Greuze girl, Whistler’s Mother, Raphael’s Madonna of the Chair.

  “Maybe Miss Fowler has been abroad. Maybe she’s seen the originals of some of these pictures,” Emily thought.

  The teatray held a fat silver pot, a silver cream pitcher and sugar bowl with tongs, a plate of sliced lemon and two flowered cups.

  “I love to talk over tea,” Miss Fowler said. She looked at Emily closely with her black, very penetrating eyes, and Emily felt sure Miss Fowler knew that she had come with some project in mind.

  Emily asked the question about Lincoln first.

  “Herndon is still the best,” Miss Fowler answered promptly. “The True Story of a Great Life. It’s a collaboration with Weik.” She put down her cup. “You’ve discovered, I see, that we have to build our lives out of what materials we have. It’s as though we were given a heap of blocks and told to build a house…” She paused, and smiled. “You and your grandfather will have a wonderful time with Lincoln.”

  This made it easy for Emily to suggest
the Browning Club.

  “I’d love it!” Miss Fowler responded. Her dark eyes gleamed.

  “Would you have time to take us?”

  “Of course. I’d never refuse one evening a week to Browning.”

  “I thought I’d ask Alice Morrison.”

  “She’d be interested, I think. And there are several girls from her class in town.” They planned eagerly. “Do you own a copy of Browning?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I’d like to use Richard Burton’s edition in the Belles Lettres Series.”

  “That’s the very one I have!”

  “Well, get yourself a notebook and some pencils then,” Miss Fowler said gaily. “We’ll meet here, Tuesday evenings. When would you like to begin?”

  “Right after Thanksgiving,” Emily replied.

  She rose, warmed not only by the tea but by the prospect of buying a notebook for study. She stopped at a drugstore and called Alice Morrison who fell in at once with the idea.

  “I know several girls who would like to join.”

  “I think we ought to make Miss Fowler accept a fee,” said Emily.

  “Oh, of course.”

  “I’ll call you again, and we’ll work it all out.”

  The next day, walking on air, she went to the library for the book on Lincoln, and to Cook’s Book Store for two small fat notebooks. She bought a box of pencils and a pencil sharpener. It was like getting ready for the first day of school.

  “It’s amazing,” she thought, “what you can do when you muster your wits.”

  A few days later she went to the Lion Department Store and bought a new dress. It was quite unnecessary to bother Aunt Sophie with Miss Mix. There were very nice ready-made dresses. Emily found a rose-colored wool trimmed with brown velvet, buttoned up one side with a long row of brown velvet buttons. (Side fastenings and up and down rows of buttons were the newest thing.)

  That night she brought the jewel box down to the fire and laid out the old-fashioned earrings, the bracelets, the gold chains, the lockets and brooches. She had realized on the night of the party that these gracious old things were becoming to her. She tried on pearl earrings and looked at herself in the mirror.