The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  “Of course,” said Emily, wearily. “Don’t you remember how Ilse used to rag you about that very thing?”

  “Oh, I’d forgotten — Ilse was always jawing about something. But live and learn. I won’t forget again, you bet. There were three or four other boys there — the new French teacher and a couple of bankers — and some ladies. I got out to dinner without falling over the floor and got into a chair between Miss Hardy and the aforesaid old lady. I gave one look over that table — and then, Emily, I knew what it was to be afraid at last, all right. I never knew it before, honest. It’s an awful feeling. I was in a regular funk. I used to think you carried fierce style at New Moon when you had company, but I never saw anything like that table — and everything so dazzling and glittering, and enough forks and spoons and things at one place to fit everybody out. There was a piece of bread folded in my napkin and it fell out and went skating over the floor. I could feel myself turning red all over my face and neck. I s’pose you call it blushing. I never blushed afore — before — that I remember. I didn’t know whether I ought to get up and go and pick it up or not. Then the maid brought me another one. I used the wrong spoon to eat my soup with, but I tried to remember what your Aunt Laura said about the proper way to eat soup. I’d get on all right for a few spoonfuls — then I’d get interested in something somebody was saying — and go gulp.”

  “Did you tilt your plate to get the last spoonful?” asked Emily despairingly.

  “No, I was just going to when I remembered it wasn’t proper. I hated to lose it, too. It was awful good soup and I was hungry. The good old dowager next to me did. I got on pretty well with the meat and vegetables, except once. I had packed a load of meat and potatoes on my fork and just as I lifted it I saw Mrs. Hardy eyeing it, and I remembered I oughtn’t to have loaded up my fork like that — and I jumped — and it all fell off in my napkin. I didn’t know whether it would be etiquette to scrape it up and put it back on my plate so I left it there. The pudding was all right — only I et it with a spoon — my soup spoon — and every one else et theirs with a fork. But it tasted just as good one way as another and I was getting reckless. You always use spoons at New Moon to eat pudding.”

  “Why didn’t you watch what the others did and imitate them?”

  “Too rattled. But I’ll say this — for all the style, the eats weren’t a bit better than you have at New Moon — no, nor as good, by a jugful. Your Aunt Elizabeth’s cooking would knock the spots off the Hardys’ every time — and they didn’t give you too much of anything! After the dinner was over we went back to the parlour — they called it living-room — and things weren’t so bad. I didn’t do anything out of the way except knock over a bookcase.”

  “Perry!”

  “Well, it was wobbly. I was leaning against it talking to Mr. Hardy, and I suppose I leaned too hard, for the blooming thing went over. But, righting it and getting the books back seemed to loosen me up and I wasn’t so tongue-tied after that. I got on not too bad — only every once in a long while I’d let slip a bit of slang, before I could catch it. I tell you, I wished I’d taken your advice about talking slang. Once the fat old lady agreed with something I’d said — she had sense if she did have three chins — and I was so tickled to find her on my side that I got excited and said to her, ‘You bet your boots’ before I thought. And I guess I bragged a bit. Do I brag too much, Emily?”

  This question had never presented itself to Perry before.

  “You do,” said Emily candidly, “and it’s very bad form.”

  “Well, I felt kind of cheap after I’d done it. I guess I’ve got an awful lot to learn yet, Emily. I’m going to buy a book on etiquette and learn it off by heart. No more evenings like this for me. But it was better at the last. Jim Hardy took me off to the den and we played checkers and I licked him dizzy. Nothing wrong with my checker etiquette, I tell you. And Mrs. Hardy said my speech at the debate was the best she had ever heard for a boy of my age, and she wanted to know what I meant to go in for. She’s a great little dame and has the social end of things down fine. That is one reason I want you to marry me when the times comes, Emily — I’ve got to have a wife with brains.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, Perry,” said Emily, haughtily.

  “’Tisn’t nonsense,” said Perry, stubbornly. “And it’s time we settled something. You needn’t turn up your nose at me because you’re a Murray. I’ll be worth marrying some day — even for a Murray. Come, put me out of my misery.”

  Emily rose disdainfully. She had her dreams, as all girls have, the rose-red one of love among them, but Perry Miller had no share in those dreams.

  “I’m not a Murray — and I’m going upstairs. Good night.”

  “Wait half a second,” said Perry, with a grin. “When the clock strikes eleven I’m going to kiss you.”

  Emily did not for a moment believe that Perry had the slightest notion of doing anything of the kind — which was foolish of her, for Perry had a habit of always doing what he said he was going to do. But, then, he had never been sentimental. She ignored his remark, but lingered a moment to ask another question about the Hardy dinner. Perry did not answer the question: the clock began to strike eleven as she asked it — he flung his legs over the window-sill and stepped into the room. Emily realized too late that he meant what he said. She had only time to duck her head and Perry’s hearty, energetic smack — there was nothing subtle about Perry’s kisses — fell on her ear instead of her cheek.

  At the very moment Perry kissed her and before her indignant protest could rush to her lips two things happened. A gust of wind swept in from the veranda and blew the little candle out, and the dining-room door opened and Aunt Ruth appeared in the doorway, robed in a pink flannel nightgown and carrying another candle, the light of which struck upward with gruesome effect on her set face with its halo of crimping-pins.

  This is one of the places where a conscientious biographer feels that, in the good old phrase, her pen cannot do justice to the scene.

  Emily and Perry stood as if turned to stone. So, for a moment, did Aunt Ruth. Aunt Ruth had expected to find Emily there, writing, as she had done one night a month previously when Emily had had an inspiration at bedtime and had slipped down to the warm dining-room to jot it down in a Jimmy-book. But this! I must admit it did look bad. Really, I think we can hardly blame Aunt Ruth for righteous indignation.

  Aunt Ruth looked at the unlucky pair.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked Perry.

  Stovepipe Town made a mistake.

  “Oh, looking for a round square,” said Perry offhandedly, his eyes suddenly becoming limpid with mischief and lawless roguery.

  Perry’s “impudence” — Aunt Ruth called it that, and, really, I think he was impudent — naturally made a bad matter worse. Aunt Ruth turned to Emily.

  “Perhaps you can explain how you came to be here, at this hour, kissing this fellow in the dark?”

  Emily flinched from the crude vulgarity of the question as if Aunt Ruth had struck her. She forgot how much appearances justified Aunt Ruth, and let a perverse spirit enter into and possess her. She lifted her head haughtily.

  “I have no explanation to give to such a question, Aunt Ruth.”

  “I didn’t think you would have.”

  Aunt Ruth gave a very disagreeable laugh, through which a thin, discordant note of triumph sounded. One might have thought that, under all her anger, something pleased Aunt Ruth. It is pleasant to be justified in the opinion we have always entertained of anybody. “Well, perhaps you will be so good as to answer some questions. How did this fellow get here?”

  “Window,” said Perry laconically, seeing that Emily was not going to answer.

  “I was not asking you, sir. Go,” said Aunt Ruth, pointing dramatically to the window.

  “I’m not going to stir a step out of this room until I see what you’re going to do to Emily,” said Perry stubbornly.

  “I,” said Aunt Ruth, with an air of terrible
detachment, “am not going to do anything to Emily.”

  “Mrs. Dutton, be a good sport,” implored Perry coaxingly. “It’s all my fault — honest! Emily wasn’t one bit to blame. You see, it was this way—”

  But Perry was too late.

  “I have asked my niece for an explanation and she has refused to give it. I do not choose to listen to yours.”

  “But—” persisted Perry.

  “You had better go, Perry,” said Emily, whose face was flying danger signals. She spoke quietly, but the Murrayest of all Murrays could not have expressed a more definite command. There was a quality in it Perry dared not disregard. He meekly scrambled out of the window into the night. Aunt Ruth stepped forward and shut the window. Then, ignoring Emily utterly, she marched her pink flanneled little figure back upstairs.

  Emily did not sleep much that night — nor, I admit, did she deserve to. After her sudden anger died away, shame cut her like a whip. She realized that she had behaved very foolishly in refusing an explanation to Aunt Ruth. Aunt Ruth had a right to it, when such a situation developed in her own house, no matter how hateful and disagreeable she made her method of demanding it. Of course, she would not have believed a word of it; but Emily, if she had given it, would not have further complicated her false position.

  Emily fully expected she would be sent home to New Moon in disgrace. Aunt Ruth would stonily decline to keep such a girl any longer in her house — Aunt Elizabeth would agree with her — Aunt Laura would be heart-broken. Would even Cousin Jimmy’s loyalty stand the strain? It was a very bitter prospect. No wonder Emily spent a white night. She was so unhappy that every beat of her heart seemed to hurt her. And again I say, most unequivocally, she deserved it. I haven’t one word of pity or excuse for her.

  Circumstantial Evidence

  At the Saturday morning breakfast-table Aunt Ruth preserved a stony silence, but she smiled cruelly to herself as she buttered and ate her toast. Anyone might have seen clearly that Aunt Ruth was enjoying herself — and, with equal clearness, that Emily was not. Aunt Ruth passed Emily the toast and marmalade with killing politeness, as if to say,

  “I will not abate one jot or tittle of the proper thing. I may turn you out of my house, but it will be your own fault if you go without your breakfast.”

  After breakfast Aunt Ruth went uptown. Emily suspected that she had gone to telephone to Dr. Burnley a message for New Moon. She expected when Aunt Ruth returned to be told to pack her trunk. But still Aunt Ruth spoke not. In the middle of the afternoon Cousin Jimmy arrived with the double-seated box-sleigh. Aunt Ruth went out and conferred with him. Then she came in and at last broke her silence.

  “Put on your wraps,” she said. “We are going to New Moon.”

  Emily obeyed mutely. She got into the back seat of the sleigh and Aunt Ruth sat beside Cousin Jimmy in front. Cousin Jimmy looked back at Emily over the collar of his fur coat and said, “Hello, Pussy,” with just a shade too much of cheerful encouragement. Evidently Cousin Jimmy believed something very serious had happened, though he didn’t know what.

  It was not a pleasant drive through the beautiful greys and smokes and pearls of the winter afternoon. The arrival at New Moon was not pleasant. Aunt Elizabeth looked stern — Aunt Laura looked apprehensive.

  “I have brought Emily here,” said Aunt Ruth, “because I do not feel that I can deal with her alone. You and Laura, Elizabeth, must pass judgment on her behaviour yourselves.”

  So it was to be a domestic court, with her, Emily, at the bar of justice. Justice — would she get justice? Well, she would make a fight for it. She flung up her head and the colour rushed back into her face.

  They were all in the sitting-room when she came down from her room. Aunt Elizabeth sat by the table. Aunt Laura was on the sofa ready to cry. Aunt Ruth was standing on the rug before the fire, looking peevishly at Cousin Jimmy, who, instead of going to the barn as he should have done, had tied the horse to the orchard fence and had seated himself back in the corner, determined, like Perry, to see what was going to be done to Emily. Ruth was annoyed. She wished Elizabeth would not always insist on admitting Jimmy to family conclaves when he desired to be present. It was absurd to suppose that a grown-up child like Jimmy had any right there.

  Emily did not sit down. She went and stood by the window, where her black head came out against the crimson curtain as softly and darkly clear as a pine-tree against a sunset of spring. Outside a white, dead world lay in the chilly twilight of early March. Past the garden and the Lombardy poplars the fields of New Moon looked very lonely and drear, with the intense red streak of lingering sunset beyond them. Emily shivered.

  “Well,” said Cousin Jimmy, “let’s begin and get it over. Emily must want her supper.”

  “When you know what I know about her, you will think she needs something besides supper,” said Mrs. Dutton tartly.

  “I know all anyone need know about Emily,” retorted Cousin Jimmy.

  “Jimmy Murray, you are an ass,” said Aunt Ruth, angrily.

  “Well, we’re cousins,” agreed Cousin Jimmy pleasantly.

  “Jimmy, be silent,” said Elizabeth, majestically. “Ruth, let us hear what you have to say.”

  Aunt Ruth told the whole story. She stuck to facts, but her manner of telling them made them seem even blacker than they were. She really contrived to make a very ugly story of it, and Emily shivered again as she listened. As the telling proceeded Aunt Elizabeth’s face became harder and colder, Aunt Laura began to cry, and Cousin Jimmy began to whistle.

  “He was kissing her neck,” concluded Aunt Ruth. Her tone implied that, bad as it was to kiss on ordinary places for kissing, it was a thousand-fold more scandalous and disgraceful to kiss the neck.

  “It was my ear, really,” murmured Emily, with a sudden impish grin she could not check in time. Under all her discomfort and dread, there was Something that was standing back and enjoying this — the drama, the comedy of it. But this outbreak of it was most unfortunate. It made her appear flippant and unashamed.

  “Now, I ask you,” said Aunt Ruth, throwing out her pudgy hands, “if you can expect me to keep a girl like her any longer in my house?”

  “No, I don’t think we can,” said Elizabeth slowly.

  Aunt Laura began to sob wildly. Cousin Jimmy brought down the front legs of his chair with a bang.

  Emily turned from the window and faced them all.

  “I want to explain what happened, Aunt Elizabeth.”

  “I think we have heard enough about it,” said Aunt Elizabeth icily — all the more icily because of a certain bitter disappointment that was filling her soul. She had been gradually becoming very fond and proud of Emily, in her reserved, undemonstrative Murray way: to find her capable of such conduct as this was a terrible blow to Aunt Elizabeth. Her very pain made her the more merciless.

  “No, that won’t do now, Aunt Elizabeth,” said Emily quietly. “I’m too old to be treated like that. You must hear my side of the story.”

  The Murray look was on her face — the look Elizabeth knew and remembered so well of old. She wavered.

  “You had your chance to explain last night,” snapped Aunt Ruth, “and you wouldn’t do it.”

  “Because I was hurt and angry over your thinking the worst of me,” said Emily. “Besides, I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “I would have believed you if you had told the truth,” said Aunt Ruth. “The reason you wouldn’t explain last night was because you couldn’t think up an excuse for your conduct on the spur of the moment. You’ve had time to invent something since, I suppose.”

  “Did you ever know Emily to tell a lie?” demanded Cousin Jimmy.

  Mrs. Dutton opened her lips to say “Yes.” Then closed them again. Suppose Jimmy should demand a specific instance? She felt sure Emily had told her — fibs — a score of times, but what proof had she of it?

  “Did you?” persisted that abominable Jimmy.

  “I am not going to be catechized by you.”
Aunt Ruth turned her back on him. “Elizabeth, I’ve always told you that girl was deep and sly, haven’t I?”

  “Yes,” admitted poor Elizabeth, rather thankful that there need be no indecision on that point. Ruth had certainly told her so times out of number.

  “And doesn’t this show I was right?”

  “I’m — afraid — so.” Elizabeth Murray felt that it was a very bitter moment for her.

  “Then it is for you to decide what is to be done about the matter,” said Ruth triumphantly.

  “Not yet,” interposed Cousin Jimmy resolutely. “You haven’t given Emily the ghost of a chance to explain. That’s no fair trial. Now let her talk for ten minutes without interrupting her once.”

  “That is only fair,” said Elizabeth with sudden resolution. She had a mad, irrational hope that, after all, Emily might be able to clear herself.

  “Oh — well—” Mrs. Dutton yielded ungraciously and sat herself down with a thud on old Archibald Murray’s chair.

  “Now, Emily, tell us what really happened,” said Cousin Jimmy.

  “Well, upon my word!” exploded Aunt Ruth. “Do you mean to say I didn’t tell what really happened?”

  Cousin Jimmy lifted his hand.

  “Now — now — you had your say. Come, Pussy.”

  Emily told her story from beginning to end. Something in it carried conviction. Three of her listeners at least believed her and felt an enormous load lifted from their minds. Even Aunt Ruth, deep down in her heart, knew Emily was telling the truth, but she would not admit it.

  “A very ingenious tale, upon my word.” she said derisively.

  Cousin Jimmy got up and walked across the floor. He bent down before Mrs. Dutton and thrust his rosy face with its forked beard and child-like brown eyes under his shock of grey curls, very close to hers.