"I wish you--could take me right through the door with you," whispered Emily.
"After a little while you won't wish that. You have yet to learn how kind time is. And life has something for you--I feel it. Go forward to meet it fearlessly, dear. I know you don't feel like that just now--but you will remember my words by and by."
"I feel just now," said Emily, who couldn't bear to hide anything from Father, "that I don't like God any more."
Douglas Starr laughed--the laugh Emily liked best. It was such a dear laugh--she caught her breath over the dearness of it. She felt his arms tightening round her.
"Yes, you do, honey. You can't help liking God. He is Love itself, you know. You mustn't mix Him up with Ellen Greene's God, of course."
Emily didn't know exactly what Father meant. But all at once she found that she wasn't afraid any longer--and the bitterness had gone out of her sorrow, and the unbearable pain out of her heart. She felt as if love was all about her and around her, breathed out from some great, invisible, hovering Tenderness. One couldn't be afraid or bitter where love was--and love was everywhere. Father was going through the door--no, he was going to lift a curtain--she liked that thought better, because a curtain wasn't as hard and fast as a door--and he would slip into that world of which the flash had given her glimpses. He would be there in its beauty--never very far away from her. She could bear anything if she could only feel that Father wasn't very far away from her--just beyond that wavering curtain.
Douglas Starr held her until she fell asleep; and then in spite of his weakness he managed to lay her down in her little bed.
"She will love deeply--she will suffer terribly--she will have glorious moments to compensate--as I have had. As her mother's people deal with her, so may God deal with them," he murmured brokenly.
CHAPTER 3
A Hop out of Kin
Douglas Starr lived two weeks more. In after years when the pain had gone out of their recollection, Emily thought they were the most precious of her memories. They were beautiful weeks--beautiful and not sad. And one night, when he was lying on the couch in the sitting-room, with Emily beside him in the old wing-chair, he went past the curtain--went so quietly and easily that Emily did not know he was gone until she suddenly felt the strange stillness of the room--there was no breathing in it but her own.
"Father--Father!" she cried. Then she screamed for Ellen.
Ellen Greene told the Murrays when they came that Emily had behaved real well, when you took everything into account. To be sure, she had cried all night and hadn't slept a wink; none of the Maywood people who came flocking kindly in to help could comfort her; but when morning came her tears were all shed. She was pale and quiet and docile.
"That's right, now," said Ellen, "that's what comes of being properly prepared. Your pa was so mad at me for warning you that he wasn't rightly civil to me since--and him a dying man. But I don't hold any grudge against him. I did my duty. Mrs. Hubbard's fixing up a black dress for you and it'll be ready by supper time. Your ma's people will be here tonight, so they've telegraphed, and I'm bound they'll find you looking respectable. They're well off and they'll provide for you. Your pa hasn't left a cent but there ain't any debts, I'll say that for him. Have you been in to see the body?"
"Don't call him that," cried Emily, wincing. It was horrible to hear Father called that.
"Why not? If you ain't the queerest child! He makes a better looking corpse than I thought he would, what with being so wasted and all. He was always a pretty man, though too thin."
"Ellen Greene," said Emily suddenly, "if you say any more of--those things--about Father, I will put the black curse on you!"
Ellen Greene stared.
"I don't know what on earth you mean. But that's no way to talk to me, after all I've done for you. You'd better not let the Murrays hear you talking like that or they won't want much to do with you. The black curse indeed! Well, here's gratitude!"
Emily's eyes smarted. She was just a lonely, solitary little creature and she felt very friendless. But she was not at all remorseful for what she had said to Ellen and she was not going to pretend she was.
"Come you here and help me wash these dishes," ordered Ellen. "It'll do you good to have something to take up your mind and then you won't be after putting curses on people who have worked their fingers to the bone for you."
Emily, with an eloquent glance at Ellen's hands, went and got the dish towel.
"Your hands are fat and pudgy," she said. "The bones don't show at all."
"Never mind sassing back! It's awful, with your poor pa dead in there. But if your Aunt Ruth takes you she'll soon cure you of that."
"Is Aunt Ruth going to take me?"
"I don't know, but she ought to. She's a widow with no chick or child, and well-to-do."
"I don't think I want Aunt Ruth to take me," said Emily deliberately, after a moment's reflection.
"Well, you won't have the choosing likely. You ought to be thankful to get a home anywhere. Remember you're not of much importance."
"I am important to myself," cried Emily proudly.
"It'll be some chore to bring you up," muttered Ellen. "Your Aunt Ruth is the one to do it, in my opinion. She won't stand no nonsense. A fine woman she is and the neatest housekeeper on P. E. Island. You could eat off her floor."
"I don't want to eat off her floor. I don't care if a floor is dirty as long as the tablecloth is clean."
"Well, her tablecloths are clean too, I reckon. She's got an elegant house in Shrewsbury with bow windows and wooden lace all round the roof. It's very stylish. It would be a fine home for you. She'd learn you some sense and do you a world of good."
"I don't want to learn sense and be done a world of good to," cried Emily with a quivering lip. "I--I want somebody to love me."
"Well, you've got to behave yourself if you want people to like you. You're not to blame so much--your pa has spoiled you. I told him so often enough, but he just laughed. I hope he ain't sorry for it now. The fact is, Emily Starr, you're queer, and folks don't care for queer children."
"How am I queer?" demanded Emily.
"You talk queer--and you act queer--and at times you look queer. And you're too old for your age--though that ain't your fault. It comes of never mixing with other children. I've always threaped at your father to send you to school--learning at home ain't the same thing--but he wouldn't listen to me, of course. I don't say but what you are as far along in book learning as you need to be, but what you want is to learn how to be like other children. In one way it would be a good thing if your Uncle Oliver would take you, for he's got a big family. But he's not as well off as the rest, so it ain't likely he will. Your Uncle Wallace might, seeing as he reckons himself the head of the family. He's only got a grown-up daughter. But his wife's delicate--or fancies she is."
"I wish Aunt Laura would take me," said Emily. She remembered that Father had said Aunt Laura was something like her mother.
"Aunt Laura! She won't have no say in it--Elizabeth's boss at New Moon. Jimmy Murray runs the farm, but he ain't quite all there, I'm told--"
"What part of him isn't there?" asked Emily curiously.
"Laws, it's something about his mind, child. He's a bit simple--some accident or other when he was a youngster, I've heard. It addled his head, kind of. Elizabeth was mixed up in it some way--I've never heard the rights of it. I don't reckon the New Moon people will want to be bothered with you. They're awful set in their ways. You take my advice and try to please your Aunt Ruth. Be polite--and well-behaved--mebbe she'll take a fancy to you. There, that's all the dishes. You'd better go upstairs and be out of the way."
"Can I take Mike and Saucy Sal?" asked Emily.
"No, you can't."
"They'd be company for me," pleaded Emily.
"Company or no company, you can't have them. They're outside and they'll stay outside. I ain't going to have them tracking all over the house. The floor's been scrubbed."
"Why didn't
you scrub the floor when Father was alive?" asked Emily. "He liked things to be clean. You hardly ever scrubbed it then. Why do you do it now?"
"Listen to her! Was I to be always scrubbing floors with my rheumatiz? Get off upstairs and you'd better lie down awhile."
"I'm going upstairs, but I'm not going to lie down," said Emily. "I've got a lot of thinking to do."
"There's one thing I'd advise you to do," said Ellen, determined to lose no chance of doing her duty, "and that is to kneel down and pray to God to make you a good and respectful and grateful child."
Emily paused at the foot of the stairs and looked back.
"Father said I wasn't to have anything to do with your God," she said gravely.
Ellen gasped foolishly, but could not think of any reply to this heathenish statement. She appealed to the universe.
"Did anyone ever hear the like!"
"I know what your God is like." said Emily. "I saw His picture in that Adam-and-Eve book of yours. He has whiskers and wears a nightgown. I don't like Him. But I like Father's God."
"And what is your father's God like, if I may ask?" demanded Ellen sarcastically.
Emily hadn't any idea what Father's God was like, but she was determined not to be posed by Ellen.
"He is clear as the moon, fair as the sun, and terrible as an army with banner," she said triumphantly.
"Well, you're bound to have the last word, but the Murrays will teach you what's what," said Ellen, giving up the argument. "They're strict Presbyterians and won't hold by any of your father's awful notions. Get off upstairs."
Emily went up to the south room, feeling very desolate.
"There isn't anybody in the world who loves me now," she said, as she curled up on her bed by the window. But she was determined she would not cry. The Murrays, who had hated her father, should not see her crying. She felt that she detested them all--except perhaps Aunt Laura. How very big and empty the world had suddenly become. Nothing was interesting any more. It did not matter that the little squat apple tree between Adam-and-Eve had become a thing of rose-and-snow beauty--that the hills beyond the hollow were of green silk, purple-misted--that the daffodils were out in the garden--that the birches were hung all over with golden tassels--that the Wind Woman was blowing white young clouds across the sky. None of these things had any charm or consolation for her now. In her inexperience she believed they never would have again.
"But I promised Father I'd be brave," she whispered, clenching her little fists, "and I will. And I won't let the Murrays see I'm afraid of them--I won't be afraid of them!"
When the far-off whistle of the afternoon train blew beyond the hills, Emily's heart began to beat. She clasped her hands and lifted her face.
"Please help me, Father's God--not Ellen's God," she said. "Help me to be brave and not cry before the Murrays."
Soon after there was the sound of wheels below--and voices--loud, decided voices. Then Ellen came puffing up the stairs with the black dress--a sleazy thing of cheap merino.
"Mrs. Hubbard just got it done in time, thanks be. I wouldn't 'a' had the Murrays see you not in black for the world. They can't say I haven't done my duty. They're all here--the New Moon people and Oliver and his wife, your Aunt Addie, and Wallace and his wife, your Aunt Eva, and Aunt Ruth--Mrs. Dutton, her name is. There, you're ready now. Come along."
"Can't I put my Venetian beads on?" asked Emily.
"Did ever any mortal! Venetian beads with a mourning dress! Shame on you! Is this a time to be thinking of vanity?"
"It isn't vanity!" cried Emily. "Father gave me those beads last Christmas--and I want to show the Murrays that I've got something!"
"No more of your nonsense! Come along, I say! Mind your manners--there's a good deal depends on the impression you make on them."
Emily walked rigidly downstairs before Ellen and into the parlor. Eight people were sitting around it--and she instantly felt the critical gaze of sixteen stranger eyes. She looked very pale and plain in her black dress; the purple shadows left by weeping made her large eyes look too large and hollow. She was desperately afraid, and she knew it--but she would not let the Murrays see it. She held up her head and faced the ordeal before her gallantly.
"This," said Ellen, turning her around by the shoulder, "is your Uncle Wallace."
Emily shuddered and put out a cold hand. She did not like Uncle Wallace--she knew that at once--he was black and grim and ugly, with frowning, bristly brows and a stern, unpitying mouth. He had big pouches under his eyes, and carefully-trimmed black side-whiskers. Emily decided then and there that she did not admire side-whiskers.
"How do you do, Emily?" he said coldly--and just as coldly he bent forward and kissed her cheek.
A sudden wave of indignation swept over Emily's soul. How dared he kiss her--he had hated her father and disowned her mother! She would have none of his kisses! Flash-quick, she snatched her handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her outraged cheek.
"Well--well!" exclaimed a disagreeable voice from the other side of the room.
Uncle Wallace looked as if he would like to say a great many things but couldn't think of them. Ellen, with a grunt of despair, propelled Emily to the next sitter.
"Your Aunt Eva," she said.
Aunt Eva was sitting huddled up in a shawl. She had the fretful face of the imaginary invalid. She shook hands with Emily and said nothing. Neither did Emily.
"Your Uncle Oliver," announced Ellen.
Emily rather liked Uncle Oliver's appearance. He was big and fat and rosy and jolly-looking. She thought she would not mind so much if he kissed her, in spite of his bristly white mustache. But Uncle Oliver had learned Uncle Wallace's lesson.
"I'll give you a quarter for a kiss," he whispered genially. A joke was Uncle Oliver's idea of being kind and sympathetic, but Emily did not know this, and resented it.
"I don't sell my kisses," she said, lifting her head as haughtily as any Murray of them all could do.
Uncle Oliver chuckled and seemed infinitely amused and not a bit offended. But Emily heard a sniff across the room.
Aunt Addie was next. She was as fat and rosy and jolly-looking as her husband and she gave Emily's cold hand a nice, gentle squeeze.
"How are you, dear?" she said.
That "dear" touched Emily and thawed her a trifle. But the next in turn froze her up instantly again. It was Aunt Ruth--Emily knew it was Aunt Ruth before Ellen said so, and she knew it was Aunt Ruth who had "well--welled" and sniffed. She knew the cold, gray eyes, the prim, dull brown hair, the short, stout figure, the thin, pinched, merciless mouth.
Aunt Ruth held out the tips of her fingers, but Emily did not take them.
"Shake hands with your Aunt," said Ellen in an angry whisper.
"She does not want to shake hands with me," said Emily, distinctly, "and so I am not going to do it."
Aunt Ruth folded her scorned hands back on her black silk lap.
"You are a very ill-bred child," she said. "But of course it was only what was to be expected."
Emily felt a sudden compunction. Had she cast a reflection on her father by her behavior? Perhaps after all she should have shaken hands with Aunt Ruth. But it was too late now--Ellen had already jerked her on.
"This is your Cousin, Mr. James Murray," said Ellen, in the disgusted tone of one who gives up something as a bad job and is only anxious to be done with it.
"Cousin Jimmy--Cousin Jimmy," said that individual. Emily looked steadily at him, and liked him at once without any reservations.
He had a little, rosy, elfish face with a forked gray beard; his hair curled over his head in a most un-Murray-like mop of glossy brown; and his large, brown eyes were as kind and frank as a child's. He gave Emily a hearty handshake, though he looked askance at the lady across from him while doing it.
"Hello, pussy!" he said.
Emily began to smile at him, but her smile was, as always, so slow in developing that Ellen had whisked her on before it was in full flower, and
it was Aunt Laura who got the benefit of it. Aunt Laura started and paled.
"Juliet's smile!" she said, half under her breath. And again Aunt Ruth sniffed.
Aunt Laura did not look like anyone else in the room. She was almost pretty, with her delicate features and the heavy coils of pale, sleek, fair hair, faintly grayed, pinned closely all around her head. But it was her eyes that won Emily. They were such round blue, blue eyes. One never quite got over the shock of their blueness. And when she spoke it was in a beautiful, soft voice.
"You poor, dear, little child," she said, and put her arm around Emily for a gentle hug.
Emily returned the hug and had a narrow escape then from letting the Murrays see her cry. All that saved her was the fact that Ellen suddenly pushed her on into the corner by the window.
"And this is your Aunt Elizabeth."
Yes, this was Aunt Elizabeth. No doubt about that--and she had on a stiff, black satin dress, so stiff and rich that Emily felt sure it must be her very best. This pleased Emily. Whatever Aunt Elizabeth thought of her father, at least she had paid him the respect of her best dress. And Aunt Elizabeth was quite fine looking in a tall, thin, austere style, with clear-cut features and a massive coronet of iron-gray hair under her black lace cap. But her eyes, though steel-blue, were as cold as Aunt Ruth's, and her long thin mouth was compressed severely. Under her cool, appraising glance Emily retreated into herself and shut the door of her soul. She would have liked to please Aunt Elizabeth--who was "boss" at New Moon--but she felt she could not do it.
Aunt Elizabeth shook hands and said nothing--the truth being that she did not know exactly what to say. Elizabeth Murray would not have felt "put about" before King or Governor-General. The Murray pride would have carried her through there; but she did feel disturbed in the presence of this alien, level-gazing child who had already shown that she was anything but meek and humble. Though Elizabeth Murray would never have admitted it, she did not want to be snubbed as Wallace and Ruth had been.