Emily Climbs (12 page)

“November 30, 19–

“Andrew was in tonight. He always comes the Friday night I don’t go to New Moon. Aunt Ruth left us alone in the parlour and went out to a meeting of the Ladies’ Aid. Andrew, being a Murray, can be trusted.

“I don’t dislike Andrew. It would be impossible to dislike so harmless a being. He is one of those good, talkative, awkward dears who goad you irresistibly into tormenting
them. Then you feel remorseful afterwards because they
are
so good.

“Tonight, Aunt Ruth being out, I tried to discover how little I could really say to Andrew, while I pursued my own train of thought. I discovered that I could get along with very few words – ‘Yes’ – ‘No’ – in several inflections, with or without a little laugh – ‘I don’t know’ – ‘Really?’ – ‘Well, well’ – ‘How wonderful!’ – especially the last. Andrew talked on, and when he stopped for breath I stuck in ‘How wonderful.’ I did it exactly eleven times. Andrew liked it. I know it gave him a nice, flattering feeling that
he
was wonderful, and his conversation wonderful. Meanwhile I was living a splendid imaginary dream life by the River of Egypt in the days of Thotmes 1.

“So we were both very happy. I think I’ll try it again. Andrew is too stupid to catch me at it.

“When Aunt Ruth came home she asked, ‘Well, how did you and Andrew get along?’

“She asks that every time he comes down. I
know why
. I know the little scheme that is understood among the Murrays, even though I don’t believe any of them have ever put it into words.

“‘Beautifully’ I said. Andrew is improving. He said
one
interesting thing tonight, and he hadn’t so many feet and hands as usual.’

“I don’t know
why
I say things like that to Aunt Ruth occasionally. It would be so much better for me if I didn’t. But
something
– whether it’s Murray or Starr or Shipley or Burnley, or just pure cussedness I know not –
makes
me say them before I’ve time to reflect.

“‘No doubt you would find more congenial company in Stovepipe Town’ said Aunt Ruth.”

E
mily regretfully left the “Booke Shoppe,” where the aroma of books and new magazines was as the savour of sweet incense in her nostrils, and hastened down cold and blustery Prince Street. Whenever possible she slipped into the Booke Shoppe and took hungry dips into magazines she could not afford to buy, avid to learn what kind of stuff they published – especially poetry. She could not see that many of the verses in them were any better than some of her own, yet editors sent hers back religiously. Emily had already used a considerable portion of the American stamps she had bought with Cousin Jimmy’s dollar in paying the homeward way of her fledglings, accompanied by only the cold comfort of rejection slips. Her
Owl’s Laughter
had already been returned six times, but Emily had not wholly lost faith in it yet. That very morning she had dropped it again into the letter-box at the Shoppe.

“The seventh time brings luck,” she thought as she turned down the street leading to Ilse’s boarding-house. She had her examination in English at eleven o’clock and she wanted to glance over Ilse’s note-book before she went for it. The Preps
were almost through their terminal examinations, taking them by fits and starts when the classrooms were free from Seniors and Juniors – a thing that always made the Preps furious. Emily felt comfortably certain she would get her star pin. The examinations in her hardest subjects were over and she did not believe she had fallen below eighty in any of them. Today was English, in which she ought to go well over ninety. Remained only history, which she also loved. Everybody expected her to win the star pin. Cousin Jimmy was intensely excited over it, and Dean had sent her premature congratulations from the top of a pyramid, so sure was he of her success. His letter had come the previous day, along with the packet containing his Christmas gift.

“I send you a little gold necklace that was taken from the mummy of a dead princess of the nineteenth dynasty,” wrote Dean. “Her name was Mena and it said in her epitaph that she was ‘sweet of heart.’ So I think she fared well in the Hall of Judgment and that the dread old gods smiled indulgently upon her. This little amulet lay on her dead breast for thousands of years. I send it to you weighted with centuries of love. I think it must have been a love gift. Else why should it have rested on her heart all this time? It must have been her own choice. Others would have put a finer thing on the neck of a king’s daughter.”

The little trinket intrigued Emily with its charm and mystery, yet she was almost afraid of it. She gave a slight ghostly shudder as she clasped it around her slim white throat and wondered about the royal girl who had worn it in those days of a dead empire. What was its history and its secret?

Naturally Aunt Ruth had disapproved. What business had Emily to be getting Christmas presents from Jarback Priest?

“At least he might have sent you something
new
if he had to send anything,” she said.

“A souvenir of Cairo, made in Germany,” suggested Emily gravely.

“Something like that,” agreed Aunt Ruth unsuspiciously. “Mrs. Ayers has a handsome, gold-mounted glass paper-weight with a picture of the Sphinx in it that her brother brought
her
from Egypt. That battered thing looks positively cheap.”

“Cheap! Aunt Ruth, do you realise that this necklace was made by hand and worn by an Egyptian princess before the days of Moses?”

“Oh, well – if you want to believe Jarback Priest’s fairy tales,” said Aunt Ruth, much amused. “I wouldn’t wear it in public if I were you, Em’ly. The Murrays never wear shabby jewelry. You’re not going to leave it on tonight, child?”

“Of course I am. The last time it was worn was probably at the court of Pharaoh in the days of the oppression. Now, it will go to Kit Barrett’s snowshoe dance. What a difference! I hope the ghost of Princess Mena won’t haunt me tonight. She may resent my sacrilege – who knows? But it was not I who rifled her tomb, and somebody would have this if I didn’t – somebody who mightn’t think of the little princess at all. I’m sure she would rather that it was warm and shining about my neck than in some grim museum for thousands of curious, cold eyes to stare at. She was ‘sweet of heart,’ Dean says – she won’t grudge me her pretty pendant. Lady of Egypt, whose kingdom has been poured on the desert sands like spilled wine, I salute you across the gulf of time.”

Emily bowed deeply and waved her hand adown the vistas of dead centuries.

“Such high-falutin’ language is very foolish,” sniffed Aunt Ruth.

“Oh, most of that last sentence was a quotation from Dean’s letter,” said Emily candidly.

“Sounds like him,” was Aunt Ruth’s contemptuous agreement. “Well,
I
think your Venetian beads would be better than that heathenish-looking thing. Now, mind you don’t stay too late, Em’ly. Make Andrew bring you home not later than twelve.”

Emily was going with Andrew to Kitty Barrett’s dance – a privilege quite graciously accorded since Andrew was one of the elect people. Even when she did not get home until one o’clock Aunt Ruth overlooked it. But it left Emily rather sleepy for the day, especially as she had studied late the two previous nights. Aunt Ruth relaxed her rigid rules in examination time and permitted an extra allowance of candles. What she would have said had she known that Emily used some of the extra candlelight to write a poem on
Shadows
I do not know and cannot record. But no doubt she would have considered it an added proof of slyness. Perhaps it was sly. Remember that I am only Emily’s biographer, not her apologist.

Emily found Evelyn Blake in Ilse’s room and Evelyn Blake was secretly much annoyed because
she
had not been invited to the snowshoe dance and Emily Starr had. Therefore Evelyn, sitting on Ilse’s table and swinging her high, silken-sheathed instep flauntingly in the face of girls who had no silk stockings, was prepared to be disagreeable.

“I’m glad you’ve come, trusty and well-beloved,” moaned Ilse. “Evelyn has been clapper-clawing me all the morning. Perhaps she’ll whirl in at you now and give me a rest.”

“I have been telling her that she should learn to control her temper,” said Evelyn virtuously. “Don’t you agree with me, Miss Starr?”

“What have you been doing now, Ilse?” asked Emily.

“Oh, I had a large quarrel with Mrs. Adamson this morning. It was bound to come sooner or later. I’ve been good so long there was an awful lot of wickedness bottled up in me. Mary knew that, didn’t you, Mary? Mary felt quite sure an explosion was due to happen. Mrs. Adamson began it by asking disagreeable questions. She’s always doing that – isn’t she, Mary? After that she started in scolding – and finally she cried.
Then
I slapped her face.”

“You see,” said Evelyn, significantly.

“I couldn’t help it,” grinned Ilse. “I could have endured her impertinence and her scolding – but when she began to cry – she’s so
ugly
when she cries – well, I just slapped her.”

“I suppose you felt better after that,” said Emily, determined not to show any disapproval before Evelyn.

Ilse burst out laughing.

“Yes, at first. It stopped her yowling, anyway. But afterwards came remorse. I’ll apologise to her, of course. I
do
feel real sorry – but I’m quite likely to do it again. If Mary here weren’t so good I wouldn’t be half as bad. I have to even the balance up a bit. Mary is meek and humble and Mrs. Adamson walks all over her. You should hear her scold Mary if Mary goes out more than one evening a week.”

“She is right,” said Evelyn. “It would be much better if
you
went out less. You’re getting talked about, Ilse.”

“You weren’t out last night, anyhow, were you, dear?” asked Ilse with another unholy grin.

Evelyn coloured and was haughtily silent. Emily buried herself in her note-book and Mary and Ilse went out. Emily wished Evelyn would go, too. But Evelyn had no intention of going.

“Why don’t you make Ilse behave herself?” she began in a hatefully confidential sort of way.

“
I
have no authority over Ilse,” said Emily coldly. “Besides, I don’t think she misbehaves.”

“Oh, my dear girl – why, you heard her yourself saying she slapped Mrs. Adamson.”

“Mrs. Adamson
needed
it. She’s an odious woman –
always
crying when there’s no need in the world for her to cry. There’s nothing more aggravating.”

“Well, Ilse skipped French
again
yesterday afternoon and went for a walk up-river with Ronnie Gibson. If she does that too often she’s going to get caught.”

“Ilse is very popular with the boys,” said Emily, who knew that Evelyn wanted to be.

“She’s popular in the wrong quarters.” Evelyn was condescending now, knowing by instinct that Emily Starr hated to be condescended to. “She always has a ruck of wild boys after her – the nice ones don’t bother with her, you notice.”

“Ronnie Gibson’s nice, isn’t he?”

“Well, what do you say to Marshall Orde?”

“Ilse has nothing to do with Marshall Orde.”

“Oh, hasn’t she! She was driving with him till twelve o’clock last Tuesday night – and he was drunk when he got the horse from the livery stable.”

“I don’t believe a word of it! Ilse never went driving with Marshall Orde.” Emily was white-lipped with indignation.

“I was told by a person who
saw
them. Ilse is being talked about
everywhere
. Perhaps you have no authority over her but surely you have some
influence
. Though
you
do foolish things yourself sometimes, don’t you? Not meaning any harm perhaps. That time you went bathing on the Blair Water sands without any clothes on, for instance?
That’s
known all through the school. I heard Marsh’s brother laughing about it. Now,
wasn’t
that foolish, my dear?”

Emily blushed with anger and shame – though quite as much over being my-deared by Evelyn Blake as anything else. That beautiful bathing by moonlight – what a thing of desecration it had been made by the world! She would
not
discuss it with Evelyn – she would not even tell Evelyn they had their petticoats on. Let her think what she would.

“I don’t think you quite understand some things, Miss Blake,” she said, with a certain fine, detached irony of tone and manner which made very commonplace words seem charged with meanings unutterable.

“Oh, you belong to the Chosen People, don’t you?” Evelyn laughed her malicious little laugh.

“I do,” said Emily calmly, refusing to withdraw her eyes from her note-book.

“Well, don’t get so vexed, dear. I only spoke because I thought it a pity to see poor Ilse getting in wrong everywhere. I rather like her, poor soul. And I wish she would tone down her taste in colours a bit. That scarlet evening dress she wore at the Prep concert – really, you know, it’s weird.”

“She looked like a tall golden lily in a scarlet sheath,
I
thought,” said Emily.

“What a loyal friend you are, dear. I wonder if Ilse would stand up for
you
like that. Well, I suppose I ought to let you study. You have English at ten, haven’t you? Mr. Scoville is going to watch the room – Mr. Travers is sick. Don’t you think Mr. Scoville’s hair is wonderful? Speaking of hair, dear, why don’t you dress yours low enough at the sides to hide your ears – the tips, anyway? I think it would become you so much better.”

Emily decided that if Evelyn Blake called her “dear” again she would throw an ink-bottle at her,
Why
didn’t she go away and let her study?

Evelyn had another shot in her locker.

“That callow young friend of yours from Stovepipe Town has been trying to get into
The Quill
. He sent in a patriotic poem. Tom showed it to me. It was a scream. One line especially was delicious – ‘Canada, like a
maiden
, welcomes back her sons.’ You should have heard Tom howl.”

Emily could hardly help smiling herself, though she was horribly annoyed with Perry for making such a target of himself.
Why
couldn’t he learn his limitations and understand that the slopes of Parnassus were not for him?

“I do not think the editor of
The Quill
has any business to show rejected contributions to outsiders,” she said coldly.

“Oh, Tom doesn’t look on
me
as an outsider. And that really
was
too good to keep. Well, I think I’ll run down to the Shoppe.”

Emily sighed with relief as Evelyn took her departure. Presently Ilse returned.

“Evelyn gone? Sweet temper she was in this morning. I can’t understand what Mary sees in her. Mary’s a decent sort though she isn’t exciting.”

“Ilse,” said Emily seriously. “Were you out driving with Marsh Orde one night last week?”

Ilse stared.

“No, you dear young ass, I wasn’t. I can guess where you heard
that
yarn. I don’t know who the girl was.”

“But you cut French and went up-river with Ronnie Gibson?”

“Peccavi.”

“Ilse – you shouldn’t – really –”

“Now, don’t make me mad, Emily!” said Ilse shortly. “You’re getting too smug – something ought to be done to cure
you before it gets chronic. I hate prunes and prisms. I’m off – I want to run round to the Shoppe before I go to the school.”

Ilse gathered up her books pettishly and flounced out. Emily yawned and decided she was through with the notebook. She had half an hour yet before it was necessary to go to the school. She would lie down on Ilse’s bed for just a moment.

It seemed the next minute when she found herself sitting up, staring with dismayed face at Mary Carswell’s clock. Five minutes to eleven – five minutes to cover a quarter of a mile and be at her desk for examination. Emily flung on coat and cap, caught up her note-books and fled. She arrived at the High School out of breath, with a nasty subconsciousness that people had looked at her queerly as she tore through the streets, hung up her wraps without a glance at the mirror, and hurried into the class-room.

A stare of amazement followed by a ripple of laughter went over the room. Mr. Scoville, tall, slim, elegant, was giving out the examination papers. He laid one down before Emily and said gravely,