She lay there cold and tearless and motionless when her father came into the room. How very slowly he walked — how very slowly he took off his clothes. How was it she had never noticed these things before? But he was not coughing at all. Oh, what if Ellen were mistaken? — what if — a wild hope shot through her aching heart. She gave a little gasp.
Douglas Starr came over to her bed. She felt his dear nearness as he sat down on the chair beside her, in his old red dressing-gown. Oh, how she loved him! There was no other Father like him in all the world — there never could have been — so tender, so understanding, so wonderful! They had always been such chums — they had loved each other so much — it couldn’t be that they were to be separated.
“Winkums, are you asleep?”
“No,” whispered Emily.
“Are you sleepy, small dear?”
“No — no — not sleepy.”
Douglas Starr took her hand and held it tightly.
“Then we’ll have our talk, honey. I can’t sleep either. I want to tell you something.”
“Oh — I know it — I know it!” burst out Emily. “Oh, Father, I know it! Ellen told me.”
Douglas Starr was silent for a moment. Then he said under his breath, “The old fool — the fat old fool!” — as if Ellen’s fatness was an added aggravation of her folly. Again, for the last time, Emily hoped. Perhaps it was all a dreadful mistake — just some more of Ellen’s fat foolishness.
“It — it isn’t true, is it, Father?” she whispered.
“Emily, child,” said her father, “I can’t lift you up — I haven’t the strength — but climb up and sit on my knee — in the old way.”
Emily slipped out of bed and got on her father’s knee. He wrapped the old dressing-gown about her and held her close with his face against hers.
“Dear little child — little beloved Emilykin, it is quite true,” he said. “I meant to tell you myself tonight. And now the old absurdity of an Ellen has told you — brutally I suppose — and hurt you dreadfully. She has the brain of a hen and the sensibility of a cow. May jackals sit on her grandmother’s grave! I wouldn’t have hurt you, dear.”
Emily fought something down that wanted to choke her.
“Father, I can’t — I can’t bear it.”
“Yes, you can and will. You will live because there is something for you to do, I think. You have my gift — along with something I never had. You will succeed where I failed, Emily. I haven’t been able to do much for you, sweetheart, but I’ve done what I could. I’ve taught you something, I think — in spite of Ellen Greene. Emily, do you remember your mother?”
“Just a little — here and there — like lovely bits of dreams.”
“You were only four when she died. I’ve never talked much to you about her — I couldn’t. But I’m going to tell you all about her tonight. It doesn’t hurt me to talk of her now — I’ll see her so soon again. You don’t look like her, Emily — only when you smile. For the rest, you’re like your namesake, my mother. When you were born I wanted to call you Juliet, too. But your mother wouldn’t. She said if we called you Juliet then I’d soon take to calling her ‘Mother’ to distinguish between you, and she couldn’t endure that. She said her Aunt Nancy had once said to her, ‘The first time your husband calls you “Mother” the romance of life is over.’ So we called you after my mother — her maiden name was Emily Byrd. Your mother thought Emily the prettiest name in the world — it was quaint and arch and delightful, she said. Emily, your mother was the sweetest woman ever made.”
His voice trembled and Emily snuggled close.
“I met her twelve years ago, when I was sub-editor of the Enterprise up in Charlottetown and she was in her last year at Queen’s. She was tall and fair and blue-eyed. She looked a little like your Aunt Laura, but Laura was never so pretty. Their eyes were very much alike — and their voices. She was one of the Murrays from Blair Water. I’ve never told you much about your mother’s people, Emily. They live up on the old north shore at Blair Water on New Moon Farm — always have lived there since the first Murray came out from the Old Country in 1790. The ship he came on was called the New Moon and he named his farm after her.”
“It’s a nice name — the new moon is such a pretty thing,” said Emily, interested for a moment.
“There’s been a Murray ever since at New Moon Farm. They’re a proud family — the Murray pride is a byword along the north shore, Emily. Well, they had some things to be proud of, that cannot be denied — but they carried it too far. Folks call them ‘the chosen people’ up there.
“They increased and multiplied and scattered all over, but the old stock at New Moon Farm is pretty well run out. Only your aunts, Elizabeth and Laura, live there now, and their cousin, Jimmy Murray. They never married — could not find any one good enough for a Murray, so it used to be said. Your Uncle Oliver and your Uncle Wallace live in Summerside, your Aunt Ruth in Shrewsbury, and your Great-Aunt Nancy at Priest Pond.”
“Priest Pond — that’s an interesting name — not a pretty name like New Moon and Blair Water — but interesting,” said Emily. Feeling Father’s arm around her the horror had momentarily shrunk away. For just a little while she ceased to believe it.
Douglas Starr tucked the dressing-gown a little more closely around her, kissed her black head, and went on.
“Elizabeth and Laura and Wallace and Oliver and Ruth were old Archibald Murray’s children. His first wife was their mother. When he was sixty he married again — a young slip of a girl — who died when your mother was born. Juliet was twenty years younger than her half-family, as she used to call them. She was very pretty and charming and they all loved and petted her and were very proud of her. When she fell in love with me, a poor young journalist, with nothing in the world but his pen and his ambition, there was a family earthquake. The Murray pride couldn’t tolerate the thing at all. I won’t rake it all up — but things were said I could never forget or forgive. Your mother married me, Emily — and the New Moon people would have nothing more to do with her. Can you believe that, in spite of it, she was never sorry for marrying me?”
Emily put up her hand and patted her father’s hollow cheek.
“Of course she wouldn’t be sorry. Of course she’d rather have you than all the Murrays of any kind of a moon.”
Father laughed a little — and there was just a note of triumph in his laugh.
“Yes, she seemed to feel that way about it. And we were so happy — oh, Emilykin, there never were two happier people in the world. You were the child of that happiness. I remember the night you were born in the little house in Charlottetown. It was in May and a west wind was blowing silvery clouds over the moon. There was a star or two here and there. In our tiny garden — everything we had was small except our love and our happiness — it was dark and blossomy. I walked up and down the path between the beds of violets your mother had planted — and prayed. The pale east was just beginning to glow like a rosy pearl when someone came and told me I had a little daughter. I went in — and your mother, white and weak, smiled just that dear, slow, wonderful smile I loved, and said, ‘We’ve — got — the — only — baby — of any importance — in — the — world, dear. Just — think — of that!’”
“I wish people could remember from the very moment they’re born,” said Emily. “It would be so very interesting.”
“I dare say we’d have a lot of uncomfortable memories,” said her father, laughing a little. “It can’t be very pleasant getting used to living — no pleasanter than getting used to stopping it. But you didn’t seem to find it hard, for you