“I agree with you,” said Aunt Eva, “and I for one do not feel equal to the task.”
(Emily understood that this meant Uncle Wallace didn’t mean to take her and she rejoiced thereat.)
“The truth is,” said Uncle Wallace, “Aunt Nancy ought to take her. She has more of this world’s goods than any of us.”
“Aunt Nancy would never dream of taking her and you know it well enough!” said Uncle Oliver. “Besides, she’s entirely too old to have the bringing up of a child — her and that old witch Caroline. Upon my soul, I don’t believe either of them is human. I would like to take Emily — but I feel that I can hardly do it. I’ve a large family to provide for.”
“She’ll not likely live long to bother anyone,” said Aunt Elizabeth crisply. “She’ll probably die of consumption same as her father did.”
(“I won’t — I won’t!” exclaimed Emily — at least she thought it with such vim that it almost seemed that she exclaimed it. She forgot that she had wanted to die soon, so that she could overtake Father. She wanted to live now, just to put the Murrays in the wrong. “I haven’t any intention of dying. I’m going to live — for ages — and be a famous authoress — you’ll just see if I don’t, Aunt Elizabeth Murray!”)
“She is a weedy-looking child,” acknowledged Uncle Wallace.
(Emily relieved her outraged feelings by making a face at Uncle Wallace through the tablecloth. “If I ever possess a pig I am going to name it after you,” she thought — and then felt quite satisfied with her revenge.)
“Somebody has to look after her as long as she’s alive though, you know,” said Uncle Oliver.
(“It would serve you all right if I did die and you suffered terrible remorse for it all the rest of your lives,” Emily thought. Then in the pause that happened to follow, she dramatically pictured out her funeral, selected her pallbearers, and tried to choose the hymn verse that she wanted engraved on her tombstone. But before she could settle this Uncle Wallace began again.)
“Well, we are not getting anywhere. We have to look after the child—”
(“I wish you wouldn’t call me ‘the child,’” thought Emily bitterly.)
“ — and some of us must give her a home. Juliet’s daughter must not be left to the mercy of strangers. Personally, I feel that Eva’s health is not equal to the care and training of a child—”
“Of such a child,” said Aunt Eva.
(Emily stuck out her tongue at Aunt Eva.)
“Poor little soul,” said Aunt Laura gently.
(Something frozen in Emily’s heart melted at that moment. She was pitifully pleased over being called “poor little soul” so tenderly.)
“I do not think you need pity her overmuch, Laura,” said Uncle Wallace decidedly. “It is evident that she has very little feeling. I have not seen her shed a tear since we came here.”
“Did you notice that she would not even take a last look at her father?” said Aunt Elizabeth.
Cousin Jimmy suddenly whistled at the ceiling.
“She feels so much that she has to hide it,” said Aunt Laura.
Uncle Wallace snorted.
“Don’t you think we might take her, Elizabeth?” Laura went on timidly.
Aunt Elizabeth stirred restlessly.
“I don’t suppose she’d be contented at New Moon, with three old people like us.”
(“I would — I would!” thought Emily.)
“Ruth, what about you?” said Uncle Wallace. “You’re all alone in that big house. It would be a good thing for you to have some company.”
“I don’t like her,” said Aunt Ruth sharply. “She is as sly as a snake.”
(“I’m not!” thought Emily.)
“With wise and careful training many of her faults may be cured,” said Uncle Wallace, pompously.
(“I don’t want them cured!” Emily was getting angrier and angrier all the time under the table. “I like my faults better than I do your — your—” she fumbled mentally for a word — then triumphantly recalled a phrase of her father’s—”your abominable virtues!”)
“I doubt it,” said Aunt Ruth, in a biting tone. “What’s bred in the bone comes out in the flesh. As for Douglas Starr, I think that it was perfectly disgraceful for him to die and leave that child without a cent.”
“Did he do it on purpose?” asked Cousin Jimmy blandly. It was the first time he had spoken.
“He was a miserable failure,” snapped Aunt Ruth.
“He wasn’t — he wasn’t!” screamed Emily, suddenly sticking her head out under the tablecloth, between the end legs of the table.
For a moment the Murrays sat silent and motionless as if her outburst had turned them to stone. Then Aunt Ruth rose, stalked to the table, and lifted the cloth, behind which Emily had retired in dismay, realizing what she had done.
“Get up and come out of that, Em’ly Starr!” said Aunt Ruth.
“Em’ly Starr” got up and came out. She was not specially frightened — she was too angry to be that. Her eyes had gone black and her cheeks crimson.
“What a little beauty — what a regular little beauty!” said Cousin Jimmy. But nobody heard him. Aunt Ruth had the floor.
“You shameless little eavesdropper!” she said. “There’s the Starr blood coming out — a Murray would never have done such a thing. You ought to be whipped!”
“Father wasn’t a failure!” cried Emily, choking with anger. “You had no right to call him a failure. Nobody who was loved as much as he was could be a failure. I don’t believe anybody ever loved you. So it’s you, that’s a failure. And I’m not going to die of consumption.”
“Do you realize what a shameful thing you have been guilty of?” demanded Aunt Ruth, cold with anger.
“I wanted to hear what was going to become of me,” cried Emily. “I didn’t know it was such a dreadful thing to do — I didn’t know you were going to say such horrid things about me.”
“Listeners never hear any good of themselves,” said Aunt Elizabeth impressively. “Your mother would never have done that, Emily.”
The bravado all went out of poor Emily. She felt guilty and miserable — oh, so miserable. She hadn’t known — but it seemed she had committed a terrible sin.
“Go upstairs,” said Aunt Ruth.
Emily went, without a protest. But before going she looked around the room.
“While I was under the table,” she said, “I made a face at Uncle Wallace and stuck my tongue out at Aunt Eva.”
She said it sorrowfully, desiring to make a clean breast of her transgressions; but so easily do we misunderstand each other that the Murrays actually thought that she was indulging in a piece of gratuitous impertinence. When the door had closed behind her they all — except Aunt Laura and Cousin Jimmy — shook their heads and groaned.
Emily went upstairs in a state of bitter humiliation. She felt that she had done something that gave the Murrays the right to despise her, and they thought it was the Starr coming out in her — and she had not even found out what her fate was to be.
She looked dismally at little Emily-in-the-glass.
“I