Chapter 6 NEW MOON

Emily found the drive through the blossomy June world pleasant.

Nobody talked much; even Saucy Sal had subsided into the silence of

Despair; now and then Cousin Jimmy made a remark, more to himself, As it seemed, than to anybody else. Sometimes Aunt Elizabeth

Answered it, sometimes not. She always spoke crisply and used no

Unnecessary words.

They stopped in Charlottetown and had dinner. Emily, who had had

No appetite since her father's death, could not eat the roast beef

Which the boarding-house waitress put before her. Whereupon Aunt

Elizabeth whispered mysteriously to the waitress who went away and

Presently returned with a plateful of delicate cold chicken--fine

White slices, beautifully trimmed with lettuce frills.

"Can you eat THAT?" said Aunt Elizabeth sternly, as to a culprit at

The bar.

"I'll--try, " whispered Emily.

She was too frightened just then to say more, but by the time she

Had forced down some of the chicken she had made up her small mind

That a certain matter must be put right.

"Aunt Elizabeth, " she said.

"Hey, what?" said Aunt Elizabeth, directing her steel-blue eyes

Straight at her niece's troubled ones.

"I would like you to understand, " said Emily, speaking very primly

And precisely so that she would be sure to get things right, "that

It was not because I did not like the roast beef I did not eat it.

I was not hungry at all; and I just et some of the chicken to

Oblige you, not because I liked it any better."

"Children should eat what is put before them and never turn up

Their noses at good, wholesome food, " said Aunt Elizabeth severely.

So Emily felt that Aunt Elizabeth had not understood after all and

She was unhappy about it.

After dinner Aunt Elizabeth announced to Aunt Laura that they would

Do some shopping.

"We must get some things for the child, " she said.

"Oh, please don't call me 'the child, '" exclaimed Emily. "It makes

Me feel as if I didn't belong anywhere. Don't you like my name, Aunt Elizabeth? Mother thought it so pretty. And I don't need any

'things.' I have two whole sets of underclothes--only one is

Patched--"

"S-s-sh!" said Cousin Jimmy, gently kicking Emily's shins under the

Table.

Cousin Jimmy only meant that it would be better if she let Aunt

Elizabeth buy "things" for her when she was in the humour for it;

But Emily thought he was rebuking her for mentioning such matters

As underclothes and subsided in scarlet confusion. Aunt Elizabeth

Went on talking to Laura as if she had not heard.

"She must not wear that cheap black dress in Blair Water. You

Could sift oatmeal through it. It is nonsense expecting a child of

Ten to wear black at all. I shall get her a nice white dress with

A black sash for good, and some black-and-white-check gingham for

School. Jimmy, we'll leave the child with you. Look after her."

Cousin Jimmy's method of looking after her was to take her to a

Restaurant down street and fill her up with ice-cream. Emily had

Never had many chances at ice-cream and she needed no urging, even

With lack of appetite, to eat two saucerfuls. Cousin Jimmy eyed

Her with satisfaction.

"No use my getting anything for you that Elizabeth could see, " he

Said. "But she can't see what is inside of you. Make the most of

Your chance, for goodness alone knows when you'll get any more."

"Do you never have ice-cream at New Moon?"

Cousin Jimmy shook his head.

"Your Aunt Elizabeth doesn't like new-fangled things. In the

House, we belong to fifty years ago, but on the farm she has to

Give way. In the house--candles; in the dairy, her grandmother's

Big pans to set the milk in. But, pussy, New Moon is a pretty good

Place after all. You'll like it some day."

"Are there any fairies there?" asked Emily, wistfully.

"The woods are full of 'em, " said Cousin Jimmy. "And so are the

Columbines in the old orchard. We grow columbines there on purpose

For the fairies."

Emily sighed. Since she was eight she had known there were no

Fairies anywhere nowadays; yet she hadn't quite given up the hope

That one or two might linger in old-fashioned, out-of-the-way

Spots. And where so likely as at New Moon?"

"Really-truly fairies?" she questioned.

"Why, you know, if a fairy was really-truly it wouldn't BE a

Fairy, " said Cousin Jimmy seriously. "Could it, now?"

Before Emily could think this out the aunts returned and soon they

Were all on the road again. It was sunset when they came to Blair

Water--a rosy sunset that flooded the long, sandy sea-coast with

Colour and brought red road and fir-darkened hill out in fleeting

Clearness of outline. Emily looked about her on her new

Environment and found it good. She saw a big house peering whitely

Through a veil of tall old trees--no mushroom growth of yesterday's

Birches but trees that had loved and been loved by three

Generations--a glimpse of silver water glistening through the dark

Spruces--that was the Blair Water itself, she knew--and a tall, Golden-white church spire shooting up above the maple woods in the

Valley below. But it was none of these that brought her the flash--

THAT came with the sudden glimpse of the dear, friendly, little

Dormer window peeping through vines on the roof--and right over it, In the opalescent sky, a real new moon, golden and slender. Emily

Was tingling all over with it as Cousin Jimmy lifted her from the

Buggy and carried her into the kitchen.

She sat on a long wooden bench that was satin-smooth with age and

Scrubbing, and watched Aunt Elizabeth lighting candles here and

There, in great, shining, brass candlesticks--on the shelf between

The windows, on the high dresser where the row of blue and white

Plates began to wink her a friendly welcome, on the long table in

The corner. And as she lighted them, elvish "rabbits' candles"

Flashed up amid the trees outside the windows.

Emily had never seen a kitchen like this before. It had dark

Wooden walls and low ceiling, with black rafters crossing it, from

Which hung hams and sides of bacon and bunches of herbs and new

Socks and mittens, and many other things, the names and uses of

Which Emily could not imagine. The sanded floor was spotlessly

White, but the boards had been scrubbed away through the years

Until the knots in them stuck up all over in funny little bosses, And in front of the stove they had sagged, making a queer, shallow

Little hollow. In one corner of the ceiling was a large square

Hole which looked black and spookish in the candlelight, and made

Her feel creepy. SOMETHING might pop down out of a hole like that

If one hadn't behaved just right, you know. And candles cast such

Queer wavering shadows. Emily didn't know whether she liked the

New Moon kitchen or not. It was an interesting place--and she

Rather thought she would like to describe it in the old account-

Book, if it hadn't been burned--but Emily suddenly found herself

Trembling on the verge of tears.

"Cold?" said Aunt Laura kindly. "These June evenings are chilly

Yet. Come into the sitting-room--Jimmy has kindled a fire in the

Stove there."

Emily, fighting desperately for self-control, went into the

Sitting-room. It was much more cheerful than the kitchen. The

Floor was covered with gay-striped homespun, the table had a bright

Crimson cloth, the walls were hung with pretty, diamond-patterned

Paper, the curtains were of wonderful pale-red damask with a design

Of white ferns scattered all over them. They looked very rich and

Imposing and Murray-like. Emily had never seen such curtains

Before. But best of all were the friendly gleams and flickers from

The jolly hardwood fire in the open stove that mellowed the ghostly

Candlelight with something warm and rosy-golden. Emily toasted her

Toes before it and felt reviving interest in her surroundings.

What lovely little leaded glass doors closed the china closets on

Either side of the high, black, polished mantel! What a funny, Delightful shadow the carved ornament on the sideboard cast on the

Wall behind it--just like a negro's side-face, Emily decided. What

Mysteries might lurk behind the chintz-lined glass doors of the

Bookcase! Books were Emily's friends wherever she found them. She

Flew over to the bookcase and opened the door. But before she

Could see more than the backs of rather ponderous volumes, Aunt

Elizabeth came in, with a mug of milk and a plate whereon lay two

Little oatmeal cakes.

"Emily, " said Aunt Elizabeth sternly, "shut that door. Remember

That after this you are not to meddle with things that don't belong

To you."

"I thought books belonged to everybody, " said Emily.

"Ours don't, " said Aunt Elizabeth, contriving to convey the

Impression that New Moon books were in a class by themselves.

"Here is your supper, Emily. We are all so tired that we are just

Having a lunch. Eat it and then we will go to bed."

Emily drank the milk and worried down the oatcakes, still gazing

About her. How pretty the wallpaper was, with the garland of roses

Inside the gilt diamond! Emily wondered if she could "see it in

The air." She tried--yes, she could--there it hung, a yard from

Her eyes, a little fairy pattern, suspended in mid-air like a

Screen. Emily had discovered that she possessed this odd knack

When she was six. By a certain movement of the muscles of her

Eyes, which she could never describe, she could produce a tiny

Replica of the wallpaper in the air before her--could hold it there

And look at it as long as she liked--could shift it back and forth, To any distance she chose, making it larger or smaller as it went

Farther away or came nearer. It was one of her secret joys when

She went into a new room anywhere to "see the paper in the air."

And this New Moon paper made the prettiest fairy paper she had ever

Seen.

"What are you staring at nothing in that queer way for?" demanded

Aunt Elizabeth, suddenly returning.

Emily shrank into herself. She couldn't explain to Aunt Elizabeth--

Aunt Elizabeth would be like Ellen Greene and say she was "crazy."

"I--I wasn't staring at anything."

"Don't contradict. I say you were, " retorted Aunt Elizabeth.

"Don't do it again. It gives your face an unnatural expression.

Come now--we will go upstairs. You are to sleep with me."

Emily gave a gasp of dismay. She had hoped it might be with Aunt

Laura. Sleeping with Aunt Elizabeth seemed a very formidable

Thing. But she dared not protest. They went up to Aunt

Elizabeth's big, sombre bedroom where there was dark, grim

Wallpaper that could never be transformed into a fairy curtain, a

High black bureau, topped with a tiny swing-mirror, so far above

Her that there could be no Emily-in-the-glass, tightly closed

Windows with dark-green curtains, a high bedstead with a dark-green

Canopy, and a huge, fat, smothering feather-bed, with high, hard

Pillows.

Emily stood still, gazing about her.

"Why don't you get undressed?" asked Aunt Elizabeth.

"I--I don't like to undress before you, " faltered Emily.

Aunt Elizabeth looked at Emily through her cold, spectacled eyes.

"Take off your clothes, AT ONCE, " she said.

Emily obeyed, tingling with anger and shame. It was abominable--

Taking off her clothes while Aunt Elizabeth stood and watched her.

The outrage of it was unspeakable. It was even harder to say her

Prayers before Aunt Elizabeth. Emily felt that it was not much

Good to pray under such circumstances. Father's God seemed very

Far away and she suspected that Aunt Elizabeth's was too much like

Ellen Greene's.

"Get into bed, " said Aunt Elizabeth, turning down the clothes.

Emily glanced at the shrouded window.

"Aren't you going to open the window, Aunt Elizabeth?"

Aunt Elizabeth looked at Emily as if the latter had suggested

Removing the roof.

"Open the window--and let in the night air!" she exclaimed.

"Certainly not!"

"Father and I always had our window open, " cried Emily.

"No wonder he died of consumption, " said Aunt Elizabeth. "Night

Air is poison."

"What air is there at night but night air?" asked Emily.

"Emily, " said Aunt Elizabeth icily, "get--into--bed."

Emily got in.

But it was utterly impossible to sleep, lying there in that

Engulfing bed that seemed to swallow her up, with that cloud of

Blackness above her and not a gleam of light anywhere--and Aunt

Elizabeth lying beside her, long and stiff and bony.

"I feel as if I was in bed with a griffin, " thought Emily. "Oh--

Oh--oh--I'm going to cry--I know I am."

Desperately and vainly she strove to keep the tears back--they

WOULD come. She felt utterly alone and lonely--there in that

Darkness, with an alien, hostile world all around her--for it

Seemed hostile now. And there was such a strange, mysterious, Mournful sound in the air--far away, yet clear. It was the murmur

Of the sea, but Emily did not know that and it frightened her. Oh, For her little bed at home--oh, for Father's soft breathing in the

Room--oh, for the dancing friendliness of well-known stars shining

Down through her open window! She MUST go back--she couldn't stay

Here--she would never be happy here! But there wasn't any "back"

To go to--no home--no father--. A great sob burst from her--

Another followed and then another. It was no use to clench her

Hands and set her teeth--and chew the inside of her cheeks--nature

Conquered pride and determination and had her way.

"What are you crying for?" asked Aunt Elizabeth.

To tell the truth Aunt Elizabeth felt quite as uncomfortable and

Disjointed as Emily did. She was not used to a bedfellow; she

Didn't want to sleep with Emily any more than Emily wanted to sleep

With her. But she considered it quite impossible that the child

Should be put off by herself in one of the big, lonely New Moon

Rooms; and Laura was a poor sleeper, easily disturbed; children

Always kicked, Elizabeth Murray had heard. So there was nothing to

Do but take Emily in with her; and when she had sacrificed comfort

And inclination to do her unwelcome duty this ungrateful and

Unsatisfactory child was not contented.

"I asked you what you were crying for, Emily?" she repeated.

"I'm--homesick, I guess, " sobbed Emily.

Aunt Elizabeth was annoyed.

"A nice home you had to be homesick for, " she said sharply.

"It--it wasn't as elegant--as New Moon, " sobbed Emily, "but--FATHER

Was there. I guess I'm Fathersick, Aunt Elizabeth. Didn't you

Feel awfully lonely when YOUR father died?"

Elizabeth Murray involuntarily remembered the ashamed, smothered

Feeling of relief when old Archibald Murray had died--the handsome, Intolerant, autocratic old man who had ruled his family with a rod

Of iron all his life and had made existence at New Moon miserable

With the petulant tyranny of the five years of invalidism that had

Closed his career. The surviving Murrays had behaved impeccably, And wept decorously, and printed a long and flattering obituary.

But had one genuine feeling of regret followed Archibald Murray to

His tomb? Elizabeth did not like the memory and was angry with

Emily for evoking it.

"I was resigned to the will of Providence, " she said coldly.

"Emily, you must understand right now that you are to be grateful

And obedient and show your appreciation of what is being done for

You. I won't have tears and repining. What would you have done if

You had no friends to take you in? Answer me that."

"I suppose I would have starved to death, " admitted Emily--

Instantly beholding a dramatic vision of herself lying dead, Looking exactly like the pictures she had seen in one of Ellen

Greene's missionary magazines depicting the victims of an Indian

Famine.

"Not exactly--but you would have been sent to some orphanage where

You would have been half-starved, probably. You little know what

You have escaped. You have come to a good home where you will be

Cared for and educated properly."

Emily did not altogether like the sound of being "educated

Properly." But she said humbly, "I know it was very good of you to bring me to New Moon, Aunt

Elizabeth. And I won't bother you long, you know. I'll soon be

Grown-up and able to earn my own living. What do you think is the

Earliest age a person can be called grown-up, Aunt Elizabeth?"

"You needn't think about that, " said Aunt Elizabeth shortly. "The

Murray women have never been under any necessity for earning their

Own living. All we require of you is to be a good and contented

Child and to conduct yourself with becoming prudence and modesty."

This sounded terribly hard.

"I WILL be, " said Emily, suddenly determining to be heroic, like

The girl in the stories she had read. "Perhaps it won't be so very

Hard after all, Aunt Elizabeth, "--Emily happened at this point to

Recall a speech she had heard her father use once, and thought this

A good opportunity to work it in--"because, you know, God is good

And the devil might be worse."

Poor Aunt Elizabeth! To have a speech like that fired at her in

The darkness of the night from that unwelcome little interloper

Into her orderly life and peaceful bed! Was it any wonder that for

A moment or so she was too paralysed to reply! Then she exclaimed

In tones of horror, "Emily, NEVER say that again!"

"All right, " said Emily meekly. "But, " she added defiantly under

Her breath, "I'll go on thinking it."

"And now, " said Aunt Elizabeth, "I want to say that I am not in the

Habit of talking all night if you are. I tell you to go to sleep, And I EXPECT you to obey me. Good night."

The tone of Aunt Elizabeth's good night would have spoiled the best

Night in the world. But Emily lay very still and sobbed no more, Though the noiseless tears trickled down her cheeks in the darkness

For some time. She lay so still that Aunt Elizabeth imagined she

Was asleep and went to sleep herself.

"I wonder if anybody in the world is awake but me, " thought Emily, Feeling a sickening loneliness. "If I only had Saucy Sal here!

She isn't so cuddly as Mike but she'd be better than nothing. I

Wonder where she is. I wonder if they gave her any supper."

Aunt Elizabeth had handed Sal's basket to Cousin Jimmy with an

Impatient, "Here--look to this cat, " and Jimmy had carried it off.

Where had he put it? Perhaps Saucy Sal would get out and go home--

Emily had heard cats always went back home. She wished SHE could

Get out and go home--she pictured herself and her cat running

Eagerly along the dark, starlit roads to the little house in the

Hollow--back to the birches and Adam-and-Eve and Mike, and the old

Wing-chair and her dear little cot and the open window where the

Wind Woman sang to her and at dawn one could see the blue of the

Mist on the homeland hills.

"Will it ever be morning?" thought Emily. "Perhaps things won't be

So bad in the morning."

And then--she heard the Wind Woman at the window--she heard the

Little, low, whispering murmur of the June night breeze--cooing, Friendly, lovesome.

"Oh, you're out there, are you, dearest one?" she whispered, Stretching out her arms. "Oh, I'm so glad to hear you. You're

Such company, Wind Woman. I'm not lonesome any more. And the

Flash came, too! I was afraid it might never come at New Moon."

Her soul suddenly escaped from the bondage of Aunt Elizabeth's

Stuffy feather-bed and gloomy canopy and sealed windows. She was

Out in the open with the Wind Woman and the other gipsies of the

Night--the fireflies, the moths, the brooks, the clouds. Far and

Wide she wandered in enchanted reverie until she coasted the shore

Of dreams and fell soundly asleep on the fat, hard pillow, while

The Wind Woman sang softly and luringly in the vines that clustered

Over New Moon.