the brook when I was watering the cows. Was going to put on dry ones — but just as you say—”
“Jimmy,” implored poor Elizabeth Murray, surrendering at discretion. She could not cope with the situation.
“Perry, get back into that loft and get your clothes on this minute!” ordered Cousin Jimmy.
The bare legs shot up and disappeared. There was a chuckle as mirthful and malicious as an owl’s beyond the black hole. Aunt Elizabeth gave a convulsive gasp of relief and turned to Emily. She was determined to regain ascendancy and Emily must be thoroughly humbled.
“Emily, kneel down here before Miss Brownell and ask her pardon for your conduct to-day,” she said.
Into Emily’s pale cheek came a scarlet protest. She could not do this — she would ask pardon of Miss Brownell but not on her knees. To kneel to this cruel woman who had hurt her so — she could not — would not do it. Her whole nature rose up in protest against such a humiliation.
“Kneel down,” repeated Aunt Elizabeth.
Miss Brownell looked pleased and expectant. It would be very satisfying to see this child who had defied her kneeling before her as a penitent. Never again, Miss Brownell felt, would Emily be able to look levelly at her with those dauntless eyes that bespoke a soul untamable and free, no matter what punishment might be inflicted upon body or mind. The memory of this moment would always be with Emily — she could never forget that she had knelt in abasement. Emily felt this as clearly as Miss Brownell did and remained stubbornly on her feet.
“Aunt Elizabeth, please let me tell my side of the story,” she pleaded.
“I have heard all I wish to hear of the matter. You will do as I say, Emily, or you will be outcast in this house until you do. No one will talk to you — play with you — eat with you — have anything to do with you until you have obeyed me.”
Emily shuddered. That was a punishment she could not face. To be cut off from her world — she knew it would bring her to terms before long. She might as well yield at once — but, ah, the bitterness, the shame of it!
“A human being should not kneel to any one but God,” said Cousin Jimmy, unexpectedly, still staring at the ceiling.
A sudden strange change came over Elizabeth Murray’s proud, angry face. She stood very still, looking at Cousin Jimmy — stood so long that Miss Brownell made a motion of petulant impatience.
“Emily,” said Aunt Elizabeth in a different tone. “I was wrong — I shall not ask you to kneel. But you must apologize to your teacher — and I shall punish you later on.”
Emily put her hands behind her and looked straight into Miss Brownell’s eyes again.
“I am sorry for anything I did to-day that was wrong,” she said, “and I ask your pardon for it.”
Miss Brownell got on her feet. She felt herself cheated of a legitimate triumph. Whatever Emily’s punishment would be she would not have the satisfaction of seeing it. She could have shaken “Simple Jimmy Murray” with a right good will. But it would hardly do to show all she felt. Elizabeth Murray was not a trustee but she was the heaviest ratepayer in New Moon and had great influence with the School Board.
“I shall excuse your conduct if you behave yourself in future, Emily,” she said coldly. “I feel that I have only done my duty in putting the matter before your Aunt. No, thank you, Miss Murray, I cannot stay to supper — I want to get home before it is too dark.”
“God speed all travellers,” said Perry cheerfully, climbing down his ladder — this time with his clothes on.
Aunt Elizabeth ignored him — she was not going to have a scene with a hired boy before Miss Brownell. The latter switched herself out and Aunt Elizabeth looked at Emily.
“You will eat your supper alone tonight, Emily, in the pantry — you will have bread and milk only. And you will not speak one word to any one until tomorrow morning.”
“But you won’t forbid me to think?” said Emily anxiously.
Aunt Elizabeth made no reply but sat haughtily down at the supper-table. Emily went into the pantry and ate her bread and milk, with the odour of delicious sausages the others were eating for savour. Emily liked sausages, and New Moon sausages were the last word in sausages. Elizabeth Burnley had brought the recipe out from the Old Country and its secret was carefully guarded. And Emily was hungry. But she had escaped the unbearable, and things might be worse. It suddenly occurred to her that she would write an epic poem in imitation of The Lay of the Last Minstrel. Cousin Jimmy had read The Lay to her last Saturday. She would begin the first canto right off. When Laura Murray came into the pantry, Emily, her bread and milk only half eaten, was leaning her elbows on the dresser, gazing into space, with faintly moving lips and the light that never was on land or sea in her young eyes. Even the aroma of sausages was forgotten — was she not drinking from a fount of Castaly?
“Emily,” said Aunt Laura, shutting the door, and looking very lovingly upon Emily out of her kind blue eyes, “you can talk to me all you want to. I don’t like Miss Brownell and I don’t think you were altogether in the wrong — although of course you shouldn’t be writing poetry when you have sums to do. And there are some ginger cookies in that box.”
“I don’t want to talk to any one, dear Aunt Laura — I’m too happy,” said Emily dreamily. “I’m composing an epic — it is to be called The White Lady, and I’ve got twenty lines of it made already — and two of them are thrilling. The heroine wants to go into a convent and her father warns her that if she does she will never be able to
Come back to the life you gave
With all its pleasures to the grave.
Oh, Aunt Laura, when I composed those lines the flash came to me. And ginger cookies are nothing to me any more.”
Aunt Laura smiled again.
“Not just now perhaps, dear. But when the moment of inspiration has passed it will do no harm to remember that the cookies in the box have not been counted and that they are as much mine as Elizabeth’s.”
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