Chapter 17 Emily Climbs by Lucy Montgomery
If a Body Kiss a Body
It was half-past ten o'clock and Emily realized with a sigh that she must go to bed. When she had come in at half-past nine from Alice Kennedy's thimble party, she had asked permission of Aunt Ruth to sit up an hour later to do some special studying. Aunt Ruth had consented reluctantly and suspiciously and had gone to bed herself, with sundry warnings regarding candles and matches. Emily had studied diligently for forty-five minutes and written poetry for fifteen. The poem burned for completion, but Emily resolutely pushed her portfolio away.
At that moment she remembered that she had left her Jimmy-book in her school-bag in the dining-room. This would never do. Aunt Ruth would be down before her in the morning and would inevitably examine the book-bag, find the Jimmy-book and read it. There were things in that Jimmy-book it was well Aunt Ruth should not see. She must slip down and bring it up.
Very quietly she opened her door and tiptoed downstairs, in anguish at every creaking step. Aunt Ruth, who slept in the big front bedroom at the other end of the hall, would surely hear those creaks. They were enough to waken the dead. They did not waken Aunt Ruth, however, and Emily reached the dining-room, found her book-bag, and was just going to return when she happened to glance at the mantelpiece. There, propped up against the clock, was a letter for her which had evidently come by the evening mail--a nice thin letter with the address of a magazine in the corner. Emily set her candle on the table, tore open the letter, found the acceptance of a poem and a cheque for three dollars. Acceptances--especially acceptances with cheque--were still such rare occurrences with our Emily that they always made her a little crazy. She forgot Aunt Ruth--she forgot that it was nearing eleven o'clock: she stood there entranced, reading over and over the brief editorial note--brief, but, oh, how sweet! "Your charming poem"--"we would like to see more of your work"--oh, yes, indeed, they should see more of it.
Emily turned with a start. Was that a tap at the door? No--at the window. Who? What? The next moment she was aware that Perry was standing on the side veranda, grinning at her through the window.
She was at it in a flash and without pausing to think, still in the exhilaration of her acceptance, she slipped the catch and pushed the window up. She knew where Perry had been and was dying to know how he had got along. He had been invited to dinner with Dr. Hardy, in the fine Queen-street house. This was considered a great honour and very few students ever received it. Perry owed the invitation to his brilliant speech at the inter-school debate. Dr. Hardy had heard it and decided that here was a coming man.
Perry had been enormously proud of the invitation and had bragged of it to Teddy and Emily--not to Ilse, who had not yet forgiven him for his tactlessness on the night of the debate. Emily had been pleased, but had warned Perry that he would need to watch his step at Dr. Hardy's. She felt some qualms in regard to his etiquette, but Perry had felt none. He would be all right, he loftily declared. Perry perched himself on the window-pill and Emily sat down on the corner of the sofa, reminding herself that it could be only for a minute.
"Saw the light in the window as I went past," said Perry. "So I thought I'd just take a sneak round to the side and see if it was you. Wanted to tell you the tale while it was fresh. Say, Emily, you were right--r-i-g-h-t! I should smile. I wouldn't go through this evening again for a hundred dollars."
"How did you get along?" asked Emily anxiously. In a sense, she felt responsible for Perry's manners. Such as he had he had acquired at New Moon.
Perry grinned.
"It's a heart-rending tale. I've had a lot of conceit taken out of me. I suppose you'll say that's a good thing."
"You could spare some," said Emily coolly.
Perry shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, I'll tell you all about it if you won't tell Ilse or Teddy. I'm not going to have them laughing at me. I went to Queen-street at the proper time--I remembered all you'd said about boots and tie and nails and handkerchief and I was all right outside. When I got to the house my troubles began. It was so big and splendid I felt queer--not afraid--I wasn't afraid then--but just a bit as if I was ready to jump--like a strange cat when you try to pat it. I rang the bell; of course, it stuck and kept on ringing like mad. I could hear it away down the hall, and thinks I, 'They'll think I don't know any better than to keep on ringing it till somebody comes,' and that rattled me. The maid rattled me still more. I didn't know whether I ought to shake hands with her or not."
"Oh, Perry!"
"Well, I didn't. I never was to a house where there was a maid like that before, all dolled up with a cap and finicky little apron. She made me feel like thirty cents."
"Did you shake hands with her?"
"No."
Emily gave a sigh of relief.
"She held the door open and I went in. I didn't know what to do then. Guess I'd have stood there till I took root, only Dr. Hardy himself come--came--through the hall. He shook hands and showed me where to put my hat and coat and then he took me into the parlour to meet his wife. The floor was as slippery as ice--and just as I stepped on the rug inside the parlour door it went clean from under me and down I went and slid across the floor, feet foremost, right to Mrs. Hardy. I was on my back, not on my stomach, or it would have been quite the proper Oriental caper, wouldn't it?"
Emily couldn't laugh.
"Oh, Perry!"
"Great snakes, Emily, it wasn't my fault. All the etiquette in the world couldn't have prevented it. Of course, I felt like a fool, but I got up and laughed. Nobody else laughed. They were all decent. Mrs. Hardy was smooth as wax--hoped I hadn't hurt myself, and Dr. Hardy said he had slipped the same way more than once after they had given up their good old carpets and taken to rugs and hardwood. I was scared to move, so I sat down in the nearest chair, and there was a dog on it--Mrs. Hardy's Peke. Oh, I didn't kill it--I got the worst scare of the two. By the time I had made port in another chair the sw--perspiration was just pouring down my face. Some more folks arrived just then, so that kind of took the edge off me, and I had time to get my bearings. I found I had about ten pairs of hands and feet. And my boots were too big and coarse. Then I found myself with my hands in my pockets, whistling."
Emily began to say, "Oh, Perry," but bit it off and swallowed it. What was the use of saying anything?
"I knew that wasn't proper, so I stopped and took my hands out--and began to bite my nails. Finally, I put my hands underneath me and sat on 'em. I doubled my feet back under my chair, and I sat like that till we went out to dinner--sat like that when a fat old lady waddled in and all the other fellows stood up. I didn't--didn't see any reason for it--there was plenty of chairs. But later on it occurred to me that it was some etiquette stunt and I ought to have got up, too. Should I?"
"Of course," said Emily, wearily. "Don't you remember how Ilse used to rag you about that very thing?"
"Oh, I'd forgotten--Ilse was always jawing about something. But live and learn. I won't forget again, you bet. There were three or four other boys there--the new French teacher and a couple of bankers--and some ladies. I got out to dinner without falling over the floor and got into a chair between Miss Hardy and the aforesaid old lady. I gave one look over that table--and then, Emily, I knew what it was to be afraid at last, all right. I never knew it before, honest. It's an awful feeling. I was in a regular funk. I used to think you carried fierce style at New Moon when you had company, but I never saw anything like that table--and everything so dazzling and glittering, and enough forks and spoons and things at one place to fit everybody out. There was a piece of bread folded in my napkin and it fell out and went skating over the floor. I could feel myself turning red all over my face and neck. I s'pose you call it blushing. I never blushed afore--before--that I remember. I didn't know whether I ought to get up and go and pick it up or not. Then the maid brought me another one. I used the wrong spoon to eat my soup with, but I tried to remember what your Aunt Laura said about the proper way to eat soup. I'd get on all right for a few spoonfuls--then I'd get interested in something somebody was saying--and go gulp."
"Did you tilt your plate to get the last spoonful?" asked Emily despairingly.
"No, I was just going to when I remembered it wasn't proper. I hated to lose it, too. It was awful good soup and I was hungry. The good old dowager next to me did. I got on pretty well with the meat and vegetables, except once. I had packed a load of meat and potatoes on my fork and just as I lifted it I saw Mrs. Hardy eyeing it, and I remembered I oughtn't to have loaded up my fork like that--and I jumped--and it all fell off in my napkin. I didn't know whether it would be etiquette to scrape it up and put it back on my plate so I left it there. The pudding was all right--only I et it with a spoon--my soup spoon--and every one else et theirs with a fork. But it tasted just as good one way as another and I was getting reckless. You always use spoons at New Moon to eat pudding."
"Why didn't you watch what the others did and imitate them?"
"Too rattled. But I'll say this--for all the style, the eats weren't a bit better than you have at New Moon--no, nor as good, by a jugful. Your Aunt Elizabeth's cooking would knock the spots off the Hardys' every time--and they didn't give you too much of anything! After the dinner was over we went back to the parlour--they called it living-room--and things weren't so bad. I didn't do anything out of the way except knock over a bookcase."
"Perry!"
"Well, it was wobbly. I was leaning against it talking to Mr. Hardy, and I suppose I leaned too hard, for the blooming thing went over. But, righting it and getting the books back seemed to loosen me up and I wasn't so tongue-tied after that. I got on not too bad--only every once in a long while I'd let slip a bit of slang, before I could catch it. I tell you, I wished I'd taken your advice about talking slang. Once the fat old lady agreed with something I'd said--she had sense if she did have three chins--and I was so tickled to find her on my side that I got excited and said to her, 'You bet your boots' before I thought. And I guess I bragged a bit. Do I brag too much, Emily?"
This question had never presented itself to Perry before.
"You do," said Emily candidly, "and it's very bad form."
"Well, I felt kind of cheap after I'd done it. I guess I've got an awful lot to learn yet, Emily. I'm going to buy a book on etiquette and learn it off by heart. No more evenings like this for me. But it was better at the last. Jim Hardy took me off to the den and we played checkers and I licked him dizzy. Nothing wrong with my checker etiquette, I tell you. And Mrs. Hardy said my speech at the debate was the best she had ever heard for a boy of my age, and she wanted to know what I meant to go in for. She's a great little dame and has the social end of things down fine. That is one reason I want you to marry me when the times comes, Emily--I've got to have a wife with brains."
"Don't talk nonsense, Perry," said Emily, haughtily.
"'Tisn't nonsense," said Perry, stubbornly. "And it's time we settled something. You needn't turn up your nose at me because you're a Murray. I'll be worth marrying some day--even for a Murray. Come, put me out of my misery."
Emily rose disdainfully. She had her dreams, as all girls have, the rose-red one of love among them, but Perry Miller had no share in those dreams.
"I'm not a Murray--and I'm going upstairs. Good night."
"Wait half a second," said Perry, with a grin. "When the clock strikes eleven I'm going to kiss you."
Emily did not for a moment believe that Perry had the slightest notion of doing anything of the kind--which was foolish of her, for Perry had a habit of always doing what he said he was going to do. But, then, he had never been sentimental. She ignored his remark, but lingered a moment to ask another question about the Hardy dinner. Perry did not answer the question: the clock began to strike eleven as she asked it--he flung his legs over the window-sill and stepped into the room. Emily realized too late that he meant what he said. She had only time to duck her head and Perry's hearty, energetic smack--there was nothing subtle about Perry's kisses--fell on her ear instead of her cheek.
At the very moment Perry kissed her and before her indignant protest could rush to her lips two things happened. A gust of wind swept in from the veranda and blew the little candle out, and the dining-room door opened and Aunt Ruth appeared in the doorway, robed in a pink flannel nightgown and carrying another candle, the light of which struck upward with gruesome effect on her set face with its halo of crimping-pins.
This is one of the places where a conscientious biographer feels that, in the good old phrase, her pen cannot do justice to the scene.
Emily and Perry stood as if turned to stone. So, for a moment, did Aunt Ruth. Aunt Ruth had expected to find Emily there, writing, as she had done one night a month previously when Emily had had an inspiration at bedtime and had slipped down to the warm dining-room to jot it down in a Jimmy-book. But this! I must admit it did look bad. Really, I think we can hardly blame Aunt Ruth for righteous indignation.
Aunt Ruth looked at the unlucky pair.
"What are you doing here?" she asked Perry.
Stovepipe Town made a mistake.
"Oh, looking for a round square," said Perry offhandedly, his eyes suddenly becoming limpid with mischief and lawless roguery.
Perry's "impudence"--Aunt Ruth called it that, and, really, I think he was impudent--naturally made a bad matter worse. Aunt Ruth turned to Emily.
"Perhaps you can explain how you came to be here, at this hour, kissing this fellow in the dark?"
Emily flinched from the crude vulgarity of the question as if Aunt Ruth had struck her. She forgot how much appearances justified Aunt Ruth, and let a perverse spirit enter into and possess her. She lifted her head haughtily.
"I have no explanation to give to such a question, Aunt Ruth."
"I didn't think you would have."
Aunt Ruth gave a very disagreeable laugh, through which a thin, discordant note of triumph sounded. One might have thought that, under all her anger, something pleased Aunt Ruth. It is pleasant to be justified in the opinion we have always entertained of anybody. "Well, perhaps you will be so good as to answer some questions. How did this fellow get here?"
"Window," said Perry laconically, seeing that Emily was not going to answer.
"I was not asking you, sir. Go," said Aunt Ruth, pointing dramatically to the window.
"I'm not going to stir a step out of this room until I see what you're going to do to Emily," said Perry stubbornly.
"I," said Aunt Ruth, with an air of terrible detachment, "am not going to do anything to Emily."
"Mrs. Dutton, be a good sport," implored Perry coaxingly. "It's all my fault--honest! Emily wasn't one bit to blame. You see, it was this way--"
But Perry was too late.
"I have asked my niece for an explanation and she has refused to give it. I do not choose to listen to yours."
"But--" persisted Perry.
"You had better go, Perry," said Emily, whose face was flying danger signals. She spoke quietly, but the Murrayest of all Murrays could not have expressed a more definite command. There was a quality in it Perry dared not disregard. He meekly scrambled out of the window into the night. Aunt Ruth stepped forward and shut the window. Then, ignoring Emily utterly, she marched her pink flanneled little figure back upstairs.
Emily did not sleep much that night--nor, I admit, did she deserve to. After her sudden anger died away, shame cut her like a whip. She realized that she had behaved very foolishly in refusing an explanation to Aunt Ruth. Aunt Ruth had a right to it, when such a situation developed in her own house, no matter how hateful and disagreeable she made her method of demanding it. Of course, she would not have believed a word of it; but Emily, if she had given it, would not have further complicated her false position.
Emily fully expected she would be sent home to New Moon in disgrace. Aunt Ruth would stonily decline to keep such a girl any longer in her house--Aunt Elizabeth would agree with her--Aunt Laura would be heart-broken. Would even Cousin Jimmy's loyalty stand the strain? It was a very bitter prospect. No wonder Emily spent a white night. She was so unhappy that every beat of her heart seemed to hurt her. And again I say, most unequivocally, she deserved it. I haven't one word of pity or excuse for her.