“Don’t you know that it is wicked to write novels?” demanded Aunt Elizabeth.
“Oh, I’m not writing novels—yet,” said Emily. “I can’t get enough paper. These are just short stories. And it isn’t wicked—Father liked novels.”
“Your father—” began Aunt Elizabeth, and stopped. She remembered that Emily had “acted up” before now when anything derogatory was said of her father. But the very fact that she felt mysteriously compelled to stop annoyed Elizabeth, who had said what seemed good to her all her life at New Moon without much regard for other people’s feelings.
“You will not write any more of this stuff,” Aunt Elizabeth contemptuously flourished “The Secret of the Castle” under Emily’s nose. “I forbid you—remember, I forbid you.”
“Oh, I must write, Aunt Elizabeth,” said Emily gravely, folding her slender, beautiful hands on the table and looking straight into Aunt Elizabeth’s angry face with the steady, unblinking gaze which Aunt Ruth called unchildlike. “You see, it’s this way. It is in me. I can’t help it. And Father said I was always to keep on writing. He said I would be famous some day. Wouldn’t you like to have a famous niece, Aunt Elizabeth?”
“I am not going to argue the matter,” said Aunt Elizabeth.
“I’m not arguing—only explaining.” Emily was exasperatingly respectful. “I just want you to understand how it is that I have to go on writing stories, even though I am so very sorry you don’t approve.”
“If you don’t give up this—this worse than nonsense, Emily, I’ll—I’ll—”
Aunt Elizabeth stopped, not knowing what to say she would do. Emily was too big now to be slapped or shut up; and it was no use to say, as she was tempted to, “I’ll send you away from New Moon,” because Elizabeth Murray knew perfectly well she would not send Emily away from New Moon—could not send her away, indeed, though this knowledge was as yet only in her feelings and had not been translated into her intellect. She only felt that she was helpless and it angered her; but Emily was mistress of the situation and calmly went on writing stories. If Aunt Elizabeth had asked her to give up crocheting lace or making molasses taffy, or eating Aunt Laura’s delicious drop cookies, Emily would have done so wholly and cheerfully, though she loved these things. But to give up writing stories—why, Aunt Elizabeth might as well have asked her to give up breathing. Why couldn’t she understand? It seemed so simple and indisputable to Emily.
“Teddy can’t help making pictures and Ilse can’t help reciting and I can’t help writing. Don’t you see, Aunt Elizabeth?”
“I see that you are an ungrateful and disobedient child,” said Aunt Elizabeth.
This hurt Emily horribly, but she could not give in; and there continued to be a sense of soreness and disapproval between her and Aunt Elizabeth in all the little details of daily life that poisoned existence more or less for the child, who was so keenly sensitive to her environment and to the feelings with which her kindred regarded her. Emily felt it all the time—except when she was writing her stories. Then she forgot everything, roaming in some enchanted country between the sun and moon, where she saw wonderful beings whom she tried to describe and wonderful deeds which she tried to record, coming back to the candle-lit kitchen with a somewhat dazed sense of having been years in No-Man’s Land.
She did not even have Aunt Laura to back her up in the matter. Aunt Laura thought Emily ought to yield in such an unimportant matter and please Aunt Elizabeth.
“But it’s not unimportant,” said Emily despairingly. “It’s the most important thing in the world to me, Aunt Laura. Oh, I thought you would understand.”
“I understand that you like to do it, dear, and I think it’s a harmless enough amusement. But it seems to annoy Elizabeth some way and I do think you might give it up on that account. It is not as if it was anything that mattered much—it is really a waste of time.”
“No—no,” said distressed Emily. “Why, some day, Aunt Laura, I’ll write real books—and make lots of money,” she added, sensing that the businesslike Murrays measured the nature of most things on a cash basis.
Aunt Laura smiled indulgently.
“I’m afraid you’ll never grow rich that way, dear. It would be wiser to employ your time preparing yourself for some useful work.”
It was maddening to be condescended to like this—maddening that nobody could see that she had to write—maddening to have Aunt Laura so sweet and loving and stupid about it.
“Oh,” thought Emily bitterly, “if that hateful Enterprise editor had printed my piece they’d have believed then.”
“At any rate,” advised Aunt Laura, “don’t let Elizabeth see you writing them.”
But somehow Emily could not take this prudent advice. There had been occasions when she had connived with Aunt Laura to hoodwink Aunt Elizabeth on some little matter, but she found she could not do it in this. This had to be open and aboveboard. She must write stories—and Aunt Elizabeth must know it—that was the way it had to be. She could not be false to herself in this—she could not pretend to be false.
She wrote her father all about it—poured out her bitterness and perplexity to him in what, though she did not suspect it at the time, was the last letter she was to write him. There was a large bundle of letters by now on the old sofa shelf in the garret—for Emily had written many letters to her father besides those which have been chronicled in this history. There were a great many paragraphs about Aunt Elizabeth in them, most of them very uncomplimentary
