And one spring day, Aunt Elizabeth, housecleaning in the garret while Emily played happily with Teddy at the Tansy Patch, found the bundle of letters on the sofa shelf, sat down, and read them all.
Elizabeth Murray would never have read any writing belonging to a grown person. But it never occurred to her that there was anything dishonourable in reading the letters wherein Emily, lonely and—sometimes—misunderstood, had poured out her heart to the father she had loved and been loved by, so passionately and understandingly. Aunt Elizabeth thought she had a right to know everything that this pensioner on her bounty did, said, or thought. She read the letters and she found out what Emily thought of her—of her, Elizabeth Murray, autocrat unchallenged, to whom no one had ever dared to say anything uncomplimentary. Such an experience is no pleasanter at sixty than at sixteen. As Elizabeth Murray folded up the last letter her hands trembled—with anger, and something underneath it that was not anger.
“Emily, your Aunt Elizabeth wants to see you in the parlour,” said Aunt Laura, when Emily returned from the Tansy Patch, driven home by the thin grey rain that had begun to drift over the greening fields. Her tone—her sorrowful look—warned Emily that mischief was in the wind. Emily had no idea what mischief—she could not recall anything she had done recently that should bring her up before the tribunal Aunt Elizabeth occasionally held in the parlour. It must be serious when it was in the parlour. For reasons best known to herself Aunt Elizabeth held super-serious interviews like this in the parlour. Possibly it was because she felt obscurely that the photographs of the Murrays on the walls gave her a backing she needed when dealing with this hop-out-of-kin; for the same reason Emily detested a trial in the parlour. She always felt on such occasions like a very small mouse surrounded by a circle of grim cats.
Emily skipped across the big hall, pausing, in spite of her alarm, to glance at the charming red world through the crimson glass; then pushed open the parlour door. The room was dim, for only one of the slat blinds was partially raised. Aunt Elizabeth was sitting bolt upright in Grandfather Murray’s black horsehair-chair. Emily looked at her stern, angry face first—and then at her lap.
Emily understood.
The first thing she did was to retrieve her precious letters. With the quickness of light she sprang to Aunt Elizabeth, snatched up the bundle and retreated to the door; there she faced Aunt Elizabeth, her face blazing with indignation and outrage. Sacrilege had been committed—the most sacred shrine of her soul had been profaned.
“How dare you?” she said. “How dare you touch my private papers, Aunt Elizabeth?”
Aunt Elizabeth had not expected this. She had looked for confusion—dismay—shame—fear—for anything but this righteous indignation, as if she, forsooth, were the guilty one. She rose.
“Give me those letters, Emily.”
“No, I will not,” said Emily, white with anger, as she clasped her hands around the bundle. “They are mine and Father’s—not yours. You had no right to touch them. I will never forgive you!”
This was turning the tables with a vengeance. Aunt Elizabeth was so dumbfounded that she hardly knew what to say or do. Worst of all, a most unpleasant doubt of her own conduct suddenly assailed her—driven home perhaps by the intensity and earnestness of Emily’s accusation. For the first time in her life it occurred to Elizabeth Murray to wonder if she had done rightly. For the first time in her life she felt ashamed; and the shame made her furious. It was intolerable that she should be made to feel ashamed.
For the moment they faced each other, not as aunt and niece, not as child and adult, but as two human beings each with hatred for the other in her heart—Elizabeth Murray, tall and austere and thin-lipped; Emily Starr, white of face, her eyes pools of black flame, her trembling arms hugging her letters.
“So this is your gratitude,” said Aunt Elizabeth. “You were a penniless orphan—I took you to my home—I have given you shelter and food and education and kindness—and this is my thanks.”
As yet Emily’s tempest of anger and resentment prevented her from feeling the sting of this.
“You did not want to take me,” she said. “You made me draw lots and you took me because the lot fell to you. You knew some of you had to take me because you were the proud Murrays and couldn’t let a relation go to an orphan asylum. Aunt Laura loves me now but you don’t. So why should I love you?”
“Ungrateful, thankless child!”
“I’m not thankless. I’ve tried to be good—I’ve tried to obey you and please you—I do all the chores I can to help pay for my keep. And you had no business to read my letters to Father.”
“They are disgraceful letters—and must be destroyed,” said Aunt Elizabeth.
“No,” Emily clasped them tighter. “I’d sooner burn myself. You shall not have them, Aunt Elizabeth.”
She felt her brows drawing together—she felt the Murray look on her face—she knew she was conquering.
Elizabeth Murray turned paler, if that were possible. There were times when she could give the Murray look herself; it was not that which dismayed her—it was the uncanny something which seemed to peer out behind the Murray look that always broke her will. She trembled—faltered—yielded.
“Keep your letters,” she said bitterly, “and scorn the old woman who opened her home to you.”
She went out of the parlour. Emily was left mistress of the field. And all at
