Page:Emily Climbs.pdf/282

“Emily, I want to know what is the matter with you,” she demanded, one Saturday afternoon when Emily, pale and listless, with purple smudges under her eyes, had eaten next to nothing for dinner.

A little colour came into Emily’s face. The hour she had dreaded so was upon her. Aunt Ruth must be told all. And Emily felt miserably that she had neither the courage to endure the resultant heckling nor the spirit to hold her own against Aunt Ruth’s whys and wherefores. She knew so well how it would all be: horror over the John house episode—as if anybody could have helped it: annoyance over the gossip—as if Emily were responsible for it: several assurances that she had always expected something like this: and then intolerable weeks of reminders and slurs. Emily felt a sort of mental nausea at the whole prospect. For a minute she could not speak.

“What have you been doing?” persisted Aunt Ruth.

Emily set her teeth. It was unendurable, but it must be endured. The story had to be told—the only thing to do was to get it told as soon as possible.

“I haven’t done anything wrong, Aunt Ruth. I’ve just done something that has been misunderstood.”

Aunt Ruth sniffed. But she listened without interruption to Emily’s story. Emily told it as briefly as possible, feeling as if she were a criminal in the witness box with Aunt Ruth as judge, jury and prosecuting attorney all in one. When she had finished she sat in silence waiting for some characteristic Aunt Ruthian comment.

“And what are they making all the fuss about?” said Aunt Ruth.

Emily didn’t know exactly what to say. She stared at Aunt Ruth.

“They—they’re thinking—and saying all sorts of horrible things,” she faltered. ‘You see—down here in sheltered Shrewsbury they didn’t realise what a storm it was. And then, of course, every one who repeated the story coloured it a little—we were all drunk by the time it filtered through Shrewsbury.”