why — and I wondered why Mother looked so white and wouldn’t open her eyes. And I leaned down and touched her cheek — and oh, it was so cold. It made me shiver. And somebody in the room said, ‘Poor little thing!’ and I was frightened and put my face down on your shoulder.”
“Yes, I recall that. Your mother died very suddenly. I don’t think we’ll talk about it. The Murrays all came to her funeral. The Murrays have certain traditions and they live up to them very strictly. One of them is that nothing but candles shall be burned for light at New Moon — and another is that no quarrel must be carried past the grave. They came when she was dead — they would have come when she was ill if they had known, I will say that much for them. And they behaved very well — oh, very well indeed. They were not the Murrays of New Moon for nothing. Your Aunt Elizabeth wore her best black satin dress to the funeral. For any funeral but a Murray’s the second best one would have done; and they made no serious objection when I said your mother would be buried in the Starr plot in Charlottetown cemetery. They would have liked to take her back to the old Murray burying-ground in Blair Water — they had their own private burying-ground, you know — no indiscriminate graveyard for them. But your Uncle Wallace handsomely admitted that a woman should belong to her husband’s family in death as in life. And then they offered to take you and bring you up — to ‘give you your mother’s place.’ I refused to let them have you — then. Did I do right, Emily?”
“Yes — yes — yes!” whispered Emily, with a hug at every “yes.”
“I told Oliver Murray — it was he who spoke to me about you — that as long as I lived I would not be parted from my child. He said, ‘If you ever change your mind, let us know.’ But I did not change my mind — not even three years later when my doctor told me I must give up work. ‘If you don’t, I give you a year,’ he said, ‘if you do, and live out-of-doors all you can, I give you three — or possibly four.’ He was a good prophet. I came out here and we’ve had four lovely years together, haven’t we, small dear one?”
“Yes — oh, yes!”
“Those years and what I’ve taught you in them are the only legacy I can leave you, Emily. We’ve been living on a tiny income I have from a life interest that was left me in an old uncle’s estate — an uncle who died before I was married. The estate goes to a charity now, and this little house is only a rented one. From a worldly point of view I’ve certainly been a failure. But your mother’s people will care for you — I know that. The Murray pride will guarantee so much, if nothing else. And they can’t help loving you. Perhaps I should have sent for them before — perhaps I ought to do it yet. But I have pride of a kind, too — the Starrs are not entirely traditionless — and the Murrays said some very bitter things to me when I married your mother. Will I send to New Moon and ask them to come, Emily?”
“No!” said Emily, almost fiercely.
She did not want any one to come between her and Father for the few precious days left. The thought was horrible to her. It would be bad enough if they had to come — afterwards. But she would not mind anything much — then.
“We’ll stay together to the very end, then, little Emily-child. We won’t be parted for a minute. And I want you to be brave. You mustn’t be afraid of anything, Emily. Death isn’t terrible. The universe is full of love — and spring comes everywhere — and in death you open and shut a door. There are beautiful things on the other side of the door. I’ll find your mother there — I’ve doubted many things, but I’ve never doubted that. Sometimes I’ve been afraid that she would get so far ahead of me in the ways of eternity that I’d never catch up. But I feel now that she’s waiting for me. And we’ll wait for you — we won’t hurry — we’ll loiter and linger till you catch up with us.”
“I wish you — could take me right through the door with you,” whispered Emily.
“After a little while you won’t wish that. You have yet to learn how kind time is. And life has something for you — I feel it. Go forward to meet it fearlessly, dear. I know you don’t feel like that just now — but you will remember my words by and by.”
“I feel just now,” said Emily, who couldn’t bear to hide anything from Father, “that I don’t like God any more.”
Douglas Starr laughed — the laugh Emily liked best. It was such a dear laugh — she caught her breath over the dearness of it. She felt his arms tightening round her.
“Yes, you do, honey. You can’t help liking God. He is Love itself, you know. You mustn’t mix Him up with Ellen Greene’s God, of course.”
Emily didn’t know exactly what Father meant. But all at once she found that she wasn’t afraid any longer — and the bitterness had gone out of her sorrow, and the unbearable pain out of her heart. She felt as if love was all about her and around her, breathed out from some great, invisible, hovering Tenderness. One couldn’t be afraid or bitter where love was — and love was everywhere. Father was going through the door — no, he was going to lift a curtain — she liked that thought better, because a curtain wasn’t as hard and fast as a door — and he would slip into that world of which the flash had given her glimpses. He would be there in its beauty — never very far away from her. She could bear anything if she could only feel that Father wasn’t very far away from her — just beyond that wavering curtain.
Douglas Starr held her until she fell asleep; and then in spite of his weakness he managed to lay her down in her little bed.
“She will love deeply — she will suffer terribly — she will have glorious moments to compensate — as I have had. As her mother’s people deal with her, so may God deal with them,” he murmured brokenly.
A Hop Out of Kin
Douglas Starr lived two weeks more. In after years when the pain had gone out of their recollection, Emily thought they were the most precious of her memories. They were beautiful weeks — beautiful and not sad. And one night, when he was lying on the couch in the sitting-room, with Emily beside him in the old wing-chair, he went past the curtain — went so quietly and easily that Emily did not know he was gone until she suddenly felt the strange stillness of the room — there was no breathing in it but her own.
“Father — Father!” she cried. Then she screamed for Ellen.
Ellen Greene told the Murrays when they came that Emily had behaved real well, when you took everything into account. To be sure, she had cried all night and hadn’t slept a wink; none of the Maywood people who came flocking kindly in to help could comfort her; but when morning came her tears were all shed. She was pale and quiet and docile.
“That’s right, now,” said Ellen, “that’s what comes of being properly prepared. Your pa was so mad at me for warning you that he wasn’t rightly civil to me since — and him a dying man. But I don’t hold any grudge against him. I did my duty. Mrs Hubbard’s fixing up a black dress for you, and it’ll be ready by suppertime. Your ma’s people will be here tonight, so they’ve telegraphed, and I’m bound they’ll find you looking respectable. They’re well off and they’ll provide for you. Your pa hasn’t left a cent but there ain’t any debts, I’ll say that for him. Have you been in to see the body?”
“Don’t call him that,” cried Emily, wincing. It was horrible to hear Father called that.
“Why not? If you ain’t the queerest child! He makes a better-looking corpse than I thought he would, what with being so wasted and all. He was always a pretty man, though too thin.”
“Ellen Greene,” said Emily, suddenly, “if you say any more of — those things — about Father, I will put the black curse on you!”
Ellen Greene stared.
“I don’t know what on earth you mean. But that’s no way to talk