"I send you a little gold necklace that was taken from the mummy of a dead princess of the nineteenth dynasty," wrote Dean. "Her name was Mena and it said in her epitaph that she was 'sweet of heart.' So I think she fared well in the Hall of Judgment and that the dread old gods smiled indulgently upon her. This little amulet lay on her dead breast for thousands of years. I send it to you weighted with centuries of love. I think it must have been a love gift. Else why should it have rested on her heart all this time? It must have been her own choice. Others would have put a finer thing on the neck of a king's daughter."
The little trinket intrigued Emily with its charm and mystery, yet she was almost afraid of it. She gave a slight ghostly shudder as she clasped it around her slim white throat and wondered about the royal girl who had worn it in those days of a dead empire. What was its history and its secret?
Naturally Aunt Ruth had disapproved. What business had Emily to be getting Christmas presents from Jarback Priest?
"At least he might have sent you something NEW if he had to send anything," she said.
"A souvenir of Cairo, made in Germany," suggested Emily gravely.
"Something like that," agreed Aunt Ruth unsuspiciously. "Mrs. Ayers has a handsome, gold-mounted glass paper-weight with a picture of the Sphinx in it that her brother brought HER from Egypt. That battered thing looks positively cheap."
"Cheap! Aunt Ruth, do you realize that this necklace was made by hand and worn by an Egyptian princess before the days of Moses?"
"Oh, well... if you want to believe Jarback Priest's fairy tales," said Aunt Ruth, much amused. "I wouldn't wear it in public if I were you, Em'ly. The Murrays never wear shabby jewellery. You're not going to leave it on to-night, child?"
"Of course I am. The last time it was worn was probably at the court of Pharaoh in the days of the oppression. Now, it will go to Kit Barrett's snow-shoe dance. What a difference! I hope the ghost of Princess Mena won't haunt me to-night. She may resent my sacrilege... who knows? But it was not I who rifled her tomb, and somebody would have this if I didn't... somebody who mightn't think of the little princess at all. I'm sure she would rather that it was warm and shining about my neck than in some grim museum for thousands of curious, cold eyes to stare at. She was 'sweet of heart,' Dean says... she won't grudge me her pretty pendant. Lady of Egypt, whose kingdom has been poured on the desert sands like spilled wine, I salute you across the gulf of time."
Emily bowed deeply and waved her hand adown the vistas of dead centuries.
"Such high-falutin' language is very foolish," sniffed Aunt Ruth.
"Oh, most of that last sentence was a quotation from Dean's letter," said Emily candidly.
"Sounds like him," was Aunt Ruth's contemptuous agreement. "Well, I think your Venetian beads would be better than that heathenish- looking thing. Now, mind you don't stay too late, Em'ly. Make Andrew bring you home not later than twelve."
Emily was going with Andrew to Kitty Barrett's dance... a privilege quite graciously accorded since Andrew was one of the elect people. Even when she did not get home until one o'clock Aunt Ruth overlooked it. But it left Emily rather sleepy for the day, especially as she had studied late the two previous nights. Aunt Ruth relaxed her rigid rules in examination time and permitted an extra allowance of candles. What she would have said had she known that Emily used some of the extra candle-light to write a poem on Shadows I do not know and cannot record. But no doubt she would have considered it an added proof of slyness. Perhaps it was sly. Remember that I am only Emily's biographer, not her apologist.
Emily found Evelyn Blake in Ilse's room and Evelyn Blake was secretly much annoyed because SHE had not been invited to the snowshoe dance and Emily Starr had. Therefore Evelyn, sitting on Ilse's table and swinging her high, silken-sheathed instep flauntingly in the face of girls who had no silk stockings, was prepared to be disagreeable.
"I'm glad you've come, trusty and well-beloved," moaned Ilse. "Evelyn has been clapper-clawing me all the morning. Perhaps she'll whirl in at you now and give me a rest."
"I have been telling her that she should learn to control her temper," said Evelyn virtuously. "Don't you agree with me, Miss Starr?"
"What have you been doing now, Ilse?" asked Emily.
"Oh, I had a large quarrel with Mrs. Adamson this morning. It was bound to come sooner or later. I've been good so long there was an awful lot of wickedness bottled up in me. Mary knew that, didn't you, Mary? Mary felt quite sure an explosion was due to happen. Mrs. Adamson began it by asking disagreeable questions. She's always doing that... isn't she, Mary? After that she started in scolding... and finally she cried. THEN I slapped her face."
"You see," said Evelyn, significantly.
"I couldn't help it," grinned Ilse. "I could have endured her impertinence and her scolding... but when she began to cry... she's so UGLY when she cries... well, I just slapped her."
"I suppose you felt better after that," said Emily, determined not to show any disapproval before Evelyn.
Ilse burst out laughing.
"Yes, at first. It stopped her yowling, anyway. But afterwards came remorse. I'll apologize to her, of course. I DO feel real sorry... but I'm quite likely to do it again. If Mary here weren't so good I wouldn't be half as bad. I have to even the balance up a bit. Mary is meek and humble and Mrs. Adamson walks all over her. You should hear her scold Mary if Mary goes out more than one evening a week."
"She is right," said Evelyn. "It would be much better if YOU went out less. You're getting talked about, Ilse."
"You weren't out last night, anyhow, were you, dear?" asked Ilse with another unholy grin.
Evelyn coloured and was haughtily silent. Emily buried herself in her note-book and Mary and Ilse went out. Emily wished Evelyn would go, too. But Evelyn had no intention of going.
"Why don't you make Ilse behave herself?" she began in a hatefully confidential sort of way.
"I have no authority over Ilse," said Emily coldly. "Besides, I don't think she misbehaves."
"Oh, my dear girl... why, you heard her yourself saying she slapped Mrs. Adamson."
"Mrs. Adamson NEEDED it. She's an odious woman... ALWAYS crying when there's no need in the world for her to cry. There's nothing more aggravating."
"Well, Ilse skipped French AGAIN yesterday afternoon and went for a walk up-river with Ronnie Gibson. If she does that too often she's going to get caught."
"Ilse is very popular with the boys," said Emily, who knew that Evelyn wanted to be.
"She's popular in the wrong quarters." Evelyn was condescending now, knowing by instinct that Emily Starr hated to be condescended to. "She always has a ruck of wild boys after her... the nice ones don't bother with her, you notice."
"Ronnie Gibson's nice, isn't he?"
"Well, what do you say to Marshall Orde?"
"Ilse has nothing to do with Marshall Orde."
"Oh, hasn't she! She was driving with him till twelve o'clock last Tuesday night... and he was drunk when he got the horse from the livery stable."