"And the two best verses in it," thought Emily, contemptuously. "How like Evelyn! She has simply no literary judgment."
Emily replaced the books on the shelf, but she slipped the loose leaf into her pocket and ate her share of breakfast very absently. By this time men were on the roads breaking out the tracks. Perry and Teddy found a shovel in the barn and soon had a way opened to the road. They got home finally, after a slow but uneventful drive, to find the New Moon folks rather anxious as to their fate and mildly horrified to learn that they had had to spend the night in the old John house.
"You might have caught your deaths of cold," said Elizabeth, severely.
"Well, it was Hobson's choice. It was that or freeze to death in the drifts," said Emily, and nothing more was said about the matter. Since they had got home safe and nobody had caught cold, what more WAS there to say? That was the New Moon way of looking at it.
The Shrewsbury way was somewhat different. But the Shrewsbury way did not become apparent immediately. The whole story was over Shrewsbury by Monday night... Ilse told it in school and described her drunken orgy with great spirit and vivacity, amid shrieks of laughter from her classmates. Emily, who had called, for the first time, on Evelyn Blake that evening, found Evelyn looking quite well pleased over something.
"Can't you stop Ilse from telling that story, my dear?"
"What story?"
"Why, about getting drunk last Friday night... the night you and she spent with Teddy Kent and Perry Miller in that old house up at Derry Pond," said Evelyn smoothly.
Emily suddenly flushed. There was SOMETHING in Evelyn's tone... the innocent fact seemed all at once to take on shades of a sinister significance. Was Evelyn being deliberately insolent?
"I don't know why she shouldn't tell the story," said Emily, coldly. "It was a good joke on her."
"But you know how people will talk," said Evelyn, gently. "It's all rather... unfortunate. Of course, you couldn't help being caught in the storm... I suppose... but Ilse will only make matters worse. She is so indiscreet... haven't you ANY influence over her, Emily?"
"I didn't come here to discuss that," said Emily, bluntly. "I came to show you something I found in the old John house."
She held out the leaf of the scrap-book. Evelyn looked at it blankly for a moment. Then her face turned a curious mottled purple. She made an involuntary movement as if to snatch the paper, but Emily quickly drew it back. Their eyes met. In that moment Emily felt that the score between them was at last even.
She waited for Evelyn to speak. After a moment Evelyn did speak... sullenly:
"Well, what are you going to do about it?"
"I haven't decided yet," said Emily.
Evelyn's long, brown, treacherous eyes swept up to Emily's face with a crafty, seeking expression.
"I suppose you mean to take it to Dr. Hardy and disgrace me before the school?"
"Well, you deserve it, don't you?" said Emily, judicially.
"I... I wanted to win that prize because Father promised me a trip to Vancouver next summer if I won it," muttered Evelyn, suddenly crumpling. "I... I was crazy to go. Oh, DON'T betray me, Emily... Father will be furious. I... I'll give you the Parkman set... I'll do anything... only don't... "
Evelyn began to cry. Emily didn't like the sight.
"I don't want your Parkman," she said, contemptuously, "But there is one thing you must do. You will confess to Aunt Ruth that it was you who drew that moustache on my face the day of the English exam and not Ilse."
Evelyn wiped away her tears and swallowed something.
"That was only a joke," she sobbed.
"It was no joke to lie about it," said Emily, sternly.
"You're so... so... BLUNT." Evelyn looked for a dry spot on her handkerchief and found one. "It was all a joke. I just ran back from the Shoppe to do it. I thought, of course, you'd look in the glass when you got up. I d-didn't suppose you'd g-go to class like that. And I didn't know your Aunt took it so seriously. Of course... I'll tell her... if you'll... if you'll... "
"Write it out and sign it," said Emily, remorselessly.
Evelyn wrote it out and signed it.
"You'll give me... THAT," she pleaded, with an entreating gesture towards the scrap-book leaf.
"Oh, no, I'll keep this," said Emily.
"And what assurance have I that you won't tell... some day... after all?" sniffed Evelyn.
"You have the word of a Starr," said Emily, loftily.
She went out with a smile. She had finally conquered in the long duel. And she held in her hand what would finally clear Ilse in Aunt Ruth's eyes.
Aunt Ruth sniffed a good deal over Evelyn's note and was inclined to ask questions as to how it had been extorted. But not getting much satisfaction out of Emily on this score and knowing that Allan Burnley had been sore at her ever since her banishment of his daughter, she secretly welcomed an excuse to recall it.
"Very well, then. I told you Ilse could come here when you could prove to my satisfaction that she had not played that trick on you. You have proved it, and I keep my word. I am a just woman," concluded Aunt Ruth... who was, perhaps, the most unjust woman on the earth at that time.
So far, well. But if Evelyn wanted revenge she tasted it to the full in the next three weeks, without raising a finger or wagging a tongue to secure it. All Shrewsbury burned with gossip about the night of the storm... insinuations, distortions, wholesale fabrications. Emily was so snubbed at Janet Thompson's afternoon tea that she went home white with humiliation. Ilse was furious.
"I wouldn't mind if I HAD been rip-roaring drunk and had the fun of it," she vowed with a stamp of her foot. "But I wasn't drunk enough to be happy... only just drunk enough to be silly. There are moments, Emily, when I feel that I could have a gorgeous time if I were a cat and these old Shrewsbury dames were mice. But let's keep our smiles pinned on. I really don't care a snap for them. This will soon die out. We'll fight."
"You can't fight insinuations," said Emily, bitterly.
Ilse did not care... but Emily cared horribly. The Murray pride smarted unbearably. And it smarted worse and worse as time went on. A sneer at the night of the storm was published in a rag of a paper that was printed in a town on the mainland and made up of "spicy" notes sent to it from all over the Maritimes. Nobody ever confessed to reading it, but almost everybody knew everything that was in it... except Aunt Ruth, who wouldn't have handled the sheet with the tongs. No names were mentioned, but every one knew who was referred to, and the venomous innuendo of the thing was unmistakable. Emily thought she would die of shame. And the worst sting was that it was so vulgar and ugly... and had made that beautiful night of laughter and revelation and rapturous creation in the old John house vulgar and ugly. She had thought it would always be one of her most beautiful memories. And now this!
Teddy and Perry saw red and wanted to kill somebody, but whom could they kill? As Emily told them, anything they said or did would only make the matter worse. It was bad enough after the publication of that paragraph. Emily was not invited to Florence Blake's dance the next week... the great social event of the winter. She was left out of Hattie Denoon's skating party. Several of the Shrewsbury matrons did not see her when they met her on the streets. Others set her a thousand miles away by bland, icy politeness. Some young men about town grew oddly familiar in look and manner. One of them, with whom she was totally unacquainted, spoke to her one evening in the Post Office. Emily turned and looked at him. Crushed, humiliated as she was, she was still Archibald Murray's granddaughter. The wretched youth was three blocks away from the Post Office before he came to himself and knew where he was. To this day he has not forgotten how Emily Byrd Starr's eyes looked when she was angry.