Emily of Deep Valley

by Maud Hart Lovelace

  “Maybe you’d read out loud to me, like you did when I was sick?” he suggested hopefully. “You remember how we liked Kenilworth, and you said we were going on to The Talisman, but we never did?”

  “That’s a good idea. We’ll have to do it.”

  But she put it off. The books she longed for weren’t the old-fashioned novels in the glass-enclosed shelves of the secretary; they were the books her friends at college would be reading under Richard Burton and Maria Sanford and the other famous professors whose names she knew, or the works on sociology she would have liked to study for Jane Addams’ sake.

  She did bring home books from the library, in armloads, replenishing them every two or three days. She read avidly, indiscriminately, using them as an antidote for the pain in her heart. But they didn’t help much. There was no one to talk them over with. They were almost as useless as the newspapers.

  “I know what I’ll do,” she decided. “I’ll go up to the high school. We had such fun that day we went before.”

  But the visit was not a success. It was not at all like the merry expedition with the girls. The seniors were chattering about class pins and caps. The Philomathians and Zetamathians were having their annual fight for members. And none of it concerned Emily any more—not even the debating club.

  “Wakeman will be good, I think,” said Jerry Sibley. “You know he’s coaching football, too; like Stewie. I’ve been elected cheer leader,” he added, grinning.

  “You have?” She was surprised. Jerry didn’t seem the type, somehow.

  “I’m too small for football, but Wake said he wanted to put me to work,” Jerry replied. “Come out to a game sometime. See what a good comedian I am.”

  “I will.”

  After that, when the team was playing at home, she went to the games, walking alone down Front Street and out to the athletic field, joining—but never being part of—the cheering crowd around the sidelines.

  Jerry had developed into a comedian indeed. He brought a student’s zeal to the business of leading the calls and cheers. His glasses laid aside, he jumped and leaped and even turned somersaults.

  “He’s marvelous! He’s wonderful! He’s as good as Rathbun up at the U,” Emily heard the girls saying.

  “That was a good idea of Mr. Wakeman’s,” she thought, observing the pride on Jerry’s gleaming face when he ran off the field. It was good for Jerry to be in a place of importance. He had been too much the student, in the shadow of his handsome older brother. How had Mr. Wakeman known? She looked with interest at the big new coach.

  After the games the high school boys and girls drifted down Front Street into the drugstores and Heinz’s ice cream parlor. Emily went into Heinz’s. The big mirrored room was jammed with rooters, yelling and screaming, rushing from table to table.

  “This is childish. I’ll never come again,” she thought, but after the next game she drifted in, a wistful, lonely figure.

  No one except her was alone. “Oh, well,” she consoled herself, “Thanksgiving will soon be here, and I’ll have some friends again!”

  She didn’t let herself think how swiftly the brief vacation would fly.

  October had turned the world into a bowl of brightness. The distant hills were clothed with colored trees. The locust tree was yellow among red and golden and russet companions. And down in the slough boys jumped from hummock to hummock, gathering cat-tails.

  The slough was still teeming with ducks. She and her grandfather were invited to the expected dinner—duck with apple dressing, baked by Minnie to a queen’s taste.

  Aunt Sophie was full of news of Annette. She had been rushed by five sororities and had joined the Epsilon Iotas.

  “Don sent her the most beautiful corsage bouquet when she pledged.”

  “Has Don pledged?”

  “Certainly. Didn’t you know? He’s joined the Sigma Thetas—I think that’s the name. I can’t help mixing them up and it makes Annette furious,” Aunt Sophie said, wrinkling her brow.

  He might have written, Emily thought!

  In her room that night she took up the volume of Browning. She kept it on her bureau and never saw its brown and gold cover without a quiver of her heart. She turned the pages, trying to bring back some of last summer’s happy intimacy. It was like a dream now that he had ever come, that they had talked and joked and eaten cookies, watching the marsh hens with their babies.

  “He’s forgotten I ever existed. I’d better forget about him,” she declared aloud.

  There was wind and rain, and the leaves fell faster. Soon almost all the trees were bald. Wilson, the tall professor, was elected President. Dejectedly, Emily took off her Bull Moose pin.

  It grew colder and the vines and flowers froze. The last migrating birds hurried away. The little shore birds she had loved to watch were gone; the frogs and snakes were hibernating. Winter was hovering, ready to pounce.

  The heater kept the downstairs cozy. The two old chess players reveled in its warmth. But the upstairs, heated only through registers in the floor, was cold. Emily’s room was too cold to read in, but it didn’t matter. Her grandfather went to bed right after supper, and the parlor then was hers alone.

  Drawing her favorite, stenciled rocker close to the lamp, she worked on her High School Memory Book. She lingered over every page—the programs of Philomathian rhetoricals, the announcements of debates, the place cards of parties with the girls. She unscrewed her graduation fountain pen and wrote countless letters.

  She wrote more letters than she received.

  “They certainly are slow in answering,” she thought, beginning a letter to Nell who already owed her a letter. “But then,” she admitted to herself, “they’re not living in my life the way I’m living in theirs.”

  That was exactly what she was doing, she realized. It was wrong, but what else was she to do?

  She bent her head to her arms in real despair.

  What did the future hold for her, she thought? Not marriage and a family, for she was not attractive to boys. (Not getting a letter from Don had settled that.) If she were to have a career, she should be preparing for it now.

  She thought of Jane Addams going through Rockford Seminary and on to her rewarding travels.

  “Grandpa will die some day, and then what will I do?”

  She was eighteen—that should be such a wonderful time!—and she was doing nothing. Life was passing without love or work. Tears began to flow and she jumped up, crumpling the letter. She walked to the window and looked out.

  The sky was covered with low-hanging clouds but she could see the slough, frozen into a sea of hard brown billows. Except for a line of untidy muskrat houses, there wasn’t a sign of life in that desolate place.

  “It isn’t my slough. It’s a Slough of Despond,” she thought bitterly. “Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?”

  In the morning it was snowing. A slow stream of flakes was dropping past her window, and the slough was covered with a thin white film through which dead rushes, quills and cat-tails poked.

  She felt heavy and lifeless, and her mind reached out despairingly for something to fill the day.

  “There’s the St. John game.” St. John was Deep Valley’s traditional rival. “I’ll go to that. And there’s a pep rally up at the high school this morning.”

  Her grandfather was standing at the kitchen door, throwing out crumbs. He always fed the loyal blue jays, nuthatches and chickadees which stayed the winter. He looked around with a timid half-smile on his face and she knew he wanted to discover whether her dark mood still held. The look cut her.

  “Good morning, Grandpa!” she said, trying to make her tone cheerful. “I’m going up to the high school. There’s a football rally this morning.”

  “Good! It will do you good!” he said, and after breakfast, when she was finishing the morning work, he approached her.

  “Emmy, I’ve been kind of worried about you. All your friends are gone away. Maybe you ought to go, too?”

 
Her eyes blurred. “Why, that’s ridiculous!” she said. “I wouldn’t leave you for the world. Besides, I like it here. I just love Deep Valley.”

  “Do you?” The old eyes looked anxious. “Really?”

  “Of course.” She’d have to do better or he would see how she felt, thought Emily as she put on her heavy coat, buckled her overshoes, and tied a scarf over last year’s round felt hat.

  The snow was still coming down, soft as feathers, brushing her cheek. She had always loved the first snow. But today it made her unhappy. And she entered the high school uneasily. The rally was open to the public, of course, but very few people, except students, attended.

  The teachers all greeted her kindly, but there was something disturbing in Miss Fowler’s manner—pity or disappointment, Emily didn’t know exactly what. She went into the crowded Assembly Room and took the only vacant seat, which happened to be up front.

  The team sat on the platform and the meeting opened with the school song. Jerry led the crowd through a few preliminary cheers, and Miss Bangeter made a speech.

  It wasn’t a very good speech. Miss Bangeter didn’t really consider football important, although she tried to, and everyone understood. Then “Wake” was introduced and a roar of affectionate approval rose. Plainly, the school liked the big, casual young man who stood smiling on the platform.

  But Mr. Wakeman’s speech wasn’t right either, although he had a most engaging manner and a likable southern voice. He didn’t say the right things. He knew football, but he didn’t really understand about the rivalry between Deep Valley and St. John. He didn’t know how long it had lasted nor how deep it went.

  Emily could see that Jerry wasn’t satisfied. His eyes behind the big glasses kept roving over the room. He evidently found the help he was seeking, for when Mr. Wakeman ended Jerry sprang to his feet.

  “We have a distinguished visitor today, someone who can tell us about the last four games with St. John. I want to introduce a star debater from the class of 1912, and a great Deep Valley football fan, Emily Webster!”

  Emily was astounded and acutely embarrassed, but Jerry started last year’s cheer:

  “There’s Walker, King and Webster

  And they can talk a few…”

  The school caught it up and it did sound wonderful, laden as it was with the memories of previous triumphs and of Don. Urged forward by cheers and clapping, she got to the platform, and she was never embarrassed there. When she began to speak all her debating skill came back.

  She described the long rivalry amusingly, calling the teams Minnesota’s Hatfields and McCoys. She told dramatic anecdotes from games of other years. She pointed up the times Deep Valley had won to prove what the team would do today. And she made the times Deep Valley had lost supply as strong a motive for winning. She worked up such enthusiasm that Jerry had to end the applause by calling for the school song again. The team marched off the stage but he motioned to Emily to stay, saying eagerly, “I want you to meet Wake.”

  Flushed and smiling shyly, she found herself shaking Mr. Wakeman’s hand. The young coach was regarding her with friendly observant brown eyes.

  “That was a wonderful speech, Miss Emily.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s lucky for us you were here today. I’d heard about you from Stewie.”

  “You had?”

  “He thought very highly of your debating. In fact,” he added, “everyone around here does. I’ve heard so much about Emily Webster that I’ve been wanting to meet you.” He smiled. “The joke is that I’ve seen you a number of times but I thought you were a high school girl. It was the hair ribbon, I reckon. Well, you’re still a high school girl at heart.”

  His tone was laughing. The remark was innocent, but suddenly all Emily’s happiness in her triumph fell away. She wasn’t still a high school girl. And she couldn’t keep on pretending to be one forever. She didn’t belong here. She was a ghost.

  She went soberly down the stairs and out into the snow. The more she thought about Mr. Wakeman’s statement, the clearer the pattern of her behavior grew. Humiliation choked her. Anger rose, a furious anger at herself, and she walked faster.

  “I was wondering last night what I could do. Well, there’s one thing I can do, and I’ll do it as soon as I get home. I can put up my hair!”

  9

  Hair Up

  SHE WAITED UNTIL DINNER was over and the dishes done, and then she went up to her room. Standing at the mirror, she stared at her angry, determined face, with the big taffeta bow behind. She snatched off the ribbon, unbraided her hair and brushed it out vigorously. It rebounded in curly spirals.

  “The reason I didn’t put up my hair was that I was clinging to high school,” she thought. “There doesn’t seem to be anything in my future, so I’m clinging to the past.

  “But I can’t stop living. I can’t tie up my life like Chinese women do their feet. I’ve got to go on somehow.

  “I don’t know just what I can do, stuck here in Deep Valley.” It was, she remembered, Don’s disparaging word. She had never forgotten it. “But I know I’m going to do something, and I’m not going to go to the game this afternoon!”

  Working swiftly, she parted her hair in the middle, pomped it softly on the sides and pinned it in a psyche knot. The new arrangement was becoming but she didn’t care. She gave her image a wrathful glance.

  Her grandfather was taking a nap, and her mind was still churning.

  “I’ll go downtown. Get a soda or something.”

  She put on her coat again. But when she put on her hat, she was forced to smile. The round school-girl felt, which had been perfect with her hair ribbon, perched absurdly on top of the psyche knot. She took it off.

  “I’ll have to buy a new hat. A good thing, too. It was wrong, not getting any new clothes this fall, just because I’m not going to school.”

  The snow had stopped falling and the sun had come out, shining on the tender whiteness. Her head bare, her cheeks still burning, her hands deep in the pockets of her coat, she strode across the slough.

  “I’m ashamed of myself. I’m just plain ashamed. I’ve been mean to Grandpa. I’ve been self-centered and selfish and rude…”

  The words sounded familiar. They were the same, she realized, that Don had applied so dramatically to himself, and she laughed aloud.

  “Well, they’re true in my case!” she thought, chagrined.

  She passed Heinz’s Restaurant, and shuddered. It was empty now, but soon, when the game was over, it would be filled with screaming boys and girls. How ridiculous she must have looked sitting in there alone!

  She walked on to Roxey’s drugstore. “A soda will cool me off, maybe, and then I’ll go shopping for a hat.”

  Climbing to a stool at the soda fountain, she caught a glimpse of an attractive-looking girl and smiled, and the girl smiled, too, looking more attractive than ever. Emily saw, with amazement, that it was herself. The new headdress gave her a winning air of maturity.

  “My hair is really nice that way,” she thought.

  “Hello, Emily! Why aren’t you at the football game like a loyal alumna of Deep Valley High?”

  Turning, she saw Cab Edwards, Scid’s older brother.

  “Why aren’t you there yourself?”

  “I’d like to be. But I’m a businessman. Didn’t you know?” He ran the family furniture store next door to Roxey’s.

  “Well, I’m grown up myself,” she answered, not intending to be flippant. The words came rushing out because her mind was so full of her new resolve.

  Cab laughed. “Oh, you are? Think you’re pretty big, don’t you, just because you’re graduated?”

  “Well, didn’t you, after you graduated?” she asked, speaking quickly to cover confusion.

  “I never did graduate.” Cab hailed the clerk. “Hey, there! A little attention, please! What will you have, Emily? A banana split, or are you too grown up for that?”

  “I’ll have a strawberry soda.”
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br />   “A strawberry soda for the lady. Bring me a chocolate nut.” Cab swung to a stool beside her. He looked like Scid, slim and sprightly. His suit was freshly pressed, his shoes freshly shined, and his black hair shone like patent leather.

  Annette, Emily knew, would ask whether he had been kicked out. But she had never learned that form of repartee. She was quiet and Cab went on: “Never graduated. Never went to college. But I’m glad Scid could go. Have you heard from him?”

  “No. But Annette mentions him in her letters sometimes. They all seem to be having an awful lot of fun.”

  “Fun! Fun! It isn’t for fun we’re handing out what it costs to keep him at the U.” But Cab didn’t look as severe as he sounded. He was eating his chocolate nut sundae with relish, and he had a gay light in his eyes.

  “What are you doing with yourself?” he asked.

  She answered hurriedly, “Buying a new hat.” And again she found that she had been unintentionally humorous.

  “Whew! There’s a winter’s work for you!”

  “I have to buy a hat that will go over a psyche knot.”

  At that he roared with laughter, and Emily laughed, too. She felt no constraint with him. He was only Scid’s big brother. Although he couldn’t be more than twenty or twenty-one, to her eighteen, he belonged in the adult world.

  But then he said an astonishing thing, which revealed in a flash that he believed she belonged in the adult world, too.

  “Say, Emily! There’s an Elks dance a week from tonight. I was just wondering who to ask, and here I run into you. It’s providential. Want to come?”

  Her long training in calmness enabled her to restrain most of her surprise. “Why, I’d love it! I don’t dance very well, though.”

  “Well, I’m just the one who can teach you.” He winked. “I’m awfully glad you can make it. I’ll stop by around eight-thirty. Have to get back to the old grind now.” He paid for his sundae, and her soda, picked up his hat, and was gone.

  Emily sat for a long thoughtful time, looking at her empty glass. This was astonishing! She knew she would be exhilarated later, but now she was only thankful, deeply thankful.