Page:Emily Climbs.pdf/242

“I’m—afraid—so.” Elizabeth Murray felt that it was a very bitter moment for her.

“Then it is for you to decide what is to be done about the matter,” said Ruth triumphantly.

“Not yet,” interposed Cousin Jimmy resolutely. “You haven’t given Emily the ghost of a chance to explain. That’s no fair trial. Now let her talk for ten minutes without interrupting her once.”

“That is only fair,” said Elizabeth with sudden resolution. She had a mad, irrational hope that, after all, Emily might be able to clear herself.

“Oh—well—” Mrs. Dutton yielded ungraciously and sat herself down with a thud on old Archibald Murray’s chair.

“Now, Emily, tell us what really happened,” said Cousin Jimmy.

“Well, upon my word!” exploded Aunt Ruth. “Do you mean to say I didn’t tell what really happened?”

Cousin Jimmy lifted his hand.

“Now—now—you had your say. Come, Pussy.”

Emily told her story from beginning to end. Something in it carried conviction. Three of her listeners at least believed her and felt an enormous load lifted from their minds. Even Aunt Ruth, deep down in her heart, knew Emily was telling the truth, but she would not admit it.

“A very ingenious tale, upon my word,” she said derisively.

Cousin Jimmy got up and walked across the floor. He bent down before Mrs. Dutton and thrust his rosy face with its forked beard and child-like brown eyes under his shock of grey curls, very close to hers.

“Ruth Murray,” he said, “do you remember the story that got around forty years ago about you and Fred Blair? Do you?”

Aunt Ruth pushed back her chair. Cousin Jimmy followed her.

“Do you remember that you were caught in a scrape that looked far worse than this? Didn’t it?”