One of the things they fell out about was the fact that Emily, as Aunt Elizabeth discovered one day, was in the habit of using more of her egg money to buy paper than Aunt Elizabeth approved of. What did Emily do with so much paper? They had a fuss over this and eventually Aunt Elizabeth discovered that Emily was writing stories. Emily had been writing stories all winter under Aunt Elizabeth’s very nose and Aunt Elizabeth had never suspected it. She had fondly supposed that Emily was writing school compositions. Aunt Elizabeth knew in a vague way that Emily wrote silly rhymes which she called “poetry” but this did not worry her especially. Jimmy made up a lot of similar trash. It was foolish but harmless and Emily would doubtless outgrow it. Jimmy had not outgrown it, to be sure, but then his accident—Elizabeth always went a little sick in soul when she remembered it—had made him more or less a child for life.
But writing stories was a very different thing and Aunt Elizabeth was horrified. Fiction of any kind was an abominable thing. Elizabeth Murray had been trained up in this belief in her youth and in her age she had not departed from it. She honestly thought that it was a wicked and sinful thing in anyone to play cards, dance, or go to the theatre, read or write novels, and in Emily’s case there was a worse feature—it was the Starr coming out in her—Douglas Starr especially. No Murray of New Moon had ever been guilty of writing “stories” or of ever wanting to write them. It was an alien growth that must be pruned off ruthlessly. Aunt Elizabeth applied the pruning shears; and found no pliant, snippable root but that same underlying streak of granite. Emily was respectful and reasonable and above-board; she bought no more paper with egg money; but she told Aunt Elizabeth that she could not give up writing stories and she went right on writing them, on pieces of brown wrapping paper and the blank backs of circulars which agricultural machinery firms sent Cousin Jimmy.
“Don’t you know that it is wicked to write novels?” demanded Aunt Elizabeth.
“Oh, I’m not writing novels—yet,” said Emily. “I can’t get enough paper. These are just short stories. And it isn’t wicked—Father liked novels.”
“Your father—” began Aunt Elizabeth, and stopped. She remembered that Emily had “acted up” before now when anything derogatory was said of her father. But the very fact that she felt mysteriously compelled to stop annoyed Elizabeth, who had said what seemed good to her all her life at New Moon without much regard for other people’s feelings.
“You will not write any more of this stuff,” Aunt Elizabeth contemptuously flourished “The Secret of the Castle” under Emily’s nose. “I forbid you—remember, I forbid you.”
“Oh, I must write, Aunt Elizabeth,” said Emily gravely, folding her slender, beautiful hands on the table and looking straight into Aunt Elizabeth’s angry face with the steady, unblinking gaze which Aunt Ruth called unchildlike. “You see, it’s this way. It is in me. I can’t help it. And Father said I was always to keep on writing. He said I would be famous some day. Wouldn’t you like to have a famous niece, Aunt Elizabeth?”
“I am not going to argue the matter,” said Aunt Elizabeth.
“I’m not arguing—only explaining.” Emily was exasperatingly respectful. “I just want you to understand how it is that I have to go on writing stories, even though I am so very sorry you don’t approve.”
“If you don’t give up this—this worse than nonsense, Emily, I’ll—I’ll—”