



Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed
Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net from
images generously made available by The Internet
Archive/American Libraries (https://archive.org)





                                  The
                          Emily Emmins Papers


                                   By

                             Carolyn Wells



                         With Illustrations by
                           Josephine A. Meyer




                          G. P. Putnam’s Sons
                          New York and London
                        The Knickerbocker Press
                                  1907




                            COPYRIGHT, 1907
                                   BY
                          G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS




                   The Knickerbocker Press, New York





                                   TO
                          EDITH MENDALL-TAYLOR

                              IN MEMORY OF
                               PICCADILLY




[Illustration] CONTENTS

                                  CHAPTER                   PAGE

             I. A TICKET TO EUROPE                             1

            II. CROSSING THE ATLANTIC                         23

           III. “IN ENGLAND—NOW!”                             45

            IV. MAYFAIR IN THE FAIR MONTH OF MAY              67

             V. A HOSTESS AT HOME                             86

            VI. THE LIGHT ON BURNS’S BROW                    106

           VII. CERTAIN SOCIAL UNCERTAINTIES                 126

          VIII. A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY                        146

            IX. ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR                         167

             X. “I WENT AND RANGED ABOUT TO MANY CHURCHES”   186

            XI. PICCADILLY CIRCUS AND ITS ENVIRONS           208

           XII. THE GAME OF GOING ON                         230

          XIII. A FRENCH WEEK-END                            252

       Transcriber's Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.




                        THE EMILY EMMINS PAPERS


[Illustration] _I._ _A Ticket to Europe_

It has always seemed to me a pity that nearly all of the people one
meets walking in New York are going somewhere. I mean they have some
definite destination. Thus they lose the rare delight, that all too
little known pleasure, of a desultory stroll through the city streets.
For myself, I know of no greater joy than an aimless ramble along the
crowded metropolitan thoroughfares. Nor does _ramble_ imply, as some
might mistakenly suppose, a slow, dawdling gait. Not at all; the
atmosphere of the city itself inspires a brisk, steady jog-trot; but the
impression of a ramble is inevitable if the jog-trot have no intended
goal.

I am a country woman,—that is, I live in a suburban town; but it is
quite near enough to the metropolis for us to consider ourselves
near-New Yorkers. And Myrtlemead is a dear little worth-while place in
its own way. We have a Current Culture Club and a Carnegie library and
several of us have telephones. I am not a member of the Club, but that
must not be considered as any disparagement of my culture—or, rather,
of my capacity for assimilating culture (for the Club’s aim is the
disbursement of that desirable commodity). On the contrary, I was among
the first invited to belong to it.

[Illustration: Oh! yes, you have temperament, she twittered.]

“You must be a member, Miss Emmins,” said the vivacious young thing who
called to lay the matter before me, “because you have so much
temperament.”

This word was little used in Myrtlemead at this time (although, since,
it has become as plenty as blackberries), and I simply said “What!” in
amazement.

“Oh! yes, you have,” she twittered, “and you create an atmosphere. Don’t
attempt to deny it,—you know you do create an atmosphere.” This was too
much. I didn’t join the Club, although I occasionally look in on them at
their cultured tea hour, which follows the more intellectual part of
their programme. As they have delicious chicken-salad and hot rolls and
coffee, I find their culture rather comforting than otherwise.

Living so near New York, I find it convenient to run into the city
whenever I hear it calling.

[Illustration: Lilacs blossom along the curb]

In the spring its calls are especially urgent. I know popular sympathy
leans toward springtime in the country, but for my part, as soon as
March has blown itself away, and April comes whirling along the cleared
path of the year, I hurry to keep my annual appointment to meet Spring
in New York. The trees are budding in the parks, daffodils and tulips
are blooming riotously on the street-corners, while hyacinths and lilacs
blossom along the curb. A pearl-colored cloud is poised in that intense
blue just above the Flatiron Building, and the pretty city girls smile
as they prank along in their smart spring costumes behind their violet
mows. The birds twitter with a sophisticated chirp, and the
street-pianos respond with a brisk sharpness of tune and time. The very
air is full of an urban ozone, that is quite different from the romantic
lassitude of spring in the country.

Of course, all this is a matter of individual taste. I prefer walking in
dainty boots, along a clean city pavement, while another equally sound
mind might vote for common-sense shoes and a rough country road.

[Illustration: Common-sense shoes and a rough country road.]

And so, as I, Emily Emmins, spinster, have the full courage of my own
convictions, I found myself one crisp April morning walking happily
along the lower portion of Broadway. Impulse urged me on toward the
Battery, but, as often happens, my impulse was side-tracked. And all
because of a woman’s smiling face. I was passing the offices of the
various steamship companies, and I saw, coming down the steps of one of
them, a young woman whose countenance was positively glorified with joy.
I couldn’t resist a second glance at her, and I saw that both her hands
were filled with circulars and booklets.

It required no clairvoyance to understand the situation; she had just
bought her first ticket to Europe, and it was the glorious achievement
of a lifelong desire. I knew, as well as if she had told me, how she had
planned and economized for it, and probably studied all sorts of
text-books that she might properly enjoy her trip, and make it an
education as well as a pleasure. And as I looked at the gay-colored
pamphlets she clutched, I was moved to go in and acquire a few for
myself.

With Emily Emmins, to incline is to proceed; so I stepped blithely into
the big light office and requested booklets. They were bestowed on me in
large numbers, the affable clerk was most polite, and,—well, I’m sure I
don’t know how it happened, but the first thing I knew I was paying a
deposit on my return ticket to Liverpool.

I may as well confess, at the outset, that I am of a chameleonic nature.
I not only take color from my surroundings, but reflect manners and
customs as accurately and easily as a mirror. And so, in that great,
business-like office, with its maps and charts and time-tables and
steamer plans, the only possible thing to do seemed to be to buy my
ticket, and I did so. But I freely admit it was entirely the influence
of the ocean-going surroundings that made the deed seem to me a casual
and natural one. No sooner had I regained the street, with its spring
air and stone pavement, than I realized I had done something unusual and
perhaps ill-advised. However, a chameleonic nature implies an ability to
accept a situation, and after one jostled moment I walked uptown,
planning as I went.

Two days later the postman brought me an unusually large budget of mail.
The first letter I opened caused me some surprise, and a mild amusement.
It began, quite cosily:

    MISS EMILY EMMINS.

    _Dear Madam_: Learning that you intend sailing from New York in
    the near future, I take the liberty of calling your attention to
    the Hotel Xantippe as a most desirable stopping place during
    your stay in this city.

The letter went on to detail the advantages and charms of the hotel, and
gave a complete list of rates, which, for the comforts and luxuries
promised, seemed reasonable indeed! But how in the world did the urbane
proprietor of the Hotel Xantippe know that I contemplated a trip abroad?
I hadn’t yet divulged my secret to my fellow-residents of Myrtlemead,
and how an utter stranger could learn of it, was a puzzle to me. But the
other letters were equally amazing. One from a dry-goods emporium
besought me to inspect their wares before going abroad to buy. Another
begged me to purchase their shoes, and gave fearful warnings of the
shortcomings of English footgear. Another, and perhaps the most
flattering, requested the honor of taking my photograph before I sailed.
But one and all seemed not only cognizant of my recently formed plans,
but entirely approved of them, and earnestly desired to assist me in
carrying them out.

With my willingness to accept a situation, I at once assumed that
somehow the news of my intended departure had crept into one or other of
the New York daily papers. I couldn’t understand why this should be, but
surely the only possible explanation was my own prominence in the public
eye. This, I placidly admitted to myself, was surprising, but
gratifying. To be sure, I had written a few nondescript verses, and an
occasional paper on some foolish thing as a fine art, but I had not
reached the point where my name was mentioned among “What Our Authors
are Saying and Doing.”

However—alas for my vainglory!