Emily Climbs (19 page)

All this was very gruesome. Emily and Ilse would fain have gone elsewhere – but the storm had broken in full fury and darkness seemed to pour in from the sea over the changed world. They took off their drenched hats and coats and followed their hostess to the kitchen, a clean, old-fashioned spot which seemed cheerful enough in lamp-light and fire-glow.

“Sit up to the fire. I’ll poke it a bit. Don’t mind Grandfather Bradshaw – Grandfather, here’s two young ladies that want to stay all night.”

Grandfather stared stonily at them out of little, hazy, blue eyes and said not a word.

“Don’t mind him” – in a pig’s whisper – “he’s over ninety and he never was much of a talker. Clara – Mrs. Bradshaw – is in there” – nodding towards the door of what
seemed a small bedroom off the kitchen. “Her brother’s with her – Dr. McIntyre from Charlottetown. We sent for him yesterday. He’s the only one that can do anything with her. She’s been walking the floor all day but we’ve got her persuaded to lie down a bit. Her husband’s out looking for little Allan.”

“A child
can’t
be lost in the nineteenth century,” said Grandfather Bradshaw, with uncanny suddenness and positiveness.

“There, there now, Grandfather, I advise
you
not to get worked up. And this is the twentieth century now. He’s still living back there. His memory stopped a few years ago. What might your names be? Burley? Starr? From Blair Water? Oh, then you’ll know the Murrays? Niece? Oh!”

Mrs. Julia Hollinger’s “Oh” was subtly eloquent. She had been setting dishes and food down at a rapid rate on the clean oil-cloth on the table. Now she swept them aside, extracted a table-cloth from a drawer of the cupboard, got silver forks and spoons out of another drawer, and a handsome pair of salt and pepper shakers from the shelves.

“Don’t go to any trouble for us,” pleaded Emily.

“Oh, it’s no trouble. If all was well here you’d find Mrs. Bradshaw real glad to have you. She’s a very kind woman, poor soul. It’s awful hard to see her in such trouble. Allan was all the child she had, you see.”

“A child can’t be
lost
in the nineteenth century, I tell you,” repeated Grandfather Bradshaw, with an irritable shift of emphasis.

“No – no,” soothingly, “of course not, Grandfather. Little Allan’ll turn up all right yet. Here’s a hot cup o’ tea for you. I advise you to drink it.
That’ll
keep him quiet for a bit. Not that he’s ever very fussy – only everybody’s a bit upset – except old Mrs. McIntyre. Nothing ever upsets
her
. It’s just as
well, only it seems to me real unfeeling. ‘Course, she isn’t just right. Come, sit in and have a bite, girls. Listen to that rain, will you? The men will be soaked. They can’t search much longer tonight – Will will soon be home. I sorter dread it – Clara’ll go wild again when he comes home without little Allan. We had a terrible time with her last night, pore thing.”

“A child can’t be lost in the
nineteenth
century,” said Grandfather Bradshaw – and choked over his hot drink in his indignation.

“No – nor in the twentieth neither,” said Mrs. Hollinger, patting him on the back. “I advise you to go to bed, Grandfather. You’re tired.”

“I am
not
tired and I will go to bed when I choose, Julia Hollinger.”

“Oh, very well, Grandfather. I advise you not to get worked up. I think I’ll take a cup o’ tea in to Clara. Perhaps she’ll take it now. She hasn’t eaten or drunk since Tuesday night. How can a woman stand that – I put it to you?”

Emily and Ilse ate their supper with what appetite they could summon up, while Grandfather Bradshaw watched them suspiciously, and sorrowful sounds reached them from the little inner room.

“It is wet and cold tonight – where is he – my little son?” moaned a woman’s voice, with an undertone of agony that made Emily writhe as if she felt it herself.

“They’ll find him soon, Clara,” said Mrs. Hollinger, in a sprightly tone of artificial comfort. “Just you be patient – take a sleep, I advise you – they’re bound to find him soon.”

“They’ll never find him.” The voice was almost a scream now. “He is dead – he is dead – he died that bitter cold Tuesday night so long ago. O God, have mercy! He was such a little fellow! And I’ve told him so often not to speak until he was
spoken to – he’ll never speak to me again. I wouldn’t let him have a light after he went to bed – and he died in the dark, alone and cold. I wouldn’t let him have a dog – he wanted one so much. But he wants nothing now – only a grave and a shroud.”

“I can’t endure this,” muttered Emily. “I
can’t
, Ilse. I feel as if I’d go mad with horror. I’d rather be out in the storm.”

Lank Mrs. Hollinger, looking at once sympathetic and important, came out of the bedroom and shut the door.

“Awful, isn’t it! She’ll go on like that all night. Would you like to go to bed? It’s quite airly, but mebbe you’re tired an’ ‘ud ruther be where you can’t hear her, pore soul. She wouldn’t take the tea – she’s scared the doctor put a sleeping pill in it. She doesn’t want to sleep till he’s found, dead or alive. If he’s in the quicksands o’ course he never
will
be found.”

“Julia Hollinger, you are a fool and the daughter of a fool, but surely even you must see that a child
can’t
be lost in the nineteenth century,” said Grandfather Bradshaw.

“Well, if it was anybody but you called me a fool, Grandfather, I’d be mad,” said Mrs. Hollinger, a trifle tartly. She lighted a lamp and took the girls upstairs. “I hope you’ll sleep. I advise you to get in between the blankets though there’s sheets on the bed. They wuz all aired today, blankets
and
sheets. I thought it’d be better to air ‘em in case there was a funeral. I remember the New Moon Murrays wuz always particular about airing their beds, so I thought I’d mention it. Listen to that wind. We’ll likely hear of awful damage from this storm. I wouldn’t wonder if the roof blew off this house tonight. Troubles never come singly. I advise you not to git upset if you hear a noise through the night. If the men bring the body home Clara’ll likely act like all possessed, pore thing. Mebbe you’d better turn the key in the
lock. Old Mrs. McIntyre wanders round a bit sometimes. She’s quite harmless and mostly sane enough but it gives folks a start.”

The girls felt relieved as the door closed behind Mrs. Hollinger. She was a good soul, doing her neighbourly duty as she conceived it, faithfully, but she was not exactly cheerful company. They found themselves in a tiny, meticulously neat “spare room” under the sloping eaves. Most of the space in it was occupied by a big comfortable bed that looked as if it were meant to be slept in, and not merely to decorate the room. A little four-paned window, with a spotless white muslin frill, shut them in from the cold, stormy night that was on the sea.

“Ugh,” shivered Ilse, and got in to the bed as speedily as possible. Emily followed her more slowly, forgetting about the key. Ilse, tired out, fell asleep almost immediately, but Emily could not sleep. She lay and suffered, straining her ears for the sound of footsteps. The rain dashed against the window, not in drops, but sheets, the wind snarled and shrieked. Down below the hill she heard the white waves ravening along the dark shore. Could it be only twenty-four hours since that moonlit, summery glamour of the haystack and the ferny pasture? Why, that must have been in another world.

Where was that poor lost child? In one of the pauses of the storm she fancied she heard a little whimper overhead in the dark as if some lonely little soul, lately freed from the body, were trying to find its way to kin. She could discover no way of escape from her pain: her gates of dream were shut against her: she could not detach her mind from her feelings and dramatise them. Her nerves grew strained and tense. Painfully she sent her thoughts out into the storm, seeking, striving to pierce the mystery of the child’s whereabouts. He
must
be found – she clenched her hands – he
must
. That poor mother!

“O God, let him be found,
safe
– let him be found,
safe
,” Emily prayed desperately and insistently, over and over again – all the more desperately and insistently because it seemed a prayer so impossible of fulfilment. But she reiterated it to bar out of her mind terrible pictures of swamp and quicksand and river, until at last she was so weary that mental torture could no longer keep her awake, and she fell into a troubled slumber, while the storm roared on and the baffled searchers finally gave up their vain quest.

T
he wet dawn came up from the gulf in the wake of the spent storm and crept greyly into the little spare room of the whitewashed house on the hill. Emily woke with a start from a troubled dream of seeking – and finding – the lost boy. Ilse was still asleep at the back of the bed, her pale-gold curls lying in a silken heap on the pillow. Emily, her thoughts still tangled in the cobweb meshes of her dream, looked around the room – and thought she must be dreaming still.

By the tiny table, covered with its white, lace-trimmed cloth, a woman was sitting – a tall, stout, old woman, wearing over her thick grey hair a spotless white widow’s cap, such as the old Highland Scotchwomen still wore in the early years of the century. She had on a dress of plum-coloured drugget with a large, snowy apron, and she wore it with the air of a queen. A neat blue shawl was folded over her breast. Her face was curiously white and deeply wrinkled but Emily, with her gift for seeing essentials, saw instantly the strength and vivacity which still characterised every feature. She saw, too, that the beautiful, clear blue eyes looked as if their owner had been
dreadfully hurt sometime. This must be the old Mrs. McIntyre of whom Mrs. Hollinger had spoken. And if so, then old Mrs. McIntyre was a very dignified personage indeed.

Mrs. McIntyre sat with her hands folded on her lap, looking steadily at Emily with a gaze in which there was something hard to define – something just a little strange. Emily recalled the fact that Mrs. McIntyre was supposed to be not “quite right.” She wondered a little uneasily what she should do. Ought she to speak? Mrs. McIntyre saved her the trouble of deciding.

“You will be having Highlandmen for your forefathers?” she said, in an unexpectedly rich, powerful voice, full of the delightful Highland accent.

“Yes,” said Emily.

“And you will be Presbyterian?”

“Yes.”

“They will be the only decent things to be,” remarked Mrs. McIntyre in a tone of satisfaction. “And will you please be telling me what your name is? Emily Starr! That will be a fery pretty name. I will be telling you mine – it iss Mistress Margaret McIntyre. I am no common person – I am the woman who spanked the King.”

Again Emily, now thoroughly awake, thrilled with the story-teller’s instinct. But Ilse, awakening at the moment, gave a low exclamation of surprise. Mistress McIntyre lifted her head with a quite regal gesture.

“You will not be afraid of me, my dear. I will not be hurting you although I will be the woman who spanked the King. That iss what the people say of me – oh, yess – as I walk into the church. ‘She iss the woman who spanked the King.’“

“I supposed,” said Emily hesitatingly, “that we’d better be getting up.”

“You will not be rising until I haf told you my tale,” said Mistress McIntyre firmly. “I will be knowing as soon as I saw you that you will be the one to hear it. You will not be having fery much colour and I will not be saying that you are fery pretty – oh, no. But you will be having the little hands and the little ears – they will be the ears of the fairies, I am thinking. The girl with you there, she iss a fery nice girl and will make a fery fine wife for a handsome man – she is defer, oh, yess – but you haf the way and it is to you I will be telling my story.”

“Let her tell it,” whispered Ilse. “I’m dying of curiosity to hear about the King being spanked.”

Emily, who realised that there was no “letting” in the case, only a matter of lying still and listening to whatever it seemed good to Mistress McIntyre to say, nodded.

“You will not be having the twa talks? I will be meaning the Gaelic.”

Spellbound, Emily shook her black head.

“That iss a pity, for my story will not be sounding so well in the English – oh, no. You will be saying to yourself the old woman iss having a dream, but you will be wrong, for it iss the true story I will be telling you – oh, yess. I spanked the King. Of course he would not be the King then – he would be only a little prince and no more than nine years old – just the same age as my little Alec. But it iss at the beginning I must be or you will not be understanding the matter at all at all. It wass all a long, long time ago, before ever we left the Old Country. My husband would be Alistair McIntyre and he would be a shepherd near the Balmoral Castle. Alistair was a fery handsome man and we were fery happy. It wass not that we did not quarrel once in a while – oh, no, that would be fery monotonous. But when we made up it is more loving than ever we would be. And I would be fery good-looking myself
I will be getting fatter and fatter all the time now but I wass fery slim and peautiful then – oh, yess, it iss the truth I will be telling you though I will be seeing that you are laughing in your sleeves at me. When you will be eighty you will be knowing more about it.

“You will be remembering maybe that Queen Victoria and Prince Albert would be coming up to Balmoral efery summer and bringing their children with them, and they would not be bringing any more servants than they could help, for they would not be wanting fuss and pother, but just a quiet, nice time like common folks. On Sundays they would be walking down sometimes to the church in the glen to be hearing Mr. Donald MacPherson preach. Mr. Donald MacPherson wass fery gifted in prayer and he would not be liking it when people would come in when he wass praying. He would be apt to be stopping and saying, ‘O Lord, we will be waiting until Sandy Big Jim hass taken his seat’ – oh, yess. I would be hearing the Queen laugh the next day – at Sandy Big Jim, you will be knowing, not at the minister.

“When they will be needing some more help at the Castle, they just sent for me and Janet Jardine. Janet’s husband wass a gillie on the estate. She would be always saying to me, ‘Good-morning,
Mistress
McIntyre’ when we would be meeting and I would be saying, ‘Good-morning,
Janet
, just to be showing the superiority of the McIntyres over the Jardines. But she wass a fery good creature in her place and we would be getting on fery well together when she would not be forgetting it.

“I wass fery good friends with the Queen – oh, yess. She wass not a proud woman whatefer. She would be sitting in my house at times and drinking a cup of tea and she would be talking to me of her children. She wass not fery handsome, oh,
no, but she would be having a fery pretty hand. Prince Albert wass fery fine looking, so people would be saying, but to my mind Alistair wass far the handsomer man. They would be fery fine people, whatefer, and the little princess and princesses would be playing about with my children efery day. The Queen would be knowing they were in good company and she would be easier in her mind about them than I wass – for Prince Bertie was the daring lad if efer there wass one – oh, yess, and the tricky one – and I would be worrying all the time for fear he and Alec would be getting into a scrape. They would be playing every day together – and quarrelling, too. And it would not always be Alec’s fault either. But it wass Alec that would be getting the scolding, poor lad. Somebody would haf to be scolded and you will be knowing that I could not be scolding the prince, my dear.

“There wass one great worry I will be having – the burn behind the house in the trees. It wass fery deep and swift in places and if a child should be falling in he would be drowned. I would be telling Prince Bertie and Alec time after time that they must nefer be going near the banks of the burn. They would be doing it once or twice for all that and I would be punishing Alec for it, though he would be telling me that he did not want to go and Prince Bertie would be saying, ‘Oh, come on, there will not be any danger, do not be a coward,’ and Alec, he would be going because he would be thinking he had to do what Prince Bertie wanted, and not liking fery well either to be called a coward, and him a McIntyre. I would be worrying so much over it that I would not be sleeping at nights. And then, my dear, one day Prince Bertie would be falling right into the deep pool and Alec would be trying to pull him out and falling in after him. And they would haf been drowned together if I had not been hearing the skirls of them
when I would be coming home from the Castle after taking some buttermilk up for the Queen. Oh, yess, it is quick I will be taking in what had happened and running to the burn and it will not be long before I wass fishing them out, fery frightened and dripping. I will be knowing something had to be done and I wass tired of blaming poor Alec, and besides it will be truth, my dear, that I wass fery, fery mad and I wass not thinking of princes and kings, but just of two fery bad little boys. Oh, it iss the quick temper I will be always having – oh, yess. I will be picking up Prince Bertie and turning him over my knee: and I will be giving him a sound spanking on the place the Good Lord will be making for spanks in princes as well as in common children. I will be spanking him
first
because he wass a prince. Then I spanked Alec and they made music together, for it wass fery angry I was and I will be doing what my hands will be finding to do with all my might, as the Good Book says.

“Then when Prince Bertie had gone home – fery mad – I will be cooling off and feeling a bit frightened. For I will not be knowing just how the Queen will be taking it, and I will not be liking the thought of Janet Jardine triumphing over me. But it iss a sensible woman Queen Victoria wass and she will be telling me next day that I did right: and Prince Albert will be smiling and joking to me about the laying on of hands. And Prince Bertie would not be disobeying me again about going to the burn – oh, no – and he could not be sitting down fery easy for some time. As for Alistair, I had been thinking he would be fery cross with me, but it will always be hard telling what a man will think of anything – oh, yess – for he would be laughing over it, too, and telling me that a day would come when I could be boasting that I had spanked the King. It wass all a long time ago now, but nefer will I be forgetting it. She
would be dying two years ago and Prince Bertie would be the king at last. When Alistair and I came to Canada the Queen will be giving me a silk petticoat. It wass a fery fine petticoat of the Victoria tartan. I haf nefer worn it, but I will be wearing it once – in my coffin, oh, yess. I will be keeping it in the chest in my room and they will be knowing what it iss for. I will be wishing Janet Jardine could have known that I wass to be buried in a petticoat of the Victoria tartan, but she hass been dead for a long while. She wass a fery good sort of creature, although she wass not a McIntyre.”

Mistress McIntyre folded her hands and held her peace. Having told her story she was content. Emily had listened avidly. Now she said:

“Mrs. McIntyre, will you let me write that story down, and publish it?”

Mistress McIntyre leaned forward. Her white, shrivelled face warmed a little, her deep-set eyes shone.

“Will you be meaning that it will be printed in a paper?”

“Yes.”

Mistress McIntyre rearranged her shawl over her breast with hands that trembled a little.

“It iss strange how our wishes will be coming true at times. It iss a pity that the foolish people who will be saying there iss no God could not be hearing of this. You will be writing it out and you will be putting it into proud words –”

“No, no,” said Emily quickly. “I will not do that. I may have to make a few changes and write a framework, but most of it I shall write exactly as you told it. I could not better it by a syllable.”

Mistress McIntyre looked doubtful for a moment – then gratified.

“It iss only a poor, ignorant body I am, and I will not be
choosing my words fery well, but maybe you will be knowing best. You haf listened to me fery nicely and it is sorry I am to have kept you so long with my old tales. I will be going now and letting you get up.”

“Have they found the lost child?” asked Ilse eagerly.

Mistress McIntyre shook her head, composedly.

“Oh, no. It is not finding him in a hurry they will be. I will be hearing Clara skirling in the night. She iss the daughter of my son Angus. He will be marrying a Wilson and the Wilsons will always be making a stramash over eferything. The poor thing will be worrying that she was not good enough to the little lad, but it would always be spoiling him she wass, and him that full of mischief. I will not be of much Ilse to her – I haf not the second sight. You will be having a bit of that yourself, I am thinking, oh, yess.”

“No – no,” said Emily, hurriedly. She could not help recalling a certain incident of her childhood at New Moon, of which she somehow never liked to think.

Old Mistress McIntyre nodded sagely and smoothed her white apron.

“It will not be right for you to be denying it, my dear, for it iss a great gift and my Cousin Helen four times removed will be having it, oh, yess. But they will not be finding little Allan, oh, no. Clara will be loving him too much. It iss not a fery good thing to be loving any one too much. God will be a jealous God, oh, yess; it is Margaret McIntyre who knows it. I will be having six sons once, all fery fine men and the youngest would be Neil. He wass six-feet-two in hiss stockings and there would be none of the others like him at all. There would be such fun in him – he would always be laughing, oh, yess, and the wiling tongue of him would be coaxing the birds off the bushes. He will be going to the Klondyke and he will
be getting frozen to death out there one night, oh, yess. He will be dying while I wass praying for him. I haf not been praying since. Clara will be feeling like that now – she will be saying God does not hear. It iss a fery strange thing to be a woman, my dears, and to be loving so much for nothing. Little Allan wass a fery pretty baby. He will be having a fat little brown face and fery big blue eyes, and it is a pity he will not be turning up, though they will not be finding my Neil in time, oh, no. I will be leaving Clara alone and not vexing her with comforting. I wass always the great hand to leave people alone – without it would be when I spanked the King. It iss Julia Hollinger who will be darkening council by words without knowledge. It iss the foolish woman she iss. She would be leaving her husband because he will not be giving up a dog he liked. I am thinking he wass wise in sticking to the dog. But I will always be getting on well with Julia because I will have learned to suffer fools gladly. She will enjoy giving advice so much and it will not be hurting me whatefer because I will never be taking it. I will be saying good-bye to you now, my dears, and it iss fery glad I am to haf seen you and I will be wishing that trouble may nefer sit on your hearthstones. And I will not be forgetting either that you listened to me very polite, oh, yess. I will not be of much importance to anybody now – but once I spanked the King.”