Emily Climbs (3 page)

“I didn’t tear that poem up, though – I couldn’t – it really
was
too good to destroy. I put it away in my literary cupboard to read over once in a while for my own enjoyment, but I will never show it to anybody.

“Oh, how I wish I hadn’t hurt Mr. Carpenter!

“April 1, 19–

“Something I heard a visitor in Blair Water say today annoyed me very much. Mr. and Mrs. Alec Sawyer, who live in Charlottetown, were in the Post Office when I was there. Mrs. Sawyer is very handsome and fashionable and condescending. I heard her say to her husband,
‘How
do the natives of this sleepy place continue to live here year in and year out?
I
should go mad.
Nothing
ever happens here.’

“I would dearly have liked to tell her a few things about Blair Water. I could have been sarcastic with a vengeance. But, of course, New Moon people
do not make scenes in public
. So I contented myself with bowing
very coldly
when she spoke to me and
sweeping past
her. I heard Mr. Sawyer say, ‘Who is that girl?’ and Mrs. Sawyer said, ‘She must be that Starr puss – she has the Murray trick of holding her head, all right.’

“The idea of saying ‘nothing ever happens here’! Why, things are happening right along –
thrilling
things. I think life
here is
extremely
wonderful. We have always so much to laugh and cry and talk about.

“Look at all the things that have happened in Blair Water in just the last three weeks – comedy and tragedy all mixed up together. James Baxter has suddenly stopped speaking to his wife and
nobody knows why. She
doesn’t, poor soul, and she is breaking her heart about it. Old Adam Gillian, who hated pretence of any sort, died two weeks ago and his last words were, ‘See that there isn’t any howling and sniffling at my funeral.’ So nobody howled or sniffled. Nobody wanted to, and since he had forbidden it nobody pretended to. There never was such a cheerful funeral in Blair Water. I’ve seen weddings that were more melancholy – Ella Brice’s, for instance. What cast a cloud over hers was that she forgot to put on her white slippers when she dressed, and went down to the parlor in a pair of old, faded, bedroom shoes with holes in the toes. Really, people couldn’t have talked more about it if she had gone down without
anything
on. Poor Ella cried all through the wedding supper about it.

“Old Robert Scobie and his half-sister have quarrelled, after living together for thirty years without a fuss, although she is said to be a very aggravating woman. Nothing she did or said ever provoked Robert into an outburst, but it seems that there was just one doughnut left from supper one evening recently, and Robert is very fond of doughnuts. He put it away in the pantry for a bedtime snack, and when he went to get it he found that Matilda had eaten it. He went into a terrible rage, pulled her nose, called her a
she-deviless
and ordered her out of his house. She has gone to live with her sister at Derry Pond, and Robert is going to bach it. Neither of them will ever forgive the other, Scobie-like, and neither will ever be happy or contented again.

“George Lake was walking home from Derry Pond one moonlit evening two weeks ago, and
all at once
he saw another
very black
shadow going along beside his, on the moonlight snow.

“
And there was nothing to cast that shadow
.

“He rushed to the nearest house, nearly dead with fright, and they say he will never be the same man again.

“This is the most
dramatic
thing that has happened. It makes me shiver as I write of it. Of course George
must
have been mistaken. But he is a truthful man, and he doesn’t drink. I don’t know what to think of it.

“Arminius Scobie is a
very mean man
and always buys his wife’s hats for her, lest she pay too much for them. They know this in the Shrewsbury stores, and laugh at him. One day last week he was in Jones and McCallum’s, buying her a hat, and Mr. Jones told him that if he would
wear the hat
from the store to the station he would let him have it for nothing. Arminius did. It was a quarter of a mile to the station and all the small boys in Shrewsbury ran after him and hooted him. But Arminius didn’t care. He had saved three dollars and forty-nine cents.

“
And
one evening, right here at New Moon, I dropped a soft-boiled egg on Aunt Elizabeth’s second-best cashmere dress. That
was
a happening. A kingdom might have been upset in Europe, and it wouldn’t have made such a commotion at New Moon.

“So, Mistress Sawyer, you are vastly mistaken. Besides, apart from all happenings, the folks here are interesting in themselves. I don’t
like
every one but I find every one interesting – Miss Matty Small, who is forty and wears
outrageous
colors – she wore an old-rose dress and a scarlet hat to church all last summer – old Uncle Reuben Bascom, who is so
lazy that he held an umbrella over himself all one rainy night in bed, when the roof began to leak, rather than get out and move the bed – Elder McCloskey, who thought it wouldn’t do to say ‘pants’ in a story he was telling about a missionary, at prayer-meeting, so always said politely ‘the clothes of his lower parts’ – Amasa Derry, who carried off four prizes at the Exhibition last fall, with vegetables he stole from Ronnie Bascom’s field, while Ronnie didn’t get one prize –Jimmy Joe Belle, who came here from Derry Pond yesterday to get some lumber ‘to beeld a henhouse for my leetle dog’ – old Luke Elliott, who is such a systematic fiend that he even draws up a schedule of the year on New Year’s day, and charts down all the days he means to get drunk on –
and sticks to it:
– they’re all interesting and amusing and delightful.

“There, I’ve proved Mrs. Alec Sawyer to be so completely wrong that I feel quite kindly towards her, even though she did call me a puss.

“Why don’t I like being called a puss, when cats are such nice things? And I like being called
pussy
.

“April 28, 19–

“Two weeks ago I sent my very best poem,
Wind Song
to a magazine in New York, and today it came back with just a little
printed slit
saying, ‘We regret we cannot Ilse this contribution.’

“I feel dreadfully. I suppose I can’t really write anything that is any good.

“I
can
. That magazine will be
glad
to print my pieces some day!

“I didn’t tell Mr. Carpenter I sent it. I wouldn’t get any sympathy from him.
He
says that five years from now will be time enough to begin pestering editors. But I
know
that some
poems I’ve read in that very magazine were not a bit better than
Wind Song
.

“I feel more like writing poetry in spring than at any other time. Mr. Carpenter tells me to fight against the impulse. He says spring has been responsible for more trash than anything else in the universe of God.

“Mr. Carpenter’s way of talking has a
tang
to it.

“May 1, 19–

“Dean is home. He came to his sister’s yesterday and this evening he was here and we walked in the garden, up and down the sun-dial walk, and talked. It was splendid to have him back, with his mysterious green eyes and his nice mouth.

“We had a long conversation. We talked of Algiers and the transmigration of souls and of being cremated and of profiles – Dean says I have a good profile – ‘pure Greek.’ I always like Dean’s compliments.

“‘Star o’ Morning, how you have grown!’ he said. ‘I left a child last autumn – and I find a woman!’

“(I will be fourteen in three weeks, and I am tall for my age. Dean seems to be glad of this – quite unlike Aunt Laura who always sighs when she lengthens my dresses, and thinks children grow up too fast.)

“‘So goes time by’ I said, quoting the motto on the sundial, and feeling
quite sophisticated
.

“‘You are almost as tall as I am,’ he said; and then added
bitterly
‘to be sure Jarback Priest is of no very stately height.’

“I have always shrunk from referring to his shoulder in any way, but now I said,

“‘Dean, please don’t sneer at yourself like that – not with me, at least. I
never
think of you as Jarback.’

“Dean took my hand and looked right into my eyes as if he were trying to
read my very soul
.

“‘Are you sure of that, Emily? Don’t you often wish that I wasn’t lame – and crooked?’

“‘For your sake I do,’ I answered, ‘but as far as I am concerned it doesn’t make a bit of difference – and never will.’

“‘And never will!’ Dean repeated the words emphatically. ‘If I were sure of that, Emily– if I were only sure of that.’

“‘You
can
be sure of it,’ I declared quite warmly. I was vexed because he seemed to doubt it – and yet something in his expression made me feel a little uncomfortable. It suddenly made me think of the time he rescued me from the cliff on Malvern Bay and told me my life belonged to him since he had saved it. I don’t like the thought of my life belonging to any one but myself– not
any one
, even Dean, much as I like him. And
in some ways
I like Dean better than any one in the world.

“When it got darker the stars came out and we studied them through Dean’s splendid new field-glasses. It was very fascinating. Dean knows all about the stars – it seems to me he knows all about everything. But when I said so, he said,

“‘There is one secret I do not know – I would give everything else I
do
know for it – one secret – perhaps I shall never know it. The way to win – the way to win –’

“‘What?’ I asked curiously.

“‘My heart’s desire,’ said Dean dreamily, looking at a shimmering star that seemed to be hung on the very tip of one of the Three Princesses. ‘It seems now as desirable and unobtainable as that gem-like star, Emily. But – who knows?’

“I wonder what it is Dean wants so much.

“May 4, 19–

“Dean brought me a lovely portfolio from Paris, and I have copied my favourite verse from
The Fringed Gentian
on the inside of the cover. I will read it over every day and remember my vow to ‘climb the Alpine Path.’ I begin to see that I will have to do a good bit of scrambling, though I once expected, I think, to soar right up to ‘that far-off goal’ on shining wings. Mr. Carpenter has banished that fond dream.

“‘Dig in your toes and hang on with your teeth – that’s the only way,’ he says.

“Last night in bed I thought out some lovely titles for the books I’m going to write in the future
–A Lady of High Degree, True to Faith and Vow, Oh, Rare Pale Margaret
(I got that from Tennyson),
The Caste of Vere de Vere
(ditto) and
A Kingdom by the Sea
.

“Now, if I can only get ideas to match the titles!

“I am writing a story called
The House Among the Rowans
– also a very good title, I think. But the love talk still bothers me. Everything of the kind I write seems so stiff and silly the minute I write it down that it infuriates me. I asked Dean if he could teach me how to write it properly because he promised long ago that he would, but he said I was too young yet – said it in that mysterious way of his which always seems to convey the idea that there is so much more in his words than the mere sound of them expresses. I wish I could speak so
significantly
because it makes you
very interesting
.

“This evening after school Dean and I began to read
The Alhambra
over again, sitting on the stone bench in the garden. That book always makes me feel as if I had opened a little door and stepped straight into fairyland.

“‘How I would love to see the Alhambra!’ I said.

“‘We will go to see it sometime – together,’ said Dean.

“‘Oh, that would be
lovely,’
I cried. ‘Do you think we can ever manage it, Dean?’

“Before Dean could answer I heard Teddy’s whistle in Lofty John’s bush – the dear little whistle of two short high notes and one long low one, that is
our signal
.

“‘Excuse me – I must go – Teddy’s calling me,’ I said.

“‘Must you always go when Teddy calls?’ asked Dean.

“I nodded and explained,

“‘He only calls like that when he wants me
especially
and I have promised I will always go if I possibly can.’

“‘I want you
especially!’
said Dean. ‘I came up this evening on purpose to read
The Alhambra
with you.’

“Suddenly I felt very unhappy. I wanted to stay with Dean dreadfully, and yet I felt as if I must go to Teddy. Dean looked at me piercingly. Then he shut up
The Alhambra
.

“‘Go,’ he said.

“I went – but things seemed spoiled, somehow.

“May 10, 19–

“I have been reading three books Dean lent me this week. One was like a rose garden – very pleasant, but just a little too sweet. And one was like a pine wood on a mountain – full of balsam and tang – I loved it, and yet it filled me with a sort of despair. It was written so beautifully – I can
never
write like that, I feel sure. And one – it was just like a pig-sty Dean gave me that one by mistake. He was very angry with himself when he found it out – angry and distressed.

“‘Star – Star – I would
never
have given you a book like that – my confounded carelessness – forgive me. That book is a faithful picture of one world – but not your world, thank God – nor any world you will ever be a citizen of. Star, promise me you will forget that book.’

“‘I’ll forget it if I can,’ I said.

“But I don’t know if I can. It was so ugly. I have not been so happy since I read it. I feel as if my hands were soiled somehow and I couldn’t wash them clean. And I have another queer feeling, as if
some gate had been shut behind me
, shutting me into a new world I don’t quite understand or like, but through which I must travel.

“Tonight I tried to write a description of Dean in my Jimmy-book of character sketches. But I didn’t succeed. What I wrote seemed like a photograph – not a portrait. There is something in Dean that is beyond me.