Emily Climbs (32 page)

“You don’t know a thing about it,” said Miss Royal, rather pettishly “You’ll never be able to write anything really worth while here – no big thing. There’s no inspiration – you’ll be hampered in every way – the big editors won’t look farther than the address of P.E. Island on your manuscript. Emily, you’re committing literary suicide. You’ll realise that at three of the clock some white night, Emily B. Oh, I suppose, after some years you’ll work up a clientele of Sunday School and agricultural papers. But will that satisfy you? You know it won’t. And then the petty jealousy of these small prunes-and-prisms places – if you do anything the people you went to school with can’t do, some of them will never forgive you. And they’ll all think you’re the heroine of your own stories – especially if you portray her beautiful and charming. If you write a love story they’ll be sure it’s your own. You’ll get so tired of Blair Water – you’ll know all the people in it – what they are and can be – it’ll be like reading a book for the twentieth time. Oh, I know all about it. ‘I was alive before you were borned,’ as I said when I was eight, to a playmate of six. You’ll get discouraged – the hour of three o’clock will gradually overwhelm you – there’s a three o’clock every night, remember – you’ll give up – you’ll marry that cousin of yours –”

“Never.”

“Well, some one like him, then, and ‘settle down’ –”

“No, I’ll never ‘settle down,’” said Emily decidedly. “Never as long as I live – what a stodgy condition!”

– “and you’ll have a parlour like this of Aunt Angela’s,” continued Miss Royal relentlessly. “A mantelpiece crowded with photographs – an easel with an ‘enlarged’ picture in a frame eight inches wide – a red plush album with a crocheted doily on it, a crazy-quilt on your spare-room bed – a hand-painted
banner in your hall – and, as a final touch of elegance, an asparagus fern will ‘grace the centre of your dining-room table.’“

“No,” said Emily gravely, “such things are not among the Murray traditions.”

“Well, the spiritual equivalent of them, then. Oh, I can see your whole life, Emily, here in a place like this where people can’t see a mile beyond their nose.”

“I can see farther than that,” said Emily, putting up her chin. “I can see to the stars.”

“I was speaking figuratively, my dear.”

“So was I. Oh, Miss Royal, I know life is rather cramped here in some ways – but the sky is as much mine as anybody’s. I may not succeed here – but, if not, I wouldn’t succeed in New York either. Some fountain of living water would dry up in my soul if I left the land I love. I know I’ll have difficulties and discouragements here, but people have overcome far worse. You know that story you told me about Parkman – that for years he was unable to write for more than five minutes at a time – that he took three years to write one of his books – six lines per day for three years. I shall always remember that when I get discouraged. It will help me through any number of white nights.”

“Well” – Miss Royal threw out her hands – “I give up. I think you’re making a terrible mistake, Emily – but if in the years to come I find out I’m wrong I’ll write and admit it. And if
you
find out you were wrong write me and admit it, and you’ll find me as ready to help you as ever. I won’t even say ‘I told you so.’ Send me any of your stories my magazine is fit for, and ask me for any advice I can give. I’m going right back to New York tomorrow. I was only going to wait till July to take you with me. Since you won’t come I’m off. I detest living in a place where all they think is that I’ve played my cards badly,
and lost the matrimonial game – where all the young girls – except
you
– are so abominably respectful to me – and where the old folks keep telling me I look so much like my mother. Mother was
ugly
. Let’s say good-bye and make it snappy.”

“Miss Royal,” said Emily earnestly, “you do believe – don’t you – that I appreciate your kindness? Your sympathy and encouragement have meant more to me – always will mean more to me than you can ever dream.”

Miss Royal whisked her handkerchief furtively across her eyes and made an elaborate curtsey.

“Thank you for them kind words, lady,” she said solemnly.

Then she laughed a little, put her hands on Emily’s shoulders and kissed her cheek.

“All the good wishes ever thought, said, or written go with you,” she said. “And I think it would be – nice – if any place could ever mean to me what it is evident New Moon means to you.”

At three o’clock that night a wakeful but contented Emily remembered that she had never see Chu-Chin.

“June 10, 19–

“Y
esterday evening Andrew Oliver Murray asked Emily Byrd Starr to marry him.

“The said Emily Byrd Starr told him she wouldn’t.

“I’m glad it’s over. I’ve felt it coming for some time. Every evening Andrew has been here I’ve felt that he was trying to bring the conversation around to some serious subject, but I have never felt quite equal to the interview, and always contrived to sidetrack him with frivolity.

“Yesterday evening I went to the Land of Uprightness for one of the last rambles I shall have in it. I climbed the hill of firs and looked down over the fields of mist and silver in the moonlight. The shadows of the ferns and sweet wild grasses along the edge of the woods were like a dance of sprites. Away beyond the harbour, below the moonlight, was a sky of purple and amber where a sunset had been. But behind me was darkness – a darkness which, with its tang of fir balsam, was like a perfumed chamber where one might dream dreams and see visions. Always when I go into the Land of Uprightness I leave behind the realm of daylight and
things known and go into the realm of shadow and mystery and enchantment where anything might happen – anything might come true. I can
believe
anything there – old myths – legends – dryads – fauns – leprechauns. One of my wonder moments came to me – it seemed to me that I got out of my body and was
free
– I’m sure I heard an echo of that ‘random word’ of the gods – and I wanted some unused language to express what I saw and felt.

“Enter Andrew, spic and span, prim and gentlemanly.

“Fauns – fairies – wonder moments – random words – fled pell-mell. No new language was needed now.

“‘What a pity side-whiskers went out with the last generation – they would suit him so,’ I said to myself in good plain English.

“I knew Andrew had come to say something special. Otherwise he would not have followed me into the Land of Uprightness, but have waited decorously in Aunt Ruth’s parlour. I knew it had to come and I made up my mind to get it over and have done with it. The expectant attitude of Aunt Ruth and the New Moon folks has been oppressive lately. I believe they all feel quite sure that the real reason I wouldn’t go to New York was that I couldn’t bear to part with Andrew!

“But I was
not
going to have Andrew propose to me by moonlight in the Land of Uprightness. I might have been bewitched into accepting him. So when he said, ‘It’s nice here, let’s stay here for a while – after all, I think there is nothing so pretty as nature,’ I said gently but firmly that, though nature must feel highly flattered, it was too damp for a person with a tendency to consumption, and I must go in.

“In we went. I sat down opposite Andrew and stared at a bit of Aunt Ruth’s crochet yarn on the carpet. I shall remember the colour and shape of that yarn to my dying day.
Andrew talked jerkily about indifferent things and then began throwing out hints – he would get his managership in two years more – he believed in people marrying young – and so on. He floundered badly. I suppose I could have made it easier for him but I hardened my heart, remembering how he had kept away in those dreadful weeks of the John house scandal. At last he blurted out,

“‘Emily, let’s get married when – when – as soon as I’m able to.’

“He seemed to feel that he ought to say something more but didn’t know just what – so he repeated ‘just as soon as I’m able to’ and stopped.

“I don’t believe I even went through the motions of a blush.

“‘Why should we get married?’ I said.

“Andrew looked aghast. Evidently this was not the Murray tradition of receiving a proposal.

“‘Why? Why? Because – I’d like it,’ he stammered.

“‘
I
wouldn’t,’ I said.

“Andrew stared at me for a few moments trying to take in the amazing idea that he was being refused.

“‘But
why
?’ he asked – exactly in Aunt Ruth’s tone and manner.

“‘Because I don’t love you,’ I said.

“Andrew
did
blush. I know he thought I was immodest.

“‘I – I – think – they’d all like it,’ he stammered.

“‘
I
wouldn’t,’ I said again. I said it in a tone even Andrew couldn’t mistake.

“He was so surprised I don’t think he felt anything
but
surprise – not even disappointment. He didn’t know what to do or say – a
Murray
couldn’t coax – so he got up and went out without another word. I thought he banged the door but
afterwards I discovered it was only the wind. I wish he
had
banged the door. It would have saved my self-respect. It is mortifying to refuse a man and then discover that his main feeling is bewilderment.

“Next morning Aunt Ruth, evidently suspecting something amiss from the brevity of Andrew’s call, asked me point blank what had happened. There’s nothing subtle about Aunt Ruth. I told her just as point blankly.

“‘What fault have you to find with Andrew?’ she asked icily.

“‘No fault – but he tastes flat. He has all the virtues but the pinch of salt was left out,’ I said, with my nose in the air.

“‘I hope you don’t go farther and fare worse,’ said Aunt Ruth ominously – meaning, as I knew, Stovepipe Town. I could have reassured Aunt Ruth on that point also, had I chosen. Last week Perry came to tell me that he is going into Mr. Abel’s office in Charlottetown to study law. It’s a splendid chance for him. Mr. Abel heard his speech the night of the inter-school debate and has had his eye on him ever since, I understand. I congratulated him heartily. I really was delighted.

“‘He’ll give me enough to pay my board,’ said Perry, ‘and I guess I can rustle my clothes on some side line. I’ve got to hoe my own row. Aunt Tom won’t help me.
You
know why’

“‘I’m sorry, Perry’ I said, laughing a little.

“
‘Won’t
you, Emily?’ he said. ‘I’d like this thing settled.’

“‘It is settled,’ I said.

“‘I suppose I’ve made an awful ass of myself about you,’ grumbled Perry.

“‘You have,’ I said comfortingly – but still laughingly. Somehow I’ve never been able to take Perry seriously any more
than Andrew. I’ve always got the feeling that he just imagines he’s in love with me.

“‘You won’t get a cleverer man than me in a hurry,’ warned Perry. ‘I’m going to climb high.’

“‘I’m sure you will,’ I said warmly, ‘and nobody will be more pleased than your friend, Emily B.’

“‘
Oh, friends,’
said Perry sulkily. ‘It’s not for a friend I want you. But I’ve always heard it was no Ilse to coax a Murray. Will you tell me one thing? It isn’t my funeral – but are you going to marry Andrew Murray?’

“‘It isn’t your funeral – but I’m
not,’
I said.

“‘Well,’ said Perry, as he went out, ‘if you ever change your mind, let me know. It will be all right if I haven’t changed mine.’

“I have written the account of this exactly as it happened. But – I have also written another account of it in my Jimmy-book as it
should
have happened. I find I am beginning to overcome my old difficulty of getting my dream people to make love fluently. In my imaginary account both Perry and I talked bee-yew-tifully.

“I think Perry really felt a little worse than Andrew did, and I felt sorry about it. I do like Perry so much as a chum and friend. I hate to disappoint him, but I know he will soon get over it.

“So I’ll be the only one left at Blair Water next year. I don’t know how I’ll feel about that. I dare say I’ll feel a little flat by times – perhaps at three o’ the night I’ll wish I had gone with Miss Royal. But I’m going to settle down to hard, serious work. It’s a long climb to the crest of the Alpine Path.

“But I believe in myself, and there is always my world behind the curtain.

“New Moon,  

“June 21, 19–

“As soon as I arrived home tonight I felt a decided atmosphere of disapproval, and realised that Aunt Elizabeth knew all about Andrew. She was angry and Aunt Laura was sorry; but nobody has said anything. At twilight I talked it over in the garden with Cousin Jimmy. Andrew, it seems,
has
been feeling quite badly since the numbness of shock wore off His appetite has failed; and Aunt Addie indignantly wants to know if I expect to marry a prince or a millionaire since
her
son is not good enough for me.

“Cousin Jimmy thinks I did perfectly right. Cousin Jimmy would think I had done perfectly right if I had murdered Andrew and buried him in the Land of Uprightness. It’s very nice to have
one
friend like that, though too many wouldn’t be good for you.

“June 22, 19–

“I don’t know which is worse – to have somebody you
don’t
like ask you to marry him or
not
have some one you
do
like. Both are rather unpleasant.

“I have decided that I only imagined certain things in the old John house. I’m afraid Aunt Ruth was right when she used to say my imagination needed a curb. This evening I loitered in the garden. In spite of the fact that it was June it was cold and raw, and I felt a little lonely and discouraged and flat – perhaps because two stories of which I had hoped a good deal came back to me today. Suddenly I heard Teddy’s signal whistle in the old orchard. Of course I went. It’s always a case of ‘Oh, whistle and I’ll come to you, my lad’ with me – though I would die before I would admit it to any one but my journal. As soon as I saw his face I knew he had some great news.

“He had. He held out a letter, ‘Mr. Frederick Kent.’ I never can remember that Teddy’s name is Frederick – he can never be anything but Teddy to me. He has won a scholarship at the School of Design in Montreal – five hundred dollars for two years. I was instantly as excited as he was – with a queer feeling behind the excitement which was so compounded of fear and hope and expectancy that I couldn’t tell which predominated.

“‘How splendid for you, Teddy!’ I said, a little tremulously. ‘Oh, I’m so glad! But your mother – what does she think of it?’

“‘She’ll let me go – but she’ll be very lonely and unhappy’ said Teddy, growing very sober instantly. ‘I want her to come with me, but she won’t leave the Tansy Patch. I hate to think of her living there all alone. I – I wish she didn’t feel as she does about you, Emily. If she didn’t – you could be such a comfort to her.’

“I wondered if it occurred to Teddy that I might need a little comforting too. A queer silence fell between us. We walked along the Tomorrow Road – it has grown so beautiful that one wonders if any tomorrow can make it more beautiful – until we reached the fence of the pond pasture and stood there under the grey-green gloom of the firs. I felt suddenly very happy and in those few minutes part of me planted a garden and laid out beautiful closets and bought a dozen solid silver teaspoons and arranged my attic and hemstitched a double damask tablecloth – and the other part of me just
waited
. Once I said it was a lovely evening – it wasn’t – and a few minutes later I said it looked like rain – it didn’t.

“But one
had
to say something.

“‘I’m going to work hard – I’m going to get everything possible out of those two years,’ Teddy said at last, staring at
Blair Water and at the sky and at the sandhills, and at the green leisurely meadows, and at everything but me. ‘Then, perhaps, when they’re up I’ll manage to get to Paris. To go abroad – to see the masterpieces of great artists – to live in their atmosphere – to see the scenes their genius immortalised – all I’ve been hungry for all my life. And when I come back –’

“Teddy stopped abruptly and turned to me. From the look in his eyes I thought he was going to kiss me – I really did. I don’t know what I would have done if I couldn’t have shut my own eyes.

“‘And when I come back –’ he repeated – stopped again.

“‘Yes?’ I said. I don’t deny to this my journal that I said it a trifle expectantly.

“‘I’ll make the name of Frederick Kent mean something in Canada!’ said Teddy.

“I opened my eyes.

“Teddy was looking at the dim gold of Blair Water and scowling. Again I had a feeling that night air was not good for me. I shivered, said a few polite commonplaces, and left him there scowling. I wonder if he was too shy to kiss me – or just didn’t want to.

“I
could
care tremendously for Teddy Kent if I let myself– if he wanted me to. It is evident he doesn’t want me to. He is thinking of nothing but success and ambition and a career. He has forgotten our exchange of glances in the old John house – he has forgotten that he told me three years ago, on George Horton’s tombstone, that I was the sweetest girl in the world. He will meet hundreds of wonderful girls out in the world – he will never think of me again.

So be it.

“If Teddy doesn’t want me I won’t want him. That is a Murray tradition. But then I’m only half Murray. There is the
Starr half to be considered. Luckily
I
have a career and an ambition also to think about, and a jealous goddess to serve, as Mr. Carpenter once told me. I think she might not tolerate a divided allegiance.

“I am conscious of three sensations.

“On top I am sternly composed and traditional.

“Underneath that, something that would hurt horribly if I let it is being kept down.

“And underneath that again is a queer feeling of relief that I still have my freedom.

“June 26, 19–

“All Shrewsbury is laughing over Ilse’s last exploit and half Shrewsbury is disapproving. There is a certain very pompous young Senior who acts as usher in St. John’s Church on Sundays, who takes himself very seriously and whom Ilse hates. Last Sunday she dressed herself up as an old woman, borrowing the toggery from a poor relation of Mrs. Adamson’s who boards with her – a long, full, black skirt, bordered with crêpe, a black mantle bordered with crêpe, a widow’s bonnet, and a heavy crêpe widow’s veil. Arrayed thus, she tottered down the street and paused wistfully at the church steps as if she couldn’t possibly climb them; Young Pomposity saw her, and, having some decent instincts behind his pomposity, went gallantly to her assistance. He took her shaking, mittened hand – it
was
shaking all right – Ilse was in spasms of laughter behind her veil – and assisted her frail, trembling feet up the steps, through the porch, up the aisle and into a pew. Ilse murmured a broken blessing on him, handed him a tract, sat through the service and then tottered home. Next day, of course, the story was all through the school and the poor lad was so guyed by the other boys that all his pomposity oozed
out – temporarily at least – under the torture. Perhaps the incident may do him a world of good.