Chapter 25 Emily Climbs by Lucy Montgomery
April Love
"June 10, 19--
"Yesterday 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 use 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 to-night I felt a decided atmosphere of disapproval, and realized 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 to-day. 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 To-morrow Road--it has grown so beautiful that one wonders if any to-morrow 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 table-cloth--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 immortalized--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 crape, a widow's bonnet, and a heavy crape 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.
"Of course I scolded Ilse. She is a glad, daring creature and counts no cost. She will always do whatever she takes it into her head to do, even if it were to turn a somersault in the church aisle. I love her--love her--love her; and what I will do without her next year I do not know. Our to-morrows will always be separated after this--and grow apart--and when we meet occasionally it will be as strangers. Oh, I know--I know.
"Ilse was furious over what she called Perry's 'presumption' in thinking I could ever marry him.
"'Oh, it was not presumption--it was condescension,' I said, laughing. 'Perry belongs to the great ducal house of Carabas.'
"'Oh, he'll succeed, of course. But there'll always be a flavour of Stovepipe Town about him,' retorted Ilse.
"'Why have you always been so hard on Perry, Ilse?' I protested.
"'He's such a cackling oaf,' said Ilse morosely.
"'Oh, well, he's just at the age when a boy knows everything,' I said, feeling quite wise and elderly. 'He will grow more ignorant and endurable after a while,' I went on, feeling epigrammatic. 'And he has improved in these Shrewsbury years,' I concluded, feeling smug.
"'You talk as if he were a cabbage,' fumed Ilse. 'For heaven's sake, Emily, don't be so superior and patronizing!'
"There are times when Ilse is good for me. I know I deserved that.
********
"June 27, 19--
"Last night I dreamed I stood in the old summer-house at New Moon and saw the Lost Diamond sparkling on the floor at my feet. I picked it up in delight. It lay in my hand for a moment--then it seemed to elude my grasp, flash through the air, leaving a long, slender trail of brilliance behind it, and become a star in the western sky, just above the edge of the world. 'It is my star--I must reach it before it sets,' I thought, and started out. Suddenly Dean was beside me--and he, too, was following the star. I felt I must go slowly because he was lame and could not go fast--and all the time the star sank lower and lower. Yet I felt I couldn't leave Dean. Then just as suddenly--things do happen like that in dreams--so nice--without a bit of trouble--Teddy was beside me, too, holding out his hands to me, with the look in his eyes I had seen twice before. I put my hands in his--and he drew me towards him--I was holding up my face--then Dean gave a bitter cry, 'My star has set.' I turned my head for just a glance--the star was gone--and I woke up in a dull, ugly, rainy dawn with no star--no Teddy--no kiss.
"I wonder what the dream meant--if it meant anything. I must not think it did. It is a Murray tradition not to be superstitious.
********
"June 28, 19--
"This is my last night in Shrewsbury. 'Good-bye, proud world, I'm going home'--to-morrow, when Cousin Jimmy is coming for me and my trunk in the old express waggon and I will ride back in that chariot of state to New Moon.
"These three Shrewsbury years seemed so long to me when I looked ahead to them. And now, looking back, they seem as yesterday when it has passed. I think I've won something in them. I don't use so many italics--I've acquired a little poise and self-control--I've got a bit of bitter worldly wisdom--and I've learned to smile over a rejection slip. I think that has been the hardest lesson of all to learn--and doubtless the most necessary.
"As I look back over these three years some things stand out so much more clearly and significantly than others, as if they had a special meaning all their own. And not always the things one might expect either. For instance, Evelyn's enmity and even that horrible moustache incident seem faded and unimportant. But the moment I saw my first poem in Garden and Woodland--oh, that was a moment--my walk to New Moon and back the night of the play--the writing of that queer little poem of mine that Mr. Carpenter tore up--my night on the haystack under the September moon--that splendid old woman who spanked the King--the moment in class when I discovered Keats' lines about the 'airy voices'--and that other moment in the old John house when Teddy looked into my eyes--oh, it seems to me these are the things I will remember in the halls of Eternity when Evelyn Blake's sneers and the old John house scandal and Aunt Ruth's nagging and the routine of lessons and examinations have been for ever forgotten. And my promise to Aunt Elizabeth has helped me, as Mr. Carpenter predicted. Not in my diary perhaps--I just let myself go here--one must have a 'vent'--but in my stories and Jimmy-books.
"We had our class day exercises this afternoon. I wore my new cream organdy with the violets in it and carried a big bouquet of pink peonies. Dean, who is in Montreal on his way home, wired the florist here for a bouquet of roses for me--seventeen roses--one for each year of my life--and it was presented to me when I went up for my diploma. That was dear of Dean.
"Perry was class orator and made a fine speech. And he got the medal for general proficiency. It has been a stiff pull between him and Will Morris, but Perry has won out.
"I wrote and read the class day prophecy. It was very amusing and the audience seemed to enjoy it. I had another one in my Jimmy-book at home. It was much more amusing but it wouldn't have done to read it.
"I wrote my last society letter for Mr. Towers tonight. I've always hated that stunt but I wanted the few pennies it brought in and one mustn't scorn the base degrees by which one ascends young ambition's ladder.
"I've also been packing up. Aunt Ruth came up occasionally and looked at me as I packed but was oddly silent. Finally she said, with a sigh,
"'I shall miss you awfully, Emily.'
"I never dreamed of her saying and feeling anything like that. And it made me feel uncomfortable. Since Aunt Ruth was so decent about the John house scandal I've felt differently towards her. But I couldn't say I'd miss her.
"Yet something had to be said.
"'I shall always be very grateful to you, Aunt Ruth, for what you have done for me these past three years.'
"'I've tried to do my duty,' said Aunt Ruth virtuously.
********
"I find I'm oddly sorry to leave this little room I've never liked and that has never liked me, and that long hill starred with lights--after all, I've had some wonderful moments here. And even poor dying Byron! But by no stretch of sentiment can I regret parting from Queen Alexandra's chromo, or the vase of paper flowers. Of course, the Lady Giovanna goes with me. She belongs in my room at New Moon. She has always seemed like an exile here. It hurts me to think I shall never again hear the night wind in the Land of Uprightness. But I'll have my night wind in Lofty John's bush; I think Aunt Elizabeth means to let me have a kerosene lamp to write by--my door at New Moon shuts tight--and I will not have to drink cambric tea. I went at dusk to-night to that little pearly pool which has always been such a witching spot to linger near on spring evenings. Through the trees that fringed it faint hues of rose and saffron from the west stole across it. It was unruffled by a breath and every leaf and branch and fern and blade of grass was mirrored in it. I looked in--and saw my face; and by an odd twist of reflection from a bending bough I seemed to wear a leafy garland on my head--like a laurel crown.
"I took it as a good omen.
"Perhaps Teddy was only shy!"
THE END