Then something did happen. A beam of sunlight struck through a small break in one of the slats of the blind and fell directly athwart the picture of Grandfather Murray hanging over the mantel-piece. It was a crayon "enlargement" copied from the old daguerreotype in the parlor below. In that gleam of light his face seemed veritably to leap out of the gloom at Emily with its grim frown strangely exaggerated. Emily's nerve gave way completely. In an ungovernable spasm of panic she rushed madly across the room to the window, dashed the curtains aside, and caught up the slat blind. A blessed flood of sunshine burst in. Outside was a wholesome, friendly, human world. And, of all wonders, there, leaning right against the window-sill was a ladder! For a moment Emily almost believed that a miracle had been worked for her escape.
Cousin Jimmy had tripped that morning over the ladder, lying lost among the burdocks under the balm-of-gileads behind the dairy. It was very rotten and he decided it was time it was disposed of. He had shouldered it up against the house so that he would be sure to see it on his return from the hay field.
In less time than it takes to write of it Emily had got the window up, climbed out on the sill, and backed down the ladder. She was too intent on escaping from that horrible room to be conscious of the shakiness of the rotten rungs. When she reached the ground she bolted through the balm-of-gileads and over the fence into Lofty John's bush, nor did she stop running till she reached the path by the brook.
Then she paused for breath, exultant. She was full of a fearful joy with an elfin delight running through it. Sweet was the wind of freedom that was blowing over the ferns. She had escaped from the spare-room and its ghosts--she had got the better of mean old Aunt Elizabeth.
"I feel as if I was a little bird that had just got out of a cage," she told herself; and then she danced with joy of it all along her fairy path to the very end, where she found Ilse Burnley huddled up on the top of a fence panel, her pale-gold head making a spot of brilliance against the dark young firs that crowded around her. Emily had not seen her since that first day of school and again she thought she had never seen or pretended anybody just like Ilse.
"Well, Emily of New Moon," said Ilse, "where are you running to?"
"I'm running away," said Emily frankly. "I was bad--at least, I was a little bad--and Aunt Elizabeth locked me in the spare-room. I hadn't been bad enough for that--it wasn't fair--so I got out of the window and down the ladder."
"You little cuss! I didn't think you'd gimp enough for that," said Ilse.
Emily gasped. It seemed very dreadful to be called a little cuss. But Ilse had said it quite admiringly.
"I don't think it was gimp," said Emily, too honest to take a compliment she didn't deserve. "I was too scared to stay in that room."
"Well, where are you going now?" asked Ilse. "You'll have to go somewhere--you can't stay outdoors. There's a thunderstorm coming up."
So there was. Emily did not like thunderstorms. And her conscience smote her.
"Oh," she said, "do you suppose God is bringing up that storm to punish me because I've run away?"
"No," said Ilse scornfully. "If there is any God he wouldn't make such a fuss over nothing."
"Oh, Ilse, don't you believe there is a God?"
"I don't know. Father says there isn't. But in that case how did things happen? Some days I believe there's a God and some days I don't. You'd better come home with me. There's nobody there. I was so dod-gastedly lonesome I took to the bush."
Ilse sprang down and held out her sunburned paw to Emily. Emily took it and they ran together over Lofty John's pasture to the old Burnley house which looked like a huge gray cat basking in the warm late sunshine, that had not yet been swallowed up by the menacing thunderheads. Inside, it was full of furniture that must have been quite splendid once; but the disorder was dreadful and the dust lay thickly over everything. Nothing was in the right place apparently, and Aunt Laura would certainly have fainted with horror if she had seen the kitchen. But it was a good place to play. You didn't have to be careful not to mess things up. Ilse and Emily had a glorious game of hide and seek all over the house until the thunder got so heavy and the lightning so bright that Emily felt she must huddle on the sofa and nurse her courage.
"Aren't you ever afraid of thunder?" she asked Ilse.
"No, I ain't afraid of anything except the devil," said Ilse.
"I thought you didn't believe in the devil either--Rhoda said you didn't."
"Oh, there's a devil all right, Father says. It's only God he doesn't believe in. And if there is a devil and no God to keep him in order, is it any wonder I'm scared of him? Look here, Emily Byrd Starr, I like you--heaps. I've always liked you. I knew you'd soon be good and sick of that little, white-livered, lying sneak of a Rhoda Stuart. I never tell lies. Father told me once he'd kill me if he ever caught me telling a lie. I want you for my chum. I'd go to school regular if I could sit with you."
"All right," said Emily off-handedly. No more sentimental Rhodian vows of eternal devotion for her. That phase was over.
"And you'll tell me things--nobody ever tells me things. And let me tell you things--I haven't anybody to tell things to," said Ilse. "And you won't be ashamed of me because my clothes are always queer and because I don't believe in God?"
"No. But if you knew Father's God you'd believe in Him."
"I wouldn't. Besides, there's only one God if there is any at all."
"I don't know," said Emily perplexedly. "No, it can't be like that. Ellen Greene's God isn't a bit like Father's, and neither is Aunt Elizabeth's. I don't think I'd like Aunt Elizabeth's, but He is a dignified God at least, and Ellen's isn't. And I'm sure Aunt Laura's is another one still--nice and kind but not wonderful like Father's."
"Well never mind--I don't like talking about God," said Ilse uncomfortably.
"I do," said Emily. "I think God is a very interesting subject, and I'm going to pray for you, Ilse, that you can believe in Father's God."
"Don't you dast!" shouted Ilse, who for some mysterious reason did not like the idea. "I won't be prayed for!"
"Don't you ever pray yourself, Ilse?"
"Oh, now and then--when I feel lonesome at night--or when I'm in a scrape. But I don't want anyone else to pray for me. If I catch you doing it, Emily Starr, I'll tear your eyes out. And don't you go sneaking and praying for me behind my back either."
"All right, I won't," said Emily sharply, mortified at the failure of her well-meant offer. "I'll pray for every single soul I know, but I'll leave you out."
For a moment Ilse looked as if she didn't like this either. Then she laughed and gave Emily a volcanic hug,
"Well, anyway, please like me. Nobody likes me, you know."
"Your father must like you, Ilse."
"He doesn't," said Ilse positively. "Father doesn't care a hoot about me. I think there's times when he hates the sight of me. I wish he did like me because he can be awful nice when he likes anyone. Do you know what I'm going to be when I grow up? I'm going to be an elo-cu-tion-ist."
"What's that?"
"A woman who recites at concerts. I can do it dandy. What are you going to be?"
"A poetess."
"Golly!" said Ilse, apparently overcome. "I don't believe you can write poetry," she added.
"I can so, too," cried Emily. "I've written three pieces--'Autumn' and 'Lines to Rhoda'--only I burned that--and 'An Address to a Buttercup.' I composed it today and it is my--my masterpiece."
"Let's hear it," ordered Ilse.
Nothing loth, Emily proudly repeated her lines. Somehow she did not mind letting Ilse hear them.
"Emily Byrd Starr, you didn't make that out of your own head?"
"I did."
"Cross your heart?"
"Cross my heart."
"Well"--Ilse drew a long breath--"I guess you are a poetess all right."
It was a very proud moment for Emily--one of the great moments of life, in fact. Her world had conceded her standing. But now other things had to be thought o
f. The storm was over and the sun had set. It was twilight--it would soon be dark. She must get home and back into the spare-room before her absence was discovered. It was dreadful to think of going back but she must do it lest a worse thing come upon her at Aunt Elizabeth's hands. Just now, under the inspiration of Ilse's personality, she was full of Dutch courage. Besides, it would soon be her bedtime and she would be let out. She trotted home through Lofty John's bush, that was full of the wandering, mysterious lamps of the fireflies, dodged cautiously through the balm-of-gileads--and stopped short in dismay. The ladder was gone!
Emily went around to the kitchen door, feeling that she was going straight to her doom. But for once the way of the transgressor was made sinfully easy. Aunt Laura was alone in the kitchen.
"Emily dear, where on earth did you come from?" she exclaimed. "I was just going up to let you out. Elizabeth said I might--she's gone to prayer-meeting."
Aunt Laura did not say that she had tiptoed several times to the spare-room door and had been racked with anxiety over the silence behind it. Was the child unconscious from fright? Not even while the thunderstorm was going on would relentless Elizabeth allow that door to be opened. And here was Miss Emily walking unconcernedly in out of the twilight after all this agony. For a moment even Aunt Laura was annoyed. But when she heard Emily's tale her only feeling was thankfulness that Juliet's child had not broken her neck on that rotten ladder.
Emily felt that she had got off better than she deserved. She knew Aunt Laura would keep the secret; and Aunt Laura let her give Saucy Sal a whole cupful of strippings, and gave her a big plummy cookie and put her to bed with kisses.
"You oughtn't to be so good to me because I was bad today," Emily said, between delicious mouthfuls. "I suppose I disgraced the Murrays going barefoot."
"If I were you I'd hide my boots every time I went out of the gate," said Aunt Laura. "But I wouldn't forget to put them on before I came back. What Elizabeth doesn't know will never hurt her."
Emily reflected over this until she had finished her cookie. Then she said,
"That would be nice, but I don't mean to do it any more. I guess I must obey Aunt Elizabeth because she's the head of the family."
"Where do you get such notions?" said Aunt Laura.
"Out of my head. Aunt Laura, Ilse Burnley and I are going to be chums. I like her--I've always felt I'd like her if I had a chance. I don't believe I can ever love any girl again, but I like her."
"Poor Ilse!" said Aunt Laura, sighing.
"Yes, her father doesn't like her. Isn't it dreadful?" said Emily. "Why doesn't he?"
"He does--really. He only thinks he doesn't."
"But why does he think it?"
"You are too young to understand, Emily."
Emily hated to be told she was too young to understand. She felt that she could understand perfectly well if only people would take the trouble to explain things to her and not be so mysterious.
"I wish I could pray for her. It wouldn't be fair, though, when I know how she feels about it. But I've always asked God to bless all my friends so she'll be in that and maybe some good will come of it. Is 'golly' a proper word to say, Aunt Laura?"
"No--no!"
"I'm sorry for that," said Emily, seriously, ''because it's very striking."
CHAPTER 12
The Tansy Patch
Emily and Ilse had a splendid fortnight of fun before their first fight. It was really quite a terrible fight, arising out of a simple argument as to whether they would or would not have a parlor in the playhouse they were building in Lofty John's bush. Emily wanted a parlor and Ilse didn't. Ilse lost her temper at once, and went into a true Burnley tantrum. She was very fluent in her rages and the volley of abusive "dictionary words" which she hurled at Emily would have staggered most of the Blair Water girls. But Emily was too much at home with words to be floored so easily; she grew angry too, but in the cool, dignified, Murray way which was more exasperating than violence. When Ilse had to pause for breath in her diatribes, Emily, sitting on a big stone with her knees crossed, her eyes black and her cheeks crimson, interjected little sarcastic retorts that infuriated Ilse still further. Ilse was crimson, too, and her eyes were pools of scintillating, tawny fire. They were both so pretty in their fury that it was almost a pity they couldn't have been angry all the time.
"You needn't suppose, you little puling, sniveling chit, that you are going to boss me, just because you live at New Moon," shrieked Ilse, as an ultimatum, stamping her foot.
"I'm not going to boss you--I'm not going to associate with you ever again," retorted Emily, disdainfully.
"I'm glad to be rid of you--you proud, stuck-up, conceited, top-lofty biped," cried Ilse. "Never you speak to me again. And don't you go about Blair Water saying things about me, either."
This was unbearable to a girl who never "said things" about her friends or once-friends.
"I'm not going to say things about you," said Emily deliberately. "I am just going to think them."
This was far more aggravating than speech and Emily knew it. Ilse was driven quite frantic by it. Who knew what unearthly things Emily might be thinking about her any time she took the notion to? Ilse had already discovered what a fertile invention Emily had.
"Do you suppose I care what you think, you insignificant serpent? Why you haven't any sense."
"I've got something then that's far better," said Emily, with a maddening superior smile. "Something that you can never have, Ilse Burnley."
Ilse doubled her fists as if she would like to demolish Emily by physical force.
"If I couldn't write better poetry than you, I'd hang myself," she derided.
"I'll lend you a dime to buy a rope," said Emily.
Ilse glared at her, vanquished.
"You go to the devil!" she said.
Emily got up and went, not to the devil, but back to New Moon. Ilse relieved her feelings by knocking the boards of their china closet down, and kicking their "moss gardens" to pieces, and departed also.
Emily felt exceedingly badly. Here was another friendship destroyed--a friendship, too, that had been very delightful and satisfying. Ilse had been a splendid chum--there was no doubt about that. After Emily had cooled down she went to the dormer window and cried.
"Wretched, wretched me!" she sobbed, dramatically, but very sincerely.
Yet the bitterness of her break with Rhoda was not present. This quarrel was fair and open and above-board. She had not been stabbed in the back. But of course she and Ilse would never be chums again. You couldn't be chums with a person who called you a chit and a biped, and a serpent, and told you to go to the devil. The thing was impossible. And besides, Ilse could never forgive her--for Emily was honest enough to admit to herself that she had been very aggravating, too.
Yet, when Emily went to the playhouse next morning, bent on retrieving her share of broken dishes and boards, there was Ilse, skipping around, hard at work, with all the shelves back in place, the moss garden re-made, and a beautiful parlor laid out and connected with the living-room by a spruce arch.
"Hello, you. Here's your parlor and I hope you'll be satisfied now," she said gaily. "What's kept you so long? I thought you were never coming."
This rather posed Emily after her tragic night, wherein she had buried her second friendship and wept over its grave. She was not prepared for so speedy a resurrection. As far as Ilse was concerned it seemed as if no quarrel had ever taken place.
"Why, that was yesterday," she said in amazement, when Emily, rather distantly, referred to it. Yesterday and today were two entirely different things in Ilse's philosophy. Emily accepted it--she found she had to. Ilse, it transpired, could no more help flying into tantrums now and then than she could help being jolly and affectionate between them. What amazed Emily, in whom things were bound to rankle for a time, was the way in which Ilse appeared to forget a quarrel the moment it was over. To be called a serpent and a crocodile one minute and hugged and darling-ed the next was so
mewhat disconcerting until time and experience took the edge off it.
"Aren't I nice enough between times to make up for it?" demanded Ilse. "Dot Payne never flies into tempers, but would you like her for a chum?"
"No, she's too stupid," admitted Emily.
"And Rhoda Stuart is never out of temper, but you got enough of her. Do you think I'd ever treat you as she did?"
No, Emily had no doubt on this point. Whatever Ilse was or was not, she was loyal and true.
And certainly Rhoda Stuart and Dot Payne compared to Ilse were "as moonlight unto sunlight and as water unto wine"--or would have been if Emily had as yet known anything more of her Tennyson than the Bugle Song.
"You can't have everything," said Ilse. "I've got Dad's temper and that's all there is to it. Wait till you see him in one of his rages."
Emily had not seen this so far. She had often been down in the Burnleys' house but on the few occasions when Dr. Burnley had been home he had ignored her save for a curt nod. He was a busy man, for, whatever his shortcomings were, his skill was unquestioned and the bounds of his practice extended far. By the sickbed he was as gentle and sympathetic as he was brusque and sarcastic away from it. As long as you were ill there was nothing Dr. Burnley would not do for you; once you were well he had apparently no further use for you. He had been absorbed all through July trying to save Teddy Kent's life up at the Tansy Patch. Teddy was out of danger now and able to be up, but his improvement was not speedy enough to satisfy Dr. Burnley. One day he held up Emily and Ilse, who were heading through the lawn to the pond, with fishing-hooks and a can of fat, abominable worms--the latter manipulated solely by Ilse--and ordered them to betake themselves up to the Tansy Patch and play with Teddy Kent.
"He's lonesome and moping. Go and cheer him up," said the doctor.
Ilse was rather loth to go. She liked Teddy, but it seemed she did not like his mother. Emily was secretly not averse. She had seen Teddy Kent but once, at Sunday School the day before he was taken seriously ill, and she had liked his looks. It had seemed that he liked hers, too, for she caught him staring shyly at her over the intervening pews several times. He was very handsome, Emily decided. She liked his thick, dark-brown hair and his black-browed blue eyes, and for the first time it occurred to her that it might be rather nice to have a boy playmate, too. Not a "beau" of course. Emily hated the school jargon that called a boy your "beau" if he happened to give you a pencil or an apple and picked you out frequently for his partner in the games.
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