"Evelyn met me in the cloakroom today and assured me that she had voted for both Ilse and me.
"'Has any one been saying you did not?' I asked, in my best Aunt Elizabethan manner.
"Yes - Ilse has,' said Evelyn peevishly. 'She was very insolent to me about it. Do you want to know who I think put the black bean in?'
"I looked Evelyn straight in the eyes.
"'No, it is not necessary. I know who put it in' - and I turned and left her.
"Most of the Skulls and Owls are very angry about it - especially the Skulls. One or two Owls, I have heard, hoot that it is a good pill for the Murray pride. And, of course, several Seniors and Juniors who were not among the favoured nine are either gloatingly rejoiced or odiously sympathetic.
"Aunt Ruth heard of it today and wanted to know why I was black-beaned.
"New Moon,
"November 5, 19-
"Aunt Laura and I spent this afternoon, the one teaching, the other learning, a certain New Moon tradition - to wit, how to put pickles into glass jars in patterns. We stowed away the whole big crockful of new pickles, and when Aunt Elizabeth came to look them over she admitted she could not tell those which Aunt Laura had done from mine.
"This evening was very delightful. I had a good time with myself, out in the garden. It was lovely there tonight with the eerie loveliness of a fine November evening. At sunset there had been a wild little shower of snow, but it had cleared off, leaving the world just lightly covered, and the air clear and tingling. Almost all the flowers, including my wonderful asters, which were a vision all through the fall, were frozen black two weeks ago, but the beds still had white drifts of alyssum all around them. A big, smoky-red hunter's moon was just rising above the tree-tops. There was a yellow-red glow in the west behind the white hills on which a few dark trees grew. The snow had banished all the strange deep sadness of a dead landscape on a late fall evening, and the slopes and meadows of old New Moon farm were transformed into a wonderland in the faint, early moonlight. The old house had a coating of sparkling snow on its roof. Its lighted windows glowed like jewels. It looked exactly like a picture on a Christmas card. There was just a suggestion of grey-blue chimney smoke over the kitchen. A nice reek of burning autumn leaves came from Cousin Jimmy's smouldering bonfires in the lane. My cats were there, too, stealthy, goblin-eyed, harmonising with the hour and the place. The twilight - appropriately called the cats' light - is the only time when a cat really reveals himself. Saucy Sal was thin and gleaming, like the silvery ghost of a pussy. Daff was like a dark-grey, skulking tiger. He certainly gives the world assurance of a cat: he doesn't condescend to every one - and he never talks too much. They pounced at my feet and tore off and frisked back and rolled each other over - and were all so a part of the night and the haunted place that they didn't disturb my thoughts at all. I walked up and down the paths and around the dial and the summer-house in exhilaration. Air such as I breathed then always makes me a little drunk, I verily believe. I laughed at myself for feeling badly over not being elected an Owl. An Owl! Why, I felt like a young eagle, soaring sunward. All the world was before me to see and learn, and I exulted in it. The future was mine - and the past, too. I felt as if I had been alive here always - as if I shared in all the loves and lives of the old house. I felt as if I would live always - always - always - I was sure of immortality then. I didn't just believe it - I felt it.
"Dean found me there: he was close beside me before I was aware of his presence.
"'You are smiling,' said Dean. 'I like to see a woman smiling to herself. Her thoughts must be innocent and pleasant. Has the day been kind to you, dear lady?'
"'Very kind - and this evening is its best gift. I'm so happy tonight, Dean - just to be alive makes me happy. I feel as if I were driving a team of stars. I wish such a mood could last, I feel so sure of myself tonight - so sure of my future. I'm not afraid of anything. At life's banquet of success I may not be the guest of honour, but I'll be among those present.'
"'You looked like a seeress gazing into the future as I came down the walk,' said Dean, 'standing here in the moonlight, white and rapt. Your skin is like a narcissus petal. You could dare to hold a white rose against your face - very few women can dare that. You aren't really very pretty, you know, Star, but your face makes people think of beautiful things - and that is a far rarer gift than mere beauty'
"I like Dean's compliments. They are always different from anybody else's. And I like to be called a woman.
"You'll make me vain,' I said.
"'Not with your sense of humour,' said Dean. A woman with a sense of humour is never vain. The most malevolent bad fairy in the world couldn't bestow two such drawbacks on the same christened babe.'
"'Do you call a sense of humour a drawback?' I asked.
"'To be sure it is. A woman who has a sense of humour possesses no refuge from the merciless truth about herself. She cannot think herself misunderstood. She cannot revel in self-pity. She cannot comfortably damn any one who differs from her. No, Emily, the woman with a sense of humour isn't to be envied.'
"This view of it hadn't occurred to me. We sat down on the stone bench and thrashed it out. Dean is not going away this winter. I am glad - I would miss him horribly. If I can't have a good spiel with Dean at least once a fortnight, life seems faded. There's so much colour in our talks; and then at times he can be so eloquently quiet. Part of the time tonight he was like that: we just sat there in the dream and dusk and quiet of the old garden and heard each other's thoughts. Part of the time he told me tales of old lands and the gorgeous bazaars of the East. Part of the time he asked me about myself, and my studies and my doings. I like a man who gives me a chance now and then to talk about myself.
"'What have you been reading lately?' he asked.
"'This afternoon, after I finished the pickles, I read several of Mrs. Browning's poems. We have her in our English work this year, you know. My favourite poem is The Lay of the Brown Rosary - and I am much more in sympathy with Onora than Mrs. Browning was.'
"'You would be,' said Dean. 'That is because you are a creature of emotion yourself. You would barter heaven for love, just as Onora did.'
"'I will not love - to love is to be a slave,' I said.
"And the minute I said it I was ashamed of saying it - because I knew I had just said it to sound clever. I don't really believe that to love is to be a slave - not with Murrays, anyhow. But Dean took me quite seriously.
"'Well, one must be a slave to something in this kind of a world,' he said. 'No one is free. Perhaps, after all, O daughter of the Stars, love is the easiest master - easier than hate - or fear - or necessity - or ambition - or pride. By the way, how are you getting on with the love-making parts of your stories?'
"'You forget - I can't write stories just now. When I can - well, you know long ago you promised you would teach me how to make love artistically'
"I said it in a teasing way, just for a joke. But Dean seemed suddenly to become very much in earnest.
"'Are you ready for the teaching?' he said, bending forward.
"For one crazy moment I really thought he was going to kiss me. I drew back - I felt myself flushing - all at once I thought of Teddy. I didn't know what to say - I picked up Daff - buried my face in his beautiful fur - listened to his inner purring. At that opportune moment Aunt Elizabeth came to the front door and wanted to know if I had my rubbers on. I hadn't - so I went in - and Dean went home. I watched him from my window, limping down the lane. He seemed very lonely, and all at once I felt terribly sorry for him. When I'm with Dean he's such good company, and we have such good times that I forget there must be another side to his life. I can fill only such a little corner of it. The rest must be very empty.
"November 14, 19-
"There is a fresh scandal about Emily of New Moon plus Ilse of Blair Water. I have just had an unpleasant interview with Aunt Ruth and must write it all out to rid my soul of bitterness. Such a tempest in a teapot over nothing! But Ilse and I
do have the worst luck.
"I spent last Thursday evening with Ilse studying our English literature together. We did an evening of honest work and I left for home at nine. Ilse came out to the gate with me. It was a soft, dark, gentle, starry night. Ilse's new boarding-house is the last house on Cardigan Street, and beyond it the road veers over the little creek bridge into the park. We could see the park, dim and luring, in the starlight.
"'Let's go for a walk around it before you go home,' proposed Ilse.
"We went: of course, I shouldn't have: I should have come right home to bed, like any good consumptive. But I had just completed my autumnal course of cod-liver emulsion - ugh! - and thought I might defy the night air for once. So - we went. And it was delightful. Away over the harbour we heard the windy music of the November hills, but among the trees of the park it was calm and still. We left the road and wandered up a little side trail through the spicy fragrant evergreens on the hill. The firs and pines are always friendly, but they tell you no secrets as maples and poplars do: they never reveal their mysteries - never betray their long-guarded lore - and so, of course, they are more interesting than any other trees.
"The whole hillside was full of nice, elfish sounds and cool, elusive night smells - balsam and frosted fern. We seemed to be in the very heart of a peaceful hush. The night put her arms around us like a mother and drew us close together. We told each other everything. Of course, next day I repented me of this - though Ilse is a very satisfactory confidante and never betrays anything, even in her rages. But then it is not a Murray tradition to turn your soul inside out, even to your dearest friend. But darkness and fir balsam make people do such things. And we had lots of fun, too - Ilse is such an exhilarating companion. You're never dull a moment in her company. Altogether we had a lovely walk and came out of the park feeling dearer to each other than ever, with another beautiful memory to share. Just at the bridge we met Teddy and Perry coming off the Western Road. They'd been out for a constitutional hike. It happens to be one of the times Ilse and Perry are on speaking terms, so we all walked across the bridge together and then they went their way and we went ours. I was in bed and asleep by ten o'clock.
"But somebody saw us walking across the bridge. Next day it was all through the school: day after that all through the town: that Ilse and I had been prowling in the park with Teddy Kent and Perry Miller till twelve o'clock at night. Aunt Ruth heard it and summoned me to the bar of judgment tonight. I told her the whole story, but of course she didn't believe it.
"'You know I was home at a quarter to ten last Thursday night, Aunt Ruth,' I said.
"'I suppose the time was exaggerated,' admitted Aunt Ruth. 'But there must have been something to start such a story. There's no smoke without some fire. Emily, you are treading in your mother's footsteps.'
"'Suppose we leave my mother out of the question - she's dead,' I said. 'The point is, Aunt Ruth, do you believe me or do you not?'
"'I don't believe it was as bad as the report,' Aunt Ruth said reluctantly. 'But you have got yourself talked about. Of course, you must expect that, as long as you run with Ilse Burnley and off-scourings of the gutter like Perry Miller. Andrew wanted you to go for a walk in the park last Friday evening and you refused - I heard you. That would have been too respectable, of course.'
"'Exactly' I said. 'That was the very reason. There's no fun in anything that's too respectable.'
"'Impertinence, Miss, is not wit,' said Aunt Ruth.
"I didn't mean to be impertinent, but it does annoy me to have Andrew flung in my teeth like that. Andrew is going to be one of my problems. Dean thinks it's great fun - he knows what is in the wind as well as I do. He is always teasing me about my red-headed young man - my r.h.y.m. for short.
"'He's almost a rhyme,' said Dean.
"'But never a poem,' said I.
"Certainly poor, good, dear Andrew is the stodgiest of prose. Yet I'd like him well enough if the whole Murray clan weren't literally throwing him at my head. They want to get me safely engaged before I'm old enough to elope, and who so safe as Andrew Murray?
"Oh, as Dean says, nobody is free - never, except just for a few brief moments now and then, when the flash comes, or when, as on my haystack night, the soul slips over into eternity for a little space. All the rest of our years we are slaves to something - traditions - conventions - ambitions - relations. And sometimes, as tonight, I think that last is the hardest bondage of all.
"New Moon,
"December 3, 19-
"I am here in my own dear room, with a fire in my little fireplace by the grace of Aunt Elizabeth. An open fire is always lovely, but it is ten times lovelier on a stormy night. I watched the storm from my window until darkness fell. There is a singular charm in snow coming gently down in slanting lines against dark trees. I wrote a description of it in my Jimmy-book as I watched. A wind has come up since and now my room is full of the soft forlorn sigh of snow, driving through Lofty John's spruce wood. It is one of the loveliest sounds in the world. Some sounds are so exquisite - far more exquisite than anything seen. Daff's purr there on my rug, for instance - and the snap and crackle of the fire - and the squeaks and scrambles of mice that are having a jamboree behind the wainscot. I love to be alone in my room like this. I like to think even the mice are having a good time. And I get so much pleasure out of all my little belongings. They have a meaning for me they have for no one else. I have never for one moment felt at home in my room at Aunt Ruth's, but as soon as I come here I enter into my kingdom. I love to read here - dream here - sit by the window and shape some airy fancy into verse.
"I've been reading one of Father's books tonight. I always feel so beautifully near to Father when I read his books - as if I might suddenly look over my shoulder and see him. And so often I come across his pencilled notes on the margin and they seem like a message from him. The book I'm reading tonight is a wonderful one - wonderful in plot and conception - wonderful in its grasp of motives and passions. As I read it I feel humbled and insignificant - which is good for me. I say to myself, 'You poor, pitiful, little creature, did you ever imagine you could write? If so, your delusion is now stripped away from you forever and you behold yourself in your naked paltriness.' But I shall recover from this state of mind - and believe again that I can write a little - and go on cheerfully producing sketches and poems until I can do better. In another year and a half my promise to Aunt Elizabeth will be out and I can write stories again. Meanwhile patience! To be sure, I get a bit weary at times of saying patience and perseverance.' It is hard not to see all at once the results of those estimable virtues. Sometimes I feel that I want to tear around and be as impatient as I like. But not tonight. Tonight I feel as contented as a cat on a rug. I would purr if I knew how.
"December 9, 19-
"This was Andrew-night. He came, all beautifully groomed up, as usual. Of course, I like a boy who gets himself up well, but Andrew really carries it too far. He always seems as if he had just been starched and ironed and was afraid to move or laugh for fear he'd crack. When I come to think of it, I've never heard Andrew give a hearty laugh yet. And I know he never hunted pirate gold when he was a boy. But he's good and sensible and tidy, and his nails are always clean, and the bank manager thinks a great deal of him. And he likes cats - in their place! Oh, I don't deserve such a cousin!"
"January 5, 19-
"Holidays are over. I had a beautiful two weeks at old white-hooded New Moon. The day before Christmas I had five acceptances. I wonder I didn't go crazy. Three of them were from magazines who don't pay anything, but subscriptions, for contributions. But the others were accompanied by cheques - one for two dollars for a poem and one for ten dollars for my Sands of Time, which has been taken at last - my first story acceptance. Aunt Elizabeth looked at the cheques and said wonderingly:
"'Do you suppose the bank will really pay you money for those?'
"She could hardly believe it, even after Cousin Jimmy took them to Shrewsbury and cashed them.
"Perry is on the High School team who will debate with the Queen's Academy boys in February. Good for Perry - it's a great honour to be chosen on that team. The debate is a yearly occurrence and Queen's has won for three years. Ilse offered to coach Perry on the elocution of his speech and she is taking no end of trouble with him - especially in preventing him from saying 'devilopment when he means 'development.' It's awfully good of her, for she really doesn't like him. I do hope Shrewsbury will win.
"We have The Idylls of the King in English class this term. I like some things in them, but I detest Tennyson's Arthur. If I had been Guinevere I'd have boxed his ears - but I wouldn't have been unfaithful to him for Lancelot, who was just as odious in a different way As for Geraint, if I had been Enid I'd have bitten him. These 'patient Griseldas' deserve all they get. Lady Enid, if you had been a Murray of New Moon you would have kept your husband in better order and he would have liked you all the better for it.
"I read a story tonight. It ended unhappily. I was wretched until I had invented a happy ending for it. I shall always end my stories happily. I don't care whether it's 'true to life' or not. It's true to life as it should be and that's a better truth than the other.
"Speaking of books. I read an old one of Aunt Ruth's the other day - The Children of the Abbey. The heroine fainted in every chapter and cried quarts if any one looked at her. But as for the trials and persecutions she underwent, in spite of her delicate frame, their name was Legion and no fair maiden of these degenerate days could survive half of them - not even the newest of new women. I laughed over the book until I amazed Aunt Ruth, who thought it a very sad volume. It is the only novel in Aunt Ruth's house. One of her beaux gave it to her when she was young. It seems impossible to think that Aunt Ruth ever had beaux. Uncle Dutton seems an unreality and even his picture on the crepe-draped easel in the parlour cannot convince me of his existence.
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