Emily Climbs

by L. M. Montgomery

  Perry met no great difficulties in making good his boast. His lighted match revealed a couple of half-burned candles in squat tin candlesticks, a cracked and rusty but still quite serviceable old Waterloo stove, three chairs, a bench, a soft and a table.

  "What's the matter with this?" demanded Perry.

  "They'll be awfully worried about us at home, that's all," said Emily, shaking the snow off her wraps.

  "Worry won't kill them in one night," said Perry. "We'll get home tomorrow somehow."

  "Meanwhile, this is an adventure," laughed Emily. "Let's get all the fun out of it we can."

  Ilse said nothing - which was very odd in Ilse. Emily, looking at her, saw that she was very pale and recalled that she had been unusually quiet ever since they had left the hall.

  "Aren't you feeling all right, Ilse?" she asked anxiously.

  "I'm feeling all wrong," said Ilse, with a ghastly smile. "I'm - I'm sick as a dog," she added, with more force than elegance.

  "Oh, Ilse -"

  "Don't hit the ceiling," said Ilse impatiently. "I'm not beginning pneumonia or appendicitis. I'm just plain sick. That pie I had at the hall was too rich, I suppose. It's turned my little tummy upside down. O - w - w."

  "Lie down on the sofa," urged Emily. "Perhaps you'll feel better then."

  Ilse, shuddering and abject, cast herself down. A "sick stomach" is not a romantic ailment or a very deadly one, but it certainly takes the ginger out of its victim for the time being.

  The boys, finding a box full of wood behind the stove, soon had a roaring fire. Perry took one of the candles and explored the little house. In a small room opening off the kitchen was an old-fashioned wooden bedstead with a rope mattress. The other room - it had been Almira Shaw's parlour in olden days - was half filled with oat-straw. Upstairs there was nothing but emptiness and dust. But in the little pantry Perry made some finds.

  "There's a can of pork and beams here," he announced, "and a tin box half full of crackers. I see our breakfast. I s'pose the Shaw boys left them here: And what's this?"

  Perry brought out a small bottle, uncorked and sniffed it solemnly.

  "Whiskey, as I'm a living sinner. Not much, but enough. Here's your medicine, Ilse. You take it in some hot water and it'll settle your stomach in a jiffy."

  "I hate the taste of whiskey," moaned Ilse. "Father never uses it - he doesn't believe in it."

  "Aunt Tom does," said Perry, as if that settled the matter. "It's a sure cure. Try it and see."

  "But there isn't any water," said Ilse.

  "You'll have to take it straight, then. There's only about two tablespoons in the bottle. Try it. It won't kill you if it doesn't cure you."

  Poor Ilse was really feeling so abjectly wretched that she would have taken anything, short of poison, if she thought there was any chance of its helping her. She crawled off the sofa, sat down on a chair before the fire and swallowed the dose. It was good, strong whiskey - Malcolm Shaw could have told you that. And I think there was really more than two tablespoonfuls in the bottle, though Perry always insisted that there wasn't. Ilse sat huddled in her chair for a few minutes longer, then she got up and put her hand uncertainly on Emily's shoulder.

  "Do you feel worse?" asked Emily, anxiously.

  "I'm - I'm drunk," said Ilse. "Help me back to the sofa, for mercy's sake. My legs are going to double up under me. Who was the Scotchman up at Malvern who said he never got drunk but the whiskey always settled in his knees? But mine's in the head, too. It's spinning round."

  Perry and Teddy both sprang to help her and between them a very wobbly Ilse made safe port on the sofa again.

  "Is there anything we can do?" implored Emily.

  "Too much has already been done," said Ilse with preternatural solemnity. She shut her eyes and not another word would she say in response to any entreaty. Finally it was deemed best to let her alone.

  "She'll sleep it off, and, anyway, I guess it'll settle her stomach," said Perry.

  Emily could not take it so philosophically. Not until Ilse's quiet breathing half an hour later proved that she was really asleep could Emily begin to taste the flavour of their "adventure." The wind threshed about the old house and rattled the windows as if in a fury over their escape from it. It was very pleasant to sit before the stove and listen to the wild melody of defeated storm - very pleasant to think about the vanished life of this old dead house, in the years when it had been full of love and laughter - very pleasant to talk of cabbages and kings with Perry and Teddy, in the faint glow of candlelight - very pleasant to sit in occasional silences, staring into the firelight, which flickered alluringly over Emily's milk-white brow and haunting, shadowy eyes. Once Emily, glancing up suddenly, found Teddy looking at her strangely. For just a moment their eyes met and locked - only a moment - yet Emily was never really to belong to herself again. She wondered dazedly what had happened. Whence came that wave of unimaginable sweetness that seemed to engulf her, body and spirit? She trembled - she was afraid. It seemed to open such dizzying possibilities of change. The only clear idea that emerged from her confusion of thought was that she wanted to sit with Teddy before a fire like this every night of their lives - and then a fig for the storms! She dared not look at Teddy again, but she thrilled with a delicious sense of his nearness; she was acutely conscious of his tall, boyish straightness, his glossy black hair, his luminous dark-blue eyes. She had always known she liked Teddy better than any other male creature in her ken - but this was something apart from liking altogether - this sense of belonging to him that had come in that significant exchange of glances. All at once she seemed to know why she had always snubbed any of the High School boys who wanted to be her beau.

  The delight of the spell that had been suddenly laid on her was so intolerable that she must break it. She sprang up and went over to the window. The little hissing whisper of snow against the blue-white frost crystals on the pane seemed softly to scorn her bewilderment. The three big haystacks, thatched with snow, dimly visible at the corner of the barn, seemed to be shaking their shoulders with laughter over her predicament. The fire in the stove reflected out in the clearing seemed like a mocking goblin bonfire under the firs. Beyond it, through the woods, were unfathomable spaces of white storm. For a moment Emily wished she were out in them - there would be freedom there from this fetter of terrible delight that had so suddenly and inexplicably made her a prisoner - her, who hated bonds.

  "Am I falling in love with Teddy?" she thought. "I won't - I won't."

  Perry, quite unconscious of all that had happened in the wink of an eye to Teddy and Emily, yawned and stretched.

  "Guess we'd better hit the hay - the candles are about done. I guess that straw will make a real good bed for us, Ted. Let's carry enough out and pile it on the bedstead in there to make a comfortable roost for the girls. With one of the fur rugs over it, it won't be so bad. We ought to have some high old dreams tonight - Ilse especially. Wonder if she's sober yet?"

  "I've a pocket full of dreams to sell," said Teddy, whimsically, with a new, unaccountable gaiety of voice and manner. "What d'ye lack? What d'ye lack? A dream of success - a dream of adventure - a dream of the sea - a dream of the woodland - any kind of a dream you want at reasonable prices, including one or two unique little nightmares. What will you give me for a dream?"

  Emily turned around - stared at him for a moment - then forgot thrills and spells and everything else in a wild longing for a Jimmy-book. As if his question, "What will you give me for a dream?" had been a magic formula opening some sealed chamber in her brain, she saw unrolling before her a dazzling idea for a story - complete even to the title - A Seller of Dreams. For the rest of that night Emily thought of nothing else.

  The boys went off to their straw couch, and Emily, after deciding to leave Ilse, who seemed comfortable, on the sofa as long as she slept, lay down on the bed in the small room. But not to sleep. She had never felt less like sleeping. She did not want to sleep. She had forgotten that she had been
falling in love with Teddy - she had forgotten everything but her wonderful idea; chapter by chapter, page by page, it unrolled itself before her in the darkness. Her characters lived and laughed and talked and did and enjoyed and suffered - she saw them on the background of the storm. Her cheeks burned, her heart beat, she tingled from head to foot with the keen rapture of creation - a joy that sprang fountain-like from the depths of being and seemed independent of all earthly things. Ilse had got drunk on Malcolm Shaw's forgotten Scotch whiskey, but Emily was intoxicated with immortal wine.

  THICKER THAN WATER

  Emily did not sleep until nearly morning. The storm had ceased and the landscape around the old John house had a spectral look in the light of the sinking moon when she finally drifted into slumber, with a delightful sense of accomplishment - for she had finished thinking out her story. Nothing remained now except to jot its outlines down in her Jimmy-book. She would not feel safe until she had them in black and white. She would not try to write it yet - oh, not for years. She must wait until time and experience had made of her pen an instrument capable of doing justice to her conception - for it is one thing to pursue an idea through an ecstatic night and quite another to get it down on paper in a manner that will reproduce a tenth of its original charm and significance.

  Emily was wakened by Ilse, who was sitting on the side of her bed, looking rather pale and seedy, but with amber eyes full of unconquerable laughter.

  "Well, I've slept off my debauch, Emily Starr. And my tummy's all right this morning. Malcolm's whiskey did settle it - though I think the remedy is worse than the disease. I suppose you wondered why I wouldn't talk last night."

  "I thought you were too drunk to talk," said Emily candidly.

  Ilse giggled.

  "I was too drunk not to talk. When I got to that sofa, Emily, my giddiness passed off and I wanted to talk - oh, golly, but I wanted to talk! And I wanted to say the silliest things and tell everything I ever knew or thought. I'd just enough sense left to know I mustn't say those things or I'd make a fool of myself for ever - and I felt that if I said one word it would be like taking a cork out of a bottle - everything would gurgle out. So I just buttoned my mouth up and wouldn't say the one word. It gives me a chill to think of the things I could have said - and before Perry. You'll never catch your little Ilse going on a spree again. I'm a reformed character from this day forth."

  "What I can't understand," said Emily, "is how such a small dose of anything could have turned your head like that."

  "Oh, well, you know Mother was a Mitchell. It's a notorious fact that the Mitchells can't take a teaspoonful of booze without toppling. It's one of their family kinks. Well, rise up, my love, my fair one. The boys are getting a fire on and Perry says we can dope up a fair meal from the pork and beans and crackers. I'm hungry enough to eat the cans."

  It was while Emily was rummaging in the pantry in search of some salt that she made a great discovery. Far back on the top shelf was a pile of dusty old books - dating back probably to the days of John and Almira Shaw - old, mildewed diaries, almanacs, account books. Emily knocked the pile down and when she was picking it up discovered that one of the books was an old scrapbook. A loose leaf had fallen out of it. As Emily replaced it, her eyes fell on the title of a poem pasted on it. She caught it up, her breath coming quickly A Legend of Abegweit - the poem with which Evelyn had won the prize! Here it was in this old, yellowed scrapbook of twenty years' vintage - word for word, except that Evelyn had cut out two verses to shorten it to the required length.

  "And the two best verses in it," thought Emily, contemptuously. "How like Evelyn! She has simply no literary judgment."

  Emily replaced the books on the shelf, but she slipped the loose leaf into her pocket and ate her share of breakfast very absently. By this time men were on the roads breaking out the tracks. Perry and Teddy found a shovel in the barn and soon had a way opened to the road. They got home finally, after a slow but uneventful drive, to find the New Moon folks rather anxious as to their fate and mildly horrified to learn that they had had to spend the night in the old John house.

  "You might have caught your deaths of cold," said Elizabeth, severely.

  "Well, it was Hobson's choice. It was that or freeze to death in the drifts," said Emily, and nothing more was said about the matter. Since they had got home safe and nobody had caught cold, what more was there to say? That was the New Moon way of looking at it.

  The Shrewsbury way was somewhat different. But the Shrewsbury way did not become apparent immediately. The whole story was over Shrewsbury by Monday night - Ilse told it in school and described her drunken orgy with great spirit and vivacity, amid shrieks of laughter from her classmates. Emily, who had called, for the first time, on Evelyn Blake that evening, found Evelyn looking quite well pleased over something.

  "Can't you stop Ilse from telling that story, my dear?"

  "What story?"

  "Why, about getting drunk last Friday night - the night you and she spent with Teddy Kent and Perry Miller in that old house up at Derry Pond," said Evelyn smoothly.

  Emily suddenly flushed. There was something in Evelyn's tone - the innocent fact seemed all at once to take on shades of a sinister significance. Was Evelyn being deliberately insolent?

  "I don't know why she shouldn't tell the story," said Emily, coldly. "It was a good joke on her."

  "But you know how people will talk," said Evelyn, gently. "It's all rather - unfortunate. Of course, you couldn't help being caught in the storm - I suppose - but Ilse will only make matters worse. She is so indiscreet - haven't you any influence over her, Emily?"

  "I didn't come here to discuss that," said Emily, bluntly. "I came to show you something I found in the old John house."

  She held out the leaf of the scrapbook. Evelyn looked at it blankly for a moment. Then her face turned a curious mottled purple. She made an involuntary movement as if to snatch the paper, but Emily quickly drew it back. Their eyes met. In that moment Emily felt that the score between them was at last even.

  She waited for Evelyn to speak. After a moment Evelyn did speak - sullenly:

  "Well, what are you going to do about it?"

  "I haven't decided yet," said Emily.

  Evelyn's long, brown, treacherous eyes swept up to Emily's face with a crafty, seeking expression.

  "I suppose you mean to take it to Dr. Hardy and disgrace me before the school?"

  "Well, you deserve it, don't you?" said Emily, judicially.

  "I - I wanted to win that prize because Father promised me a trip to Vancouver next summer if I won it," muttered Evelyn, suddenly crumpling. "I - I was crazy to go. Oh, don't betray me, Emily - Father will be furious. I - I'll give you the Parkman set - I'll do anything - only don't -"

  Evelyn began to cry. Emily didn't like the sight.

  "I don't want your Parkman," she said, contemptuously. "But there is one thing you must do. You will confess to Aunt Ruth that it was you who drew that moustache on my face the day of the English exam and not Ilse."

  Evelyn wiped away her tears and swallowed something.

  "That was only a joke," she sobbed.

  "It was no joke to lie about it," said Emily, sternly.

  "You're so - so - blunt." Evelyn looked for a dry spot on her handkerchief and found one. "It was all a joke. I just ran back from the Shoppe to do it. I thought, of course, you'd look in the glass when you got up. I d-didn't suppose you'd g-go to class like that. And I d-didn't know your Aunt took it so seriously. Of course - I'll tell her - if you'll - if you'll -"

  "Write it out and sign it," said Emily, remorselessly.

  Evelyn wrote it out and signed it.

  "You'll give me - that" she pleaded, with an entreating gesture towards the scrapbook leaf.

  "Oh, no, I'll keep this," said Emily.

  "And what assurance have I that you won't tell - some day - after all?" sniffed Evelyn.

  "You have the word of a Starr," said Emily, loftily.

  She we
nt out with a smile. She had finally conquered in the long duel. And she held in her hand what would finally clear Ilse in Aunt Ruth's eyes.

  Aunt Ruth sniffed a good deal over Evelyn's note and was inclined to ask questions as to how it had been extorted. But not getting much satisfaction out of Emily on this score and knowing that Allan Burnley had been sore at her ever since her banishment of his daughter, she secretly welcomed an excuse to recall it.

  "Very well, then. I told you Ilse could come here when you could prove to my satisfaction that she had not played that trick on you. You have proved it, and I keep my word. I am a just woman," concluded Aunt Ruth - who was, perhaps, the most unjust woman on the earth at that time.

  So far, well. But if Evelyn wanted revenge she tasted it to the full in the next three weeks, without raising a finger or wagging a tongue to secure it. All Shrewsbury burned with gossip about the night of the storm - insinuations, distortions, wholesale fabrications. Emily was so snubbed at Janet Thompson's afternoon tea that she went home white with humiliation. Ilse was furious.

  "I wouldn't mind if I had been rip-roaring drunk and had the fun of it," she vowed with a stamp of her foot. "But I wasn't drunk enough to be happy - only just drunk enough to be silly. There are moments, Emily, when I feel that I could have a gorgeous time if I were a cat and these old Shrewsbury dames were mice. But let's keep our smiles pinned on. I really don't care a snap for them. This will soon die out. We'll fight."

  "You can't fight insinuations," said Emily, bitterly.

  Ilse did not care - but Emily cared horribly. The Murray pride smarted unbearably. And it smarted worse and worse as time went on. A sneer at the night of the storm was published in a rag of a paper that was printed in a town on the mainland and made up of "spicy" notes sent to it from all over the Maritimes. Nobody ever confessed to reading it, but almost everybody knew everything that was in it - except Aunt Ruth, who wouldn't have handled the sheet with the tongs. No names were mentioned, but every one knew who was referred to, and the venomous innuendo of the thing was unmistakable. Emily thought she would die of shame. And the worse sting was that it was so vulgar and ugly - and had made that beautiful night of laughter and revelation and rapturous creation in the old John house vulgar and ugly She had thought it would always be one of her most beautiful memories. And now this!