“JULY 24.
“Dear Father, this is a very strange world. Nothing ever turns out just like what you expect. Last night I couldn’t sleep again. I was so worried. I thought I was a coward, and doing an underhanded thing and not living up to my tradishuns. At last it got so bad I couldn’t stand it. I can bear it when other people have a bad opinion of me but it hurts too much when I have a bad opinion of myself. So I got out of bed and went right back through all those halls to the back parlour. Aunt Nancy was still there all alone playing Solitare. She said what on earth was I out of bed for at such an hour. I just said, short and quick to get the worst over, ‘I broke your Jakobite glass yesterday and hid the pieces behind the sofa.’ Then I waited for the storm to burst. Aunt Nancy said ‘What a blessing. I’ve often wanted to smash it but never had the courage. All the Priest clan are waiting for me to die to get that glass and quarrel over it and I’m tickled to think none of them can have it now and yet can’t pick a fuss with me over smashing it. Get off to bed and get your beauty sleep.’ I said ‘And you aren’t mad at all, Aunt Nancy?’ ‘If it had been a Murray airloom I’d have torn up the turf’ Aunt Nancy said. ‘But I don’t care a hoot about the Priest things.’
“So I went back to bed, dear Father, and felt very much releeved, but not so heroyik.
“I had a letter from Ilse to-day. She says Saucy Sal has had kittens at last. I feel that I ought to be home to see about them. Likely Aunt Elizabeth will have them all drowned before I get back. I had a letter from Teddy too, not much of a letter but all filled with dear little pictures of Ilse and Perry and the Tansy Patch and Lofty John’s bush. They made me feel homesick.
“JULY 28.
“Oh, Father dear, I have found out all about the mistery of Ilse’s mother. It is so terrible I can’t write it down even to you. I cannot believe it but Aunt Nancy says it is true. I did not think there could be such terrible things in the world. No, I can’t believe it and I won’t believe it no matter who says it is true. I know Ilse’s mother couldn’t have done anything like that. There must have been a fearful mistake somewhere. I am so unhappy and feel as if I could never be happy any more. Last night I wept on my pilllow, like the heroins in Aunt Nancy’s books do.”
“She Couldn’t Have Done It”
Great-aunt Nancy and Caroline Priest were wont to colour their grey days with the remembered crimsons of old, long-past delights and merry-makings, but they went further than this and talked over any number of old family histories before Emily with a total disregard of her youth. Loves, births, deaths, scandals, tragedies — anything that came into their old heads. Nor did they spare details. Aunt Nancy revelled in details. She forgot nothing, and sins and weaknesses that death had covered and time shown mercy to were ruthlessly dragged out and dissected by this ghoulish old lady.
Emily was not quite certain whether she really liked it or not. It was fascinating — it fed some dramatic hunger in her — but it made her feel unhappy somehow, as if something very ugly were concealed in the darkness of the pit they opened before her innocent eyes. As Aunt Laura had said, her youth protected her to some extent, but it could not save her from a dreadful understanding of the pitiful story of Ilse’s mother on the afternoon when it seemed good to Aunt Nancy to resurrect that tale of anguish and shame.
Emily was curled up on the sofa in the back parlour, reading The Scottish Chiefs because it was a breathlessly hot July afternoon — too hot to haunt the bay shore. Emily was feeling very happy. The Wind Woman was ruffling over the big maple grove behind the Grange, turning the leaves until every tree seemed to be covered with strange, pale, silvery blossoms; fragrances drifted in from the garden; the world was lovely; she had had a letter from Aunt Laura saying that one of Saucy Sal’s kittens had been saved for her. Emily had felt when Mike II died that she would never want another cat. But now she found she did. Everything suited her very well; she was so happy that she should have sacrificed her dearest possession to the jealous gods if she had known anything about the old pagan belief.
Aunt Nancy was tired of playing solitaire. She pushed the cards away and took up her knitting.
“Emily,” she said, “has your Aunt Laura any notion of marrying Dr Burnley?”
Emily, recalled thus abruptly from the field of Bannockburn, looked bored. Blair Water gossip had often asked or hinted this question; and now it met her in Priest Pond.
“No, I’m sure she hasn’t,” she said. “Why, Aunt Nancy, Dr Burnley hates women.”
Aunt Nancy chuckled.
“Thought perhaps he’d got over that. It’s eleven years now since his wife ran away. Few men hold to one idea for anything like eleven years. But Allan Burnley always was stubborn in anything — love or hate. He still loves his wife — and that is why he hates her memory and all other women.”
“I never heard the rights of that story,” said Caroline. “Who was his wife?”
“Beatrice Mitchell — one of the Shrewsbury Mitchells. She was only eighteen when Allan married her. He was thirty-five. Emily, never you be fool enough to marry a man much older than yourself.”
Emily said nothing. The Scottish Chiefs was forgotten. Her finger-tips were growing cold as they always did in excitement, her eyes turning black. She felt that she was on the verge of solving the mystery that had so long worried and puzzled her. She was desperately afraid that Aunt Nancy would branch off to something else.
“I’ve heard she was a great beauty,” said Caroline.
Aunt Nancy sniffed.
“Depends on your taste in style. Oh, she was pretty — one of your golden-haired dolls. She had a little birthmark over her left eyebrow — just like a tiny red heart — I never could see anything but that mark when I looked at her. But her flatterers told her it was a beauty spot—’the Ace of Hearts’ they called her. Allan was mad about her. She had been a flirt before her marriage. But I will say — for justice among women is a rare thing, Caroline — you, for instance, are an unjust old hag — that she didn’t flirt after marrying — openly, at least. She was a sly puss — always laughing and singing and dancing — no wife for Allan Burnley if you ask me. And he could have had Laura Murray. But between a fool and a sensible woman did a man ever hesitate? The fool wins every time, Caroline. That’s why you never got a husband. You were too sensible. I got mine by pretending to be a fool. Emily, you remember that. You have brains — hide them. Your ankles will do more for you than your brains ever will.”
“Never mind Emily’s ankles,” said Caroline, keen on a scandal hunt. “Go on about the Burnleys.”
“Well, there was a cousin of hers — Leo Mitchell from Shrewsbury. You remember the Mitchells, don’t you, Caroline? This Leo was a handsome fellow — a sea-captain. He had been in love with Beatrice, so gossip ran. Some said Beatrice wanted him but that her people made her marry Allan Burnley because he was the better match. Who knows? Gossip lies nine times and tells a half truth the tenth. She pretended to be in love with Allan anyhow, and he believed it. When Leo came home from a voyage and found Beatrice married he took it coolly enough. But he was always over at Blair Water. Beatrice had plenty of excuses. Leo was her cousin — they had been brought up together — they were like brother and sister — she was so lonesome in Blair Water after living in a town — he had no home except with a brother. Allan took it all down — he was so infatuated with her she could have made him believe anything. She and Leo were always together there when Allan was away seeing his patients. Then came the night Leo’s vessel — The Lady of Winds — was to sail from Blair Harbour for South America. He went — and my Lady Beatrice went with him.”
A queer little strangled sound came from Emily’s corner. If Aunt Nancy or Caroline had looked at her they would have seen that the child was white as the dead, with wide, horror-filled eyes. But they did not look. They knitted and gossiped on, enjoying themselves hugely.
“How did the doctor take it?” asked Caroline.
“Take it — take it — nobody knows. Everybody k
nows what kind of a man he’s been ever since, though. He came home that night at dusk. The baby was asleep in its crib and the servant girl was watching it. She told Allan that Mrs Burnley had gone to the harbour with her cousin for a good-bye walk and would be back at ten. Allan waited for her easily enough — he never doubted her — but she didn’t come back. She had never intended to come back. In the morning the Lady of Winds was gone — had sailed out of the harbour at dark the night before. Beatrice had gone on board with him — that was all anybody knew. Allan Burnley said nothing, beyond forbidding her name ever to be mentioned in his hearing again. But The Lady of Winds was lost with all on board off Hatteras and that was the end of that elopement, and the end of Beatrice with her beauty and her laughter and her Ace of Hearts.”
“But not the end of the shame and wretchedness she brought to her home,” said Caroline shrewishly. “I’d tar and feather such a woman.”
“Nonsense — if a man can’t look after his wife — if he blinds his own eyes — Mercy on us, child, what is the matter?”
For Emily was standing up, holding out her hands as if pushing some loathly thing from her.
“I don’t believe it,” she cried, in a high, unnatural voice. “I don’t believe Ilse’s mother did that. She didn’t — she couldn’t have — not Ilse’s mother.”
“Catch her, Caroline!” cried Aunt Nancy.
But Emily, though the back parlour had whirled about her for a second, had recovered herself.
“Don’t touch me!” she cried passionately. “Don’t touch me! You — you — you liked hearing that story!”
She rushed out of the room. Aunt Nancy looked ashamed for a moment. For the first time it occurred to her that her scandal-loving old tongue had done a black thing. Then she shrugged her shoulders.
“She can’t go through life in cotton-wool. Might as well learn spades are spades now as ever. I would have thought she’d have heard it all long ago if Blair Water gossip is what it used to be. If she goes home and tells this I’ll have the indignant virgins of New Moon coming down on me in holy horror as a corrupter of youth. Caroline, don’t you ask me to tell you any more family horrors before my niece, you scandalous old woman. At your age! I’m surprised at you!”
Aunt Nancy and Caroline returned to their knitting and their spicy reminiscences, and upstairs in the Pink Room Emily lay face downwards on her bed and cried for hours. It was so horrible — Ilse’s mother had run away and left her little baby. To Emily that was the awful thing — the strange, cruel, heartless thing that Ilse’s mother had done. She could not bring herself to believe it — there was some mistake somewhere — there was.
“Perhaps she was kidnapped,” said Emily, trying desperately to explain it. “She just went on board to look around — and he weighed anchor and carried her off. She couldn’t have gone away of her own accord and left her dear little baby.”
The story haunted Emily in good earnest. She could think of nothing else for days. It took possession of her and worried and gnawed at her with an almost physical pain. She dreaded going back to New Moon and meeting Ilse with this consciousness of a dark secret which she must hide from her. Ilse knew nothing. She had asked Ilse once where her mother was buried and Ilse had said, “Oh, I don’t know. At Shrewsbury, I guess — that’s where all the Mitchells are buried.”
Emily wrung her slim hands together. She was as sensitive to ugliness and pain as she was to beauty and pleasure, and this thing was both hideous and agonizing. Yet she could not keep from thinking about it, day and night. Life at Wyther Grange suddenly went stale. Aunt Nancy and Caroline all at once gave up talking family history, even harmless history, before her. And as it was painful repression for them, they did not encourage her hanging round. Emily began to feel that they were glad when she was out of hearing, so she kept away and spent most of her days wandering on the bay shore. She could not compose any poetry — she could not write in her Jimmy-book — she could not even write to her father. Something seemed to hang between her and her old delights. There was a drop of poison in every cup. Even the filmy shadows on the great bay, the charm of its fir-hung cliffs and its little purple islets that looked like outposts of fairyland, could not bring to her the old “fine, careless rapture.” She was afraid she could never be happy again — so intense had been her reaction to her first revelation of the world’s sin and sorrow. And under it all, persisted the same incredulity — Ilse’s mother couldn’t have done it — and the same helpless longing to prove she couldn’t have done it. But how could it be proved? It couldn’t. She had solved one “mystery” but she had stumbled into a darker one — the reason why Beatrice Burnley had never come back on that summer twilight of long ago. For, all the evidence of facts to the contrary notwithstanding, Emily persisted in her secret belief that whatever the reason was, it was not that she had gone away in The Lady of Winds when that doomed ship sailed out into the starlit wonder of the gulf beyond Blair Harbour.
On the Bay Shore
“I wonder,” thought Emily, “how much longer I have to live.”
She had prowled that evening farther down the bay shore than she had ever gone before. It was a warm, windy evening, the air was resinous and sweet; the bay a misty turquoise. That part of the shore whereon she found herself seemed as lonely and virgin as if no human foot had ever trodden it, save for a tiny, tricksy path, slender as red thread and bordered by great, green, velvety sheets of moss, that wound in and out of the big firs and scrub spruces. The banks grew steeper and rockier as she went on and finally the little path vanished altogether in a plot of bracken. Emily was just turning to go back when she caught sight of a magnificent spray of farewell-summer, growing far out on the edge of the bank. She must get it — she had never seen farewell-summers of so dark and rich a purple. She stepped out to reach them — the treacherous mossy soil gave way under her feet and slid down the steep slope. Emily made a frantic attempt to scramble back but the harder she tried, the faster went the landslide, carrying her with it. In a moment it would pass the slope and go over the brink of the rocks, straight to the boulder-strewn shore thirty feet below. Emily had one dreadful moment of terror and despair; and then she found that the clump of mossy earth which had broken away had held on a narrow ledge of rock, half hanging over it; and she was lying on the clump. It seemed to her that the slightest movement on her part would send it over, straight to the cruel boulders underneath.
She lay very still, trying to think — trying not to be afraid. She was far, far away from any house — nobody could hear her if she screamed. And she did not even dare to scream lest the motion of her body dislodge the fragment on which she lay. How long could she lie there motionless? Night was coming on. Aunt Nancy would grow anxious when the dark fell and would send Caroline to look for her. But Caroline would never find her here. Nobody would ever think of looking here for her, so far away from the Grange, in the spruce barrens of the Lower Bay. To lie there alone all night — to fancy the earth was slipping over — waiting for help that would never come — Emily could hardly restrain a shudder that might have been ruinous.
She had faced death once before, or thought she had, on the night when Lofty John had told her she had eaten a poisoned apple — but this was even harder. To die here, all alone, far away from home! They might never know what had become of her — never find her. The crows or the gulls would pick her eyes out. She dramatized the thing so vividly that she almost screamed with the horror of it. She would just disappear from the world as Ilse’s mother had disappeared.
What had become of Ilse’s mother? Even in her own desperate plight Emily asked herself that question. And she would never see dear New Moon again and Teddy and the dairy and the Tansy Patch and Lofty John’s bush and the mossy old sundial and her precious little heap of manuscripts on the sofa shelf in the garret.
“I must be very brave and patient,” she thought. “My only chance is to lie still. And I can pray in my mind — I’m sure God can hear thoughts as well as word
s. It is nice to think He can hear me if nobody else can. O God — Father’s God — please work a miracle and save my life, because I don’t think I’m fit to die yet. Excuse my not being on my knees — You see I can’t move. And if I die please don’t let Aunt Elizabeth find my letter-bills ever. Please let Aunt Laura find them. And please don’t let Caroline move out the wardrobe when she house-cleans because then she would find my Jimmy-book and read what I wrote about her. Please forgive all my sins, especially not being grateful enough and cutting a bang, and please don’t let Father be very far away. Amen.”
Then, characteristically she thought of a postscript. “And oh, please let somebody find out that Ilse’s mother didn’t do that.”
She lay very still. The light on the water began to turn warm gold and rose. A great pine on a bluff in front of her overflowed in a crest of dark boughs against the amber splendour behind it — a part of the beauty of the beautiful world that was slipping away from her. The chill of the evening gulf breeze began to creep over her. Once a bit of earth broke off at her side and went down — Emily heard the thud of the little pebbles in it on the boulders below. The portion upon which one of her legs lay was quite loose and pendent also. She knew it might break off, too, at any moment. It would be very dreadful to be there when it got dark. She could see the big spray of farewell-summer that had lured her to her doom, waving unplucked above her, wonderfully purple and lovely.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 242