The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  “‘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 to-night. 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 to-night 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 for ever 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 to-night. To-night 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.

  “Of course, the money goes to my Shrewsbury expenses. But I had no end of fun planning how I would have spent it if I had been free to spend.

  “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 to-night. 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.

  ********

  “January 21, 19 —

  “Friday night the debate between Shrewsbury High and Queen’s came off. The Queen’s boys came up believing they were going to come, see and conquer — and went home like the proverbia
l dogs with carefully adjusted tails. It was really Perry’s speech that won the debate. He was a wonder. Even Aunt Ruth admitted for the first time that there was something in him. After it was over he came rushing up to Ilse and me in the corridor.

  “‘Didn’t I do great, Emily?’ he demanded. ‘I knew it was in me, but I didn’t know if I could get it out. When I got up at first I felt tongue-tied — and then I saw you, looking at me as if you said, ‘You can — you must’ — and I went ahead full steam. You won that debate, Emily.’

  “Now wasn’t that a nice thing to say before Ilse, who had worked for hours with him and drilled and slaved? Never a word of tribute to her — everything to me who hadn’t done a thing except look interested.

  “‘Perry, you’re an ungrateful barbarian,’ I said — and left him there, with his jaw dropping. Ilse was so furious she cried. She has never spoken to him since — and that ass of a Perry can’t understand why.

  “‘What’s she peeved about now? I thanked her for all her trouble at our last practice,’ he says.

  “Certainly, Stovepipe Town has its limitations.

  ********

  “February 2, 19 —

  “Last night Mrs. Rogers invited Aunt Ruth and me to dinner to meet her sister and brother-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Herbert. Aunt Ruth had her Sunday scallops in her hair and wore her brown velvet dress that reeked of moth-balls and her big oval brooch with Uncle Dutton’s hair in it; and I put on my ashes-of-roses and Princess Mena’s necklace and went, quivering with excitement, for Mr. Herbert is a member of the Dominion Cabinet and a man who stands in the presence of kings. He has a massive, silver head and eyes that have looked into people’s thoughts so long that you have an uncanny feeling that they can see right into your soul and read motives you don’t dare avow even to yourself. His face is a most interesting one. There is so much in it. All the varied experiences of his full, wonderful life had written it over. One could tell at sight that he was a born leader. Mrs. Rogers let me sit beside him at dinner. I was afraid to speak — afraid I’d say something stupid — afraid I’d make some ludicrous mistake. So I just sat quiet as a mouse and listened adoringly. Mrs. Rogers told me to-day that Mr. Herbert said, after we had left,

  “‘That little Starr girl of New Moon is the best conversationalist of any girl of her age I ever met.’

  “So even great statesmen — but there — I won’t be horrid.

  “And he was splendid: he was wise and witty and humorous. I felt as if I were drinking in some rare, stimulating, mental wine. I forgot even Aunt Ruth’s moth-balls. What an event it is to meet such a man and take a peep through his wise eyes at the fascinating game of empire building!

  “Perry went to the station to-day to get a glimpse of Mr. Herbert. Perry says he will be just as great a man some day. But, no. Perry can — and I believe will — go far — climb high. But he will be only a successful politician — never a statesman. Ilse flew into me when I said this.

  “‘I hate Perry Miller,’ she fumed, ‘but I hate snobbery worse. You’re a snob, Emily Starr. You think just because Perry comes from Stovepipe Town that he can never be a great man. If he had been one of the sacred Murrays you would see no limits to his attainments!’

  “I thought Ilse was unfair, and I lifted my head haughtily.

  “‘After all,’ I said, ‘there is a difference between New Moon and Stovepipe Town.”

  ********

  If a Body Kiss a Body

  It was half-past ten o’clock and Emily realized with a sigh that she must go to bed. When she had come in at half-past nine from Alice Kennedy’s thimble party, she had asked permission of Aunt Ruth to sit up an hour later to do some special studying. Aunt Ruth had consented reluctantly and suspiciously and had gone to bed herself, with sundry warnings regarding candles and matches. Emily had studied diligently for forty-five minutes and written poetry for fifteen. The poem burned for completion, but Emily resolutely pushed her portfolio away.

  At that moment she remembered that she had left her Jimmy-book in her school-bag in the dining-room. This would never do. Aunt Ruth would be down before her in the morning and would inevitably examine the book-bag, find the Jimmy-book and read it. There were things in that Jimmy-book it was well Aunt Ruth should not see. She must slip down and bring it up.

  Very quietly she opened her door and tiptoed downstairs, in anguish at every creaking step. Aunt Ruth, who slept in the big front bedroom at the other end of the hall, would surely hear those creaks. They were enough to waken the dead. They did not waken Aunt Ruth, however, and Emily reached the dining-room, found her book-bag, and was just going to return when she happened to glance at the mantelpiece. There, propped up against the clock, was a letter for her which had evidently come by the evening mail — a nice thin letter with the address of a magazine in the corner. Emily set her candle on the table, tore open the letter, found the acceptance of a poem and a cheque for three dollars. Acceptances — especially acceptances with cheque — were still such rare occurrences with our Emily that they always made her a little crazy. She forgot Aunt Ruth — she forgot that it was nearing eleven o’clock: she stood there entranced, reading over and over the brief editorial note — brief, but, oh, how sweet! “Your charming poem”—”we would like to see more of your work” — oh, yes, indeed, they should see more of it.

  Emily turned with a start. Was that a tap at the door? No — at the window. Who? What? The next moment she was aware that Perry was standing on the side veranda, grinning at her through the window.

  She was at it in a flash and without pausing to think, still in the exhilaration of her acceptance, she slipped the catch and pushed the window up. She knew where Perry had been and was dying to know how he had got along. He had been invited to dinner with Dr. Hardy, in the fine Queen-street house. This was considered a great honour and very few students ever received it. Perry owed the invitation to his brilliant speech at the inter-school debate. Dr. Hardy had heard it and decided that here was a coming man.

  Perry had been enormously proud of the invitation and had bragged of it to Teddy and Emily — not to Ilse, who had not yet forgiven him for his tactlessness on the night of the debate. Emily had been pleased, but had warned Perry that he would need to watch his step at Dr. Hardy’s. She felt some qualms in regard to his etiquette, but Perry had felt none. He would be all right, he loftily declared. Perry perched himself on the window-pill and Emily sat down on the corner of the sofa, reminding herself that it could be only for a minute.

  “Saw the light in the window as I went past,” said Perry. “So I thought I’d just take a sneak round to the side and see if it was you. Wanted to tell you the tale while it was fresh. Say, Emily, you were right — r-i-g-h-t! I should smile. I wouldn’t go through this evening again for a hundred dollars.”

  “How did you get along?” asked Emily anxiously. In a sense, she felt responsible for Perry’s manners. Such as he had he had acquired at New Moon.

  Perry grinned.

  “It’s a heart-rending tale. I’ve had a lot of conceit taken out of me. I suppose you’ll say that’s a good thing.”

  “You could spare some,” said Emily coolly.

  Perry shrugged his shoulders.

  “Well, I’ll tell you all about it if you won’t tell Ilse or Teddy. I’m not going to have them laughing at me. I went to Queen-street at the proper time — I remembered all you’d said about boots and tie and nails and handkerchief and I was all right outside. When I got to the house my troubles began. It was so big and splendid I felt queer — not afraid — I wasn’t afraid then — but just a bit as if I was ready to jump — like a strange cat when you try to pat it. I rang the bell; of course, it stuck and kept on ringing like mad. I could hear it away down the hall, and thinks I, ‘They’ll think I don’t know any better than to keep on ringing it till somebody comes,’ and that rattled me. The maid rattled me still more. I didn’t know whether I ought to shake hands with her or not.”

  “Oh, Perry!”

/>   “Well, I didn’t. I never was to a house where there was a maid like that before, all dolled up with a cap and finicky little apron. She made me feel like thirty cents.”

  “Did you shake hands with her?”

  “No.”

  Emily gave a sigh of relief.

  “She held the door open and I went in. I didn’t know what to do then. Guess I’d have stood there till I took root, only Dr. Hardy himself come — came — through the hall. He shook hands and showed me where to put my hat and coat and then he took me into the parlour to meet his wife. The floor was as slippery as ice — and just as I stepped on the rug inside the parlour door it went clean from under me and down I went and slid across the floor, feet foremost, right to Mrs. Hardy. I was on my back, not on my stomach, or it would have been quite the proper Oriental caper, wouldn’t it?”

  Emily couldn’t laugh.

  “Oh, Perry!”

  “Great snakes, Emily, it wasn’t my fault. All the etiquette in the world couldn’t have prevented it. Of course, I felt like a fool, but I got up and laughed. Nobody else laughed. They were all decent. Mrs. Hardy was smooth as wax — hoped I hadn’t hurt myself, and Dr. Hardy said he had slipped the same way more than once after they had given up their good old carpets and taken to rugs and hardwood. I was scared to move, so I sat down in the nearest chair, and there was a dog on it — Mrs. Hardy’s Peke. Oh, I didn’t kill it — I got the worst scare of the two. By the time I had made port in another chair the sw — perspiration was just pouring down my face. Some more folks arrived just then, so that kind of took the edge off me, and I had time to get my bearings. I found I had about ten pairs of hands and feet. And my boots were too big and coarse. Then I found myself with my hands in my pockets, whistling.”

  Emily began to say, “Oh, Perry,” but bit it off and swallowed it. What was the use of saying anything?

  “I knew that wasn’t proper, so I stopped and took my hands out — and began to bite my nails. Finally, I put my hands underneath me and sat on ‘em. I doubled my feet back under my chair, and I sat like that till we went out to dinner — sat like that when a fat old lady waddled in and all the other fellows stood up. I didn’t — didn’t see any reason for it — there was plenty of chairs. But later on it occurred to me that it was some etiquette stunt and I ought to have got up, too. Should I?”