The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  Emily turned around — stared at him for a moment — then forgot thrills and pells 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 whisky, 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 whisky 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 scrap-book. 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 scrap-book 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 scrap-book. 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 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 scrap-book 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 went 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 worst 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!

  Teddy and Perry saw red and wanted to kill somebody, but whom could they kill? As Emily told them, anything they said or did would only make the matter worse. It was bad enough after the publication of that paragraph. Emily was not invited to Florence Blake’s dance the next week — the great social event of the winter. She was left out of Hattie Denoon’s skating party. Several of the Shrewsbury matrons did not see her when they met her on the streets. Others set her a thousand miles away by bland, icy politeness. Some young men about town grew oddly familiar in look and manner. One of them, with whom she was totally unacquainted, spoke to her one evening in the Post Office. Emily turned and looked at him. Crushed, humiliated as she was, she was still Archibald Murray’s granddaughter. The wretched youth was three blocks away from the Post Office before he came to himself and knew where he was. To this day he has not forgotten how Emily Byrd Starr’s eyes looked when she was angry.

  But even the Murray look, while it might demolish a concrete offender, could not scotch scandalous stories. Everybody, she felt morbidly, believed them. It was reported to her that Miss Percy of the library said she had always distrusted Emily Starr’s smile — she had always felt sure it was deliberately provocative and alluring. Emily felt that she, like poor King Henry, would never smile again. People remembered that old Nancy Priest had been a wild thing seventy years ago — and hadn’t there been some scandal about Mrs. Dutton herself in her girlhood? What’s bred in the bone, you understand. Her mother had eloped, hadn’t she? And Ilse’s mother? Of course, she had been killed by falling into the old Lee well, but who knew what she would have done if she hadn’t? Then there was that old story of bathing on Blair Water sandshore, au naturel. In short, you didn’t see ankles like Emily’s on proper girls. They simply didn’t have them.

  Even harmless, unnecessary Andrew had ceased to call on Friday nights. There was a sting in this. Emily thought Andrew a bore and dreaded his Friday nights. She had always meant to send him packing as soon as he gave her an opportunity. But for Andrew to go packing of his own accord had a very different flavour, mark you. Emily clenched her hands when she thought of it.

  A bitter report came to her ears that Principal Hardy had said she ought to resign from the presidency of the Senior Class. Emily threw up her head. Resign? Confess defeat and admit guilt? Not she!

  “I could knock that man’s block off,” said Ilse. “Emily Starr, don’t let yourself worry over this. What does it matter what a lot of doddering old donkeys think? I hereby devote them to the infernal gods. They’ll have their maws full of something else in a month and they’ll forget this.”

  “I’ll never forget it,” said Emily, passionately. “To my dying day I’ll remember the humiliation of these weeks. And now — Ilse, Mrs. Tolliver has written asking me to give up my stall at the St. John’s bazaar.”

  “Emily Starr — she hasn’t!”

  “She has. Oh, of course, she cloaks it under an excuse that she’d like a stall for her cousin from New York, who is visiting her — but I understand. And it’s ‘Dear Miss Starr’ — look you — when it was ‘Dearest Emily’ a few weeks ago. Everybody in St. John’s will know why I’ve been asked to step out. And she almost went on her knees to Aunt Ruth to let me take the stall. Aunt Ruth didn’t want to let me.”

  “What will your Aunt Ruth say about this?”

  “Oh, that’s the worst of it, Ilse. She’ll have to know now. She’s never heard a word of this since she’s been laid up with her sciatica. I’ve lived in dread of her finding out — for I know it will be hideous when she does. She’s getting about now, so of course she’d soon hear it, anyway. And I haven’t the spirit to stand up to her, Ilse. Oh, it all seems like a nightmare.”

  “They’ve got such mean, narrow, malicious, beastly little minds in this town,” said Ilse — and was straightway comforted. But Emily could not ease her tortured spirit by a choice assortment of adjectives. Neither could she write out her misery and so rid herself of it. There were no more jottings in her Jimmy-book, no further entries in her journal, no new stories or poems. The flash never came now — never would come again. There would never again be wonderful little secret raptures of insight and creation which no one could share. Life had grown thin and poor, tarnished and unlovely. There was no beauty in anything — not even in the golden-white March solitudes of New Moon, when she went home for the week-end. She had longed to go home, where no one believed ill of her. No one at New Moon had heard anything of what was being whispered in Shrewsbury. But there very ignorance tortured Emily. Soon they would know; they would be hurt and grieved over the fact that a Murray, even an innocent Murray, had become a target
for scandal. And who knew how they would regard Ilse’s mishap with Malcolm’s Scotch? Emily felt it almost a relief to go back to Shrewsbury.

  She imagined slurs in everything Principal Hardy said — covert insults in every remark or look of her schoolmates. Only Evelyn Blake posed as friend and defender, and this was the most unkindest cut of all. Whether alarm or malice was beyond Evelyn’s pose, Emily did not know — but she did know that Evelyn’s parade of friendship and loyalty and staunch belief in the face of overwhelming evidence, was something that seemed to smirch her more than all the gossip could. Evelyn went about assuring every one that she wouldn’t believe one word against “poor dear Emily.” Poor dear Emily could have cheerfully watched her drown — or thought she could.

  Meanwhile, Aunt Ruth, who had been confined to her house for several weeks with sciatica and had been so crusty with it that neither friends nor enemies had dared to hint anything to her of the gossip concerning her niece, was beginning to take notice. Her sciatica had departed and left her faculties free to concentrate on other things. She recalled that Emily’s appetite had been poor for days and Aunt Ruth suspected that she had not been sleeping. The moment this suspicion occurred to Aunt Ruth she took action. Secret worries were not to be tolerated in her house.

  “Emily, I want to know what is the matter with you,” she demanded, one Saturday afternoon when Emily pale and listless, with purple smudges under her eyes, had eaten next to nothing for dinner.

  A little colour came into Emily’s face. The hour she had dreaded so was upon her. Aunt Ruth must be told all. And Emily felt miserably that she had neither the courage to endure the resultant heckling nor the spirit to hold her own against Aunt Ruth’s whys and wherefores. She knew so well how it would all be: horror over the John house episode — as if anybody could have helped it: annoyance over the gossip — as if Emily were responsible for it: several assurances that she had always expected something like this: and then intolerable weeks of reminders and slurs. Emily felt a sort of mental nausea at the whole prospect. For a minute she could not speak.