V
“JUNE 10, 19 —
“Cousin Jimmy and I felt like murderers last night. We were. Baby-killers at that!
“It is one of the springs when there is a crop of maple-trees. Every key that fell from a maple this year seems to have grown. All over the lawn and garden and old orchard tiny maple-trees have sprung up by the hundreds. And of course they have to be rooted out. It would never do to let them grow. So we pulled them up all day yesterday and felt so mean and guilty over it. The dear, tiny, baby things. They have a right to grow — a right to keep on growing into great, majestic, splendid trees. Who are we to deny it to them? I caught Cousin Jimmy in tears over the brutal necessity.
“‘I sometimes think,’ he whispered, ‘that it’s wrong to prevent anything from growing. I never grew up — not in my head.’
“And last night I had a horrible dream of being pursued by thousands of indignant young maple-tree ghosts. They crowded around me — tripped me up — thrashed me with their boughs — smothered me with their leaves. And I woke gasping for breath and nearly frightened to death, but with a splendid idea for a story in my head — The Vengeance of the Tree.”
VI
“JUNE 15, 19 —
“I picked strawberries on the banks of Blair Water this afternoon among the windy, sweet-smelling grasses. I love picking strawberries. The occupation has in it something of perpetual youth. The gods might have picked strawberries on high Olympus without injuring their dignity. A queen — or a poet — might stoop to it; a beggar has the privilege.
“And to-night I’ve been sitting here in my dear old room, with my dear books and dear pictures and dear little window of the kinky panes, dreaming in the soft, odorous summer twilight, while the robins are calling to each other in Lofty John’s bush and the poplars are talking eerily of old, forgotten things.
“After all, it’s not a bad old world — and the folks in it are not half bad either. Even Emily Byrd Star is decent in spots. Not altogether the false, fickle, ungrateful perversity she thinks she is in the wee sma’s — not altogether the friendless, forgotten maiden she imagines she is on white nights — not altogether the failure she supposes bitterly when three MSS. are rejected in succession. And not altogether the coward she feels herself to be when she thinks of Frederick Kent’s coming to Blair Water in July.”
Chapter XIII
I
Emily was reading by the window of her room when she heard it — reading Alice Meynell’s strange poem, “Letter From A Girl To Her Own Old Age,” and thrilling mystically to its strange prophecies. Outside dusk was falling over the old New Moon garden; and clear through the dusk came the two high notes and the long low one of Teddy’s old whistle in Lofty John’s bush — the old, old call by which he had so often summoned her in the twilights of long ago.
Emily’s book fell unheeded to the floor. She stood up, mist-pale, her eyes dilating into darkness. Was Teddy there? He had not been expected till the next week, though Ilse was coming that night. Could she have been mistaken? Could she have fancied it? Some chance robin call —
It came again. She knew as she had known at first that it was Teddy’s whistle. There was no sound like it in the world. And it had been so long since she had heard it. He was there — waiting for her — calling for her. Should she go? She laughed under her breath. Go? She had no choice. She must go. Pride could not hold her back — bitter remembrance of the night she had waited for his call and it had not come could not halt her hurrying footsteps. Fear — shame — all were forgotten in the mad ecstasy of the moment. Without giving herself time to reflect that she was a Murray — only snatching a moment to look in the glass and assure herself that her ivory crepe dress was very becoming — how lucky it was that she had happened to put on that dress! — she flew down the stairs and through the garden. He was standing under the dark glamour of the old firs where the path ran through Lofty John’s bush — bareheaded, smiling.
“Teddy.”
“Emily.”
Her hands were in his — her eyes were shining into his. Youth had come back — all that had once made magic made it again. Together once more after all those long weary years of alienation and separation. There was no longer any shyness — any stiffness — any sense or fear of change. They might have been children together again. But childhood had never known this wild, insurgent sweetness — this unconsidered surrender. Oh, she was his. By a word — a look — an intonation, he was still her master. What matter if, in some calmer mood, she might not quite like it — to be helpless — dominated like this? What matter if to-morrow she might wish she had not run so quickly, so eagerly, so unhesitatingly to meet him? To-night nothing mattered except that Teddy had come back.
Yet, outwardly, they did not meet as lovers — only as old, dear friends. There was so much to talk of — so much to be silent over as they paced up and down the garden walks, while the stars laughed through the dark at them — hinting — hinting —
Only one thing was not spoken of between them — the thing Emily had dreaded. Teddy made no reference to the mystery of that vision in the London station. It was as if it had never been. Yet Emily felt that it had drawn them together again after long misunderstanding. It was well not to speak of it — it was one of those mystic things — one of the gods’ secrets — that must not be spoken of. Best forgotten now that its work was done. And yet — so unreasonable are we mortals! — Emily felt a ridiculous disappointment that he didn’t speak of it. She didn’t want him to speak of it. But if it had meant anything to him must he not have spoken of it?
“It’s good to be here again,” Teddy was saying. “Nothing seems changed here. Time has stood still in this Garden of Eden. Look, Emily, how bright Vega of the Lyre is. Our star. Have you forgotten it?”
Forgotten? How she had wished she could forget.
“They wrote me you were going to marry Dean,” said Teddy abruptly.
“I meant to — but I couldn’t,” said Emily.
“Why not?” asked Teddy as if he had a perfect right to ask it.
“Because I didn’t love him,” answered Emily, conceding his right.
Laughter — golden, delicious laughter that made you suddenly want to laugh too. Laughter was so safe — one could laugh without betraying anything. Ilse had come — Ilse was running down the walk. Ilse in a yellow silk gown the colour of her hair and a golden-brown hat the colour of her eyes, giving you the sensation that a gorgeous golden rose was at large in the garden.
Emily almost welcomed her. The moment had grown too vital. Some things were terrible if put into words. She drew away from Teddy almost primly — a Murray of New Moon once more.
“Darlings,” said Ilse, throwing an arm around each of them. “Isn’t it divine — all here together again? Oh, how much I love you! Let’s forget we are old and grown-up and wise and unhappy and be mad, crazy, happy kids again for just one blissful summer.”
II
A wonderful month followed. A month of indescribable roses, exquisite hazes, silver perfection of moonlight, unforgettable amethystine dusks, march of rains, bugle-call of winds, blossoms of purple and star-dust, mystery, music, magic. A month of laughter and dance and joy, of enchantment infinite. Yet a month of restrained, hidden realization. Nothing was ever said. She and Teddy were seldom ever alone together. But one felt — knew. Emily fairly sparkled with happiness. All the old restlessness that had worried Aunt Laura had gone from her eyes. Life was good. Friendship — love — joy of sense and joy of spirit — sorrow — loveliness — achievement — failure — longing — all were part of life and therefore interesting and desirable.
Every morning when she awakened the new day seemed to her like some good fairy who would bring her some beautiful gift of joy. Ambition was, for the time at least, forgotten. Success — power — fame. Let those who cared for them pay the price and take them. But love is not bought and sold. It is a gift.
Even the memory of her burned book ceased to ache. What did o
ne book more or less matter in this great universe of life and passion? How pale and shadowy was any pictured life beside this throbbing, scintillant existence! Who cared for laurel, after all? Orange blossoms would make a sweeter coronet. And what star of destiny was ever brighter and more alluring than Vega of the Lyre. Which, being interpreted, simply meant that nothing mattered any more in this world or any other except Teddy Kent.
III
“If I had a tail I’d lash it,” groaned Ilse, casting herself on Emily’s bed and hurling one of Emily’s treasured volumes — a little old copy of the Rubaiyat Teddy had given her in high school days — across the room. The back came off and the leaves flew every which way for a Sunday. Emily was annoyed.
“Were you ever in such a state that you could neither cry nor pray nor swear?” demanded Ilse.
“Sometimes,” agreed Emily dryly. “But I don’t take it out on books that never harmed me. I just go and bite off somebody’s head.”
“There wasn’t anybody’s head handy to bite off, but I did something that was just as effective,” said Ilse, casting a malevolent glance at Perry Miller’s photograph which was propped up on Emily’s desk.
Emily glanced at it, too, and her face Murrayfied, as Ilse expressed it. The photograph was still there but where Perry’s intent and unabashed eyes had gazed out at her were now only jagged, unsightly holes.
Emily was furious. Perry had been so proud of those photographs. They were the first he had had taken in his life. “Never could afford any before,” he had said frankly. He looked very handsome in them, though his pose was a bit truculent and aggressive with his wavy hair brushed back sleekly, and his firm mouth and chin showing to excellent advantage. Aunt Elizabeth had gazed at it, secretly wondering how she had ever dared make such a fine-looking young man as that eat in the kitchen. And Aunt Laura had wiped her eyes sentimentally and thought that perhaps — after all — Emily and Perry — a lawyer would be quite a thing to have in the family, coming in a good third to minister and doctor. Though, to be sure, Stovepipe Town —
Perry had rather spoiled the gift for Emily by proposing to her again. It was very hard for Perry Miller to get it into his head that anything he wanted he couldn’t get. And he had always wanted Emily.
“I’ve got the world by the tail now,” he said proudly. “Every year’ll find me higher up. Why can’t you make up your mind to have me, Emily?”
“Is it just a question of making up one’s mind?” asked Emily satirically.
“Of course. What else?”
“Listen, Perry,” said Emily decidedly. “You’re a good old pal. I like you — I’ll always like you. But I’m tired of this nonsense and I’m going to put a stop to it. If you ever again ask me to marry you I’ll never never speak to you as long as I live. Since you are good at making up your mind make up yours which you want — my friendship or my non-existence.”
“Oh, well.” Perry shrugged his shoulders philosophically. He had about come to the conclusion anyhow that he might as well give up dangling after Emily Starr and getting nothing but snubs for his pains. Ten years was long enough to be a rejected but faithful swain. There were other girls, after all. Perhaps he had made a mistake. Too faithful and persistent. If he had wooed by fits and starts, blowing hot and cold like Teddy Kent, he might have had better luck. Girls were like that. But Perry did not say this. Stovepipe Town had learned a few things. All he said was:
“If you’d only stop looking at me in a certain way I might get over hankering for you. Anyhow, I’d never have got this far along if I hadn’t been in love with you. I’d just have been a hired boy somewhere or a fisherman at the harbour. So I’m sorry. I haven’t forgotten how you believed in me and helped me and stood up for me to your Aunt Elizabeth. It’s been — been” — Perry’s handsome face flushed suddenly and his voice shook a little—”it’s been — sweet — to dream about you all these years. I guess I’ll have to give it up now. No use, I see. But don’t take your friendship from me too, Emily.”
“Never,” said Emily impulsively putting out her hands. “You’re a brick, Perry dear. You’ve done wonders and I’m proud of you.”
And now to find the picture he had given her ruined. She flashed on Ilse eyes like a stormy sea.
“Ilse Burnley, how dare you do such a thing!”
“No use squizzling your eyebrows up at me like that, beloved demon,” retorted Ilse. “Hasn’t no effect on me a-tall. Couldn’t endure that picture no-how. And Stovepipe Town in the background.”
“What you’ve done is on a level with Stovepipe Town.”
“Well, he asked for it. Smirking there. ‘Behold ME. I am a Person In The Public Eye.’ Never had such satisfaction as boring your scissors through those conceited orbs gave me. Two seconds more of looking at them and I’d have flung up my head and howled. Oh, how I hate Perry Miller. Puffed up like a poisoned pup!”
“I thought you told me you loved him,” said Emily rather rudely.
“It’s the same thing,” said Ilse morosely. “Emily, why can’t I get that creature out of my mind! It’s too Victorian to say heart. I haven’t any heart. I don’t love him — I do hate him. But I can’t keep from thinking about him. That’s just a state of mind. Oh, I could yell at the moon. But the real reason I dug his eyes out was his turning Grit after having been born and raised Conservative.”
“You are Conservative yourself.”
“True but unimportant. I hate turncoats. I’ve never forgiven Henry IV for turning Catholic. Not because he was a Protestant but just because he was a turncoat I would have been just as implacable if he had been Catholic and turned Protestant. Perry has changed his politics just for the sake of getting into partnership with Leonard Abel. There’s Stovepipe Town for you. Oh, he’ll be Judge Miller and rich as wedding-cake — but — ! I wish he had had a hundred eyes so that I could have bored them all out! This is one of the times I feel it would be handy to have been a bosom friend of Lucrezia Borgia.”
“Who was an excellent and rather stupid woman beloved for her good works.”
“Oh, I know the modern whitewashers are determined to rob history of anything that is picturesque. No matter, I shall cling to my faith in Lucrezia and William Tell. Put that picture out of my sight. Please, Emily.”
Emily put the maltreated picture away in a drawer of her desk. Her brief anger had gone. She understood. At least she understood why the eyes had been cut out. It was harder to understand just why Ilse could care so much and so incurably for Perry Miller. And there was just a hint of pity in her heart as well — condescending pity for Ilse who cared so much for a man who didn’t care for her.
“I think this will cure me,” said Ilse savagely. “I can’t — I won’t love a turncoat. Blind bat — congenital idiot that he is! Pah, I’m through with him. Emily, I wonder I don’t hate you. Rejecting with scorn what I want so much. Ice-cold thing, did you ever really care for anything or any creature except that pen of yours?”
“Perry has never really loved me,” evaded Emily. “He only imagines he does.”
“Well, I’d be content if he would only just imagine he loved me. How brazen I am about it. You’re the one person in the world I can have the relief of saying such things to. That’s why I can’t let myself hate you, after all. I daresay I’m not half as unhappy as I think myself. One never knows what may be around the next corner. After this I mean to bore Perry Miller out of my life and thoughts just as I bored his eyes out. Emily,” with an abrupt change of tone and posture, “do you know I like Teddy Kent better this summer than I ever did before.”
“Oh.” The monosyllable was eloquent, but Ilse was deaf to all its implications.
“Yes. He’s really charming. Those years in Europe have done something to him. Perhaps it’s just that they’ve taught him to hide his selfishness better.”
“Teddy Kent isn’t selfish. Why do you call him selfish? Look at his devotion to his mother.”
“Because she adores him. Teddy likes to be ado
red. That’s why he’s never fallen in love with any one, you know. That — and because the girls chased him so, perhaps. It was sickening in Montreal. They made such asses of themselves — waiting on him with their tongues hanging out — that I wanted to dress in male attire and swear I wasn’t of their sex. No doubt it was the same in Europe. No man alive can stand six years of that without being spoiled — and contemptuous. Teddy is all right with us — he knows we’re old pals who can see through him and will stand no nonsense. But I’ve see him accepting tribute — graciously bestowing a smile — a look — a touch as a reward. Saying to every one just what he thought she’d like to hear. When I saw it I always felt I’d love to say something to him that he’d think of for years whenever he woke up at three o’clock o’night.”
The sun had dropped into a bank of purple cloud behind the Delectable Mountain and a chill and shadow swept down the hill and across the dewy clover-fields to New Moon. The little room darkened and the glimpse of Blair Water through the gap in Lofty John’s bush changed all at once to livid grey.
Emily’s evening was spoiled. But she felt — knew — that Ilse was mistaken about many things. There was one comfort, too — evidently she had kept her secret well. Not even Ilse suspected it. Which was agreeable to both the Murray and the Starr.
IV
But Emily sat long at her window looking into the black night that turned slowly to pale silver as the moon rose. So the girls had “chased” Teddy.
She wished she had not run quite so quickly when he had called from Lofty John’s bush. “Oh, whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad” was all very well in song. But one was not living in a Scotch ballad. And that change in Ilse’s voice — that almost confidential note. Did Ilse mean — ? How pretty Ilse had looked to-night. In that smart, sleeveless dress of green sprinkled with tiny golden butterflies — with the green necklace that circled her throat and fell to her hips like a long green snake — with her green, gold-buckled shoes — Ilse always wore such ravishing shoes. Did Ilse mean — ? And if she did — ?
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 292