“You look like a dream in it, Emily,” said Ilse, stretched out on Emily’s bed with the grace and abandon of a cat — Teddy’s sapphire blotting her finger darkly. “You’ll make all my velvet and lace gorgeousness look obvious and crude. Did I tell you Teddy is bringing Lorne Halsey with him for best man? I’m positively thrilled — the great Halsey. His mother has been so ill he didn’t think he could come. But the obliging old lady has suddenly recovered and he’s actually coming. His new book is a wow. Everybody in Montreal was raving over it and he’s the most interesting and improbable creature. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you and he were to fall in love with each other, Emily?”
“Don’t go matchmaking for me, Ilse,” said Emily with a faint smile, as she took off the harebell dress. “I feel in my bones that I shall achieve old-maidenhood, which is an entirely different thing from having old-maidenhood thrust upon you.”
“To be sure, he looks like a gargoyle,” said Ilse meditatively. “If it hadn’t been for that I think I might have married him myself. I’m almost sure I could have. His way of making love was to ask me my opinion about things. That was agreeable. But I had a hunch that if we were married he would stop asking for my opinion. That would not be agreeable. Besides, nobody could ever tell what he really thought. He might be looking as though he adored you and thinking he saw crow’s-feet around your eyes. By the way, isn’t Teddy the most beautiful thing?”
“He was always a nice-looking boy.”
“‘A nice-looking boy,’” mimicked Ilse. “Emily Starr, if you ever do marry I hope your husband will chain you in the dog-kennel. I’ll be calling you Aunt Emily in a minute. Why, there’s nobody in Montreal who can hold a candle to him. It’s his looks I love really — not him. Sometimes he bores me — really. Although I was so sure he wouldn’t. He never did before we were engaged. I have a premonition that some day I’ll throw the teapot at him. Isn’t it a pity we can’t have two husbands? One to look at and one to talk to. But Teddy and I will be by way of being a stunning couple, won’t we, honey? He so dark — I so fair. Ideal. I’ve always wished I was ‘a dark ladye’ — like you — but when I said so to Teddy he just laughed and quoted the old verse,
‘If the bards of old the truth have told
The sirens have raven hair.
But over the earth since art had birth,
They paint the angels fair.’
That’s the nearest Teddy will ever get to calling me an angel. Luckily. For when all’s said and done, Emily, I’d rather — are you sure the door is shut so that Aunt Laura won’t drop dead? — I’d much rather be a siren than an angel. Wouldn’t you?”
“Let’s check up the invitations now and make sure we haven’t left anybody out,” was Emily’s response to this riot of words.
“Isn’t it terrible to belong to a clan like ours?” said Ilse peevishly. “There’s such a ghastly lot of old frumps and bores that have to be among those present. I hope some day I’ll get where there are no relations. I wish the whole damn affair was over. You’re sure you addressed a bid to Perry, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder if he’ll come? I hope he will. What a goose I was ever to fancy I cared so much for him! I used to hope — all sorts of things, in spite of the fact I knew he was crazy about you. But I never hoped after Mrs. Chidlaw’s dinner-dance. Do you remember it, Emily?”
Yes, Emily remembered that.
“Till then I’d always hoped a little — that some day when he realized he couldn’t have you — I’d catch his heart on the rebound — wasn’t that the Victorian phrase? I thought he’d be at the Chidlaws’ — I knew he had been invited. And I asked Teddy if Perry were coming. Teddy looked right into my eyes meaningly and said, ‘Perry will not be here. He’s working on the case he has to appear in to-morrow. Perry’s goal is ambition. He has no time for love.’
“I knew he was trying to warn me — and I knew it was no use to go on hoping — anything. So I gave up definitely. Well, it’s turned out all right. Isn’t it charming how things do turn out so beautifully? Makes one quite believe in an overruling Providence. Isn’t it nice to be able to blame everything on God?”
Emily hardly heard Ilse as she mechanically hung up the blue dress in her closet and slipped into a little green sport suit. So that was what Teddy had said to Ilse that night years ago when she knew he had uttered the word “love.” And she had been so chilly to him because of it. Well, not likely it mattered. No doubt he had only been warning Ilse because he wanted her to turn her maiden thoughts from Perry and concentrate them on himself. She felt relieved when Ilse finally went home. Ilse’s light, continual chatter rather got on her nerves — though she was ashamed to admit it. But then her nerves were on edge under this long-drawn-out torture. Two weeks more of it — and then, thank God, at least peace.
II
She went up to the Tansy Patch in the dusk to take back a book Mrs. Kent had lent her the night before. The visit must be made before Teddy came home. She had been up to the Tansy Patch several times since that first evening and an odd sort of friendship had sprung up between her and Mrs. Kent. They lent each other books and talked of everything except the one thing that mattered most to them. The book Emily was returning was an old copy of The South African Farm. Emily had expressed a wish to read it and Mrs. Kent had gone upstairs and presently came down with it — her white face a little whiter and the scar burning redly across it as always when she was deeply moved.
“Here is the book you want,” she said. “I had it in a box upstairs.”
Emily finished reading the book before she went to sleep. She was not sleeping well now and the nights were long. The book had a musty, unaired odour — evidently the box Mrs. Kent spoke of had not been opened for a long time. And in it Emily found a thin letter, unstamped, addressed to Mrs. David Kent.
The curious thing about the letter was that it was, apparently, unopened. Well, letters often re-sealed themselves like that, if placed under pressure, when the flap had pulled open untorn in the first opening. Not likely it was of much significance. But of course she would mention it when she took the book back.
“Did you know there was a letter in this book, Mrs. Kent?”
“A letter. Did you say a letter?”
“Yes. Addressed to you.”
Emily held the letter out to Mrs. Kent, whose face became ghastly as she looked at the handwriting.
“You found that — in that book?” she whispered. “In that book that hasn’t been opened for over twenty-five years? Do you know — who wrote this letter? My — husband wrote it — and I have never read it — never known of it.”
Emily felt herself in the presence of some tragedy — the secret torture of Mrs. Kent’s life, perhaps.
“I will go away — so that you can read it alone,” she said gently and went out, leaving Mrs. Kent standing in the shadowy little room, holding the letter in her hand — as one might hold a snake.
III
“I sent for you to-night because there is something I must tell you,” said Mrs. Kent.
She was sitting, a tiny, erect, determined creature in the armchair by the window in the harsh light of a cold sunset. It was June but it was cold. The sky was hard and autumnal. Emily, walking up the cross-lots path had shivered and wished herself at home. But Mrs. Kent’s note had been urgent — almost peremptory. Why in the world did she want her! Surely, it could not be anything in connection with Teddy. And yet what else could make Mrs. Kent send for her in this fashion?
The moment she saw Mrs. Kent she was conscious of a curious change in her — a change hard to define. She was as frail, as pitiful as ever. There seemed even a certain defiant light in her eyes. But for the first time since she had known Mrs. Kent Emily did not feel that she was in the presence of an unhappy woman. There was peace here — a strange, sorrowful, long-unknown peace. The tortured soul was — at last — off the rack.
“I have been dead — and in hell — but now I am alive again,”
said Mrs. Kent. “It’s you who have done this — you found that letter. And so there is something I must tell you. It will make you hate me. And I shall be sorry for that now. But it must be told.”
Emily felt a sudden distaste for hearing whatever it was Mrs. Kent had to tell. It had — must have — something to do with Teddy. And she did not want to hear anything — anything — about Teddy now — Teddy who would be Ilse’s husband in two weeks.
“Don’t you think — perhaps — it would be better not to tell me?”
“It must be told. I have committed a wrong and I must confess it. I cannot undo it — I suppose it is too late to undo it — but it must be told. But there are other things that must be told first. Things I’ve never spoken of — things that have been torturing me until I’ve screamed out loud at night sometimes with the anguish of them. Oh, you will never forgive me — but I think you will be a little sorry for me.”
“I’ve always felt sorry for you, Mrs. Kent.”
“I think you did — yes, I think you did. But you couldn’t realize it all. Emily, I wasn’t like this when I was a girl. I was — like other people then. And I was pretty — indeed I was. When David Kent came and made me love him I was pretty. And he loved me — then — and he always loved me. He says so in this letter.”
She plucked it from the bosom of her dress and kissed it almost savagely.
“I can’t let you see it, Emily. No eyes but mine must ever see it. But I’ll tell you what is in it. Oh, you can’t know — you can’t understand how much I loved him, Emily. You think you love Teddy. But you don’t — you can’t love him as I loved his father.”
Emily had a different opinion on this point, but she did not say so.
“He married me and took me home to Malton where his people lived. We were so happy at first — too happy. I told you God was jealous. And his people did not like me — not from the first. They thought David had married beneath him — that I wasn’t good enough for him. They were always trying to come between us. Oh, I knew; I knew what they were after. His mother hated me. She never called me Aileen — only ‘you’ and ‘David’s wife.’ I hated her because she was always watching me — never said anything — never did anything. Just watched me. I was never one of them. I never seemed able to understand their jokes. They were always laughing over something — me, half the time, I thought. They would write letters to David and never mention me. Some of them were always freezingly polite to me and some of them were always giving me digs. Once one of his sisters sent me a book on etiquette. Something was always hurting me — and I couldn’t strike back — I couldn’t hurt what was hurting me. David took their part — he had secrets with them he kept from me. But in spite of it all I was happy — till I dropped the lamp and my dress caught fire and scarred my face like this. After that I couldn’t believe David could keep on loving me. I was so ugly. My nerves got raw and I couldn’t help quarrelling with him over every trifle. But he was patient. He forgave me again and again. Only I was so afraid he couldn’t love me with that scar. I knew I was going to have a baby, but I kept putting off telling him. I was afraid he would love it more than he did me. And then — I did a terrible thing. I hate to tell you of it. David had a dog — he loved it so much that I hated it I — I poisoned it. I don’t know what possessed me. I never used to be like that — not till I was burned. Perhaps it was because the baby was coming.”
Mrs. Kent stopped and changed suddenly from a woman quivering with unveiled feeling to a prim Victorian.
“I shouldn’t talk about such matters to a young girl,” she said anxiously.
“I have known for some years that babies do not come in Dr. Burnley’s black bag,” assured Emily gravely.
“Well” — Mrs. Kent underwent another transformation into passionate Aileen Kent again—”David found out what I had done. Oh — oh, his face! We had a dreadful quarrel. It was just before he went out to Winnipeg on a business trip. I — I was so furious over what he said that I screamed out — oh, Emily — that I hoped I would never see his face again. I never did. God took me at my word. He died of pneumonia in Winnipeg. I never knew he was ill till the word of his death came. And the nurse was a girl he had once thought something of and who loved him. She waited on him and tended him while I was at home hating him. That is what I have thought I could never forgive God for. She packed up his things and sent them home — that book among them. He must have bought it in Winnipeg. I never opened it — I never could bear to touch it. He must have written that letter when he was near death and put it in the book for me — and perhaps died before he could tell her it was there. Maybe she knew and wouldn’t tell me. And it has been there all these years, Emily — all these years when I’ve been believing David died angry with me — unforgiving me. I’ve dreamed of him night after night — always with his face turned away from me. Oh, twenty-seven years of that, Emily — twenty-seven years. Think of it. Haven’t I atoned! And last night I opened and read his letter, Emily — just a few lines scribbled with a pencil — his poor hand could hardly hold it. He called me Dear Little Wife and said I must forgive him — I forgive him — for being so harsh and angry that last day — and he forgave me for what I had done — and said I mustn’t worry over it nor over what I had said about not seeing his face again — he knew I didn’t mean it — that he understood things better at the last — and he had always loved me dearly and always would — and — and — something more I can’t tell anybody — too dear, too wonderful. Oh, Emily, can you imagine what this means to me — to know he didn’t die angry with me — that he died loving me and thinking tenderly of me? But I didn’t know it then. And I — I — don’t think I’ve ever been quite right since. I know all his people thought me crazy. When Teddy was born I came up here away from them all. So that they couldn’t lure him away from me. I wouldn’t take a cent from them. I had David’s insurance — we could just live on that. Teddy was all I had — and you came — and I knew you would take him from me. I knew he loved you — always. Oh, yes he did. When he went away I used to write him of all your flirtations. And two years ago — you remember he had to go to Montreal so suddenly — and you were away — he couldn’t wait to say good-bye. But he wrote you a letter.”
Emily gave a little choked cry of denial.
“Oh, he did. I saw it lying on his table when he had gone out. I steamed the flap open and read it. I burned the letter, Emily — but I can tell you what was in it. Could I ever forget! He told you he had meant to tell you how much he loved you before he went — and if you could care a little for him to write and tell him so. But if you couldn’t not to write at all. Oh, how I hated you. I burned the letter and sealed up a copy of some poetry verses that were in it. And he mailed it never knowing the difference. I was never sorry — never, not even when he wrote me he was going to marry Ilse. But last night — when you brought me that letter — and forgiveness — and peace — oh, I felt I had done an awful thing. I’ve ruined your life — and perhaps Teddy’s. Can you ever forgive me, Emily?”
IV
Emily, amid all the whirl of emotions roused by Mrs. Kent’s tale, was keenly conscious of only one thing. Bitterness — humiliation — shame had vanished from her being. Teddy had loved her. The sweetness of the revelation blotted out, for the time at least, all other feelings. Anger — resentment — could find no place in her soul. She felt like a new creature. And there was sincerity in heart and tone as she said slowly:
“I do — I do. I understand.”
Mrs. Kent suddenly wrung her hands.
“Emily — is it too late? Is it too late? They’re not married yet — I know he doesn’t love her as he loved you. If you told him — if I told him—”
“No, no, no,” cried Emily passionately. “It is too late. He must never know — you must never tell him. He loves Ilse now. I am sure of that — and telling him this would do no good and much evil. Promise me — dear Mrs. Kent, if you feel you owe me anything promise me, you’ll never tell him.”
>
“But you — you will be unhappy—”
“I will not be unhappy — not now. You don’t know what a difference this has made. The sting has gone out of everything. I am going to have a happy, busy, useful life and regret for old dreams will have no place in it. The wound will heal now.”
“It was — a terrible thing for me to do,” whispered Mrs. Kent. “I see that — at last.”
“I suppose it was. But I’m not thinking of that. Only that I’ve got my self-respect back.”
“The Murray pride,” whispered Mrs. Kent, staring at her. “After all, Emily Starr, I believe pride is a stronger passion with you than love.”
“Perhaps,” said Emily smiling.
V
She was in such a tumult of feeling when she reached home that she did a thing she was always ashamed of. Perry Miller was waiting in the New Moon garden for her. She had not seen him for a long time and at any other hour would have been glad to see him. Perry’s friendship, now that he had finally given up all hope of anything else, was a very pleasant part of her life. He had developed in the last few years — he was manly, humorous, much less boastful. He had even acquired certain fundamental rules of social etiquette and learned not to have too many hands and feet. He was too busy to come often to New Moon, but Emily always enjoyed his visits when he did come — except tonight. She wanted to be alone — to think things over — classify her emotions — revel in her restored sense of self-respect. To pace up and down among the silken poppy-ladies of the garden and talk with Perry was an almost impossible thing. She was in a frenzy of impatience to be rid of him. And Perry did not sense this at all. He had not seen her for a long while — and there were many things to talk over — Ilse’s wedding in especial. He kept on asking questions about it until Emily really didn’t know what she was saying. Perry was a bit squiffy over the fact that he had not been asked to be groomsman. He thought he had a right to be — the old chum of both.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 300