Emily Climbs (27 page)

“There isn’t anything to say – so I say it.

“Besides, Aunt Ruth has said everything!

“December 15, 19–

“Evelyn’s prize poem was printed in the
Times
this week with her photograph and a biographical sketch. The set of Parkman is on exhibition in the windows of the Booke Shoppe.

“
A Legend of Abegweit is
a fairly good poem. It is in ballad style, and rhythm and rhyme are correct – which could not be said of any other poem of Evelyn’s I’ve ever seen.

“Evelyn Blake has said of everything of mine she ever saw in print that she was sure I copied it from somewhere. I hate to imitate her – but I
know
that
she
never wrote that poem. It isn’t any expression of
her
at all. She might as well have imitated Dr. Hardy’s handwriting and claimed it as her own. Her mincing, copperplate script is as much like Dr. Hardy’s black, forcible scrawl as that poem is like
her
.

“Besides, thought
Legend of Abegweit
is fairly good it is
not
as good as
Wild Grapes
.

“I am not going to say so to any one but down it goes in this journal. Because it’s
true
.

“Dec. 20, 19–

“I showed
A Legend of Abegweit
and
Wild Grapes
to Mr. Carpenter. When he had read them both he said, ‘Who
were the judges?’

“I told him.

“‘Give them my compliments and tell them they’re asses,’ he said.

“I feel comforted. I won’t tell the judges – or any one – they’re asses. But it soothes me to know they are.

“The strange thing is – Aunt Elizabeth asked to see
Wild Grapes
and when she had read it she said,

“‘I am no judge of poetry, of course, but it seems to me that
yours
is of a
higher order’

“Jan. 4, 19–

“I spent the Christmas week at Uncle Oliver’s. I didn’t like it. It was too noisy. I would have liked it years ago but they never asked me then. I had to eat when I wasn’t hungry – play parchesi when I didn’t want to – talk when I wanted to be silent. I was never alone for one moment all the time I was there. Besides, Andrew is getting to be such a nuisance. And Aunt Addie was odiously kind and motherly. I just felt all the time like a cat who is held on a lap where it doesn’t want to be and gently, firmly stroked. I had to sleep with Jen, who is my first cousin and just my age, and who thinks in her heart I’m not half good enough for Andrew but is going to try with the blessing of God, to make the best of it. Jen is a nice, sensible girl and she and I are friendish. That is a word of my own coining. Jen and I are more than mere acquaintances but not really friendly. We will always be friendish and never more than friendish. We don’t talk the same language.

“When I got home to dear New Moon I went up to my room and shut the door and revelled in the solitude.

“Schooled opened yesterday. Today in the Booke Shoppe I had an internal laugh. Mrs. Rodney and Mrs. Elder were looking over some books and Mrs. Rodney said,

“‘That story in the
Times – A Bleeding Heart
– was the strangest one I ever read. It wandered on, chapter after chapter, for weeks, and never seemed to get anywhere, and then it just finished up in eight chapters
lickety-split
. I can’t understand it.’

“I could have solved the mystery for her but I didn’t.”

W
hen
The Woman Who Spanked the King
was accepted and published by a New York magazine of some standing, quite a sensation was produced in Blair Water and Shrewsbury, especially when the incredible news was whispered from lip to lip that Emily had actually been paid forty dollars for it. For the first time her clan began to take her writing mania with some degree of seriousness and Aunt Ruth gave up, finally and for ever, all slurs over wasted time. The acceptance came at the psychological moment when the sands of Emily’s faith were running rather low. All the fall and winter her stuff had been coming back to her, except from two magazines whose editors evidently thought that literature was its own reward and quite independent of degrading monetary considerations. At first she had always felt dreadfully when a poem or story over which she had agonised came back with one of those icy little rejection slips or a few words of faint praise – the “but” rejections, Emily called these, and hated them worse than the printed ones. Tears of disappointment
would
come. But after a time she got hardened to it and didn’t mind – so much. She only gave the editorial slip the Murray
look and said, “I will succeed.” And never at any time had she any
real
doubt that she would. Down, deep down, something told her that her time would come. So, though she flinched momentarily at each rejection, as from the flick of a whip, she sat down and – wrote another story.

Still, her inner voice had grown rather faint under so many discouragements. The acceptance of
The Woman Who Spanked the King
suddenly raised it into a joyous paean of certainty again. The cheque meant much, but the storming of that magazine much more. She felt that she was surely winning a foothold. Mr. Carpenter chuckled over it and told her it really was “absolutely good.”

“The best in this story belongs to Mistress McIntyre,” said Emily ruefully. “I can’t call it mine.”

“The setting is yours – and what you’ve added harmonises perfectly with your foundation. And you didn’t polish hers up too much –
that
shows the artist. Weren’t you tempted to?”

“Yes. There were so many places I thought I
could
improve it a good deal.”

“But you didn’t try to –
that
makes it yours,” said Mr. Carpenter – and left her to puzzle his meaning out for herself.

Emily spent thirty-five of her dollars so sensibly that even Aunt Ruth herself couldn’t find fault with her budget. But with the remaining five she bought a set of Parkman. It was a much nicer set than the prize one – which the donor had really picked out of a mail-order list – and Emily felt much prouder of it than if it had been the prize. After all, it was better to earn things for yourself. Emily has those Parkmans yet – somewhat faded and frayed now, but dearer to her than all the other volumes in her library. For a few weeks she was very happy and uplifted. The Murrays were proud of her, Principal Hardy had congratulated her, a local elocutionist of
some repute had read her story at a concert in Charlottetown. And, most wonderful of all, a far-away reader in Mexico had written her a letter telling her what pleasure
The Woman Who Spanked the King
had given him. Emily read and reread that letter until she knew if off by heart, and slept with it under her pillow. No lover’s missive was ever more tenderly treated.

Then the affair of the old John house came up like a thunder-cloud and darkened all her cerulean sky.

There was a concert and “pie social” at Derry Pond one Friday night and Ilse had been asked to recite. Dr. Burnley took Ilse and Emily and Perry and Teddy over in his big, double-seated sleigh, and they had a gay and merry eight miles’ drive through the soft snow that was beginning to fall. When the concert was half over, Dr. Burnley was summoned out. There was sudden and serious illness in a Derry Pond household. The doctor went, telling Teddy that he must drive the party home. Dr. Burnley made no bones about it. They might have silly rules about chaperonage in Shrewsbury and Charlottetown, but in Blair Water and Derry Pond they did not obtain. Teddy and Perry were decent boys – Emily was a Murray – Ilse was no fool. The doctor would have summed them up thus tersely if he had thought about it at all.

When the concert was over they left for home. It was snowing very thickly now and the wind was rising rapidly, but the first three miles of the road were through sheltering woods and were not unpleasant. There was a wild, weird beauty in the snow-coated ranks of trees, standing in the pale light of the moon behind the storm-clouds. The sleigh-bells laughed at the shriek of the wind far overhead. Teddy managed the doctor’s team without difficulty. Once or twice Emily had a strong suspicion that he was using only one arm to drive them. She wondered if he had noticed that evening that she wore her
hair really “up” for the first time – in a soft ebony “Psyche knot” under her crimson hat. Emily thought again that there was something quite delightful about a storm.

But when they left the woods their troubles began. The storm swooped down on them in all its fury. The winter road went through the fields and wound and twisted and doubled in and out and around corners and spruce groves – a road that would “break a snake’s back,” as Perry said. The track was already almost obliterated with the drift and the horses plunged to their knees. They had not gone a mile before Perry whistled in dismay.

“We’ll never make Blair Water tonight, Ted.”

“We’ve got to make somewhere,” shouted Ted. “We can’t camp
here
. And there’s no house till we get back to the summer road, past Shaw’s hill. Duck under the robes, girls. You’d better get back with Ilse, Emily, and Perry will come here with me.”

The transfer was effected, Emily no longer thinking storms quite so delightful. Perry and Teddy were both thoroughly alarmed. They knew the horses could not go much farther in that depth of snow – the summer road beyond Shaw’s hill would be blocked with drift – and it was bitterly cold on those high, bleak hills between the valleys of Derry Pond and Blair Water.

“If we can only get to Malcolm Shaw’s we’ll be all right,” muttered Perry.

“We’ll never get that far. Shaw’s hill is filled in by this time to the fence-tops,” said Teddy. “Here’s the old John house. Do you suppose we could stay here?”

“Cold as a barn,” said Perry. “The girls would freeze. We must try to make Malcolm’s.”

When the plunging horses reached the summer road, the boys saw at a glance that Shaw’s hill was a hopeless
proposition. All traces of track were obliterated by drifts that were over the fence-tops. Telephone-posts were blown down across the road and a huge, fallen tree blocked the gap where the field road ran out to it.

“Nothing to do but go back to the old John house,” said Perry. “We can’t go wandering over the fields in the teeth of this storm, looking for a way through to Malcolm’s. We’d get stuck and freeze to death.”

Teddy turned the horses. The snow was thicker than ever. Every minute the drift deepened. The track was entirely gone, and if the old John house had been very far away they could never have found it. Fortunately, it was near, and after one last wild flounder through the unbroken drift around it, during which the boys had to get out and scramble along on their own feet, they reached the comparative calm of the little cleared space in the young spruce woods, wherein stood the old John house.

The “old John house” had been old when, forty years before, John Shaw had moved into it with his young bride. It had been a lonely spot even then, far back from the road, and almost surrounded by spruce woods. John Shaw had lived there five years; then his wife died; he had sold the farm to his brother Malcolm and gone West. Malcolm farmed the land and kept the little barn in good repair, but the house had never been occupied since, save for a few weeks in winter when Malcolm’s boys camped there while they “got out” their firewood. It was not even locked. Tramps and burglars were unknown in Derry Pond. Our castaways found easy entrance through the door of the tumbledown porch and drew a breath of relief to find themselves out of the shrieking wind and driving snow.

“We won’t freeze anyhow,” said Perry. “Ted and I’ll have to see if we can get the horses in the barn and then we’ll come
back and see if we can’t make ourselves comfortable. I’ve got matches and I’ve never been stumped yet.”

Perry met no great difficulties in making good his boast. His lighted match revealed a couple of half-burned candles in squat tin candlesticks, a cracked and rusty but still quite serviceable old Waterloo stove, three chairs, a bench, a soft and a table.

“What’s the matter with this?” demanded Perry.

“They’ll be awfully worried about us at home, that’s all,” said Emily, shaking the snow off her wraps.

“Worry won’t kill them in one night,” said Perry. “We’ll get home tomorrow somehow.”

“Meanwhile, this is an adventure,” laughed Emily. “Let’s get all the fun out of it we can.”

Ilse said nothing – which was very odd in Ilse. Emily, looking at her, saw that she was very pale and recalled that she had been unusually quiet ever since they had left the hall.

“Aren’t you feeling all right, Ilse?” she asked anxiously.

“I’m feeling all wrong,” said Ilse, with a ghastly smile. “I’m – I’m sick as a dog,” she added, with more force than elegance.

“Oh, Ilse –”

“Don’t hit the ceiling,” said Ilse impatiently. “I’m not beginning pneumonia or appendicitis. I’m just plain
sick
. That pie I had at the hall was too rich, I suppose. It’s turned my little tummy upside down. O – w – w.”

“Lie down on the sofa,” urged Emily. “Perhaps you’ll feel better then.”

Ilse, shuddering and abject, cast herself down. A “sick stomach” is not a romantic ailment or a very deadly one, but it certainly takes the ginger out of its victim for the time being.

The boys, finding a box full of wood behind the stove, soon had a roaring fire. Perry took one of the candles and explored the little house. In a small room opening off the kitchen was an old-fashioned wooden bedstead with a rope mattress. The other room – it had been Almira Shaw’s parlour in olden days – was half filled with oat-straw. Upstairs there was nothing but emptiness and dust. But in the little pantry Perry made some finds.

“There’s a can of pork and beams here,” he announced, “and a tin box half full of crackers. I see our breakfast. I s’pose the Shaw boys left them here: And what’s this?”

Perry brought out a small bottle, uncorked and sniffed it solemnly.

“Whiskey, as I’m a living sinner. Not much, but enough. Here’s your medicine, Ilse. You take it in some hot water and it’ll settle your stomach in a jiffy.”

“I hate the taste of whiskey,” moaned Ilse. “Father never uses it – he doesn’t believe in it.”

“Aunt Tom does,” said Perry, as if that settled the matter. “It’s a sure cure. Try it and see.”

“But there isn’t any water,” said Ilse.

“You’ll have to take it straight, then. There’s only about two tablespoons in the bottle. Try it. It won’t kill you if it doesn’t cure you.”

Poor Ilse was really feeling so abjectly wretched that she would have taken anything, short of poison, if she thought there was any chance of its helping her. She crawled off the sofa, sat down on a chair before the fire and swallowed the dose. It was good, strong whiskey – Malcolm Shaw could have told you that. And I think there was really more than two tablespoonfuls in the bottle, though Perry always insisted that there wasn’t. Ilse sat huddled in her chair for a few minutes
longer, then she got up and put her hand uncertainly on Emily’s shoulder.

“Do you feel worse?” asked Emily, anxiously.

“I’m – I’m drunk,” said Ilse. “Help me back to the sofa, for mercy’s sake. My legs are going to double up under me. Who was the Scotchman up at Malvern who said he never got drunk but the whiskey always settled in his knees? But mine’s in the head, too. It’s spinning round.”

Perry and Teddy both sprang to help her and between them a very wobbly Ilse made safe port on the sofa again.

“Is there anything we can do?” implored Emily.

“Too much has already been done,” said Ilse with preternatural solemnity. She shut her eyes and not another word would she say in response to any entreaty. Finally it was deemed best to let her alone.

“She’ll sleep it off, and, anyway, I guess it’ll settle her stomach,” said Perry.

Emily could not take it so philosophically. Not until Ilse’s quiet breathing half an hour later proved that she was really asleep could Emily begin to taste the flavour of their “adventure.” The wind threshed about the old house and rattled the windows as if in a fury over their escape from it. It was very pleasant to sit before the stove and listen to the wild melody of defeated storm – very pleasant to think about the vanished life of this old dead house, in the years when it had been full of love and laughter – very pleasant to talk of cabbages and kings with Perry and Teddy, in the faint glow of candlelight – very pleasant to sit in occasional silences, staring into the firelight, which flickered alluringly over Emily’s milk-white brow and haunting, shadowy eyes. Once Emily, glancing up suddenly, found Teddy looking at her strangely. For just a moment their eyes met and
locked – only a moment – yet Emily was never really to belong to herself again. She wondered dazedly what had happened. Whence came that wave of unimaginable sweetness that seemed to engulf her, body and spirit? She trembled – she was afraid. It seemed to open such dizzying possibilities of change. The only clear idea that emerged from her confusion of thought was that she wanted to sit with Teddy before a fire like this every night of their lives – and then a fig for the storms! She dared not look at Teddy again, but she thrilled with a delicious sense of his nearness; she was acutely conscious of his tall, boyish straightness, his glossy black hair, his luminous dark-blue eyes. She had always known she liked Teddy better than any other male creature in her ken – but
this
was something apart from liking altogether – this sense of belonging to him that had come in that significant exchange of glances. All at once she seemed to know why she had always snubbed any of the High School boys who wanted to be her beau.