Emily of New Moon
been sent to trim the dead blossoms off the rosebushes on Grandmother
Murray’s grave; having finished her task she had not the heart to go
back to the house where Aunt Elizabeth was making everybody miserable
because she was herself so unhappy. Perry had reported that Lofty John
had stated the day before at the blacksmith’s that he was going to
begin cutting down the big bush on Monday morning.
“I _can’t_ bear it,” sobbed Emily to the rosebushes.
A few late roses nodded at her; the Wind Woman combed and waved and
stirred the long green grasses on the graves where proud Murrays, men
and women, slept calmly, unstirred by old feuds and passions; the
September sunlight shone beyond on old harvest fields mellowly bright
and serene, and very softly against its green, shrub-hung bank, purred
and lapped the blue Blair Water.
“I don’t see why God doesn’t _stop_ Lofty John,” said Emily
passionately. Surely the New Moon Murrays had a right to expect that
much from Providence.
Teddy came whistling down the pasture, the notes of his tune blowing
across the Blair Water like elfin drops of sound, vaulted the graveyard
fence and perched his lean, graceful body irreverently on the “Here I
stay” of Great-Grandmother Murray’s flat tombstone.
“What’s the matter?” he said.
“Everything’s the matter,” said Emily, a little crossly. Teddy had no
business to be looking so cheerful. She was used to more sympathy from
Teddy and it aggravated her not to find it. “Don’t you know Lofty John
is going to begin cutting down the bush Monday?”
Teddy nodded.
“Yep. Ilse told me. But look here, Emily, I’ve thought of something.
Lofty John wouldn’t dare cut down that bush if the priest told him not
to, would he?”
“Why?”
“Because the Catholics have to do just what their priests tell them to,
haven’t they?”
“I don’t know--I don’t know anything about them. _We_ are
Presbyterians.”
Emily gave her head a little toss. Mrs. Kent was known to be an
“English Church” woman and though Teddy went to the Presbyterian Sunday
School, that fact gave him scanty standing among bred-in-the-bone
Presbyterian circles.
“If your Aunt Elizabeth went to Father Cassidy at White Cross and asked
him to stop Lofty John, maybe he’d do it,” persisted Teddy.
“Aunt Elizabeth would never do that,” said Emily positively. “I’m sure
of it. She’s too proud.”
“Not even to save the bush?”
“Not even for that.”
“Then I guess nothing can be done,” said Teddy rather crest-fallen.
“Look here--see what I’ve made. This is a picture of Lofty John in
purgatory, with three little devils sticking red-hot pitch forks
into him. I copied some of it out of one of mother’s books--Dante’s
Infernal, I think it was--but I put Lofty John in place of the man in
the book. You can have it.”
“I don’t want it.” Emily uncoiled her legs and got up. She was past the
stage when inflicting imaginary torments on Lofty John could comfort
her. She had already slain him in several agonizing ways during her
night vigils. But an idea had come to her--a daring, breathless idea.
“I must go home now, Teddy--it’s supper time.”
Teddy pocketed his despised sketch--which was really a wonderful bit
of work if either of them had had the sense to know it; the expression
of anguish in Lofty John’s face as a merry little devil touched him
up with a pitchfork would have been the despair of many a trained
artist. He went home wishing he could help Emily; it was all wrong
that a creature like Emily--with soft purple-gray eyes and a smile
that made you think of all sorts of wonderful things you couldn’t put
into words--should be unhappy. Teddy felt so worried about it that he
added a few more devils to his sketch of Lofty John in purgatory and
lengthened the prongs of their pitchforks quite considerably.
Emily went home with a determined twist to her mouth. She ate as much
supper as she could--which wasn’t much, for Aunt Elizabeth’s face would
have destroyed her appetite if she had had any--and then sneaked out
of the house by the front door. Cousin Jimmy was working in his garden
but he did not call her. Cousin Jimmy was always very sorrowful now.
Emily stood a moment on the Grecian porch and looked at Lofty John’s
bush--green-bosomed, waving, all lovely. Would it be a desecrated waste
of stumps by Monday night? Goaded by the thought Emily cast fear and
hesitation to the winds and started briskly off down the lane. When she
reached the gate she turned to the left on the long red road of mystery
that ran up the Delectable Mountain. She had never been on that road
before; it ran straight to White Cross; Emily was going to the parish
house there to interview Father Cassidy. It was two miles to White
Cross and Emily walked it all too soon--not because it was a beautiful
road of wind and wild fern, haunted by little rabbits--but because she
dreaded what awaited her at the end. She had been trying to think what
she should say--how she should say it; but her invention failed her.
She had no acquaintance with Catholic priests, and couldn’t imagine
how you should talk to them at all. They were even more mysterious and
unknowable than ministers. Suppose Father Cassidy should be dreadfully
angry at her daring to come there and ask a favour. Perhaps it _was_ a
dreadful thing to do from every point of view. And very likely it would
do no good. Very likely Father Cassidy would refuse to interfere with
Lofty John, who was a good Catholic, while she was, in his opinion,
a heretic. But for any chance, even the faintest, of averting the
calamity impending over New Moon, Emily would have faced the entire
Sacred College. Horribly frightened, miserably nervous as she was, the
idea of turning back never occurred to her. She was only sorry that
she hadn’t put on her Venetian beads. They might have impressed Father
Cassidy.
Although Emily had never been to White Cross she knew the parish house
when she saw it--a fine, tree-embowered residence near the big white
chapel with the flashing gilt cross on its spire and the four gilt
angels, one on each of the little spires at the corners. Emily thought
them very beautiful as they gleamed in the light of the lowering sun,
and wished they could have some on the plain white church at Blair
Water. She couldn’t understand why Catholics should have all the
angels. But there was not time to puzzle over this, for the door was
opening and the trim little maid was looking a question.
“Is--Father Cassidy--at--home?” asked Emily, rather jerkily.
“Yes.”
“Can--I--see--him?”
“Come in,” said the little maid. Evidently there was no difficulty
about seeing Father Cassidy--no mysterious ceremonies such as Emily
had half expected, even if she were allowed to see him at all. She was
shown into a book-lined room and left there, while the maid went to
call Father Cassidy, who, she said, was working in the garden. _That_
sounded quite natural and encouraging. If Father Cassidy worked in a
garden, he could not be so very terrible.
Emily looked about her curiously. She was in a very pretty room--with
cosy chairs, and pictures and flowers. Nothing alarming or uncanny
about it--except a huge black cat who was sitting on the top of one of
the bookcases. It was really an enormous creature. Emily adored cats
and had always felt at home with any of them. But she had never seen
such a cat as this. What with its size and its insolent, gold-hued
eyes, set like living jewels in its black velvet face, it did not seem
to belong to the same species as nice, cuddly, respectable kittens at
all. Mr. Dare would never have had such a beast about his manse. All
Emily’s dread of Father Cassidy returned.
And then in came Father Cassidy, with the friendliest smile in the
world. Emily took him in with her level glance as was her habit--or
gift--and never again in the world was she the least bit afraid of
Father Cassidy. He was big and broad-shouldered, with brown eyes and
brown hair; and his very face was so deeply tanned from his inveterate
habit of going about bareheaded in merciless sunshine, that it was
brown, too. Emily thought he looked just like a big nut--a big, brown,
wholesome nut.
Father Cassidy looked at her as he shook hands; Emily had one of her
visitations of beauty just then. Excitement had brought a wildrose
hue to her face, the sunlight brought out the watered-silk gloss of
her black hair; her eyes were softly dark and limpid; but it was at
her ears Father Cassidy suddenly bent to look. Emily had a moment of
agonized wonder if they were clean.
“She’s got pointed ears,” said Father Cassidy, in a thrilling whisper.
“Pointed ears! I _knew_ she came straight from fairyland the minute
I saw her. Sit down, Elf--if elves do sit--sit down and give me the
latest news av Titania’s court.”
Emily’s foot was now on her native heath. Father Cassidy talked her
language, and he talked it in such a mellow, throaty voice, slurring
his “ofs” ever so softly as became a proper Irishman. But she shook
her head a little sadly. With the burden of her errand on her soul she
could not play the part of ambassadress from Elfland.
“I’m only Emily Starr of New Moon,” she said; and then gasped
hurriedly, because there must be no deception--no sailing under false
colours, “and I’m a Protestant.”
“And a very nice little Protestant you are,” said Father Cassidy. “But
for sure I’m a bit disappointed. I’m used to Protestants--the woods
hereabouts being full av them--but it’s a hundred years since the last
elf called on me.”
Emily stared. Surely Father Cassidy wasn’t a hundred years old. He
didn’t look more than fifty. Perhaps, though, Catholic priests did live
longer than other people. She didn’t know exactly what to say so she
said, a bit lamely,
“I see you have a cat.”
“Wrong.” Father Cassidy shook his head and groaned dismally. “A cat has
me.”
Emily gave up trying to understand Father Cassidy. He was nice but
ununderstandable. She let it go at that. And she must get on with her
errand.
“You are a kind of minister, aren’t you?” she asked timidly. She
didn’t know whether Father Cassidy would like being called a minister.
“Kind av,” he agreed amiably. “And you see ministers and priests can’t
do their own swearing. They have to keep cats to do it for them. I
never knew any cat that could sware as genteelly and effectively as the
B’y.”
“Is that what you call him?” asked Emily, looking at the black cat in
some awe. It seemed hardly safe to discuss him right before his face.
“That’s what he calls himself. My mother doesn’t like him because he
steals the cream. Now, _I_ don’t mind his doing that; no, it’s his way
av licking his jaws after it that I can’t stand. Oh, B’y, we’ve a fairy
calling on us. Be excited for once, I implore you--there’s a duck av a
cat.”
The B’y refused to be excited. He winked an insolent eye at Emily.
“Have you any idea what goes on in the head av a cat, elf?”
What queer questions Father Cassidy asked. Yet Emily thought she would
like his questions if she were not so worried. Suddenly Father Cassidy
leaned across the table and said,
“Now, just what’s bothering you?”
“I’m so unhappy,” said Emily piteously.
“So are lots av other people. Everybody is unhappy by spells. But
creatures who have pointed ears shouldn’t be unhappy. It’s only mortals
who should be that.”
“Oh, please--please--” Emily wondered what she should call him. Would
it offend him if a Protestant called him “Father”? But she had to risk
it--“please, Father Cassidy, I’m in such trouble and I’ve come to ask a
_great favour_ of you.”
Emily told him the whole tale from beginning to end--the old
Murray-Sullivan feud, her erstwhile friendship with Lofty John, the
Big Sweet apple, the unhappy consequence, and Lofty John’s threatened