Emily of New Moon
revenge. The B’y and Father Cassidy listened with equal gravity until
she had finished. Then the B’y winked at her, but Father Cassidy put
his long brown fingers together.
“Humph,” he said.
(“That’s the first time,” reflected Emily, “that I’ve ever heard anyone
outside of a book say ‘Humph.’”)
“Humph,” said Father Cassidy again. “And you want me to put a stop to
this nefarious deed?”
“If you can,” said Emily. “Oh, it would be so splendid if you could.
Will you--will you?”
Father Cassidy fitted his fingers still more carefully together.
“I’m afraid I can hardly invoke the power av the keys to prevent Lofty
John from disposing as he wishes av his own lawful property, you know,
elf.”
Emily didn’t understand the allusion to the keys but she did understand
that Father Cassidy was declining to bring the lever of the Church to
bear on Lofty John. There was no hope, then. She could not keep the
tears of disappointment out of her eyes.
“Oh, come now, darling, don’t cry,” implored Father Cassidy. “Elves
never cry--they can’t. It would break my heart to discover you weren’t
av the Green Folk. You may call yourself av New Moon and av any
religion you like, but the fact remains that you belong to the Golden
Age and the old gods. That’s why I must save your precious bit av
greenwood for you.”
Emily stared.
“I think it can be done,” Father Cassidy went on. “I think if I go
to Lofty John and have a heart-to-heart talk with him I can make him
see reason. Lofty John and I are very good friends. He’s a reasonable
creature, if you know how to take him--which means to flatter his
vanity judiciously. I’ll put it to him, not as priest to parishoner,
but as man to man, that no decent Irishman carries on a feud with
women and that no sensible person is going to destroy for nothing but
a grudge those fine old trees that have taken half a century to grow
and can never be replaced. Why, the man who cuts down such a tree except
when it is really necessary should be hanged as high as Haman on a
gallows made from the wood av it.”
(Emily thought she would write that last sentence of Father Cassidy’s
down in Cousin Jimmy’s blank book when she got home.)
“But I won’t say _that_ to Lofty John,” concluded Father Cassidy. “Yes,
Emily av New Moon, I think we can consider it a settled thing that your
bush will not be cut down.”
Suddenly Emily felt very happy. Somehow she had entire confidence in
Father Cassidy. She was sure he would twist Lofty John around his
little finger.
“Oh, I can never thank you enough!” she said earnestly.
“That’s true, so don’t waste breath trying. And now tell me things. Are
there any more av you? And how long have you been yourself?”
“I’m twelve years old--I haven’t any brothers or sisters. And I _think_
I’d better be going home.”
“Not till you’ve had a bite av lunch.”
“Oh, thank you, I’ve had my supper.”
“Two hours ago and a two-mile walk since. Don’t tell me. I’m sorry I
haven’t any nectar and ambrosia on hand--such food as elves eat--and
not even a saucer av moonshine--but my mother makes the best plum
cake av any woman in P. E. Island. And we keep a cream cow. Wait here
a bit. Don’t be afraid av the B’y. He eats tender little Protestants
sometimes, but he never meddles with leprechauns.”
When Father Cassidy came back his mother came with him, carrying a
tray. Emily had expected to see her big and brown too, but she was the
tiniest woman imaginable, with snow-white, silky hair, mild blue eyes,
and pink cheeks.
“Isn’t she the sweetest thing in the way av mothers?” asked Father
Cassidy. “I keep her to look at. Av course--” Father Cassidy dropped
his voice to a pig’s whisper--“there’s something odd about her. I’ve
known that woman to stop right in the middle av housecleaning, and go
off and spend an afternoon in the woods. Like yourself, I’m thinking
she has some truck with fairies.”
Mrs. Cassidy smiled, kissed Emily, said she must go out and finish her
preserving, and trotted off.
“Now you sit right down here, Elf, and be human for ten minutes and
we’ll have a friendly snack.”
Emily _was_ hungry--a nice comfortable feeling she hadn’t experienced
for a fortnight. Mrs. Cassidy’s plum cake was all her reverend son
claimed, and the cream cow seemed to be no myth.
“What do you think av me now?” asked Father Cassidy suddenly, finding
Emily’s eyes fixed on him speculatively.
Emily blushed. She had been wondering if she dared ask another favour
of Father Cassidy.
“I think you are awfully good,” she said.
“I _am_ awfully good,” agreed Father Cassidy. “I’m so good that I’ll do
what you want me to do--for I feel there’s something else you want me
to do.”
“I’m in a scrape and I’ve been in it all summer. You see”--Emily was
very sober--“I am a poetess.”
“Holy Mike! That _is_ serious. I don’t know if I can do much for you.
How long have you been that way?”
“Are you making fun of me?” asked Emily gravely.
Father Cassidy swallowed something besides plum cake.
“The saints forbid! It’s only that I’m rather overcome. To be after
entertaining a lady av New Moon--and an elf--and a poetess all in one
is a bit too much for a humble praste like meself. Have another slice
av cake and tell me all about it.”
“It’s like this--I’m writing an epic.”
Father Cassidy suddenly leaned over and gave Emily’s wrist a little
pinch.
“I just wanted to see if you were real,” he explained. “Yes--yes,
you’re writing an epic--go on. I think I’ve got my second wind now.”
“I began it last spring. I called it _The White Lady_ first but now
I’ve changed it to _The Child of the Sea_. Don’t you think that’s a
better title?”
“Much better.”
“I’ve got three cantos done, and I can’t get any further because
there’s something I don’t know and can’t find out. I’ve been so worried
about it.”
“What is it?”
“My epic,” said Emily, diligently devouring plum cake, “is about a very
beautiful high-born girl who was stolen away from her real parents when
she was a baby and brought up in a woodcutter’s hut.”
“One av of the seven original plots in the world,” murmured Father
Cassidy.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just a bad habit av thinking aloud. Go on.”
“She had a lover of high degree but his family did not want him to
marry her because she was only a woodcutter’s daughter--”
“Another of the seven plots--excuse me.”
“--so they sent him away to the Holy land on a crusade and word came
back that he was killed and then Editha--her name was Editha--went into
a convent--”
Emily paused for a bite of plum cake and Father Cassidy took up the
strain.
“And now her lover comes back very much alive, though covered with
Paynim scars, and the secret av her birth is discovered through the
dying confession av the old nurse and the birthmark on her arm.”
“How did you know?” gasped Emily in amazement.
“Oh, I guessed it--I’m a good guesser. But where’s your bother in all
this?”
“I don’t know how to get her out of the convent,” confessed Emily. “I
thought perhaps you would know how it could be done.”
Again Father Cassidy fitted his fingers.
“Let us see, now. It’s no light matter you’ve undertaken, young lady.
How stands the case? _Editha_ has taken the veil, not because she has
a religious vocation but because she imagines her heart is broken. The
Catholic Church does not release its nuns from their vows because they
happen to think they’ve made a little mistake av that sort. No, no,--we
must have a better reason. Is this Editha the sole child av her real
parents?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, then the way is clear. If she had had any brothers or sisters you
would have had to kill them off, which is a messy thing to do. Well,
then, she is the sole daughter and heiress av a noble family who have
for years been at deadly feud with another noble family--the family av
the lover. Do you know what a feud is?”
“Of course,” said Emily disdainfully. “And I’ve got all that in the
poem already.”
“So much the better. This feud has rent the kingdom in twain and can
only be healed by an alliance between Capulet and Montague.”
“Those aren’t their names.”
“No matter. This, then, is a national affair, with far-reaching issues,
therefore an appeal to the Supreme Pontiff is quite in order. What you
want,” Father Cassidy nodded solemnly, “is a dispensation from Rome.”
“Dispensation is a hard word to work into a poem,” said Emily.
“Undoubtedly. But young ladies who _will_ write epic poems and who
_will_ lay the scenes thereof amid times and manners av hundreds av
years ago, and _will_ choose heroines av a religion quite unknown to
them, _must_ expect to run up against a few snags.”
“Oh, I think I’ll be able to work it in,” said Emily cheerfully. “And
I’m so much obliged to you. You don’t know what a relief it is to my
mind. I’ll finish the poem right up now in a few weeks. I haven’t done
a thing at it all summer. But then of course I’ve been busy. Ilse
Burnley and I have been making a new language.”
“Making a--new--excuse me. _Did_ you say _language_?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the matter with English? Isn’t it good enough for you, you
incomprehensible little being?”
“Oh, yes. _That_ isn’t why we’re making a new one. You see in the
spring, Cousin Jimmy got a lot of French boys to help plant the
potatoes. I had to help too, and Ilse came to keep me company. And it
was so annoying to hear those boys talking French when we couldn’t
understand a word of it. They did it just to make us mad. Such
jabbering! So Ilse and I just made up our minds we’d invent a new
language that _they_ couldn’t understand. We’re getting on fine and
when the potato picking time comes we’ll be able to talk to each other
and those boys won’t be able to understand a word we’re saying. Oh, it
will be great fun!”
“I haven’t a doubt. But two girls who will go to all the trouble av
inventing a new language just to get square with some poor little
French boys--you’re beyond me,” said Father Cassidy, helplessly.
“Goodness knows what you’ll be doing when you grow up. You’ll be Red
Revolutionists. I tremble for Canada.”
“Oh, it isn’t a trouble--it’s fun. And all the girls in school are just
wild because they hear us talking in it and can’t make it out. We can
talk secrets right before them.”
“Human nature being what it is, I can see where the fun comes in all
right. Let’s hear a sample av your language.”
“Nat millan O ste dolman bote ta Shrewsbury fernas ta poo litanos,”
said Emily glibly. “That means, ‘Next summer I am going to Shrewsbury
woods to pick strawberries.’ I yelled that across the playground to
Ilse the other day at recess and oh, how everybody stared.”
“Staring, is it? I should say so. My own poor old eyes are all but
dropping out av me head. Let’s hear a bit more av it.”
“Mo tral li dead seb ad li mo trene. Mo bertral seb mo bertrene das
sten dead e ting setra. _That_ means ‘My father is dead and so is my
mother. My grandfather and grandmother have been dead a long time.’ We
haven’t invented a word for ‘dead’ yet. I think I will soon be able to
write my poems in our language and then Aunt Elizabeth will not be able
to read them if she finds them.”
“Have you written any other poetry besides your epic?”
“Oh, yes--but just short pieces--dozens of them.”
“H’m. Would you be so kind as to let me hear one av them?”
Emily was greatly flattered. And she did not mind letting Father
Cassidy hear her precious stuff.
“I’ll recite my last poem,” she said, clearing her throat importantly.
“It’s called _Evening Dreams_.”
Father Cassidy listened attentively. After the first verse a change
came over his big brown face, and he began patting his fingertips
together. When Emily finished she hung down her lashes and waited
tremblingly. What if Father Cassidy said it was no good? No, he