Emily of New Moon
criticisms that did not hurt her because she knew they were just. As
for Dean Priest, a certain secret well-spring of fancy that had long
seemed dry bubbled up in him sparklingly again.
“You make me believe in fairies, whether I will or no,” he told her,
“and that means youth. As long as you believe in fairies you can’t grow
old.”
“But I can’t believe in fairies myself,” protested Emily sorrowfully.
“I wish I could.”
“But _you_ are a fairy yourself--or you wouldn’t be able to find
fairyland. You can’t buy a ticket there, you know. Either the fairies
themselves give you your passport at your christening--or they don’t.
That is all there is to it.”
“Isn’t ‘Fairyland’ the _loveliest_ word?” said Emily dreamily.
“Because it means everything the human heart desires,” said Dean.
When he talked to her Emily felt as if she were looking into some
enchanted mirror where her own dreams and secret hopes were reflected
back to her with added charm. If Dean Priest were a cynic he showed no
cynicism to Emily. But in her company he was not a cynic; he had shed
his years and became a boy again with a boy’s untainted visions. She
loved him for the world he opened to her view.
There was such fun in him, too,--such sly, surprising fun. He told her
jokes--he made her laugh. He told her strange old tales of forgotten
gods who were very beautiful--of court festivals and the bridals of
kings. He seemed to have the history of the whole world at his fingers’
ends. He described things to her in unforgettable phrases as they
walked by the bay shore or sat in the overgrown, shadowy old garden
of Wyther Grange. When he spoke of Athens as “the City of the Violet
Crown” Emily realized afresh what magic is made when the right words
are wedded; and she loved to think of Rome as “the City of the Seven
Hills.” Dean had been in Rome and Athens--and almost everywhere else.
“I didn’t know any one ever talked as you do except in books,” she told
him.
Dean laughed--with a little note of bitterness that was so often
present in his laughter--though less often with Emily than with other
people. It was really his laughter that had won Dean his reputation for
cynicism. People so often felt that he was laughing _at_ them instead
of _with_ them.
“I’ve had only books for companions most of my life,” he said. “Is it
any wonder I talk like them?”
“I’m sure I’ll like studying history after this,” said Emily; “except
Canadian History. I’ll never like _it_--it’s so dull. Not just at the
first, when we belonged to France and there was plenty of fighting, but
after that it’s nothing but politics.”
“The happiest countries, like the happiest women, have no history,”
said Dean.
“I hope _I’ll_ have a history,” cried Emily. “I want a _thrilling_
career.”
“We all do, foolish one. Do you know what makes history? Pain--and
shame--and rebellion--and bloodshed and heartache. Star, ask yourself
how many hearts ached--and broke--to make those crimson and purple
pages in history that you find so enthralling. I told you the story of
Leonidas and his Spartans the other day. They had mothers, sisters and
sweethearts. If they could have fought a bloodless battle at the polls
wouldn’t it have been better--if not so dramatic.”
“I--can’t--_feel_--that way,” said Emily confusedly. She was not old
enough to think or say, as she would say ten years later, “The heroes
of Thermopylæ have been an inspiration to humanity for centuries. What
squabble around a ballot-box will ever be that?”
“And, like all female creatures, you form your opinions by your
feelings. Well, hope for your thrilling career--but remember that if
there is to be drama in your life _somebody_ must pay the piper in the
coin of suffering. If not you--then some one else.”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t like _that_.”
“Then be content with fewer thrills. What about your tumble over the
bank down there? That came near being a tragedy. What if I hadn’t found
you?”
“But you _did_ find me,” cried Emily. “I like near escapes--after
they’re over,” she added. “If everybody had always been happy there’d
be nothing to read about.”
Tweed made a third in their rambles and Emily grew very fond of him,
without losing any of her loyalty to the pussy folk.
“I like cats with one part of my mind and dogs with another part,” she
said.
“I like cats but I never keep one,” Dean said. “They’re too
exacting--they ask too much. Dogs want only love but cats demand
worship. They have never got over the Bubastis habit of godship.”
Emily understood this--he had told her all about old Egypt and the
goddess Pasht--but she did not quite agree with him.
“Kittens don’t want to be worshipped,” she said. “They just want to be
cuddled.”
“By their priestesses--yes. If you had been born on the banks of the
Nile five thousand years ago, Emily, you would have been a priestess of
Pasht--an adorable, slim, brown creature with a fillet of gold around
your black hair and bands of silver on those ankles Aunt Nancy admires,
with dozens of sacred little godlings frisking around you under the
palms of the temple courts.”
“Oh,” gasped Emily rapturously, “that gave me _the flash_. And,” she
added wonderingly, “just for a moment it made me _homesick_, too. Why?”
“Why? Because I haven’t a doubt you _were_ just such a priestess in
a former incarnation and my words reminded your soul of it. Do you
believe in the doctrine of the transmigration of souls, Star? But of
course not--brought up by the true-blue Calvinists of New Moon.”
“What does it mean?” asked Emily, and when Dean explained it to her she
thought it a very delightful belief but was quite sure Aunt Elizabeth
would not approve of it.
“So I won’t believe it--yet,” she said gravely.
Then it all came to an end quite suddenly. It had been taken for
granted by all concerned that Emily was to stay at Wyther Grange until
the end of August. But in mid-August Aunt Nancy said suddenly to her
one day,
“Go home, Emily. I’m tired of you. I like you very well--you’re not
stupid and you’re passably pretty and you’ve behaved exceedingly
well--tell Elizabeth you do the Murrays credit--but I’m tired of you.
Go home.”
Emily’s feelings were mixed. It hurt her to be told Aunt Nancy was
tired of her--it would hurt any one. It rankled in her for several days
until she thought of a sharp answer she might have made Aunt Nancy and
wrote it down in her Jimmy-book. She felt quite as relieved then as if
she had really said it.
And she was sorry to leave Wyther Grange; she had grown to love the
old beautiful house, with its flavour of hidden secrets--a flavour
that was wholly a trick of its architecture, for there had never been
anything in it but the simple tale of births and deaths and marriages
and everyday living that most houses have. She was sorry to leave the
bay shore and the quaint garden and the gazing-ball and the chessy-cat
and the Pink Room bed of freedom; and most of all she was sorry to
leave Dean Priest. But on the other hand it was delightful to think
of going back to New Moon and all the loved ones there--Teddy and his
dear whistle, Ilse and her stimulating comradeship, Perry with his
determined reaching up for higher things, Saucy Sal and the new kitten
that must be needing proper training now, and the fairy world of the
_Midsummer Night’s Dream_. Cousin Jimmy’s garden would be in its prime
of splendour, the August apples would be ripe. Suddenly, Emily was very
ready to go. She packed her little black box jubilantly and found it an
excellent chance to work in neatly a certain line from a poem Dean had
recently read to her which had captured her fancy.
“‘Good-bye, proud world, I’m going home,’” she declaimed feelingly,
standing at the top of the long, dark, shining staircase and
apostrophizing the row of grim Priest photographs hanging on the wall.
But she was much annoyed over one thing. Aunt Nancy would not give her
back the picture Teddy had painted.
“I’m going to keep it,” Aunt Nancy said, grinning and shaking her gold
tassels. “Some day that picture will be worth something as the early
effort of a famous artist.”
“I only lent it to you--I told you I only lent it to you,” said Emily
indignantly.
“I’m an unscrupulous old demon,” said Aunt Nancy coolly. “That is
what the Priests all call me behind my back. Don’t they, Caroline?
May as well have the game as the name. I happen to have a fancy for
that picture, that’s all. I’m going to frame it and hang it here in my
parlour. But I’ll leave it to you in my will--that and the chessy-cat
and the gazing-ball and my gold earrings. Nothing else--I’m not going
to leave you a cent of my money--never count on that.”
“I don’t want it,” said Emily loftily. “I’m going to earn heaps of
money for myself. But it isn’t fair of you to keep my picture. It was
given to me.”
“I never was fair,” said Aunt Nancy. “Was I, Caroline?”
“No,” said Caroline shrewishly.
“You see. Now don’t make a fuss, Emily. You’ve been a very good child
but I feel that I’ve done my duty by you for this year. Go back to New
Moon and when Elizabeth won’t let you do things tell her _I_ always let
you. I don’t know if it will do any good but try it. Elizabeth, like
every one else related to me, is always wondering what I’m going to do
with my money.”
Cousin Jimmy came over for Emily. How glad she was to see his kind face
with its gentle, elfish eyes and forked beard again! But she felt very
badly when she turned to Dean.
“If you like I’ll kiss you good-bye,” she said chokily.
Emily did not like kissing people. She did not really want to kiss
Dean but she liked him so much she thought she ought to extend all the
courtesies to him.
Dean looked down smiling into her face, so young, so pure, so softly
curved.
“No, I don’t want you to kiss me--yet. And our first kiss mustn’t have
the flavour of good-bye. It would be a bad omen. Star O’ Morning, I’m
sorry you’re going. But I’ll see you again before long. My oldest
sister lives in Blair Water, you know, and I feel a sudden access of
brotherly affection towards her. I seem to see myself visiting her very
often henceforth. In the meantime remember you have promised to write
me every week. And I’ll write you.”
“Nice fat letters,” coaxed Emily. “I love fat letters.”
“Fat! They’ll be positively corpulent, Star. Now, I’m not even going to
_say_ good-bye. Let’s make a pact, Star. We’ll never _say_ good-bye to
each other. We’ll just smile and go.”
Emily made a gallant effort--smiled--and went. Aunt Nancy and Caroline
returned to the back parlour and their cribbage. Dean Priest whistled
for Tweed and went to the bay shore. He was so lonely that he laughed
at himself.
Emily and Cousin Jimmy had so much to talk of that the drive home
seemed very short.
New Moon was white in the evening sunshine which also lay with
exceeding mellowness on the grey old barns. The Three Princesses,
shooting up against the silvery sky, were as remote and princessly as
ever. The old gulf was singing away down over the fields.
Aunt Laura came running out to meet them, her lovely blue eyes shining
with pleasure. Aunt Elizabeth was in the cook-house preparing supper
and only shook hands with Emily, but looked a trifle less grim and
stately than usual, and she had made Emily’s favourite cream-puffs for
supper. Perry was hanging about, barefooted and sunburned, to tell
her all the gossip of kittens and calves and little pigs and the new
foal. Ilse came swooping over, and Emily discovered she had forgotten
how vivid Ilse was--how brilliant her amber eyes, how golden her mane
of spun-silk hair, looking more golden than ever under the bright
blue silk tam Mrs. Simms had bought her in Shrewsbury. As an article
of dress, that loud tam made Laura Murray’s eyes and sensibilities