Emily of New Moon
singing in the trees, and drifted into sleep wishing intensely that she
could solve the dark old mystery and dissolve its legend of shame and
bitterness.
Emily went rather languidly upstairs to the lookout. She meant to
write some more of her story, _The Ghost of the Well_, wherein she
was weaving the old legend of the well in the Lee field; but somehow
interest was lacking; she put the manuscript back into the mantel
cupboard; she read over a letter from Dean Priest which had come that
day, one of his fat, jolly, whimsical, delightful letters wherein he
had told her that he was coming to stay a month with his sister at
Blair Water. She wondered why this announcement did not excite her
more. She was tired--her head was aching. Emily couldn’t remember ever
having had a headache before. Since she could not write she decided to
lie down and be _Lady Trevanion_ for awhile. Emily was _Lady Trevanion_
very often that summer, in one of the dream lives she had begun to
build up for herself. _Lady Trevanion_ was the wife of an English earl
and, besides being a famous novelist, was a member of the British House
of Commons--where she always appeared in black velvet with a stately
coronet of pearls on her dark hair. She was the only woman in the House
and, as this was before the days of the suffragettes, she had to endure
many sneers and innuendoes and insults from the ungallant males around
her. Emily’s favourite dream scene was where she rose to make her first
speech--a wonderfully thrilling event. As Emily found it difficult
to do justice to the scene in any ideas of her own, she always fell
back on “Pitt’s reply to Walpole,” which she had found in her _Royal
Reader_, and declaimed it, with suitable variations. The insolent
speaker who had provoked _Lady Trevanion_ into speech had sneered at
her as a _woman_, and _Lady Trevanion_, a magnificent creature in her
velvet and pearls, rose to her feet, amid hushed and dramatic silence,
and said,
“The atrocious crime of being a _woman_ which the honourable member
has, with such spirit and decency, charged upon me, I shall attempt
neither to palliate nor deny, but shall content myself with wishing
that I may be one of those whose follies cease with their _sex_ and
_not_ one of that number who are ignorant in spite of _manhood_ and
experience.”
(Here she was always interrupted by thunders of applause.)
But the savour was entirely lacking in this scene today and by the
time Emily had reached the line, “But _womanhood_, Sir, is not my only
crime”--she gave up in disgust and fell to worrying over Ilse’s mother
again, mixed up with some uneasy speculations regarding the climax of
her story about the ghost of the well, mingled with her unpleasant
physical sensations.
Her eyes hurt her when she moved them. She was chilly, although the
July day was hot. She was still lying there when Aunt Elizabeth came up
to ask why she hadn’t gone to bring the cows home from the pasture.
“I--I didn’t know it was so late,” said Emily confusedly. “I--my head
aches, Aunt Elizabeth.”
Aunt Elizabeth rolled up the white cotton blind and looked at Emily.
She noted her flushed face--she felt her pulse. Then she bade her
shortly to stay where she was, went down, and sent Perry for Dr.
Burnley.
“Probably she’s got the measles,” said the doctor as gruffly as usual.
Emily was not yet sick enough to be gentle over. “There’s an outbreak
of them at Derry Pond. Has she had any chance to catch them?”
“Jimmy Joe Belle’s two children were here one afternoon about ten days
ago. She played with them--she’s always playing round with people
she’s no business to associate with. I haven’t heard that they were or
have been sick though.”
Jimmy Joe Belle, when asked plainly, confessed that his “young ones”
had come out with measles the very day after they had been at New Moon.
There was therefore not much doubt as to Emily’s malady.
“It’s a bad kind of measles apparently,” the doctor said. “Quite a
number of the Derry Pond children have died of it. Mostly French
though--the kids would be out of bed when they had no business to be
and caught cold. I don’t think you need worry about Emily. She might as
well have measles and be done with it. Keep her warm and keep the room
dark. I’ll run over in the morning.”
For three or four days nobody was much alarmed. Measles was a disease
everybody had to have. Aunt Elizabeth looked after Emily well and slept
on a sofa which had been moved into the lookout. She even left the
window open at night. In spite of this--perhaps Aunt Elizabeth thought
because of it--Emily grew steadily sicker, and on the fifth day a sharp
change for the worse took place. Her fever went up rapidly, delirium
set in; Dr. Burnley came, looked anxious, scowled, changed the medicine.
“I’m sent for to a bad case of pneumonia at White Cross,” he said, “and
I have to go to Charlottetown in the morning to be present at Mrs.
Jackwell’s operation. I promised her I would go. I’ll be back in the
evening. Emily is very restless--that high-strung system of hers is
evidently very sensitive to fever. What’s that nonsense she’s talking
about the Wind Woman?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Aunt Elizabeth worriedly. “She’s always
talking nonsense like that, even when she’s well. Allan, tell me
plainly--is there any danger?”
“There’s always danger in this type of measles. I don’t like these
symptoms--the eruption should be out by now and there’s no sign of
it. Her fever is very high--but I don’t think we need be alarmed
yet. If I thought otherwise I wouldn’t go to town. Keep her as quiet
as possible--humour her whims if you can--I don’t like that mental
disturbance. She looks terribly distressed--seems to be worrying over
something. Has she had anything on her mind of late?”
“Not that I know of,” said Aunt Elizabeth. She had a sudden bitter
realisation that she really did not know much about the child’s mind.
Emily would never have come to her with any of her little troubles and
worries.
“Emily, what is bothering you?” asked Dr. Burnley softly--very softly.
He took the hot, tossing, little hand gently, oh, so gently, in his big
one.
Emily looked up with wild, fever-bright eyes.
“She couldn’t have done it--she _couldn’t_ have done it.”
“Of course she couldn’t,” said the doctor cheerily. “Don’t worry--she
didn’t do it.”
His eyes telegraphed, “What does she mean?” to Elizabeth, but Elizabeth
shook her head.
“Who are you talking about--dear?” she asked Emily. It was the first
time she had called Emily “dear.”
But Emily was off on another tack. The well in Mr. Lee’s field was
open, she declared. Someone would be sure to fall into it. Why didn’t
Mr. Lee shut it up? Dr. Burnley left Aunt Elizabeth trying to reassure
Emily on that point and hurried away to White Cross.
At the door he nearly fell over Perry who was curled up on the
sandstone slab, hugging his sunburned legs desperately. “How is Emily?”
he demanded, grasping the skirt of the doctor’s coat.
“Don’t bother me--I’m in a hurry,” growled the doctor.
“You tell me how Emily is or I’ll hang on to your coat till the seams
go,” said Perry stubbornly. “I can’t get one word of sense out of them
old maids. _You_ tell me.”
“She’s a sick child but I’m not seriously alarmed about her yet.” The
doctor gave his coat another tug--but Perry held on for a last word.
“You’ve _got_ to cure her,” he said. “If anything happens to Emily I’ll
drown myself in the pond--mind that.”
He let go so suddenly that Dr. Burnley nearly went headlong on the
ground. Then Perry curled up on the doorstep again. He watched there
until Laura and Cousin Jimmy had gone to bed and then he sneaked
through the house and sat on the stairs, where he could hear any sound
in Emily’s room. He sat there all night, with his fists clenched, as if
keeping guard against an unseen foe.
Elizabeth Murray watched by Emily until two o’clock, and then Laura
took her place.
“She has raved a great deal,” said Aunt Elizabeth. “I wish I knew what
is worrying her--there _is_ something, I feel sure. It isn’t all mere
delirium. She keeps repeating ‘She couldn’t have done it’ in such
imploring tones. I wonder oh, Laura, you remember the time I read her
letters? Do you think she means me?”
Laura shook her head. She had never seen Elizabeth so moved.
“If the child--doesn’t get--better--” said Aunt Elizabeth. She said no
more but went quickly out of the room.
Laura sat down by the bed. She was pale and drawn with her own worry
and fatigue--for she had not been able to sleep. She loved Emily as
her own child and the awful dread that had possessed her heart would
not lift for an instant. She sat there and prayed mutely. Emily fell
into a troubled slumber which lasted until the grey dawn crept into
the lookout. Then she opened her eyes and looked at Aunt Laura--looked
through her--looked beyond her.
“I see her coming over the fields,” she said in a high, clear voice.
“She is coming so gladly--she is singing--she is thinking of her
baby--oh, keep her back--keep her back--she doesn’t see the well--it’s
so dark she doesn’t see it--oh, she’s gone into it--she’s gone into it!”
Emily’s voice rose in a piercing shriek which penetrated to Aunt
Elizabeth’s room and brought her flying across the hall in her flannel
nightgown.
“What is wrong, Laura?” she gasped.
Laura was trying to soothe Emily, who was struggling to sit up in bed.
Her cheeks were crimson and her eyes had still the same far, wild look.
“Emily--Emily, darling, you’ve just had a bad dream. The old Lee well
isn’t open--nobody has fallen into it.”
“Yes, somebody has,” said Emily shrilly. “_She_ has--I saw her--I saw
her--with the ace of hearts on her forehead. Do you think I don’t know
her?”
She fell back on her pillow, moaned, and tossed the hands which Laura
Murray had loosened in her surprise.
The two ladies of New Moon looked at each other across her bed in
dismay--and something like terror.
“Who did you see, Emily?” asked Aunt Elizabeth.
“Ilse’s mother--of course. I always knew she didn’t do that dreadful
thing. She fell into the old well--she’s there now--go--go and get her
out, Aunt Laura. _Please._”
“Yes--yes, of course we’ll get her out, darling,” said Aunt Laura,
soothingly.
Emily sat up in bed and looked at Aunt Laura again. This time she did
not look through her--she looked into her. Laura Murray felt that
those burning eyes read her soul.
“You are lying to me,” cried Emily. “You don’t mean to try to get
her out. You are only saying it to put me off. Aunt Elizabeth,” she
suddenly turned and caught Aunt Elizabeth’s hand, “you’ll do it for me,
won’t you? You’ll go and get her out of the old well, won’t you?”
Elizabeth remembered that Dr. Burnley had said that Emily’s whims must
be humoured. She was terrified by the child’s condition.
“Yes, I’ll get her out if she is in there,” she said. Emily released
her hand and sank down. The wild glare left her eyes. A great sudden
calm fell over her anguished little face.
“I know _you’ll_ keep your word,” she said. “You are very hard--but
_you_ never lie, Aunt Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth Murray went back to her own room and dressed herself with her
shaking fingers. A little later, when Emily had fallen into a quiet
sleep, Laura went down stairs and heard Elizabeth giving Cousin Jimmy
some orders in the kitchen.
“Elizabeth, you don’t really mean to have that old well searched?”
“I do,” said Elizabeth resolutely. “I know it’s nonsense as well as
you do. But I had to promise it to quiet her down--and I’ll keep my
promise. You heard what she said--she believed I wouldn’t lie to her.
Nor will I. Jimmy, you will go over to James Lee’s after breakfast and
ask him to come here.”
“How has she heard the story?” said Laura.