Emily of New Moon
“I don’t know--oh, some one has told her, of course--perhaps that old
demon of a Nancy Priest. It doesn’t matter who. She _has_ heard it
and the thing is to keep her quiet. It isn’t so much of a job to put
ladders in the well and get some one to go down it. The thing that
matters is the absurdity of it.”
“We’ll be laughed at for a pair of fools,” protested Laura, whose share
of Murray pride was in hot revolt. “And besides, it will open up all
the old scandal again.”
“No matter. I’ll keep my word to the child,” said Elizabeth stubbornly.
* * * * *
Allan Burnley came to New Moon at sunset, on his way home from town. He
was tired, for he had been going night and day for over a week; he was
more worried than he had admitted over Emily; he looked old and rather
desolate as he stepped into the New Moon kitchen.
Only Cousin Jimmy was there. Cousin Jimmy did not seem to have much to
do, although it was a good hay-day and Jimmy Joe Belle and Perry were
hauling in the great fragrant, sun-dried loads. He sat by the western
window with a strange expression on his face.
“Hello, Jimmy, where are the girls? And how is Emily?”
“Emily is better,” said Cousin Jimmy. “The rash is out and her fever
has gone down. I think she’s asleep.”
“Good. We couldn’t afford to lose that little girl, could we, Jimmy?”
“No,” said Jimmy. But he did not seem to want to talk about it. “Laura
and Elizabeth are in the sitting-room. They want to see you.” He paused
a minute and then added in an eerie way, “There is nothing hidden that
shall not be revealed.”
It occurred to Allan Burnley that Jimmy was acting mysteriously. And
if Laura and Elizabeth wanted to see him why didn’t they come out? It
wasn’t like them to stand on ceremony in this fashion. He pushed open
the sitting-room door impatiently.
Laura Murray was sitting on the sofa, leaning her head on its arm. He
could not see her face but he felt that she was crying. Elizabeth
was sitting bolt upright on a chair. She wore her second-best black
silk and her second-best lace cap. And she, too, had been crying. Dr.
Burnley never attached much importance to Laura’s tears, easy as those
of most women, but that Elizabeth Murray should cry--had he ever seen
her cry before?
The thought of Ilse flashed into his mind--his little neglected
daughter. Had anything happened to Ilse?
In one dreadful moment Allan Burnley paid the price of his treatment of
his child.
“What is wrong?” he exclaimed in his gruffest manner.
“Oh, Allan,” said Elizabeth Murray. “God forgive us--God forgive us
all!”
“It--is--Ilse,” said Dr. Burnley, dully.
“No--no--not Ilse.”
Then she told him--she told him what had been found at the bottom of
the old Lee well--she told him what had been the real fate of the
lovely, laughing young wife whose name for twelve bitter years had
never crossed his lips.
* * * * *
It was not until the next evening that Emily saw the doctor. She was
lying in bed, weak and limp, red as a beet with the measles rash, but
quite herself again. Allan Burnley stood by the bed and looked down at
her.
“Emily--dear little child--do you know what you have done for me? God
knows how you did it.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in God,” said Emily, wonderingly.
“You have given me back my faith in Him, Emily.”
“Why, what have I done?”
Dr. Burnley saw that she had no remembrance of her delirium. Laura had
told him that she had slept long and soundly after Elizabeth’s promise
and had awakened with fever gone and the eruption fast coming out. She
had asked nothing and they had said nothing.
“When you are better we will tell you all,” he said, smiling down at
her. There was something very sorrowful in the smile--and yet something
very sweet.
“He is smiling with his eyes as well as his mouth now,” thought Emily.
“How--how did she know?” whispered Laura Murray to him when he went
down. “I--can’t understand it, Allan.”
“Nor I. These things are beyond us, Laura,” he answered gravely. “I
only know this child has given Beatrice back to me, stainless and
beloved. It can be explained rationally enough perhaps. Emily has
evidently been told about Beatrice and worried over it--her repeated
‘she couldn’t have done it’ shows that. And the tales of the old Lee
well naturally made a deep impression on the mind of a sensitive child
keenly alive to dramatic values. In her delirium she mixed this all up
with the well-known fact of Jimmy’s tumble into the New Moon well--and
the rest was coincidence. I would have explained it all so myself
once--but now--now, Laura, I only say humbly, ‘A little child shall
lead them.’”
“Our stepmother’s mother was a Highland Scotchwoman. They said she had
the second sight,” said Elizabeth. “I never believed in it--before.”
The excitement of Blair Water had died away before Emily was deemed
strong enough to hear the story. That which had been found in the old
Lee well had been buried in the Mitchell plot at Shrewsbury and a
white marble shaft, “Sacred to the memory of Beatrice Burnley, beloved
wife of Allan Burnley,” had been erected. The sensation caused by Dr.
Burnley’s presence every Sunday in the old Burnley pew had died away.
On the first evening that Emily was allowed to sit up Aunt Laura told
her the whole story. Her manner of telling stripped it forever of the
taint and innuendo left by Aunt Nancy.
“I _knew_ Ilse’s mother couldn’t have done it,” said Emily triumphantly.
“We blame ourselves now for our lack of faith,” said Aunt Laura. “We
should have known too--but it _did_ seem black against her at the time,
Emily. She was a bright, beautiful, merry creature--we thought her
close friendship with her cousin natural and harmless. We know now it
was so--but all these years since her disappearance we have believed
differently. Mr. James Lee remembers clearly that the well was open
the night of Beatrice’s disappearance. His hired man had taken the
old rotten planks off it that evening, intending to put the new ones
on at once. Then Robert Greerson’s house caught fire and he ran with
everybody else to help save it. By the time it was out it was too dark
to finish with the well, and the man said nothing about it until the
morning. Mr. Lee was angry with him--he said it was a scandalous thing
to leave a well uncovered like that. He went right down and put the
new planks in place himself. He did not look down in the well--had he
looked he could have seen nothing, for the ferns growing out from the
sides screened the depths. It was just after harvest. No one was in
the field again before the next spring. He never connected Beatrice’s
disappearance with the open well--he wonders now that he didn’t. But
you see--dear--there had been much malicious gossip--and Beatrice was
_known_ to have gone on board _The Lady of Winds_. It was taken for
granted she never came off again. But she did--and went to her death
in the old Lee field. It was a dreadful ending to her bright young
life--but not so dreadful, after all, as what we believed. For twelve
years we have wronged the dead. But--Emily--how could you _know_?”
“I--don’t--know. When the doctor came in that day I couldn’t remember
anything--but now it seems to me that I remember something--just as
if I’d dreamed it--of _seeing_ Ilse’s mother coming over the fields,
singing. It was dark--and yet I could see the ace of hearts--oh, Aunty,
I don’t know--I don’t like to think of it, some way.”
“We won’t talk of it again,” said Aunt Laura gently. “It is one of the
things best not talked of--one of God’s secrets.”
“And Ilse--does her father love her now?” asked Emily eagerly.
“Love her! He can’t love her enough. It seems as if he were pouring out
on her at once all the shut-up love of those twelve years.”
“He’ll likely spoil her now as much with indulgence as he did before
with neglect,” said Elizabeth, coming in with Emily’s supper in time to
hear Laura’s reply.
“It will take a lot of love to spoil Ilse,” laughed Laura. “She’s
drinking it up like a thirsty sponge. And she loves him wildly in
return. There isn’t a trace of grudge in her over his long neglect.”
“All the same,” said Elizabeth grimly, tucking pillows behind Emily’s
back with a very gentle hand, oddly in contrast with her severe
expression, “he won’t get off so easily. Ilse has run wild for twelve
years. He won’t find it so easy to make her behave properly now--if he
ever does.”
“Love will do wonders,” said Aunt Laura softly. “Of course, Ilse is
dying to come and see you, Emily. But she must wait until there is no
danger of infection. I told her she might write--but when she found I
would have to read it because of your eyes she said she’d wait till you
could read it yourself. Evidently”--Laura laughed again--“evidently
Ilse has much of importance to tell you.”
“I didn’t know anybody could be as happy as I am now,” said Emily.
“And oh, Aunt Elizabeth, it is _so_ nice to feel hungry again and to
have something to _chew_.”
CHAPTER XXXI
EMILY’S GREAT MOMENT
Emily’s convalescence was rather slow. Physically she recovered with
normal celerity but a certain spiritual and emotional languor persisted
for a time. One cannot go down to the depths of hidden things and
escape the penalty. Aunt Elizabeth said she “moped.” But Emily was
too happy and contented to mope. It was just that life seemed to have
lost its savour for a time, as if some spring of vital energy had been
drained out of it and refilled slowly.
She had, just then, no one to play with. Perry, Ilse and Teddy had
all come down with measles the same day. Mrs. Kent at first declared
bitterly that Teddy had caught them at New Moon, but all three had
contracted them at a Sunday School picnic where Derry Pond children had
been. That picnic infected all Blair Water. There was a perfect orgy of
measles. Teddy and Ilse were only moderately ill, but Perry, who had
insisted on going home to Aunt Tom at the first symptoms, nearly died.
Emily was not allowed to know his danger until it had passed, lest
it worry her too much. Even Aunt Elizabeth worried over it. She was
surprised to discover how much they missed Perry round the place.
It was fortunate for Emily that Dean Priest was in Blair Water during
this forlorn time. His companionship was just what she needed and
helped her wonderfully on the road to complete recovery. They went for
long walks together all over Blair Water, with Tweed woofing around
them, and explored places and roads Emily had never seen before. They
watched a young moon grow old, night by night; they talked in dim
scented chambers of twilight over long red roads of mystery; they
followed the lure of hill winds; they saw the stars rise and Dean told
her all about them--the great constellations of the old myths. It
was a wonderful month; but on the first day of Teddy’s convalescence
Emily was off to the Tansy Patch for the afternoon and Jarback Priest
walked--if he walked at all--alone.
Aunt Elizabeth was extremely polite to him, though she did not like the
Priests of Priest Pond overmuch, and never felt quite comfortable under
the mocking gleam of “Jarback’s” green eyes and the faint derision of
his smile, which seemed to make Murray pride and Murray traditions seem
much less important than they really were.
“He has the Priest flavour,” she told Laura, “though it isn’t as strong
in him as in most of them. And he’s certainly helping Emily--she has
begun to spunk up since he came.”
Emily continued to “spunk up” and by September, when the measles
epidemic was spent and Dean Priest had gone on one of his sudden swoops
over to Europe for the autumn, she was ready for school again--a
little taller, a little thinner, a little less childlike, with great