One late August evening Emily heard Teddy’s signal whistle from the Tomorrow Road, and slipped out to join him. He had news—that was evident from his shining eyes.
“Emily,” he cried excitedly, “I’m going to Shrewsbury after all! Mother told me this evening she had made up her mind to let me go!”
Emily was glad—with a queer sorriness underneath, for which she reproached herself. How lonesome it would be at New Moon when her three old pals were gone! She had not realised until that moment how much she had counted on Teddy’s companionship. He had always been there in the background of her thoughts of the coming year. She had always taken Teddy for granted. Now there would be nobody—not even Dean, for Dean was going away for the winter as usual—to Egypt or Japan, as he might decide at the last moment. What would she do? Would all the Jimmy-books in the world take the place of her flesh-and-blood chums?
“If you were only going, too!” said Teddy, as they walked along the Tomorrow Road—which was almost a Today Road now, so fast and so tall had the leafy young maples grown.
“There’s no use wishing it—don’t speak of it—it makes me unhappy,” said Emily jerkily.
“Well, we'll have week-ends anyhow. And it’s you I have to thank for going. It was what you said to Mother that night in the graveyard that made her let me go. I know she’s been thinking of it ever since, by things she would say every once in a while. One day last week I heard her muttering: ‘It’s awful to be a mother—awful to be a mother and suffer like this. Yet she called me selfish!’ And another time she said, ‘Is it selfish to want to keep the only thing you have left in the world?’ But she was lovely tonight when she told me I could go. I know folks say Mother isn’t quite right in her mind—and sometimes she is a little queer. But it’s only when other people are around. You've no idea, Emily, how nice and dear she is when we're alone. I hate to leave her. But I must get some education!”
“I’m very glad if what I said has made her change her mind, but she will never forgive me for it. She has hated me ever since—you know she has. You know how she looks at me whenever I’m at the Tansy Patch—oh, she’s very polite to me. But her eyes, Teddy.”
“I know,” said Teddy, uncomfortably. “But don’t be hard on Mother, Emily. I’m sure she wasn’t always like that—though she has been ever since I can remember. I don’t know anything of her before that. She never tells me anything—I don’t know a thing about my Father. She won't talk about him. I don’t even know how she got that scar on her face.”
“I don’t think there’s anything the matter with your Mother’s mind, really,” said Emily slowly. “But I think there’s something troubling it—always troubling it—something she can’t forget or throw off. Teddy, I’m sure your mother is haunted. Of course, I don’t mean by a ghost or anything silly like that. But by some terrible thought.”
“She isn’t happy, I know,” said Teddy, “and, of course, we're poor. Mother said tonight she could only send me to Shrewsbury for three years—that was all she could afford. But that will give me a start—I’ll get on somehow after that. I know I can. I’ll make it up to her yet.”
“You will be a great artist some day,” said Emily dreamily.
They had come to the end of the Tomorrow Road. Before them was the pond pasture, whitened over with a drift of daisies. Farmers hate the daisies as a pestiferous weed, but a field white with them on a summer twilight is a vision from the Land of Lost Delight. Beneath them Blair Water shone like a great golden lily. Up on the eastern hill the little Disappointed House crouched amid its shadows, dreaming, perhaps, of the false bride that had never come to it. There was no light at the Tansy Patch. Was lonely Mrs. Kent crying there in the darkness, with only her secret, tormenting heart-hunger for companion?
Emily was looking at the sunset sky—her eyes rapt, her face pale and seeking. She felt no longer blue or depressed—somehow she never could feel that way long in Teddy’s company. In all the world there was no music like his voice. All good things seemed suddenly possible with him. She could not go to Shrewsbury—but she could work and study at New Moon—oh, how she would work and study. Another year with Mr. Carpenter would do a great deal for her—as much as Shrewsbury, perhaps. She, too, had her Alpine Path to climb—she would climb it, no matter what the obstacles in the way—no matter whether there was any one to help her or not.
“When I am I'll paint you just as you’re looking now,” said Teddy, “and call it Joan of Arc—with a face all spirit—listening to her voices.”
In spite of her voices Emily went to bed that night feeling rather down-hearted—and woke in the morning with an unaccountable conviction that some good news was coming to her that day—a conviction that did not lessen as the hours passed by in the commonplace fashion of Saturday hours at New Moon—busy hours in which the house was made immaculate for Sunday, and the pantry replenished. It was a cool, damp day when the fogs were coming up from the shore on the east wind, and New Moon and its old garden were veiled in mist.
At twilight a thin, grey rain began to fall, and still the good news had not come. Emily had just finished scouring the brass candlesticks and composing a poem called Rain Song, simultaneously, when Aunt Laura told her that Aunt Elizabeth wanted to see her in the parlour.
Emily’s recollections of parlour interviews with Aunt Elizabeth were not especially pleasant. She could not recall any recent deed, done or left undone, which would justify this summons, yet she walked into the parlour quakingly: whatever Aunt Elizabeth was going to say to her it must have some special significance or it would not be said in the parlour. This was just one of Aunt Elizabeth’s little ways. Daffy, her big cat, slipped in beside her like a noiseless, grey shadow. She hoped Aunt Elizabeth would not shoo him out: his presence was a certain comfort: a cat is a good backer when he is on your side!
Aunt Elizabeth was knitting; she looked solemn but not offended or angry. She ignored Daff, but thought that Emily seemed very tall in the old, stately, twilit room. How quickly children grew up! It seemed but the other day since fair, pretty Juliet—Elizabeth Murray shut her thoughts off with a click.
“Sit down, Emily,” she said. “I want to have a talk with you.”
Emily sat down. So did Daffy, wreathing his tail comfortably about his paws. Emily suddenly felt that her hands were clammy and her mouth dry. She wished that she had knitting, too. It was nasty to sit there, unoccupied, and wonder what was coming. What did come was the one thing she had never thought of. Aunt Elizabeth, after knitting a deliberate round on her stocking, said directly:
“Emily, would you like to go to Shrewsbury next week?”
Go to Shrewsbury? Had she heard aright?
“Oh, Aunt Elizabeth!” she said.
“I have been talking the matter over with your uncles and aunts,” said Aunt Elizabeth. “They agree with me that you should have some further education. It will be a considerable expense, of course—no, don’t interrupt. I don’t like interruptions—but Ruth will board you for half-price, as her contribution to your up-bringing—Emily, I will not be interrupted! Your Uncle Oliver will pay the other half; your Uncle Wallace will provide your books, and I will see to your clothes. You will, of course, help your Aunt Ruth about the house in every way possible as some return for her kindness. You may go to Shrewsbury for three years on a certain condition.”
What was the condition? Emily, who wanted to dance and sing and laugh through the old parlour as no Murray, not even her mother, had ever ventured to dance and laugh before, constrained herself to sit rigidly on her ottoman and ask herself that question. Behind her suspense she felt that the moment was quite dramatic.
“Three years at Shrewsbury,” Aunt Elizabeth went on, “will do as much for you as three at Queen’s—except, of course, that you don’t get a teacher’s license, which doesn’t matter in your case, as you are not under the necessity of working for your living. But, as I have said, there is a condition.”
Why didn’t Aunt Elizabeth name the condition? Emily felt that the suspense was unendurable. Could it be possible that Aunt Elizabeth was a little afraid to name it? It was not like her to talk for time. Was it so very terrible?
“You must promise,” said Aunt Elizabeth sternly, “that for the three years you are at Shrewsbury you will give up entirely this writing nonsense of yours—entirely, except in so far as school compositions may be required.”
Emily sat very still—and cold. No Shrewsbury on the one hand—on the other no more poems, no more stories and “studies,” no more delightful Jimmy-books of miscellany. She did not take more than one instant to make up her mind.
“I can’t promise that, Aunt Elizabeth,” she said resolutely.
Aunt Elizabeth dropped her knitting in amazement. She had not expected this. She had thought Emily was so set on going to Shrewsbury that she would do anything that might be asked of her in order to go—especially such a trifling thing as this—which, so Aunt Elizabeth thought, involved only a surrender of stubbornness.
“Do you mean to say you won’t give up your foolish scribbling for the sake of the education you’ve always pretended to want so much?” she demanded.
“Not that I won’t—it’s just that I can’t,” said Emily despairingly. She knew Aunt Elizabeth could not understand—Aunt Elizabeth never had understood this. “I can’t help writing, Aunt Elizabeth. It’s in my blood. There’s no use in asking me. I do want an education—it isn’t pretending—but I can’t give up my writing to get it. I couldn’t keep such a promise—so what use would there be in making it?”
“Then you can stay home,” said Aunt Elizabeth angrily.
Emily expected to see her get up and walk out of the room. Instead, Aunt Elizabeth picked up her stocking and wrathfully resumed her knitting. To tell the truth, Aunt Elizabeth was absurdly taken aback. She really wanted to send Emily to Shrewsbury. Tradition required so much of her, and all the clan were of opinion she should be sent. This condition had been her own idea. She thought it a good chance to break Emily of a silly un-Murray-like habit of wasting time and paper, and she had never doubted that her plan would succeed, for she knew how much Emily wanted to go. And now this senseless, unreasoning, ungrateful obstinacy—“the Starr coming out,” thought Aunt Elizabeth rancorously, forgetful of the Shipley inheritance! What was to be done? She knew too well from past experience that there would be no moving Emily once she had taken up a position, and she knew that Wallace and Oliver and Ruth, though they thought Emily’s craze for writing as silly and untraditional as she did, would not back her—Elizabeth—up in her demand. Elizabeth Murray foresaw a complete right-about-face before her, and Elizabeth Murray did not like the prospect. She could have shaken, with a right good will, the slim, pale thing sitting before her on the ottoman. The creature was so slight—and young—and indomitable. For over three years Elizabeth Murray had tried to cure Emily of this foolishness of writing and for over three years she, who had never failed in anything before, had failed in this. One couldn’t starve her into submission—and nothing short of it would seem to be efficacious.
Elizabeth knitted furiously in her vexation, and Emily sat motionless, struggling with her bitter disappointment and sense of injustice. She was determined she would not cry before Aunt Elizabeth, but it was hard to keep the tears back. She wished Daff wouldn’t purr with such resounding satisfaction, as if everything were perfectly delicious from a grey cat’s point of view. She wished Aunt Elizabeth would tell her to go. But Aunt Elizabeth only knitted furiously and said nothing. It all seemed rather nightmarish. The wind was rising and the rain began to drive against the pane, and the dead-and-gone Murrays looked down accusingly from their dark frames. They had no sympathy with flashes and Jimmy-books and Alpine paths—with the pursuit of unwon, alluring divinities. Yet Emily couldn’t help thinking, under all her disappointment, what an excellent setting it would make for some tragic scene in a novel.
The door opened and Cousin Jimmy slipped in. Cousin Jimmy knew what was in the wind and had been coolly and deliberately listening outside the door. He knew Emily would never promise such a thing—he had told Elizabeth so at the family council ten days before. He was only simple Jimmy Murray, but he understood what sensible Elizabeth Murray could not understand.
“What is wrong?” he asked, looking from one to the other.
“Nothing is wrong,” said Aunt Elizabeth haughtily. “I have offered Emily an education and she has refused it. She is free to do so, of course.”
“No one can be free who has a thousand ancestors,” said Cousin Jimmy in the eerie tone in which he generally said such things. It always made Elizabeth shiver—she could never forget that his eeriness was her fault. “Emily can’t promise what you want. Can you, Emily?”
“No.” In spite of herself a couple of big tears rolled down Emily’s cheeks.
“If you could,” said Cousin Jimmy, “you would promise it for me, wouldn’t you?”
Emily nodded.
“You’ve asked too much, Elizabeth,” said Cousin Jimmy to the angry lady of the knitting-needles. ‘“You’ve asked her to give up all her writing—now, if you’d just asked her to give up some—Emily, what if she just asked you to give up some? You might be able to do that, mightn’t you?”
“What some?” asked Emily cautiously.
“Well, anything that wasn’t true, for instance.” Cousin Jimmy sidled over to Emily and put a beseeching hand on her shoulder. Elizabeth did not stop knitting, but the needles went more slowly. “Stories, for instance, Emily. She doesn’t like your writing stories, especially. She thinks they’re lies. She doesn’t mind other things so much. Don’t you think, Emily, you could give up writing stories for three years? An education is a great thing. Your grandmother Archibald would have lived on herring tails to get an education—many a time I’ve heard her say it. Come, Emily?”
Emily thought rapidly. She loved writing stories: it would be a hard thing to give them up. But if she could still write air-born fancies in verse—and weird little Jimmy-book sketches of character—and accounts of everyday events—witty—satirical—tragic—as the humour took her—she might be able to get along.
“Try her—try her,” whispered Cousin Jimmy. “Propitiate her a little. You do owe her a great deal, Emily. Meet her half-way.”
“Aunt Elizabeth,” said Emily tremulously, “if you will send me to Shrewsbury I promise you that for three years I won’t write anything that isn’t true. Will that do? Because it’s all I can promise.”
Elizabeth knitted two rounds before deigning to reply. Cousin Jimmy and Emily thought she was not going to reply at all. Suddenly she folded up her knitting and rose.
“Very well. I will let it go at that. It is, of course, your stories I object to most: as for the rest, I fancy Ruth will see to it that you have not much time to waste on it.”
Aunt Elizabeth swept out, much relieved in her secret heart that she had not been utterly routed, but had been enabled to retreat from a perplexing position with some of the honours of war. Cousin Jimmy patted Emily’s black head.
“That’s good, Emily. Mustn’t be too stubborn, you know. And three years isn’t a lifetime, pussy.”
No: but it seems like one at fourteen. Emily cried herself to sleep when she went to bed—and woke again at three by the clock, of that windy, dark-grey night on the old north shore—rose—lighted a candle—sat down at her table and described the whole scene in her Jimmy-book: being exceedingly careful to write therein no word that was not strictly true!