The Complete Works of L M Montgomery, page 299
“I would just believe only the favourable ones,” said Aunt Laura.
Emily sighed.
“My tendency is just the other way. I can’t help believing the unfavourable ones are true and that the favourable ones were written by morons. But I don’t really mind much what they say about the book. It’s only when they criticize my heroine that I’m hurt and furious, I saw red over these reviews of darling Peggy. ‘A girl of extraordinary stupidity’—’the heroine has too marked a self-consciousness of her mission.’”
“I did think she was a bit of a flirt,” conceded Cousin Jimmy.
“‘A thin, sweetish heroine’—’the heroine is something of a bore’—’queer but altogether too queer.’”
“I told you she shouldn’t have had green eyes,” groaned Cousin Jimmy. “A heroine should always have blue eyes.’
“Oh, but listen to this,” cried Emily gaily—”’Peg Applegath is simply irresistible’—’Peg is a remarkably vivid personality’—’a fascinating heroine’—’Peg is too delightful not to be credited while we are under her spell’—’one of the immortal girls of literature.’ What about green eyes now, Cousin Jimmy?”
Cousin Jimmy shook his head. He was not convinced.
“Here’s a review for you,” twinkled Emily. “‘A psychological problem with roots that stretch far into subliminal depths which would give the book weight and value if it were grappled with sincerely.’”
“I know the meaning of all those words by themselves except two, but put together they don’t make any sense,” protested Cousin Jimmy ruefully.
“‘Beneath the elusiveness and atmospheric charm is a wonderful firmness of character delineation.’”
“I don’t quite get that either,” confessed Cousin Jimmy, “But it sounds kind of favourable.”
“‘A conventional and commonplace book.’”
“What does ‘conventional’ mean!” asked Aunt Elizabeth, who would not have been posed by transubstantiation or Gnosticism.
“‘Beautifully written and full of sparkling humour. Miss Starr is a real artist in literature.’”
“Oh, now, there’s a reviewer with some sense,” purred Cousin Jimmy.
“‘The general impression left by the book is that it might be much worse.’”
“That reviewer was trying to be smart, I suppose,” said Aunt Elizabeth, apparently quite oblivious of the fact that she had said the very same thing herself.
“‘This book lacks spontaneity. It is saccharine and melodramatic, mawkish and naive.’”
“I know I fell into the well,” said Cousin Jimmy pitifully. “Is that why I can’t make head or tail out of that?”
“Here’s one you can understand — perhaps. ‘Miss Starr must have invented the Applegath orchard as well as her green-eyed heroine. There are no orchards in Prince Edward Island. They are killed by the harsh, salt winds that blow across that narrow sandy strip.’”
“Read that again please, Emily.”
Emily complied. Cousin Jimmy scratched his head, then shook it. “Do they let that kind run loose over there?”
“‘The story is a charming one, charmingly told. The characters are skilfully depicted, the dialogue deftly handled, the descriptive passages surprisingly effective. The quiet humour is simply delightful.’”
“I hope this will not make you vain, Emily,” said Aunt Elizabeth warningly.
“If it does, here’s the antidote. ‘This feeble, pretentious and sentimental story — if story it can be called — is full of banalities and trivialities. A mass of disconnected episodes and scraps of conversation, intermingled with long periods of reflection and self-examination.’”
“I wonder if the creature who wrote that knew the meaning of the words himself,” said Aunt Laura.
“‘The scene of this story is laid in Prince Edward Island, a detached portion of land off the coast of Newfoundland.’”
“Don’t Yankees ever study geography?” snorted exasperated Cousin Jimmy.
“‘A story that will not corrupt its readers.’”
“There’s a real compliment now,” said Aunt Elizabeth.
Cousin Jimmy looked doubtful. It sounded all right but — of course dear little Emily’s book couldn’t corrupt anyone but —
“‘To review a book of this kind is like attempting to dissect a butterfly’s wing or strip a rose of its petals to discover the secret of its fragrance.’”
“Too highfalutin,” sniffed Aunt Elizabeth.
“‘Honeyed sentimentality which the author evidently supposes is poetic fancy.’”
“Wouldn’t I like to smack his gob,” said Cousin Jimmy feelingly.
“‘Harmless and easy reading.’”
“I don’t know why, but I don’t quite like the sound of that,” commented Aunt Laura.
“‘This story will keep a kindly smile upon your lips and in your heart as well.’”
“Come now, that’s English. I can understand that,” beamed Cousin Jimmy.
“‘We began but found it impossible to finish this crude and tiresome book.’”
“Well, all I can say,” said Cousin Jimmy indignantly, “is that the oftener I read The Moral of the Rose the better I like it. Why, I was reading it for the fourth time yesterday and I was so interested I clean forgot all about dinner.”
Emily smiled. It was better to have won her standing with the New Moon folks than with the world. What mattered it what any reviewer said when Aunt Elizabeth remarked with an air of uttering the final judgment:
“Well, I never could have believed that a pack of lies could sound as much like the real truth as that book does.”
Chapter XXIII
I
Emily, coming home one January night from an evening call, decided to use the cross-lots road that skirted the Tansy Patch. It had been a winter almost without snow and the ground under her feet was bare and hard. She seemed the only living creature abroad in the night and she walked slowly, savouring the fine, grim, eerie charm of flowerless meadows and silent woods, of the moon breaking suddenly out of black clouds over the lowlands of pointed firs; and trying, more or less successfully, not to think of the letter that had come from Ilse that day — one of Ilse’s gay, incoherent letters, where one fact stood out barely. The wedding-day was set — the fifteenth of June.
“I want you to wear harebell blue gauze over ivory taffeta for your bridesmaid dress, darling. How your black silk hair will shine over it!
“My ‘bridal robe’ is going to be of ivory velvet and old Great-aunt Edith in Scotland is sending me out her veil of rose-point and Great-aunt Theresa in the same historic land is sending me a train of silver oriental embroidery that her husband once brought home from Constantinople. I’ll veil it with tulle. Won’t I be a dazzling creature? I don’t think the dear old souls knew I existed till Dad wrote them about my ‘forthcoming nuptials.’ Dad is far more excited over everything than I am.
“Teddy and I are going to spend our honeymoon in old inns in out-of-the-way European corners — places where nobody else wants to go — Vallambroso and so on. That line of Milton’s always intrigued me—’thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks in Vallambroso.’ When you take it away from its horrible context it is a picture of sheer delight.
“I’ll be home in May for my last preparations and Teddy will come the first of June to spend a little while with his mother. How is she taking it, Emily? Have you any idea? I can’t get anything out of Teddy, so I suppose she doesn’t like it. She always hated me, I know. But then she seemed to hate everyone — with a special venom for you. I won’t be particularly fortunate in my mother-in-law. I’ll always have an eerie feeling that she’s secretly heaping maledictions on my head. However, Teddy is nice enough to make up for her. He really is. I’d no idea how nice he could be and I’m growing fonder of him every day. Honestly. When I look at him and realize how handsome and charming he is I can’t understand why I’m not madly in love with him. But it’s really much more comfortable not to be. If I were I’d be heartbroken every time we quarrelled. We’re always quarrelling — you know me of old. We always will. We’ll spoil every wonderful moment with a quarrel. But life won’t be dull.”
Emily shivered. Her own life was looking very bleak and starved just then. Oh, how — nice — it would be when the wedding was over — the wedding where she should be bride — yes, should — and was to be bridesmaid — and people done talking of it. “Harebell blue over ivory taffeta!” Sackcloth and ashes, rather.
II
“Emily. Emily Starr.”
Emily almost jumped. She had not seen Mrs. Kent in the gloom until they were face to face — at the little side path that led up to the Tansy Patch. She was standing there, bareheaded in the chill night, with outstretched hand.
“Emily, I want to have a talk with you. I saw you go past here at sunset and I’ve been watching for you ever since. Come up to the house.”
Emily would much rather have refused. Yet she turned and silently climbed the steep, root-ribbed path, with Mrs. Kent flitting before her like a little dead leaf borne along by the wind. Through the ragged old garden where nothing ever grew but tansy, and into the little house that was as shabby as it had always been. People said Teddy Kent might fix up his mother’s house a bit if he were making all the money folks said he was. But Emily knew that Mrs. Kent would not let him — would not have anything changed.
She looked around the little place curiously. She had not been in it for many years — not since the long-ago days when she and Ilse and Teddy had been children there. It seemed quite unchanged. As of yore, the house seemed to be afraid of laughter. Someone always seemed to be praying in it. It had an atmosphere of prayer. And the old willow to the west was still tap-tapping on the window with ghostly finger-tips. On the mantel was a recent photograph of Teddy — a good one. He seemed on the point of speaking — of saying something triumphant — exultant.
“Emily, I’ve found the rainbow gold. Fame — and love.”
She turned her back on it and sat down. Mrs. Kent sat opposite — a faded, shrinking little figure with the long scar slanting palely across her bitter mouth and lined face — the face that must have been very pretty once. She was looking intently, searchingly at Emily; but, as Emily instantly realized, the old smouldering hatred had gone out of her eyes — her tired eyes that must once have been young and eager and laughter-lit. She leaned forward and touched Emily’s arm with her slim, claw-like fingers.
“You know that Teddy is going to marry Ilse Burnley,” she said.
“Yes.”
“What do you feel about it?”
Emily moved impatiently.
“What do my feelings matter, Mrs. Kent? Teddy loves Ilse. She is a beautiful, brilliant, warmhearted girl. I am sure they will be very happy.”
“Do you still love him?”
Emily wondered why she did not feel resentment. But Mrs. Kent was not to be judged by ordinary rules. And here was a fine chance to save her face by a cool little lie — just a few indifferent words. “Not any longer, Mrs. Kent. Oh, I know I once imagined I did — imagining things like that is one of my weaknesses unfortunately. But I find I don’t care at all.”
Why couldn’t she say them? Well, she couldn’t, that was all. She could never, in any words, deny her love for Teddy. It was so much a part of herself that it had a divine right to truth. And was there not, too, a secret relief in feeling that here at least was one person with whom she could be herself — before whom she need not pretend or hide?
“I don’t think you have any right to ask that question, Mrs. Kent. But — I do.”
Mrs. Kent laughed silently.
“I used to hate you. I don’t hate you any longer. We are one now, you and I. We love him. And he has forgotten us — he cares nothing for us — he has gone to her.”
“He does care for you, Mrs. Kent. He always did. Surely you can understand that there is more than one kind of love. And I hope — you are not going to hate Ilse because Teddy loves her.”
“No, I don’t hate her. She is more beautiful than you, but there is no mystery about her. She will never possess him wholly as you would have. It’s quite different. But I want to know this — are you unhappy because of this?”
“No. Only for a few minutes now and then. Generally I am too much interested in my work to brood morbidly on what can’t be mine.”
Mrs. Kent had listened thirstily. “Yes — yes — exactly. I thought so. The Murrays are so sensible. Some day — some day — you’ll be glad this has happened — glad that Teddy didn’t care for you. Don’t you think you will?”
“Perhaps.”
“Oh, I am sure of it. It’s so much better for you. Oh, you don’t know the suffering and wretchedness you will be spared. It’s madness to love anything too much. God is jealous. If you married Teddy he would break your heart — they always do. It is best — you will live to feel it was best.”
Tap — tap — tap went the old willow.
“Need we talk of this any more, Mrs. Kent?”
“Do you remember that night I found you and Teddy in the graveyard?” asked Mrs. Kent, apparently deaf to Emily’s question.
“Yes.” Emily found herself remembering it very vividly — that strange wonderful night when Teddy had saved her from mad Mr. Morrison and said such sweet, unforgettable things to her.
“Oh, how I hated you that night!” exclaimed Mrs. Kent. “But I shouldn’t have said those things to you. All my life I’ve been saying things I shouldn’t. Once I said a terrible thing — such a terrible thing. I’ve never been able to get the echo of it out of my ears. And do you remember what you said to me? That was why I let Teddy go away from me. It was your doing. If he hadn’t gone you mightn’t have lost him. Are you sorry you spoke so?”
“No. If anything I said helped to clear the way for him I’m glad — glad.”
“You would do it over again?”
“I would.”
“And don’t you hate Ilse bitterly? She has taken what you wanted. You must hate her.”
“I do not. I love Ilse dearly as I always did. She has taken nothing from me that was ever mine.”
“I don’t understand it — I don’t understand it,” half whispered Mrs. Kent. “My love isn’t like that. Perhaps that is why it has always made me so unhappy. No, I don’t hate you any longer. But oh, I did hate you. I knew Teddy cared more for you than he did for me. Didn’t you and he talk about me — criticize me?”
“Never.”
“I thought you did. People were always doing that — always.”
Suddenly Mrs. Kent struck her tiny hands together violently.
“Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t love him any longer? Why didn’t you — even if it was a lie? That was what I wanted to hear. I could have believed you. The Murrays never lie.”
“Oh, what does it matter?” cried tortured Emily again. “My love means nothing to him now. He is Ilse’s. You need not be jealous of me any longer, Mrs. Kent.”
“I’m not — I’m not — it isn’t that.” Mrs. Kent looked at her oddly. “Oh, if I only dared — but no — but no, it’s too late. It would be no use now. I don’t think I know what I’m saying. Only — Emily — will you come to see me sometimes? It’s lonely here — very lonely — so much worse now when he belongs to Ilse. His picture came last Wednesday — no, Thursday. There is so little to distinguish the days here. I put it up there, but it makes things worse. He was thinking of her in it — can’t you tell by his eyes he was thinking of the woman he loves? I am of no importance to him now. I am of no importance to anybody.”
“If I come to see you — you mustn’t talk of him — or of them,” said Emily, pitingly.
“I won’t. Oh, I won’t. Though that won’t prevent us from thinking of them, will it? You’ll sit there — and I’ll sit here — and we’ll talk of the weather and think of him. How amusing! But — when you’ve really forgotten him — when you really don’t care any more — you’ll tell me, won’t you?”
Emily nodded and rose to go. She could not endure this any longer. “And if there is ever anything I can do for you, Mrs. Kent—”
“I want rest — rest,” said Mrs. Kent, laughing wildly. “Can you find that for me? Don’t you know I’m a ghost, Emily? I died years ago. I walk in the dark.”
As the door closed behind her Emily heard Mrs. Kent beginning to cry terribly. With a sigh of relief she turned to the crisp open spaces of the wind and the night, the shadows and the frosty moon. Ah, one could breathe here.
Chapter XXIV
I
Ilse came in May — a gay, laughing Ilse. Almost too gay and laughing, Emily thought. Ilse had always been a merry, irresponsible creature; but not quite so unceasingly so as now. She never had a serious mood, apparently. She made a jest of everything, even her marriage. Aunt Elizabeth and Aunt Laura were quite shocked at her. A girl who was so soon to assume the responsibilities of wedded life should be more thoughtful and sober. Ilse told Emily they were mid-Victorian screams. She chatted ceaselessly when she and Emily were together, but never talked to her, despite the desire expressed in her letters for old-time spiels. Perhaps she was not quite all to blame for this. Emily, in spite of her determination to be exactly the same as of yore, could not help a certain restraint and reserve, born of her secret pain and her fierce determination to hide it. Ilse felt the restraint, though wholly unsuspicious of the cause. Emily was just naturally growing a little bit New Moonish, that was all, living there alone with those dear old antediluvians.
“When Teddy and I come back and set up house in Montreal you must spend every winter with us, darling. New Moon is a dear place in summer, but in winter you must be absolutely buried alive.”
Emily made no promises. She did not see herself as a guest in Teddy’s home. Every night she told herself she could not possibly endure tomorrow. But when to-morrow came it was livable. It was even possible to talk dress and details calmly with Ilse. The harebell blue dress became a reality and Emily tried it on two nights before Teddy was expected home. The wedding was only two weeks away now.
