Emily Climbs (18 page)

“Such loveliness as this doesn’t seem real,” murmured Emily. “It’s so wonderful it
hurts
me. I’m afraid to speak out loud for fear it will vanish. Were we vexed with that horrid old man and his beastly politics today, Ilse? Why, he doesn’t exist – not in
this
world, anyway. I hear the Wind Woman running with soft, soft footsteps over the hill. I shall always think of the wind as a personality. She is a shrew when she blows from the north – a lonely seeker when she blows from
the east – a laughing girl when she comes from the west – and tonight from the south a little grey fairy.”

“How do you think of such things?” asked Ilse.

This was a question which, for some mysterious reason, always annoyed Emily.

“I don’t think of them – they
come
” she answered rather shortly.

Ilse resented the tone.

“For heaven’s sake, Emily, don’t be such a crank!” she exclaimed.

For a second the wonderful world in which Emily was at the moment living, trembled and wavered like a disturbed reflection in water. Then –

“Don’t let’s quarrel
here
” she implored. “One of us might push the other off the haystack.”

Ilse burst out laughing. Nobody can really laugh and keep angry. So their night under the stars was not spoiled by a fight. They talked for a while in whispers, of school girl secrets and dreams and fears. They even talked of getting married some time in the future. Of course they shouldn’t have, but they
did
. Ilse, it appeared, was slightly pessimistic in regard to her matrimonial chances.

“The boys like me as a pal but I don’t believe any one will ever really fall in love with me.”

“Nonsense,” said Emily reassuringly. “Nine out of ten men will fall in love with you.”

“But it will be the tenth I’ll want,” persisted Ilse gloomily.

And then they talked of almost everything else in the world. Finally, they made a solemn compact that whichever one of them died first was to come back to the other if it were possible. How many such compacts have been made! And has even one ever been kept?

Then Ilse grew drowsy and fell asleep. But Emily did not sleep – did not want to sleep. It was too dear a night to go to sleep, she felt. She wanted to lie awake for the pleasure of it and think over a thousand things.

Emily always looked back to that night spent under the stars as a sort of milestone. Everything in it and of it ministered to her. It filled her with its beauty, which she must later give to the world. She wished that she could coin some magic word that might express it.

The round moon rose. Did an old witch in a high-crowned hat ride past it on a broomstick? No, it was only a bat and the little tip of a hemlock tree by the fence. She made a poem on it at once, the lines singing themselves through her consciousness without effort. With one side of her nature she liked writing prose best – with the other she liked writing poetry. This side was uppermost tonight and her very thoughts ran into rhyme. A great, pulsating star hung low in the sky over Indian Head. Emily gazed on it and recalled Teddy’s old fancy of his previous existence in a star. The idea seized on her imagination and she spun a dream life, lived in some happy planet circling round that mighty, far-off sun. Then came the northern lights – drifts of pale fire over the sky – spears of light, as of empyrean armies – pale, elusive hosts retreating and advancing. Emily lay and watched them in rapture. Her soul was washed pure in that great bath of splendour. She was a high priestess of loveliness assisting at the divine rites of her worship – and she knew her goddess smiled.

She was glad Ilse was asleep. Any human companionship, even the dearest and most perfect, would have been alien to her then. She was sufficient unto herself, needing not love nor comradeship nor any human emotion to round out her felicity. Such moments come rarely in any life, but when they
do come they are inexpressibly wonderful – as if the finite were for a second infinity – as if humanity were for a space uplifted into divinity– as if all ugliness had vanished, leaving only flawless beauty Oh – beauty – Emily shivered with the pure ecstasy of it. She loved it – it filled her being tonight as never before. She was afraid to move or breathe lest she break the current of beauty that was flowing through her. Life seemed like a wonderful instrument on which to play supernal harmonies.

“Oh, God, make me worthy of it – oh, make me worthy of it,” she prayed. Could she ever be worthy of such a message – could she dare try to carry some of the loveliness of that “dialogue divine” back to the everyday world of sordid market-place and clamorous street? She
must
give it – she could not keep it to herself. Would the world listen – understand – feel? Only if she were faithful to the trust and gave out that which was committed to her, careless of blame or praise. High priestess of beauty – yes, she would serve at no other shrine!

She fell asleep in this rapt mood – dreamed that she was Sappho springing from the Leucadian rock – woke to find herself at the bottom of the haystack with Ilse’s startled face peering down at her. Fortunately so much of the stack had slipped down with her that she was able to say cautiously,

“I think I’m all in one piece still.”

W
hen you have fallen asleep listening to the hymns of the gods it is something of an anticlimax to be wakened by an ignominious tumble from a haystack. But at least it had aroused them in time to see the sunrise over Indian Head, which was worth the sacrifice of several hours of inglorious ease.

“Besides, I might never have known what an exquisite thing a spider’s web beaded with dew is,” said Emily. “Look at it – swung between those two tall, plumy grasses.”

“Write a poem on it,” jeered Ilse, whose alarm made her fleetingly cross.

“How’s your foot?”

“Oh, it’s all right. But my hair is sopping wet with dew.”

“So is mine. We’ll carry our hats for a while and the sun will soon dry us. It’s just as well to get an early start. We can get back to civilisation by the time it’s safe for us to be seen. Only we’ll have to breakfast on the crackers in my bag. It won’t do for us to be looking for breakfast, with no rational account to give of where we spent the night. Ilse, swear you’ll never mention this escapade to a living soul. It’s been beautiful – but
it will remain beautiful just as long as only we two know of it. Remember the result of your telling about our moonlit bath.”

“People have such beastly minds,” grumbled Ilse, sliding down the stack.

“Oh,
look
at Indian Head. I could be a sun worshipper this very moment.”

Indian Head was a flaming mount of splendour. The far-off hills turned beautifully purple against the radiant sky. Even the bare, ugly Hardscrabble Road was transfigured and luminous in hazes of silver. The fields and woods were very lovely in the faint pearly lustre.

“The world is always young again for just a few moments at the dawn,” murmured Emily.

Then she pulled her Jimmy-book out of her bag and wrote the sentence down!

They had the usual experiences of canvassers the world over that day. Some people refused to subscribe, ungraciously: some subscribed graciously: some refused to subscribe so pleasantly that they left an agreeable impression: some consented to subscribe so unpleasantly that Emily wished they had refused. But on the whole they enjoyed the forenoon, especially when an excellent early dinner in a hospitable farmhouse on the Western Road filled up the aching void left by a few crackers and a night on a haystack.

“S’pose you didn’t come across any stray children today?” asked their host.

“No. Have any been lost?”

“Little Allan Bradshaw – Will Bradshaw’s son, downriver at Malvern Point – has been missing ever since Tuesday morning. He walked out of the house that morning, singing, and hasn’t been seen or heard of since.”

Emily and Ilse exchanged shocked glances.

“How old was he?”

“Just seven – and an only child. They say his poor ma is plumb distracted. All the Malvern Point men have been s’arching for him for two days, and not a trace of him kin they discover.”

“What can have happened to him?” said Emily, pale with horror.

“It’s a mystery. Some think he fell off the wharf at the Point – it was only about a quarter of a mile from the house and he used to like sitting there and watching the boats. But nobody saw anything of him ‘round the wharf or the bridge that morning. There’s a lot of marshland west of the Bradshaw farm, full of bogs and pools. Some think he must have wandered there and got lost and perished – ye remember Tuesday night was terrible cold.
That’s
where his mother thinks he is – and if you ask
me
, she’s right. If he’d been anywhere else he’d have been found by the s’arching parties. They’ve combed the country.”

The story haunted Emily all the rest of the day and she walked under its shadow. Anything like that always took almost a morbid hold on her. She could not bear the thought of the poor mother at Malvern Point. And the little lad – where was he? Where had he been the previous night when she had lain in the ecstasy of wild, free hours? That night had not been cold – but Wednesday night had. And she shuddered as she recalled Tuesday night, when a bitter autumnal windstorm had raged till dawn, with showers of hail and stinging rain. Had he been out in that – the poor lost baby?

“Oh, I can’t
bear
it!” she moaned.

“It’s dreadful,” agreed Ilse, looking rather sick, “but
we
can’t do anything. There’s no Ilse in thinking of it. Oh” – suddenly Ilse stamped her foot – “I believe Father used to be right
when he didn’t believe in God. Such a hideous thing as
this
– how could it happen if there
is
a God – a
decent
God, anyway?”

“God hadn’t anything to do with
this
” said Emily. “You
know
the Power that made last night couldn’t have brought about this monstrous thing.”

“Well, He didn’t prevent it,” retorted Ilse – who was suffering so keenly that she wanted to arraign the universe at the bar of her pain.

“Little Allan Bradshaw may be found yet – he
must
be,” exclaimed Emily.

“He won’t be found alive,” stormed Ilse. “No, don’t talk to me about God. And don’t talk to me of this. I’ve got to forget it – I’ll go crazy if I don’t.”

Ilse put the matter out of her mind with another stamp of her foot and Emily tried to. She could not quite succeed but she forced herself to concentrate superficially on the business of the day, though she knew the horror lurked in the back of her consciousness. Only once did she really forget it – when they came around a point on the Malvern River Road and saw a little house built in the cup of a tiny bay, with a steep grassy hill rising behind it. Scattered over the hill were solitary beautifully shaped young fir-trees like little green, elongated pyramids. No other house was in sight. All about it was a lovely autumnal solitude of grey, swift-running, windy river, and red, spruce-fringed points.

“That house belongs to me,” said Emily.

Ilse stared.

“To you?”

“Yes. Of course, I don’t
own
it. But haven’t you sometimes seen houses that you knew belonged to you no matter who owned them?”

No, Ilse hadn’t. She hadn’t the least idea what Emily meant.

“I know who owns that house,” she said. “It’s Mr. Scobie of Kingsport. He built it for a summer cottage. I heard Aunt Net talking of it the last time I was in Wiltney It was finished a few weeks ago. It’s a pretty little house, but too small for me.
I
like a big house – I don’t want to feel cramped and crowded – especially in summer.”

“It’s hard for a big house to have any personality,” said Emily thoughtfully. “But little houses almost always have. That house is full of it. There isn’t a line or a corner that isn’t eloquent, and those casement windows are lovable – especially that little one high up under the eaves over the front door. It’s absolutely smiling at me. Look at it glowing like a jewel in the sunshine out of the dark shingle setting. The little house is greeting us. You dear friendly thing, I love you – I understand you. As Old Kelly would say, ‘may niver a tear be shed under your roof The people who are going to live in you must be nice people or they would never have
thought
you. If I lived in you, beloved, I’d always stand at that western window at evening to wave to some one coming home. That is just exactly what that window was built for – a frame for love and welcome.”

“When you get through with talking to your house we’d better hurry on,” warned Ilse. “There’s a storm coming up. See those clouds – and those sea-gulls. Gulls never come up this far except before a storm. It’s going to rain any minute. We’ll not sleep on a haystack tonight, Friend Emily.”

Emily loitered past the little house and looked at it lovingly as long as she could. It
was
such a dear little place with its dubbed-off gables and rich, brown shingle tints, and its general intimate air of sharing mutual jokes and secrets. She turned around half a dozen times to look upon it, as they climbed the steep hill, and when at last it dipped below sight she sighed.

“I hate to leave it. I have the oddest feeling, Ilse, that it’s
calling
to me – that I ought to go back to it.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Ilse impatiently. “There – it’s sprinkling now! If you hadn’t poked so long looking at your blessed little hut we’d have been out on the main road now, and near-shelter. Wow, but it’s cold!”

“It’s going to be a dreadful night,” said Emily in a low voice. “Oh, Ilse, where is that poor little lost boy tonight? I wish I knew if they had found him.”

“Don’t!” said Ilse savagely. “Don’t say another word about him. It’s awful – it’s hideous – but what can
we
do?”

“Nothing. That’s the dreadful thing about it. It seems wicked to go on about our own business, asking for subscriptions, when that child is not found.”

By this time they had reached the main road. The rest of the afternoon was not pleasant. Stinging showers came at intervals: between them the world was raw and damp and cold, with a moaning wind that came in ominous sighing gusts under a leaden sky. At every house where they called they were reminded of the lost baby, for there were only women to give or refuse subscriptions. The men were all away searching for him.

“Though it isn’t any use
now
” said one woman gloomily “except that they may find his little body. He can’t have lived this long. I jest can’t eat or cook for thinking of his poor mother. They say she’s nigh crazy – I don’t wonder.”

“They say old Margaret McIntyre is taking it quite calmly,” said an older woman, who was piecing a log-cabin quilt by the window. “I’d have thought she’d be wild, too. She seemed real fond of little Allan.”

“Oh, Margaret McIntyre has never got worked up about anything for the past five years – ever since her own son Neil was frozen to death in the Klondyke. Seems as if her feelings
were frozen then, too – she’s been a little mad ever since.
She
won’t worry none over this – she’ll just smile and tell you she spanked the King.”

Both women laughed. Emily, with the story-teller’s nose, scented a story instantly, but though she would fain have lingered to hunt it down Ilse hustled her away.

“We
must
get on, Emily, or we’ll never reach St. Clair before night.”

They soon realised that they were not going to reach it. At sunset St. Clair was still three miles away and there was every indication of a wild evening.

“We can’t get to St. Clair, that’s certain,” said Ilse. “It’s going to settle down for a steady rain and it’ll be as black as a million black cats in a quarter of an hour. We’d better go to that house over there and ask if we can stay all night. It looks snug and respectable – though it certainly is the jumping-off place.”

The house at which Ilse pointed – an old whitewashed house with a grey roof– was set on the face of a hill amid bright green fields of clover aftermath. A wet red road wound up the hill to it. A thick grove of spruces shut it off from the gulf shore, and beyond the grove a tiny dip in the land revealed a triangular glimpse of misty, white-capped, grey sea. The near brook valley was filled with young spruces, dark-green in the rain. The grey clouds hung heavily over it. Suddenly the sun broke through the clouds in the west for one magical moment. The hill of clover meadows flashed instantly into incredibly vivid green. The triangle of sea shimmered into violet. The old house gleamed like white marble against the emerald of its hilly background, and the inky black sky over and around it.

“Oh,” gasped Emily, “I never saw anything so wonderful!”

She groped wildly in her bag and clutched her Jimmy-book. The post of a field-gate served as a desk – Emily licked
a stubborn pencil and wrote feverishly Ilse squatted on a stone in a fence corner and waited with ostentatious patience. She knew that when a certain look appeared on Emily’s face she was not to be dragged away until she was ready to go. The sun had vanished and the rain was beginning to fall again when Emily put her Jimmy-book back into her bag, with a sigh of satisfaction.

“I
had
to get it, Ilse.”

“Couldn’t you have waited till you got to dry land and wrote it down from memory?” grumbled Ilse, uncoiling herself from her stone.

“No – I’d have missed some of the flavour then. I’ve got it all now – and in just exactly the right words. Come on – I’ll race you to the house. Oh, smell that wind – there’s nothing in all the world like a salt sea-wind – a savage salt sea-wind. After all, there’s something delightful in a storm. There’s always
something
– deep down in me – that seems to rise and leap out to meet a storm – wrestle with it.”

“I feel that way sometimes – but not tonight,” said Ilse. “I’m tired – and that poor baby –”

“Oh!” Emily’s triumph and exultation went from her in a cry of pain. “Oh – Ilse – I’d forgotten for a moment – how could I?
Where
can he be?”

“Dead,” said Ilse harshly. “It’s better to think so – than to think of him alive still – out tonight. Come, we’ve got to get in somewhere. The storm is on for good now – no more showers.”

An angular woman panoplied in a white apron so stiffly starched that it could easily have stood alone, opened the door of the house on the hill and bade them enter.

“Oh, yes, you can stay here, I reckon,” she said, not inhospitably, “if you’ll excuse things being a bit upset. They’re in sad trouble here.”

“Oh – I’m sorry,” stammered Emily. “We won’t intrude – we’ll go somewhere else.”

“Oh, we don’t mind
you
, if you don’t mind
us
. There’s a spare room. You’re welcome. You can’t go on in a storm like this – there isn’t another house for some ways. I advise you to stop here. I’ll get you a bit of supper – I don’t live here – I’m just a neighbour come to help ‘em out a bit. Hollinger’s my name – Mrs. Julia Hollinger. Mrs. Bradshaw ain’t good for anything – you’ve heard of her little boy mebbe.”

“Is this where – and – he – hasn’t – been found?”

“No – never will be. I’m not mentioning it to her” – with a quick glance over her shoulder along the hall – “but it’s my opinion he got in the quicksands down by the bay. That’s what
I
think. Come in and lay off your things. I s’pose you don’t mind eating in the kitchen. The room is cold – we haven’t the stove up in it yet. It’ll have to be put up soon if there’s a funeral. I s’pose there won’t be if he’s in the quicksand. You can’t have a funeral without a body, can you?”