Emily Climbs. Lucy M. Montgomery

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СКАЧАТЬ of the kind I write seems so stiff and silly the minute I write it down that it infuriates me. I asked Dean if he could teach me how to write it properly because he promised long ago that he would, but he said I was too young yet—said it in that mysterious way of his which always seems to convey the idea that there is so much more in his words than the mere sound of them expresses. I wish I could speak so significantly, because it makes you very interesting.

      “This evening after school Dean and I began to read The Alhambra over again, sitting on the stone bench in the garden. That book always makes me feel as if I had opened a little door and stepped straight into fairyland.

      “‘How I would love to see the Alhambra!’ I said.

      “‘We will go to see it sometime—together,’ said Dean.

      “‘Oh, that would be lovely,’ I cried. ‘Do you think we can ever manage it, Dean?’

      “Before Dean could answer I heard Teddy’s whistle in Lofty John’s bush—the dear little whistle of two short high notes and one long low one, that is our signal.

      “‘Excuse me—I must go—Teddy’s calling me,’ I said.

      “‘Must you always go when Teddy calls?’ asked Dean.

      “I nodded and explained,

      “‘He only calls like that when he wants me especially and I have promised I will always go if I possibly can.’

      “‘I want you especially!’ said Dean. ‘I came up this evening on purpose to read The Alhambra with you.’

      “Suddenly I felt very unhappy. I wanted to stay with Dean dreadfully, and yet I felt as if I must go to Teddy. Dean looked at me piercingly. Then he shut up The Alhambra.

      “‘Go,’ he said.

      “I went—but things seemed spoiled, somehow.

      * * * * *

      “May 10, 19—

      “I have been reading three books Dean lent me this week. One was like a rose garden—very pleasant, but just a little too sweet. And one was like a pine wood on a mountain—full of balsam and tang—I loved it, and yet it filled me with a sort of despair. It was written so beautifully—I can never write like that, I feel sure. And one—it was just like a pigsty. Dean gave me that one by mistake. He was very angry with himself when he found it out—angry and distressed.

      “‘Star—Star—I would never have given you a book like that—my confounded carelessness—forgive me. That book is a faithful picture of one world—but not your world, thank God—nor any world you will ever be a citizen of. Star, promise me you will forget that book.’

      “‘I’ll forget it if I can,’ I said.

      “But I don’t know if I can. It was so ugly. I have not been so happy since I read it. I feel as if my hands were soiled somehow and I couldn’t wash them clean. And I have another queer feeling, as if some gate had been shut behind me, shutting me into a new world I don’t quite understand or like, but through which I must travel.

      “To-night I tried to write a description of Dean in my Jimmy-book of character sketches. But I didn’t succeed. What I wrote seemed like a photograph—not a portrait. There is something in Dean that is beyond me.

      “Dean took a picture of me the other day with his new camera, but he wasn’t pleased with it.

      “‘It doesn’t look like you,’ he said, ‘but of course one can never photograph starlight.’

      “Then he added, quite sharply, I thought,

      “‘Tell that young imp of a Teddy Kent to keep your face out of his pictures. He has no business to put you into every one he draws.’

      “‘He doesn’t!’ I cried. ‘Why, Teddy never made but the one picture of me—the one Aunt Nancy stole.’

      “I said it quite viciously and unashamed, for I’ve never forgiven Aunt Nancy for keeping that picture.

      “‘He’s got something of you in every picture,’ said Dean stubbornly—‘your eyes—the curve of your neck—the tilt of your head—your personality. That’s the worst—I don’t mind your eyes and curves so much, but I won’t have that cub putting a bit of your soul into everything he draws. Probably he doesn’t know he’s doing it—which makes it all the worse.’

      “‘I don’t understand you,’ I said, quite haughtily. ‘But Teddy is wonderful—Mr. Carpenter says so.’

      “‘And Emily of New Moon echoes it! Oh, the kid has talent—he’ll do something some day if his morbid mother doesn’t ruin his life. But let him keep his pencil and brush off my property.’

      “Dean laughed as he said it. But I held my head high. I am not anybody’s ‘property,’ not even in fun. And I never will be.

      * * * * *

      “May 12, 19—

      “Aunt Ruth and Uncle Wallace and Uncle Oliver were all here this afternoon. I like Uncle Oliver, but I am not much fonder of Aunt Ruth and Uncle Wallace than I ever was. They held some kind of family conclave in the parlour with Aunt Elizabeth and Aunt Laura. Cousin Jimmy was allowed in but I was excluded, although I feel perfectly certain that it had something to do with me. I think Aunt Ruth didn’t get her own way, either, for she snubbed me continually all through supper, and said I was growing weedy! Aunt Ruth generally snubs me and Uncle Wallace patronizes me. I prefer Aunt Ruth’s snubs because I don’t have to look as if I liked them. I endured them to a certain point, and then the lid flew off. Aunt Ruth said to me,

      “‘Em’ly, don’t contradict,’ just as she might have spoken to a mere child. I looked her right in the eyes and said coldly,

      “‘Aunt Ruth, I think I am too old to be spoken to in that fashion now.’

      “‘You are not too old to be very rude and impertinent,’ said Aunt Ruth, with a sniff, ‘and if I were in Elizabeth’s place I would give you a sound box on the ear, Miss.’

      “I hate to be Em’ly’d and Miss’d and sniffed at! It seems to me that Aunt Ruth has all the Murray faults, and none of their virtues.

      “Uncle Oliver’s son Andrew came with him and is going to stay for a week. He is four years older than I am.

      * * * * *

      “May 19, 19—

      “This is my birthday. I am fourteen years old today. I wrote a letter ‘From myself at fourteen to myself at twenty-four,’ sealed it up and put it away in my cupboard, to be opened on my twenty-fourth birthday. I made some predictions in it. I wonder if they will have come to pass when I open it.

      “Aunt Elizabeth gave me back all Father’s books today. I was so glad. It seems to me that a part of Father is in those books. His name is in each one in his own handwriting, and the notes he made on the margins. They seem like little bits of letters from him. I have been looking over them all the evening, and Father seems so near to me again, and I feel both happy and sad.

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