Lucy Montgomery - Emily's Quest

"An old ewe tricked out like a lamb," said Aunt Elizabeth contemptuously.

If they had done what was expected of them in regard to The Moral of the Rose Aunt Elizabeth would probably have said that John Angus had always been a jovial, good-natured sort of creature and that it was really wonderful how Cousin Margaret had held her own.

In all the excitement Emily had... not exactly forgotten Ilse's letter, but wanted to wait until things had settled down a little before reading it. At twilight she went to her room and sat down in the fading light. The wind had changed at sunset and the evening was cold and edged. What Jimmy called a "skiff" of snow had fallen suddenly whitening the world and the withered, unlovely garden. But the storm-cloud had passed and the sky was clear and yellow over the white hills and dark firs. The odd perfume that Ilse always affected floated out of her letter when it was opened. Emily had always vaguely disliked it. But then her taste differed from Ilse's in the matter of perfumes as in so many others. Ilse liked the exotic, oriental, provocative odors. To the day of her death Emily will never catch a whiff of that perfume without turning cold and sick.

"Exactly one thousand times have I planned to write to you," wrote Ilse, "but when one is revolving rapidly on the wheel of things there doesn't seem to be an opportunity for anything one really wants to do. All these months I've been so rushed that I've felt precisely like a cat just one jump ahead of a dog. If I stopped for a breath it would catch me.

"But the spirit moves me to utter a few yowls to-night. I've something to tell you. And your darling letter came to-day... so I will write to-night, and let the dog eat me if he will.

"I'm glad you're keeping well and good-humoured. There are times I envy you fiercely, Emily... your New Moon quiet and peace and leisure... your intense absorption and satisfaction in your work... your singleness of purpose. 'If thine eye be single thy whole body shall be full of light.' That's either in the Bible or Shakespeare, but wherever it is, it is true. I remember you told me once you envied me my opportunities of travel. Emily, old dear, rushing about from one place to another isn't travelling. If you were like your foolish Ilse, chasing a score of butterfly projects and ambitions you wouldn't be so happy. You always remind me... always did remind me, even in our old chummy days... of somebody's line... 'her soul was like a star and dwelt apart.'

"Well, when one can't get the thing one really wants, one can't help chasing after anything that MIGHT made a decent substitute. I know you've always thought me an unmitigated donkey because I cared so much about Perry Miller. I knew you never quite understood. You couldn't. You never really cared a hoot about any he-creature, did you, Emily? So you thought me an idiot. I daresay I was. But I'm going to be sensible in future, I'm going to marry Teddy Kent."

"There... it's out!"

Emily laid down... or dropped... the letter for a moment. She did not feel either pain or surprise... one does not feel either, I am told, when a bullet strikes the heart. It seemed to her that she had always known this was coming... always. At least, since the night of Mrs. Chidlaw's dinner-dance. And yet, now that it had really happened, it seemed to her that she was suffering everything of death but its merciful dying. In the dim, twilit mirror before her she saw her own face. Had Emily-in-the-glass ever looked like that before? But her room was just the same. It seemed indecent that it should be the same. After a few moments... or years... Emily picked up the letter and read on.

"I'm not in love with Teddy, of course. But he's just got to be a habit with me. I can't do without him... and I either have to do without him or marry him. He won't stand my hesitation any longer. Besides, he's going to be very famous. I shall enjoy being the wife of a famous man. Also, he will have the simoleons, too. Not that I'm altogether mercenary, Emily. I said 'No' to a millionaire last week. A nice fellow, too... but with a face like a good-natured weasel's, if there can be such a thing. And he CRIED when I told him I wouldn't marry him. Oh, it was ghastly.

"Yes, it's mostly ambition, I grant you. And a certain odd kind of weariness and impatience with my life as it has been these last few years. Everything seems squeezed dry. But I'm really very fond of Teddy... always was. He's nice and companionable... and our taste in jokes is exactly the same. And he never bores me. I have no use for people who bore me. Of course he's too good-looking for a man... he'll always be a target for the head-hunters. But since I don't care TOO much for him I shan't be tortured by jealousy. In life's morning march when my bosom was young I could have fried in boiling oil anyone... except you... at whom Perry Miller cast a sheep's eye.

"I've thought for years and known for weeks that this was coming some day. But I've been staving Teddy off... I wouldn't let him say the words that would really bind us. I don't know whether I'd ever have scraped up the courage to let him say them, but destiny took a hand. We were out for a spin two weeks ago one evening and a most unseasonable and malignant thunder-storm came up. We had a dreadful time getting back... there was no place on that bare, lonely hill-road we could stop... the rain fell in torrents, the thunder crashed, the lightning flashed. It was unendurable and we didn't endure it. We just tore through it and cussed. Then it cleared off as suddenly as it had began... and my nerves went to pieces... fancy! I HAVE nerves now... and I began to cry like a frightened, foolish baby. And Teddy's arms were about me and he was saying I MUST marry him... and let him take care of me. I suppose I said I would because it's quite clear he thinks we are engaged. He has given me a blue Chow pup and a sapphire ring... a sapphire he picked up in Europe somewhere... an historic jewel for which a murder was once committed, I believe.

"I think it will be rather nice to be taken care of. Properly. I never was, you know. Dad had no use for me until you found out the truth about Mother... what a witch you were! And after that he adored and spoiled me. But he didn't take any more real care of me than before.

"We are to be married next June. Dad will be pleased, I fancy. Teddy was always the white-haired boy with him. Besides, I think he was beginning to be a little scared I was never going to hook a husband. Dad plumes himself on being a radical but at heart he out-Victorians the Victorians.

"And of course you must be my bridesmaid. Oh, Emily dear, how I wish I could see you to-night... talk with you... one of our old-time spiels... walk with you over the Delectable Mountain and along the ferny, frosted woodside, hang about that old garden by the sea where red poppies blow... all our old familiar places. I wish... I think I really do wish... I was ragged, barefooted, wild Ilse Burnley again. Life is pleasant still... oh, I don't say it isn't. Very pleasant... in spots... like the curate's immortal egg. But the 'first fine careless rapture'... the thrush may recapture it but we never. Emily, old pal, would you turn the clock back if you could?"

Emily read the letter over three times. Then she sat for a very long time at her window, looking blindly out on the blanched, dim world lying under the terrible mockery of a sky full of stars. The wind around the eaves was full of ghostly voices. Bits here and there in Ilse's letter turned and twisted and vanished in her consciousness like little venomous snakes, each with a mortal sting.

"Your singleness of purpose"... "you never cared for anyone"... "of course you must be my bridesmaid"... "I'm really very fond of Teddy"... "my hesitation."