Lucy Montgomery - Emily's Quest

"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."

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.

"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.