folks say Mother isn’t quite right in her mind – and sometimes she
is
a little queer. But it’s only when other people are around. You’ve no idea, Emily, how nice and dear she is when we’re alone. I hate to leave her. But I
must
get some education!”
“I’m very glad if what I said has made her change her mind, but she will never forgive me for it. She has hated me ever since – you know she has. You know how she
looks
at me whenever I’m at the Tansy Patch – oh, she’s very polite to me. But her eyes, Teddy.”
“I know,” said Teddy, uncomfortably. “But don’t be hard on Mother, Emily. I’m sure she wasn’t always like that – though she has been ever since I can remember. I don’t know
anything
of her before that. She never tells me anything – I don’t know a thing about my Father. She won’t talk about him. I don’t even know how she got that scar on her face.”
“I don’t think there’s anything the matter with your Mother’s mind, really,” said Emily slowly. “But I think there’s something troubling it – always troubling it – something she can’t forget or throw off. Teddy, I’m sure your mother is
haunted
. Of course, I don’t mean by a ghost or anything silly like that. But by some terrible
thought?
“She isn’t happy, I know,” said Teddy, “and, of course, we’re poor. Mother said tonight she could only send me to Shrewsbury for three years – that was all she could afford. But that will give me a start – I’ll get on somehow after that. I
know
I can. I’ll make it up to her yet.”
“You will be a great artist some day,” said Emily dreamily.
They had come to the end of the Tomorrow Road. Before them was the pond pasture, whitened over with a drift of daisies. Farmers hate the daisies as a pestiferous weed, but a field white with them on a summer twilight is a vision from the Land of Lost Delight. Beneath them Blair Water shone like a great golden lily. Up on the eastern hill the little Disappointed House crouched amid its shadows, dreaming, perhaps, of the false bride that had never come to it. There was no light at the Tansy Patch. Was lonely Mrs. Kent crying there in the darkness, with only her secret, tormenting heart-hunger for companion?
Emily was looking at the sunset sky – her eyes rapt, her face pale and seeking. She felt no longer blue or depressed – somehow she never could feel that way long in Teddy’s company. In all the world there was no music like his voice. All good things seemed suddenly possible with him. She could not go to Shrewsbury – but she could work and study at New Moon – oh, how she would work and study. Another year with Mr. Carpenter would do a great deal for her – as much as Shrewsbury, perhaps. She, too, had her Alpine Path to climb – she
would
climb it, no matter what the obstacles in the way – no matter whether there was any one to help her or not.
“When I am I’ll paint you just as you’re looking now,” said Teddy, “and call it Joan of Arc – with a face all spirit – listening to her voices.”
In spite of her voices Emily went to bed that night feeling rather down-hearted – and woke in the morning with an unaccountable conviction that some good news was coming to her that day – a conviction that did not lessen as the hours passed by in the commonplace fashion of Saturday hours at New Moon – busy hours in which the house was made immaculate for Sunday, and the pantry replenished. It was a cool, damp day when the fogs were coming up from the shore on the east wind, and New Moon and its old garden were veiled in mist.
At twilight a thin, grey rain began to fall, and still the good news had not come. Emily had just finished scouring the brass candlesticks and composing a poem called
Rain Song
simultaneously, when Aunt Laura told her that Aunt Elizabeth wanted to see her in the parlour.
Emily’s recollections of parlour interviews with Aunt Elizabeth were not especially pleasant. She
is
a little queer. But it’s only when other people are around. You’ve no idea, Emily, how nice and dear she is when we’re alone. I hate to leave her. But I
must
get some education!”
“I’m very glad if what I said has made her change her mind, but she will never forgive me for it. She has hated me ever since – you know she has. You know how she
looks
at me whenever I’m at the Tansy Patch – oh, she’s very polite to me. But her eyes, Teddy.”
“I know,” said Teddy, uncomfortably. “But don’t be hard on Mother, Emily. I’m sure she wasn’t always like that – though she has been ever since I can remember. I don’t know
anything
of her before that. She never tells me anything – I don’t know a thing about my Father. She won’t talk about him. I don’t even know how she got that scar on her face.”
“I don’t think there’s anything the matter with your Mother’s mind, really,” said Emily slowly. “But I think there’s something troubling it – always troubling it – something she can’t forget or throw off. Teddy, I’m sure your mother is
haunted
. Of course, I don’t mean by a ghost or anything silly like that. But by some terrible
thought?
“She isn’t happy, I know,” said Teddy, “and, of course, we’re poor. Mother said tonight she could only send me to Shrewsbury for three years – that was all she could afford. But that will give me a start – I’ll get on somehow after that. I
know
I can. I’ll make it up to her yet.”
“You will be a great artist some day,” said Emily dreamily.
They had come to the end of the Tomorrow Road. Before them was the pond pasture, whitened over with a drift of daisies. Farmers hate the daisies as a pestiferous weed, but a field white with them on a summer twilight is a vision from the Land of Lost Delight. Beneath them Blair Water shone like a great golden lily. Up on the eastern hill the little Disappointed House crouched amid its shadows, dreaming, perhaps, of the false bride that had never come to it. There was no light at the Tansy Patch. Was lonely Mrs. Kent crying there in the darkness, with only her secret, tormenting heart-hunger for companion?
Emily was looking at the sunset sky – her eyes rapt, her face pale and seeking. She felt no longer blue or depressed – somehow she never could feel that way long in Teddy’s company. In all the world there was no music like his voice. All good things seemed suddenly possible with him. She could not go to Shrewsbury – but she could work and study at New Moon – oh, how she would work and study. Another year with Mr. Carpenter would do a great deal for her – as much as Shrewsbury, perhaps. She, too, had her Alpine Path to climb – she
would
climb it, no matter what the obstacles in the way – no matter whether there was any one to help her or not.
“When I am I’ll paint you just as you’re looking now,” said Teddy, “and call it Joan of Arc – with a face all spirit – listening to her voices.”
In spite of her voices Emily went to bed that night feeling rather down-hearted – and woke in the morning with an unaccountable conviction that some good news was coming to her that day – a conviction that did not lessen as the hours passed by in the commonplace fashion of Saturday hours at New Moon – busy hours in which the house was made immaculate for Sunday, and the pantry replenished. It was a cool, damp day when the fogs were coming up from the shore on the east wind, and New Moon and its old garden were veiled in mist.
At twilight a thin, grey rain began to fall, and still the good news had not come. Emily had just finished scouring the brass candlesticks and composing a poem called
Rain Song
simultaneously, when Aunt Laura told her that Aunt Elizabeth wanted to see her in the parlour.
Emily’s recollections of parlour interviews with Aunt Elizabeth were not especially pleasant. She
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