The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  Then, beside it, she saw a man’s face looking down at her!

  She heard him say, “My God!” softly to himself. She saw that he was slight and that one shoulder was a trifle higher than the other. This must be Dean Priest — Jarback Priest. Emily dared not call to him. She lay still and her great, grey-purple eyes said, “Save me.”

  “How can I help you?” said Dean Priest hoarsely, as if to himself. “I cannot reach you — and it looks as if the slightest touch or jar would send that broken earth over the brink. I must go for a rope — and to leave you here alone — like this. Can you wait, child?”

  “Yes,” breathed Emily. She smiled at him to encourage him — the little soft smile that began at the corners of her mouth and spread over her face. Dean Priest never forgot that smile — and the steadfast child-eyes looking out through it from the little face that seemed so perilously near the brink.

  “I’ll be as quick as I can,” he said. “I can’t go very fast — I’m a bit lame, you see. But don’t be frightened — I’ll save you. I’ll leave my dog to keep you company. Here, Tweed.”

  He whistled — a great, tawny-gold dog came in sight.

  “Sit right there, Tweed, till I come back. Don’t stir a paw — don’t wag a tail — talk to her only with your eyes.”

  Tweed sat down obediently and Dean Priest disappeared.

  Emily lay there and dramatized the whole incident for her Jimmy-book. She was a little frightened still, but not too frightened to see herself writing it all out the next day. It would be quite a thrilling bit.

  She liked to know the big dog was there. She was not so learned in lore of dogs as in lore of cats. But he looked very human and trusty watching her with great kindly eyes. A grey kitten was an adorable thing — but a grey kitten would not have sat there and encouraged her. “I believe,” thought Emily, “that a dog is better than a cat when you’re in trouble.”

  It was half an hour before Dean Priest returned.

  “Thank God you haven’t gone over,” he muttered. “I hadn’t to go as far as I feared — I found a rope in an empty boat up-shore and took it. And now — if I drop the rope down to you, are you strong enough to hold it while the earth goes and then hang on while I pull you up?”

  “I’ll try,” said Emily.

  Dean Priest knotted a loop at the end and slid it down to her. Then he wound the rope around the trunk of a heavy fir.

  “Now,” he said.

  Emily said inwardly, “Dear God, please—” and caught the swaying loop. The next moment the full weight of her body swung from it, for at her first movement the broken soil beneath her slipped down — slipped over. Dean Priest sickened and shivered. Could she cling to the rope while he drew her up?

  Then he saw she had got a little knee-hold on the narrow shelf. Carefully he drew on the rope. Emily, full of pluck, helped him by digging her toes into the crumbling bank. In a moment she was within his reach. He grasped her arms and pulled her up beside him into safety. As he lifted her past the farewell-summer Emily reached out her hand and broke off the spray.

  “I’ve got it, anyhow,” she said jubilantly. Then she remembered her manners. “I’m much obliged to you. You saved my life. And — and — I think I’ll sit down a moment. My legs feel funny and trembly.”

  Emily sat down, all at once more shaky than she had been through all the danger. Dean Priest leaned against the gnarled old fir. He seemed “trembly” too. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. Emily looked curiously at him. She had learned a good deal about him from Aunt Nancy’s casual remarks — not always good-natured remarks, for Aunt Nancy did not wholly like him, it seemed. She always called him “Jarback” rather contemptuously, while Caroline scrupulously called him Dean. Emily knew he had been to college, that he was thirty-six years old — which to Emily seemed a venerable age — and well-off; that he had a malformed shoulder and limped slightly; that he cared for nothing save books nor ever had; that he lived with an older brother and travelled a great deal; and that the whole Priest clan stood somewhat in awe of his ironic tongue. Aunt Nancy had called him a “cynic.” Emily did not know what a cynic was but it sounded interesting. She looked him over carefully and saw that he had delicate, pale features and tawny-brown hair. His lips were thin and sensitive, with a whimsical curve. She liked his mouth. Had she been older she would have known why — because it connoted strength and tenderness and humour.

  In spite of his twisted shoulder there was about him a certain aloof dignity of presence which was characteristic of many of the Priests and which was often mistaken for pride. The green Priest eyes, that were peering and uncanny in Caroline’s face and impudent in Jim Priest’s, were remarkably dreamy and attractive in his.

  “Well, do you think me handsome?” he said, sitting down on another stone and smiling at her. His voice was beautiful — musical and caressing.

  Emily blushed. She knew staring was not etiquette, and she did not think him at all handsome, so she was very thankful that he did not press his question, but asked another.

  “Do you know who your knightly rescuer is?”

  “I think you must be Jar — Mr Dean Priest.” Emily flushed again with vexation. She had come so near to making another terrible hole in her manners.

  “Yes, Jarback Priest. You needn’t mind the nickname. I’ve heard it often enough. It’s a Priest idea of humour.” He laughed rather unpleasantly. “The reason for it is obvious enough, isn’t it? I never got anything else at school. How came you to slide over that cliff?”

  “I wanted this,” said Emily, waving her farewell-summer.

  “And you have it! Do you always get what you go after, even with death slipping a thin wedge between? I think you’re born lucky. I see the signs. If that big aster lured you into danger it saved you as well, for it was through stepping over to investigate it that I saw you. Its size and colour caught my eye. Otherwise I should have gone on and you — what would have become of you? Whom do you belong to that you are let risk your life on these dangerous banks? What is your name — if you have a name! I begin to doubt you — I see you have pointed ears. Have I been tricked into meddling with fairies, and will I discover presently that twenty years have passed and that I am an old man long since lost to the living world with nothing but the skeleton of my dog for company?”

  “I am Emily Byrd Starr of New Moon,” said Emily, rather coldly. She was beginning to be sensitive about her ears. Father Cassidy had remarked on them — and now Jarback Priest. Was there really something uncanny about them?

  And yet there was a flavour about the said Jarback that she liked — liked decidedly. Emily never was long in doubt about anyone she met. In a few minutes she always knew whether she liked, disliked, or was indifferent to them. She had a queer feeling that she had known Jarback Priest for years — perhaps because it seemed so long when she was lying on that crumbling earth waiting for him to return. He was not handsome but she liked that lean, clever face of his with its magnetic green eyes.

  “So you’re the young lady visitor at the Grange!” said Dean Priest, in some astonishment. “Then my dear Aunt Nancy should look after you better — my very dear Aunt Nancy.”

  “You don’t like Aunt Nancy, I see,” said Emily coolly.

  “What is the use of liking a lady who won’t like me? You have probably discovered by this time that my Lady Aunt detests me.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it’s as bad as that,” said Emily. “She must have some good opinions about you — she says you’re the only Priest who will ever go to heaven.”

  “She doesn’t mean that as a compliment, whatever you in your innocence believe it to be. And you are Douglas Starr’s daughter? I knew your father. We were boys together at Queen’s Academy — we drifted apart after we left it — he went into journalism, I to McGill. But he was the only friend I had at school — the only boy who would bother himself about Jarback Priest, who was lame and hunchbacked and couldn’t play football or hockey. Emily Byrd Starr — Starr
should be your first name. You look like a star — you have a radiant sort of personality shining through you — your proper habitat should be the evening sky just after sunset — or the morning sky just before sunrise. Yes. You’d be more at home in the morning sky. I think I shall call you Star.”

  “Do you mean that you think me pretty?” asked Emily directly.

  “Why, it hadn’t occurred to me to wonder whether you were pretty or not. Do you think a star should be pretty?”

  Emily reflected.

  “No,” she said finally, “the word doesn’t suit a star.”

  “I perceive you are an artist in words. Of course it doesn’t. Stars are prismatic — palpitating — elusive. It is not often we find one made of flesh and blood. I think I’ll wait for you.”

  “Oh, I’m ready to go now,” said Emily, standing up.

  “H’m. That wasn’t what I meant. Never mind. Come along, Star — if you don’t mind walking a bit slowly. I’ll take you back from the wilderness at least — I don’t know that I’ll venture to Wyther Grange to-night. I don’t want Aunt Nancy to take the edge off you. And so you don’t think me handsome?”

  “I didn’t say so,” cried Emily.

  “Not in words. But I can read your thoughts, Star — it won’t ever do to think anything you don’t want me to know. The gods gave me that gift — when they kept back everything else I wanted. You don’t think me handsome but you think me nice. Do you think you are pretty yourself?”

  “A little — since Aunt Nancy lets me wear my bang,” said Emily frankly.

  Jarback Priest made a grimace.

  “Don’t call it by such a name. It’s a worse name even than bustle. Bangs and bustles — they hurt me. I like that black wave breaking on your white brows — but don’t call it a bang — ever again.”

  “It is a very ugly word. I never use it in my poetry, of course.”

  Whereby Dean Priest discovered that Emily wrote poetry. He also discovered pretty nearly everything else about her in that charming walk back to Priest Pond in the fir-scented dusk, with Tweed walking between them, his nose touching his master’s hand softly every now and then, while the robins in the trees above them whistled blithely in the afterlight.

  With nine out of ten people Emily was secretive and reserved, but Dean Priest was sealed of her tribe and she divined it instantly. He had a right to the inner sanctuary and she yielded it unquestionably. She talked to him freely.

  Besides, she felt alive again — she felt the wonderful thrill of living again, after that dreadful space when she had seemed to hang between life and death. She felt, as she wrote to her father afterwards, “as if a little bird was singing in my heart.” And oh, how good the green sod felt under her feet!

  She told him all about herself and her doings and beings. Only one thing she did not tell him — her worry over Ilse’s mother. That she could not speak of to any one. Aunt Nancy need not have been frightened that she would carry tales to New Moon.

  “I wrote a whole poem yesterday when it rained and I couldn’t get out,” she said. “It began,

  I sit by the western window

  That looks on Malvern Bay—”

  “Am I not to hear the whole of it?” asked Dean, who knew perfectly well that Emily was hoping that he would ask it.

  Emily delightedly repeated the whole poem. When she came to the two lines she liked best in it,

  Perhaps in those wooded islands

  That gem the proud bay’s breast —

  she looked up sidewise at him to see if he admired them. But he was walking with eyes cast down and an absent expression on his face. She felt a little disappointed.

  “H’m,” he said when she had finished. “You’re twelve, didn’t you say? When you’re ten years older I shouldn’t wonder — but let’s not think of it.”

  “Father Cassidy told me to keep on,” cried Emily.

  “There was no need of it. You would keep on anyhow — you have the itch for writing born in you. It’s quite incurable. What are you going to do with it?”

  “I think I shall be either a great poetess or a distinguished novelist,” said Emily reflectively.

  “Having only to choose,” remarked Dean dryly. “Better be a novelist — I hear it pays better.”

  “What worries me about writing novels,” confided Emily “is the love talk in them. I’m sure I’ll never be able to write it. I’ve tried,” she concluded candidly, “and I can’t think of anything to say.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll teach you some day,” said Dean.

  “Will you — will you really?” Emily was very eager. “I’ll be so obliged if you will. I think I could manage everything else very nicely.”

  “It’s a bargain then — don’t forget it. And don’t go looking for another teacher, mind. What do you find to do at the Grange besides writing poetry? Are you never lonesome with only those two old survivals?”

  “No. I enjoy my own company,” said Emily gravely.

  “You would. Stars are said to dwell apart, anyhow, sufficient unto themselves — ensphered in their own light. Do you really like Aunt Nancy?”

  “Yes, indeed. She is very kind to me. She doesn’t make me wear sunbonnets and she lets me go barefooted in the forenoons. But I have to wear my buttoned boots in the afternoons, and I hate buttoned boots.”

  “Naturally. You should be shod with sandals of moonshine and wear a scarf of sea-mist with a few fire-flies caught in it over your hair. Star, you don’t look like your father, but you suggest him in several ways. Do you look like your mother? I never saw her.”

  All at once Emily smiled demurely. A real sense of humour was born in her at that moment. Never again was she to feel quite so unmixedly tragic over anything.

  “No,” she said, “it’s only my eyelashes and smile that are like Mother’s. But I’ve got Father’s forehead, and Grandma Starr’s hair and eyes, and Great-Uncle George’s nose, and Aunt Nancy’s hands, and Cousin Susan’s elbows, and Great-great-Grandmother Murray’s ankles, and Grandfather Murray’s eyebrows.”

  Dean Priest laughed.

  “A rag-bag — as we all are,” he said. “But your soul is your own, and fire-new, I’ll swear to that.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad I like you,” said Emily impulsively. “It would be hateful to think any one I didn’t like had saved my life. I don’t mind your saving it a bit.”

  “That’s good. Because you see your life belongs to me henceforth. Since I saved it it’s mine. Never forget that.”

  Emily felt an odd sensation of rebellion. She didn’t fancy the idea of her life belonging to anybody but herself — not even to anybody she liked as much as she liked Dean Priest. Dean, watching her, saw it and smiled his whimsical smile that always seemed to have so much more in it than mere smiling.

  “That doesn’t quite suit you? Ah, you see one pays a penalty when one reaches out for something beyond the ordinary. One pays for it in bondage of some kind or other. Take your wonderful aster home and keep it as long as you can. It has cost you your freedom.”

  He was laughing — he was only joking, of course — yet Emily felt as if a cobweb fetter had been flung round her. Yielding to a sudden impulse she flung the big aster on the ground and set her foot on it.

  Dean Priest looked on amusedly. His strange eyes were very kindly as he met hers.

  “You rare thing — you vivid thing — you starry thing! We are going to be good friends — we are good friends. I’m coming up to Wyther Grange to-morrow to see those descriptions you’ve written of Caroline and my venerable Aunt in your Jimmy-book. I feel sure they’re delicious. Here’s your path — don’t go roaming again so far from civilization. Goodnight, My Star of the Morning.”

  He stood at the cross-road and watched her out of sight.

  “What a child!” he muttered. “I’ll never forget her eyes as she lay there on the edge of death — the dauntless little soul — and I’ve never seen a creature who seemed so full of sheer joy in existence. Sh
e is Douglas Starr’s child — he never called me Jarback.”

  He stooped and picked up the broken aster. Emily’s heel had met it squarely and it was badly crushed. But he put it away that night between the leaves of an old volume of Jane Eyre, where he had marked a verse,

  All glorious rose upon my sight

  That child of shower and gleam.

  The Vow of Emily

  In Dean Priest Emily found, for the first time since her father had died, a companion who could fully sympathize. She was always at her best with him, with a delightful feeling of being understood. To love is easy and therefore common — but to understand — how rare it is! They roamed wonderlands of fancy together in the magic August days that followed upon Emily’s adventure on the bay shore, talked together of exquisite, immortal things, and were at home with “nature’s old felicities” of which Wordsworth so happily speaks.

  Emily showed him all the poetry and “descriptions” in her “Jimmy-book” and he read them gravely, and, exactly as Father had done, made little criticisms that did not hurt her because she knew they were just. As for Dean Priest, a certain secret well-spring of fancy that had long seemed dry bubbled up in him sparklingly again.

  “You make me believe in fairies, whether I will or no,” he told her, “and that means youth. As long as you believe in fairies you can’t grow old.”

  “But I can’t believe in fairies myself,” protested Emily sorrowfully. “I wish I could.”

  “But you are a fairy yourself — or you wouldn’t be able to find fairyland. You can’t buy a ticket there, you know. Either the fairies themselves give you your passport at your christening — or they don’t. That is all there is to it.”

  “Isn’t ‘Fairyland’ the loveliest word?” said Emily dreamily.

  “Because it means everything the human heart desires,” said Dean.

  When he talked to her Emily felt as if she were looking into some enchanted mirror where her own dreams and secret hopes were reflected back to her with added charm. If Dean Priest were a cynic he showed no cynicism to Emily. But in her company he was not a cynic; he had shed his years and became a boy again with a boy’s untainted visions. She loved him for the world he opened to her view.