A WATCH IN THE NIGHT
Emily stood quite still and looked up at Ellen’s broad, red face--as
still as if she had been suddenly turned to stone. She felt as if she
had. She was as stunned as if Ellen had struck her a physical blow. The
colour faded out of her little face and her pupils dilated until they
swallowed up the irides and turned her eyes into pools of blackness.
The effect was so startling that even Ellen Greene felt uncomfortable.
“I’m telling you this because I think it’s high time you was told,”
she said. “I’ve been at your pa for months to tell you, but he’s kept
putting it off and off. I says to him, says I, ‘You know how hard she
takes things, and if you drop off suddent some day it’ll most kill
her if she hasn’t been prepared. It’s your duty to prepare her,’ and
he says, says he, ‘There’s time enough yet, Ellen.’ But he’s never
said a word, and when the doctor told me last night that the end might
come any time now, I just made up my mind that _I_’d do what was right
and drop a hint to prepare you. Laws-a-massy, child, don’t look like
that! You’ll be looked after. Your ma’s people will see to that--on
account of the Murray pride, if for no other reason. They won’t let
one of their own blood starve or go to strangers--even if they have
always hated your pa like p’isen. You’ll have a good home--better’n
you’ve ever had here. You needn’t worry a mite. As for your pa, you
ought to be thankful to see him at rest. He’s been dying by inches
for the last five years. He’s kept it from you, but he’s been a great
sufferer. Folks say his heart broke when your ma died--it came on him
so suddent-like--she was only sick three days. That’s why I want you to
know what’s coming, so’s you won’t be all upset when it happens. For
mercy’s sake, Emily Byrd Starr, don’t stand there staring like that!
You give me the creeps! You ain’t the first child that’s been left an
orphan and you won’t be the last. Try and be sensible. And don’t go
pestering your pa about what I’ve told you, mind that. Come you in now,
out of the damp, and I’ll give you a cooky ’fore you go to bed.”
Ellen stepped down as if to take the child’s hand. The power of motion
returned to Emily--she must scream if Ellen even touched her _now_.
With one sudden, sharp, bitter little cry she avoided Ellen’s hand,
darted through the door and fled up the dark staircase.
Ellen shook her head and waddled back to her kitchen.
“Anyhow, I’ve done _my_ duty,” she reflected. “He’d have just kept
saying ‘time enough’ and put it off till he was dead and then there’d
have been no managing her. She’ll have time now to get used to it,
and she’ll brace up in a day or two. I will say for her she’s got
spunk--which is lucky, from all I’ve heard of the Murrays. They won’t
find it easy to overcrow _her_. She’s got a streak of their pride, too,
and that’ll help her through. I wish I dared send some of the Murrays
word that he’s dying, but I don’t dast go that far. There’s no telling
what _he_’d do. Well, I’ve stuck on here to the last and I ain’t sorry.
Not many women would ’a’ done it, living as they do here. It’s a shame
the way that child’s been brought up--never even sent to school. Well,
I’ve told him often enough what I’ve thought of it--it ain’t on _my_
conscience, that’s one comfort. Here, you Sal-thing, you git out!
Where’s Mike, too?”
Ellen could not find Mike for the very good reason that he was upstairs
with Emily, held tightly in her arms, as she sat in the darkness on
her little cot bed. Amid her agony and desolation there was a certain
comfort in the feel of his soft fur and round velvety head.
Emily was not crying; she stared straight into the darkness, trying
to face the awful thing Ellen had told her. She did not doubt
it--something told her it was true. Why couldn’t she die, too? She
couldn’t go on living without Father.
“If I was God I wouldn’t let things like this happen,” she said.
She felt it was very wicked of her to say such a thing--Ellen had told
her once that it was the wickedest thing any one could do to find fault
with God. But she didn’t care. Perhaps if she were wicked enough God
would strike her dead and then she and Father could keep on being
together.
But nothing happened--only Mike got tired of being held so tightly
and squirmed away. She was all alone now, with this terrible burning
pain that seemed all over her and yet was not of the body. She could
never get rid of it. She couldn’t help it by writing about it in the
old yellow account book. She had written there about her Sunday School
teacher going away, and of being hungry when she went to bed, and Ellen
telling her she must be half crazy to talk of Wind Women and flashes;
and after she had written down all about them these things hadn’t hurt
her any more. But this couldn’t be written about. She could not even
go to Father for comfort, as she had gone when she burned her hand so
badly, picking up the red-hot poker by mistake. Father had held her in
his arms all that night and told her stories and helped her to bear the
pain. But Father, so Ellen had said, was going to die in a week or two.
Emily felt as if Ellen had told her this years and years ago. It surely
couldn’t be less than an hour since she had been playing with the Wind
Woman in the barrens and looking at the new moon in the pinky-green sky.
“The flash will never come again--it can’t,” she thought.
But Emily had inherited certain things from her fine old ancestors--the
power to fight--to suffer--to pity--to love very deeply--to rejoice--to
endure. These things were all in her and looked out at you through her
purplish-grey eyes. Her heritage of endurance came to her aid now and
bore her up. She must not let Father know what Ellen had told her--it
might hurt him. She must keep it all to herself and _love_ Father, oh,
so much, in the little while she could yet have him.
She heard him cough in the room below: she must be in bed when he came
up; she undressed as swiftly as her cold fingers permitted and crept
into the little cot bed which stood across the open window. The voices
of the gentle spring night called to her all unheeded--unheard the Wind
Woman whistled by the eaves. For the fairies dwell only in the kingdom
of Happiness; having no souls they cannot enter the kingdom of Sorrow.
She lay there cold and tearless and motionless when her father came
into the room. How very slowly he walked--how very slowly he took off
his clothes. How was it she had never noticed these things before? But
he was not coughing at all. Oh, what if Ellen were mistaken?--what
if--a wild hope shot through her aching heart. She gave a little gasp.
Douglas Starr came over to her bed. She felt his dear nearness as
he sat down on the chair beside her, in his old red dressing-gown.
Oh, how she loved him! There was no other Father like him in all the
world--there never could have been--so tender, so understanding, so
wonderful! They had always been such chums--they had loved each other
so much--it couldn’t be that they were to be separated.
“Winkums, are you asleep?”
“No,” whispered Emily.
“Are you sleepy, small dear?”
“No--no--not sleepy.”
Douglas Starr took her hand and held it tightly.
“Then we’ll have our talk, honey. I can’t sleep either. I want to tell
you something.”
“Oh--I know it--I know it!” burst out Emily. “Oh, Father, I know it!
Ellen told me.”
Douglas Starr was silent for a moment. Then he said under his breath,
“The old fool--the _fat_ old fool!”--as if Ellen’s fatness was an
added aggravation of her folly. Again, for the last time, Emily hoped.
Perhaps it was all a dreadful mistake--just some more of Ellen’s fat
foolishness.
“It--it isn’t true, is it, Father?” she whispered.
“Emily, child,” said her father, “I can’t lift you up--I haven’t the
strength--but climb up and sit on my knee--in the old way.”
Emily slipped out of bed and got on her father’s knee. He wrapped the
old dressing-gown about her and held her close with his face against
hers.
“Dear little child--little beloved Emilykin, it is quite true,” he
said, “I meant to tell you myself to-night. And now that old absurdity
of an Ellen has told you--brutally, I suppose--and hurt you dreadfully.
She has the brain of a hen and the sensibility of a cow. May jackals
sit on her grandmother’s grave! _I_ wouldn’t have hurt you, dear.”
Emily fought something down that wanted to choke her.
“Father, I can’t--I can’t bear it.”
“Yes, you can and will. You will live because there is something for
you to do, I think. You have my gift--along with something I never
had. You will succeed where I failed, Emily. I haven’t been able to do
much for you, sweetheart, but I’ve done what I could. I’ve taught you
something, I think--in spite of Ellen Greene. Emily, do you remember
your mother?”
“Just a little--here and there--like lovely bits of dreams.”
“You were only four when she died. I’ve never talked much to you about
her--I couldn’t. But I’m going to tell you all about her to-night. It
doesn’t hurt me to talk of her now--I’ll see her so soon again. You
don’t look like her, Emily--only when you smile. For the rest, you’re
like your namesake, my mother. When you were born I wanted to call you
Juliet, too. But your mother wouldn’t. She said if we called you Juliet
then I’d soon take to calling her ‘Mother’ to distinguish between you,
and she couldn’t endure _that_. She said her Aunt Nancy had once said
to her, ‘The first time your husband calls you “Mother” the romance of
life is over.’ So we called you after my mother--_her_ maiden name
was Emily Byrd. Your mother thought Emily the prettiest name in the
world,--it was quaint and arch and delightful, she said. Emily, your
mother was the sweetest woman ever made.”
His voice trembled and Emily snuggled close.
“I met her twelve years ago, when I was sub-editor of the _Enterprise_
up in Charlottetown and she was in her last year at Queen’s. She was
tall and fair and blue-eyed. She looked a little like your Aunt Laura,
but Laura was never so pretty. Their eyes were very much alike--and
their voices. She was one of the Murrays from Blair Water. I’ve never
told you much about your mother’s people, Emily. They live up on the
old north shore at Blair Water on New Moon Farm--always have lived
there since the first Murray came out from the Old Country in 1790. The
ship he came on was called the _New Moon_ and he named his farm after
her.”
“It’s a nice name--the new moon is such a pretty thing,” said Emily,
interested for a moment.
“There’s been a Murray ever since at New Moon Farm. They’re a proud
family--the Murray pride is a byword along the north shore, Emily.
Well, they had some things to be proud of, that cannot be denied--but
they carried it too far. Folks call them ‘the chosen people’ up there.
“They increased and multiplied and scattered all over, but the old
stock at New Moon Farm is pretty well run out. Only your Aunts,
Elizabeth and Laura, live there now, and their cousin, Jimmy Murray.
They never married--could not find any one good enough for a Murray, so
it used to be said. Your Uncle Oliver and your Uncle Wallace live in
Summerside, your Aunt Ruth in Shrewsbury and your Great-Aunt Nancy at
Priest Pond.”
“Priest Pond--that’s an _interesting_ name--not a pretty name like New
Moon and Blair Water--but interesting,” said Emily. Feeling Father’s
arm around her the horror had momentarily shrunk away. For just a
little while she ceased to believe it.
Douglas Starr tucked the dressing-gown a little more closely around
her, kissed her black head, and went on.
“Elizabeth and Laura and Wallace and Oliver and Ruth were old Archibald
Murray’s children. His first wife was their mother. When he was sixty
he married again--a young slip of a girl--who died when your mother
was born. Juliet was twenty years younger than her half-family, as she
used to call them. She was very pretty and charming and they all loved
and petted her and were very proud of her. When she fell in love with
me, a poor young journalist, with nothing in the world but his pen and
his ambition, there was a family earthquake. The Murray pride couldn’t
tolerate the thing at all. I won’t rake it all up--but things were said
I could never forget or forgive. Your mother married me, Emily--and the
New Moon people would have nothing more to do with her. Can you believe
that, in spite of it, she was never sorry for marrying me?”
Emily put up her hand and patted her father’s hollow cheek.
“_Of course_ she wouldn’t be sorry. _Of course_ she’d rather have you
than all the Murrays of any kind of a moon.”
Father laughed a little--and there was just a note of triumph in his
laugh.
“Yes, she seemed to feel that way about it. And we were so happy--oh,
Emilykin, there never were two happier people in the world. You were
the child of that happiness. I remember the night you were born in
the little house in Charlottetown. It was in May and a west wind was
blowing silvery clouds over the moon. There was a star or two here
and there. In our tiny garden--everything we had was small except our
love and our happiness--it was dark and blossomy. I walked up and
down the path between the beds of violets your mother had planted--and
prayed. The pale east was just beginning to glow like a rosy pearl
when some one came and told me I had a little daughter. I went
in--and your mother, white and weak, smiled just that dear, slow,
wonderful smile I loved, and said, ‘We’ve--got--the only--baby--of any
importance--in--the world, dear. Just--think--of that!’”
“I wish people could remember from the very moment they’re born,” said
Emily. “It would be so very interesting.”
“I dare say we’d have a lot of uncomfortable memories,” said her
father, laughing a little. “It can’t be very pleasant getting used to
living--no pleasanter than getting used to stopping it. But you didn’t
seem to find it hard, for you were a good wee kidlet, Emily. We had
four more happy years and then--do you remember the time your mother
died, Emily?”
“I remember the funeral, Father--I remember it _distinctly_. You were
standing in the middle of a room, holding me in your arms, and Mother
was lying just before us in a long, black box. And you were crying--and
I couldn’t think why--and I wondered why Mother looked so white and
wouldn’t open her eyes. And I leaned down and touched her cheek--and
oh, it was so cold. It made me shiver. And somebody in the room said,
‘Poor little thing!’ and I was frightened and put my face down on your
shoulder.”
“Yes, I recall that. Your mother died very suddenly. I don’t think
we’ll talk about it. The Murrays all came to her funeral. The Murrays
have certain traditions and they live up to them very strictly. One
of them is that nothing but candles shall be burned for light at New
Moon--and another is that no quarrel must be carried past the grave.
They came when she was dead--they would have come when she was ill if
they had known, I will say that much for them. And they behaved very
well--oh, very well indeed. They were not the Murrays of New Moon for
nothing. Your Aunt Elizabeth wore her best black satin dress to the
funeral. For any funeral but a Murray’s the second best one would
have done; and they made no serious objection when I said your mother
would be buried in the Starr plot in Charlottetown cemetery. They
would have liked to take her back to the old Murray burying-ground in
Blair Water--they had their own private burying-ground, you know--no
indiscriminate graveyard for _them_. But your Uncle Wallace handsomely
admitted that a woman should belong to her husband’s family in death as
in life. And then they offered to take you and bring you up--to ‘give
you your mother’s place.’ I refused to let them have you--then. Did I
do right, Emily?”
“Yes--yes--yes!” whispered Emily, with a hug at every “yes.”
“I told Oliver Murray--it was he who spoke to me about you--that as
long as I lived I would not be parted from my child. He said, ‘If you
ever change your mind, let us know.’ But I did not change my mind--not
even three years later when my doctor told me I must give up work.
‘If you don’t, I give you a year,’ he said, ‘if you do, and live
out-of-doors all you can, I give you three--or possibly four.’ He was a
good prophet. I came out here and we’ve had four lovely years together,
haven’t we, small dear one?”
“Yes--oh, yes!”
“Those years and what I’ve taught you in them are the only legacy I
can leave you, Emily. We’ve been living on a tiny income I have from
a life interest that was left me in an old uncle’s estate--an uncle
who died before I was married. The estate goes to a charity now, and
this little house is only a rented one. From a worldly point of view
I’ve certainly been a failure. But your mother’s people will care for
you--I know that. The Murray pride will guarantee so much, if nothing
else. And they can’t help loving you. Perhaps I should have sent for
them before--perhaps I ought to do it yet. But I have pride of a kind,
too--the Starrs are not entirely traditionless--and the Murrays said
some very bitter things to me when I married your mother. Will I send
to New Moon and ask them to come, Emily?”
“No!” said Emily, almost fiercely.
She did not want any one to come between her and Father for the few
precious days left. The thought was horrible to her. It would be bad
enough if they had to come--afterwards. But she would not mind anything
much--then.
“We’ll stay together to the very end, then, little Emily-child. We
won’t be parted for a minute. And I want you to be brave. You mustn’t
be afraid of _anything_, Emily. Death isn’t terrible. The universe is
full of love--and spring comes everywhere--and in death you open and
shut a door. There are beautiful things on the other side of the door.
I’ll find your mother there--I’ve doubted many things, but I’ve never
doubted _that_. Sometimes I’ve been afraid that she would get so far
ahead of me in the ways of eternity that I’d never catch up. But I
feel _now_ that she’s waiting for me. And we’ll wait for you--we won’t
hurry--we’ll loiter and linger till you catch up with us.”
“I wish you--could take me right through the door with you,” whispered
Emily.
“After a little while you won’t wish that. You have yet to learn how
kind time is. And life has something for you--I feel it. Go forward to
meet it fearlessly, dear. I know you don’t feel like that just now--but
you will remember my words by and by.”
“I feel just now,” said Emily, who couldn’t bear to hide anything from
Father, “that I don’t like God any more.”
Douglas Starr laughed--the laugh Emily liked best. It was such a dear
laugh--she caught her breath over the dearness of it. She felt his
arms tightening round her.
“Yes, you do, honey. You can’t help liking God. He is Love itself, you
know. You mustn’t mix Him up with Ellen Greene’s God, of course.”
Emily didn’t know exactly what Father meant. But all at once she found
that she wasn’t afraid any longer--and the bitterness had gone out of
her sorrow, and the unbearable pain out of her heart. She felt as if
love was all about her and around her, breathed out from some great,
invisible, hovering Tenderness. One couldn’t be afraid or bitter
where love was--and love was everywhere. Father was going through the
door--no, he was going to lift a curtain--she liked _that_ thought
better, because a curtain wasn’t as hard and fast as a door--and he
would slip into that world of which the flash had given her glimpses.
He would be there in its beauty--never very far away from her. She
could bear anything if she could only feel that Father wasn’t very far
away from her--just beyond that wavering curtain.
Douglas Starr held her until she fell asleep; and then in spite of his
weakness he managed to lay her down in her little bed.
“She will love deeply--she will suffer terribly--she will have glorious
moments to compensate--as I have had. As her mother’s people deal with
her, so may God deal with them,” he murmured brokenly.