ON THE BAY SHORE
“I wonder,” thought Emily, “how much longer I have to live.”
She had prowled that evening further down the bay shore than she had
ever gone before. It was a warm, windy evening; the air was resinous
and sweet; the bay a misty turquoise. That part of the shore whereon
she found herself seemed as lonely and virgin as if no human foot had
ever trodden it, save for a tiny, tricksy path, slender as red thread
and bordered by great, green, velvety sheets of moss, that wound in
and out of the big firs and scrub spruces. The banks grew steeper and
rockier as she went on and finally the little path vanished altogether
in a plot of bracken. Emily was just turning to go back when she caught
sight of a magnificent spray of farewell summer, growing far out on the
edge of the bank. She must get it--she had never seen farewell-summers
of so dark and rich a purple. She stepped out to reach them--the
treacherous mossy soil gave way under her feet and slid down the steep
slope. Emily made a frantic attempt to scramble back but the harder she
tried, the faster went the landslide, carrying her with it. In a moment
it would pass the slope and go over the brink of the rocks, straight
to the boulder-strewn shore thirty feet below. Emily had one dreadful
moment of terror and despair; and then she found that the clump of
mossy earth which had broken away had held on a narrow ledge of rock,
half hanging over it; and she was lying on the clump. It seemed to her
that the slightest movement on her part would send it over, straight to
the cruel boulders underneath.
She lay very still, trying to think--trying not to be afraid. She was
far, far away from any house--nobody could hear her if she screamed.
And she did not even dare to scream lest the motion of her body
dislodge the fragment on which she lay. How long could she lie there
motionless? Night was coming on. Aunt Nancy would grow anxious when
the dark fell and would send Caroline to look for her. But Caroline
would never find her here. Nobody would ever think of looking here for
her, so far away from the Grange, in the spruce barrens of the Lower
Bay. To lie there alone all night--to fancy the earth was slipping
over--waiting for help that would never come--Emily could hardly
restrain a shudder that might have been ruinous.
She had faced death once before, or thought she had, on the night when
Lofty John had told her she had eaten a poisoned apple--but this was
even harder. To die here, all alone, far away from home! They might
never know what had become of her--never find her. The crows or the
gulls would pick her eyes out. She dramatized the thing so vividly that
she almost screamed with the horror of it. She would just disappear
from the world as Ilse’s mother had disappeared.
_What had become of Ilse’s mother?_ Even in her own desperate plight
Emily asked herself that question. And she would never see dear New
Moon again and Teddy and the dairy and the Tansy Patch and Lofty
John’s bush and the mossy old sundial and her precious little heap of
manuscripts on the sofa shelf in the garret.
“I must be very brave and patient,” she thought. “My only chance is to
lie still. And I can pray in my mind--I’m sure God can hear thoughts as
well as words. It is nice to think He can hear me if nobody else can.
O God--Father’s God--please work a miracle and save my life, because I
don’t think I’m fit to die yet. Excuse my not being on my knees--You
can see I can’t move. And if I die please don’t let Aunt Elizabeth find
my letter-bills ever. Please let Aunt Laura find them. And please don’t
let Caroline move out the wardrobe when she house-cleans because then
she would find my Jimmy-book and read what I wrote about her. Please
forgive all my sins, especially not being grateful enough and cutting a
bang, and please don’t let Father be very far away. Amen.”
Then, characteristically she thought of a postscript. “And oh, _please_
let somebody find out that Ilse’s mother didn’t do _that_.”
She lay very still. The light on the water began to turn warm gold and
rose. A great pine on a bluff in front of her overflowed in a crest of
dark boughs against the amber splendour behind it--a part of the beauty
of the beautiful world that was slipping away from her. The chill of
the evening gulf breeze began to creep over her. Once a bit of earth
broke off at her side and went down--Emily heard the thud of the little
pebbles in it on the boulders below. The portion upon which one of her
legs lay was quite loose and pendent also. She knew it might break off,
too, at any moment. It would be very dreadful to be there when it got
dark. She could see the big spray of farewell-summer that had lured her
to her doom, waving unplucked above her, wonderfully purple and lovely.
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 any one
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 had 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 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 unquestioningly. 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 fireflies 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.
Good-night, my Star of the Morning.”
He stood at the crossroad 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. She 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.