Emily Climbs. Lucy M. Montgomery

      “We had a long conversation. We talked of Algiers and the transmigration of souls and of being cremated and of profiles—Dean says I have a good profile—‘pure Greek.’ I always like Dean’s compliments.

      “‘Star o’ Morning, how you have grown!’ he said. ‘I left a child last autumn—and I find a woman!’

      “(I will be fourteen in three weeks, and I am tall for my age. Dean seems to be glad of this—quite unlike Aunt Laura who always sighs when she lengthens my dresses, and thinks children grow up too fast.)

      “‘So goes time by,’ I said, quoting the motto on the sundial, and feeling quite sophisticated.

      “‘You are almost as tall as I am,’ he said; and then added bitterly, ‘to be sure Jarback Priest is of no very stately height.’

      “I have always shrunk from referring to his shoulder in any way, but now I said,

      “‘Dean, please don’t sneer at yourself like that—not with me, at least. I never think of you as Jarback.’

      “Dean took my hand and looked right into my eyes as if he were trying to read my very soul.

      “‘Are you sure of that, Emily? Don’t you often wish that I wasn’t lame—and crooked?’

      “‘For your sake I do,’ I answered, ‘but as far as I am concerned it doesn’t make a bit of difference—and never will.’

      “‘And never will!’ Dean repeated the words emphatically. ‘If I were sure of that, Emily—if I were only sure of that.’

      “‘You can be sure of it,’ I declared quite warmly. I was vexed because he seemed to doubt it—and yet something in his expression made me feel a little uncomfortable. It suddenly made me think of the time he rescued me from the cliff on Malvern Bay and told me my life belonged to him since he had saved it. I don’t like the thought of my life belonging to any one but myself—not any one, even Dean, much as I like him. And in some ways I like Dean better than any one in the world.

      “When it got darker the stars came out and we studied them through Dean’s splendid new field-glasses. It was very fascinating. Dean knows all about the stars—it seems to me he knows all about everything. But when I said so, he said,

      “‘There is one secret I do not know—I would give everything else I do know for it—one secret—perhaps I shall never know it. The way to win—the way to win—’

      “‘What?’ I asked curiously.

      “‘My heart’s desire,’ said Dean dreamily, looking at a shimmering star that seemed to be hung on the very tip of one of the Three Princesses. ‘It seems now as desirable and unobtainable as that gem-like star, Emily. But—who knows?’

      “I wonder what it is Dean wants so much.

      * * * * *

      “May 4, 19—

      “Dean brought me a lovely portfolio from Paris, and I have copied my favourite verse from The Fringed Gentian on the inside of the cover. I will read it over every day and remember my vow to ‘climb the Alpine Path.’ I begin to see that I will have to do a good bit of scrambling, though I once expected, I think, to soar right up to ‘that far-off goal’ on shining wings. Mr. Carpenter has banished that fond dream.

      “‘Dig in your toes and hang on with your teeth—that’s the only way,’ he says.

      “Last night in bed I thought out some lovely titles for the books I’m going to write in the future—A Lady of High Degree, True to Faith and Vow, Oh, Rare Pale Margaret (I got that from Tennyson), The Caste of Vere de Vere (ditto) and A Kingdom by the Sea.

      “Now, if I can only get ideas to match the titles!

      “I am writing a story called The House Among the Rowans—also a very good title, I think. But the love talk still bothers me. Everything of the kind I write seems so stiff and silly the minute I write it down that it infuriates me. I asked Dean if he could teach me how to write it properly because he promised long ago that he would, but he said I was too young yet—said it in that mysterious way of his which always seems to convey the idea that there is so much more in his words than the mere sound of them expresses. I wish I could speak so significantly, because it makes you very interesting.

      “This evening after school Dean and I began to read The Alhambra over again, sitting on the stone bench in the garden. That book always makes me feel as if I had opened a little door and stepped straight into fairyland.

      “‘How I would love to see the Alhambra!’ I said.

      “‘We will go to see it sometime—together,’ said Dean.

      “‘Oh, that would be lovely,’ I cried. ‘Do you think we can ever manage it, Dean?’

      “Before Dean could answer I heard Teddy’s whistle in Lofty John’s bush—the dear little whistle of two short high notes and one long low one, that is our signal.

      “‘Excuse me—I must go—Teddy’s calling me,’ I said.

      “‘Must you always go when Teddy calls?’ asked Dean.

      “I nodded and explained,

      “‘He only calls like that when he wants me especially and I have promised I will always go if I possibly can.’

      “‘I want you especially!’ said Dean. ‘I came up this evening on purpose to read The Alhambra with you.’

      “Suddenly I felt very unhappy. I wanted to stay with Dean dreadfully, and yet I felt as if I must go to Teddy. Dean looked at me piercingly. Then he shut up The Alhambra.

      “‘Go,’ he said.

      “I went—but things seemed spoiled, somehow.

      * * * * *

      “May 10, 19—

      “I have been reading three books Dean lent me this week. One was like a rose garden—very pleasant, but just a little too sweet. And one was like a pine wood on a mountain—full of balsam and tang—I loved it, and yet it filled me with a sort of despair. It was written so beautifully—I can never write like that, I feel sure. And one—it was just like a pigsty. Dean gave me that one by mistake. He was very angry with himself when he found it out—angry and distressed.

      “‘Star—Star—I would never have given you a book like that—my confounded carelessness—forgive me. That book is a faithful picture of one world—but not your world, thank God—nor any world you will ever be a citizen of. Star, promise me you will forget that book.’

      “‘I’ll forget it if I can,’ I said.

      “But I don’t know if I can. It was so ugly. I have not been so happy since I read it. I feel as if my hands were soiled somehow and I couldn’t wash them clean. And I have another queer feeling, as if some gate had been shut behind me, shutting me into a new world I don’t quite understand or like, but through which I must travel.

      “To-night I tried to write a description of Dean in my Jimmy-book of character sketches. But I didn’t succeed. What I wrote seemed like a photograph—not a portrait. There is something in Dean that is beyond me.

      “Dean took a picture of me the other day with his new camera, but he wasn’t pleased with it.

      “‘It doesn’t look like you,’ he said, ‘but of course one can never photograph starlight.’

      “Then he added, quite sharply, I thought,

      “‘Tell that young imp of a Teddy Kent to keep your face out of his pictures. He has no business to put you into every one he draws.’

      “‘He doesn’t!’ I cried. ‘Why, Teddy never made but the one picture of me—the one Aunt Nancy stole.’

      “I said it quite