 Section number 55 of uncollected short stories by Ellen Montgomery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Christine Wales. Uncollected short stories of Ellen Montgomery by Lucy Mod Montgomery. Section 55 of how Bobby got to the picnic. Bobby was lying prone among the lush grasses behind the dairy, crying as if his heart would break. The maple trees over him were whispering softly and sunbeams flickered down through their bows to dance over Bobby's toe-colored air and to play bo peep with each other. A robin perched on a bow and tweeted an invitation to Bobby to cheer up and a big golden bee hummed in the air above him but Bobby refused to be comforted. Now who was Bobby and why was he crying behind the dairy on such a lovely sunshiney summer morning when everything in the world, boys, birds and bees, ought to have been as happy as the sunshine? Bobby had been Bobby and nothing else as long as he could remember but a year ago he'd come from the orphan's home to live with Mr. Mrs. Johnson and since then he'd been called Bobby Johnson. He was about 12 years old and he'd been happy enough since he'd come to the farm. Mr. Mrs. Johnson meant to do well by the boy they had adopted and certainly as far as material comfort went Bobby had nothing to complain of but the Johnson's never had any children of their own and had been so long since they had been children themselves that they'd forgotten what it was like so Bobby would have been a rather lonely little fellow if there'd not always been so many chores and errands to keep his hands and thoughts occupied. Bobby should have been down in the orchard picking currents instead of crying behind the dairy and after the currents there would be something else. Bobby was willing to work but who could pick currents with big tears rolling down his face? He must cry out his dreadful disappointment first. Another boy came whistling around the dairy presently and stopped in astonishment at the unusual sight of Bobby crying. The newcomer was about Bobby's age but he was dressed in a very natty suit of clothes and wore a white collar and tie. His hair was carefully cut and altogether he did not look like a butternut rich boy. I say Bob, what on earth is the matter? Bob twisted himself around until his disconsole and freckled face stained with tears came into sight. He was past caring whether Frank Rexford or anybody else caught him crying. They might call him baby if they would. Nothing mattered after his crushing disappointment. It's the picnic while Bob contriving even the depth of his despair to pronounce the word with the capital. My clothes got burned up and I can't go. His head went down again and he gave such a big sob that it almost choked him. Frank whistled again and sat down on a convenient stump. Look here Bob. Crying isn't going to help matters any. Sit up straight and tell me the whole business. Thus assured, disconsole and Bobby sat up and dashed his fist across his eyes. You don't know he sobbed. You've been to dozens of picnics and I've never been to a single one and I didn't want to go on this one awful bad. All the boys of my class are going and they're going away up the river in the boat and going to have swings and ice cream and fireworks at night and splendid time and now I can't go. Frank knew all about this picnic. He'd come down to butternut ridge on the train the night before for the very purpose of attending it because his antagonist who'd lived next door to the Johnsons and he was a power in the Sunday school had invited him. Frank had been spending a month with her in the earlier part of the summer and this was how he came to know Bobby well. They had been great chums. What do you mean by saying your clothes were burned up? He asked my good clothes said Bobby Sarflea. They were hanging up in the kitchen chamber closet, you know, along with Uncle Hezekai's good trousers and Aunt Mary's Sunday dress and the kitchen pipe goes right up through this morning and Mary smelled something queer and ran up and opened the closet and it was full of smoke. The things had caught on fire from the pipe. They had an awful time to get it put out and when they did get my clothes were all burnt into holes. They ain't any more good at all and I haven't got anything fit to word of the picnic. Bobby filled up again. It's too bad old chap said Frank sympathetically, but you ought to be thankful the house didn't burn down. And I am said Bobby indignantly awful thankful. And I never let on to Aunt Mary how bad I felt. I just was bound. I wouldn't. But when she said at dinner time that I'd have to stay home from the picnic, because I hadn't any clothes to wear couldn't stand it. Of course, I knew it before, but when I heard her say it, oh, dear. Well, I'm awful. Sorry, Bob said, frankly, if I had any more clothes with me, I'd lend them in a minute. But I haven't because I'm going right back the next day. Well, it's just my luck. So Bobby Driftley, I've never been to a picnic in my life. And I've been thinking about this one all summer and planning such a good time. And I was to carry the flag at the head of the procession to miss Helen picked me because she said I was so straight. And I've never tasted ice cream or sauce skyrockets. Frank Douglas heels uncomfortably into the ground. I'm sorry was always seen to say. I wish you could go Bob, but I don't see how can be managed. Well, it can't I know that well enough. It could do you think you're supposed to be crying? No sir, I'd be busy managing it. Well, I've got to go and pick the currents now. Frank walked home in a brown study. He was trying to fight down a sudden idea that had come to him. Picnics, as Bobby had said, were common things in his experience. He'd been to four that summer already. But the butternut ridge picnic was always a tip top affair. More fun than it does in ordinary picnics put together. This one promised to be particularly good. And he'd been thinking about it for a week ever since and Agnes and word to him that it would take place. It was no use talking. He simply had to go. Of course, he was sorry for Bobby, but there would be another picnic next summer and Bobby would get to that and forget all about this disappointment. Frank thought he'd settled the question, but some way it wouldn't stay settled. He was very silent and preoccupied all the rest of the day. Over and over, something kept saying to him, you should you have been going to picnics all your life and Bobby has never been to one and he never has any fun. You're a selfish boy, I'm afraid, Frank Rexford. And Agnes wondered what would come over her live enough for you. She had no boys around and Frank was a particular pet of hers. At twilight, she said to him, Frank, you will turn brown for good if you keep on meditating much longer. Well, what are you thinking so deeply? Frank stuck his hands in his pockets and looked out the window. I've been trying to make up my mind to do something I don't want to do antagonists, he said slowly, but I think I ought to do it. I wouldn't mind staying in bed all day so much, but I'd hate to miss the picnic. Stay in bed, Frank. What on earth do you mean? exclaimed his aunt in bewilderment. Thereupon, Frank explained matters and they had a long talk. It ended with that and Agnes saying gently, well, do just as you like about it, Frank. I shan't object. The picnickers were all to meet at the wharf the next morning at ten o'clock and at nine a very disconsole and Bobby was feeding the pigs pouring great milky streams to the troughs under the apple trees and trying with all his might in Maine to forget what a glorious day was for a picnic. Suddenly, Frank dashed around the corner caught Bobby by the shoulder and whirled him about. Bobby Johnson, do you know what you're going to today? You are going to the picnic. I'm going to lend you my clothes. They'll fit you all right. You are to come right over to the van. Agnes says now and get them on. Hurry up too. You won't have much time to get dressed and get down to the wharf by ten o'clock. But what will you do, Frank? Have you another suit? Oh, I'm not going after all. I changed my mind since last night. Bobby Johnson, why don't you hurry? Oh, I won't go. exclaimed Bobby as the nature of Frank's sacrifice dawned on him. You're going to give me your clothes and stay home yourself. Oh, I'm not so mean as that, Frank. Look here, Bob. Be sensible. Why? I've been to four picnics this summer already. If you won't go to this one, I won't either. That's flat. You have just got to go. After a little more argument and persuasion, Bobby yielded, tipped the last foaming bucket over the fence, got Mrs. Johnson's permission and hurried off with Frank in a high state of excitement. Frank's trim suit fitted Bobby admirably, and Frank did not have to go to bed after all. Frank Agnes had found in the garret an old discarded suit of his left thereafter a vacation two years ago. It was badly torn and faded and very tight, but it served the purpose and Frank stood at the door and watched Bobby and Anne Agnes drive away with a much lighter heart than he'd expected. After all, he didn't mind missing the picnic very much. Bobby was so happy. Frank found the day a pretty long and lonely one, but he read a sea story Anne Agnes had given him and ate the lovely lunch she had left and in the afternoon he took a long nap and so the day wore away and at last Anne Agnes came home. Well, Frank, here we are back. Have you been lonely? No, auntie, really not much at all, only since it got dark. Where's Bob? He's coming with the other boys. Frank, if you could have seen that child today, you would have felt more than repaid for staying home. I really never saw anyone look so happy. I'm very sure he enjoyed every minute of the time and he was so careful of your clothes, but he would tell you all about it himself. Presently, Bobby came running breathlessly in and as he got out of Frank's clothes and into his own patched ones, he gave an animated account of the picnic. Oh, Frank, it was just splendid. At first I felt bad about your staying home and thought I ought to have left you, but after a while I just couldn't think of anything but what was going on. We had a splendid time and sale and when we got up to the island we landed and had lovely games and the procession and all and I carried the flag and when it got dark we had the fireworks, oh my, and when we came home, Frank, I'm just awful, much obliged to you. That's alright, said Frank cheerily. I'm glad you had such a good time, Bobby. When tired, happy Bobby had gone home across the dewy fields, Frank turned to his aunt and said, I'm so glad I did it in Agnes. If I hadn't, I'd have been the meanest feeling boy in Butternut Ridge tonight and as it is, I'm the happiest and Agnes smiled and padded Frank's shoulder tenderly. Picnics by proxy are not bad things sometimes, are they, Frank? I daresay you are the happiest boy in Butternut Ridge tonight because you've been kind and unselfish, but I'm sure Bobby thinks he is. He has the desires of his heart. I wish you could have seen his eyes shining at the picnic, Frank. End of section 55, how Bobby got to the picnic, recording by Christine Wales. Section 56 of uncollected short stories of L. M. Montgomery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Maliki Orozco. Uncollected short stories of L. M. Montgomery. By Lucy Maud Montgomery. Una of the Garden. Part 1. Chapter 1 An hour after his pupils had gone home, Eric Murray came out of the old stone schoolhouse at Stillwater and locked the door. He had lingered behind to solve some problems for his advanced students, and now the sunlight was slanting in warm yellow lines through the thick maple grove to the west of the building. A group of sheep were nibbling the lush grass in a far corner of the playground. The bell of one of them wore tinkled faintly and musically on the still mellow May air. The scene was very peaceful and pastoral. Almost too much so, the young man thought with a slight shrug as he stood on the worn steps and gazed about him. How was he going to put in a whole month here, he wondered, with a little smile at his own expense. Father would chuckle if he knew I was sick of it already, he thought, as he walked across the playground of the road. Well, the week has ended at any rate. I've earned my own living for five whole days, and that is something I could never say before in all my 25 years of existence. It's an exhilarating thought, but teaching a district school is distinctly not exhilarating. At least in such a well-behaved school as this where the pupils are so painfully good that I haven't even the traditional excitement of thrashing obstreperous big boys. Everything seems to go by clockwork. Larry must have been a model driller. I feel as if I were only the big cog in an orderly machine. Well, I can surely stand it for a month. Then I'll tell the potter he can have his own way with me, and that he was right and I was wrong. He swung into the road with a whistle and walked with a free, easy stride that was somehow suggestive of reserve strength and power down the long slope of the hill. The maples crowded thickly to the roadside on either hand, and beneath them were beds of tender green, curly young ferns. Here and there a wild plum hung out its feathery bloom like a banner of springtime. The air was fragrant and balmy with wandering breezes. Now and then Eric met some callolad on horseback or a shrewd faced farmer in a cart who nodded and called out cheerily, out a master. He knew most of them already, but at the foot of the hill he met two people he did not know. They sat in an old-fashioned shabby wagon and were watering their horse at the brook. Eric surveyed them somewhat curiously. They did not look in the least like the ordinary run of still water people. The boy had a distinctly foreign look in spite of the blue-checked shirt and homespun trousers which seemed to be the regulation work-a-day outfit for the still water farmer lads. He was lithe and long limbed with a head of thick silky black curls and long slender hands. His face was delicately featured and olive tinted, say for the cheeks, which had a dusky crimson bloom that would not have shamed a girl's. His mouth was red and full and his eyes large and black. He was a handsome fellow, but the expression of his face was slightly sullen. The other occupant of the wagon was a man of about sixty, with iron-gray hair, a harsh-featured face and deep-set eyes. His mouth was closed-lipped and relentless and did not look as if it had ever smiled. Indeed, the idea of smiles could not be connected with this man. It was incongruous, yet there was nothing repellent about the face and there was something in it that attracted Eric's attention, for he rather prided himself on being a student of physiognomy, and he felt sure that this man was no ordinary stillwater farmer of the genial, garrulous type with which he had become familiar. Long after the old wagon, with its oddly assorted pair, had gone lumbering up the hill, Eric found himself thinking of the stern, heavy-browed man and the black-eyed, red-lipped boy. Eric Murray himself was good to look upon. Tall, broad-shouldered young fellow that he was, with steady grayish blue eyes and thick wavy chestnut hair. He had been the most popular member of his graduating class that spring and the most envied, for his father was a millionaire and Eric was his only son. Mr. Murray, senior, was a good-hearted, choleric old gentleman who loved this boy of his with the dead mother's eyes better than anything else on earth and his business next. It had always been an understood thing that Eric was to go into the firm when he was through college and fit himself to carry on its many enterprises. Eric had assented to this without any particular thought, regarding it as a matter of course, but during the preceding winter he had taken a sudden notion that he would like to go in for law. Full of this idea he had gone home to his father and abruptly told him so. If Mr. Murray had kept his temper and discussed the affair reasonably, he would probably have soon induced Eric to drop what was, after all, only a young man's passing whim. Instead, Mr. Murray grew unwisely angry, thumped, and denounced, and finally issued an ultimatum to the effect that Eric might go and study Tom Fullery if he liked, but that he need not expect any assistance in so doing. I will earn my own way through then, Eric had retorted hotly. He flung himself out of his father's presence in a rather petulant state of mind. He felt that he had been unjustly treated, and it angered him. It was time, he said to himself, that his father ceased treating him like a boy who must always be told what was good for him. He would show him that he was able to stand on his own feet. The next day he received a letter from Lawrence West, a former Academy classmate who was teaching in an up-country district. West wrote that his health would not permit him to return to his school duties after the spring vacation in May, and he had been unable to find a substitute. He asked Eric to take his place. It will only be for four weeks until the last of June, he wrote. The school year ends then, and there will be plenty of teachers looking for the place. I have a couple of pupils preparing to try the Academy entrance examinations, and I do not like to leave them in the lurch. But the doctor has ordered me off, and there is nothing else for it, unless you can help me out. Come up and take the school for the rest of the term, you petted son of luxury. It will do you good to learn how rich a man feels when he is earning $40 a month by his own unaided efforts. Eric had laughed and written Larry that he would go. He went at once. His parting with his father was friendly enough. Mr. Murray shook his son's hand and brusquely told him to take care of himself, right often, and come home when he had worked off his yeasty ideas and was prepared to be sensible. During the week, he had already spent in Stillwater's green seclusion and tranquility. Eric's anger had cooled, and his ruffled pride had become smooth. He was ready to laugh at himself. After all, he had made a mistake. There were many lawyers in the world, perhaps too many. But there were not too many good, honest men of business, ready to do clean, big things for the comfort and betterment of humanity, to plan great enterprises and carry them through with brain and courage, to manage and control, to aim high and strike one's aim. That was what he was fitted for, and that was what he would do. Meanwhile, for four more weeks, he would teach in the Stillwater School as well and worthily as might be. Eric liked to do all he attempted to do in a reliable, clean-cut fashion, leaving no loose ends. So he planned and thought as he walked along. His plans and thoughts were practical. Romantic visions played no part in them. The witchery of the spring was all about him in the earth and air and sky. He felt it and loved it and yielded to it as any one of clean life and sane pulses must do, but he was not beguiled by it into lightly turning to thoughts of love. It thrilled his ambitions rather than his emotions. Eric had succeeded to Larry's abiding place as well as his desk. He boarded with Robert Williamson and his wife, an elderly couple who lived on the hill opposite the school. Eric greatly liked Mrs. Williamson, a quiet woman who looked after him in a motherly way. She talked little and her face was marked by the traces of outlived pain. He liked her husband somewhat less, Robert or Bob as he was commonly called, despite his 60 years. Williamson was a talkative, gossipy man who would like to have a finger in everyone's pie. They supposed Eric to be a poor college student earning his own way through like Larry West. Eric did not disturb this, although he said nothing to contribute to it. The Williamsons were at tea when he went in. Eric hung his hat on the whitewashed wall and took his place between window and table. You see, we're busy waiting for you, said old Robert. You're late this evening, master. You've missed Alexander Tracy. He was here to ask you up. You'll need to stand in with him for he's got a son that may brew up trouble when he starts into school. Seth Tracy's a young imp. Perhaps I met Mr. Tracy, said Eric. Is he a tall man with gray hair and a dark stern face? No, he's a round, jolly fellow as Alec. I reckon the man you met was Thomas Marshall. I saw him driving down the road, too. He won't be troubling you with invitations up, small fear of it. The Marshalls ain't sociable, to say the least of it. Mother, pass the biscuits to the master. Who was the young fellow he had with him? asked Eric. Neil, Neil Marshall. That is a scotchy name for such a face and eyes. I should rather have expected Giuseppe or Angelo. The boy looks like an Italian. Reckon it's likely, seeing that's what he is. How it happens that an Italian boy with a scotchy name is living in a place like Stillwater. Well, master, it was this way. About 20 years ago, a couple of Italian pack peddlers came along and called at the Marshall Place, a man and his wife. The woman took sick there, and old Janet Marshall took her in and nursed her. A baby was born and the woman died. Then the father disappeared and was never seen or heard tell of afterwards, and the Marshalls were left with the youngsters on their hands. They kept him and brought him up. Folks advised them to send him to the orphan asylum, but the Marshalls were never fond of taking advice. They called the child Neil, and he's always lived there. Folks don't like him. They say he ain't to be trusted. It's certain he's awful hot tempered, and when he went to school, he nigh about killed some of the boys he took a spite to. But then I reckoned they tormented him a lot. He's a great hand at the fiddle, and likes company, but they say he takes sulky spells. It wouldn't be any wonder living with the Marshalls. They're all as queer as Dick's hatband. Father, you shouldn't talk so, said Mrs. Williamson rebukingly. Well now, mother, you know they are. You know they never were like other people. They live way up yonder, master, half a mile in from the road, with a thick spruce wood twix them and all the rest of the world. They never go anywhere, and nobody ever goes there. There's just old Thomas and his sister Janet, and a niece of theirs, and this here Neil. They are a queer, dour, cranky lot, and I will say it, mother. There, give your old man a cup of tea. Chapter 2 Shortly before sunset that evening, Eric went for a walk. He liked to indulge in long tramps through the stillwater fields and woods, and the sweet mellowness of the spring weather. Most of the stillwater houses were built along the shore road, and about the corners. The farms ran back from them into solitudes of woods and pasturelands. Eric struck southwest in a new direction, and walked briskly along. The spruce wood in which he finally found himself was pierced with arrows of ruby light from the setting sun. He went through it, walking up a long purple aisle where the wood flooring was brown and elastic under his feet, and came out beyond it on a scene that surprised him. No house was in sight, but he found himself looking into a garden, an old garden, evidently long neglected and forsaken. But a garden dies hard, and this one, which must have been a very delightful spot once, was delightful still, nonetheless so from the air of gentle melancholy that seemed to pervade it, the melancholy that invests all places which have once been the scene of joy and pleasure, and are so no longer. Places where hearts have throbbed and eyes brightened and merry voices echoed, the ghosts of these things seem to linger in their old haunts. The charm of the place took sudden possession of Eric as nothing had ever done before. He was not given to fancies, the practical business-like young fellow, but the garden laid a hold of him and drew him to itself, and he was never to be quite the same again. He went into it through the little gap in the low stone dyke around it, and so unknowing went forward to meet all that life held for him. The garden was large and square, bounded on all four sides by the stone dyke which was so old that its crevices were full of ferns and many wild leaves and vines. At regular intervals along the dyke were tall spruces with the evening wind singing in their tops, and in the southwest corner was a thick plantation of young furs that had evidently grown up of themselves. Most of the garden was grown lushly over with grass, but the old paths were still quite visible and were bordered by stones and large pebbles. In the centre between two high rows of lilac trees out blossoming in purple was a large square bed all a-blow with the starry spikes of the June lilies, as the country people call the white Narcissus. Their penetrating haunting fragrance distilled on the evening air and met him on every soft puff of wind no matter where he walked. In the very centre of the bed was a clump of tall white and purple irises, the corners of the garden were gay with thickly growing yellow daffodils. Along the southern side grew another hedge of lilac trees, and just inside the gap by which he had entered was a tall white lilac bush. Eastward there were several branching bird cherries snowy with bloom, and everywhere, as it seemed, grew clumps of bleeding heart, tremulous with spikes of rosy flowers. There were many rose bushes also, but it was too early in the season for roses. At each side of the garden was a bench formed rudely out of surf-worn red sandstone from the shore. Eric walked across the garden and sat down on the one behind the southern lilac trees. From where he sat he now got a glimpse of a house about a quarter of a mile away, its grey gable peeping out from a dark spruce wood. It seemed a dull gloomy place, and he did not know who lived there. He had a wide outlook to the south over far hazy fields and misty blue hills and valleys. The air was very sweet with the breath of all the growing things and of the bed of mint upon which he had trampled. Robins were whistling clear and sweet and southern in the woods. This is a veritable haunt of ancient peace, he quoted. I could fall asleep here and dream dreams. What a sky! Could anything be bluer? And such frail white clouds that melt away as you look at them. What a dizzying intoxicating fragrance lilacs have. I wonder if perfume could set a man drunk. Those Narcissi! What's that? Across the mellow stillness, mingled with the croon of the wind and the trees and the calls of the robins came a strain of delicious music so beautiful and fantastic that Eric held his breath in astonishment and delight. Was he dreaming? No, it was real music, the music of a violin played by some hand inspired with the very spirit of harmony. He had never heard anything like it, and he felt quite sure that nothing exactly like it ever had been heard before, that that wonderful music was coming straight from the soul of the unseen violinist and translating itself so into those most airy and delicate of sounds, those most airy and delicate of sounds for the first time. It was an elusive haunting melody, strangely suited to the time and place. It had in it the sigh of the wind and the spruces, the eerie whispering of the grasses at dewfall, the white thoughts of the Narcissi, all the soul of all the old laughter and song and tears and gladness and sobs the garden had ever known in the lost years, and besides all this there was in it a pitiful, plaintive cry as of some imprisoned thing calling for freedom for utterance. At first Eric listened mutely and movelessly, lost in wonderment. Then a very natural curiosity overcame him. Who in still water could play a violin so? And who was playing so here in this deserted old garden of old places? He rose and walked along the lilac hedge, going as slowly and silently as possible, not to interrupt the player. When he reached the bed of June Lily's he stopped short in new amazement and again was tempted to think he must be dreaming. On the stone bench and of the branching white lilac trees a girl was sitting, playing on an old brown violin. Her eyes were on the far away horizon and she did not see Eric. For a few moments he stood there and looked at her, and the picture she made photographed itself on his vision to the last detail, never again to be blotted from his book of remembrance. He had in his 25 years of life met hundreds of pretty women, scores of handsome women, a scant half dozen of really beautiful women, but he knew at once beyond the possibility of question that he had never seen or even imagined anything so exquisite as this girl of the garden. Her loveliness was so perfect that his breath almost went from him in his first delight of it. Her face was oval and delicately tinted, marked in every line and feature with the expression of absolute purity found in the angels and bandanas of old paintings, a purity that had in it no faintest stain of earthliness. Her head was bare and her thick jet-black hair was parted over to her brow, one moonbeam from the forehead to the crown, and hung in two long braids over her shoulders. Her eyes were of such a blue as Eric had never seen in eyes before, the tint of the sea in the still calm light that follows after a fine sunset, and they were fringed with very long silken lashes and arched over by most delicately black eyebrows. Her colorless dress of pale blue print revealed her smooth white throat. The sleeves were rolled up above her elbows, and the hand that guided the bow of her violin was, perhaps the most beautiful thing about her, perfect in shape and outline, firm and white, with taper, rosy nailed fingers. She was about eighteen years old, apparently. Suddenly she turned her lovely eyes on Eric. The change in her was startling. She sprang to her feet, the bow slipping from her hand and the music breaking in mid-strain. Every hint of color fled from her face, and she trembled like one of the wind-stirred narcissists. I beg your pardon, said Eric hastily. I am sorry, I have alarmed you, but your music was so beautiful that I forgot that you were not aware of my presence. He stopped in dismay, for he realized that the expression on the girl's face was one of terror, not merely the startled alarm of a shy, childlike creature who had thought herself alone, but absolute terror. It was betrayed in her blanched and quivering lips and in the wide blue eyes that stared back into his with the expression of some trapped wild thing. It hurt him that any woman should look at him like that, at him who had always held womanhood in reverence for the sake of the mother he had loved in boyhood. Don't look so, he exclaimed, thinking only of calming her fear and speaking as he would to child. I won't hurt you, you are safe, quite safe. In his eagerness to reassure her, he took an unconscious step forward. Instantly she turned in without a word or sound, fled up the garden, threw a gap in the western dyke, and along what seemed to be a lane beyond, arched over with misty white wild plum trees. Before Eric could draw his breath, she had vanished from his sight among the furs. He stooped and picked up the violin bow. Well, what a mysterious thing, he said loud. Am I bewitched? Who? What was she? Can it be possible that she's a still water girl? And why should she be so frightened at the sight of me? I never thought I was a very hideous person, but this is certainly no temptation to vanity. Perhaps I've wandered into an enchanted garden and been outwardly transformed into an ogre. There is something uncanny about it, apparently. Anything might happen in such a place. He glanced about it with a whimsical smile. The light was fading, and the garden was full of soft creeping shadows and silences. It seemed to wink sleepy eyes of impish enjoyment at his perplexity. He laid the violin bow on the stone bench. Well, there's no use in my following her, and I have no right to, even if it were of use. But I wish she hadn't fled in such terror. Eyes like that were never meant to express anything but tenderness and trust. All the way home, he pondered the mystery of who the girl might be. Let me see, he reflected. Old Mr. Williamson was describing the still water girls for my benefit the other evening. I think he said there were four handsome ones in the district. Flory Woods, Melissa Bell, Jenny Scott, and Clara May Ferguson. No, no, that girl couldn't be a Flory or a Melissa or a Jenny, while Clara May is completely out of the question. Well, there is some bewitchment in the affair. I'd better forget all about it. Eric found that he couldn't forget all about it. The girl's face haunted him. The mystery of her tantalized him. He might have asked the Williamson's about her, but somehow he shrank from that. The next evening, with a little shrug at himself, he wandered southwest over the fields again. He found the garden easily. He had half expected not to find it the same, still fragrant grassy spot. It had no occupant, and although he lingered there for an hour, no one came. But the vial in bow was gone from the stone bench. The keenness of his disappointment surprised him, even vexed him. What nonsense it was to be so worked up because a little girl he had seen for five minutes failed to appear. He called himself a fool, and left at last in a petulant mood. For two days he refused to let himself think of the garden. The evening of the third found him in it again, again to be disappointed. He went back determined to solve the mystery by open inquiry. Fortune favoured him, for he found Mrs. Williamson knitting alone in her kitchen in the dusk. Mrs. Williamson, he said, with an affectation of carelessness, I stumbled on an old, deserted garden back behind the woods over there the other evening, a charming bit of wilderness. Do you know who's it is? I suppose it must be the old Connors garden, answered Mrs. Williamson after a moment's reflection. I had forgotten it. It must be twenty years since the Connors moved away. Their house and barns were burned down, and Mr. and Mrs. Connors sold the land to Thomas Marshall and moved to town. Mrs. Connors was very fond of flowers. There was a young girl in it, playing on a violin, said Eric, annoyed to find that it was an effort to speak of her, and that the blood mounted to his face as he did so. She ran away in alarm as soon as she saw me, although I do not think I did anything to frighten or vex her. I have no idea who she was. Do you know? Mrs. Williamson did not make an immediate reply. Finally, she said, with a tone of new interest in her voice, I suppose it must have been Oona Marshall, master. And if it was, you've seen what very few people in Stillwater have ever seen, and those few have never seen her close by. It's no wonder she ran away. She isn't used to seeing strangers. I'm rather glad if that was the reason, said Eric. I admit I didn't like to see a girl so frightened of me as she seemed to be. She was so terrified that she never uttered a word, but she just ran like a deer to cover. She couldn't have said a word in any case, said Mrs. Williamson quietly. She's dumb. Eric sat in dismayed silence for a moment. That beautiful creature afflicted in such a fashion. Oh, it was horrible. He felt a pang of almost personal regret. Impossible, he cried at last, remembering why she played the violin exquisitely. I never heard anything like it. It's impossible that a deaf mute can play like that. Oh, she isn't deaf. That's a strange part of it. She can hear as well as anybody and understands everything that is said to her, but she can't speak a word and never could, or at least so they say, but nobody knows much about her. Janet and Thomas never speak of her, and Neil won't either. He's been well-questioned, but he won't say a word about Una ever and gets mad if folks persist. I think it's terrible the way she has been brought up, but the marshals are strange people. Mr. Murray, I kind of reproved Pa for saying so, you remember, but it is true. They have strange ways. And you've really seen Una? What does she look like? I've heard that she was handsome. I thought her very beautiful, said Eric briefly. But how has she been brought up, Mrs. Williamson, and why? It's a sad story. Una is the niece of Thomas and Janet Marshall. Her mother was Margaret Marshall, their sister. Margaret was a great deal younger than Janet and Thomas. She was the second wife's child. Her mother died when she was born, and Janet brought her up. I knew Margaret Marshall well once. We were girls together, real good friends before she turned against all the world. She was a strange girl in some ways, even then, but I always liked her. She was very pretty and a little vain, very proud. Oh, she was very proud. She was smart, too, and taught school over at Radner. It was there, she met a man named Ronald Fraser. He was a stranger and nobody knew much about him, but he was very handsome and taking, and all the girls were in love with him, so it was said. Old James Marshall, Margaret's father, didn't approve of him much, but Margaret coaxed him around. She could do pretty near anything with him. He was so proud of her, and he finally gave in and consented for her to marry Ronald Fraser. They had a big wedding. Margaret always liked to make a display, and I think she wanted to show off her fine husband to the girls who were envying her. They went to live at Radner, and for a little while, everything was well. Margaret had a nice house and was gay and happy, and then, well, then Ronald Fraser's wife turned up, looking for him, his real wife. Oh, it was true enough, she proved it. Ronald Fraser wasn't so much to blame. He had really thought his wife was dead, but there was a terrible scandal of course, and he went away, and Margaret came home to her father's house. From the day that she went in over its threshold, she never came out until she was carried out, in her coffin three years ago, and not a soul ever saw her again outside her own family. I went to see her, but Janet told me she would not see me. It was foolish of Margaret to act so. She hadn't done any real wrong, and everybody was sorry for her, and would have helped her all they could, but I reckon pity cut her as deep as blame would have done, because she was so proud, you see, and had held her head so high. They say her father was hard on her, too. Janet and Thomas felt it as well. Not many people had ever been in the habit of going to the Marshall Place, but the few that had soon stopped for they could see that they were not welcome. Old James Marshall died that winter. Una was born in the spring, but nobody ever saw her. She was never sent to school or taken to church. Margaret Marshall died three years ago, and everybody in Stillwater went to the funeral, but they didn't see her. The coffin lid was screwed down, and they didn't see Una either. It was thought perhaps that Janet and Thomas would take her out after her mother was gone, but they didn't, so I suppose they agreed with Margaret about the way she'd been brought up. I've often felt sorry for the poor girl, and I don't think her people did it right by her, even if she was mysteriously afflicted. She must have had a very sad, lonely life. If you don't want to be pestered with questions about her master, you'd better not let on you've seen her. Eric was not likely to. He had heard all he wanted to know and more. So this girl was at the core of a tragedy, and she was dumb. Oh, the pity of it. He tried to put her out of his thoughts, but he could not. The memory of her beautiful face drew him with a power he could not resist. The next evening he went again to the garden, although he called himself a fool for it. End of Section 56. Section 57 of Uncollected Short Stories of LM Montgomery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Maliki Orozco. Uncollected Short Stories of LM Montgomery. By Lucy Maud Montgomery. Una of the Garden. Part 2. Chapter 3. Synopsis of Chapters 1 and 2. Eric Murray, having disagreed with his father about a choice of profession, leaves home and takes a village school for a friend who has fallen ill. Despite the friendship of the people and the care of the couple with whom he boards, the task is becoming irksome. Until one evening he strolls into an old-fashioned garden. Here he finds a strangely beautiful girl playing a violin. She flees when she sees him. Eric learns that her name is Una, and that she is a niece of James Marshall, who has an adopted son, Neil, thought to be a gypsy. Una's past is clouded. Her mother, in perfect innocence, had married a man whose wife afterwards appeared. Eric also learns that Una is dumb. When he emerged from the spruce wood and entered the garden, his heart gave a sudden leap. She was there, bending over the narcissist's bed in the center of the garden. He stopped, not wishing to frighten her again. When she lifted her head, he expected to see her shrink and flee, but she did not do so. She only grew a little paler and stood there, watching him intently. Seeing this, he walked slowly towards her, and when he was so close to her that he could hear the nervous flutter of her breath over her parted lips, he said gently, Do not be afraid of me. I am a friend, and I do not wish to disturb you. She seemed to hesitate a moment. Then lifted a little slate that hung at her belt, wrote something on it rapidly, and held it out to him. He read, I am not afraid of you. Mother said, All men were wicked, but I do not think you are. I have thought a great deal about you, and I have been sorry that I ran away. He realized her entire innocence and simplicity. Looking earnestly into her still troubled eyes, he said, I would not do you any harm for the world. All men are not wicked, although it is too true that some are so. My name is Eric Murray, and you, I think, are Una Marshall. I thought your music so very lovely the other evening that I have been wishing ever since that I might hear it again. Won't you play for me? The vague fear had all gone from her eyes, and suddenly she smiled, a merry, girlish, wholly irresistible smile. Then she wrote, I am sorry, but I cannot. I have left my violin at home, but I will bring it tomorrow evening and play for you if you would like to hear me. I should like to please you. Again that note of innocent frankness. What a child she was, what a beautiful ignorant child, utterly unskilled in the art of hiding her feelings. But why should she hide them? They were as pure and beautiful as herself. He smiled frankly back at her. I would like it very much, and I'll be sure to come. And now won't you give me some flowers? She nodded with another little smile and began to pick them. He watched her little graceful motions with delight. When she came to him, radiant, her arms full of the white narcissist, a line of a favorite poem darted into his head. Here by God's rude is the one made for me. The next moment he was angry with himself for his folly. She was a child, and a child set apart by her sad defect. He must not let himself think nonsense. Thank you. Come and sit on the old bench, here, where you were sitting that night I frightened you so badly. She sat down beside him and looked frankly in his face. There was no boldness in her glance, only the most perfect trust and confidence. Had there been any evil in his heart, those eyes must have searched it out and shamed it. But he could meet them unafraid. Then she wrote, I was much frightened. You must have thought me very silly, but I had never seen any man except Uncle Thomas and Neil, and you are very different from them. I was afraid to come back the next evening, although somehow I wished to. I sent Neil back from my bow. I could not do without it. I cannot speak, you know. Are you sorry? I am sorry for your sake. But you can speak through your music. She looked pleased. How well you understand, she wrote. Yes, I cannot speak or sing as other people can, but I can make my violin say things for me. Do you compose, he asked. But he saw she did not understand him. I mean, did anyone ever teach you the music you played here that evening? Oh no, it just came as I thought. When I was very little, Neil taught me to hold the violin and the bow, and the rest all came of itself. It was Neil's violin, but he gave it to me. Neil is very good to me, but I like you better. Tell me about yourself. The wonder of her grew upon him. How lovely she was. What dear little ways and gestures she had. Ways and gestures as artless and unstudied as they were effective. And how strangely little her dumbness seemed to matter after all. She wrote so quickly and prettily. Her eyes and smile gave such expression to her mobile face that voice was hardly missed. They lingered in the garden until the shadows crept up to their feet. Eric told her of his life and the life of the outer world in which she was girlishly eagerly interested, although it was plain to be seen that she did not think about it as anything she might ever share herself. Her questions about it were direct and incisive. She had read a good deal he found out of poetry and history. She did not know what a novel meant. I never read any poetry while mother was alive, she wrote. She taught me to write and read, and I read the Bible and some of the histories. After she died Aunt Janet gave me all her books. They were poetry and I thought it so beautiful. It was music put into words. He promised he would bring her some books to read and her great blue eyes gleamed with interest and delight. He found out that she did not consider her life a lonely one. Her violin was all the company she had ever wished for. At least, until very lately, she wrote. But I like to read and hear about the people out in the world and the things that are done there. It must be a wonderful place. Wouldn't you like to go out into it and meet those people for yourself? He asked, smiling at her. At once he saw that in some inexplicable way he had heard her. She snatched her pencil and wrote with such swiftness and energy of motion and expression that it almost seemed as if she had exclaimed the words aloud. No, no, no. I do not want to go anywhere away from home or see strangers ever, ever. I could not bear it. He thought that possibly the consciousness of her defect accounted for this. Yet she did not seem sensitive about her dumbness and made frequent casual references to it in her written remarks. At last the lengthening shadows warned him that it was time to go. You won't forget to come to-morrow night and play for me, he said, rising reluctantly. She answered by a quick little shake of her head and a smile that was eloquent. He watched her as she walked across the garden and along the wild plum lane. At the corner of the furs she waved her hand to him before turning it. He went home very thoughtfully. That night Mrs. Williamson looked at him sharply. Una was sitting on the stone bench under the white lilac with her violin in her lap when he went to the garden the next evening. As soon as she saw him, she caught it up and began to play an airy, delicate little melody. When it was finished, she looked up at him with flushed cheeks and questioning eyes. What did that say to you? she wrote. It said something like this, said Eric, falling in with her humour smilingly. Welcome, my friend. It is a beautiful evening. The sky is very blue and the flowers are sweet. The wind and I have been here alone and the wind is a good companion, but I am glad to see you. It is an evening on which it is good to live and wander in a garden. Welcome, my friend. She dropped her bow and clapped her hands, smiling like a pleased child. You are very quick to understand, she wrote. That was just what I meant. You are quicker than Neil. He is often puzzled, and I am puzzled to understand his music. Sometimes it frightens me. It seems as if there was something in it trying to take hold of me. Somehow Eric did not like her references to Neil. The idea of that handsome boy seeing her every day, talking to her, sitting at the same table with her, dwelling under the same roof, filled him with distaste. He put the thought away from him and flung himself down in the long grasses at her feet. Play for me, please, he said. I want to lie here and listen to you. And look at you, he might have added. He could not tell which was the greater pleasure. Her beauty delighted him and her music enthralled him. This child had genius, but it would be wasted. He found himself thinking resentfully of the people who had been her guardians and who were responsible for her strange life. They had done her a wrong. How dared they doom her to such an existence? Who knew but her defective utterance might have been cured if it had been attended to in time? Nature had given her a royal birthright of beauty and talent, but their selfish neglect had annulled it. What divine music she lured out of the old violin? Mary and sad and gay and sorrowful by turns. Music that fairies might have danced to and music that might have mourned over the grave of a dead hope. As he listened, he realized that the whole soul and nature of the girl were revealing themselves to him through her music. Her beauty and sweetness, her maiden dreams and childhood reveries. There was no thought of concealment about her. She could not help the revelation she was unconscious of making. At last she laid aside her violin and wrote, I have done my best to give you pleasure. It is your turn now. Talk to me about anything. He gave her the two books he had brought her, a volume of poetry unknown to her, and a modern novel. He had half hesitated over the latter, but the book was so fine and full of beauty, and he thought it could not bruise the bloom of her innocence ever so slightly. And he talked to her in the minutes past swiftly. It was just then no world for him outside that old garden with its narcissi and its shadows and its crooning winds. Once when he told her the story of some college prank, she clapped her hands together and laughed aloud, a musical silvery clear peel. It fell on Eric's ear with a shock of surprise. He thought it strange that she could laugh like that when she could not speak. Wherein lay the defect that barred her from speech? Was it possible that it could be remedied? Una, he said gravely, after a moment's reflection during which he had looked up at her as she sat with the long white flowering branches of the lilac swaying above her, and a shower of ruddy sunlight falling through the dark spruce wood on her bare silky hair, like red jewels. Do you mind if I ask you something about your inability to speak? Will it hurt you to talk of the matter with me? She shook her head. Oh no, she wrote, I do not mind at all. I am sorry I cannot speak. That is all. Then, Una, tell me this. Do you know why it is that you cannot speak? Were you ever taken to a doctor to have your throat and tongue examined? No, I do not know at all why I cannot speak. I asked Mother once, and she told me that it was a judgment on me for her sin, and she looked so strangely that I was frightened and I never spoke of it to anyone again. You can laugh, naturally. Can you make any other sound? Yes, sometimes. When I am pleased or frightened, I sometimes make little cries, but that is only when I am not thinking of it at all. If I try to, I cannot make a sound at all. This seemed to Eric more mysterious than ever. Do you ever try to speak to other words, he asked? Yes, very often, but I never can. Do not look so sorry, my friend. I am very happy, and I do not mind so very much not being able to speak. I must play to you again. You look too sober. She laughed, picked up her violin, and played a tinkling little melody that sounded to Eric as if she were trying to tease him. He smiled, but the puzzled look recurred to his face many times that evening. Her case certainly seemed a strange one, and the more he thought of it, the stranger it seemed. That she should only be able to make sounds when she was not thinking about it struck him as something very peculiar. I wish David Baker could examine her, he thought. Chapter 4 For the next three weeks, Eric Murray seemed to himself to be living two lives, as distinct from each other as if he were a double personality. In one, he taught the Stillwater District School diligently, solved problems, argued on theology with old Robert Williamson, called at the homes of his pupils, and took tea and stayed with their parents, went to a dance or two, and played havoc all unwittingly with the hearts of the Stillwater bells. But this life was as a dream. He only lived in the other, which was spent in an old garden, grassy and overgrown, where the minutes seemed to lag for sheer love of the spot, and the June winds made wild music in the old spruces. Here, every evening, he met Una. They read books together and talked of many things. Often she played to him, and the old garden re-echoed with her lovely, fantastic melodies. At every meeting, Una's beauty came home afresh to him with the old, glad thrill of surprise. He learned to watch for the welcoming light that leaped into her eyes at sound of his footsteps. She always showed that she was glad to see him with the frank delight of a child watching for a comrade. She was never in the same mood twice, but she was always charming. Thrawn and twisted, though the old marshal stock might be, it had at least this offshoot of perfect grace and symmetry. Her mind and heart, utterly unspoiled of the world, were as beautiful as her face. All the ugliness of existence had passed her by, shrined in her double solitude of upbringing and muteness. She was quick and clever. Delightful little flashes of wit and humor sparkled out occasionally. She could be whimsical, even charmingly capricious. Sometimes innocent mischief glimmered in the unfathomable blue depths of her eyes. She assimilated the ideas in the books they read eagerly and thoroughly, always seizing on the best and rejecting the false and spurious with an unfailing intuition at which Eric marveled. Hers was the spear of ethereal, trying out the dross of everything and leaving only the pure gold. In manner and outlook she was still a child. Yet now and then she was as old as Eve. An expression would spring up into her laughing eyes. A subtle meaning reveal itself in her smile that held all the lore of womanhood and all the wisdom of ages. Her way of smiling enchanted him. The smile always began far deep down in her eyes and flowed outward to her face like a sparkling brook stealing out of shadow into sunshine. She told him all about her life. She often mentioned her uncle and aunt, but her mother rarely. Of Neil she wrote frequently at first and seemed very fond of him. Later she ceased to mention him. Perhaps she discerned what Eric did not know himself, that his eyes clouded and grew moody at the mention of Neil's name, for she was marvelously quick to catch and understand every fleeting change of expression in his face and voice. Once she asked of him naively, Are there many people like you in the world? Thousands of them, answered Eric, laughing. She looked gravely at him. Then she shook her head in the quick, decided little manner he found so charming. One evening when the far away hills and fields were scarfed in gauzy purples and the intervails were brimming with golden mists, Eric carried to the old garden a little limp volume that held a love story. It was the first of its kind he had ever read to her. It was a beautiful and passionate ideal exquisitely told. He read it to her, lying in the grass at her feet. She listened with her beautiful hands clasped on her lap and her eyes on his face. It was not long, and when he had finished he shut the book and looked up at her questioningly. Do you like it? he asked. Very slowly she took her slate and wrote, Yes, I liked it, but it hurt me too. I did not know before that a person could like anything that hurt her, and I do not understand it very well. It is about love, and I do not know anything about love. Mother told me once that love was a curse and that I must pray that it would never enter my life. She said it very earnestly, and so I believed it. But that book teaches that it is a blessing, which am I to believe? Love, real love, is never a curse, Una, said Eric gently. There is a false love, which is a curse. Perhaps it was that your mother knew, and so was mistaken. There is nothing in the world, or in heaven either, as I believe, so truly beautiful and noble and wonderful as love. Have you loved? asked Una, with the directness of phrasing necessitated by her mode of communication that was sometimes a little terrible. No, said Eric honestly, as he thought. But everyone has an ideal of love whom he hopes he will meet someday, the ideal woman of a young man's dream. I suppose I have mine in some sealed sacred chamber of my heart. Your ideal woman would be very beautiful, lack the woman in the book. Oh yes, I am sure I could never care for an ugly woman, said Eric, laughing a little as he sat up. But the sun is going down. Time certainly does fly in this enchanted garden. I believe you bewitch the moments away, Una. And some day I shall waken from a supposed half-hour's lingering here, to find myself an old man with white hair and ragged coat is in that fairy tale he read the other night. Will you let me give you this book? I would never commit the sacrilege of reading it in any other place. See, I'll write your name in it. That quaint pretty name of yours, Una. Una of the Garden and the date of this perfect June day. Then when you look at it, you will always remember me and the white buds on that rose bush and the quaint old song the wind is harping in that spruce. He held the book out to her. But to his surprise, she shook her head with a deeper flush on her face. Why won't you take it, Una? She took her pencil and wrote slowly, unlike her usual quick motions. Because I do not want to read it again. It is about love, and there is no use in my learning about love, even if it is all you say. Nobody will ever love me. I am too ugly. You? Ugly? said Eric. He was about to go off into a pool of laughter at the idea when a glimpse of her half averted face checked him. On it was a bitter, hurt look, such as he remembered seeing once before. Una, he said in astonishment, you don't really think yourself ugly, do you? She nodded without looking at him. Then wrote, Oh yes, I know I am. I have always known it. Mother told me I was very ugly. I am sorry. It hurts me much worse than not being able to speak. I suppose you will think that very foolish, but it is true. That is why I did not come back to the garden for so long, even after I got over my fright. I hated to think that you would think me ugly, and that is why I do not want to go out into the world and meet people. Eric's lips twitched. In spite of his pity for the most innocent and real suffering displayed in her eyes, he could not help being amused at the idea of this beautiful girl believing herself in all seriousness ugly. But Una, do you think yourself ugly when you look in a mirror? He asked, smiling. I have never looked in a mirror, she wrote. I never knew there was such a thing until after mother died, and I read about it in a book. Then I asked Aunt Janet, and she said mother had broken all the looking glasses in the house when I was a baby. But I do not mind. I knew I was ugly and I did not want to see myself. I would not look in a mirror if I had one. Eric smiled again. A girl of nineteen who had never looked in a mirror. A certain little whimsical wish took possession of him, and he did not hasten to tell her she was beautiful as had been his first impulse. Instead, he merely said slowly, I don't think you are ugly, Una. Oh, I am sure you must, she wrote protestingly. Even Neil does. He tells me I am kind and nice, but one day I asked him if he thought me very ugly, and he looked away and would not speak. So I know. Do not let us speak of this again. It makes me feel sorry and spoils everything. I forget it at other times. Let me play you some goodbye music, and do not be vexed because I would not take your book. It would only make me unhappy to read it. I am not vexed, said Eric, and I think you will take it some day. After I have shown you something I want you to see. Never mind about your looks, Una. Beauty isn't everything. It is a great deal, she wrote naively. But you do like me, even although I am ugly, don't you? You like me because of my beautiful music, don't you? I like you very much, Una, said Eric, laughing a little again, but with a tender note of which he was unconscious in his voice. Una, however, was conscious of it, and she picked up her violin with a pleased smile. He left her playing there, and all the way through the dim, resinous spruce wood, her music followed him like an invisible guardian spirit. Una the beautiful, he murmured. And yet, good heavens, the child thinks she is ugly. She with a face more lovely than ever an artist dreamed of. I wonder why Neil has never told her. Perhaps he doesn't want her to find out. Eric had met Neil Marshall at a country dance a few evenings before, where Neil had played the violin for the dancers. Influenced by curiosity, he had sought the lad's acquaintance. Neil proved to be talkative and friendly, but at the first hint concerning the Marshall's, which Eric skillfully threw out, his face and manner changed. He looked secretive and suspicious, almost sinister. A sullen look crept into his large black eyes, and he drew his bow across the violin strings with a discordant screech, as if to terminate the conversation. Plainly, nothing was to be found out from him about Una or her grim guardians. End of Section 57 Recording by Maliki Orozco Section 58 Of Uncollected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Maliki Orozco Uncollected Short Stories of L. M. Montgomery by Lucy Maud Montgomery Una of the Garden Part 3 Chapter 5 Synopsis of Preceding Chapters Eric Murray, having disagreed with his father about a choice of profession, leaves home and takes a village school for a friend who has fallen ill. Despite the friendship of the people and the care of the couple with whom he boards, the task is becoming irksome. Until one evening he strolls into an old-fashioned garden. Here he finds a strangely beautiful girl playing a violin. She flees when she sees him. Eric learns that her name is Una and that she is a niece of James Marshall, who has an adopted son, Neil, thought to be a gypsy. Una's past is clouded. Her mother, in perfect innocence, has married a man whose wife afterwards appeared. Eric also learns that Una is dumb. Eric pays another visit to the garden and finds Una. She writes that she is not afraid of him. Their intimacy grows, and he brings her books to read and she plays upon the violin. He discovers that she has never seen herself in a mirror, as all have been turned to the wall in her strange home. He also learns that she has been taught to believe that she is ugly of feature. One evening in late June, when Eric came downstairs, thinking of the garden and the girl who would be waiting for him there, Mrs. Williamson met him in the hall. There was a troubled look on her kindly face, and she spoke hesitatingly. Mr. Murray, perhaps it isn't any of my business, but it isn't because I want a medal. It's only because I think I ought to speak. Are you going back to the old Connors garden to meet Una Marshall? For a moment, an angry flush burned Eric's face. Perhaps I am Mrs. Williamson, he said coldly. What of it? Then, sir, said Mrs. Williamson, I've got to tell you that I don't think you're doing right. I've been suspecting all along that that was where you went in the evenings, but I haven't said anything. Did Una's uncle and aunt know that you are meeting her there? No, I don't suppose they do. But Mrs. Williamson, you surely don't suspect me of meaning any harm or wrong to Una Marshall. No, I don't master. I don't think for a minute you do her any willful wrong, but you may do her great harm for all that. She can't know anything about the world or about men, and she may get to think too much of you. That might break her heart, because you couldn't marry a dumb girl like her, and so I don't think you ought to be meeting her in this fashion. It isn't right, master. Don't go to the garden again. Without a word, Eric turned away and went upstairs to his room. Mrs. Williamson heard him shut his door and went back to her work in the kitchen with a sigh. Her husband came to the door and sat down on the step to enjoy his evening smoke. What's got the master, mother? he asked presently. I hear him striding up and down his room as if he was caged. Sure he didn't lock him in by mistake? Maybe he's worried the way Seth Tracy's acting in school, said Mrs. Williamson, with some of the serpent's wisdom. Shugs, he needn't. Seth will quiet down as soon as he finds he can't run on the master. He's a rare good teacher, good as Mr. West was. The trustees are hoping he'll stay for another term. They're going to ask him at the school meeting tomorrow and offer him a raise in the supplement. Upstairs in his little room under the eaves, Eric Murray was in the grip of the most intense emotion he had ever experienced. Up and down, two in fro, he walked with set lips and clenched hands. Mrs. Williamson's words had torn away the delusive veil with which he had bound his eyes. He was face to face with the knowledge that he loved Una Marshall with the love that comes but once and is for all in all. He knew that he must choose between two alternatives. Either he must never go to the garden again, or he must go as an avowed lover to woo him a wife. Worldly prudence, his inheritance from a long line of thrifty, cool-headed ancestors, was strong in Eric, and he did not yield speedily or easily to the dictates of his passion. Would it not be an unwise marriage from any standpoint? Then something stronger and greater and more vital than wisdom or unwisdom rose up in him and mastered him. Una, beautiful, dumb Una, was, as he had once involuntarily thought, the one made for him. Nothing should part them. The very thought of never seeing her again was so unbearable that he laughed at himself for having counted it a possible alternative. If I can win Una's love, I will ask her to be my wife, he said, going to his window and looking out to the wooded southwestern hill behind which lay his garden. It was quite dark now, and one great pearl-white star, as clear and beautiful as Una's eyes, was glimmering over it. Her misfortune will only make her dearer to me. It is so strange to think that a month ago I did not know her. It seems to me that she has been a part of my life forever. I wonder if she was grieved because I did not go to the garden tonight, if she waited for me. I wonder if she cares for me. She doesn't know it if she does. It will be my sweet task to teach her what love means, and no man has ever had a lovely or pure pupil. At the annual school meeting the next afternoon the trustees asked Eric to take the Stillwater School for the following year. He, unhesitatingly, consented. That evening he went to Mrs. Williamson as she sat knitting by the kitchen window. Mrs. Williamson, I am going back to the old garden to see Una again tonight. She looked at him reproachfully. Well, master, I have no more to say, but you know what I think of it. I intend to marry Una Marshall if I can win her, he said. An expression of amazement flashed across her face. She looked scrutinizingly at the firm mouth and steady gray eyes for a moment. Then she said in a troubled voice, Do you think that's why I'm master? I suppose Una is pretty and good, but she won't be a suitable wife for you, a girl that can't speak. What will your people say? I've no people except my father. When he sees Una he will understand. She's all the world to me, Mrs. Williamson. As long as you believe that there's nothing more to be said, was the quiet answer. I'd be a little afraid if I were you, though. My only fear is that you won't care for me, said Eric Silverly. Mrs. Williamson surveyed the clean-limbed, well-featured young man shrewdly. I don't think there are many women would say no, master. Well, I wish you well in your wooing. I hope you won't have any trouble with Thomas and Janet. They are so different from other folks there is no knowing. But take my advice, master, and go and see them about it right off. Don't go on meeting Una unbeknownst to them. And take care of Neil. People say he has a notion of Una. He'll do you a bad turn if he can, no doubt. I intend to take your advice, said Eric Gravely. I should have done so before. It was merely thoughtlessness on my part. As for Neil, I'm not afraid of him. He couldn't help loving Una. Nobody could. I suppose every young man thinks that about his girl. If he's the right sort of a young man, said Mrs. Williamson with a little sigh. Una was in the garden when he arrived, and he lingered for a moment in the shadow of the spruce wood to gloat on her beauty with delighted eyes. The garden had lately overflowed in waves of old-fashioned caraway, and she was standing in the midst of its sea of bloom with the lace-like blossoms swaying around her in the wind. She wore the simple dress of blue print in which she had first seen her. Silk attire could not have better become her loveliness. She had woven herself a chaplet of half-open white rose buds, and placed it on her dark hair, where the delicate blossoms seemed less wonderful than her face. When Eric stepped through the gap, she ran to meet him with outstretched hands, smiling. He took her hands and looked into her eyes with an expression before which hers for the first time faltered. She looked down, and a beautiful blush stained the virginal curves of her cheek and throat. His heart bounded, for in that blush he recognized the banner of love's vanguard. Are you glad to see me, Una? he asked. She nodded and wrote in a somewhat embarrassed fashion. Yes, I was afraid you would not come. You did not come last night, and I was so sorry. Nothing in the garden seemed nice any longer. I couldn't even play. I tried to, and my violin only cried. I waited till it was dark, and then I went home. I couldn't come last night, Una. I stayed home to learn a new lesson. I'm sorry you missed me. No, I'm glad. Can you understand how a person may be glad and sorry for the same thing? She nodded again. Yes, I couldn't have understood it once, but I can now. Did you learn your new lesson? Yes, very thoroughly. It was a delightful lesson when I once understood it. I must try to teach it to you some day. Come over to the lilac, Benchuna. There is something I want to say to you. But first, will you give me a rose? She ran to the bush, and after careful deliberation, selected a perfect, half-open bud, and brought it to him. It is as beautiful as, as a woman I know, he said. A wistful look came into her face at his words, and she walked with drooping head across the garden to the bench. Una, he said seriously, I am going to ask you to do something for me. I want you to take me home with you and introduce me to your uncle and aunt. She stared at him as if he had asked her to do something wildly impossible, understanding from his face that he meant what he said, a look of dismay dawned in her eyes. She shook her head almost violently, and seemed to be making a passionate, instinctive effort to speak. Then she caught up her pencil and wrote with feverish haste. I cannot. Oh, I cannot. Do not ask me to. You do not understand. They would be very angry. They do not want to see anyone coming to the house, and they would never let me come here again. Oh, you do not mean it. He pitied her for the pain and bewilderment in her eyes, but he took her soft hands in his and said firmly, Yes, Una, I do mean it. It is not quite right for us to be meeting each other here as we have been doing. You are too innocent to understand this, but believe me, it is so. She looked questioningly piteously into his eyes. What she read there seemed to convince her, for her face turned very pale, and an expression of hopelessness came into it. Releasing her hands, she wrote slowly, If you say it is wrong, I must believe it. I did not know anything so pleasant could be wrong. But if it is wrong, we must not do it any more. Mother told me I must never do anything that was wrong. But I did not know this was wrong. It was not wrong for you, Una. But it was a little wrong for me because I knew better, or rather should have known better. Someday you will understand fully. Now, you will take me to your friends, and after I have talked with them, it will be all right for us to meet here or anywhere. She shook her head. No, she wrote, Uncle and Aunt will tell you to go away and never come back, and they would never let me come here any more. Since it is not right to meet you, I will not come, but it is no use to think of going to them. I did not tell them about you, because I knew that they would forbid me to see you, but I am sorry since it was so wrong. You must take me to them, Una, said Eric firmly. I am sure things will not be as you fear when they hear what I have to say. Uncomforted, she wrote forlornly, I must do it since you insist, but I am sure it will be no use. I cannot take you to night, because they are away, but I will tomorrow night, and after that I shall not see you any more. Two great tears brimmed out of her big blue eyes and splashed down on her slate. Her lips quivered like a hurt child's. Impulsively, Eric put his arm about her and drew her head down to his shoulder. As she cried there softly, miserably, he pressed his lips to the silky black head with its coronal of roses. He did not see two burning black eyes that were looking at him over the old dyke, with hatred and passion blazing in their depths. Neil Marshall was crouched there, with clenched hands watching them. Una, dear, don't cry, said Eric tenderly. You will see me again, I promise you that. I don't think your uncle and aunt will be so unreasonable as you fear, but even if they are, they shall not prevent me from meeting you. Una lifted her head and looked at him wistfully. Oh, you don't know them, she wrote. They will lock me up in my room. That is the way they always punished me. If they do, I'll get you out somehow, said Eric, laughing. She allowed herself to smile, but it was rather a forlorn little effort. She did not cry anymore, but her spirits did not come back to her. Eric talked gaily, but she only listened in a pensive, absent way, as if not hearing him. When he asked her to play, she shook her head. I can't think of any music tonight, she wrote. I must go home, for my headaches and I am very stupid. Very well, Una. Now, don't worry, little girl. It'll come out all right. Evidently, she did not share his confidence for her head drooped as they walked across the garden. At the entrance to the wild plum lane, she paused and looked half-approachingly at him, her lips quivering, her eyes filling again. She seemed to be bidding him a mute goodbye. With an impulse of tenderness he could not control, Eric put his arm about her and kissed her on the sweet tremulous mouth. She started back with a little involuntary cry, a burning blush swept over her face, and the next minute she had fled swiftly up the darkening lane. The sweetness of that involuntary kiss clung to Eric's lips as he went homeward, half intoxicating him. He knew that it had opened the gates of womanhood for her. Never again would her eyes meet him with their old, unclouded frankness. When next he looked into them, he would see there she knew the consciousness of his kiss. Behind her in the garden that night Una had left her childhood. Chapter 6 When Eric but took himself to the garden the next evening, he felt rather nervous. He did not know how the marshals might receive him, and certainly the reports he had heard of them were not encouraging. Even Mrs. Williamson, when he told her where he was going, seemed to look upon him as one bent on bearding a lion in his den. I hope they won't be very uncivil to you, sir, what's the best she could say? He expected Una to be in the garden for he had been delayed by a call from one of the trustees, but she was nowhere to be seen. Impatiently he walked across to the plum lane, but when he reached the gap he stopped short in sudden dismay. Neil Marshall had stepped from behind the dyke and stood confronting him with blazing eyes and lips that writhed with an emotion so great that at first it prevented him from speaking. With a thrill of dismay Eric understood what had happened. Neil had discovered them, had probably betrayed them. How unfortunate that it had happened before he had had time to explain. It would probably prejudice Thomas and Janet Marshall still further against him. So far his thoughts, when Neil's pent-up passion suddenly found vent in wild words. So you've come to meet her, but she isn't here. She will never be here again. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. His voice rose to a shrill scream. He took a step nearer Eric as if he would attack him. Eric looked him steadily in the eyes with a calm defiance before which his hot passion broke like foam from a rock. So you've been making trouble for Una, Neil, he said contemptuously. I suppose you've told her uncle and aunt that she has been meeting me here. Well, you saved me the trouble of doing it, that's all. I was going to tell them myself tonight. I don't know what your motive in doing this has been. Was it jealousy, or have you done it out of malice to Una? His contempt quelled Neil more effectually than any display of anger could have done. Never mind why I did it, he muttered sullenly. It is no business of yours. And you have no business to come sneaking around here. Una won't meet you here again. She will meet me in her own home then, said Eric sternly. Neil, you are a very foolish, undisciplined boy to behave as you have done. I'm going straight to Una's uncle now to explain everything. Neil sprang forward in his path. No, no, go away, he implored wildly. Oh, sir, Mr. Murray, please go away. I'll do anything for you if you will. I love Una. I give my life for her. I can't have you coming here to steal her from me. If you do, I'll kill you. I wanted to kill you last night when I saw you kiss her. Oh, I saw you. I was watching. I had followed her. I suspected something. She was so different, so changed. She seemed to forget that I was there. I knew something had come between us. And it was you. Curs you. He was working himself up into a fury again. The untamed fury of the Italian peasant thwarted in his heart's desire. It overrode all the restraints of his training and environment. Eric, amid all his anger and annoyance, felt a thrill of pity for him. The boy, it was only a boy, was miserable and beside himself. Neil, listen to me, he said quietly. You are talking very foolishly. It is not for you to say who shall be Una's friend. Now you may just as well control yourself and go quietly home. I am not at all frightened by you and I shall know how to deal with you if you persist in interfering with me. I'm not the sort of person to put up with that, Malad. The restrained power in his tone and look cowed, Neil. The latter turned sullenly away and plunged into the shadow of the furs. Eric, considerably ruffled by this unexpected and unpleasant encounter, pursued his way along the lane which wound on by the belt of woodland and twist and curve to the Marshall House. His heart beat as he thought of Una. What might she not be suffering? Doubtless Neil had given an exaggerated and distorted account of what he had seen, and probably her dour relations would be very angry with her, poor child. Anxious to avert their wrath from her as soon as might be, he hurried on, almost forgetting his meeting with Neil. The angry outburst of a jealous boy mattered little, he thought. What did matter was the fact that Una was in trouble which his own thoughtlessness had brought upon her. Presently he found himself before the Marshall House. It was an old, low-eaved, shingled building with sharp gables, stained a dark gray by long exposure to wind and weather. The little yard in front of it was grassy and prim and flowerless. But over the low front door a luxuriant rose vine clambered in a riot of color and blossom which contrasted oddly with the general bareness of its surroundings. It seemed to fling itself over the grim old house as if intent on bombarding it with an alien life and joyousness. Eric knocked at the door, wondering if possibly Una might come to it. But a moment later it was opened by an elderly woman, of rigid lines from the hem of her dark print dress to the crown of her iron gray hair. Her face was worn and wrinkled but possessed a certain harsh comeliness of feature which neither age nor wrinkles had destroyed, and her deep-set gray eyes were not devoid of suggested kindliness, although they now looked at Eric with an unconcealed hostility. Eric lifted his hat. Have I the honor of speaking to Ms. Marshall, he said? I am Janet Marshall, said the woman stiffly. Then I wish to talk with you and with your brother. Come in. She stepped aside and motioned him to a low brown door, opening on the right. I'll call Thomas, she said coldly as she went out through the hall. Eric walked into the parlor and sat down. It was the most old-fashioned room he had ever seen. The solidly made chairs and tables of some wood grown dark and polished with age made even Mrs. Williamson's parlor set of horse hair extravagantly modern by contrast. The painted floor was covered with round braided rugs. On the table was a lamp and some theological volumes contemporary with the square-runged furniture. The walls covered with dark diamond patterned paper were hung with faded engravings, mostly of clerical-looking personages and gowns and bands. But over the undecorated mantle, in a ruddy glow of sunset light striking through the window, hung one which caught and held Eric's eye to the exclusion of everything else. It was the enlarged crayon photograph of a young girl, and in spite of its crudeness of execution, it was easily the center of interest in the room. Eric had once guessed that this was Una's mother, for although quite unlike Una's spirited, sensitive face in general, there was a subtle resemblance about brow and chin. The face was a very handsome one, suggestive of velvety black eyes and vivid coloring, but it was its expression rather than its beauty that fascinated Eric. Never had he seen a countenance expressing more intense and stubborn willpower. Margaret Marshall was dead and buried. The picture was a cheap and inartistic production, yet the vitality in it dominated its surroundings still. What then must have been the power of that will in life? Eric realized that this woman could and would have done whatsoever she willed, unflinchingly and unrelentingly. She could stamp her personality and her desire on everything and everybody around her. Many things in Una's upbringing and temperament became clear to him. If that woman had told me I was ugly, I should have believed it, he thought. I should never have dreamed of questioning or disputing anything, she said. The strange power in her face is almost uncanny. Pride and stubbornness are its salient characteristics. Well, Una does not resemble her mother in any respect. His reflections were interrupted by the entrance of Janet and Thomas Marshall. The latter had evidently been called from his work. He nodded in silence, and the two sat gravely down before Eric. I have come to see you about your niece, Mr. Marshall, he said abruptly, realizing that it would be small use in beating around the bush with this grim pair. I met your—I met Neil Marshall in the Connors Garden, and I found that he has told you that I had been meeting Una there. He paused. Thomas Marshall nodded again, but did not speak, and never took his steady eyes from the young man's flushed countenance. I fear that you have formed an unfavorable opinion of me on this account, Mr. Marshall, Eric went on. But I hardly think I deserve it. I can explain if you will allow me. I met your niece accidentally in the garden three weeks ago and heard her play. I thought her music very wonderful, and I fell into the habit of coming to the garden in the evenings to hear it. I had no thought of harming her in any way, Mr. Marshall. I thought of her as a mere child, and a child who was doubly sacred on account of her affliction. But recently, I—it occurred to me that I was not behaving quite honorably in encouraging her to meet me thus. Yesterday evening, I asked her to bring me here and introduce me to you and her aunt. We would have come then if you had been home. As you were not, we arranged to come tonight. Yes, she told us so, said Thomas Marshall slowly, speaking in a strong, vibrant voice. We did not believe her, but your story agrees with ours. And I begin to think we were too harsh with her, but Neil's tale made us very angry. And we have no reason to be over-trustful in the case of strange men master. Perhaps you meant no harm. I'm willing to believe it, sir. But there must be no more of it. I hope you will not refuse me the privilege of seeing your niece, said Eric eagerly. I ask you to allow me to visit her here, but I do not ask you to receive me as a friend on my own recommendations only. I will give you references, men of standing in Chelten. If you refer to them, I don't need to do that, said Thomas Marshall quietly. I know more of you than you think, master. I know your father well by reputation. I've seen him. I know you are a rich man's son, whatever your women teaching a country school may be. Since you have kept your own counsel about your affairs, I suppose you didn't want your true position generally known. And I held my tongue about you. I know no ill of you, master. Since now I believe that you are not beguiling you now to meet you, unknown to her friends of set purpose. But all this doesn't make you a suitable friend for her, sir, unless she sees of you the better. Eric almost started to his feet, but he swiftly thought that his only hope lay in bringing Thomas Marshall to another way of thinking. He had got on better than he'd expected so far. He must not now jeopardise what he had gained by rashness. Why do you think so, Mr. Marshall, he said, regaining his self-control with an effort. Well, plain speaking, as best, master. If you were to come here and see Oona often, she'd most likely come to think too much of you. Then, when you went the way, she might break our heart, for she is one of those who feel things deeply. She has been happy enough, though I know well that folks condemn us for the way she has been brought up. And we don't want her made unhappy, master. But I love your niece, and I want to marry her if I can win her love, said Eric steadily. He surprised them out of their self-possession for a moment. Both stared and looked at him, as if they did not believe their ears. Marry her! Marry Oona! exclaimed Thomas Marshall incredulously. You can't mean it, master. Why, she's dumb. Oona is dumb. Her dumbness matters nothing to me as far as that goes, although I deeply regret it for her own sake, answered Eric. The older man leaned forward and looked at the floor in a troubled fashion, tapping his calloused fingertips together uneasily. He was plainly puzzled by this unexpected turn of the conversation. What would your father say, he queried finally. I've often heard my father say a man was married to please himself, said Eric with a smile. If he felt tempted to go back on that opinion, I think the sight of Oona would convert him. But after all, it is what I say matters in this case, isn't it, Mr. Marshall? I am strong and well educated and not afraid of work. I can make a home for Oona in a few years, even if I have to depend entirely on my own resources. Only give me the chance to win her, that is all I ask. I don't think it would do you, master, said Thomas Marshall, shaking his head. Of course, I dare say you, you. He tried to say love, but Scotch reserve bogged stubbornly at the terrible word. Do you think you like Oona now? But you are only a lad, and lads fancies change. Mine will not, broken Eric vehemently. It is not a fancy. It is the love that comes once in a lifetime and once only. I may be but a lad, Mr. Marshall, but I know that Oona is the one woman in the world for me. I'm not speaking rashly nor inconsiderately. I've weighed the matter well and looked at it from all aspects, and it all comes to this. I love Oona, and I want what any man who loves a woman truly has the right to, the chance to win her love in return. Well, Thomas Marshall drew a long breath that was almost a sigh. Well, if you feel like that, master. Janet woman, what shall we say to him? Janet Marshall had hitherto spoken no word. She had sat rigidly upright in one of the old chairs under Margaret Marshall's insistent picture, with her toil-worn hands grasping the carved arms tightly, and her eyes fastened on Eric's face. At first, their expression had been guarded and hostile, but as the conversation proceeded, they gradually became almost kindly. Now, when her brother appealed to her, she leaned forward and said eagerly, Do you know that there is a stain on Oona's birth, master? I know that her mother was the victim of a very sad mistake, Miss Marshall. I admit no stain, where there was no conscious wrongdoing. Milton, said Janet almost triumphantly, Since neither that nor her dumbness is any drawback in your eyes, I don't see why you shouldn't have your chance. Perhaps your world will say that she is not good enough for you, but she is. She is, this half defiantly. She is a sweet and innocent and true-hearted lassie, Thomas. I say, let the young man have his will. Thomas Marshall stood up as if he considered the responsibility off his shoulders, and the interview at an end. Very well, Janet. And may God deal with him as he deals with her. Good evening, master. I'll see you again, and you're welcome to come and go as suits you. But I must go to my work now. I'll go up and send Oona down, said Janet quietly. She lighted the lamp on the table and left the room. A few minutes later, Oona came down. Eric rose and went to meet her eagerly, but she only put out her right hand with a pretty dignity, and while she looked into his face, she did not look into his eyes. You see, I was right, Oona, he said. Your uncle and aunt haven't driven me away. She smiled and went over to the table to write on her slate. They were very angry last night, and said dreadful things to me. I could hardly believe it when Aunt Janet came up and told me, you are here and that I might come down. But I am glad that they have forgiven us. She did not tell him how glad she was, nor how unhappy she had been over the thought that she was never to see him again. Yesterday she would have told it all to him, frankly, and fully. But for her yesterday was a lifetime away, a lifetime in which she had come into her heritage of womanly reserve and dignity. The kiss that had passed between them, the words her uncle and aunt had said to her, the tears she had shed for the first time on her sleepless pillow, all conspired to reveal her to herself. She was no longer a child to be made a dear comrade of. She was, though quite unconsciously, the woman to be wooed and won, exacting, with sweet innate pride, her dues of allegiance.