A Redeeming Sacrifice

"A Redeeming Sacrifice" is a poignant tale by Lucy Maud Montgomery that explores themes of love, sacrifice, and personal growth. Set against the backdrop of early 20th-century Canada, the story follows its protagonist as she navigates complex relationships and societal expectations. Through her journey, the character learns valuable lessons about compassion, resilience, and the transformative power of selflessness. Montgomery's signature lyrical prose and deep emotional insights create a compelling narrative that celebrates the human spirit.

• Short story

								
The dance at Byron Lyall's was in full swing. Toff Leclerc, the best
fiddler in three counties, was enthroned on the kitchen table and from
the glossy brown violin, which his grandfather brought from Grand Pré,
was conjuring music which made even stiff old Aunt Phemy want to show
her steps. Around the kitchen sat a row of young men and women, and
the open sitting-room doorway was crowded with the faces of
non-dancing guests who wanted to watch the sets.

An eight-hand reel had just been danced and the girls, giddy from the
much swinging of the final figure, had been led back to their seats.
Mattie Lyall came out with a dipper of water and sprinkled the floor,
from which a fine dust was rising. Toff's violin purred under his
hands as he waited for the next set to form. The dancers were slow
about it. There was not the rush for the floor that there had been
earlier in the evening, for the supper table was now spread in the
dining-room and most of the guests were hungry.

"Fill up dere, boys," shouted the fiddler impatiently. "Bring out your
gals for de nex' set."

After a moment Paul King led out Joan Shelley from the shadowy corner
where they had been sitting. They had already danced several sets
together; Joan had not danced with anybody else that evening. As they
stood together under the light from the lamp on the shelf above them,
many curious and disapproving eyes watched them. Connor Mitchell, who
had been standing in the open outer doorway with the moonlight behind
him, turned abruptly on his heel and went out.

Paul King leaned his head against the wall and watched the watchers
with a smiling, defiant face as they waited for the set to form. He
was a handsome fellow, with the easy, winning ways that women love.
His hair curled in bronze masses about his head; his dark eyes were
long and drowsy and laughing; there was a swarthy bloom on his round
cheeks; and his lips were as red and beguiling as a girl's. A bad egg
was Paul King, with a bad past and a bad future. He was shiftless and
drunken; ugly tales were told of him. Not a man in Lyall's house that
night but grudged him the privilege of standing up with Joan Shelley.

Joan was a slight, blossom-like girl in white, looking much like the
pale, sweet-scented house rose she wore in her dark hair. Her face was
colourless and young, very pure and softly curved. She had wonderfully
sweet, dark blue eyes, generally dropped down, with notably long black
lashes. There were many showier girls in the groups around her, but
none half so lovely. She made all the rosy-cheeked beauties seem
coarse and over-blown.

She left in Paul's clasp the hand by which he had led her out on the
floor. Now and then he shifted his gaze from the faces before him to
hers. When he did, she always looked up and they exchanged glances as
if they had been utterly alone. Three other couples gradually took the
floor and the reel began. Joan drifted through the figures with the
grace of a wind-blown leaf. Paul danced with rollicking abandon,
seldom taking his eyes from Joan's face. When the last mad whirl was
over, Joan's brother came up and told her in an angry tone to go into
the next room and dance no more, since she would dance with only one
man. Joan looked at Paul. That look meant that she would do as he, and
none other, told her. Paul nodded easily--he did not want any fuss
just then--and the girl went obediently into the room. As she turned
from him, Paul coolly reached out his hand and took the rose from her
hair; then, with a triumphant glance around the room, he went out.

The autumn night was very clear and chill, with a faint, moaning wind
blowing up from the northwest over the sea that lay shimmering before
the door. Out beyond the cove the boats were nodding and curtsying on
the swell, and over the shore fields the great red star of the
lighthouse flared out against the silvery sky. Paul, with a whistle,
sauntered down the sandy lane, thinking of Joan. How mightily he loved
her--he, Paul King, who had made a mock of so many women and had never
loved before! Ah, and she loved him. She had never said so in words,
but eyes and tones had said it--she, Joan Shelley, the pick and pride
of the Harbour girls, whom so many men had wooed, winning their
trouble for their pains. He had won her; she was his and his only, for
the asking. His heart was seething with pride and triumph and passion
as he strode down to the shore and flung himself on the cold sand in
the black shadow of Michael Brown's beached boat.

Byron Lyall, a grizzled, elderly man, half farmer, half fisherman, and
Maxwell Holmes, the Prospect schoolteacher, came up to the boat
presently. Paul lay softly and listened to what they were saying. He
was not troubled by any sense of dishonour. Honour was something Paul
King could not lose since it was something he had never possessed.
They were talking of him and Joan.

"What a shame that a girl like Joan Shelley should throw herself away
on a man like that," Holmes said.

Byron Lyall removed the pipe he was smoking and spat reflectively at
his shadow.

"Darned shame," he agreed. "That girl's life will be ruined if she
marries him, plum' ruined, and marry him she will. He's bewitched
her--darned if I can understand it. A dozen better men have wanted
her--Connor Mitchell for one. And he's a honest, steady fellow with a
good home to offer her. If King had left her alone, she'd have taken
Connor. She used to like him well enough. But that's all over. She's
infatuated with King, the worthless scamp. She'll marry him and be
sorry for it to her last day. He's bad clear through and always will
be. Why, look you, Teacher, most men pull up a bit when they're
courting a girl, no matter how wild they've been and will be again.
Paul hasn't. It hasn't made any difference. He was dead drunk night
afore last at the Harbour head, and he hasn't done a stroke of work
for a month. And yet Joan Shelley'll take him."

"What are her people thinking of to let her go with him?" asked
Holmes.

"She hasn't any but her brother. He's against Paul, of course, but it
won't matter. The girl's fancy's caught and she'll go her own gait to
ruin. Ruin, I tell ye. If she marries that handsome ne'er-do-well,
she'll be a wretched woman all her days and none to pity her."

The two moved away then, and Paul lay motionless, face downward on the
sand, his lips pressed against Joan's sweet, crushed rose. He felt no
anger over Byron Lyall's unsparing condemnation. He knew it was true,
every word of it. He was a worthless scamp and always would be. He
knew that perfectly well. It was in his blood. None of his race had
ever been respectable and he was worse than them all. He had no
intention of trying to reform because he could not and because he did
not even want to. He was not fit to touch Joan's hand. Yet he had
meant to marry her!

But to spoil her life! Would it do that? Yes, it surely would. And if
he were out of the way, taking his baleful charm out of her life,

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