After Many Days

"After Many Days" is a collection of short stories by Lucy Maud Montgomery, known for her vivid storytelling and rich character development. The stories explore themes of love, loss, and the passage of time, often set against the idyllic backdrop of rural Canada. Montgomery weaves together the lives of her characters, reflecting on their struggles, joys, and the impact of their choices. With her signature lyrical prose, the collection highlights the resilience of the human spirit and the enduring nature of hope. Each tale invites readers to reflect on their own journeys and the relationships that shape their lives.

• Short story

								
The square, bare front room of the Baxter Station Hotel--so called
because there was no other house in the place to dispute the
title--was filled with men. Some of them were putting up at the hotel
while they worked at the new branch line, and some of them had dropped
in to exchange news and banter while waiting for the mail train.

Gabe Foley, the proprietor, was playing at checkers with one of the
railroad men, but was not too deeply absorbed in the game to take in
all that was said around him. The air was dim with tobacco smoke, and
the brilliant, scarlet geraniums which Mrs. Foley kept in the bay
window looked oddly out of place. Gabe knew all those present except
one man--a stranger who had landed at Baxter Station from the
afternoon freight. Foley's hotel did not boast of a register, and the
stranger did not volunteer any information regarding his name or
business. He had put in the afternoon and early evening strolling
about the village and talking to the men on the branch line. Now he
had come in and ensconced himself in the corner behind the stove,
where he preserved a complete silence.

He had a rather rough face and was flashily dressed. Altogether, Gabe
hardly liked his looks, put as long as a man paid his bill and did not
stir up a row Gabe Foley did not interfere with him.

Three or four farmers from "out Greenvale way" were drawn up by the
stove, discussing the cheese factory sales and various Greenvale
happenings. The stranger appeared to be listening to them intently,
although he took no part in their conversation.

Presently he brought his tilted chair down with a sharp thud. Gabe
Foley had paused in his manipulation of a king to hurl a question at
the Greenvale men.

"Is it true that old man Strong is to be turned out next week?"

"True enough," answered William Jeffers. "Joe Moore is going to
foreclose. Stephen Strong has got three years behind with the interest
and Moore is out of patience. It seems hard on old Stephen, but Moore
ain't the man to hesitate for that. He'll have his own out of it."

"What will the Strongs do?" asked Gabe.

"That's the question everyone in Greenvale is asking. Lizzie Strong
has always been a delicate little girl, but maybe she'll manage to
scare up a living. Old Stephen is to be the most pitied. I don't see
anything for him but the poorhouse."

"How did Stephen Strong come to get into such a tight place?" the
stranger asked suddenly. "When I was in these parts a good many years
ago he was considered a well-to-do man."

"Well, so he was," replied William Jeffers. "But he began to get in
debt when his wife took sick. He spent no end of money on doctors and
medicines for her. And then he seemed to have a streak of bad luck
besides--crops failed and cows died and all that sort of thing. He's
been going behind ever since. He kind of lost heart when his wife
died. And now Moore is going to foreclose. It's my opinion poor old
Stephen won't live any time if he's turned out of his home."

"Do you know what the mortgage comes to?"

"Near three thousand, counting overdue interest."

"Well, I'm sorry for old Stephen," said Gabe, returning to his game.
"If anybody deserves a peaceful old age he does. He's helped more
people than you could count, and he was the best Christian in
Greenvale, or out of it."

"He was too good," said a Greenvale man crustily. "He just let himself
be imposed upon all his life. There's dozens of people owes him and
he's never asked for a cent from them. And he's always had some
shiftless critter or other hanging round and devouring his substance."

"D'ye mind that Ben Butler who used to be in Greenvale twenty years
ago?" asked a third man. "If ever there was an imp of Satan 'twas
him--old Ezra Butler's son from the valley. Old Stephen kept him for
three or four years and was as good to him as if he'd been his own
son."

"Most people out our way do mind Ben Butler," returned William Jeffers
grimly, "even if he ain't been heard tell of for twenty years. He
wasn't the kind you could forget in a hurry. Where'd he go? Out to the
Kootenay, wasn't it?"

"Somewhere there. He was a reg'lar young villain--up to every kind of
mischief. Old Stephen caught him stealing his oats one time and 'stead
of giving him a taste of jail for it, as he ought to have done, he
just took him right into his family and kept him there for three
years. I used to tell him he'd be sorry for it, but he always
persisted that Ben wasn't bad at heart and would come out all right
some day. No matter what the young varmint did old Stephen would make
excuses for him--'his ma was dead,' or he 'hadn't had no bringing-up.'
I was thankful when he did finally clear out without doing some
penitentiary work."

"If poor old Stephen hadn't been so open-handed to every unfortunate
critter he came across," said Gabe, "he'd have had more for himself
today."

The whistle of the mail train cut short the discussion of Stephen
Strong's case. In a minute the room was vacant, except for the
stranger. When left to himself he also rose and walked out. Turning
away from the station, he struck briskly into the Greenvale road.

About three miles from the station he halted before a house built close
to the road. It was old-fashioned, but large and comfortable-looking,
with big barns in the rear and an orchard on the left slope. The house
itself was in the shadow of the firs, but the yard lay out in the
moonlight and the strange visitor did not elect to cross it. Instead,
he turned aside into the shadow of the trees around the garden and,
leaning against the old rail fence, gave himself up to contemplation of
some kind.

There was a light in the kitchen. The window-blind was not down and he
had a fairly good view of the room. The only visible occupant was a
grey-haired old man sitting by the table, reading from a large open
volume before him. The stranger whistled softly.

"That's old Stephen--reading the Bible same as ever, by all that's
holy! He hasn't changed much except that he's got mighty grey. He must
be close on to seventy. It's a shame to turn an old man like him out
of house and home. But Joe Moore always was a genuine skinflint."

He drew himself softly up and sat on the fence. He saw old Stephen
Strong close his book, place his spectacles on it, and kneel down by
his chair. The old man remained on his knees for some time and then,
taking up his candle, left the kitchen. The man on the fence still sat
there. Truth to tell, he was chuckling to himself as he recalled all
the mischief he had done in the old days--the doubtful jokes, tricks,
and escapades he had gone through with.

He could not help remembering at the same time how patient old Stephen
Strong had always been with him. He recalled the time he had been
caught stealing the oats. How frightened and sullen he had been! And

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