Between the Hill and the Valley

"Between the Hill and the Valley" is a poignant collection of short stories by Lucy Maud Montgomery, celebrated for her evocative storytelling and rich character development. Set in a rural community, the book explores themes of love, loss, and the complexities of human relationships, highlighting the emotional landscapes of the characters as they navigate life's challenges. Montgomery's signature warmth and lyrical prose invite readers to reflect on the beauty and trials of life in a close-knit society. The stories resonate with the bittersweet moments that define the human experience.

• Short story

								
It was one of the moist, pleasantly odorous nights of early spring.
There was a chill in the evening air, but the grass was growing green
in sheltered spots, and Jeffrey Miller had found purple-petalled
violets and pink arbutus on the hill that day. Across a valley filled
with beech and fir, there was a sunset afterglow, creamy yellow and
pale red, with a new moon swung above it. It was a night for a man to
walk alone and dream of his love, which was perhaps why Jeffrey Miller
came so loiteringly across the springy hill pasture, with his hands
full of the mayflowers.

He was a tall, broad-shouldered man of forty, and looking no younger,
with dark grey eyes and a tanned, clean-cut face, clean-shaven save
for a drooping moustache. Jeffrey Miller was considered a handsome
man, and Bayside people had periodical fits of wondering why he had
never married. They pitied him for the lonely life he must lead alone
there at the Valley Farm, with only a deaf old housekeeper as a
companion, for it did not occur to the Bayside people in general that
a couple of shaggy dogs could be called companions, and they did not
know that books make very excellent comrades for people who know how
to treat them.

One of Jeffrey's dogs was with him now--the oldest one, with white
breast and paws and a tawny coat. He was so old that he was half-blind
and rather deaf, but, with one exception, he was the dearest of living
creatures to Jeffrey Miller, for Sara Stuart had given him the
sprawly, chubby little pup years ago.

They came down the hill together. A group of men were standing on the
bridge in the hollow, discussing Colonel Stuart's funeral of the day
before. Jeffrey caught Sara's name and paused on the outskirts of the
group to listen. Sometimes he thought that if he were lying dead under
six feet of turf and Sara Stuart's name were pronounced above him, his
heart would give a bound of life.

"Yes, the old kunnel's gone at last," Christopher Jackson was saying.
"He took his time dyin', that's sartain. Must be a kind of relief for
Sara--she's had to wait on him, hand and foot, for years. But no doubt
she'll feel pretty lonesome. Wonder what she'll do?"

"Is there any particular reason for her to do anything?" asked Alec
Churchill.

"Well, she'll have to leave Pinehurst. The estate's entailed and goes
to her cousin, Charles Stuart."

There were exclamations of surprise from the other men on hearing
this. Jeffrey drew nearer, absently patting his dog's head. He had not
known it either.

"Oh, yes," said Christopher, enjoying all the importance of exclusive
information. "I thought everybody knew that. Pinehurst goes to the
oldest male heir. The old kunnel felt it keen that he hadn't a son. Of
course, there's plenty of money and Sara'll get that. But I guess
she'll feel pretty bad at leaving her old home. Sara ain't as young as
she used to be, neither. Let me see--she must be thirty-eight. Well,
she's left pretty lonesome."

"Maybe she'll stay on at Pinehurst," said Job Crowe. "It'd only be
right for her cousin to give her a home there."

Christopher shook his head.

"No, I understand they're not on very good terms. Sara don't like
Charles Stuart or his wife--and I don't blame her. She won't stay
there, not likely. Probably she'll go and live in town. Strange she
never married. She was reckoned handsome, and had plenty of beaus at
one time."

Jeffrey swung out of the group and started homeward with his dog. To
stand by and hear Sara Stuart discussed after this fashion was more
than he could endure. The men idly watched his tall, erect figure as
he went along the valley.

"Queer chap, Jeff," said Alec Churchill reflectively.

"Jeff's all right," said Christopher in a patronizing way. "There
ain't a better man or neighbour alive. I've lived next farm to him for
thirty years, so I ought to know. But he's queer sartainly--not like
other people--kind of unsociable. He don't care for a thing 'cept dogs
and reading and mooning round woods and fields. That ain't natural,
you know. But I must say he's a good farmer. He's got the best farm in
Bayside, and that's a real nice house he put up on it. Ain't it an odd
thing he never married? Never seemed to have no notion of it. I can't
recollect of Jeff Miller's ever courting anybody. That's another
unnatural thing about him."

"I've always thought that Jeff thought himself a cut or two above the
rest of us," said Tom Scovel with a sneer. "Maybe he thinks the
Bayside girls ain't good enough for him."

"There ain't no such dirty pride about Jeff," pronounced Christopher
conclusively. "And the Millers are the best family hereabouts,
leaving the kunnel's out. And Jeff's well off--nobody knows how well,
I reckon, but I can guess, being his land neighbour. Jeff ain't no
fool nor loafer, if he is a bit queer."

Meanwhile, the object of these remarks was striding homeward and
thinking, not of the men behind him, but of Sara Stuart. He must go to
her at once. He had not intruded on her since her father's death,
thinking her sorrow too great for him to meddle with. But this was
different. Perhaps she needed the advice or assistance only he could
give. To whom else in Bayside could she turn for it but to him, her
old friend? Was it possible that she must leave Pinehurst? The thought
struck cold dismay to his soul. How could he bear his life if she went
away?

He had loved Sara Stuart from childhood. He remembered vividly the day
he had first seen her--a spring day, much like this one had been; he,
a boy of eight, had gone with his father to the big, sunshiny hill
field and he had searched for birds' nests in the little fir copses
along the crest while his father plowed. He had so come upon her,
sitting on the fence under the pines at the back of Pinehurst--a child
of six in a dress of purple cloth. Her long, light brown curls fell
over her shoulders and rippled sleekly back from her calm little brow;
her eyes were large and greyish blue, straight-gazing and steadfast.
To the end of his life the boy was to carry in his heart the picture
she made there under the pines.

"Little boy," she had said, with a friendly smile, "will you show me
where the mayflowers grow?"

Shyly enough he had assented, and they set out together for the
barrens beyond the field, where the arbutus trailed its stars of
sweetness under the dusty dead grasses and withered leaves of the old
year. The boy was thrilled with delight. She was a fairy queen who
thus graciously smiled on him and chattered blithely as they searched
for mayflowers in the fresh spring sunshine. He thought it a
wonderful thing that it had so chanced. It overjoyed him to give the
choicest dusters he found into her slim, waxen little fingers, and
watch her eyes grow round with pleasure in them. When the sun began to
lower over the beeches she had gone home with her arms full of

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