Dorinda's Desperate Deed

"Dorinda's Desperate Deed" is a short story by Lucy Maud Montgomery that explores themes of love, sacrifice, and the complexities of human emotions. The narrative centers around Dorinda, a young woman who finds herself in a challenging situation that requires her to make a significant and difficult decision. As she navigates her feelings and the expectations of those around her, Dorinda's journey reveals her inner strength and the profound impact of her choices on her life and the lives of others. Montgomery's characteristic charm and insight into human nature shine through in this poignant tale.

• Short story

								
Dorinda had been home for a whole wonderful week and the little Pages
were beginning to feel acquainted with her. When a girl goes away when
she is ten and doesn't come back until she is fifteen, it is only to
be expected that her family should regard her as somewhat of a
stranger, especially when she is really a Page, and they are really
all Carters except for the name. Dorinda had been only ten when her
Aunt Mary--on the Carter side--had written to Mrs. Page, asking her to
let Dorinda come to her for the winter.

Mrs. Page, albeit she was poor--nobody but herself knew how poor--and
a widow with five children besides Dorinda, hesitated at first. She
was afraid, with good reason, that the winter might stretch into other
seasons; but Mary had lost her own only little girl in the summer, and
Mrs. Page shuddered at the thought of what her loneliness must be. So,
to comfort her, Mrs. Page had let Dorinda go, stipulating that she
must come home in the spring. In the spring, when Dorinda's bed of
violets was growing purple under the lilac bush, Aunt Mary wrote
again. Dorinda was contented and happy, she said. Would not Emily let
her stay for the summer? Mrs. Page cried bitterly over that letter and
took sad counsel with herself. To let Dorinda stay with her aunt for
the summer really meant, she knew, to let her stay altogether. Mrs.
Page was finding it harder and harder to get along; there was so
little and the children needed so much; Dorinda would have a good home
with her Aunt Mary if she could only prevail on her rebellious mother
heart to give her up. In the end she agreed to let Dorinda stay for
the summer--and Dorinda had never been home since.

But now Dorinda had come back to the little white house on the hill at
Willowdale, set back from the road in a smother of apple trees and
vines. Aunt Mary had died very suddenly and her only son, Dorinda's
cousin, had gone to Japan. There was nothing for Dorinda to do save
to come home, to enter again into her old unfilled place in her
mother's heart, and win a new place in the hearts of the brothers and
sisters who barely remembered her at all. Leicester had been nine and
Jean seven when Dorinda went away; now they were respectively fourteen
and twelve.

At first they were a little shy with this big, practically brand-new
sister, but this soon wore off. Nobody could be shy long with Dorinda;
nobody could help liking her. She was so brisk and jolly and
sympathetic--a real Page, so everybody said--while the brothers and
sisters were Carter to their marrow; Carters with fair hair and blue
eyes, and small, fine, wistful features; but Dorinda had merry black
eyes, plump, dusky-red cheeks, and a long braid of glossy dark hair,
which was perpetually being twitched from one shoulder to another as
Dorinda whisked about the house on domestic duties intent.

In a week Dorinda felt herself one of the family again, with all the
cares and responsibilities thereof resting on her strong young
shoulders. Dorinda and her mother talked matters out fully one
afternoon over their sewing, in the sunny south room where the winds
got lost among the vines halfway through the open window. Mrs. Page
sighed and said she really did not know what to do. Dorinda did not
sigh; she did not know just what to do either, but there must be
something that could be done--there is always something that can be
done, if one can only find it. Dorinda sewed hard and pursed up her
red lips determinedly.

"Don't you worry, Mother Page," she said briskly. "We'll be like that
glorious old Roman who found a way or made it. I like overcoming
difficulties. I've lots of old Admiral Page's fighting blood in me,
you know. The first step is to tabulate just exactly what difficulties
among our many difficulties must be ravelled out first--the capital
difficulties, as it were. Most important of all comes--"

"Leicester," said Mrs. Page.

Dorinda winked her eyes as she always did when she was doubtful.

"Well, I knew he was one of them, but I wasn't going to put him the
very first. However, we will. Leicester's case stands thus. He is a
pretty smart boy--if he wasn't my brother, I'd say he was a very smart
boy. He has gone as far in his studies as Willowdale School can take
him, has qualified for entrance into the Blue Hill Academy, wants to
go there this fall and begin the beginnings of a college course. Well,
of course, Mother Page, we can't send Leicester to Blue Hill any more
than we can send him to the moon."

"No," mourned Mrs. Page, "and the poor boy feels so badly over it. His
heart is set on going to college and being a doctor like his father.
He believes he could work his way through, if he could only get a
start. But there isn't any chance. And I can't afford to keep him at
school any longer. He is going into Mr. Churchill's store at Willow
Centre in the fall. Mr. Churchill has very kindly offered him a place.
Leicester hates the thought of it--I know he does, although he never
says so."

"Next to Leicester's college course we want--"

"Music lessons for Jean."

Dorinda winked again.

"Are music lessons for Jean really a difficulty?" she said. "That is,
one spelled with a capital?"

"Oh, yes, Dorinda dear. At least, I'm worried over it. Jean loves
music so, and she has never had anything, poor child, not even as much
school as she ought to have had. I've had to keep her home so much to
help me with the work. She has been such a good, patient little girl
too, and her heart is set on music lessons."

"Well, she must have them then--after we get Leicester's year at the
academy for him. That's two. The third is a new--"

"The roof must be shingled this fall," said Mrs. Page anxiously.
"It really must, Dorinda. It is no better than a sieve. We are nearly
drowned every time it rains. But I don't know where the money to do it
is going to come from."

"Shingles for the roof, three," said Dorinda, as if she were carefully
jotting down something in a mental memorandum. "And fourth--now,
Mother Page, I will have my say this time--fourthly, biggest capital
of all, a Nice, New Dress and a Warm Fur Coat for Mother Page this
winter. Yes, yes, you must have them, dearest. It's absolutely
necessary. We can wait a year or so for college courses and music
lessons to grow; we can set basins under the leaks and borrow some
more if we haven't enough. But a new dress and coat for you we must,
shall, and will have, however it is to be brought about."

"I wouldn't mind if I never got another new stitch, if I could only
manage the other things," said Mrs. Page stoutly. "If your Uncle
Eugene would only help us a little, until Leicester got through! He
really ought to. But of course he never will."

"Have you ever asked him?" said Dorinda.

"Oh, my dear, no; of course not," said Mrs. Page in a horrified tone,

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes