Elizabeth's Child

"Elizabeth's Child" by Lucy Maud Montgomery is a poignant short story that explores themes of maternal love and sacrifice. The narrative follows Elizabeth, a devoted mother who faces the challenges of raising her child amidst personal struggles and societal expectations. Through rich, evocative prose, Montgomery delves into Elizabeth's emotional turmoil and her unwavering commitment to her child's well-being. The story captures the complexities of motherhood, illuminating both the joys and hardships that accompany it. With its trademark warmth and insight, Montgomery's tale remains a heartfelt reflection on the enduring bond between parent and child.

• Short story

								
The Ingelows, of Ingelow Grange, were not a marrying family. Only one
of them, Elizabeth, had married, and perhaps it was her "poor match"
that discouraged the others. At any rate, Ellen and Charlotte and
George Ingelow at the Grange were single, and so was Paul down at
Greenwood Farm.

It was seventeen years since Elizabeth had married James Sheldon in
the face of the most decided opposition on the part of her family.
Sheldon was a handsome, shiftless ne'er-do-well, without any violent
bad habits, but also "without any backbone," as the Ingelows declared.
"There is sometimes hope of a man who is actively bad," Charlotte
Ingelow had said sententiously, "but who ever heard of reforming a
jellyfish?"

Elizabeth and her husband had gone west and settled on a prairie farm
in Manitoba. She had never been home since. Perhaps her pride kept her
away, for she had the Ingelow share of that, and she soon discovered
that her family's estimate of James Sheldon had been the true one.
There was no active resentment on either side, and once in a long
while letters were exchanged. Still, ever since her marriage,
Elizabeth had been practically an outsider and an alien. As the years
came and went the Ingelows at home remembered only at long intervals
that they had a sister on the western prairies.

One of these remembrances came to Charlotte Ingelow on a spring
afternoon when the great orchards about the Grange were pink and white
with apple and cherry blossoms, and over every hill and field was a
delicate, flower-starred green. A soft breeze was blowing loose petals
from the August Sweeting through the open door of the wide hall when
Charlotte came through it. Ellen and George were standing on the steps
outside.

"This kind of a day always makes me think of Elizabeth," said
Charlotte dreamily. "It was in apple-blossom time she went away." The
Ingelows always spoke of Elizabeth's going away, never of her
marrying.

"Seventeen years ago," said Ellen. "Why, Elizabeth's oldest child must
be quite a young woman now! I--I--" a sudden idea swept over and left
her a little breathless. "I would really like to see her."

"Then why don't you write and ask her to come east and visit us?"
asked George, who did not often speak, but who always spoke to some
purpose when he did.

Ellen and Charlotte looked at each other. "I would like to see
Elizabeth's child," repeated Ellen firmly.

"Do you think she would come?" asked Charlotte. "You know when James
Sheldon died five years ago, we wrote to Elizabeth and asked her to
come home and live with us, and she seemed almost resentful in the
letter she wrote back. I've never said so before, but I've often
thought it."

"Yes, she did," said Ellen, who had often thought so too, but never
said so.

"Elizabeth was always very independent," remarked George. "Perhaps she
thought your letter savoured of charity or pity. No Ingelow would
endure that."

"At any rate, you know she refused to come, even for a visit. She said
she could not leave the farm. She may refuse to let her child come."

"It won't do any harm to ask her," said George.

In the end, Charlotte wrote to Elizabeth and asked her to let her
daughter visit the old homestead. The letter was written and mailed in
much perplexity and distrust when once the glow of momentary
enthusiasm in the new idea had passed.

"What if Elizabeth's child is like her father?" queried Charlotte in a
half-whisper.

"Let us hope she won't be!" cried Ellen fervently. Indeed, she felt
that a feminine edition of James Sheldon would be more than she could
endure.

"She may not like us, or our ways," sighed Charlotte. "We don't know
how she has been brought up. She will seem like a stranger after all.
I really long to see Elizabeth's child, but I can't help fearing we
have done a rash thing, Ellen."

"Perhaps she may not come," suggested Ellen, wondering whether she
hoped it or feared it.

But Worth Sheldon did come. Elizabeth wrote back a prompt acceptance,
with no trace of the proud bitterness that had permeated her answer to
the former invitation. The Ingelows at the Grange were thrown into a
flutter when the letter came. In another week Elizabeth's child would
be with them.

"If only she isn't like her father," said Charlotte with foreboding,
as she aired and swept the southeast spare room for their expected
guest. They had three spare rooms at the Grange, but the aunts had
selected the southeast one for their niece because it was done in
white, "and white seems the most appropriate for a young girl," Ellen
said, as she arranged a pitcher of wild roses on the table.

"I think everything is ready," announced Charlotte. "I put the very
finest sheets on the bed, they smell deliciously of lavender, and we
had very good luck doing up the muslin curtains. It is pleasant to be
expecting a guest, isn't it, Ellen? I have often thought, although I
have never said so before, that our lives were too self-centred. We
seemed to have no interests outside of ourselves. Even Elizabeth has
been really nothing to us, you know. She seemed to have become a
stranger. I hope her child will be the means of bringing us nearer
together again."

"If she has James Sheldon's round face and big blue eyes and curly
yellow hair I shall never really like her, no matter how Ingelowish
she may be inside," said Ellen decidedly.

When Worth Sheldon came, each of her aunts drew a long breath of
relief. Worth was not in the least like her father in appearance.
Neither did she resemble her mother, who had been a sprightly,
black-haired and black-eyed girl. Worth was tall and straight, with a
long braid of thick, wavy brown hair, large, level-gazing grey eyes, a
square jaw, and an excellent chin with a dimple in it.

"She is the very image of Mother's sister, Aunt Alice, who died so
long ago," said Charlotte. "You don't remember her, Ellen, but I do
very well. She was the sweetest woman that ever drew breath. She was
Paul's favourite aunt, too," Charlotte added with a sigh. Paul's
antagonistic attitude was the only drawback to the joy of this
meeting. How delightful it would have been if he had not refused to be
there too, to welcome Elizabeth's child.

Worth came to hearts prepared to love her, but they must have loved
her in any case. In a day Aunt Charlotte and Aunt Ellen and shy,
quiet Uncle George had yielded wholly to her charm. She was girlishly
bright and merry, frankly delighted with the old homestead and the
quaint, old-fashioned, daintily kept rooms. Yet there was no
suggestion of gush about her; she did not go into raptures, but her
pleasure shone out in eyes and tones. There was so much to tell and
ask and remember the first day that it was not until the second

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