Four Winds Page #3

"Four Winds" by Lucy Maud Montgomery is a touching collection of stories that explore themes of love, nature, and the human experience. Set against the backdrop of the Canadian landscape, Montgomery's prose beautifully captures the joys and struggles of her characters, often reflecting on the passage of time and the impact of the seasons. With her signature lyrical style, the author weaves tales that evoke emotion and contemplation, inviting readers to appreciate the nuances of life’s journey. Each story highlights the connection between individuals and the world around them, making it a poignant read for fans of Montgomery's evocative storytelling.

• Short story

								

strangers visiting him--queer sort of characters who came up the lake
in vessels from the American side. I haven't heard any reports of such
these past few years, though--not since his wife disappeared. He keeps
a yacht and goes sailing in it--sometimes he cruises about for
weeks--that's about all he ever does. And now you know as much about
the Olivers as I do, Mr. Douglas."

Alan had listened to this gossipy narrative with an interest that did
not escape Isabel King's observant eyes. Much of it he mentally
dismissed as improbable surmise, but the basic facts were probably as
Mrs. Danby had reported them. He had known that the girl of the shore
could be no commonplace, primly nurtured young woman.

"Has no effort ever been made to bring these people into touch with
the church?" he asked absently.

"Bless you, yes. Every minister that's ever been in Rexton has had a
try at it. The old cousin met every one of them at the door and told
him nobody was at home. Mr. Strong was the most persistent--he didn't
like being beaten. He went again and again and finally the Captain
sent him word that when he wanted parsons or pill-dosers he'd send
for them, and till he did he'd thank them to mind their own business.
They say Mr. Strong met Lynde once along shore and wanted to know if
she wouldn't come to church, and she laughed in his face and told him
she knew more about God now than he did or ever would. Perhaps the
story isn't true. Or if it was maybe he provoked her into saying it.
Mr. Strong wasn't overly tactful. I believe in judging the poor girl
as charitably as possible and making allowances for her, seeing how
she's been brought up. You couldn't expect her to know how to behave."

Somehow, Alan resented Mrs. Danby's charity. Then, his sense of humour
being strongly developed, he smiled to think of this commonplace old
lady "making allowances" for the splendid bit of femininity he had
seen on the shore. A plump barnyard fowl might as well have talked of
making allowances for a seagull!

Alan walked home with Isabel King but he was very silent as they went
together down the long, dark, sweet-smelling country road bordered by
its white orchards. Isabel put her own construction on his absent
replies to her remarks and presently she asked him, "Did you think
Lynde Oliver handsome?"

The question gave Alan an annoyance out of all proportion to its
significance. He felt an instinctive reluctance to discuss Lynde
Oliver with Isabel King.

"I saw her only for a moment," he said coldly, "but she impressed me
as being a beautiful woman."

"They tell queer stories about her--but maybe they're not all true,"
said Isabel, unable to keep the sneer of malice out of her voice. At
that moment Alan's secret contempt for her crystallized into
pronounced aversion. He made no reply and they went the rest of the
way in silence. At her gate Isabel said, "You haven't been over to see
us very lately, Mr. Douglas."

"My congregation is a large one and I cannot visit all my people as
often as I might wish," Alan answered, all the more coldly for the
personal note in her tone. "A minister's time is not his own, you
know."

"Shall you be going to see the Olivers?" asked Isabel bluntly.

"I have not considered that question. Good-night, Miss King."

On his way back to the manse Alan did consider the question. Should he
make any attempt to establish friendly relations with the residents of
Four Winds? It surprised him to find how much he wanted to, but he
finally concluded that he would not. They were not adherents of his
church and he did not believe that even a minister had any right to
force himself upon people who plainly wished to be let alone.

When he got home, although it was late, he went to his study and began
work on a new text--for Elder Trewin's seemed utterly out of the
question. Even with the new one he did not get on very well. At last
in exasperation he leaned back in his chair.

Why can't I stop thinking of those Four Winds people? Here, let me put
these haunting thoughts into words and see if that will lay them. That
girl had a beautiful face but a cold one. Would I like to see it
lighted up with the warmth of her soul set free? Yes, frankly, I would.
She looked upon me with indifference. Would I like to see her welcome
me as a friend? I have a conviction that I would, although no doubt
everybody in my congregation would look upon her as a most unsuitable
friend for me. Do I believe that she is wild, unwomanly, heathenish, as
Mrs. Danby says? No, I do not, most emphatically. I believe she is a
lady in the truest sense of that much abused word, though she is
doubtless unconventional. Having said all this, I do not see what more
there is to be said. And--I--am--going--to--write--this--sermon.

Alan wrote it, putting all thought of Lynde Oliver sternly out of his
mind for the time being. He had no notion of falling in love with her.
He knew nothing of love and imagined that it counted for nothing in
his life. He admitted that his curiosity was aflame about the girl,
but it never occurred to him that she meant or could mean anything to
him but an attractive enigma which once solved would lose its
attraction. The young women he knew in Rexton, whose simple, pleasant
friendship he valued, had the placid, domestic charm of their own
sweet-breathed, windless orchards. Lynde Oliver had the fascination of
the lake shore--wild, remote, untamed--the lure of the wilderness and
the primitive. There was nothing more personal in his thought of her,
and yet when he recalled Isabel King's sneer he felt an almost
personal resentment.

       *       *       *       *       *

During the following fortnight Alan made many trips to the shore--and
he always went by the branch road to the Four Winds point. He did not
attempt to conceal from himself that he hoped to meet Lynde Oliver
again. In this he was unsuccessful. Sometimes he saw her at a distance
along the shore but she always disappeared as soon as seen.
Occasionally as he crossed the point he saw her working in her garden
but he never went very near the house, feeling that he had no right to
spy on it or her in any way. He soon became convinced that she avoided
him purposely and the conviction piqued him. He felt an odd masterful
desire to meet her face to face and make her look at him. Sometimes he
called himself a fool and vowed he would go no more to the Four Winds
shore. Yet he inevitably went. He did not find in the shore the
comfort and inspiration he had formerly found. Something had come
between his soul and the soul of the wilderness--something he did not
recognize or formulate--a nameless, haunting longing that shaped
itself about the memory of a cold sweet face and starry, indifferent
eyes, grey as the lake at dawn.

Of Captain Anthony he never got even a glimpse, but he saw the old
cousin several times, going and coming about the yard and its
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