Four Winds Page #7

"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

								

circumstances that hedged her in.

"Is not some other life possible for you if your present life does not
content you?" he said gently.

"But it does content me," said Lynde imperiously. "I want no other--I
wish this life to go on forever--forever, do you understand? If I were
sure that it would--if I were sure that no change would ever come to
me, I would be perfectly content. It is the fear that a change will
come that makes me wretched. Oh!" She shuddered and put her hands over
her eyes.

Alan thought she must mean that when her father died she would be
alone in the world. He wanted to comfort her--reassure her--but he did
not know how.

One evening when he went to Four Winds he found the door open and,
seeing the Captain in the living room, he stepped in unannounced.
Captain Anthony was sitting by the table, his head in his hands; at
Alan's entrance he turned upon him a haggard face, blackened by a
furious scowl beneath which blazed eyes full of malevolence.

"What do you want here?" he said, following up the demand with a
string of vile oaths.

Before Alan could summon his scattered wits, Lynde glided in with a
white, appealing face. Wordlessly she grasped Alan's arm, drew him
out, and shut the door.

"Oh, I've been watching for you," she said breathlessly. "I was afraid
you might come tonight--but I missed you."

"But your father?" said Alan in amazement. "How have I angered him?"

"Hush. Come into the garden. I will explain there."

He followed her into the little enclosure where the red and white
roses were now in full blow.

"Father isn't angry with you," said Lynde in a low shamed voice. "It's
just--he takes strange moods sometimes. Then he seems to hate us
all--even me--and he is like that for days. He seems to suspect and
dread everybody as if they were plotting against him. You--perhaps you
think he has been drinking? No, that is not the trouble. These
terrible moods come on without any cause that we know of. Even Mother
could not do anything with him when he was like that. You must go away
now--and do not come back until his dark mood has passed. He will be
just as glad to see you as ever then, and this will not make any
difference with him. Don't come back for a week at least."

"I do not like to leave you in such trouble, Miss Oliver."

"Oh, it doesn't matter about me--I have Emily. And there is nothing
you could do. Please go at once. Father knows I am talking to you and
that will vex him still more."

Alan, realizing that he could not help her and that his presence only
made matters worse, went away perplexedly. The following week was a
miserable one for him. His duties were distasteful to him and meeting
his people a positive torture. Sometimes Mrs. Danby looked dubiously
at him and seemed on the point of saying something--but never said it.
Isabel King watched him when they met, with bold probing eyes. In his
abstraction he did not notice this any more than he noticed a certain
subtle change which had come over the members of his congregation--as
if a breath of suspicion had blown across them and troubled their
confidence and trust. Once Alan would have been keenly and instantly
conscious of this slight chill; now he was not even aware of it.

When he ventured to go back to Four Winds he found the Captain on the
point of starting off for a cruise in his yacht. He was urbane and
friendly, utterly ignoring the incident of Alan's last visit and
regretting that business compelled him to go down the lake. Alan saw
him off with small regret and turned joyfully to Lynde, who was
walking under the pines with her dogs. She looked pale and tired and
her eyes were still troubled, but she smiled proudly and made no
reference to what had happened.

"I'm going to put these flowers on Mother's grave," she said, lifting
her slender hands filled with late white roses. "Mother loved flowers
and I always keep them near her when I can. You may come with me if
you like."

Alan had known Lynde's mother was buried under the pines but he had
never visited the spot before. The grave was at the westernmost end of
the pine wood, where it gave out on the lake, a beautiful spot, given
over to silence and shadow.

"Mother wished to be buried here," Lynde said, kneeling to arrange her
flowers. "Father would have taken her anywhere but she said she wanted
to be near us and near the lake she had loved so well. Father buried
her himself. He wouldn't have anyone else do anything for her. I am so
glad she is here. It would have been terrible to have seen her taken
far away--my sweet little mother."

"A mother is the best thing in the world--I realized that when I lost
mine," said Alan gently. "How long is it since your mother died?"

"Three years. Oh, I thought I should die too when she did. She was
very ill--she was never strong, you know--but I never thought she
could die. There was a year then--part of the time I didn't believe in
God at all and the rest I hated Him. I was very wicked but I was so
unhappy. Father had so many dreadful moods and--there was something
else. I used to wish to die."

She bowed her head on her hands and gazed moodily on the ground. Alan,
leaning against a pine tree, looked down at her. The sunlight fell
through the swaying boughs on her glory of burnished hair and lighted
up the curve of cheek and chin against the dark background of wood
brown. All the defiance and wildness had gone from her for the time
and she seemed like a helpless, weary child. He wanted to take her in
his arms and comfort her.

"You must resemble your mother," he said absently, as if thinking
aloud. "You don't look at all like your father."

Lynde shook her head.

"No, I don't look like Mother either. She was tiny and dark--she had a
sweet little face and velvet-brown eyes and soft curly dark hair. Oh,
I remember her look so well. I wish I did resemble her. I loved her
so--I would have done anything to save her suffering and trouble. At
least, she died in peace."

There was a curious note of fierce self-gratulation in the girl's voice
as she spoke the last sentence. Again Alan felt the unpleasant
impression that there was much in her that he did not understand--might
never understand--although such understanding was necessary to perfect
friendship. She had never spoken so freely of her past life to him
before, yet he felt somehow that something was being kept back in
jealous repression. It must be something connected with her father,
Alan thought. Doubtless, Captain Anthony's past would not bear
inspection, and his daughter knew it and dwelt in the shadow of her
knowledge. His heart filled with aching pity for her; he raged secretly
because he was so powerless to help her. Her girlhood had been
blighted, robbed of its meed of happiness and joy. Was she likewise to
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