Her Father's Daughter

"Her Father's Daughter" by Lucy Maud Montgomery is a semi-autobiographical novel that tells the story of Ellen, a young woman navigating her complex relationships with her father and the world around her. Set in the early 20th century, the narrative explores themes of identity, familial bonds, and the struggle for independence. Through Ellen's journey, the novel delves into her experiences of love, loss, and the quest for self-discovery, all while capturing the beauty and challenges of rural life in Canada. Montgomery's lyrical prose and deep characterizations bring to life the emotional landscape of a young woman coming of age amidst societal expectations and personal aspirations.

• Short story

								
"We must invite your Aunt Jane, of course," said Mrs. Spencer.

Rachel made a protesting movement with her large, white, shapely
hands--hands which were so different from the thin, dark, twisted
ones folded on the table opposite her.  The difference was not
caused by hard work or the lack of it; Rachel had worked hard all
her life.  It was a difference inherent in temperament.  The
Spencers, no matter what they did, or how hard they labored, all
had plump, smooth, white hands, with firm, supple fingers; the
Chiswicks, even those who toiled not, neither did they spin, had
hard, knotted, twisted ones.  Moreover, the contrast went deeper
than externals, and twined itself with the innermost fibers of
life, and thought, and action.

"I don't see why we must invite Aunt Jane," said Rachel, with as
much impatience as her soft, throaty voice could express.  "Aunt
Jane doesn't like me, and I don't like Aunt Jane."

"I'm sure I don't see why you don't like her," said Mrs. Spencer.
"It's ungrateful of you.  She has always been very kind to you."

"She has always been very kind with one hand," smiled Rachel.  "I
remember the first time I ever saw Aunt Jane.  I was six years
old.  She held out to me a small velvet pincushion with beads on
it.  And then, because I did not, in my shyness, thank her quite
as promptly as I should have done, she rapped my head with her
bethimbled finger to 'teach me better manners.'  It hurt
horribly--I've always had a tender head.  And that has been Aunt
Jane's way ever since.  When I grew too big for the thimble
treatment she used her tongue instead--and that hurt worse.  And
you know, mother, how she used to talk about my engagement.  She
is able to spoil the whole atmosphere if she happens to come in a
bad humor.  I don't want her."

"She must be invited.  People would talk so if she wasn't."

"I don't see why they should.  She's only my great-aunt by
marriage.  I wouldn't mind in the least if people did talk.
They'll talk anyway--you know that, mother."

"Oh, we must have her," said Mrs. Spencer, with the indifferent
finality that marked all her words and decisions--a finality
against which it was seldom of any avail to struggle.  People,
who knew, rarely attempted it; strangers occasionally did, misled
by the deceit of appearances.

Isabella Spencer was a wisp of a woman, with a pale, pretty face,
uncertainly-colored, long-lashed grayish eyes, and great masses
of dull, soft, silky brown hair.  She had delicate aquiline
features and a small, babyish red mouth.  She looked as if a
breath would sway her.  The truth was that a tornado would hardly
have caused her to swerve an inch from her chosen path.

For a moment Rachel looked rebellious; then she yielded, as she
generally did in all differences of opinion with her mother.  It
was not worth while to quarrel over the comparatively unimportant
matter of Aunt Jane's invitation.  A quarrel might be inevitable
later on; Rachel wanted to save all her resources for that.  She
gave her shoulders a shrug, and wrote Aunt Jane's name down on
the wedding list in her large, somewhat untidy handwriting--a
handwriting which always seemed to irritate her mother.  Rachel
never could understand this irritation.  She could never guess
that it was because her writing looked so much like that in a
certain packet of faded letters which Mrs. Spencer kept at the
bottom of an old horsehair trunk in her bedroom.  They were
postmarked from seaports all over the world.  Mrs. Spencer never
read them or looked at them; but she remembered every dash and
curve of the handwriting.

Isabella Spencer had overcome many things in her life by the
sheer force and persistency of her will.  But she could not get
the better of heredity.  Rachel was her father's daughter at all
points, and Isabella Spencer escaped hating her for it only by
loving her the more fiercely because of it.  Even so, there were
many times when she had to avert her eyes from Rachel's face
because of the pang of the more subtle remembrances; and never,
since her child was born, could Isabella Spencer bear to gaze on
that child's face in sleep.

Rachel was to be married to Frank Bell in a fortnight's time.
Mrs. Spencer was pleased with the match.  She was very fond of
Frank, and his farm was so near to her own that she would not
lose Rachel altogether.  Rachel fondly believed that her mother
would not lose her at all; but Isabella Spencer, wiser by olden
experience, knew what her daughter's marriage must mean to her,
and steeled her heart to bear it with what fortitude she might.

They were in the sitting-room, deciding on the wedding guests and
other details.  The September sunshine was coming in through the
waving boughs of the apple tree that grew close up to the low
window.  The glints wavered over Rachel's face, as white as a
wood lily, with only a faint dream of rose in the cheeks.  She
wore her sleek, golden hair in a quaint arch around it.  Her
forehead was very broad and white.  She was fresh and young and
hopeful.  The mother's heart contracted in a spasm of pain as she
looked at her.  How like the girl was to--to--to the Spencers!
Those easy, curving outlines, those large, mirthful blue eyes,
that finely molded chin! Isabella Spencer shut her lips firmly
and crushed down some unbidden, unwelcome memories.

"There will be about sixty guests, all told," she said, as if she
were thinking of nothing else.  "We must move the furniture out
of this room and set the supper-table here.  The dining-room is
too small.  We must borrow Mrs. Bell's forks and spoons.  She
offered to lend them.  I'd never have been willing to ask her.
The damask table cloths with the ribbon pattern must be bleached
to-morrow.  Nobody else in Avonlea has such tablecloths.  And
we'll put the little dining-room table on the hall landing,
upstairs, for the presents."

Rachel was not thinking about the presents, or the housewifely
details of the wedding.  Her breath was coming quicker, and the
faint blush on her smooth cheeks had deepened to crimson.  She
knew that a critical moment was approaching.  With a steady hand
she wrote the last name on her list and drew a line under it.

"Well, have you finished?" asked her mother impatiently.  "Hand
it here and let me look over it to make sure that you haven't
left anybody out that should be in."

Rachel passed the paper across the table in silence.  The room
seemed to her to have grown very still.  She could hear the flies
buzzing on the panes, the soft purr of the wind about the low
eaves and through the apple boughs, the jerky beating of her own
heart.  She felt frightened and nervous, but resolute.

Mrs. Spencer glanced down the list, murmuring the names aloud and
nodding approval at each. But when she came to the last name, she
did not utter it.  She cast a black glance at Rachel, and a spark
leaped up in the depths of the pale eyes.  On her face were

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