Her Own People Page #2

"Her Own People" by Lucy Maud Montgomery is a novel that explores themes of belonging, identity, and community through the eyes of its protagonist, a young girl named Judith. Set against the backdrop of early 20th-century Canada, the story follows Judith as she navigates her relationships with family, friends, and the wider community. Filled with Montgomery's characteristic warmth and rich descriptions of rural life, the book delves into the complexities of personal growth, the longing for acceptance, and the challenges of finding one's place in the world. As Judith confronts various trials, her journey becomes a poignant reflection on the importance of understanding and embracing one's roots.

• Short story

								

the valley. Such a picturesque, low-eaved little house, all covered
over with honeysuckle. It was set between a big orchard and an
old-fashioned flower garden with great pines at the back."

"Heartsease Farm," said Mrs. Hewitt promptly. "Bless you, there's only
one place around here of that description. Mr. and Mrs. Bruce, Uncle
Charles and Aunt Flora, as we all call them, live there. They are the
dearest old couple alive. You ought to go and see them, they'd be
delighted. Aunt Flora just loves company. They're real lonesome by
times."

"Haven't they any children?" asked Constance indifferently. Her
interest was in the place, not in the people.

"No. They had a niece once, though. They brought her up and they just
worshipped her. She ran away with a worthless fellow--I forget his
name, if I ever knew it. He was handsome and smooth-tongued, but he
was a scamp. She died soon after and it just broke their hearts. They
don't even know where she was buried, and they never heard anything
more about her husband. I've heard that Aunt Flora's hair turned
snow-white in a month. I'll take you up to see her some day when I
find time."

Mrs. Hewitt did not find time, but thereafter Constance ordered her
rambles that she might frequently pass Heartsease Farm. The quaint old
spot had a strange attraction for her. She found herself learning to
love it, and so unused was this unfortunate girl to loving anything
that she laughed at herself for her foolishness.

One evening a fortnight later Constance, with her arms full of ferns
and wood-lilies, came out of the pine woods above Heartsease Farm just
as heavy raindrops began to fall. She had prolonged her ramble
unseasonably, and it was now nearly night, and very certainly a rainy
night at that. She was three miles from home and without even an extra
wrap.

She hurried down the lane, but by the time she reached the main road,
the few drops had become a downpour. She must seek shelter somewhere,
and Heartsease Farm was the nearest. She pushed open the gate and ran
up the slope of the yard between the hedges of sweetbriar. She was
spared the trouble of knocking, for as she came to a breathless halt
on the big red sandstone doorstep, the door was flung open, and the
white-haired, happy-faced little woman standing on the threshold had
seized her hand and drawn her in bodily before she could speak a word.

"I saw you coming from upstairs," said Aunt Flora gleefully, "and I
just ran down as fast as I could. Dear, dear, you are a little wet.
But we'll soon dry you. Come right in--I've a bit of a fire in the
grate, for the evening is chilly. They laughed at me for loving a fire
so, but there's nothing like its snap and sparkle. You're rained in
for the night, and I'm as glad as I can be. I know who you are--you
are Miss Foster. I'm Aunt Flora, and this is Uncle Charles."

Constance let herself be put into a cushiony chair and fussed over
with an unaccustomed sense of pleasure. The rain was coming down in
torrents, and she certainly was domiciled at Heartsease Farm for the
night. Somehow, she felt glad of it. Mrs. Hewitt was right in calling
Aunt Flora sweet, and Uncle Charles was a big, jolly, ruddy-faced old
man with a hearty manner. He shook Constance's hand until it ached,
threw more pine knots in the fire and told her he wished it would rain
every night if it rained down a nice little girl like her.

She found herself strangely attracted to the old couple. The name of
their farm was in perfect keeping with their atmosphere. Constance's
frozen soul expanded in it. She chatted merrily and girlishly, feeling
as if she had known them all her life.

When bedtime came, Aunt Flora took her upstairs to a little gable
room.

"My spare room is all in disorder just now, dearie, we have been
painting its floor. So I'm going to put you here in Jeannie's room.
Someway you remind me of her, and you are just about the age she was
when she left us. If it wasn't for that, I don't think I could put you
in her room, not even if every other floor in the house were being
painted. It is so sacred to me. I keep it just as she left it, not a
thing is changed. Good night dearie, and I hope you'll have pleasant
dreams."

When Constance found herself alone in the room, she looked about her
with curiosity. It was a very dainty, old-fashioned little room. The
floor was covered with braided mats; the two square, small-paned
windows were draped with snowy muslin. In one corner was a little
white bed with white curtains and daintily ruffled pillows, and in the
other a dressing table with a gilt-framed mirror and the various
knick-knacks of a girlish toilet. There was a little blue rocker and
an ottoman with a work-basket on it. In the work-basket was a bit of
unfinished, yellowed lace with a needle sticking in it. A small
bookcase under the sloping ceiling was filled with books.

Constance picked up one and opened it at the yellowing title-page. She
gave a little cry of surprise. The name written across the page in a
fine, dainty script was "Jean Constance Irving," her mother's name!

For a moment Constance stood motionless. Then she turned impulsively
and hurried downstairs again. Mr. and Mrs. Bruce were still in the
sitting room talking to each other in the firelight.

"Oh," cried Constance excitedly. "I must know, I must ask you. This is
my mother's name, Jean Constance Irving, can it be possible she was
your little Jeannie?"

       *       *       *       *       *

A fortnight later Miss Channing received a letter from Constance.

"I am so happy," she wrote. "Oh, Miss Channing, I have found 'mine own
people,' and Heartsease Farm is to be my own, own dear home for
always.

"It was such a strange coincidence, no, Aunt Flora says it was
Providence, and I believe it was, too. I came here one rainy night,
and Aunty put me in my mother's room, think of it! My own dear
mother's room, and I found her name in a book. And now the mystery is
all cleared up, and we are so happy.

"Everything is dear and beautiful, and almost the dearest and most
beautiful thing is that I am getting acquainted with my mother, the
mother I never knew before. She no longer seems dead to me. I feel
that she lives and loves me, and I am learning to know her better
every day. I have her room and her books and all her little girlish
possessions. When I read her books, with their passages underlined by
her hand, I feel as if she were speaking to me. She was very good and
sweet, in spite of her one foolish, bitter mistake, and I want to be
as much like her as I can.

"I said that this was almost the dearest and most beautiful thing.
The very dearest and most beautiful is this--God means something to me
now. He means so much! I remember that you said to me that he meant
nothing to me because I had no human love in my heart to translate the
divine. But I have now, and it has led me to Him.
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