July Nineteenth

"July Nineteenth" is a beautifully written short story by Lucy Maud Montgomery that captures the essence of summer and the complexities of human relationships. Set in a small, idyllic community, the narrative revolves around the emotional intricacies of love, friendship, and the passage of time. The story unfolds on a significant date, exploring the lives of its characters as they confront their feelings and aspirations against the backdrop of a picturesque July day. Montgomery's evocative prose and keen insights into human nature create a poignant reflection on the fleeting moments that shape our lives.

• Short story

								
    It is over. I said good-bye to her to-day before others, for I
    dared not trust myself to see her alone. She looked hurt and
    startled, as if someone had struck her. But she will soon
    forget, even if I have not been mistaken in the reading of her
    eyes. As for me, the bitterness of death is already over in
    that parting. All that now remains is to play the man to the
    end.

From further entries in the journal I learned that Alan Blair had
returned to Sweetwater and later on had been ordered to California.
The entries during his sojourn there were few and far between. In all
of them he spoke of Sylvia. Finally, after a long silence, he had
written:

    I think the end is not far off now. I am not sorry for my
    suffering has been great of late. Last night I was easier. I
    slept and dreamed that I saw Sylvia. Once or twice I thought
    that I would arrange to have this book sent to her after my
    death. But I have decided that it would be unwise. It would
    only pain her, so I shall destroy it when I feel the time has
    come.

    It is sunset in this wonderful summer land. At home in
    Sweetwater it is only early spring as yet, with snow lingering
    along the edges of the woods. The sunsets there will be
    creamy-yellow and pale red now. If I could but see them once
    more! And  Sylvia--

There was a little blot where the pen had fallen. Evidently the end
had been nearer than Alan Blair had thought. At least, there were no
more entries, and the little green book had not been destroyed. I was
glad that it had not been; and I felt glad that it was thus put in my
power to write the last chapter of Miss Sylvia's story for her.

As soon as I could leave Sweetwater I went to the city, three hundred
miles away, where Miss Sylvia lived. I found her in her library, in
her black silk dress and heliotrope shawl, knitting up cream wool, for
all the world as if she had just been transplanted from the veranda
corner of Harbour Light.

"My dear boy!" she said.

"Do you know why I have come?" I asked.

"I am vain enough to think it was because you wanted to see me," she
smiled.

"I did want to see you; but I would have waited until summer if it had
not been that I wished to bring you the missing chapter of your story,
dear lady."

"I--I--don't understand," said Miss Sylvia, starting slightly.

"I had an uncle, Alan Blair, who died forty years ago in California,"
I said quietly. "Recently I have had occasion to examine some of his
papers. I found a journal among them and I have brought it to you
because I think that you have the best right to it."

I dropped the parcel in her lap. She was silent with surprise and
bewilderment.

"And now," I added, "I am going away. You won't want to see me or
anyone for a while after you have read this book. But I will come up
to see you to-morrow."

When I went the next day Miss Sylvia herself met me at the door. She
caught my hand and drew me into the hall. Her eyes were softly
radiant.

"Oh, you have made me so happy!" she said tremulously. "Oh, you can
never know how happy! Nothing hurts now--nothing ever can hurt,
because I know he did care."

She laid her face down on my shoulder, as a girl might have nestled to
her lover, and I bent and kissed her for Uncle Alan.
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