Miss Sally's Letter Page #3

"Miss Sally's Letter" is a charming short story by Lucy Maud Montgomery, celebrated for her vivid storytelling and character development. The narrative revolves around a heartfelt letter written by Miss Sally, revealing her thoughts and emotions about love, life, and the passage of time. Through rich descriptions and poignant reflections, Montgomery explores themes of nostalgia and the enduring nature of relationships. The story captures her signature style of blending humor with tenderness, offering readers a glimpse into the intricacies of human connections and the impact of written words.

• Short story

								

it is, and leave it sacred to the dead hope of a bride that will never
come to it."

"Oh, you wouldn't," protested Miss Sally. "It would be a shame--such a
dear little house--and after all the trouble I've taken. But you have
tricked me--oh, you men couldn't be straightforward in anything--"

"Wasn't it a fair device for a desperate lover, Miss Sally?"
interrupted Willard. "Oh, you mustn't hold spite because of it, dear;
And you will give me Joyce, won't you? Because if you don't, I really
will shut up Eden forever."

Miss Sally looked wistfully around her. Through the open door on her
left she saw the little living room with its quaint, comfortable
furniture, its dainty pictures and adornments. Through the front door
she saw the trim, velvet-swarded little lawn. Upstairs were two white
rooms that only wanted a woman's living presence to make them jewels.
And the kitchen on which she had expended so much thought and
ingenuity--the kitchen furnished to the last detail, even to the
kindling in the range and the match Willard had laid ready to light
it! It gave Miss Sally a pang to think of that altar fire never being
lighted. It was really the thought of the kitchen that finished Miss
Sally.

"You've tricked me," she said again reproachfully. "You've tricked me
into loving this house so much that I cannot bear the thought of it
never living. You'll have to have Joyce, I suppose. And I believe I'm
glad that it isn't a stranger who is to be the mistress of Eden. Joyce
won't hanker after pink rugs and lace curtains. And her taste in china
is the same as mine. In one way it's a great relief to my mind. But
it's a fearful risk--a fearful risk. To think that you may make my
dear child miserable!"

"You know you don't think that I will, Miss Sally. I'm not really such
a bad fellow, now, am I?"

"You are a man--and I have no confidence whatever in men," declared
Miss Sally, wiping some very real tears from her eyes with a very
unreal sort of handkerchief--one of the cobwebby affairs of lace her
daintiness demanded.

"Miss Sally, why have you such a rooted distrust of men?" demanded
Willard curiously. "Somehow, it seems so foreign to your character."

"I suppose you think I am a perfect crank," said Miss Sally, sighing.
"Well, I'll tell you why I don't trust men. I have a very good reason
for it. A man broke my heart and embittered my life. I've never spoken
about it to a living soul, but if you want to hear about it, you
shall."

Miss Sally sat down on the second step of the stairs and tucked her
wet handkerchief away. She clasped her slender white hands over her
knee. In spite of her silvery hair and the little lines on her face
she looked girlish and youthful. There was a pink flush on her cheeks,
and her big black eyes sparkled with the anger her memories aroused in
her.

"I was a young girl of twenty when I met him," she said, "and I was
just as foolish as all young girls are--foolish and romantic and
sentimental. He was very handsome and I thought him--but there, I
won't go into that. It vexes me to recall my folly. But I loved
him--yes, I did, with all my heart--with all there was of me to love.
He made me love him. He deliberately set himself to win my love. For a
whole summer he flirted with me. I didn't know he was flirting--I
thought him in earnest. Oh, I was such a little fool--and so happy.
Then--he went away. Went away suddenly without even a word of goodbye.
But he had been summoned home by his father's serious illness, and I
thought he would write--I waited--I hoped. I never heard from
him--never saw him again. He had tired of his plaything and flung it
aside. That is all," concluded Miss Sally passionately. "I never
trusted any man again. When my sister died and gave me her baby, I
determined to bring the dear child up safely, training her to avoid
the danger I had fallen into. Well, I've failed. But perhaps it will
be all right--perhaps there are some men who are true, though Stephen
Merritt was false."

"Stephen--who?" demanded Willard abruptly. Miss Sally coloured.

"I didn't mean to tell you his name," she said, getting up. "It was a
slip of the tongue. Never mind--forget it and him. He was not worthy
of remembrance--and yet I do remember him. I can't forget him--and I
hate him all the more for it--for having entered so deeply into my
life that I could not cast him out when I knew him unworthy. It is
humiliating. There--let us lock up Eden and go home. I suppose you are
dying to see Joyce and tell her your precious plot has succeeded."

Willard did not appear to be at all impatient. He had relapsed into a
brown study, during which he let Miss Sally lock up the house. Then he
walked silently home with her. Miss Sally was silent too. Perhaps she
was repenting her confidence--or perhaps she was thinking of her false
lover. There was a pathetic droop to her lips, and her black eyes were
sad and dreamy.

"Miss Sally," said Willard at last, as they neared her house, "had
Stephen Merritt any sisters?"

Miss Sally threw him a puzzled glance.

"He had one--Jean Merritt--whom I disliked and who disliked me," she
said crisply. "I don't want to talk of her--she was the only woman I
ever hated. I never met any of the other members of his family--his
home was in a distant part of the state."

Willard stayed with Joyce so brief a time that Miss Sally viewed his
departure with suspicion. This was not very lover-like conduct.

"I dare say he's like all the rest--when his aim is attained the
prize loses its value," reflected Miss Sally pessimistically. "Poor
Joyce--poor child! But there--there isn't a single inharmonious thing
in his house--that is one comfort. I'm so thankful I didn't let
Willard buy those brocade chairs he wanted. They would have given
Joyce the nightmare."

Meanwhile, Willard rushed down to the biological station and from
there drove furiously to the station to catch the evening express. He
did not return until three days later, when he appeared at Miss
Sally's, dusty and triumphant.

"Joyce is out," said Miss Sally.

"I'm glad of it," said Willard recklessly. "It's you I want to see,
Miss Sally. I have something to show you. I've been all the way home
to get it."

From his pocketbook Willard drew something folded and creased and
yellow that looked like a letter. He opened it carefully and, holding
it in his fingers, looked over it at Miss Sally.

"My grandmother's maiden name was Jean Merritt," he said deliberately,
"and Stephen Merritt was my great-uncle. I never saw him--he died when
I was a child--but I've heard my father speak of him often."

Miss Sally turned very pale. She passed her cobwebby handkerchief
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes