The Promise of Lucy Ellen

"The Promise of Lucy Ellen" is a novella by Lucy Maud Montgomery, originally published in 1912. The story follows the life of Lucy Ellen, a young girl who lives in a small village and dreams of a brighter future. The narrative delves into themes of hope, self-discovery, and the challenges of growing up in a modest setting. Through Lucy Ellen's experiences, Montgomery weaves a tapestry of childhood aspirations, the importance of family and friendship, and the sweet, often bittersweet moments that shape our paths. As with much of Montgomery's work, the story is imbued with rich descriptions of nature, an appreciation for life's simple joys, and the enduring power of dreams.

• Short story

								
Cecily Foster came down the sloping, fir-fringed road from the village
at a leisurely pace. Usually she walked with a long, determined
stride, but to-day the drowsy, mellowing influence of the Autumn
afternoon was strong upon her and filled her with placid content.
Without being actively conscious of it, she was satisfied with the
existing circumstances of her life. It was half over now. The half of
it yet to be lived stretched before her, tranquil, pleasant and
uneventful, like the afternoon, filled with unhurried duties and
calmly interesting days, Cecily liked the prospect.

When she came to her own lane she paused, folding her hands on the top
of the whitewashed gate, while she basked for a moment in the warmth
that seemed cupped in the little grassy hollow hedged about with young
fir-trees.

Before her lay sere, brooding fields sloping down to a sandy shore,
where long foamy ripples were lapping with a murmur that threaded the
hushed air like a faint minor melody.

On the crest of the little hill to her right was her home--hers and
Lucy Ellen's. The house was an old-fashioned, weather-gray one, low in
the eaves, with gables and porches overgrown with vines that had
turned to wine-reds and rich bronzes in the October frosts. On three
sides it was closed in by tall old spruces, their outer sides bared
and grim from long wrestling with the Atlantic winds, but their inner
green and feathery. On the fourth side a trim white paling shut in the
flower garden before the front door. Cecily could see the beds of
purple and scarlet asters, making rich whorls of color under the
parlor and sitting-room windows. Lucy Ellen's bed was gayer and larger
than Cecily's. Lucy Ellen had always had better luck with flowers.

She could see old Boxer asleep on the front porch step and Lucy
Ellen's white cat stretched out on the parlor window-sill. There was
no other sign of life about the place. Cecily drew a long, leisurely
breath of satisfaction.

"After tea I'll dig up those dahlia roots," she said aloud. "They'd
ought to be up. My, how blue and soft that sea is! I never saw such a
lovely day. I've been gone longer than I expected. I wonder if Lucy
Ellen's been lonesome?"

When Cecily looked back from the misty ocean to the house, she was
surprised to see a man coming with a jaunty step down the lane under
the gnarled spruces. She looked at him perplexedly. He must be a
stranger, for she was sure no man in Oriental walked like that.

"Some agent has been pestering Lucy Ellen, I suppose," she muttered
vexedly.

The stranger came on with an airy briskness utterly foreign to
Orientalites. Cecily opened the gate and went through. They met under
the amber-tinted sugar maple in the heart of the hollow. As he passed,
the man lifted his hat and bowed with an ingratiating smile.

He was about forty-five, well, although somewhat loudly dressed, and
with an air of self-satisfied prosperity pervading his whole
personality. He had a heavy gold watch chain and a large seal ring on
the hand that lifted his hat. He was bald, with a high, Shaksperian
forehead and a halo of sandy curls. His face was ruddy and weak, but
good-natured: his eyes were large and blue, and he had a little
straw-colored moustache, with a juvenile twist and curl in it.

Cecily did not recognize him, yet there was something vaguely familiar
about him. She walked rapidly up to the house. In the sitting-room she
found Lucy Ellen peering out between the muslin window curtains. When
the latter turned there was an air of repressed excitement about her.

"Who was that man, Lucy Ellen?" Cecily asked.

To Cecily's amazement, Lucy Ellen blushed--a warm, Spring-like flood
of color that rolled over her delicate little face like a miracle of
rejuvenescence.

"Didn't you know him? That was Cromwell Biron," she simpered. Although
Lucy Ellen was forty and, in most respects, sensible, she could not
help simpering upon occasion.

"Cromwell Biron," repeated Cecily, in an emotionless voice. She took
off her bonnet mechanically, brushed the dust from its ribbons and
bows and went to put it carefully away in its white box in the spare
bedroom. She felt as if she had had a severe shock, and she dared not
ask anything more just then. Lucy Ellen's blush had frightened her. It
seemed to open up dizzying possibilities of change.

"But she promised--she promised," said Cecily fiercely, under her
breath.

While Cecily was changing her dress, Lucy Ellen was getting the tea
ready in the little kitchen. Now and then she broke out into singing,
but always checked herself guiltily. Cecily heard her and set her firm
mouth a little firmer.

"If a man had jilted me twenty years ago, I wouldn't be so
overwhelmingly glad to see him when he came back--especially if he had
got fat and bald-headed," she added, her face involuntarily twitching
into a smile. Cecily, in spite of her serious expression and intense
way of looking at life, had an irrepressible sense of humor.

Tea that evening was not the pleasant meal it usually was. The two
women were wont to talk animatedly to each other, and Cecily had many
things to tell Lucy Ellen. She did not tell them. Neither did Lucy
Ellen ask any questions, her ill-concealed excitement hanging around
her like a festal garment.

Cecily's heart was on fire with alarm and jealousy. She smiled a
little cruelly as she buttered and ate her toast.

"And so that was Cromwell Biron," she said with studied carelessness.
"I thought there was something familiar about him. When did he come
home?"

"He got to Oriental yesterday," fluttered back Lucy Ellen. "He's going
to be home for two months. We--we had such an interesting talk this
afternoon. He--he's as full of jokes as ever. I wished you'd been
here."

This was a fib. Cecily knew it.

"I don't, then," she said contemptuously. "You know I never had much
use for Cromwell Biron. I think he had a face of his own to come down
here to see you uninvited, after the way he treated you."

Lucy Ellen blushed scorchingly and was miserably silent.

"He's changed terrible in his looks," went on Cecily relentlessly.
"How bald he's got--and fat! To think of the spruce Cromwell Biron got
to be bald and fat! To be sure, he still has the same sheepish
expression. Will you pass me the currant jell, Lucy Ellen?"

"I don't think he's so very fat," she said resentfully, when Cecily
had left the table. "And I don't care if he is."

Twenty years before this, Biron had jilted Lucy Ellen Foster. She was
the prettiest girl in Oriental then, but the new school teacher over
at the Crossways was prettier, with a dash of piquancy, which Lucy
Ellen lacked, into the bargain. Cromwell and the school teacher had
run away and been married, and Lucy Ellen was left to pick up the
tattered shreds of her poor romance as best she could.

She never had another lover. She told herself that she would always be

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes