The Romance of Jedediah

"The Romance of Jedediah" is a short story by Lucy Maud Montgomery, known for her vivid storytelling and character development. The narrative centers around Jedediah, a modest and introspective young man, as he navigates the complexities of love and ambition in a small community. Through local charm and poignant observations, Montgomery explores themes of longing, identity, and the transformative power of relationships. The story captures the essence of human emotions and the intricacies of romance, showcasing the author's signature blend of lyricism and realism.

• Short story

								
Jedediah was not a name that savoured of romance. His last name was
Crane, which is little better. And it would be no use to call this
story "Mattie Adams's Romance" because Mattie Adams is not a romantic
name either. But names have really nothing to do with romance. The
most exciting and tragic affair I ever knew was between a man named
Silas Putdammer and a woman named Kezia Cullen--which has nothing to
do with the present story.

Jedediah, to all outward seeming, did not appear to be any more
romantic than his name. He looked distinctly commonplace as he rode
comfortably along the winding country road that was dreaming in the
haze and sunshine of a midsummer afternoon. He was perched on the
seat of a bright red pedlar's wagon, above and behind a dusty,
ambling, red pony of that peculiar gait and appearance pertaining to
the ponies of country pedlars--a certain placid, unhasting leanness,
as of a nag that has encountered troubles of his own and has lived
them down by sheer patience and staying power. From the bright red
wagon proceeded a certain metallic rumbling and clinking as it bowled
along, and two or three nests of tin pans on its flat rope-encircled
top flashed back the light so dazzlingly that Jedediah seemed the
beaming sun of a little planetary system all his own. A new broom
sticking up aggressively at each of the four corners gave the wagon a
resemblance to a triumphal chariot.

Jedediah himself had not been in the tin-peddling business long enough
to acquire the apologetic, out-at-elbows appearance which
distinguishes a tin pedlar from other kinds of pedlars. In fact, this
was his maiden venture in this line; hence he still looked plump and
self-respecting. He had a round red face under his plug hat, twinkling
blue eyes, and a little pursed-up mouth, the shape of which was partly
due to nature and partly to much whistling. Jedediah's pudgy body was
clothed in a suit of large, light checks, and he wore a bright pink
necktie and an amethyst pin. Will I still be believed when I assert
that, in spite of all this, Jedediah was full of, and bubbling over
with, romance?

Romance cares not for appearances and apparently delights in
contradictions. The homely shambling man you pass unnoticed on the
street may have, tucked away in his past, a story more exciting and
thrilling than anything you have ever read in fiction. So it was, in a
measure, with Jedediah; poor, unknown to fame, afflicted with a double
chin and bald spot, reduced to driving a tin-wagon for a living, he
yet had his romance and he was still romantic.

As Jedediah rode through Amberley he looked about him with interest.
He knew it well, although it was fifteen years since he had seen it.
He had been born and brought up in Amberley; he had left it at the age
of twenty-five to make his fortune. But Amberley was Amberley still.
Jedediah found it hard to believe that it or himself was fifteen years
older.

"There's the Stanton place," he said. "Charlie has painted the house
yellow--it used to be white; and Bob Hollman has cut the trees down
behind the blacksmith forge. Bob never had any poetry in his soul--no
romance, as you might say. He was what you might call a plodder--you
might call him that. Get up, my nag, get up. There's the old Harkness
place--seems to be spruced up considerable. Folks used to say if ye
wanted to see how the world looked the morning after the flood just go
into George Harkness's barn-yard on a rainy day. The pond and the old
hills ain't changed any. Get up, my nag, get up. There's the Adams
homestead. Do I really behold it again?"

Jedediah thought the moment deliciously romantic. He revelled in it
and, to match his exhilarated mood, he touched the pony with his whip
and went clinking and glittering down the hill under the poplars at a
dashing rate. He had not intended to offer his wares in Amberley that
day. He meant to break the ice in Occidental, the village beyond. But
he could not pass the Adams place. When he came to the open gate he
turned in under the willows and drove down the wide, shady lane, girt
on both sides with a trim white paling smothered in lavish sweetbriar
bushes that were gay with bloom. Jedediah's heart was beating
furiously under his checks.

"What a fool you are, Jed Crane," he told himself. "You used to be a
young fool, and now you're an old one. Sad, that! Get up, my nag, get
up. It's a poor lookout for a man of your years, Jed. Don't get
excited. It ain't the least likely that Mattie Adams is here yet.
She's married and gone years ago, no doubt. It's probable there's no
Adamses here at all now. But it's romantic, yes, it's romantic. It's
splendid. Get up, my nag, get up."

The Adams place itself was not unromantic. The house was a large,
old-fashioned white one, with green shutters and a front porch with
Grecian columns. These were thought very elegant in Amberley. Mrs.
Carmody said they gave a house such a classical air. In this instance
the classical effect was somewhat smothered in honeysuckle, which
rioted over the whole porch and hung in pale yellow, fragrant
festoons over the rows of potted scarlet geraniums that flanked the
green steps. Beyond the house a low-boughed orchard covered the slope
between it and the main road, and behind it there was a revel of
colour betokening a flower garden.

Jedediah climbed down from his lofty seat and walked dubiously to a
side door that looked more friendly, despite its prim screen, than the
classical front porch. As he drew near he saw a woman sitting behind
the screen--a woman who rose as he approached and opened the door.
Jedediah's heart had been beating a wild tattoo as he crossed the
yard. It now stopped altogether--at least he declared in later years
it did.

The woman was Mattie Adams--Mattie Adams fifteen years older than when
he had seen her last, plumper, rosier, somewhat broader-faced, but
still unmistakably Mattie Adams. Jedediah felt that the situation was
delicious.

"Mattie," he said, holding out his hand.

"Why, Jed, how are you?" said Mattie, as if they had parted the week
before. It had always taken a great deal to disturb Mattie. Whatever
happened she was calm. Even an old lover, and the only one she had
ever possessed at that, dropping, so to speak, from the skies, after
fifteen years' disappearance, did not ruffle her placidity.

"I didn't suppose you'd know me, Mattie," said Jedediah, still holding
her hand foolishly.

"I knew you the minute I set eyes on you," returned Mattie. "You're
some fatter and older--like myself--but you're Jed still. Where have
you been all these years?"

"Pretty near everywhere, Mattie--pretty near everywhere. And ye see
what it's come to--here I be driving a tin-wagon for Boone Brothers.
Business is business--don't you want to buy some new tinware?"

To himself, Jed thought it was romantic, asking a woman whom he had
loved all his life to buy tins on the occasion of their first meeting

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