The Schoolmaster's Letters Page #3

"The Schoolmaster's Letters" by Lucy Maud Montgomery is a charming collection of correspondence written by a schoolmaster in a small community. Through his letters, the schoolmaster shares his observations about life, education, and the quirky characters in his village, blending humor with poignant reflections. The book captures Montgomery's signature warmth and keen insight into human nature, showcasing her deep appreciation for the rhythms of rural life and the transformative power of teaching. It offers readers a glimpse into a bygone era, filled with both lighthearted anecdotes and thoughtful commentary on the challenges and joys of community and education.

• Short story

								

    the shabby volume with its pencil marks and its rose-leaves?
    But I knew you would not; I knew you would understand.

               *       *       *       *       *

    Today I saw you with the child of your sister in your arms. I
    felt as the old painters must have felt when they painted
    their Madonnas. You bent over his shining golden head, and on
    your face was the mother passion and tenderness that is God's
    finishing touch to the beauty of womanhood. The next moment
    you were laughing with him--two children playing together. But
    I had looked upon you in that brief space. Oh, the pain and
    joy of it!

               *       *       *       *       *

    It is so sweet, dear, to serve you a little, though it be only
    in opening a door for you to pass through, or handing you a
    book or a sheet of music! Love wishes to do so much for the
    beloved! I can do so little for you, but that little is
    sweet.

               *       *       *       *       *

    This evening I read to you the poem which you had asked me to
    read. You sat before me with your brown head leaning on your
    hands and your eyes cast down. I stole dear glances at you
    between the lines. When I finished I put a red, red rose from
    your garden between the pages and crushed the book close on
    it. That poem will always be dear to me, stained with the
    life-blood of a rose-like hour.

               *       *       *       *       *

    I do not know which is the sweeter, your laughter or your
    sadness. When you laugh you make me glad, but when you are sad
    I want to share in your sadness and soothe it. I think I am
    nearer to you in your sorrowful moods.

               *       *       *       *       *

    Today I met you by accident at the turn of the lane. Nothing
    told me that you were coming--not even the wind, that should
    have known. I was sad, and then all at once I saw you, and
    wondered how I could have been sad. You walked past me with a
    smile, as if you had tossed me a rose. I stood and watched you
    out of sight. That meeting was the purple gift the day gave
    me.

               *       *       *       *       *

    Today I tried to write a poem to you, Una, but I could not
    find words fine enough, as a lover could find no raiment
    dainty enough for his bride. The old words other men have used
    in singing to their loves seemed too worn and common for you.
    I wanted only new words, crystal clear or coloured only by the
    iris of the light, not words that have been steeped and
    stained with all the hues of other men's thoughts. So I burned
    the verses that were so unworthy of you.

               *       *       *       *       *

    Una, some day you will love. You will watch for him; you will
    blush at his coming, be sad at his going. Oh, I cannot think
    of it!

               *       *       *       *       *

    Today I saw you when you did not see me. I was walking on the
    shore, and as I came around a rock you were sitting on the
    other side. I drew back a little and looked at you. Your hands
    were clasped over your knees; your hat had fallen back, and
    the sea wind was ruffling your hair. Your face was lifted to
    the sky, your lips were parted, your eyes were full of light.
    You seemed to be listening to something that made you happy. I
    crept gently away, that I might not mar your dream. Of what
    were you thinking, Una?

               *       *       *       *       *

    I must leave you soon. Sometimes I think I cannot bear it. Oh,
    Una, how selfish it is of me to wish that you might love me!
    Yet I do wish it, although I have nothing to offer you but a
    great love and all my willing work of hand and brain. If you
    loved me, I fear I should be weak enough to do you the wrong
    of wooing you. I want you so much, dear!

The schoolmaster added the last letter to the others and locked the
box. When he unlocked it again, two days later, the letters were gone.

He gazed at the empty box with dilated eyes. At first he could not
realize what had happened. The letters could not be gone! He must have
made a mistake, have put them in some other place! With trembling
fingers he ransacked his trunk. There was no trace of the letters.
With a groan he dropped his face in his hands and tried to think.

His letters were gone--those precious letters, held almost too sacred
for his own eyes to read after they were written--had been stolen from
him! The inmost secrets of his soul had been betrayed. Who had done
this hideous thing?

He rose and went downstairs. In the farmyard he found Link tormenting
his dog. Link was happy only when he was tormenting something. He
never had been afraid of anything in his life before, but now
absolute terror took possession of him at sight of the schoolmaster's
face. Physical strength and force had no power to frighten the sullen
lad, but all the irresistible might of a fine soul roused to frenzy
looked out in the young man's blazing eyes, dilated nostrils, and
tense white mouth. It cowed the boy, because it was something he could
not understand. He only realized that he was in the presence of a
force that was not to be trifled with.

"Link, where are my letters?" said the schoolmaster.

"I didn't take 'em, Master!" cried Link, crumpling up visibly in his
sheer terror. "I didn't. I never teched 'em! It was Sis. I told her
not to--I told her you'd be awful mad, but she wouldn't tend to me. It
was Sis took 'em. Ask her, if you don't believe me."

The schoolmaster believed him. Nothing was too horrible to believe
just then. "What has she done with them?" he said hoarsely.

"She--she sent 'em to Una Clifford," whimpered Link. "I told her not
to. She's mad at you, cause you went to see Una and wouldn't go with
her. She thought Una would be mad at you for writing 'em, cause the
Cliffords are so proud and think themselves above everybody else. So
she sent 'em. I--I told her not to."

The schoolmaster said not another word. He turned his back on the
whining boy and went to his room. He felt sick with shame. The
indecency of the whole thing revolted him. It was as if his naked
heart had been torn from his breast and held up to the jeers of a
vulgar world by the merciless hand of a scorned and jealous woman. He
felt stunned as if by a physical blow.

After a time his fierce anger and shame died into a calm desperation.
The deed was done beyond recall. It only remained for him to go to
Una, tell her the truth, and implore her pardon. Then he must go from
her sight and presence forever.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was dusk when he went to her home. They told him that she was in
the garden, and he found her there, standing at the curve of the box
walk, among the last late-blooming flowers of the summer.

Have you thought from his letters that she was a wonderful woman of
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