The Story of Uncle Dick Page #2

"The Story of Uncle Dick" by Lucy Maud Montgomery is a charming short story that explores themes of family, love, and nostalgia. The narrative revolves around the character of Uncle Dick, who embodies warmth and wisdom, sharing anecdotes from his life that resonate with the values of friendship and determination. Through the eyes of his adoring family members, the story unveils the complexities of relationships and the importance of cherishing memories. Montgomery's evocative prose captures the essence of rural life and the enduring bonds that tie people together, making it a heartfelt read for fans of classic literature.

• Short story

								

was not a very eventful one. He had lost his father in boyhood; before
that there had been some idea of Dick's going to college. After his
father's death he seemed quietly to have put all such hopes away and
settled down to look after the farm and take care of his invalid
stepmother. This woman, as I learned from others, but never from Uncle
Dick, had been a peevish, fretful, exacting creature, and for nearly
thirty years Uncle Dick had been a very slave to her whims and
caprices.

"Nobody knows what he had to put up with, for he never complained,"
Mrs. Lindsay, my landlady, told me. "She was out of her mind once and
she was liable to go out of it again if she was crossed in anything.
He was that good and patient with her. She was dreadful fond of him
too, for all she did almost worry his life out. No doubt she was the
reason he never married. He couldn't leave her and he knew no woman
would go in there. Uncle Dick never courted anyone, unless it was Rose
Lawrence. She was a cousin of my man's. I've heard he had a kindness
for her; it was years ago, before I came to Bayside. But anyway,
nothing came of it. Her father's health failed and he had to go out to
California. Rose had to go with him, her mother being dead, and that
was the end of Uncle Dick's love affair."

But that was not the end of it, as I discovered when Uncle Dick gave
me his confidence. One evening I went over and, piloted by the sound
of shrieks and laughter, found Uncle Dick careering about the garden,
pursued by half a dozen schoolgirls who were pelting him with
overblown roses. At sight of the master my pupils instantly became
prim and demure and, gathering up their flowery spoil, they beat a
hasty retreat down the lane.

"Those little girls are very sweet," said Uncle Dick abruptly. "Little
blossoms of life! Have you ever wondered, Master, why I haven't some
of my own blooming about the old place instead of just looking over
the fence of other men's gardens, coveting their human roses?"

"Yes, I have," I answered frankly. "It has been a puzzle to me why
you, Uncle Dick, who seem to me fitted above all men I have ever known
for love and husbandhood and fatherhood, should have elected to live
your life alone."

"It has not been a matter of choice," said Uncle Dick gently. "We
can't always order our lives as we would, Master. I loved a woman once
and she loved me. And we love each other still. Do you think I could
bear life else? I've an interest in it that the Bayside folk know
nothing of. It has kept youth in my heart and joy in my soul through
long, lonely years. And it's not ended yet, Master--it's not ended
yet! Some day I hope to bring a wife here to my old house--my wife, my
rose of joy!"

He was silent for a space, gazing at the stars. I too kept silence,
fearing to intrude into the holy places of his thought, although I was
tingling with interest in this unsuspected outflowering of romance in
Uncle Dick's life.

After a time he said gently,

"Shall I tell you about it, Master? I mean, do you care to know?"

"Yes," I answered, "I do care to know. And I shall respect your
confidence, Uncle Dick."

"I know that. I couldn't tell you, otherwise," he said. "I don't want
the Bayside folk to know--it would be a kind of desecration. They
would laugh and joke me about it, as they tease other people, and I
couldn't bear that. Nobody in Bayside knows or suspects, unless it's
old Joe Hammond at the post office. And he has kept my secret, or what
he knows of it, well. But somehow I feel that I'd like to tell you,
Master.

"Twenty-five years ago I loved Rose Lawrence. The Lawrences lived
where you are boarding now. There was just the father, a sickly man,
and Rose, my "Rose of joy," as I called her, for I knew my Emerson
pretty well even then. She was sweet and fair, like a white rose with
just a hint of pink in its cup. We loved each other, but we couldn't
marry then. My mother was an invalid, and one time, before I had
learned to care for Rose, she, the mother, had asked me to promise
her that I'd never marry as long as she lived. She didn't think then
that she would live long, but she lived for twenty years, Master, and
she held me to my promise all the time. Yes, it was hard"--for I had
given an indignant exclamation--"but you see, Master, I had promised
and I had to keep my word. Rose said I was right in doing it. She said
she was willing to wait for me, but she didn't know, poor girl, how
long the waiting was to be. Then her father's health failed
completely, and the doctor ordered him to another climate. They went
to California. That was a hard parting, Master. But we promised each
other that we would be true, and we have been. I've never seen my Rose
of joy since then, but I've had a letter from her every week. When the
mother died, five years ago, I wanted to move to California and marry
Rose. But she wrote that her father was so poorly she couldn't marry
me yet. She has to wait on him every minute, and he's restless, and
they move here and there--a hard life for my poor girl. So I had to
take a new lease of patience, Master. One learns how to wait in twenty
years. But I shall have her some day, God willing. Our love will be
crowned yet. So I wait, Master, and try to keep my life and soul clean
and wholesome and young for her.

"That's my story, Master, and we'll not say anything more about it
just now, for I dare say you don't exactly know what to say. But at
times I'll talk of her to you and that will be a rare pleasure to me;
I think that was why I wanted you to know about her."

He did talk often to me of her, and I soon came to realize what this
far-away woman meant in his life. She was for him the centre of
everything. His love was strong, pure, and idyllic--the ideal love of
which the loftiest poets sing. It glorified his whole inner life with
a strange, unfailing radiance. I found that everything he did was done
with an eye single to what she would think of it when she came.
Especially did he put his love into his garden.

"Every flower in it stands for a thought of her, Master," he said. "It
is a great joy to think that she will walk in this garden with me some
day. It will be complete then--my Rose of joy will be here to crown
it."

That summer and winter passed away, and when spring came again,
lettering her footsteps with violets in the meadows and waking all the
sleeping loveliness of old homestead gardens, Uncle Dick's long
deferred happiness came with her. One evening when I was in our "den,"
mid-deep in study of old things that seemed musty and unattractive
enough in contrast with the vivid, newborn, out-of-doors, Uncle Dick
came home from the post office with an open letter in his hand. His
big voice trembled as he said,

"Master, she's coming home. Her father is dead and she has nobody in
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