The Unforgotten One

"The Unforgotten One" by Lucy Maud Montgomery is a poignant tale that explores themes of memory, love, and loss. The story revolves around characters grappling with their past and the lingering impact of significant relationships. Through Montgomery's lyrical prose, readers are drawn into a world that balances nostalgia and hope as characters navigate the complexities of their emotions and the memories that shape their lives. With its rich character development and evocative setting, the book offers a deeply felt examination of what it means to be unforgotten.

• Short story

								
It was Christmas Eve, but there was no frost, or snow, or sparkle. It
was a green Christmas, and the night was mild and dim, with hazy
starlight. A little wind was laughing freakishly among the firs around
Ingleside and rustling among the sere grasses along the garden walks.
It was more like a night in early spring or late fall than in
December; but it was Christmas Eve, and there was a light in every
window of Ingleside, the glow breaking out through the whispering
darkness like a flame-red blossom swung against the background of the
evergreens; for the children were coming home for the Christmas
reunion, as they always came--Fritz and Margaret and Laddie and Nora,
and Robert's two boys in the place of Robert, who had died fourteen
years ago--and the old house must put forth its best of light and
good cheer to welcome them.

Doctor Fritz and his brood were the last to arrive, driving up to the
hall door amid a chorus of welcoming barks from the old dogs and a
hail of merry calls from the group in the open doorway.

"We're all here now," said the little mother, as she put her arms
about the neck of her stalwart firstborn and kissed his bearded face.
There were handshakings and greetings and laughter. Only Nanny, far
back in the shadows of the firelit hall, swallowed a resentful sob,
and wiped two bitter tears from her eyes with her little red hand.

"We're not all here," she murmured under her breath. "Miss Avis isn't
here. Oh, how can they be so glad? How can they have forgotten?"

But nobody heard or heeded Nanny--she was only the little orphan
"help" girl at Ingleside. They were all very good to her, and they
were all very fond of her, but at the times of family reunion Nanny
was unconsciously counted out. There was no bond of blood to unite her
to them, and she was left on the fringe of things. Nanny never
resented this--it was all a matter of course to her; but on this
Christmas Eve her heart was broken because she thought that nobody
remembered Miss Avis.

After supper they all gathered around the open fireplace of the hall,
hung with its berries and evergreens in honour of the morrow. It was
their unwritten law to form a fireside circle on Christmas Eve and
tell each other what the year had brought them of good and ill, sorrow
and joy. The circle was smaller by one than it had been the year
before, but none spoke of that. There was a smile on every face and
happiness in every voice.

The father and mother sat in the centre, grey-haired and placid, their
fine old faces written over with the history of gracious lives. Beside
the mother, Doctor Fritz sat like a boy, on the floor, with his
massive head, grey as his father's, on her lap, and one of his smooth,
muscular hands, that were as tender as a woman's at the operating
table, clasped in hers. Next to him sat sweet Nora, the
twenty-year-old "baby," who taught in a city school; the rosy
firelight gleamed lovingly over her girlish beauty of burnished brown
hair, dreamy blue eyes, and soft, virginal curves of cheek and throat.
Doctor Fritz's spare arm was about her, but Nora's own hands were
clasped over her knee, and on one of them sparkled a diamond that had
not been there at the last Christmas reunion. Laddie, who figured as
Archibald only in the family Bible, sat close to the inglenook--a
handsome young fellow with a daring brow and rollicking eyes. On the
other side sat Margaret, hand in hand with her father, a woman whose
gracious sweetness of nature enveloped her as a garment; and Robert's
two laughing boys filled up the circle, looking so much alike that it
was hard to say which was Cecil and which was Sid.

Margaret's husband and Fritz's wife were playing games with the
children in the parlour, whence shrieks of merriment drifted out into
the hall. Nanny might have been with them had she chosen, but she
preferred to sit alone in the darkest corner of the hall and gaze with
jealous, unhappy eyes at the mirthful group about the fire, listening
to their story and jest and laughter with unavailing protest in her
heart. Oh, how could they have forgotten so soon? It was not yet a
full year since Miss Avis had gone. Last Christmas Eve she had sat
there, a sweet and saintly presence, in the inglenook, more, so it had
almost seemed, the centre of the home circle than the father and
mother; and now the December stars were shining over her grave, and
not one of that heedless group remembered her; not once was her name
spoken; even her old dog had forgotten her--he sat with his nose in
Margaret's lap, blinking with drowsy, aged contentment at the fire.

"Oh, I can't bear it!" whispered Nanny, under cover of the hearty
laughter which greeted a story Doctor Fritz had been telling. She
slipped out into the kitchen, put on her hood and cloak, and took
from a box under the table a little wreath of holly. She had made it
out of the bits left over from the decorations. Miss Avis had loved
holly; Miss Avis had loved every green, growing thing.

As Nanny opened the kitchen door something cold touched her hand, and
there stood the old dog, wagging his tail and looking up at her with
wistful eyes, mutely pleading to be taken, too.

"So you do remember her, Gyppy," said Nanny, patting his head. "Come
along then. We'll go together."

They slipped out into the night. It was quite dark, but it was not far
to the graveyard--just out through the evergreens and along a field
by-path and across the road. The old church was there, with its square
tower, and the white stones gleaming all around it. Nanny went
straight to a shadowy corner and knelt on the sere grasses while she
placed her holly wreath on Miss Avis's grave. The tears in her eyes
brimmed over.

"Oh, Miss Avis! Miss Avis!" she sobbed. "I miss you so--I miss you so!
It can't ever seem like Christmas to me without you. You were always
so sweet and kind to me. There ain't a day passes but I think of you
and all the things you used to say to me, and I try to be good like
you'd want me to be. But I hate them for forgetting you--yes, I do!
I'll never forget you, darling Miss Avis! I'd rather be here alone
with you in the dark than back there with them."

Nanny sat down by the grave. The old dog lay down by her side with his
forepaws on the turf and his eyes fixed on the tall white marble
shaft. It was too dark for Nanny to read the inscription but she knew
every word of it: "In loving remembrance of Avis Maywood, died January
20, 1902, aged 45." And underneath the lines of her own choosing:

    "Say not good night, but in some brighter clime
      Bid me good morning."

But they had forgotten her--oh, they had forgotten her already!

When half an hour had passed, Nanny was startled by approaching
footsteps. Not wishing to be seen, she crept softly behind the
headstones into the shadow of the willow on the farther side, and the
old dog followed. Doctor Fritz, coming to the grave, thought himself

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