The Unhappiness of Miss Farquhar

"The Unhappiness of Miss Farquhar" is a poignant short story by Lucy Maud Montgomery that delves into the life of a lonely and misunderstood schoolteacher, Miss Farquhar. Set in a small community, the narrative explores themes of isolation, societal expectations, and the quest for personal fulfillment. As Miss Farquhar navigates her relationships with students and townsfolk, her internal struggles and yearning for connection reveal the profound impact of loneliness. Montgomery's signature lyrical prose captures the complexities of human emotions and the desire for acceptance, painting a compelling portrait of a woman's longing for joy and purpose amidst her unhappiness.

• Short story

								
Frances Farquhar was a beauty and was sometimes called a society
butterfly by people who didn't know very much about it. Her father was
wealthy and her mother came of an extremely blue-blooded family.
Frances had been out for three years, and was a social favourite.
Consequently, it may be wondered why she was unhappy.

In plain English, Frances Farquhar had been jilted--just a
commonplace, everyday jilting! She had been engaged to Paul Holcomb;
he was a very handsome fellow, somewhat too evidently aware of the
fact, and Frances was very deeply in love with him--or thought herself
so, which at the time comes to pretty much the same thing. Everybody
in her set knew of her engagement, and all her girl friends envied
her, for Holcomb was a matrimonial catch.

Then the crash came. Nobody outside the family knew exactly what did
happen, but everybody knew that the Holcomb-Farquhar match was off,
and everybody had a different story to account for it.

The simple truth was that Holcomb was fickle and had fallen in love
with another girl. There was nothing of the man about him, and it did
not matter to his sublimely selfish caddishness whether he broke
Frances Farquhar's heart or not. He got his freedom and he married
Maud Carroll in six months' time.

The Farquhars, especially Ned, who was Frances's older brother and
seldom concerned himself about her except when the family honour was
involved, were furious at the whole affair. Mr. Farquhar stormed, and
Ned swore, and Della lamented her vanished role of bridemaid. As for
Mrs. Farquhar, she cried and said it would ruin Frances's future
prospects.

The girl herself took no part in the family indignation meetings. But
she believed that her heart was broken. Her love and her pride had
suffered equally, and the effect seemed disastrous.

After a while the Farquhars calmed down and devoted themselves to the
task of cheering Frances up. This they did not accomplish. She got
through the rest of the season somehow and showed a proud front to the
world, not even flinching when Holcomb himself crossed her path. To be
sure, she was pale and thin, and had about as much animation as a
mask, but the same might be said of a score of other girls who were
not suspected of having broken hearts.

When the summer came Frances asserted herself. The Farquhars went to
Green Harbour every summer. But this time Frances said she would not
go, and stuck to it. The whole family took turns coaxing her and had
nothing to show for their pains.

"I'm going up to Windy Meadows to stay with Aunt Eleanor while you
are at the Harbour," she declared. "She has invited me often enough."

Ned whistled. "Jolly time you'll have of it, Sis. Windy Meadows is
about as festive as a funeral. And Aunt Eleanor isn't lively, to put
it in the mildest possible way."

"I don't care if she isn't. I want to get somewhere where people won't
look at me and talk about--that," said Frances, looking ready to cry.

Ned went out and swore at Holcomb again, and then advised his mother
to humour Frances. Accordingly, Frances went to Windy Meadows.

Windy Meadows was, as Ned had said, the reverse of lively. It was a
pretty country place, with a sort of fag-end by way of a little
fishing village, huddled on a wind-swept bit of beach, locally known
as the "Cove." Aunt Eleanor was one of those delightful people, so few
and far between in this world, who have perfectly mastered the art of
minding their own business exclusively. She left Frances in peace.

She knew that her niece had had "some love trouble or other," and
hadn't gotten over it rightly.

"It's always best to let those things take their course," said this
philosophical lady to her "help" and confidant, Margaret Ann Peabody.
"She'll get over it in time--though she doesn't think so now, bless
you."

For the first fortnight Frances revelled in a luxury of unhindered
sorrow. She could cry all night--and all day too, if she
wished--without having to stop because people might notice that her
eyes were red. She could mope in her room all she liked. And there
were no men who demanded civility.

When the fortnight was over, Aunt Eleanor took crafty counsel with
herself. The letting-alone policy was all very well, but it would not
do to have the girl die on her hands. Frances was getting paler and
thinner every day--and she was spoiling her eyelashes by crying.

"I wish," said Aunt Eleanor one morning at breakfast, while Frances
pretended to eat, "that I could go and take Corona Sherwood out for a
drive today. I promised her last week that I would, but I've never had
time yet. And today is baking and churning day. It's a shame. Poor
Corona!"

"Who is she?" asked Frances, trying to realize that there was actually
someone in the world besides herself who was to be pitied.

"She is our minister's sister. She has been ill with rheumatic fever.
She is better now, but doesn't seem to get strong very fast. She ought
to go out more, but she isn't able to walk. I really must try and get
around tomorrow. She keeps house for her brother at the manse. He
isn't married, you know."

Frances didn't know, nor did she in the least degree care. But even
the luxury of unlimited grief palls, and Frances was beginning to feel
this vaguely. She offered to go and take Miss Sherwood out driving.

"I've never seen her," she said, "but I suppose that doesn't matter. I
can drive Grey Tom in the phaeton, if you like."

It was just what Aunt Eleanor intended, and she saw Frances drive off
that afternoon with a great deal of satisfaction.

"Give my love to Corona," she told her, "and say for me that she isn't
to go messing about among those shore people until she's perfectly
well. The manse is the fourth house after you turn the third corner."

Frances kept count of the corners and the houses and found the manse.
Corona Sherwood herself came to the door. Frances had been expecting
an elderly personage with spectacles and grey crimps; she was
surprised to find that the minister's sister was a girl of about her
own age and possessed of a distinct worldly prettiness. Corona was
dark, with a different darkness from that of Frances, who had ivory
outlines and blue-black hair, while Corona was dusky and piquant.

Her eyes brightened with delight when Frances told her errand.

"How good of you and Miss Eleanor! I am not strong enough to walk far
yet--or do anything useful, in fact, and Elliott so seldom has time to
take me out."

"Where shall we go?" asked Frances when they started. "I don't know
much about this locality."

"Can we drive to the Cove first? I want to see poor little Jacky Hart.
He has been so sick--"

"Aunt Eleanor positively forbade that," said Frances dubiously. "Will
it be safe to disobey her?"

Corona laughed.

"Miss Eleanor blames my poor shore people for making me sick at first,

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