The Golden Road - Part 10

Please enjoy this reading of "The Golden Road", the charming 1913 sequel to "The Story Girl", by Lucy Maud Montgomery. We continue to follow along with the adventures of the same group of young cousins and friends on Prince Edward Island in Canada, as they grow up... This book is dedicated to Montgomery's Great Aunt Mary Lawson, from whom she heard so many of the tales shared in these delightful books about "The Story Girl" and her friends...!

Transcript

Hello there.

Thank you so much for joining me for this continued reading of The Golden Road,

The charming novel from 1913 by Canadian author Lucy Maud Montgomery.

We're following along with the same group of young cousins and friends on Prince Edward Island.

Perhaps you've heard the preceding parts of this story.

If you haven't and you would like to,

You can certainly look for the playlist for The Golden Road and all of the parts are there in order.

But for now,

Let's just take a moment here to have a nice deep exhale.

Letting go of the day,

Letting go of whichever baggage we might be bringing along with us into this moment.

For right now,

There's nowhere else we have to go,

Nothing else we have to be doing.

So we can just relax,

Get ourselves comfortable and enjoy the ongoing story of The Golden Road.

Chapter 10.

Disappearance of Paddy.

As I remember,

The spring came late that year in Carlisle.

It was May before the weather began to satisfy the grown-ups,

But we children were more easily pleased.

And we thought April a splendid month,

Because the snow all went early and left grey,

Firm,

Frozen ground for our rambles and games.

As the days slipped by,

They grew more gracious.

The hillsides began to look as if they were thinking of May flowers.

The old orchard was washed in a bath of tingling sunshine,

And the sap stirred in the big trees.

By day,

The sky was veiled with delicate cloud drift,

Fine and filmy as woven mist.

In the evenings,

A full,

Low moon looked over the valleys,

As pallid and holy as some orioled saint.

A sound of laughter and dream was on the wind,

And the world grew young with the mirth of April breezes.

It's so nice to be alive in the spring,

Said the story-girl,

One twilight as we swung on the boughs of Uncle Stephen's Walk.

It's nice to be alive any time,

Said Felicity complacently.

But it's nicer in the spring,

Insisted the story-girl.

When I'm dead,

I think I'll feel dead all the rest of the year,

But when spring comes,

I'm sure I'll feel like getting up and being alive again.

You do say such queer things,

Complained Felicity.

You won't be really dead any time.

You'll be in the next world.

And I think it's horrid to talk about people being dead anyhow.

We've all got to die,

Said Sarah Ray solemnly,

But with a certain relish.

It was as if she enjoyed looking forward to something in which nothing,

Neither an unsympathetic mother,

Nor the cruel fate which had made her a colourless little non-entity,

Could prevent her from being the chief performer.

I sometimes think,

Said Cecily rather wearily,

That it isn't so dreadful to die young as I used to suppose.

She prefaced her remark with a slight cough.

As she had been all too apt to do of late.

For the remnants of the cold she had caught the night we were lost in the storm still clung to her.

Don't talk such nonsense,

Cecily,

Cried the story-girl,

With unwanted sharpness.

A sharpness we all understood.

All of us in our hearts,

Though we never spoke of it to each other,

Thought Cecily was not as well as she ought to be that spring.

And we hated to hear anything said which seemed in any way to touch or acknowledge the tiny faint shadow which,

Now and again,

Showed itself dimly athwart our sunshine.

Well,

It was you began talking of being dead,

Said Felicity angrily.

I don't think it's right to talk of such things.

Cecily,

Are you sure your feet ain't damp?

We ought to go in anyhow.

It's too chilly out here for you.

You girls had better go,

Said Dan.

But I ain't going in till old Isaac Fruin goes.

I've no use for him.

I hate him too,

Said Felicity,

Agreeing with Dan for once in her life.

He chews tobacco all the time and spits on the floor.

The horrid pig.

And yet his brother is an elder in the church,

Said Sarah Ray,

Wonderingly.

I know a story about Isaac Fruin,

Said the story girl.

When he was young,

He went by the name of Oatmeal Fruin.

And he got it this way.

He was noted for doing outlandish things.

He lived at Markdale then,

And he was a great,

Overgrown,

Awkward fellow,

Six feet tall.

He drove over to Baywater one Saturday to visit his uncle there,

And came home the next afternoon.

And although it was Sunday,

He brought a big bag of oatmeal in the wagon with him.

When he came to Carlisle Church,

He saw that service was going on there,

And he concluded to stop and go in.

But he didn't like to leave his oatmeal outside,

For fear something would happen to it,

Because there were always mischievous boys around.

So he hoisted the bag on his back,

And walked into church with it,

And right to the top of the aisle,

To Grandfather King's pew.

Grandfather King used to say he would never forget it to his dying day.

The minister was preaching,

And everything was quiet and solemn,

When he heard a snicker behind him.

Grandfather King turned around with a terrible frown,

For,

You know,

In those days it was thought a dreadful thing to laugh in church,

To rebuke the offender.

And what did he see but that great,

Hulking young Isaac,

Stalking up the aisle,

Bending a little forward under the weight of a big bag of oatmeal.

Grandfather King was so amazed he couldn't laugh,

But almost everyone else in the church was laughing.

And Grandfather said he never blamed them,

For no funnier sight was ever seen.

Young Isaac turned into Grandfather's pew,

And thumped the bag of oatmeal down on the seat,

With a thud that cracked it.

Then he plumped down beside it,

Took off his hat,

Wiped his face,

And settled back to listen to the sermon,

Just as if it was all a matter of course.

When the service was over,

He hoisted his bag up again,

Marched out of church,

And drove home.

He could never understand why it made so much talk,

But he was known by the name of Oatmeal Fruin for years.

Our laughter,

As we separated,

Rang sweetly through the old orchard and across the far dim meadows.

Felicity and Cecily went into the house,

And Sarah Ray and the Story Girl went home,

But Peter decoyed me into the granary to ask advice.

You know,

Felicity has a birthday next week,

He said,

And I want to write her an ode.

Uh,

What?

I gasped.

An ode,

Repeated Peter,

Gravely.

It's poetry,

You know.

I'll put it in our magazine.

But you can't write poetry,

Peter,

I protested.

I'm gonna try,

Said Peter,

Stoutly.

That is,

If you think she won't be offended at me?

She ought to feel flattered,

I replied.

You never can tell how she'll take things,

Said Peter,

Gloomily.

Of course,

I ain't gonna sign my name.

And if she ain't pleased,

I won't tell her I wrote it.

Don't you let on.

I promised I wouldn't,

And Peter went off with a light heart.

He said he meant to write two lines every day till he got it done.

Cupid was playing his world-old tricks with others than poor Peter that spring.

Allusion has been made in these chronicles to,

One,

Cyrus Brisk,

And to the fact that our brown-haired,

Soft-voiced Cecily had found favour in the eyes of the said Cyrus.

Cecily did not regard her conquest with any pride.

On the contrary,

It annoyed her terribly to be teased about Cyrus.

She declared she hated both him and his name.

She was as uncivil to him as sweet Cecily could be to anyone.

But the gallant Cyrus was nothing daunted.

He laid determined siege to Cecily's young heart by all the methods known to love-lorn swains.

He placed delicate tributes of spruce gum,

Molasses taffy,

Conversation candies,

And decorated slate pencils on her desk.

He persistently chose her in all school games calling for a partner.

He entreated to be allowed to carry her basket from school.

He offered to work her sums for her.

And rumour had it that he had made a wild statement to the effect that he meant to ask if he might see her home some night from prayer meeting.

Cecily was quite frightened that he would.

She confided to me that she would rather die than walk home with him.

But that if he asked her she would be too bashful to say no.

So far,

However,

Cyrus had not molested her out of school,

Nor had he as yet thumped Willie Fraser,

Who was reported to be very low in his spirits over the whole affair.

And now Cyrus had written Cecily a letter.

A love letter,

Mark you.

Moreover,

He had sent it through the post office with a real stamp on it.

Its arrival made a sensation among us.

Dan brought it from the office and,

Recognising the handwriting of Cyrus,

Gave Cecily no peace until she showed us the letter.

It was a very sentimental and rather ill-spelled epistle in which the inflammable Cyrus reproached her in heart-rending words for her coldness and begged her to answer his letter,

Saying that if she did,

He would keep the secret in violets.

Cyrus probably meant inviolate,

But Cecily thought it was intended for a poetical touch.

He signed himself Your True Lover,

Cyrus Brisk,

And added in a postscript that he couldn't eat or sleep for thinking of her.

Are you going to answer it,

Asked Dan.

Certainly not,

Said Cecily with dignity.

Cyrus Brisk wants to be kicked,

Growled Felix,

Who never seemed to be any particular friend of Willie Fraser's either.

He'd better learn how to spell before he takes to writing love letters.

Maybe Cyrus will starve to death if you don't,

Suggested Sarah Ray.

I hope he will,

Said Cecily cruelly.

She was truly vexed over the letter.

And yet,

So contradictory a thing is the feminine heart,

Even at 12 years old,

I think she was a little flattered by it also.

It was her first love letter,

And she confided to me that it gives you a very queer feeling to get it.

At all events,

The letter,

Though unanswered,

Was not torn up.

I feel sure Cecily preserved it.

But she walked past Cyrus next morning at school with a frozen countenance,

Evincing not the slightest pity for his pangs of unrequited affection.

Cecily winced when Pat caught a mouse,

Visited a school chum the day the pigs were killed,

That she might not hear their squealing,

And would not have stepped on a caterpillar for anything.

Yet,

She did not care at all how much she made the brisk Cyrus suffer.

Then,

Suddenly,

All our spring gladness and Maytime hopes were blighted as by a killing frost,

Sorrow and anxiety pervaded our days and embittered our dreams by night.

Grim tragedy held sway in our lives for the next fortnight.

Paddy disappeared.

One night,

He lapped his new milk as usual at Uncle Roger's dairy door,

And then sat blandly on the flat stone before it,

Giving the world assurance of a cat,

Sleek sides glistening,

Plumy tail gracefully folded around his paws,

Brilliant eyes watching the stir and flicker of bare willow boughs in the twilight air above him.

That was the last scene of him.

In the morning,

He was not.

At first,

We were not seriously alarmed.

Paddy was no roving Thomas,

But occasionally he vanished for a day or so.

But when two days passed without his return,

We became anxious.

The third day worried us greatly,

And the fourth found us distracted.

Something has happened to Pat,

The story girl declared miserably.

He never stayed away from home more than two days in his life.

What could have happened to him?

Asked Felix.

He's been poisoned,

Or a dog has killed him,

Answered the story girl in tragic tones.

Cecily began to cry at this,

But tears were of no avail.

Neither was anything else,

Apparently.

We searched every nook and cranny of barns and outbuildings and woods on both the King Farms.

We inquired far and wide.

We roved over Carlisle Meadows,

Calling Paddy's name,

Until Aunt Janet grew exasperated and declared we must stop making such exhibitions of ourselves.

But we found and heard no trace of our lost pet.

The story girl moped and refused to be comforted.

Cecily declared she could not sleep at night for thinking of poor Paddy dying miserably in some corner to which he had dragged his failing body,

Or lying somewhere mangled and torn by a dog.

We hated every dog we saw on the ground,

That he might be the guilty one.

It's the suspense that's so hard,

Sobbed the story girl.

If I just knew what had happened to him,

It wouldn't be quite so hard.

But I don't know whether he's dead or alive.

He may be living and suffering.

And every night I dream that he has come home and when I wake up and find it's only a dream,

It just breaks my heart.

It's ever so much worse than when he was so sick last fall,

Said Cecily drearily.

Then we knew that everything was done for him that could be done.

We could not appeal to Peg Bowen this time.

In our desperation we would have done it,

But Peg was far away.

With the first breath of spring she was up and off,

Answering to the lure of the long road.

She had not been seen in her accustomed haunts for many a day.

Her pets were gaining their own living in the woods and her house was locked up.