A Redeeming Love

Note: The first story, a Redeeming Sacrifice is the original by L. M. Montgomery. The second story, A Redeeming Love, is my original sequel.

A Redeeming Sacrifice

    The dance at Byron Lyall's was in full swing. Toff Leclerc, the best fiddler in three counties, was enthroned on the kitchen table and from the glossy brown violin, which his grandfather brought from Grand Pré, was conjuring music which made even stiff old Aunt Phemy want to show her steps. Around the kitchen sat a row of young men and women, and the open sitting-room doorway was crowded with the faces of non-dancing guests who wanted to watch the sets.

    An eight-hand reel had just been danced and the girls, giddy from the much swinging of the final figure, had been led back to their seats. Mattie Lyall came out with a dipper of water and sprinkled the floor, from which a fine dust was rising. Toff's violin purred under his hands as he waited for the next set to form. The dancers were slow about it. There was not the rush for the floor that there had been earlier in the evening, for the supper table was now spread in the dining-room and most of the guests were hungry.

    "Fill up dere, boys," shouted the fiddler impatiently. "Bring out your gals for de nex' set."

    After a moment Paul King led out Joan Shelley from the shadowy corner where they had been sitting. They had already danced several sets together; Joan had not danced with anybody else that evening. As they stood together under the light from the lamp on the shelf above them, many curious and disapproving eyes watched them. Connor Mitchell, who had been standing in the open outer doorway with the moonlight behind him, turned abruptly on his heel and went out.

    Paul King leaned his head against the wall and watched the watchers with a smiling, defiant face as they waited for the set to form. He was a handsome fellow, with the easy, winning ways that women love. His hair curled in bronze masses about his head; his dark eyes were long and drowsy and laughing; there was a swarthy bloom on his cheeks; and his lips were as red and beguiling as a girl's. A bad egg was Paul King, with a bad past and a bad future. He was shiftless and drunken; ugly tales were told of him. Not a man in Lyall's house that night but grudged him the privilege of standing up with Joan Shelley.

    Joan was a slight, blossom-like girl in white, looking much like the pale, sweet-scented house rose she wore in her dark hair. Her face was colourless and young, very pure and softly curved. She had wonderfully sweet, dark blue eyes, generally dropped down, with notably long black lashes. There were many showier girls in the groups around her, but none half so lovely. She made all the rosy-cheeked beauties seem coarse and over-blown.

    She left in Paul's clasp the hand by which he had led her out on the floor. Now and then he shifted his gaze from the faces before him to hers. When he did, she always looked up and they exchanged glances as if they had been utterly alone. Three other couples gradually took the floor and the reel began. Joan drifted through the figures with the grace of a wind-blown leaf. Paul danced with rollicking abandon, seldom taking his eyes from Joan's face. When the last mad whirl was over, Joan's brother came up and told her in an angry tone to go into the next room and dance no more, since she would dance with only one man. Joan looked at Paul. That look meant that she would do as he, and none other, told her. Paul nodded easily—he did not want any fuss just then—and the girl went obediently into the room. As she turned from him, Paul coolly reached out his hand and took the rose from her hair; then, with a triumphant glance around the room, he went out.

    The autumn night was very clear and chill, with a faint, moaning wind blowing up from the northwest over the sea that lay shimmering before the door. Out beyond the cove the boats were nodding and curtsying on the swell, and over the shore fields the great red star of the lighthouse flared out against the silvery sky. Paul, with a whistle, sauntered down the sandy lane, thinking of Joan. How mightily he loved her—he, Paul King, who had made a mock of so many women and had never loved before! Ah, and she loved him. She had never said so in words, but eyes and tones had said it—she, Joan Shelley, the pick and pride of the Harbour girls, whom so many men had wooed, winning their trouble for their pains. He had won her; she was his and his only, for the asking. His heart was seething with pride and triumph and passion as he strode down to the shore and flung himself on the cold sand in the black shadow of Michael Brown's beached boat.

    Byron Lyall, a grizzled, elderly man, half farmer, half fisherman, and Maxwell Holmes, the Prospect schoolteacher, came up to the boat presently. Paul lay softly and listened to what they were saying. He was not troubled by any sense of dishonour. Honour was something Paul King could not lose since it was something he had never possessed. They were talking of him and Joan.

    "What a shame that a girl like Joan Shelley should throw herself away on a man like that," Holmes said.

    Byron Lyall removed the pipe he was smoking and spat reflectively at his shadow.

    "Darned shame," he agreed. "That girl's life will be ruined if she marries him, plum' ruined, and marry him she will. He's bewitched her—darned if I can understand it. A dozen better men have wanted her—Connor Mitchell for one. And he's a honest, steady fellow with a good home to offer her. If King had left her alone, she'd have taken Connor. She used to like him well enough. But that's all over. She's infatuated with King, the worthless scamp. She'll marry him and be sorry for it to her last day. He's bad clear through and always will be. Why, look you, Teacher, most men pull up a bit when they're courting a girl, no matter how wild they've been and will be again. Paul hasn't. It hasn't made any difference. He was dead drunk night afore last at the Harbour head, and he hasn't done a stroke of work for a month. And yet Joan Shelley'll take him."

    "What are her people thinking of to let her go with him?" asked Holmes.

    "She hasn't any but her brother. He's against Paul, of course, but it won't matter. The girl's fancy's caught and she'll go her own gait to ruin. Ruin, I tell ye. If she marries that handsome ne'er-do-well, she'll be a wretched woman all her days and none to pity her."

    The two moved away then, and Paul lay motionless, face downward on the sand, his lips pressed against Joan's sweet, crushed rose. He felt no anger over Byron Lyall's unsparing condemnation. He knew it was true, every word of it. He was a worthless scamp and always would be. He knew that perfectly well. It was in his blood. None of his race had ever been respectable and he was worse than them all. He had no intention of trying to reform because he could not and because he did not even want to. He was not fit to touch Joan's hand. Yet he had meant to marry her!

    But to spoil her life! Would it do that? Yes, it surely would. And if he were out of the way, taking his baleful charm out of her life, Connor Mitchell might and doubtless would win her yet and give her all he could not.

    The man suddenly felt his eyes wet with tears. He had never shed a tear in his daredevil life before, but they came hot and stinging now. Something he had never known or thought of before entered into his passion and purified it. He loved Joan. Did he love her well enough to stand aside and let another take the sweetness and grace that was now his own? Did he love her well enough to save her from the poverty-stricken, shamed life she must lead with him? Did he love her better than himself?

    "I ain't fit to think of her," he groaned. "I never did a decent thing in my life, as they say. But how can I give her up—God, how can I?"

    He lay still a long time after that, until the moonlight crept around the boat and drove away the shadow. Then he got up and went slowly down to the water's edge with Joan's rose, all wet with his unaccustomed tears, in his hands. Slowly and reverently he plucked off the petals and scattered them on the ripples, where they drifted lightly off like fairy shallops on moonshine. When the last one had fluttered from his fingers, he went back to the house and hunted up Captain Alec Matheson, who was smoking his pipe in a corner of the verandah and watching the young folks dancing through the open door. The two men talked together for some time.

    When the dance broke up and the guests straggled homeward, Paul sought Joan. Rob Shelley had his own girl to see home and relinquished the guardianship of his sister with a scowl. Paul strode out of the kitchen and down the steps at the side of Joan, smiling with his usual daredeviltry. He whistled noisily all the way up the lane.

    "Great little dance," he said. "My last in Prospect for a spell, I guess."

    "Why?" asked Joan wonderingly.

    "Oh, I'm going to take a run down to South America in Matheson's schooner. Lord knows when I'll come back. This old place has got too deadly dull to suit me. I'm going to look for something livelier."

    Joan's lips turned ashen under the fringes of her white fascinator. She trembled violently and put one of her small brown hands up to her throat. "You—you are not coming back?" she said faintly.

    "Not likely. I'm pretty well tired of Prospect and I haven't got anything to hold me here. Things'll be livelier down south."

    Joan said nothing more. They walked along the spruce-fringed roads where the moonbeams laughed down through the thick, softly swaying boughs. Paul whistled one rollicking tune after another. The girl bit her lips and clenched her hands. He cared nothing for her—he had been making a mock of her as of others. Hurt pride and wounded love fought each other in her soul. Pride conquered. She would not let him, or anyone, see that she cared. She would not care!

    At her gate Paul held out his hand.

    "Well, good-bye, Joan. I'm sailing tomorrow so I won't see you again—not for years likely. You will be some sober old married woman when I come back to Prospect, if I ever do."

    "Good-bye," said Joan steadily. She gave him her cold hand and looked calmly into his face without quailing. She had loved him with all her heart, but now a fatal scorn of him was already mingling with her love. He was what they said he was, a scamp without principle or honour.

    Paul whistled himself out of the Shelley lane and over the hill. Then he flung himself down under the spruces, crushed his face into the spicy frosted ferns, and had his black hour alone.

    But when Captain Alec's schooner sailed out of the harbour the next day, Paul King was on board of her, the wildest and most hilarious of a wild and hilarious crew. Prospect people nodded their satisfaction.

    "Good riddance," they said. "Paul King is black to the core. He never did a decent thing in his life."

A Redeeming Love

    Joan stood on the shore, casting her dark blue eyes seaward. Her shining black hair, blown into disarray by the wild sea breezes, whipped wildly about her face. The sea was stormy, cold, and grey that day and the waves crashed in wild profusion upon the sand. Not a single ray of sunlight pierced the cloudy sky overhead and Joan shivered in the rugged savageness of that cold, dark day. A year had past since she had felt as if the sunlight had gone out of her life completely but that had past now. It had been long ago, so long ago, that she thought of it no longer. Just felt it. Somewhere, deep inside her heart of hearts was that persistent, dull ache that she would carry to her dying day. She would no longer permit herself to dwell on it, but she never stopped praying for him. Not that he would come back to her, she had long since given up hope of that. But still she prayed for him.

    At her side stood the ever-faithful Connor Mitchell, all aglow with love and pride shining in his eyes. He felt a sort of crowning victory over the little form that stood so silently on the shore. She would be his at last, that dainty, sweet little blossom. His forever and no one could take her away! A twelve-month had passed since he had felt his hope renewed and each succeeding day it had grown within him until he could bear it no longer. It must be declared! And it would be. He turned to her, the words nearly on his lips. Long had he rehearsed this moment, now would it happen at last.

    "Do you remember," Joan said suddenly, breaking for a moment her vow of forgetfulness. "The dance at Lyall's last year?"

    Remember it? How could he forget it, that black night that had, at its close, brought him the most beautiful joy he had ever known? His heart was full to bursting, yet he answered quietly.

    "I think so," he muttered. "I remember only that you did not give me a dance that night."

    Joan sighed involuntarily, a short little sigh that seemed to embody what she had suffered and what she regretted. As she answered, she kept her eyes steadily on the grey waves, so that he might not see the sudden dampness on her long black lashes. A ship slowly approached the horizon, tossing on the rough waves. She wondered vaguely whose ship it was and what it brought to the little village.

    "You left early," she murmured and lapsed into silence again. Her shawl, forgotten, was slipping from her shoulders and he gallantly reached to help her adjust it. He was surprised, then, to find that she moved ever so slightly away, as if to avoid his touch.

    "Lyall's dance is this evening again, you remember," Connor broke the ensuing silence.

    "Yes," she bent her dark head. "I should be at home now, getting ready, I suppose."

    "You'll dance with me this night, won't you?" he flung the question out, no fear of his being rejected. She hesitated then, still staring out at the stormy horizon. The echo of the music drifted through her, the rythmic sound of the dancers' feet, the laughter, the jokes… And a face, long-forgotten, though not dimmed by time, rose again before her mind's eye. A handsome face, bronzed by the sun, with lips curled in a defiant smile. Lazy, laughing black eyes filled with nothing but empty fancies and good-humored jokes. And had that been all? She remembered the carefree words-though painful to her-that had passed between them that night and the flicker that had passed through those careless eyes-a flicker of… pain? She shuddered again, but not from the cold, and turned her face from the memory. Lifting her head, setting her chin defiantly, she turned to the young man at her side with eyes suddenly shining and a cheerful smile warming her features.

    "Of course, Connor," she laughed happily. She had banished him once again from her memory and he vanished into the shadowy mist of time. "You may have the first dance."

    At that he grinned irrepressibly and caught hold of her hand.

    "Joan, darling," he said quickly, before his courage would fade, "There is something I should like very much to ask you, before this evening."

    At this, the laughing smile faded and the grey shadow, grey to match the stormy skies and sea, flashed like lightning through the blue eyes and was gone.

    "Yes, Connor." she murmured, her voice very low, her eyes downcast, her dark lashes sweeping her cheeks. Connor's heart surged within him and he drew her nearer, catching her other hand in both of his.

    "You know, Joan dear, how long I've loved you, how long I've waited for you." he began earnestly. "There is nothing in all the world that would make me happier than if you would say you will be my wife." he paused before continuing. "Will you, Darling?"

    "Yes, Connor." she repeated in that low, soft voice. Then, she raised her blue eyes to his, tears quivering on the lashes. He gave her one happy, joyous look, then swept her into his arms and kissed her.

    The dance at Lyall's was an annual event and quite looked forward to throughout all the year. All the village people attended and many came from the surrounding area. Byron Lyall stopped at no expense in the throwing of this festive party and was quite lavish in his hospitality. He was a lean and grizzled middle-aged man, rather tall and gaunt, but his nature denied his grim look as he was truly a jolly and kind old soul that loved to surround himself will all manner of people in order to have someone to laugh at his jokes and be astonished at his stories. His wife was like him in personality, in looks she was a comfortable, portly woman with graying hair and a dimpled smile. She delighted in mothering all the needy young people of the village and thus had taken motherless little Joan Shelley under her wing. Although Joan had a brother, she had no other family, and her heart warmed to the friendly, loving Mrs. Lyall, known by all the village as Aunt Mattie. To Aunt Mattie and to her alone had Joan confided her heartbreak the year before and it was Aunt Mattie only who had been able to offer her the comfort and solace she so desperately needed.

    As Joan dressed for the dance that day, she reached for the little bouquet of sweet pea that Connor had sent and pinned it to her sash. As she surveyed her reflection in the mirror with satisfaction, a knock was heard at the door and she hurried to answer it. A little boy stood there, a rather dirty, ragged little urchin in a blue jacket and sailor's cap.

    "Miss Shelley?" he asked, eyeing her warily.

    "Yes,"

    "I'm s'posed t' give ya this," he thrust at her a large white box, then vanished nearly as quickly as he had appeared. Turning from the open door with a puzzled expression on her face, Joan opened the box and gave a cry of delight, closely followed by a groan and then a sigh. Inside the box lay a dozen little roses in pale pink. Just the kind of rose she had worn in her hair to the Lyall's dance last year-the kind he had given her. Quickly she replaced the lid of the box, then thought better of it and opened it again. No card was to be found. Shaking her head, she closed it again, then gathered it up and set off down the path to the Lyall's. It was a short walk, scarcely half a mile. Though it was nearly three hours too early for guests to arrive, she had planned on this anyway, hoping to spend some time with Aunt Mattie before the dance and help her with all the last-minute preparations.

    Joan found Aunt Mattie in the cozy, though rambling kitchen of the old farmhouse, arranging generously-sized sugar cookies on a platter and conversing with a young sailor.

    "Joan, dearie!" Aunt Mattie cried with a joyful smile. "My, but I'm glad to see you! Do come in and see what you can do about arranging these cookies. You have such an eye for arrangements! Do allow me to introduce Jim Lyall, my cousin whose been away at sea, you know. He's just returned this afternoon and is so full of the most exciting adventures…" as Aunt Mattie rattled on, she took Joan's box and laid it on the table, directing the girl to the tray of cookies. "Do go on, Jim," she prompted. "What were you saying about your captain just now? You said that there was such a dreadful storm, you know, that the ship wouldn't stay upright?"

    "Indeed," Jim continued, grinning. "Wildest storm I 'most ever saw. Ship was a'rocking from one side t'other and nearly keeled over at ev'ry moment. We all was frightened 'most half t' death and all the men a'scurryin' all over the deck, a'tryin' not to fall overboard."

    "Imagine that!" Aunt Mattie exclaimed, shaking her head as she drew fragrant loaves of bread from the oven. Joan finished the cookie platter and began on a large cake that needed frosting.

    "The Captain was th' only one o' us that kept his head," Jim went on. "Just a'shoutin' orders and makin' sure the sail was all reeled in. He was standin' at the helm, holdin' onto th' wheel and keepin' the ship from keelin'. That was when it happened."

    "What happened?" Joan cried, unable to hide her interest in the story. Jim laughed.

    "Well, we had a few passengers on board, a family with 'bout five or six young'uns. Seems one o' the boys got up on deck durin' the storm, a little tyke, no more than seven or eight years old. None o' us even realized it until someone started a'cryin' Man Overboard! An' we could just barely see his little head a'bobbin' in those waves. None o' us knew what t'do. He was too little to grab hold o' the lifebuoy when we threw it t' him an' we all a'feared he would drown. None o' us believed fer a moment that even the strongest swimmer could beat those waves an' that current."

    "Mercy me!" Aunt Mattie gasped, her face ashen.

    "Well then, while we was all just a'standin' on the deck, lookin' over into th' waves, the captain just jumped overboard an' reached him so fast we couldn't believe it. Th' boy had disappeared under th' waves but Captain found 'im all th' same. T'was a miracle, I assure you. T'was impossible to swim in all o' that. Never in all my life did I see sich a thing. An' I don't think I'll ever see sich a thing ever agin." he shook his head. Aunt Mattie and Joan both seemed to breathe sighs of relief. Pleased by the reception from his audience, Jim grinned even wider.

    "This captain of yours sounds like a noble man indeed," Aunt Mattie said earnestly.

    "Sure is, Aunt Mattie. Noblest man I ever did meet. An' him only a captain for just over half a year. From what I hear, seems he led a purty worthless life, a shiftless drunkard, hear tell. All I know is somethin' big must'a happened, 'cause he ain't nowhere near that now. He's one o' th' most reliable and dependable water men I ever knew."

    "You must bring him along tonight!" Aunt Mattie cried, as if on sudden inspiration. "No, you needn't say he won't come, I daresay he will. I know the ocean life is a lonely one. There's just over two hours before the others arrive, you go fetch him and bring him back with you. I've a good mind to meet this captain of yours."

    "Alright, Aunt Mattie," Jim laughed. "I'll see if I kin persuade 'im. He's not likely t' go t' any social events, but 'e might if I tell 'im you asked him 'specially."

    When Jim left, Joan confided her news to Aunt Mattie and they were received joyously.

    "I knew it, dearie." the kindly woman pulled the girl close. "Time heals every wound."

    As dusk fell and guests began to arrive, Joan opened the white box and, with a half-sad, half-dreamy smile, fastened one of the pale pink roses into her shining hair. "For old time's sake," she murmured.

    Lyall's house was full that night and the doors to the sitting room were thrown wide open, allowing for a few more couples to join the crowded reels. Toff Leclerc held his old, undisputed place of honor as he flung out one rollicking tune after another on his well-polished old fiddle. Connor came to claim his first dance and gradually claimed one after the other. The harbor people smiled and nodded approvingly to see Joan with Connor.

    "Tis as it should be," they said knowingly. "Connor is the right one for Joan, that's certain."

    By and by Jim arrived, but alone, and Joan had noted this with some disappointment. She had somewhat looked forward to meeting this mysterious hero. So had the rest of the crowd, as Jim had been made to repeat his story and the guests had all listened with eager interest. But the music started again and Connor was returning to claim her hand. Smiling, she rose and gave it as they joined the couples on the dance floor.

    No one noticed the tall, shadowy figure standing in the open doorway with the moonlight full behind him and the firelight before. He stood, leaning against the doorpost, arms folded, watching in silence the dancers as they whirled across the floor. His deep, dark eyes sought the little girlish figure in white with the rose in her hair and followed her as she moved gracefully among the others. He shouldn't have come, he knew that and he felt inclined to turn and move back down the path and to the harbour where his ship lay waiting. But for a moment, the sight of her held him there and he felt the lonely, longing ache in his heart grow sharper.

    As Connor and Joan whirled about the room, they passed very close to the open doorway. At Joan's sudden cry of surprise, they both stood still and stared. The whole room seemed to pause as Joan cried out the long-forgotten name.

    "Paul!"

    For a long moment, all was silent. The girl's face was dead-white and the young man at her side was even whiter. The guests drew and held a collective breath. The man in the doorway stepped forward into the light and a gasp of astonishment filled the room for they had thought him to be gone for good. Not a one of them was glad to see him, either, for Paul King had ever been a shiftless and lazy drunkard. The girl stood stock-still, as if rooted to the ground where she stood. Paul stood just before her, his eyes troubled, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his sailor's jacket.

    "Joan." he said her name in a low voice, as if not trusting himself to speak. "It's been a long time."

    Joan held her trembling head high, keeping her tears back by great effort.

    "Why have you come back?" her voice was barely above a whisper.

    "I'm just passing through." he answered, casting his eyes to the floor. "I'm sorry-I wouldn't have come at all but Jim-" he paused. "I'm sorry." he turned and was gone. Joan moved forward, her lips moving as though she would speak, but no sound came from them. Connor laid a restraining hand on her arm but she pulled away. A tear was already slipping down her cheek.

    Jim had moved towards the doorway as soon as Paul King disappeared through it. He turned back to Aunt Mattie, apologetically.

    "I told ya, Aunt Mattie," he shrugged. "Captain King ain't never been much fer social gatherings."

    "That-your captain?" Joan gasped, jerking suddenly back to life.

    "Sure 'tis. Ya seem t' know 'im," the young sailor grinned. He would have said more but Joan had already slipped out the door and was running down the pathway. Connor started after her, his white face turned gray as ashes.

    Paul King strode heavily down the lane, the pain in his heart sharper than ever before. He chided himself angrily for having come at all, he had wanted only to see her and be content with that. But he could not be content. That was impossible. He set his face toward the sea, trying in vain to bring himself to terms with a lonely and miserable life out on it rather than a happy one beside it, as he dreamed of. In the midst of the storm raging withing himself, he heard suddenly swift, light footsteps behind him and that dear voice calling his name. In one swift motion, he turned and opened his arms and she threw herself, sobbing, into them.

    "You told me you would never come back," she murmured when she could speak. "You told me you didn't care."

    "I did care," Paul answered brokenly. He couldn't hide it any longer and answer he must. "More than you'll ever know. But I had to leave."

    "Why?" Joan raised her tear-stained face to his. She felt a sort of vague anger at herself, somewhere deep inside. She had promised herself, in her wounded love and hurt pride that she would never let him know how much she had cared. But she could no longer help it. The sight of him had sent all her old feeling sweeping back and her broken heart ached horribly.

    "Because," he whispered. "I didn't deserve you. I would have ruined your life and you know that. Everyone knows that."

    "They told me so, but I didn't believe it for a moment. I thought you went away because you didn't love me."

    "But you see, dearest, it was because I loved you that I went away."

    "I never stopped praying for you."

    He smiled at that. "I thought you would. I felt those prayers from far away. Somehow they reached me and made me a different man. I thank God for it," he continued, lifting his chin defiantly. "I'm not ashamed for loving you. We must part ways now, perhaps never to meet again, but I'll never forget you, and I'll love you always."

    "No." Joan stated firmly and wrapped her arms around him before he could go. "You're not leaving me this time. I prayed for you and 'twas my love that redeemed you. My love-and God's."

    The look that crossed Paul's face in that moment was not to be described. He said nothing, only pulled her close to him. Connor had reached them and stood silently, unobserved in the background. Realizing he had lost Joan again--but then, she had never really been his--he shook his head and turned away.

    Paul and Joan were married in the little church at Prospect Harbour a month afterward. Never had there been such a lovely bride nor such a happy bridegroom.

    As for Connor Mitchell, he got over his disappointment with surprising haste and not long after Paul and Joan's wedding, the church bells rang out again for Connor and his new bride, a sweet little Prospect Harbour girl.

    Paul King bought the old Wallace place and he and Joan settled happily there. He became a loving husband and father as well as a respected member of the Prospect community and, in time, she a joyful mother of five little ones. And folks never stopped talking of the love that had redeemed him.