The Books: “Along the Shore – ‘A Strayed Allegiance’” (L.M. Montgomery)

Daily Book Excerpt: YA/Children’s books:

Along the Shore – ‘A Strayed Allegiance’ – by L.M. Montgomery

This short story is HYSTERICAL, but unintentionally so. As a matter of fact, you know the “Averil” story that Anne wrote in Anne of Avonlea? ‘A Strayed Allegiance; is like that. The language is like that. The story was written in 1897 – a good 11 years before Anne came out, so perhaps she was still working on her craft? Or maybe she is just OBVIOUSLY writing for money here, writing a story to fit the needs of a certain magazine. But the language of this florid torrid romance is hilarious, and absolutely unrecognizable as Lucy Maud’s prose. This is one of the reasons why it’s interesting. There are a couple more stories like this – usually written early on – in the late 1800s – where it’s almost baffling to think that this is the same writer who thought up the whole dyeing hair green episode, or getting Diana drunk episode, or any of the other episodes which eventually made Lucy Maud famous.

A Strayed Allegiance. I mean, look at that title.

Everybody in this story is an asshole. I guess Marian is KIND of not an asshole, because she ends up having SOME commonsense and releasing Esterbrook Elliott (yes, his name is ESTERBROOK ELLIOTT) from his engagement to her so that he would be free to ruin his life and pursue Magdalen Crawford, the gorgeous and yet poor fishing girl with whom he is obsessed. (Yes, her name is MAGDALEN Crawford.) It’s a very enjoyable read, merely because the whole time you’re thinking: “Okay, Maud, you’re gonna have to eventually give this kind of writing up … and write what YOU want to write …”

So Esterbrook Elliott is a total douchebag, who uses words like “bequeath” and says stuff like, “My time, as you well know, is completely at your disposal.” Nobody talks like a normal person in this story. It’s all heightened and flowery. Marian and Esterbrook are engaged. Marian is a gentle kindly charitable woman who spends her days helping out poor families who live in the fishing shacks by the beach. She brings them food, blankets, helps them with medical issues. In short, Marian is a freakin’ saint. And her presence is just setting the stage for MAGDALEN to enter. The whore with the glowing deep eyes!!

One day Esterbrook accompanies his beloved Marian on one of her charitable visits. There’s a sick kid or something. And there, in the corner of the fishing shack, is the most beautiful woman Esterbrook Elliott has ever seen. Not only that, but the way Lucy Maud describes her, she’s the most beautiful woman who has ever lived. She’s like a freak supermodel. And yet she is sullen, imperious, etc. Esterbrook immediately practically comes in his pants at the sight of her. It’s love at first sight. (Although I have my doubts on that score. I think it’s more like lust – and after these two knock boots – they will have NOTHING to talk about – and Esterbrook will have ruined his life for a hot piece of fish-wife ass.)

Marian, because she’s a freaking saint, and doesn’t understand anything about REAL life, does not notice the blithering idiot her fiance has become. They leave and walk home. He is distracted, lost in thought. Get a grip on yourself, Esterbrook Elliott. Also, get a new name.

And then, after he drops Marian off … he cannot help himself: he goes back to find Magdalen.

Their first encounter is the excerpt below.

Go, Lucy Maud with your florid torrid self!

Excerpt from Along the Shore – ‘A Strayed Allegiance’ – by L.M. Montgomery

But the desire to see Magdalen Crawford once more and to look into the depths of her eyes was stronger than all else, and overpowered every throb of duty and resistance.

He saw nothing of her when he reached the Cove. He could think of no excuse for calling at the Barrett cottage, so he rode slowly past the hamlet and along the shore.

The sun, red as a smouldering ember, was half buried in the silken violet rim of the sea; the west was a vast lake of saffron and rose and ethereal green, through which floated the curved shallop of a thin new moon, slowly deepening from lusterless white, through gleaming silver, into burnished gold, and attended by one solitary, pearl-white star. The vast concave of sky above was of violet, infinite and flawless. Far out dusky amethystine islets clustered like gems on the shining breast of the bay. The little pools of water along the low shores glowed like mirrors of polished jacinth. The small, pine-fringed headlands ran out into the water, cutting its lustrous blue expanse like purple wedges.

As Esterbrook turned one of them he saw Magdalen standing out on the point of the next, a short distance away. Her back was towards him, and her splendid figure was outlined darkly against the vivid sky.

Esterbrook sprang from his horse and left the animal standing by itself while he walked swiftly out to her. His heart throbbed suffocatingly. He was conscious of no direct purpose save merely to see her.

She turned when he reached her with a slight start of surprise. His footsteps had made no sound on the tide-rippled sand.

For a few moments they faced each other so, eyes burning into eyes with mute soul-probing and questioning. The sun had disappeared, leaving a stain of fiery red to mark his grave; the weird, radiant light was startlingly vivid and clear. Little crisp puffs and flakes of foam scurried over the point like elfin things. The fresh wind, blowing up the ba, tossed the lustrous rings of hair about Magdalen’s pale face; all the routed shadows of the hour had found refuge in her eyes.

Not a trace of colour appeared in her face under Esterbrook Elliott’s burning ggaze. But when he said, “Magdalen!” a single, hot scorch of crimson flamed up into her cheeks protestingly. She lifted her hand with a splendid gesture, but no word passed her lips.

“Magdalen, have you nothing to say to me?” he asked, coming closer to her with an imploring passion in his face never seen by Marian Lesley’s eyes. He reached out his hand, but she stepped back from his touch.

“What should I have to say to you?”

“Say that you are glad to see me.”

“I am not glad to see you. You have no right to come here. But I knew you would come.”

“You knew it? How?”

“Your eyes told me so today. I am not blind – I can see further than those dull fisher folks. Yes, I knew you wopuld come. That is why I came here tonight – so that you would find me alone and I could tell you that you were not to come again.”

“Why must you tell me that, Magdalen?”

“Because, as I have told you, you have no right to come.”

“But if I will not obey you? If I will come in defiance of your prohibition?”

She turned her steady luminous eyes on his pale, set face.

“You would stamp yourself as a madman, then,” she said coldly. “I know that you are Miss Lesley’s promised husband. Therefore, you are either false to her or insulting to me. In either case the companionship of Magdalen Crawford is not what you must seek. Go!”

She turned away from him with an imperious gesture of dismissal. Esterbrook Elliott stepped forward and caught one firm, white wrist.

“I shall not obey you,” he said in a low intense tone; his fine eyes burned into hers. “You may send me away, but I will come back, again and yet again until you have learned to welcome me. Why should you meet me like an enemy? Why can we not be friends?”

The girl faced him once more.

“Because,” she said proudly, “I am not your equal. There can be no friendship between us. There ought not to be. Magdalen Crawford – the fisherman’s niece – is no companion for you. You will be foolish, as well as disloyal, if you ever try to see me again. Go back to the beautiful, high-bred woman you love and forgget me. Perhaps you think I am talking strangely. Perhaps you think me bold and unwomanly to speak so plainly to you, a stranger. But there are some circumstances in life when plain-speaking is best. I do not want to see you again. Now, go back to your own world.”

Esterbrook Elliott slowly turned from her and walked in silence back to the shore. In the shadows of the point he stopped to look back at her, standing out like some inspired prophetess against the fiery background of the sunset sky and silver-blue water. The sky overhead was thick-sown with stars; the night breeze was blowing up from its lair in distant, echoing sea caves. On his right the lights of the Cove twinkled out through the dusk.

“I feel like a coward and a traitor,” he said slowly. “Good God, what is this madness that has come over me? Is this my boasted strength of manhood?”

A moment later the hoof beats of his horse died away up the shore.

Magdalen Crawford lingered on the point until the last dull red faded out into the violet gloom of the June sea dusk, than which nothing can be rarer or divine, and listened to the moan and murmur of the sea far out over the bay with sorrowful eyes and sternly set lips.