Settle in, dim the lights and let this classic short story by L. M. Montgomery, the beloved author of Anne of Green Gables, carry you gently towards sleep. The Parting of the Ways is a quiet, late-summer tale of friendship, faith and a choice made in private, read slowly and softly as a bedtime story for adults who want to wind down, ease insomnia and drift into deep, restful sleep.
At a seaside hotel at the end of the season, the gossips on the piazza watch the beautiful Mrs. Beatrice Longworth walk down the shore road, and murmur about her unhappy marriage and the attentions of another man. Out among the warm sand hills and golden sea grasses she finds Stephen Gordon, the shy, dreamy, overgrown boy who has been her loyal friend all summer and who dreams of becoming a great artist.
Stephen has news. A telegram from his father calls him to Rome to study art, and he leaves tomorrow. But before he goes he has something he needs to say to her, and in his halting, heartfelt way he tells Beatrice what her friendship has meant to him. What he says reaches her at exactly the moment it matters most, and the story closes in the stillness of her room with a decision only she will ever know about.
The story
Transcribed from the audio, so the odd word may be off. Tap any line while it plays to keep the words in step with Martin's voice.
Books at bedtime by calming anxiety, the parting of the ways by Lucy and Monk Gomri.
Mrs. Long'sworth crossed the hotel piata, descended the steps and walked out of sight down the shore road with all the grace of motion that lent distinction to her slightest moment. Her eyes were very bright and an unusual flush skein the pallet of her cheek.
Two men who were lounging in one corner of the hotel piata looked admiringly after her. "She is a beautiful woman," said one. "Wasn't S.M. talk about Mrs. Long'sworth and canning him last winter?" asked the other. "Yes, they were very much together. Still, there may be nothing wrong. She was old judge Komodi's daughter, you know. Longworth got Komodi under his thumb in many matters and put the screws on. They say he made Komodi's daughter the price of the old man's redemption. The girl herself was a mere child. I shall never forget her face on her wedding day. But she hasn't been plucky since then, I must say. If she has suffered, she has not shown it. I don't suppose Longworth ever ill treat her. He isn't at sort. He's simply a grovelling cat at all. Nobody would sympathize much with the poor devil if his wife did run off with canning him." Meanwhile, Beatrice Longworth walked quickly down on the shore road. Her whites curred brushing over the crisp golden grasses by the way. In a sunny hollow among the sand hills, she came upon Stephen Gordon, sprawled out, ludgeuriously in the warm sea smelling grasses. The youth sprang to his beat at the sight of her and his big brown eyes kindled to a glow. Mrs. Longworth smiled to him. They had been great friends all summer. He was a lanky, overgrown lad of 15 or 16, odd and shy and dreamy, scarcely possessing a speaking acquaintance with others at hotel. But he and Mrs. Longworth had been congenial from their first meeting. In many ways, he was far older than his ears. But there was a certain, in a ridiculous boyishness about him to which her heart warmed. You were the very person I was just going in search of. I've used to tell, sit down. He spoke eagerly, patting the big grey-bulled beside him with his slim brown hand. For a moment, Beatrice hesitated. She wanted to be alone just then, but his clever, homely face was so appealing that she yielded and sat down.
Stephen flung himself down again contentedly in the grasses at her feet, pilling his chin in his palms and looking up at her adorably. You are so beautiful, dear lady. I love to look at you. Will you tilt that hat a little more over the left eyebrow? Yes, so someday I shall paint you. His tone and manner were all simplicity. When you were a great artist said Beatrice indulgently, he nodded. Yes, I mean to be that. I've told you all my dreams, you know, now for my news. I'm going away tomorrow. I had a telegram from Father today. You drew the message from his pocket and flourished it up at her. I'm to join him in Europe at once. He is in Rome, think of it in Rome. I am to go on with my art studies there and I leave tomorrow. I'm glad and I'm sorry and you know which is which, said Beatrice, patting the shaggy brown head. I shall miss you dreadfully, Stephen. We have been splendid chums haven't we? He said deeply. Suddenly, his face changed. He crept nearer to her and bowed his head until his lips almost touched the hem of her dress. I'm glad you came down today. He went on in a low, different voice. I want to tell you something and I can tell it better here. I couldn't go away without thanking you. I'll make a mess of it. I can never explain things. But you've been so much to me. You mean so much to me. You've made me believe in things I never believed in before. You, you, I know now that there is such a thing as a good woman, a woman who could make a man better just because he breathed the same way with her. He paused for a moment, then went on in a still lower tone. It's hard when a fellow can't speak this mother because he can't say anything good of her, isn't it? My mother wasn't good woman. When I was a year's old, she went away with her scoundrel. It broke father's heart. Nobody thought I understood. I was such a little fellow, but I did. I heard them talking. I knew she had brought shame and disgrace on herself and us, and I had loved her so. Then somehow, as I grew up, it was my misfortune that all the women I had to do with were mean and base. They were high elings, and I hated and feared them. There was an aunt of mine. She tried to be good to me in her way, but she told me a lie, and I never cared for her after I found it out. And then, father, we loved each other and were good chums, but he didn't believe in much either. He was bitter, you know. He said, "All women were alike." I grew up with that notion. I didn't care much for anything. Nothing seemed worthwhile. Then I came here, and I met you. He paused again. Beatrice had listened with a grey look on her face. It would have startled him had he clandestped, but he did not. And after a moment's silence, the halting boyish voice went on. You have changed everything for me. I was nothing but a cloth before. You are not the mother of my body, but you are of my soul. It was born of you. I shall always love and reverence you. For it, you will always be my ideal. If I ever do anything worthwhile, it will be because of you. In everything I shall ever attempt, I shall try to do it as if you were to pass judgment upon it. You will bring a lifelong inspiration to me. Oh, I am bungling this. I can't tell you what I feel.
You are so pure, so good, so noble. I shall reverence all women for your sake henceforth.
And if, said Beatrice, in a very low voice, if I were false to your ideal of me, if I were to do anything that would destroy your face in me, something wicked or wicked, but you couldn't interrupted, flinging up his head and looking at her with these great dog-like eyes, you couldn't.
But if I could, she persisted gently, and if I did, what then? I should hate you, he said passionately, you would be worse than a murderous. You would kill every good and bolts and believe in me. I would never trust anything or anybody again, but there, he added, his voice once more growing tender. You will never fail me. I feel sure of that.
Thank you, said Beatrice, almost in a whisper. Thank you, she repeated after a moment.
He stood up, held out her hand. I think I must go now. Goodbye, dear Lallie. Write to me from Rome. I shall always be glad to hear from you wherever you are and and I shall always try to live up to your ideal of me, Stephen. He sprang to his feet and took her hand, lifting it to his lips with boyish reverence. "I know that," he said, slowly. "Goodbye, my sweet lady."
When Mrs. Longworth found herself in her room again, she unlocked her desk and took out her room. It was addressed to Mr. Morris Cunningham. She slowly tore it twice across, laid the fragments on a tray and touched them with a lighted match. As they blazed up, one line came out, in writhing redness across the page. "I will go away with you as you ask." And it crumbled into gray ashes. She drew a long breath and hid her face in her hands.