At Five O'Clock in the Morning by Lucy Maud Montgomery
Fate, in the guise of Mrs. Emory dropping a milk-can on the platform
under his open window, awakened Murray that morning. Had not Mrs.
Emory dropped that can, he would have slumbered peacefully until his
usual hour for rising—a late one, be it admitted, for of all the
boarders at Sweetbriar Cottage Murray was the most irregular in his
"When a young man," Mrs. Emory was wont to remark sagely and a trifle
severely, "prowls about that pond half of the night, a-chasing of
things what he calls 'moonlight effecks,' it ain't to be wondered at
that he's sleepy in the morning. And it ain't the convenientest thing,
nuther and noways, to keep the breakfast table set till the farm folks
are thinking of dinner. But them artist men are not like other people,
say what you will, and allowance has to be made for them. And I must
say that I likes him real well and approves of him every other way."
If Murray had slept late that morning—well, he shudders yet over that
"if." But aforesaid Fate saw to it that he woke when the hour of
destiny and the milk-can struck, and having awakened he found he could
not go to sleep again. It suddenly occurred to him that he had never
seen a sunrise on the pond. Doubtless it would be very lovely down
there in those dewy meadows at such a primitive hour; he decided to
get up and see what the world looked like in the young daylight.
He scowled at a letter lying on his dressing table and thrust it into
his pocket that it might be out of sight. He had written it the night
before and the writing of it was going to cost him several things—a
prospective million among others. So it is hardly to be wondered at if
the sight of it did not reconcile him to the joys of early rising.
"Dear life and heart!" exclaimed Mrs. Emory, pausing in the act of
scalding a milk-can when Murray emerged from a side door. "What on
earth is the matter, Mr. Murray? You ain't sick now, surely? I told
you them pond fogs was p'isen after night! If you've gone and got—"
"Nothing is the matter, dear lady," interrupted Murray, "and I haven't
gone and got anything except an acute attack of early rising which is
not in the least likely to become chronic. But at what hour of the
night do you get up, you wonderful woman? Or rather do you ever go to
bed at all? Here is the sun only beginning to rise and—positively
yes, you have all your cows milked."
Mrs. Emory purred with delight.
"Folks as has fourteen cows to milk has to rise betimes," she answered
with proud humility. "Laws, I don't complain—I've lots of help with
the milking. How Mrs. Palmer manages, I really cannot comperhend—or
rather, how she has managed. I suppose she'll be all right now since
her niece came last night. I saw her posting to the pond pasture not
ten minutes ago. She'll have to milk all them seven cows herself. But
dear life and heart! Here I be palavering away and not a bite of
breakfast ready for you!"
"I don't want any breakfast until the regular time for it," assured
Murray. "I'm going down to the pond to see the sun rise."
"Now don't you go and get caught in the ma'sh," anxiously called Mrs.
Emory, as she never failed to do when she saw him starting for the
pond. Nobody ever had got caught in the marsh, but Mrs. Emory lived in
a chronic state of fear lest someone should.
"And if you once got stuck in that black mud you'd be sucked right
down and never seen or heard tell of again till the day of judgment,
like Adam Palmer's cow," she was wont to warn her boarders.
Murray sought his favourite spot for pond dreaming—a bloomy corner of
the pasture that ran down into the blue water, with a dump of leafy
maples on the left. He was very glad he had risen early. A miracle was
being worked before his very eyes. The world was in a flush and
tremor of maiden loveliness, instinct with all the marvellous fleeting
charm of girlhood and spring and young morning. Overhead the sky was a
vast high-sprung arch of unstained crystal. Down over the sand dunes,
where the pond ran out into the sea, was a great arc of primrose
smitten through with auroral crimsonings. Beneath it the pond waters
shimmered with a hundred fairy hues, but just before him they were
clear as a flawless mirror. The fields around him glistened with dews,
and a little wandering wind, blowing lightly from some bourne in the
hills, strayed down over the slopes, bringing with it an unimaginable
odour and freshness, and fluttered over the pond, leaving a little
path of dancing silver ripples across the mirror-glory of the water.
Birds were singing in the beech woods over on Orchard Knob Farm,
answering to each other from shore to shore, until the very air was
tremulous with the elfin music of this wonderful midsummer dawn.
"I will get up at sunrise every morning of my life hereafter,"
exclaimed Murray rapturously, not meaning a syllable of it, but
devoutly believing he did.
Just as the fiery disc of the sun peered over the sand dunes Murray
heard music that was not of the birds. It was a girl's voice singing
beyond the maples to his left—a clear sweet voice, blithely trilling
out the old-fashioned song, "Five O'Clock in the Morning."
"Mrs. Palmer's niece!"
Murray sprang to his feet and tiptoed cautiously through the maples.
He had heard so much from Mrs. Palmer about her niece that he felt
reasonably well acquainted with her. Moreover, Mrs. Palmer had assured
him that Mollie was a very pretty girl. Now a pretty girl milking cows
at sunrise in the meadows sounded well.
Mrs. Palmer had not over-rated her niece's beauty. Murray said so to
himself with a little whistle of amazement as he leaned unseen on the
pasture fence and looked at the girl who was milking a placid Jersey
less than ten yards away from him. Murray's artistic instinct
responded to the whole scene with a thrill of satisfaction.
He could see only her profile, but that was perfect, and the colouring
of the oval cheek and the beautiful curve of the chin were something
to adore. Her hair, ruffled into lovable little ringlets by the
morning wind, was coiled in glistening chestnut masses high on her
bare head, and her arms, bare to the elbow, were as white as marble.
Presently she began to sing again, and this time Murray joined in. She
half rose from her milking stool and cast a startled glance at the
maples. Then she dropped back again and began to milk determinedly,
but Murray could have sworn that he saw a demure smile hovering about
her lips. That, and the revelation of her full face, decided him. He
sprang over the fence and sauntered across the intervening space of
lush clover blossoms.
"Good morning," he said coolly. He had forgotten her other name, and
it did not matter; at five o'clock in the morning people who met in
dewy clover fields might disregard the conventionalities. "Isn't it
rather a large contract for you to be milking seven cows all alone?
May I help you?"
Mollie looked up at him over her shoulder. She had glorious grey eyes.
Her face was serene and undisturbed. "Can you milk?" she asked.
"Unlikely as it may seem, I can," said Murray. "I have never confessed
it to Mrs. Emory, because I was afraid she would inveigle me into
milking her fourteen cows. But I don't mind helping you. I learned to
milk when I was a shaver on my vacations at a grandfatherly farm. May
I have that extra pail?"
Murray captured a milking stool and rounded up another Jersey. Before
sitting down he seemed struck with an idea.
"My name is Arnold Murray. I board at Sweetbriar Cottage, next farm to
Orchard Knob. That makes us near neighbours."
"I suppose it does," said Mollie.
Murray mentally decided that her voice was the sweetest he had ever
heard. He was glad he had arranged his cow at such an angle that he
could study her profile. It was amazing that Mrs. Palmer's niece
should have such a profile. It looked as if centuries of fine breeding
were responsible for it.
"What a morning!" he said enthusiastically. "It harks back to the days
when earth was young. They must have had just such mornings as this in
"Do you always get up so early?" asked Mollie practically.
"Always," said Murray without a blush. Then—"But no, that is a fib,
and I cannot tell fibs to you. The truth is your tribute. I never get
up early. It was fate that roused me and brought me here this morning.
The morning is a miracle—and you, I might suppose you were born of
the sunrise, if Mrs. Palmer hadn't told me all about you."
"What did she tell you about me?" asked Mollie, changing cows. Murray
discovered that she was tall and that the big blue print apron
shrouded a singularly graceful figure.
"She said you were the best-looking girl in Bruce county. I have seen
very few of the girls in Bruce county, but I know she is right."
"That compliment is not nearly so pretty as the sunrise one," said
Mollie reflectively. "Mrs. Palmer has told me things about you," she
"Curiosity knows no gender," hinted Murray.
"She said you were good-looking and lazy and different from other
"All compliments," said Murray in a gratified tone.
"Certainly. Laziness is a virtue in these strenuous days, I was not
born with it, but I have painstakingly acquired it, and I am proud of
my success. I have time to enjoy life."
"I think that I like you," said Mollie.
"You have the merit of being able to enter into a situation," he
When the last Jersey was milked they carried the pails down to the
spring where the creamers were sunk and strained the milk into them.
Murray washed the pails and Mollie wiped them and set them in a
gleaming row on the shelf under a big maple.
"Thank you," she said.
"You are not going yet," said Murray resolutely. "The time I saved you
in milking three cows belongs to me. We will spend it in a walk along
the pond shore. I will show you a path I have discovered under the
beeches. It is just wide enough for two. Come."
He took her hand and drew her through the copse into a green lane,
where the ferns grew thickly on either side and the pond waters
plashed dreamily below them. He kept her hand in his as they went down
the path, and she did not try to withdraw it. About them was the
great, pure silence of the morning, faintly threaded with caressing
sounds—croon of birds, gurgle of waters, sough of wind. The spirit of
youth and love hovered over them and they spoke no word.
When they finally came out on a little green nook swimming in early
sunshine and arched over by maples, with the wide shimmer of the pond
before it and the gold dust of blossoms over the grass, the girl drew
a long breath of delight.
"It is a morning left over from Eden, isn't it?" said Murray.
"Yes," said Mollie softly.
Murray bent toward her. "You are Eve," he said. "You are the only
woman in the world—for me. Adam must have told Eve just what he
thought about her the first time he saw her. There were no
conventionalities in Eden—and people could not have taken long to
make up their minds. We are in Eden just now. One can say what he
thinks in Eden without being ridiculous. You are divinely fair, Eve.
Your eyes are stars of the morning—your cheek has the flush it stole
from the sunrise-your lips are redder than the roses of paradise. And
I love you, Eve."
Mollie lowered her eyes and the long fringe of her lashes lay in a
burnished semi-circle on her cheek.
"I think," she said slowly, "that it must have been very delightful in
Eden. But we are not really there, you know—we are only playing that
we are. And it is time for me to go back. I must get the
breakfast—that sounds too prosaic for paradise."
Murray bent still closer.
"Before we remember that we are only playing at paradise, will you
kiss me, dear Eve?"
"You are very audacious," said Mollie coldly.
"We are in Eden yet," he urged. "That makes all the difference."
"Well," said Mollie. And Murray kissed her.
They had passed back over the fern path and were in the pasture before
either spoke again. Then Murray said, "We have left Eden behind—but
we can always return there when we will. And although we were only
playing at paradise, I was not playing at love. I meant all I said,
"Have you meant it often?" asked Mollie significantly.
"I never meant it—or even played at it—before," he answered. "I
did—at one time—contemplate the possibility of playing at it. But
that was long ago—as long ago as last night. I am glad to the core of
my soul that I decided against it before I met you, dear Eve. I have
the letter of decision in my coat pocket this moment. I mean to mail
it this afternoon."
"'Curiosity knows no gender,'" quoted Mollie.
"Then, to satisfy your curiosity, I must bore you with some personal
history. My parents died when I was a little chap, and my uncle
brought me up. He has been immensely good to me, but he is a bit of a
tyrant. Recently he picked out a wife for me—the daughter of an old
sweetheart of his. I have never even seen her. But she has arrived in
town on a visit to some relatives there. Uncle Dick wrote to me to
return home at once and pay my court to the lady; I protested. He
wrote again—a letter, short and the reverse of sweet. If I refused to
do my best to win Miss Mannering he would disown me—never speak to me
again—cut me off with a quarter. Uncle always means what he
says—that is one of our family traits, you understand. I spent some
miserable, undecided days. It was not the threat of disinheritance
that worried me, although when you have been brought up to regard
yourself as a prospective millionaire it is rather difficult to adjust
your vision to a pauper focus. But it was the thought of alienating
Uncle Dick. I love the dear, determined old chap like a father. But
last night my guardian angel was with me and I decided to remain my
own man. So I wrote to Uncle Dick, respectfully but firmly declining
to become a candidate for Miss Mannering's hand."
"But you have never seen her," said Mollie. "She may
"'If she be not fair to me, what care I how fair she be?'" quoted
Murray. "As you say, she may be—almost charming; but she is not Eve.
She is merely one of a million other women, as far as I am concerned.
Don't let's talk of her. Let us talk only of ourselves—there is
nothing else that is half so interesting."
"And will your uncle really cast you off?" asked Mollie.
"Not a doubt of it."
"What will you do?"
"Work, dear Eve. My carefully acquired laziness must be thrown to the
winds and I shall work. That is the rule outside of Eden. Don't worry.
I've painted pictures that have actually been sold. I'll make a living
for us somehow."
"Of course. You are engaged to me."
"I am not," said Mollie indignantly.
"Mollie! Mollie! After that kiss! Fie, fie!"
"You are very absurd," said Mollie, "But your absurdity has been
amusing. I have—yes, positively—I have enjoyed your Eden comedy. But
now you must not come any further with me. My aunt might not approve.
Here is my path to Orchard Knob farmhouse. There, I presume, is yours
to Sweetbriar Cottage. Good morning."
"I am coming over to see you this afternoon," said Murray coolly. "But
you needn't be afraid. I will not tell tales out of Eden. I will be a
hypocrite and pretend to Mrs. Palmer that we have never met before.
But you and I will know and remember. Now, you may go. I reserve to
myself the privilege of standing here and watching you out of sight."
That afternoon Murray strolled over to Orchard Knob, going into the
kitchen without knocking as was the habit in that free and easy world.
Mrs. Palmer was lying on the lounge with a pungent handkerchief bound
about her head, but keeping a vigilant eye on a very pretty, very
plump brown-eyed girl who was stirring a kettleful of cherry preserve
on the range.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Palmer," said Murray, wondering where Mollie
was. "I'm sorry to see that you look something like an invalid."
"I've a raging, ramping headache," said Mrs. Palmer solemnly. "I had
it all night and I'm good for nothing. Mollie, you'd better take them
cherries off. Mr. Murray, this is my niece, Mollie Booth."
"What?" said Murray explosively.
"Miss Mollie Booth," repeated Mrs. Palmer in a louder tone.
Murray regained outward self-control and bowed to the blushing Mollie.
"And what about Eve?" he thought helplessly. "Who—what was she? Did I
dream her? Was she a phantom of delight? No, no, phantoms don't milk
cows. She was flesh and blood. No chilly nymph exhaling from the mists
of the marsh could have given a kiss like that."
"Mollie has come to stay the rest of the summer with me," said Mrs.
Palmer. "I hope to goodness my tribulations with hired girls is over
at last. They have made a wreck of me."
Murray rapidly reflected. This development, he decided, released him
from his promise to tell no tales. "I met a young lady down in the
pond pasture this morning," he said deliberately. "I talked with her
for a few minutes. I supposed her to be your niece. Who was she?"
"Oh, that was Miss Mannering," said Mrs. Palmer.
"What?" said Murray again.
"Mannering—Dora Mannering," said Mrs. Palmer loudly, wondering if Mr.
Murray were losing his hearing. "She came here last night just to see
me. I haven't seen her since she was a child of twelve. I used to be
her nurse before I was married. I was that proud to think she thought
it worth her while to look me up. And, mind you, this morning, when
she found me crippled with headache and not able to do a hand's turn,
that girl, Mr. Murray, went and milked seven cows"—"only four,"
murmured Murray, but Mrs. Palmer did not hear him—"for me. Couldn't
prevent her. She said she had learned to milk for fun one summer when
she was in the country, and she did it. And then she got breakfast for
the men—Mollie didn't come till the ten o'clock train. Miss Mannering
is as capable as if she had been riz on a farm."
"Where is she now?" demanded Murray.
"Oh, she's gone."
"Gone," shouted Mrs. Palmer, "gone. She left on the train Mollie come
on. Gracious me, has the man gone crazy? He hasn't seemed like himself
at all this afternoon."
Murray had bolted madly out of the house and was striding down the
Blind fool—unspeakable idiot that he had been! To take her for Mrs.
Palmer's niece—that peerless creature with the calm acceptance of any
situation, which marked the woman of the world, with the fine
appreciation and quickness of repartee that spoke of generations of
culture—to imagine that she could be Mollie Booth! He had been blind,
besottedly blind. And now he had lost her! She would never forgive
him; she had gone without a word or sign.
As he reached the last curve of the lane where it looped about the
apple trees, a plump figure came flying down the orchard slope.
"Mr. Murray, Mr. Murray," Mollie Booth called breathlessly. "Will you
please come here just a minute?"
Murray crossed over to the paling rather grumpily. He did not want to
talk with Mollie Booth just then. Confound it, what did the girl want?
Why was she looking so mysterious?
Mollie produced a little square grey envelope from some feminine
hiding place and handed it over the paling.
"She give me this at the station—Miss Mannering did," she gasped,
"and asked me to give it to you without letting Aunt Emily Jane see. I
couldn't get a chanst when you was in, but as soon as you went I
slipped out by the porch door and followed you. You went so fast I
near died trying to head you off."
"You dear little soul," said Murray, suddenly radiant. "It is too bad
you have had to put yourself so out of breath on my account. But I am
immensely obliged to you. The next time your young man wants a trusty
private messenger just refer him to me."
"Git away with you," giggled Mollie. "I must hurry back 'fore Aunt
Emily Jane gits wind I'm gone. I hope there's good news in your girl's
letter. My, but didn't you look flat when Aunt said she'd went!"
Murray beamed at her idiotically. When she had vanished among the
trees he opened his letter.
"Dear Mr. Murray," it ran, "your unblushing audacity of the
morning deserves some punishment. I hereby punish you by
prompt departure from Orchard Knob. Yet I do not dislike
audacity, at some times, in some places, in some people. It is
only from a sense of duty that I punish it in this case. And
it was really pleasant in Eden. If you do not mail that
letter, and if you still persist in your very absurd
interpretation of the meaning of Eve's kiss, we may meet again
in town. Until then I remain,
"Very sincerely yours,
"Dora Lynne Mannering."
Murray kissed the grey letter and put it tenderly away in his pocket.
Then he took his letter to his uncle and tore it into tiny fragments.
Finally he looked at his watch.
"If I hurry, I can catch the afternoon train to town," he said.