Ted's Afternoon Off by Lucy Maud Montgomery
Ted was up at five that morning, as usual. He always had to rise early
to kindle the fire and go for the cows, but on this particular morning
there was no "had to" about it. He had awakened at four o'clock and
had sprung eagerly to the little garret window facing the east, to see
what sort of a day was being born. Thrilling with excitement, he saw
that it was going to be a glorious day. The sky was all rosy and
golden and clear beyond the sharp-pointed, dark firs on Lee's Hill.
Out to the north the sea was shimmering and sparkling gaily, with
little foam crests here and there ruffled up by the cool morning
breeze. Oh, it would be a splendid day!
And he, Ted Melvin, was to have a half holiday for the first time
since he had come to live in Brookdale four years ago—a whole
afternoon off to go to the Sunday School picnic at the beach beyond
the big hotel. It almost seemed too good to be true!
The Jacksons, with whom he had lived ever since his mother had died,
did not think holidays were necessities for boys. Hard work and
cast-off clothes, and three grudgingly allowed months of school in the
winter, made up Ted's life year in and year out—his outer life at
least. He had an inner life of dreams, but nobody knew or suspected
anything about that. To everybody in Brookdale he was simply Ted
Melvin, a shy, odd-looking little fellow with big dreamy black eyes
and a head of thick tangled curls which could never be made to look
tidy and always annoyed Mrs. Jackson exceedingly.
It was as yet too early to light the fire or go for the cows. Ted
crept softly to a corner in the garret and took from the wall an old
brown fiddle. It had been his father's. He loved to play on it, and
his few rare spare moments were always spent in the garret corner or
the hayloft, with his precious fiddle. It was his one link with the
old life he had lived in a little cottage far away, with a mother who
had loved him and a merry young father who had made wonderful music on
the old brown violin.
Ted pushed open his garret window and, seating himself on the sill,
began to play, with his eyes fixed on the glowing eastern sky. He
played very softly, since Mrs. Jackson had a pronounced dislike to
being wakened by "fiddling at all unearthly hours."
The music he made was beautiful and would have astonished anybody who
knew enough to know how wonderful it really was. But there was nobody
to hear this little neglected urchin of all work, and he fiddled away
happily, the music floating out of the garret window, over the
treetops and the dew-wet clover fields, until it mingled with the
winds and was lost in the silver skies of the morning.
Ted worked doubly hard all that forenoon, since there was a double
share of work to do if, as Mrs. Jackson said, he was to be gadding to
picnics in the afternoon. But he did it all cheerily and whistled for
joy as he worked.
After dinner Mrs. Ross came in. Mrs. Ross lived down on the shore road
and made a living for herself and her two children by washing and
doing days' work out. She was not a very cheerful person and generally
spoke as if on the point of bursting into tears. She looked more
doleful than ever today, and lost no time in explaining why.
"I've just got word that my sister over at White Sands is sick with
pendikis"—this was the nearest Mrs. Ross could get to
appendicitis—"and has to go to the hospital. I've got to go right over
and see her, Mrs. Jackson, and I've run in to ask if Ted can go and
stay with Jimmy till I get back. There's no one else I can get, and
Amelia is away. I'll be back this evening. I don't like leaving Jimmy
"Ted's been promised that he could go to the picnic this afternoon,"
said Mrs. Jackson shortly. "Mr. Jackson said he could go, so he'll
have to please himself. If he's willing to stay with Jimmy instead, he
can. I don't care."
"Oh, I've got to go to the picnic," cried Ted impulsively. "I'm
awful sorry for Jimmy—but I must go to the picnic."
"I s'pose you feel so," said Mrs. Ross, sighing heavily. "I dunno's I
blame you. Picnics is more cheerful than staying with a poor little
lame boy, I don't doubt. Well, I s'pose I can put Jimmy's supper on
the table clost to him, and shut the cat in with him, and mebbe he'll
worry through. He was counting on having you to fiddle for him,
though. Jimmy's crazy about music, and he don't never hear much of it.
Speaking of fiddling, there's a great fiddler stopping at the hotel
now. His name is Blair Milford, and he makes his living fiddling at
concerts. I knew him well when he was a child—I was nurse in his
father's family. He was a taking little chap, and I was real fond of
him. Well, I must be getting. Jimmy'll feel bad at staying alone, but
I'll tell him he'll just have to put up with it."
Mrs. Ross sighed herself away, and Ted flew up to his garret corner
with a choking in his throat. He couldn't go to stay with Jimmy—he
couldn't give up the picnic! Why, he had never been at a picnic; and
they were going to drive to the hotel beach in wagons, and have
swings, and games, and ice cream, and a boat sail to Curtain Island!
He had been looking forward to it, waking and dreaming, for a
fortnight. He must go. But poor little Jimmy! It was too bad for him
to be left all alone.
"I wouldn't like it myself," said Ted miserably, trying to swallow a
lump that persisted in coming up in his throat. "It must be dreadful
to have to lie on the sofa all the time and never be able to run,
climb trees or play, or do a single thing. And Jimmy doesn't like
reading much. He'll be dreadful lonesome. I'll be thinking of him all
the time at the picnic—I know I will. I suppose I could go and
stay with him, if I just made up my mind to it."
Making up his mind to it was a slow and difficult process. But when
Ted was finally dressed in his shabby, "skimpy" Sunday best, he tucked
his precious fiddle under his arm and slipped downstairs. "Please, I
think I'll go and stay with Jimmy," he said to Mrs. Jackson timidly,
as he always spoke to her.
"Well, if you're to waste the afternoon, I s'pose it's better to waste
it that way than in going to a picnic and eating yourself sick," was
Mrs. Jackson's ungracious response.
Ted reached Mrs. Ross's little house just as that good lady was
locking the door on Jimmy and the cat. "Well, I'm real glad," she
said, when Ted told her he had come to stay. "I'd have worried most
awful if I'd had to leave Jimmy all alone. He's crying in there this
minute. Come now, Jimmy, dry up. Here's Ted come to stop with you
after all, and he's brought his fiddle, too."
Jimmy's tears were soon dried, and he welcomed Ted joyfully. "I've
been thinking awful long to hear you fiddling," said Jimmy, with a
sigh of content. "Seems like the ache ain't never half so bad when I'm
listening to music—and when it's your music, I forget there's any
ache at all."
Ted took his violin and began to play. After all, it was almost as
good as a picnic to have a whole afternoon for his music. The stuffy
little room, with its dingy plaster and shabby furniture, was filled
with wonderful harmonies. Once he began, Ted could play for hours at a
stretch and never be conscious of fatigue. Jimmy lay and listened in
rapturous content while Ted's violin sang and laughed and dreamed and
There was another listener besides Jimmy. Outside, on the red
sandstone doorstep, a man was sitting—a tall, well-dressed man with a
pale, beautiful face and long, supple white hands. Motionless, he sat
there and listened to the music until at last it stopped. Then he rose
and knocked at the door. Ted, violin in hand, opened it.
An expression of amazement flashed into the stranger's face, but he
only said, "Is Mrs. Ross at home?"
"No, sir," said Ted shyly. "She went over to White Sands and she won't
be back till night. But Jimmy is here—Jimmy is her little boy. Will
you come in?"
"I'm sorry Mrs. Ross is away," said the stranger, entering. "She was
an old nurse of mine. I must confess I've been sitting on the step out
there for some time, listening to your music. Who taught you to play,
"Nobody," said Ted simply. "I've always been able to play."
"He makes it up himself out of his own head, sir," said Jimmy eagerly.
"No, I don't make it—it makes itself—it just comes," said Ted, a
dreamy gaze coming into his big black eyes.
The caller looked at him closely. "I know a little about music
myself," he said. "My name is Blair Milford and I am a professional
violinist. Your playing is wonderful. What is your name?"
"Well, Ted, I think that you have a great talent, and it ought to be
cultivated. You should have competent instruction. Come, you must tell
me all about yourself."
Ted told what little he thought there was to tell. Blair Milford
listened and nodded, guessing much that Ted didn't tell and, indeed,
didn't know himself. Then he made Ted play for him again. "Amazing!"
he said softly, under his breath.
Finally he took the violin and played himself. Ted and Jimmy listened
breathlessly. "Oh, if I could only play like that!" said Ted
Blair Milford smiled. "You will play much better some day if you get
the proper training," he said. "You have a wonderful talent, my boy,
and you should have it cultivated. It will never in the world do to
waste such genius. Yes, that is the right word," he went on musingly,
as if talking to himself, "'genius.' Nature is always taking us by
surprise. This child has what I have never had and would make any
sacrifice for. And yet in him it may come to naught for lack of
opportunity. But it must not, Ted. You must have a musical training."
"I can't take lessons, if that is what you mean, sir," said Ted
wonderingly. "Mr. Jackson wouldn't pay for them."
"I think we needn't worry about the question of payment if you can
find time to practise," said Blair Milford. "I am to be at the beach
for two months yet. For once I'll take a music pupil. But will you
have time to practise?"
"Yes, sir, I'll make time," said Ted, as soon as he could speak at all
for the wonder of it. "I'll get up at four in the morning and have an
hour's practising before the time for the cows. But I'm afraid it'll
be too much trouble for you, sir, I'm afraid—"
Blair Milford laughed and put his slim white hand on Ted's curly head.
"It isn't much trouble to train an artist. It is a privilege. Ah, Ted,
you have what I once hoped I had, what I know now I never can have.
You don't understand me. You will some day."
"Ain't he an awful nice man?" said Jimmy, when Blair Milford had gone.
"But what did he mean by all that talk?"
"I don't know exactly," said Ted dreamily. "That is, I seem to feel
what he meant but I can't quite put it into words. But, oh, Jimmy, I'm
so happy. I'm to have lessons—I have always longed to have them."
"I guess you're glad you didn't go to the picnic?" said Jimmy.
"Yes, but I was glad before, Jimmy, honest I was."
Blair Milford kept his promise. He interviewed Mr. and Mrs. Jackson
and, by means best known to himself, induced them to consent that Ted
should take music lessons every Saturday afternoon. He was a pupil to
delight a teacher's heart and, after every lesson, Blair Milford
looked at him with kindly eyes and murmured, "Amazing," under his
breath. Finally he went again to the Jacksons, and the next day he
said to Ted, "Ted, would you like to come away with me—live with
me—be my boy and have your gift for music thoroughly cultivated?"
"What do you mean, sir?" said Ted tremblingly.
"I mean that I want you—that I must have you, Ted. I've talked to Mr.
Jackson, and he has consented to let you come. You shall be educated,
you shall have the best masters in your art that the world affords,
you shall have the career I once dreamed of. Will you come, Ted?"
Ted drew a long breath. "Yes, sir," he said. "But it isn't so much
because of the music—it's because I love you, Mr. Milford, and I'm so
glad I'm to be always with you."