“You go down on yer liddle marrow bones this night and thank the Good Man Above he didn’t be making ye a Binnie,” said Judy solemnly.
Even that day was lived through. At night dad telephoned from town that the operation was successfully over and that mother was coming out of the anesthetic nicely. The Silver Bush folk slept that night; but there was still a long week of suspense to be lived through before they dared really hope. Then dad came home, with a light in his tired eyes that had not shone there for many a day. Mother would live: never very strong perhaps . . . never just the woman she had been. But she would live.
“Oh, oh, and didn’t I be always telling ye so?” said Judy triumphantly, forgetting all her gloomy dreads of “cutting up.” “There niver was no sign. Gintleman Tom did be knowing it. That cat niver worried himsilf at all, at all.”
3
Mother could not come home for six weeks, and during those weeks Pat and Judy ran Silver Bush, for both the aunts at the Bay Shore were ill and Winnie had to go the rescue. Pat was in the seventh heaven. She loved everything about the house more than ever. The fine hemstitched tablecloths . . . Judy’s hooked rugs . . . the monogrammed sheets . . . the cedar chest full of blankets . . . the embroidered centerpieces . . . the lace doilies . . . the dear old blue willow-ware plates . . . Grandmother Selby’s silver tea service, the old mirrors that had stolen a bit of loveliness from every fair face that had ever looked into them. All had a new meaning for her. Every window was loved for some special bit of beauty to be seen from it. She loved her own because she could see the Hill of the Mist . . . she loved the Poet’s window because there was a far-away glimpse of the bay . . . she loved the round window because it looked right into the silver bush . . . she loved the front hall window because it looked squarely on the garden. As for its attic windows, one saw everything in the world worth seeing from them and sometimes Pat would go up the attic for no earthly reason except to look out of them.
She and Judy didn’t make slaves of themselves. Every once in so long Pat would say,
“Now, let’s stop thinking housework, Judy, and think wild strawberries,” . . . or ferns . . . or June-bells as the case might be, and off they would go for a ramble. And in the “dims” they would sit on the back-door steps as of old and Judy would tell funny tales and Pat would laugh until she took kinks.
“Oh, oh, ye do be knowing how to work, Patsy darlint . . . stopping for a bit av a laugh once in so long. There’s few people do be knowing the sacret. Yer aunts at the Bay Shore . . . they niver do be laughing and it’s the rason they do be taking sick spells so often.”
“Uncle Brian and Aunt Jessie are coming for the weekend, Judy. I must cut some iris for the Poet’s room. I do love fixing up that room for a guest. And we must have an apple tart with whipped cream. That’s Uncle Brian’s favourite dessert.”
Pat always remembered what a guest liked to eat. And she was, as Judy declared, “a cook be the grace av God.” She loved to cook, feeling delightedly that in this one thing at least she was akin to the women of all lands and all ages. Almost all her letters to mother and Hilary and college correspondents began, “I’ve just put something in the oven.” The pantry was never without its box of spicy cookies and the fluffy perfection of her cakes left Judy speechless. As for the fruit cake she proudly concocted and baked one day all on her own, take Judy’s word for it, there never had been a fruit cake to match it at Silver Bush.
“I was niver no great hand at fruit cake, darlint,” she said sadly. “Yer Aunt Edith always do be saying it takes a born lady to make a rale fruit cake and maybe she is right. But I might av been larning the trick if it hadn’t been for a bit av discouragement I was having just after I came to Silver Bush. I thought one day I’d be making a fruit cake and at it I wint, wid more zale than jidgement. Yer Uncle Horace was home thin . . . and a young imp he was . . . hanging round to see what he could see and mebbe get a licking av the bowl. ‘What do ye be putting in a fruit cake, Judy Plum,’ he sez, curious like. ‘A liddle bit av iverything,’ sez I short like. And whin I turns me back to line the pan what did the young divil do but impty the ink-bottle on the clock shelf into me cake . . . and me niver knowing it. Sure and yer Aunt Edith do be saying a good fruit cake shud be black. Mine was black enough to plaze her, Patsy darlint.”
Pat exulted in finding a new recipe and serving it before anybody else when the Ladies’ Aid met at Silver Bush. She loved to pore over the advertisement pictures in the magazines . . . the lovely cookies and fruits and vegetables . . . dear little white and red radishes . . . curly lettuce . . . crimson beets . . . golden asparagus with little green tips. She loved going to town to shop. There were certain things in the stores there, hers, though she had not yet bought them. She liked to browbeat the butcher and bulldoze the grocer delicately . . . to resist temptation and yield to it . . . to save and spend. She loved to think of weary and lonely people coming to Silver Bush for rest and food and love.
And under everything a sense of deep satisfaction in doing the thing she was meant to do. She tasted it to the full in the beautiful silences which occasionally fell over Silver Bush when every one was quietly busy and the cats basked on the window sills.
And then to prepare for mother’s home-coming!
Chapter 36
Balm in Gilead
1
“Father walks slow to what he used to do,” said Winnie with a sigh, as she and Pat shelled peas on the kitchen steps in the sultry August afternoon, with Bold-and-Bad sitting between them. An occasional breeze set the leaves of the young aspen by the door shaking wildly. Pat loved that aspen. It had grown up unregarded in a few summers . . . Judy always threatening to cut it down . . . and then over night it had turned from a shrub into a tree. And then dad had declared it must come down but Pat had interceded successfully.
“In a year or two it will shade the steps so nicely. Think of the moonlight falling through it on summer nights, dad.”
Dad shrugged and let her have her way. Everybody knew Pat couldn’t bear to have a tree cut down. No use having the child cry her golden-brown eyes out.
Over in the field of the Pool Sid was building an oat-stack. Sid, it was said, could build the best oat-stack in P.E. Island.
Pat looked after dad wistfully as he crossed the yard and went over to the field of the Pool. He did walk slower; he was more stooped. Yet how she hated to admit it.
“Is it any wonder? After those dreadful weeks when we didn’t know whether mother would live or die. And I don’t think he ever really got over Joe’s going.” Winnie sighed again. Pat looked keenly at her. Winnie had been very remote and dreamy for some days past. Pat suddenly remembered that she had not heard Winnie laughing . . . since when? Since the last night Frank Russell had been over. And he had not been over for a week.
It had been a suspected thing all through the year that Winnie and Frank would be married in the fall. All through the winter Judy had hooked rugs “like mad.” Pat did not warm to the thought but it had to be faced and accepted.
“Winnie, what is the trouble, darling?”
“There’s no trouble,” said Winnie impatiently. “Don’t be silly, Pat.”
“I’m not silly. You’ve been . . . funny . . . for a week. Have you quarrelled with your Frank?”
“No,” said Winnie slowly. Then her face went white and her eyes filled with tears. She must tell somebody and mother mustn’t be bothered now. Pat wasn’t old enough to understand, of course . . . Winnie still persisted in thinking of Pat as a mere child . . . but she was better than nobody at all.
“It’s only . . . he was a little angry when I told him we couldn’t be married this fall after all . . . perhaps not for years.”
“But . . . Winnie . . . why? I thought it was all settled.”
“So it was. Before mother took ill. But you know perfectly well, Pat, that everything is changed now. We simply have to look facts in the face. Mother may be spared to us for many years but she’ll always be an inv
alid. You will be teaching and Judy isn’t as young as she once was. She can’t do all the work that has to be done here, even with your help after school. And it would break her heart to get any one in to help her, even if dad could afford it, which he can’t. So I must give up all thoughts of being married just now. Of course Frank doesn’t like it, but he’ll just have to reconcile himself to it. If he doesn’t . . . well, there are plenty of other girls ready to keep house for him.”
In spite of herself Winnie’s voice faltered. The thought of all those willing girls was very bitter. And Frank had been very . . . difficult. The Russells did not like to be kept waiting. She knew he wouldn’t wait for years. And if he did . . . they would be old and tired and all the first blossom of life would be withered and scentless. Just like poor Sophie Wright. She and Gordon Dodds had waited for fifteen years until her paralysed father died; and Sophie had never seemed like a bride. Just a faded little woman who no longer cared greatly whether she was married or not. Yet Winnie did not falter in her decision. There was good stuff in the Silver Bush girls. They put duty first always, even in a world which was clamouring that the word was outmoded and the thing to do was to grab what you wanted when you wanted it and let everything else go hang.
For just a moment a wild thrill of joy swept over Pat. Winnie wouldn’t marry Frank after all. There wouldn’t be any more changes at Silver Bush. She and Winnie and Sid would just go on living there, taking care of father and mother, loving Silver Bush and each other, recking nothing of the changing world outside. It would be heavenly.
But Winnie’s eyes! They looked like blue violets that somebody had stepped on and bruised horribly.
Pat had never been able to understand how Winnie could love Frank as she did. Frank . . . if you didn’t hate him because he was stealing your sister . . . was a nice enough fellow, with a wholesome pink face and steady grey-blue eyes. But nothing romantic about him . . . no smart compliments, no Lara-like glooms . . . nothing to induce such a riot of feeling as Winnie evidently experienced whenever she heard his step at the door.
What did Winnie see in him? Pat gave it up.
All the lawless joy died out of Pat when she saw Winnie’s eyes. It was simply ridiculous to think of Winnie’s eyes looking so . . . just ridiculous, that was all. And quite unnecessary. Because she, Pat, had everything nicely planned out already.
“Winnie, do you know you’re just talking nonsense? Of course you’re going to marry Frank. I am not going to take the school. I decided that as soon as mother came home. I’ll be here to help Judy.”
“Pat, you can’t do that. It wouldn’t be fair to ask you to give up your school after you studied so hard at Queen’s to get your licence . . . you ought to have your chance . . .”
Pat laughed.
“My chance! That’s just it. I’ve got my chance . . . the chance I’ve been aching for. The chance to stay at Silver Bush and care for it. I’ve hated the thought of teaching school. Who knows even if I’d get on well in the home school? I might have to go away another year . . . and that . . . but we needn’t go into that. Of course I’d rather have mother well and strong than anything else even if I had to go to the ends of the earth. But since she can’t be . . . well, I have the consolation of knowing I can stay home anyhow.”
“What will dad say?”
“Dad knows. Why, Win, he was relieved. He never thought but that you’d be getting married and he didn’t know just how things could be managed here. Because he didn’t want me disappointed either in having to give up my school. Disappointed!” Pat howled again. “Win, parents aren’t the selfish creatures so many horrid stories make them out. They don’t want their children to sacrifice and give up for them. They want them to be happy.”
“All but the cranks,” said Judy, who had brought her little spinning wheel out to the platform and thought herself at liberty to butt into any conversation. “There do always be a few cranks aven among parents. Oh, oh, but not among the Gardiners.”
“I think,” said Winnie in a rather unsteady tone, “if you don’t mind finishing the peas, Pat . . . I’ll go upstairs for a little while.”
Pat grinned. Winnie would go upstairs and write to Frank.
“Likely Winnie will be marrying Frank this fall, Judy,” Pat said with a gulp. It seemed to make a thing so irrevocable to say it.
“Oh, oh, and why not, the darlint? She can cook and she can sew. She can get along widout things. She do be knowing whin to laugh and whin not to. Oh, oh, she’s fit to be married. It do be eliven years since we had a wedding at Silver Bush. Sure and that’s a liddle bit too much like heaven, wid nather marrying nor giving in marriage.”
“George Nicholson is going to be married to Mary Baker,” announced Cuddles, who had wandered along with a little spotted barn cat she affected in her arms. “I wish he would wait till I grow up. I believe he would like me better than Mary because there is no fun in her. There’s a good deal in me when my conscience doesn’t bother me. O . . . h, look at Bold-and-Bad.”
Bold-and-Bad had met his match since Cuddles had been bringing the barn cat to the house. The barn cat was scrawny and ugly but she was taking impudence from nobody. Bold-and-Bad was ludicrously afraid of her. It was a sight of fun to see that whiffet of a cat attack and put to flight an animal who should have been able to demolish her with a blow of his paw. Bold-and-Bad fled over the yard and through the grave-yard and across the Mince Pie field with yowls of terror.
“Look at Gintleman Tom enjoying av it,” chuckled Judy.
“We have nice cats at Silver Bush,” said Cuddles complacently. “Interesting cats. And they have an air. They walk so proud and hold their tails up. Other cats slink. Trix Binnie laughed when I said that and said, ‘You’re getting just as crazy as Pat over your old Silver Bush, thinking there’s nothing like it.’ ‘Well, there isn’t,’ I told her. And I was right, wasn’t I, Pat?”
“You were,” said Pat fervently. “But there comes your barn cat back and you’d best take her to the barn before dad sees her. You know he doesn’t want the barn cats encouraged to the house. He says he puts up with Gentleman Tom and Bold-and-Bad because they’re old established customs.”
“How old is Gentleman Tom, Judy?”
“Oh, oh, old, is it? The Good Man Above do be knowing that. All I do be knowing is that he come here twelve years ago, looking as old as he does this blessed minute. Maybe there isn’t inny age about him,” concluded Judy mysteriously. “Ye can’t iver be thinking av him as a kitten, can ye now?”
“I’m sure he could tell some queer tales, Judy. It’s a pity cats can’t talk.”
“Talk is it? Whoiver told ye they cudn’t talk, Cuddles darling? The grandfather of me heard two cats talking onct but he niver cud be got to tell what they said . . . No, no, he didn’t want to be getting in wrong wid the tribe. As I was telling Siddy last Sunday whin he was raving mad because Bold-and-Bad had gone to slape on his Sunday pants and they was kivered wid cat hairs, ‘Think whativer ye like av a cat, Siddy darlint,’ sez I to him, ‘but don’t be saying innything. If the King av the cats heard ye now!”
“And what would have happened if the King of the cats had heard him, Judy?”
“Oh, oh, let’s lave that tale for a rale wild stormy winter night, Cuddles, whin ye’re slaping wid old Judy snug and cosy. Thin I’ll be telling ye what happened to a man in ould Ireland that did be saying things av cats a liddle too loud and careless like. It’s no tale for a summer afternoon wid a widding looming up.”
2
Winnie was to be married in late September and Silver Bush settled down to six weeks of steady preparation. Judy had a new swing shelf put up in the cellar to fill with rows on rows of ruby jam-pots for Winnie. The wood-work in the Poet’s room was to be painted all over in robin’s egg blue and then there was the excitement of choosing paper to harmonise with it. Though Pat hated to tear the old paper off. It had been on so long. And she resented having the chairs in the Big Parlour recovered. There was a sort
of harmony about the old room as it was. New things jarred. But Silver Bush must look its best, for Winnie was to have a big wedding.
“The clan do be liking a bit av a show,” said Judy delightedly.
“It means a great deal of work,” said Aunt Edith rather disapprovingly.
“Work, is it? Ye do be right. It’s busy as a hin wid one chick we all are. I do be kaping just one jump ahead. But I’m not liking yer sneaking widdings as if they was ashamed av it. We’ll be having one to be proud av, wid ivery relative on both sides and lots av prisents and two bridesmaids and a flower girl . . . Oh, oh, and Winnie’s trosso now! The like av it has niver been seen at Silver Bush. All her liddle undies made be hand. ‘An inch av hand-work do be worth a machine mile,’ sez I to Mrs. Binnie whin she do be saying her cousin’s daughter had two dozen av ivery kind. It do be a comfort to me whin I climb up to me loft at night, faling as if I’d been pulled through a kay-hole.”
“Oh, Judy, you and I are getting to be old women,” sighed Aunt Barbara.
Judy looked scandalised.
“Yes, yes, but whisht . . . don’t be spaking av it, woman dear,” she whispered apprehensively.
Winnie had a dream of a wedding dress . . . the sort of dress every girl would like to have. Everybody loved it except Aunt Edith, who was horrified at its brevity. Dresses were at their shortest when Winnie was married. Aunt Edith had been praying for years that women’s skirts might be longer but apparently in vain.
“It’s a condition that can’t be affected by prayer,” Uncle Tom told her gravely.
Winnie moved through all the bustle of preparation with a glory in her eyes, smiling dreamily over thoughts of her own. Frank haunted Silver Bush to such an extent that Judy was a trifle peeved at him.
“He do be all right in his place but I’m not liking him spread over everything,” she grumbled.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 333
