The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  But Judy in the kitchen was shaking her grey bob sorrowfully at Gentleman Tom.

  “Young Horace don’t be young inny longer. All the divilment has gone out av him. And looking so solemn! There was a time the solemner he looked the more mischief he was plotting. Oh, oh!” Judy sighed. “I’m fearing we do all be getting a bit ould, cat dear.”

  The Third Year

  1

  Rae was off to Queen’s and Pat was very lonely. Of course Rae came home every Friday night, just as Pat had done in her Queen’s year, and they had hilarious week ends. But the rest of the time was hard to endure. No Rae to laugh and gossip with . . . no Rae to talk over the day with at bedtime . . . no Rae to sleep in the little white bed beside her own. Pat cried herself to sleep for several nights, and then devoted herself to Silver Bush more passionately than ever.

  Rae, after her first homesick week, liked town and college very much, though she was sometimes cold in her boarding house bed and the only window of her room looked out on the blank brick wall of the next house instead of a flower garden and green fields and misty hills.

  And Judy was getting ready for her trip to Ireland. She was to go in November with the Patterson family from Summerside, who were revisiting the old sod, and all through October little else was talked of at Silver Bush. Pat, though she hated the thought of Judy going, threw herself heart and soul into the preparations. Judy must and should have this wonderful trip to her old home after her life of hard work. Everybody was interested. Long Alec went to town and got Judy her steamer trunk. Judy looked a bit strange when he dumped it on the walk.

  “Oh, oh, I know I do be going . . . but I can’t belave it, Patsy. That trunk there . . . I can’t fale it belongs to me. If it was the old blue chist now . . .”

  But of course the old blue chest couldn’t be taken to Ireland. And Judy at last believed she was going when a paragraph in the “North Glen Notes” announced that Miss Judy Plum of Silver Bush would spend the winter with her relatives in Ireland. Judy looked queerer than ever when she saw it. It seemed to make everything so irrevocable.

  “Patsy darlint, it must be the will av the Good Man Above that I’m to go,” she said when she read it.

  “Nothing like a change, as old Murdoch MacGonigal said when he turned over in his grave,” remarked Tillytuck cheerfully.

  Everybody gave Judy something. Uncle Tom gave a leather suit-case and mother a beautiful brush and comb and hand mirror.

  “Oh, oh, niver did I be thinking I’d have a t’ilet set av me own,” said Judy. “Talk av the silver backed ones the Bishop stole! And wid me monnygram on the back av the looking glass! I do be hoping me ould uncle will have sinse enough lift to take in the grandeur av it.”

  Pat gave her a “negleege” and Aunt Barbara gave her a crinkly scarf of cardinal crêpe which she had worn only once and which Judy had greatly admired. Even Aunt Edith gave her a grey hug-me-tight with a purple border. Pat nearly went into kinks at the thought of Judy in such a thing but Judy was rather touched.

  “Sure and it was rale kind av Edith. I hadn’t ixpicted it for we’ve niver been what ye might call cronies. Mebbe I’ll see some poor ould lady in Ireland that it’ll set.”

  Judy’s travelling dress exercised them all but one was finally got that pleased her. Also a grey felt hat with a smart, tiny scarlet feather in it. Judy tried the whole outfit on one night in the kitchen chamber and was so scared by her stylish reflection in the cracked mirror that she was for tearing everything off immediately.

  “Oh, oh, it doesn’t look like me Patsy. It does be frightening me. Will I iver get back into mesilf?”

  But Pat made her go down to the kitchen and show herself to everybody. And everybody felt that this hatted and coated and scarlet-feathered Judy was a stranger but everybody paid her compliments and Tillytuck said if he’d ever suspected what a fine-looking woman she really was there was no knowing what might have happened.

  “I hope nothing will prevent Judy from going,” said Rae. “It would break her heart to be disappointed now. But when I think of coming home Friday nights and Judy not here! And that horrid old Mrs. Bob Robinson, with her pussy cat face!” Rae blinked her eyes fiercely.

  “Mrs. Robinson isn’t really so bad, Rae,” protested Pat half-heartedly. “At any rate she is the best we can get and it’s only for the winter.”

  “I tell you she’s an inquisitive, snooping old thing,” snapped Rae. “You didn’t see her going down the walk after you’d hired her, giving her chops a sly lick of self-satisfaction every three steps. I did. And I know she was thinking, ‘I’ll show them what proper housekeeping is at Silver Bush.’”

  One burning question had been . . . who was to be got in to help Pat for the winter? From several candidates Mrs. Bob Robinson of Silverbridge was finally chosen, as the least objectionable. Tillytuck didn’t take to her and nicknamed her Mrs. Puddleduck at sight. It was not hard to imagine why for Mrs. Robinson was very short and very plump and very waddly. The Silver Bush family could never again think of her as anything but Mrs. Puddleduck. Tillytuck’s nicknames had a habit of sticking.

  To Judy, of course, Mrs. Puddleduck was nothing but a necessary evil.

  “She do be more up to date than mesilf I’m not doubting” . . . with a toss of her grey head. “They do be saying she took that domestic short course last year. But will she be kaping our cats continted I’m asking ye?”

  “They say she’s a very careful, saving woman,” said Long Alec.

  “Oh, oh, careful, is it? I’m not doubting it.” Judy waxed very sarcastic. “She do be getting that from no stranger. Her grandfather did be putting a sun-dial in his garden and thin built a canopy over it to pertect it from the sun. Oh, oh, careful! Ye’ve said it!”

  “She’ll never make such apple fritters as yours, Judy, if she took fifty short courses,” said Sid, passing his plate up for a second helping.

  Then there was the matter of the passport. They had quite a time convincing Judy that she must have a photograph taken for it.

  “Sure an’ wud ye want to be photygraphed if ye had a face like that, Rae, darlint,” she would demand, pointing to the kitchen mirror which never paid any one compliments. But when the picture came home Judy, in her new hat, with the crinkled crêpe scarf about her throat looked so surprisingly handsome that she was delighted. She kept the passport in the drawer of the kitchen cupboard and took frequent peeps at it when nobody was about.

  “Did I iver be thinking a hat cud make such a difference? I can’t be seeing but that I do be ivery bit as good-looking as Lady Medchester, and her a blue-blood aristocrat!”

  Had it not been for Judy’s going that October would have been a perfectly happy month for Pat. It was a golden, frostless autumn and when the high winds blew it fairly rained apples in the orchards and the ferns along the Whispering Lane were brown and spicy. There were gay evenings up at the Long House with Suzanne and David . . . hours of good gab-fest by the light of their leaping fire. David developed a habit of walking down the hill with Pat which Judy did not think at all necessary. Pat had come down that hill many a night alone.

  “Thim widowers,” she muttered viciously . . . but took care that Pat did not hear her. Judy had soon discovered that Pat resented any criticism of David Kirk.

  Then McGinty died. They had long expected it. The little dog had been feeble all summer: he had grown deaf and very wistful. It broke Pat’s heart when she met his pleading eyes. But to the very last he tried to wag his tail when she came to him. He died with his golden brown head pillowed on her hand. Judy cried like a child and even Tillytuck and Long Alec blew their noses. McGinty was buried beside Snicklefritz in the old graveyard and Pat had to write and tell Hilary that he was gone.

  “I feel as if I could never love a dog again,” she wrote. “I miss him so. It is so hard to remember that he is dead. I’m always looking for him. Hilary, just before he died he suddenly lifted his head and pricked his ears just as he used to do when he heard your step.
I think he did hear something because all at once that heart-breaking look of longing went out of his eyes and he gave such a happy little sigh and cuddled his head down in my hand and . . . it seems too harsh to say he died. He just ceased to be. I wish you had come home, Hilary. I’m sure it was you his eyes were always asking for. Do you remember how he always came to meet us those Friday evenings when we came home from college? And he was with you that night so long ago when you saved me from dying of sheer terror on the base-line road. He was only a little, loving-hearted dog but his going has made a terrible hole in my life. It’s another change . . . and Rae is gone . . . and Judy is going. Oh, Hilary, life seems to be just change . . . change . . . change. Everything changes but Silver Bush. It is always the same and I love it more every day of my life.”

  Hilary Gordon frowned a bit when he read this. And he frowned still more over a certain paragraph in a letter Rae had written.

  “I do wish you’d come home this summer, Jingle. If you don’t soon come Pat will up and marry that horrid David Kirk. I know she will. It’s really mysterious the influence that man has gained over her. It’s David this and David that . . . she’s always quoting him. So far as I can see he doesn’t do anything but talk to her . . . and he can talk. The creature is abominably clever.”

  Hilary sighed. Perhaps he should have gone to the Island last summer. But he was working his way through college . . . for accept help from the mother who had neglected him all his life he would not . . . and summer visits home . . . to Hilary “home” meant Silver Bush . . . could not be squeezed into his budget.

  2

  The first day of November came when Judy must pack. It was mild and calm and sunny but there had been hard frost the night before, for the first time, and the garden had suffered. Pat hated to look at her flowers. The nasturtiums were positively indecent. She realised that the summer was over at last.

  Judy’s trunk was in the middle of the kitchen floor. Pat helped her pack. “Don’t forget the black bottle, Judy,” Sid said slyly as he passed. Judy ignored this but she brought down her book of Useful Knowledge.

  “I must be taking this, Patsy. There do be a lot av ettiket hints in it. Or do ye be thinking they’re a trifle out av date? The book is by way av being a bit ouldish. I wudn’t want me cousins in Ireland to be thinking I didn’t know the latest rules. And, Patsy darlint, I’m taking me ould dress-up dress as well as the new one. I did be always loving that dress. The new one is rale fine but I haven’t been wearing it long enough to fale acquainted wid it. Do ye rimimber how ye always hated to give up any av yer ould clothes, Patsy? And, Patsy dear, here’s the kay av me blue chist. I’m wanting ye to kape it for me whin I’m gone and if innything but good shud be happening to me over there . . . not that I’m thinking it will . . . ye’ll be finding me bit av a will in the baking powder can in the till.”

  “Judy, just imagine it . . . this time next week you’ll be in the middle of the Atlantic.”

  “Patsy dear,” said Judy soberly, “there’s a favour I’d be asking ye. Will ye be saying that liddle hymn ivery night whin ye say yer prayers . . . the one where it does be mintioning ‘those in peril on the say.’ It’d be a rale comfort to me on the bounding dape. Well, me trunk’s packed, thank the Good Man Above. Sure and I knew a woman that tuk four trunks wid her whin she wint to the Ould Country. I’m not knowing how she stud it. Iverything do be ready but what if something’ll be previnting me from going at the last minute, Patsy? I’m that built up on it I cudn’t be standing it.”

  “Nothing will happen to prevent you, Judy. You’ll have a splendid trip and a lovely visit with all your cousins.”

  “I’m hoping it, girl dear. But I’ve been seeing so minny disappointmints in life. And, Patsy dear, kape an eye on Gintleman Tom, will ye and see that Mrs. Puddleduck don’t be imposing on him. I’m not knowing how the poor baste will be doing widout me.”

  “Don’t worry, Judy. I’ll look after him . . . if he doesn’t go and disappear as he did the last time you were away from home.”

  Pat lingered a little while that evening on the back-stair landing looking out of the round window. There was a promise of gathering storm. A peevish wind was tormenting the boughs of the aspen poplar. Scudding clouds seemed to sweep the tips of the silver birches. Soon the rain would be falling on the dark autumn fields. But even a wild wet night like this would have been delightful at Silver Bush if her heart had been lighter. Judy would be gone by this time tomorrow night and Mrs. Puddleduck would be reigning in her stead. No Judy to come home to . . . no Judy to give you “liddle bites” . . . no Judy to stir pea soup . . . no Judy to slip in on cold nights with the eiderdown puff off the Poet’s bed.

  “And what,” said Gentleman Tom on the step above, “is a poor cat to do?”

  Long Alec took Judy to the station next morning through a drizzling rain. She was going to Summerside to spend the night at Uncle Brian’s and take the boat train with the Pattersons the next day. Everybody stood at the gate and waved her off, smiling gallantly till the car was out of sight. Pat turned back to the kitchen where Mrs. Puddleduck was already making a cake and looking quite at home.

  “I hate her,” thought Pat, wildly and unjustly.

  Dinner . . . the first meal without Judy . . . was a sorry affair. The soup of Mrs. Puddleduck was not the soup of Judy Plum.

  “She doesn’t know how to stir the brew,” Tillytuck whispered to Pat.

  Rae came home that night but supper was a gloomy affair. Mrs. Puddleduck’s cake, in spite of her domestic short course, rather looked as if somebody had sat down on it: Long Alec was very silent: Tillytuck went straight to his granary roost as soon as the meal was over. Nothing pleased him and he did not pretend to be pleased.

  “I feel old, Pat . . . as old as Methuselah,” said Rae drearily, as they peeped into the kitchen before going to bed.

  “I feel middle-aged, which is far worse,” moaned Pat.

  Mrs. Puddleduck was sitting there, knitting complacently at a sweater. No cat was in sight, not even Gentleman Tom.

  “I wish I could be a cat for a little while, just to bite you,” whispered Rae to the fat back of the unconscious Mrs. Puddleduck, who really was quite undeserving of all this hatred and, in fact, thought quite highly of herself for “helping the Gardiners out” while Judy Plum was gallivanting off to Ireland.

  Saturday was dark and dour but a pleasant letter from Hilary helped Pat through the forenoon. Dear Hilary! What letters he could write! Hilary as a friend, even in faraway Toronto, was worth all the beaus in the Maritimes.

  In mid-afternoon it began to rain again, battering everything down in the desolate garden. Tillytuck and Mrs. Puddleduck were already at loggerheads because when she complained that Just Dog had barked all night he had indulged in one of his silent fits of laughter and said blandly, “If you’d told me he’d purred I’d have been more surprised.”

  Sid took the girls over to the Bay Shore to help Winnie paper a room. The air was as full of flying leaves as of rain, and floods ran muddily down the gutters of the road. It was just as bad when they returned at night.

  “I suppose Judy is on board ship now. They were to sail from Halifax at five o’clock,” sighed Rae. “There’s Tillytuck playing his fiddle. How can he have the heart? But I suppose he’s trying to get on the good side of Mrs. Puddleduck. That man has no soul above snacks.”

  “I don’t know how we’ll ever get through the winter,” said Pat.

  They ran up the wet walk and opened the kitchen door . . . then stood on the threshold literally paralysed with amazement. Tillytuck’s fiddle was purring under his hands. Mother was mending by the table whereon was a huge platterful of fat doughnuts. Long Alec lay on the sofa, snoozing blissfully with Squedunk on his chest and Bold-and-Bad and Popka curled up at his feet. Gentleman Tom, with the air of a cat making up his mind to forgive somebody, was sitting on the rug, with his tail stretched out uncompromisingly behind him.

  And Judy . . . Judy . . . in her
old drugget dress was sitting beside the stove stirring the contents of a savoury pot! Her knitting was on her lap and she looked like anything but a heart-broken woman.

  For a moment the girls stared at her unbelievingly. Then with a shriek of “Judy!!!” they hurled themselves upon her. Wet as they were she hugged them with a fierce tenderness.

  “Judy . . . Judy . . . darling . . . but why . . . why . . .?”

  “I just cudn’t be going, that do be all, me jewels. I was knowing it in me heart as soon as I lift. Poor Alec hadn’t a word to throw to a dog. Ye cud have been scraping the blue mould off av him be the time we got to the station. But thinks I to mesilf, ‘I’d look like a nice fool backing out now, after all thim prisents,’ thinks I. So I did be sticking it out till I got into me bed at yer Uncle Brian’s that night . . . the second bist spare room it was . . . oh, oh, they trated me fine, I’ll be saying that for thim. But niver the wink wud I be slaping. I kipt thinking av me kitchen here, wid Mrs. Puddleduck reigning in me stid . . . and of all the things that might be happening to me, roaming abroad. Running inty an iceberg maybe . . . or maybe dying over there. Not that I’d be minding the dying so much but being buried among strangers. And thin if innything but good shud be happening to some av ye here! Thinks I, ‘Perhaps they’ll be larning to like Mrs. Puddleduck better’n me and her as smooth as crame.’ I cud see ye all, snug and cosy, wid the beaus slipping along in the dim. Thinks I, ‘There do be all the turkeys to be fattened for Christmas and the winter hooking to be done and mebbe Joe coming home to be married,’ . . . and I cudn’t be standing it. So at breakfast I up and told Brian I’d been after changing me mind and I’d just be going back to Silver Bush instead av to Ireland wid the Pattersons.”

  “Judy, you said the other day it would break your heart if anything prevented you from going . . .”

  “Oh, oh, yisterday and to-day do be two different things,” said Judy complacently. “Whin ye thought I was all ixcited over me trip I was just talking to kape me spirits up. It’s the happy woman I am to think I’ll slape in me own snug bed to-night wid Gintleman Tom curled up at me fate. Brian brought me home this afternoon and whin I stepped over the threshold of me kitchen I wudn’t have called the quane me cousin. Oh, oh, ye shud have been seeing Madam Puddleduck’s face! ‘I thought this was how it wud be,’ sez she, as spiteful as a fairy that had just got a spanking.”