The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  “And what about Bruce and Peter?” asked Pat, with a faint smile.

  “Pat, it was really comical. Oh, there’s so much to tell you. You see, they didn’t know anything about Brook, but they told me two weeks ago that I had to make up my mind between them. And I just told them I was engaged to Brook. You should have seen their faces. Then they just faded out of the picture. I don’t think they ever really existed.”

  “And were you engaged then . . . a week after you’d met him?”

  “Darling, we were engaged three days after we met. I couldn’t help it. What would you do if Sir Launcelot just rode into your back yard and told you you had to marry him? Because Brook didn’t ask me, you know . . . he just told me I had to. There wasn’t the least use objecting even if I’d wanted to. And . . . oh, Pat, I . . . I cried. That’s the shameful truth. I haven’t the least idea why I did, but I simply howled. It was such a relief . . . I’d been thinking I was just one of the crowd to him . . . and Dot was trying to hint he was after Lenore Madison . . . that freckled, snub-nosed thing. You may be sure I didn’t ask for any time to consider. Pat, you’re not going to cry!”

  “No . . . no . . . but this is really a little unexpected, Rae.”

  For one awful moment Pat had felt as if Rae . . . this Rae . . . were a stranger to her. She had been away from Silver Bush for only three weeks and this had happened.

  “I know.” Rae squeezed Pat’s hand. “And I know it must all seem like indecent haste to you. But if you count time by heart-throbs as somebody says you should, it’s been a century since I met him. He isn’t a stranger. He’s one of our kind . . . like Hilary . . . knows all our quacks, really he does. You’ll understand when you meet him, Pat.”

  Pat did understand. She couldn’t find a single fault with Brook Hamilton. As a brother-in-law he was everything that could be desired. Tall, lean, with intensely blue eyes and straight black brows. Certainly he and Rae made a wonderful-looking young pair in spite of his “rather ugly” face. She couldn’t hate him as she had hated Frank, even if he were going to take her sister away. But, mercifully, not for a long time yet. And there was no doubt that Rae loved him.

  “I wish I could love somebody like that,” said Pat, with a little pang of envy. She sat alone for a long time in her room that evening while the robins whistled outside and the purple night sky looked down on her. So, in the years to come, she would always have to sit alone. For the first time in her life Pat felt old . . . for the first time a little chill of fear for her own future touched her. She almost hated Bold-and-Bad for purring so loudly on the bed. It was outrageous that a cat should be so blatantly happy. Really Bold-and-Bad had no tact.

  “I suppose,” thought Pat dolefully, “the time will come when I’ll have nothing left but a cat.” Then she brightened up. “And Silver Bush. That will be enough,” she added softly.

  At bedtime she knelt by Rae’s bed and put her arm across Rae’s shoulders.

  “Cuddles dear,” she said, slipping back to the old nickname, “Brook is a dear . . . and I think you’re both lucky . . . and I love you . . . love you . . . love you.”

  “Pat, you’re the dearest thing in the world. And why didn’t you cast the Reverend Wheeler of happy memory up to me and remind me of the time I thought I was in love with him? I really expected you to do it . . . I don’t know how any human being could have resisted doing it.”

  Judy was only moderately pleased over the engagement because of the prospect of China.

  “Oh, oh, I’ve great opinions of haythens, Patsy dear. They do be all right to sind missionaries to, but not to be living among. And her wid thim looks av hers to go to Chiny! Sure and some ugly girl wud have done for him I’m thinking, since he can’t be continted in a civilised country. But I’m not denying he’s a fine lad and he can’t be hilping his uncle.”

  “Now, Judy, what about his uncle?”

  “Oh, oh, it’s an ould tale and better not raked up maybe. Well, if ye will be having it. The Hamiltons may be av Halifax now but the grandfather av thim lived in Charlottetown whin his lads were small. And Brook’s uncle was the black shape . . . if it don’t be insulting shape to call him so. Crooked he was as a dog’s hind leg. He wint out wist after quarrelling wid his dad and what did he do but write a long account av his being killed whin a train struck his horse and buggy at a crossing and got it published in a liddle newspaper there, one av his wild cronies being editor av it, and sint a marked copy home to the ould folks. It just about broke his poor mother’s heart . . . I’m not saying his dad tuk it so hard and small blame to him . . . and they had a lot av worry tilligraphing to have the body sint home. And whin they wint to the station wid the hearse and undertaker and all to mate the corpse didn’t me fine Dicky Hamilton stip off the train laughing at the joke he’d played on thim!”

  “How horrible! But don’t tell Rae that, Judy.”

  “Oh, oh, it’s not likely . . . nor the squeal to it ather. For what do you think, Patsy dear? The young scallywag did be killed the nixt wake in the very same way he’d writ av . . . he was driving along one avening reckless-like and the train struck him on that crossing on the wist road and that was the ind av him. Niver be telling me it wasn’t jidgmint. But there do be no doubting that Cuddles is over head and heels in love wid Brook. ‘Sure and there do be other min in the world, Cuddles darlint,’ I sez, be way av tazing her a bit. ‘There aren’t,’ she sez, solemn-like. ‘There’s simply nobody else in the world, Judy,’ sez she. And that being the case we must just be making the bist av it, uncle or no uncle. After all, there do be something rale glamorous about it as Tillytuck wud say.”

  As a matter of fact, all Tillytuck said was, “Engaged, by gosh!” Such a whirlwind courtship was entirely too much for Tillytuck. He relieved his feeling by playing on his fiddle in the graveyard, seated on Wild Dick’s tombstone, much to Judy’s horror.

  “How do you know Wild Dick doesn’t still like to hear the fiddle, Judy?” asked Sid audaciously.

  “If Wild Dick do be in heaven he has the angels to be listening to . . . and if he isn’t he do be having other things to think av,” was Judy’s indignant reply. Tillytuck had to give her his old red flannel shirt for the rose-buds in her new hooked rug before he could make his peace with her. And then nearly wrecked it again by solemnly telling Little Mary, to whom Judy had just been relating a story of some naughty children who had been turned into brooms by a witch . . . “I was one of them brooms!”

  The Sixth Year

  1

  For a year things went beautifully at Silver Bush. Everybody was happy. Mother was better than she had been for a long time. Sid seemed to have recovered his good spirits and was taking a keen interest in everything again. Gossip no longer coupled his name with any girl’s and Pat saw her old dream of living always at Silver Bush with Sid taking vague shape again. It was just like it used to be. They planned and joked and walked in faint blue twilights and Sid told her everything, and together they bullied Long Alec and Tillytuck when any difference of opinion came up. Between them they managed to get Silver Bush repainted, although Long Alec hated any extra expense as long as there was a mortgage on it. But Silver Bush looked beautiful . . . so white and trig and prosperous with its green shutters and trim. It warmed the cockles of Pat’s heart just to look at it. And to hear Sid say once, gruffly, on their return one winter evening from a long prowl back to their Secret Field,

  “You’re a good old scout, Pat. I don’t know what I’d have done without you these past two years.”

  “Oh, Sid!” Pat could only say that as she rubbed her face against his shoulder. This was one of life’s good moments. They had had such a wonderful walk. It had been lovely back in the woods. It was after the first snowfall and the woods were at peace in a white transfiguration, placidly still and calm, where the thick ranks of the young saplings were snow-laden and an occasional warm golden shaft of light from the low-hanging sun pierced through, tingeing the dark bronze-green of the spruces and the gre
yish-green streams of moss with vivid beauty. They had come home by way of Happiness, where Jordan was crooning to itself under the ice. The old pastures, which had been so beautiful and flowery in June, were cold and white now, but Pat loved them, as she loved them in all moods.

  She lingered at the gate to taste her happiness after Sid had gone on to the barn. It was going to be a night of frost and silver. To her right the garden was hooding itself in the shadows of dusk. Pat loved to think of all her staunch old flowers under the banks of snow, waiting for spring. Far away a dim hill came out darkly against a winter sunset. Beyond the dyke was a group of old spruces which Long Alec often said should be cut down. But Pat pleaded for them. Seen in daylight they were old and uncomely, dead almost to the top, with withered branches. But seen in this enchanted light, against a sky that began by being rosy-saffron and continued in silver green, and ended in crystal blue, they were like tall, slender witch women weaving spells of necromancy in a rune of olden days. Pat felt a stirring of her childish desire to share in their gramarye . . . to have fellowship in their twilight sorceries.

  Off to her left the orchard was white and still, heaped with drifts along the fences. Over it all was a delicate tracery of shadow where the trees stood up lifeless in seeming death and sorrow. But it was only seeming. The life-blood was in their hearts and by and by it would stir and they would clothe themselves in bridal garments of young green leaves and pink blossoms, and lush grass would wave where the snow was now lying and golden buttercups dance among it. Spring always came again . . . she must never forget that.

  Silver Bush looked very beautiful in the faint beginning moonlight . . . her own dear Silver Bush. It still welcomed her . . . it was still hers, no matter what changes came and went. Life seemed to have put on a new meaning now that Sid had come back to her in their old companionship. She pulled his love about her like a cloak and felt warm and satisfied.

  Rae had settled down to filling a hope chest and writing daily letters of portentous length to Brook Hamilton. She was changed . . . more gentle, thoughtful, womanly. There was no more pretending to be hard-boiled. Love, Sid told her teasingly, did mellow people remarkably. The old flippancy was gone, though she laughed as much as ever and never had her laughter, thought adoring Pat, been so exquisite.

  Pat had resigned herself to the fact of Rae’s engagement. But she would not be getting married for at least three years. They had those years to look forward to . . . years, dreamed Pat, of companionship and plans and all the dear intimacies of home.

  Winter slipped away . . . spring and summer passed. September wore a golden moon like a ring and again autumn brewed a cup of magic and held it to your lips. Only Tillytuck secretly thought it rather slow. The beaus came no longer, since Rae was known to be bespoken and Pat, so it was said, thought no one good enough for her.

  “Life is getting a bit tedious here, Judy,” he said, mournfully. “There doesn’t seem to be as much glamour, romantically speaking.”

  Perhaps Judy thought so, too. She sighed . . . it was not like Judy to sigh. Pat would have another birthday in a week . . . and not a beau in sight. Even David, Judy had decided, had really no serious intentions, and she hated him for it as sincerely as if she had never disapproved of him. She did not want Pat to marry him, but that was for Pat to decide, not for him. As for Jingle, there never was any word of his coming home for a visit.

  “He’s grown away from us, Judy. We’re only memories to him now. He has his own work and his own ambitions. Even his letters aren’t just what they used to be.”

  Pat hadn’t seemed to care. She was more taken up with Silver Bush than ever and she and Sid were “thick as thieves” again. Which was all to the good, as far as it went. To be sure, of late weeks, Sid had taken to gallivanting again. Nobody could find out where he was going although Judy had certain uneasy suspicions she never breathed to any one. Judy sighed again as she clapped her baked beans and bacon in the oven. Then she brightened up. Every one needed a liddle bite once in so often and as long as she, Judy Plum, could provide it there was balm in Gilead.

  A week later Judy looked back to that day and wondered if what had happened had been a judgment on her for thinking life had got a bit dull. For Pat’s birthday had come and that evening Sid had brought May Binnie in and announced, curtly and defiantly, and yet with such a pitiful, beaten look on his face, that they had been married that day in Charlottetown.

  “We thought we’d surprise you,” said May, glancing archly about her out of bold, brilliant eyes. “Birthday surprise for you, Pat.”

  2

  Pat sat up all that night, looking out over the quiet, unchanged fields of the farm, trying to look this hideous fact in the face. She was in the Poet’s room and she had locked the door. She would not even have Rae with her.

  She could not yet believe that this had happened. At first one cannot believe in a monstrous thing. Can one ever believe it? It was a dream . . . a nightmare. She would waken presently. She must . . . or go mad.

  She had been so happy that evening at twilight . . . so unusually, inexplicably happy, as if the gods were going to give her some wonderful gift . . . and now she would never be happy again. Pat was still young enough to think that when a thing like this happened you could never be happy again. Everything . . . everything . . . had changed in the twinkling of an eye. Sid was lost to her forever. The very fields she had loved now looked strange and hostile as she gazed on them. “Our inheritance is turned to strangers and our house to aliens.” She had read that verse in her Bible chapter two nights ago and shivered over the picture of desolation it presented. And now it had come true in her own life . . . her life that a few hours ago had seemed so full and beautiful and was now so ugly and empty.

  It had been such a ghastly hour. Nobody knew what to say or do. Pat’s face seemed to wither as she looked at them . . . at May, flushed and triumphant under all her uneasiness, at Sid, sullen and defiant. May tried to carry the situation off brazenly, after the true Binnie fashion.

  “Come, Pat, don’t look so snooty. I’m willing to let bygones be bygones, even if you and I have hated each other all our lives.”

  This was only too true but it was terrible to have the feeling dragged into light as nakedly as this. Pat could not answer. She turned away as if she had neither seen nor heard May and walked blindly out of the room. The only feeling she was keenly conscious of just then was a sick desire to get away from the light into a dark place where no one could see her . . . where she could hide like a wounded animal.

  May looked after her and her bold handsome face flushed crimson under Pat’s utter disregard. Her black eyes held a flame that was not good to see. But she laughed as she turned to Sid.

  “She’ll get over it, honey-boy. I never expected a warm welcome from Pat, you know.”

  Rae alone kept her head. Neither mother nor father must be told till morning, she reflected. As for Judy and Tillytuck, they seemed stricken dumb. Tillytuck slipped off to his granary shaking his head and Judy climbed to her kitchen chamber, feeling, for the time at least, more crushed and cowed than ever in her life before.

  “I’ve felt it coming,” she muttered, as she crept into bed forlornly. “I’ve been hearing he was going wid the bold young hussy. And Gintleman Tom knew it was coming, that he did. That was why he lit out like the knowing baste he was. He knew he cud niver be standing a Binnie. Oh, oh, if I did be knowing as much av magic as me grandmother I’d change her into a toad that I wud. What’ll be coming av it the Good Man Above only knows. One does be thinking the world cud be run a bit better. I’m fearing this will break Patsy’s heart.”

  3

  All the rest of her life Pat knew she had left girlhood behind her on that dreadful night. Hope seemed to be blotted out entirely. Already the hours that had passed seemed like an eternity and to-morrow . . . all the tomorrows . . . would be just as bad. Her mind went round and round in a miserable circle and got nowhere. May Binnie living at Silver Bush . . . Silver B
ush overrun with Binnies . . . they were a clannish crew in their way. Old Mr. Binnie who ate peas with his knife and old Mrs. Binnie who always sopped her bread in her gravy. And all the slangy, loud-voiced crew of them, the kind of people before whom you must always say everything over to yourself beforehand to be sure it was safe. What a crowd for Sid to have got himself mixed up with! No, it could not be faced.

  Pat wouldn’t go down when morning came . . . couldn’t. For the first time in her life she was a shirker. She could hear them talking beneath her at the breakfast-table. She could hear May’s desecrating laugh. She clenched her hands in fury and wretchedness. She pulled down the blind and shut out a world that was too glad with its early sunshine and its purple mists.

  Presently Rae came in . . . trim, alert, competent. Her blue eyes showed no traces of the tears she had shed in the night.

  “Pat, I left you alone last night because I realised that a thing like this had much better be talked over in the morning.”

  “What is the use of talking it over any time?” asked Pat listlessly.

  “We must talk it over because we have to face the situation, Pat. There is no use in turning our back on it or squinting at it out of the corners of our eyes . . . or ignoring it. Let’s just get down to real things and look to the future.”

  “But I can’t face it . . . Rae, I can’t,” cried poor Pat desperately. “Talk about the future! There isn’t any future! If it had been anybody but May Binnie! I’m not the little fool I once was. I’ve known for long that Sid would marry sometime. Even when I couldn’t help hoping he wouldn’t I knew he would. But May Binnie!”

  “I know. I know as well as you do that Sid has made a dreadful mistake and will realise it all too clearly some day. I know May is cheap and common and has no background . . . kitchen-bred, as Judy would say . . . but . . .”