“It can’t be helped now,” said Rae, stifling a laugh. “Thank heaven skirts are long. I deserve it . . . it was I who shut the door in his face. I was afraid he’d get tangled up in my veil. It was no way to treat an old family cat. He did perfectly right to bite me.”
The rest all seemed rather dream-like to Pat. The ceremony went off beautifully . . . though Rae afterwards said she could think of nothing but that run in her stocking the whole time. It would be so awful if Mrs. Binnie caught a glimpse of it somehow in spite of long skirts . . . for Mrs. Binnie was there after all, having rushed madly away as soon as dear Samuel’s funeral was over. She reached Silver Bush just as the bride came down the stairs.
Mother was pale and sweet and composed and dad, dreaming of youth and his own bridal day, looked very tenderly at this baby of his who had so swiftly and unaccountably grown up and was being married before he had realised that she was out of her cradle.
Just as Brook took his bride in his arms to kiss her Bold-and-Bad stalked in . . . a repentant Bold-and-Bad, carrying a large and juicy rat in his mouth which he laid down at Rae’s feet, with an air of atonement. A moment before everybody had been on the point of tears . . . but the tension dissolved in a burst of laughter and Rae’s wedding feast was as jolly as she had wanted it to be.
Nevertheless she found it hard to keep back her own tears when she turned at the door of her room for a farewell look. She recalled all the times she had left home before . . . but always to come back. Now she was going, never to come back . . . at least as Rae Gardiner. She would go out and shut the door and never open it again. She had finished with it and the happy, laughter-filled past that was linked with it. She clung to Pat.
“Darling, you’ll write me every week, won’t you? And I’m sure we’ll be home for a visit in three years at the latest.”
They were gone.
“I never saw Rae look so sweet and lovely,” sobbed Mrs. Binnie, her fat figure shaking. May was trying to squeeze out a few tears but Pat did not feel in the least like crying, though she thought her face would crack if she went on smiling any longer. She and Judy cleared up the rooms and washed the dishes and put things away. When Pat crept into the kitchen at dusk she found Judy sitting by a fire she had kindled.
“Oh, oh, I thought a bit av a fire wudn’t be amiss a could avening like this. The cats do be liking it. Ye know, Patsy, I’ve just been wishing poor ould Tillytuck was here, there in his corner, smoking his pipe. It . . . it wudn’t same so lonesome-like.”
It was odd to hear Judy talking of being lonesome. Pat sat down beside her on the floor, resting her head in Judy’s lap and pulling Judy’s arm around her. They sat so in silence for a long time, listening to the pleasant snap of the starting fire and the vociferous purring of the kitten Judy had snuggled at her side. Judy had always known how to make little creatures happy.
“Judy, this is the third time we’ve kept vigil in this old kitchen after we’ve seen a bride drive away. Do you remember Aunt Hazel’s . . . and Winnie’s? . . . how we sat here and you told me stories to cheer me up? I don’t want stories to-night, Judy. I just want to be quiet . . . and have you baby me a bit. I’m . . . tired.”
When Pat had risen and gone to the porch door to let in a pleading Popka Judy signed and whispered to herself.
“Oh, oh, I’m thinking all me stories do be told. Sure and I’m nothing but a guttering candle now.” But she did not let Pat hear her. And before long, when she had been thinking of Mrs. Binnie tearing in red-faced from the funeral, she began to chuckle.
“What is it, Judy?”
“Oh, oh, I didn’t mane to be laughing, Patsy, but it did be just coming inty me head what they did be telling once av ould Sam Cobbledick. He was fond av a drop whin he was younger but what wid his wife watching him he niver got much ava chanct to one. He was rale sick wid the flu one time and the doctor lift a liddle whiskey in a bottle for him. Mrs. Cobbledick thought it was only midicine and wint out to church. Thin in drops a neighbour man, ould Lem Morrison, and he brings a liddle drop in a bottle, too, sly-like. But ould Sam looks at it in dape disappointment. ‘There isn’t enough to make us both drunk,’ sez he. ‘Let’s put it together and make one av us drunk,’ sez he. ‘And let’s draw lots to see which’ll it be,’ sez he. So the lot fell to ould Sam. But ye did be saying ye weren’t wanting inny stories to-night.”
“I want to hear this one. What happened to old Sam, Judy?”
“Oh, oh, whin Sarah Coddledick came home her sick man was dancing and singing in the middle av the floor and niver a bit av flu left in him. She didn’t be guessing inny av the truth but she tould the doctor his midicines were entirely too strong for a sick man, aven if it cured him that quick. And now, Pasty, darlint, we’ll be having a liddle bite. I was noticing ye didn’t be ating much supper.”
Pat found the night bitter. There seemed such an unearthly stillness over the whole house. She sat at her window for a long time in the darkness. Below in the garden the white phlox glimmered . . . one of the many flowers Bets had given her . . . that sweet-lipped friend of long ago. The pain of Bets’ passing had faded out with time as gently as an old, old moon fades out into the sunrise, but it always came back at moments like this. She remembered how she used to lie awake, especially on stormy nights, after Winnie and Joe had gone. She could not bear to look at Rae’s little white bed.
But there was a wonderful sunrise the next morning . . . crimson and warm gold flushing up into the blue. A bird was singing somewhere in the orchard and the borders of the hill field were aflame with golden rod. Dawn still came beautifully . . . and she still had Silver Bush. Little Mary would often come to occupy Rae’s bed. Her spun-gold hair would gleam on that lonely pillow.
And, of course, there was always David . . . dear old dependable David. She must not forget him.
The Tenth Year
1
It took Pat a long while to get used to Rae’s absence. Sometimes she thought she would never get used to it. The autumn weeks were very hard. Every place . . . every room . . . seemed so full of Rae . . . even more so than when she had been home. Pat was, somehow, always expecting to see her . . . glimmering through the birches on moonlit nights . . . lilting along the Whispering Lane . . . coming home from school laughing over some jest of the day . . . wearing her youth like a golden rose. And then the renewed sadness of the realisation that she would not come. For a time it really seemed that Rae had taken the laughter of Silver Bush with her. Then it crept back; again there were jokes and talks in the kitchen o’nights.
Two things helped Pat through the fall and winter . . . Silver Bush and her evenings with David and Suzanne. Her love for Silver Bush had suffered no abatement . . . nay, it had seemed to deepen and intensify with the years, as other loves passed out of her life, as other changes came . . . or threatened to come. For Uncle Tom’s big black beard was quite grey now and dad was getting bald and Winnie’s gold hair was fading to drab. And . . . though Pat put the thought fiercely away whenever it came to her . . . Judy was getting old. It was not all May’s malice.
But then mother was so much better . . . almost well . . . beginning to take her place in the family life again. It was like a miracle, everybody said. So Pat was happy and contented in spite of certain passing aches of loneliness which made themselves felt on wakeful nights when a grief-possessed wind wailed around the eaves.
Then it seemed that spring touched Silver Bush in the night and winter was over. Drifts of rain softened over the hills that were not yet green . . . it was more as if a faint green shadow had fallen over them. Warm, wet winds blew through the awakening silver bush. Faint mists curled and uncurled in the Field of the Pool. Then came the snow of cherry petals on the walks and the wind in the grasses at morning and the delight of seeing young shoots pop up in the garden.
“I have nothing to do with anything in the world today but spring,” vowed Pat, the morning after housecleaning was finished. She refused to be cast down even by the fact th
at the building of the new house on the other place had to be postponed again for financial reasons. She spent the whole day in the garden, planning, discovering, exulting. Judy’s clump of bleeding-heart was in bloom. Nothing could be so lovely. But then, to Pat, one flower from the garden of Silver Bush would always be sweeter than a whole florist’s window.
“Let’s have supper in the orchard to-night, Judy.”
They had it . . . just she and mother and Judy and Little Mary, for the men were all away and May had gone home to help her mother houseclean. The Binnies generally got around to housecleaning when every one else was finishing.
Supper under hanging white boughs . . . apple blossoms dropping into your cream-pitcher . . . a dear, gentle evening with the “ancient lyric madness” Carman speaks of loose in the air. A meal like this was a sacrament. Pat was happy . . . mother was happy . . . Little Mary was happy because she was always happy where Aunt Pat was . . . even though the sky was so terribly big. It was one of the secret fears of Little Mary’s life, which she had never yet whispered to any one, that the sky was too big. Even Judy, who had been mourning all day because a brood of young turkeys had got their feet wet and died, took heart of grace and thought maybe she was good for many a year yet.
“Life is sweet,” thought Pat, looking about her with a gaze of dreamy delight.
A few hours later life handed her one of its surprises.
She went up to the Long House in the twilight . . . past the velvety green of the hill field, through the spruce bush. The perfume of lilacs had not changed and the robins still sang vespers in some lost sweet language of elder days. She found David in the garden by the stone fireplace, where he had kindled a fire . . . “for company,” he said. Suzanne had gone to town but Ichabod and Alphonso were sitting beside him. Pat sat down on the bench.
“Any news?” she asked idly.
“Yes. The wild cherry at the south-east corner of the spruce bush is coming into bloom,” said David . . . and said nothing more for a long time. Pat did not mind. She liked their long, frequent, friendly silences when you could think of anything you liked.
“Suzanne is going to be married next month,” said David suddenly.
Pat lifted a startled face. She had not thought it would be before the fall. And . . . if Suzanne were to be married . . . what about David? He couldn’t stay on at the Long House alone. Would his next words say something of the sort? Pat felt her lips and mouth go curiously dry. But of course . . .
What was David saying?
“Do you really want to marry me, Pat?”
What an extraordinary question! Hadn’t she promised to marry him? Hadn’t they been engaged . . . happily, contentedly, engaged, for years?
“David! What do you mean? Of course . . .”
“Wait.” David bent forward and looked her squarely in the face.
“Look into my eyes, Pat . . . don’t turn your face away. Tell me the truth.”
Under his compelling gaze Pat gasped out,
“I . . . I can’t . . . I don’t know it. But I think I do, David . . . oh, I really think I do.”
“I think, dear,” said David slowly, “that your attitude, whether you realise it or not, is, ‘I’d just as soon be married to you as any one, if I have to be married.’ That isn’t enough for me, Pat. No, you don’t love me, though you’ve pretended you have . . . pretended beautifully, to yourself as well as me. I won’t have you on those terms, Pat.”
The garden whirled around Pat . . . jigged up and down . . . steadied itself.
“I . . . I meant to make you happy, David,” she said piteously.
“I know. And I don’t mind taking chances with my own life . . . but with yours . . . no, I can’t risk it.”
“You seem to have made up your mind to jilt me, David.” Pat was between tears and something like hysterical laughter. “And I do . . . I really do . . . like you so much.”
“That isn’t enough. I’m not blaming you. I took a chance. I thought I could teach you to love me. I’ve failed. I’m the kind of man all women like . . . and none love. It . . . it was that way before. I will not have it so again . . . it’s too bitter. There’s an old couplet —
“‘There’s always one who kisses
And one who turns the cheek.’”
“Not always,” murmured Pat.
“No, not always. But often . . . and it’s not going to be that way with me a second time. We’ll always be good friends, Pat . . . and nothing more.”
“You need me,” said Pat desperately again. After all . . . though she knew in her heart he was right . . . knew he had never been anything but a way out . . . knew that sometimes at three o’clock of night she had wakened and felt that she was a prisoner . . . she could not bear to lose him out of her life.
“Yes, I need you . . . but I can never have you. I’ve known that ever since Hilary Gordon’s visit last summer.”
“David, what nonsense have you got into your head? Hilary has always been like a dear brother to me . . .”
“He’s twined with the roots of your life, Pat . . . in some way I can never be. I can’t brook such a rival.”
Pat couldn’t have told what she felt like . . . on the surface. The whole experience seemed unreal. Had David really told her he couldn’t marry her? But away down under everything she knew she felt free . . . curiously free. She was almost a little dizzy with the thought of freedom . . . as if she had drunk some heady, potent wine. Mechanically she began to take his ring off her finger.
“No.” David lifted his hand. “Keep it, Pat . . . wear it on some other finger. We’ve had a wonderful . . . friendship. It was only my blindness that I hoped for more. And don’t worry over me. I’ve been offered the head editorship of the Weekly Review. When Suzanne marries I’ll take it.”
So he would go, too, out of her life. Pat never remembered quite how she got home. But Judy was knitting in the kitchen and Pat sat down opposite her rather grimly.
“Judy . . . I’ve been jilted.”
“Jilted, is it?” Judy said no more. She was suddenly like a watchful terrier.
“Yes . . . in the most bare-faced manner. David Kirk told me to-night that he wouldn’t marry me” . . . Pat contrived to give her voice a plaintive twist . . . “that nothing on earth would induce him to marry me.”
“Oh, oh, ye didn’t be asking him to marry ye, I’m thinking. Did he be giving his rasons?” Judy was still watchful.
“He said I didn’t love him . . . enough.”
“Oh, oh, and do ye?”
“No,” said Pat in a low tone. “No. I’ve tried, Judy . . . I’ve tried . . . but I think I’ve always known. And so have you.”
“I’m not be way av being sorry it’s all off,” said Judy. She went on knitting quietly.
“What will the Binnies say?” said Pat whimsically.
“Oh, oh, I don’t think ye’ve come down to minding what the Binnies say, me jewel.”
“No, I don’t care a rap what they say. But others . . . oh well, they are used to me by this time. And this is the last of my broken-backed love affairs they’ll ever have to worry over. I’ll never have any more, Judy.”
“Niver do be a long day,” said Judy sceptically. Then she added,
“Ye’ll be getting the one ye are to get. A thing like that don’t be left to chance, Patsy.”
“Anyway, Judy, we won’t talk of this any more. It . . . it isn’t pleasant. I’m free once more . . . free to love and live for Silver Bush. That’s all that matters. Free! It’s a wonderful word.”
When Pat had gone out Judy knitted inscrutably for a while. Then she remarked to Bold-and-Bad, “So that do be the last av the widower, thank the Good Man Above.”
2
The breaking of Pat’s engagement made but little flurry in the clan. They had given up expecting anything else of this fickle wayward girl. May said she had always looked for it . . . she knew David wasn’t really the marrying kind. Dad said nothing . . . what was there to say? M
other understood, as always. In her heart mother was relieved. Suzanne understood, too.
“I’m sorry . . . terribly sorry . . . and bitterly disappointed. But it was just one of the things that had to be.”
“It’s nice to be able to lay the blame of everything on predestination,” said Pat ruefully. “I feel I’ve failed you . . . and David . . . and I’m ever so fond of him . . .”
“That might be enough for some men, but not David,” said Suzanne quietly. “I wish it could have been different, Pat dear . . . but it can’t be, so we must just put it behind us and go on.”
When Suzanne was married and David had gone the Long House was closed and lightless once more. Again it was the Long Lonely House. Some houses are like that . . . they have a doom on them which they can never long escape.
Pat took stock of things. She was at peace. Her whole world had been temporarily wrecked . . . ruined . . . turned upside down, but nothing had really changed in Silver Bush. There was no longer anything to come between her and it . . . never would be again. She was through with love and all its counterfeits. Henceforth Silver Bush would have no rival in her heart. She could live for it alone. There might be some hours of loneliness. But there was something wonderful even in loneliness. At least you belonged to yourself when you were lonely.
Pat flung back her brown head and her brown eyes kindled.
“Freedom is a glad thing,” she said.
3
One smoky October evening they found Judy lying unconscious in the stable beside the old white cow. She had not been allowed to do any milking for a long time but she had slipped out in the dim to do it that night, since May was away and she knew “the min” would be tired when they came home from the other place.
They carried her to her bed in the kitchen chamber and sent for Dr. Bentley. Under his ministrations she recovered consciousness but he looked very grave when he came down to the kitchen.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 366
