They went back, following the curves of Jordan, talking of old days. It was lovely to remember things together. There were asters along their way. Hilary wanted to pick a rarely dark-blue cluster for her but she would not let him.
“No. Don’t pick them because they would fade and that would be my last memory of them. Let’s just leave them here and we can always remember them as we saw them together…beautiful and unfaded.”
That was the real Pat touch. Hilary remembered that she had never really liked to pick flowers. He never forgot her, as she stood there gloating over them, herself, to him, as beautiful and mysterious as the autumn twilight. Dear…desirable!
The brook was prattling away and crooning to itself. Tall firs, that had been mere saplings when they first explored it, stretched their protecting arms over it: the mosses were green on its banks. In its ripple and murmur the voices of their childhood sounded…all the long-unheard notes were there, blended with the sweet sorrow inseparable from bygones. Hilary at twenty and Pat at eighteen felt themselves to be aged travelers wistfully recalling youth.
They paused on the stone bridge across Jordan. Pat held out her hands. She wanted to cry on his shoulder and knew she must not. If she did…he would take her in his arms. That would be nice…but…
She wanted to tell him that she loved him dearly. She did love him so much…better than Joe now…almost better than Sidney. She wanted to kiss him…but Hilary did not want friendly kisses. Yet they couldn’t part like this.
“I’m not going to say good-bye half a dozen times before I’m really gone…like old Aunty Sarah Gordon,” said Hilary, pretending to laugh. “Good-bye, Pat.”
But he seemed to have forgotten to let go her hands. This simply couldn’t be endured any longer.
“Good-bye, Jingle.” The old name came impulsively to her lips. She pulled her hands away from his warm, pleasant grip and ran up the path against the moon.
Hilary stood and looked after her. McGinty huddled shivering against his leg. McGinty knew things were all wrong somehow.
Hilary was thinking of the house he would build for Pat. He could see it…he could almost see its lights gleaming through the dusk of some land “beyond the hills and far away.” More beautiful than even Silver Bush. For a moment he almost hated Silver Bush. It was the only rival he feared. Then he set his teeth.
“I’ll have you yet, Pat.”
• • •
Pat stumbled up the path and across the field blindly and brought up against the garden gate. Then the denied tears came. She simply couldn’t bear it. Everything gone! Who could bear it?
Rays of the rising moon touched the Hill of the Mist with delicate silver fingers. The night was a blue pearl seaward. The low continual thunder of the gulf tides in the harbor bar filled the air. The dreaming peace of the orchard seemed to beckon. The old barns, that must be alive with the ghosts of all the kittens that had frolicked in them, were huddled together companionably. Silver Bush was full of friendly lights. Pat brushed the tears from her eyes and looked at it.
It was such a loyal old house…always faithful to those who loved it. You felt it was your friend as soon as you stepped into it. It was full of dear yesterdays and beautiful old years. It had been assimilating beauty and loveliness…which is not quite the same thing…for generations. There had been so many things in this house and it had not forgotten one of them. Love and sorrow…tragedies…comedies. Babies had been born…brides had dreamed…all sorts of fashions had come and gone before the old mirrors. Its very walls seemed to hold laughter.
The house remembered her whole life. It had always been the same…it had never changed…not really. Only little surface changes. How she loved it! She loved it in morning rose and sunset amber, and best of all in the darkness of night, when it loomed palely through the gloom and was all her own. This beauty was hers…all hers. Life could never be empty at Silver Bush. Somebody had pitied her once…“so out of the world.” Pat laughed. Out of the world? Nay, she was in the world here…her world. “I dwell among my own people.” Wise Shulamite!
A mysterious content flooded her. This was home.
About the Author
L. M. Montgomery achieved international fame in her lifetime that endures well over a century later. A prolific writer, she published some 500 short stories and poems and twenty novels. Most recognized for Anne of Green Gables, her work has been hailed by Mark Twain, Margaret Atwood, Madeleine L’Engle, and Duchess Kate, to name a few. Today, Montgomery’s novels, journals, letters, short stories, and poems are read and studied by general readers and scholars from around the world. Her writing appeals to people who love beauty and to those who struggle against oppression.
Discover beautiful new editions of the beloved Anne series
Anne of Green Gables
Anne of Avonlea
Anne of the Island
Anne of Windy Poplars
Anne’s House of Dreams
Anne of Ingleside
• • •
“One of the most extraordinary girls that ever came out of an ink pot.” —New York Times
“The dearest and most lovable child in fiction since the immortal Alice.” —Mark Twain
• • •
For more information on the L. M. Montgomery titles, visit www.sourcebooks.com.
Find a new heroine in the Emily trilogy
Emily of New Moon
Emily Climbs
Emily’s Quest
• • •
“I loved Emily.” —Madeleine L’Engle
• • •
For more information on the L. M. Montgomery titles, visit www.sourcebooks.com.
And don’t miss more classic favorites from L. M. Montgomery
The Blue Castle
Magic for Marigold
Pat of Silver Bush
Mistress Pat
Jane of Lantern Hill
A Tangled Web
• • •
For more information on the L. M. Montgomery titles, visit www.sourcebooks.com.
Pat of Silver Bush Page 33