Pat ran outside. The sun, obedient to Judy’s mandate, was just coming up. The air was the amber honey of autumn. Every birch and poplar in the silver bush had become a golden maiden. The garden was tired of growing and had sat down to rest but the gorgeous hollyhocks were flaunting over the old stone dyke. A faint, lovely morning haze hung over the Hill of the Mist and trembled away before the sun. What a lovely world to be alive in!
Then Pat turned and saw a lank, marauding, half-eared cat . . . an alien to Silver Bush . . . lapping up the milk in the saucer that had been left for the fairies. So that was how it went! She had always suspected it but to know it was bitter. Was there no real magic left in the world?
“Judy,” . . . Pat was almost tearful when Judy came to the well with her pails of milk . . . “the fairies don’t drink the milk. It’s a cat . . . just as Sidney always said.”
“Oh, oh, and if the fairies didn’t nade it last night why shudn’t a poor cat have it, I’m asking. Hasn’t he got to live? I niver said they come ivery night. They’ve other pickings no doubt.”
“Judy, did you ever really see a fairy drinking the milk? Cross your heart?”
“Oh, oh, what if I didn’t? Sure the grandmother of me did. Minny’s the time I’ve heard her tell it. A leprachaun wid the liddle ears av him wriggling as he lapped it up. And she had her leg bruk nixt day, that she had. Ye may be thankful if ye niver see any av the Grane Folk. They don’t be liking it and that I’m tellin ye.”
2
It was a day curiously compounded of pain and pleasure for Pat. Silver Bush buzzed with excitement, especially when Snicklefritz got stung on the eyelid by a wasp and had to be shut up in the church barn. And then everybody was getting dressed. Oh, weddings were exciting things . . . Sid was right. Mother wore the loveliest new dress, the colour of a golden-brown chrysanthemum, and Pat was so proud of her it hurt.
“It’s so nice to have a pretty mother,” she exclaimed rapturously.
She was proud of all her family. Of father, who had had a terrible time finding his necktie and who, in his excitement, had put his left boot on his right foot and laced it up before he discovered his mistake, but now looked every inch a Gardiner. Of darling wee Cuddles with her silk stockings rolled down to show her dear, bare, chubby legs. Of Winnie, who in her yellow dress looked like a great golden pansy. Of Sid and Joe in new suits and white collars. Even of Judy Plum who had blossomed out in truly regal state. The dress-up dress had come out of the brown chest, likewise a rather rusty lace shawl and bonnet of quilted blue satin of the vintage of last century. Judy would have scorned to be seen in public without a bonnet. No giddy hats for her. Also what she called a “paireen” of glossy, patent leather slippers with high heels. Thus fearsomely arrayed Judy minced about, keeping a watchful eye on everything and greeting arriving friends in what she called her “company voice” and the most perfect English pronunciation you ever heard.
Aunt Hazel and her bridesmaids were as yet invisible in the Poet’s room. Mother dressed Pat in her pretty green dress and hat. Pat loved it . . . but she ran upstairs to her closet to tell her old blue voile that she still loved it the best. Then the aunts came over, Aunt Barbara very weddingish in a dress and coat of beige lace which Aunt Edith thought far too young for her. Nobody could call Aunt Edith’s dress young but it was very handsome and Pat nearly burst with pride in her whole clan.
Uncle Brian from Summerside was going to take the bride and her maids to the church in his new car and it was a wonderful moment when they came floating down the stairs. Pat’s eyes smarted a wee bit. Was this mysterious creature in white satin and misty veil, with the great shower bouquet of roses and lilies of the valley, her dear, jolly Aunt Hazel? Pat felt as if she were already lost to them. But Aunt Hazel lingered to whisper.
“I’ve slipped the pansies you picked for me into my bouquet, darling . . . they’re the ‘something blue’ the bride must wear, and thanks ever so much.”
And all was well again for a while.
Father took mother and Winnie and Judy and Joe in the Silver Bush Lizzie but Pat and Sid went in Uncle Tom’s “span.” No Lizzie or any other such lady for Uncle Tom. He drove a great roomy, double-seated “phaeton” drawn by two satin bay horses with white stars on their foreheads and Pat liked it far better than any car. But why was Uncle Tom so slow in coming? “We’ll be late. There’s a million buggies and cars gone past already,” worried Pat.
“Oh, oh, don’t be exaggerating, girleen.”
“Well, there was five anyway,” cried Pat indignantly.
“There he’s coming now,” said Judy. “Mind yer manners,” she added in a fierce whisper. “No monkey-didoes whin things get a bit solemn, mind ye that.”
Pat and Sid and Aunt Barbara sat in the back seat. Pat felt tremendously important and bridled notably when May Binnie looked out enviously from a car that honked past them. Generally she and Sid walked to church by a short cut across the fields and along a brook scarfed with farewell summers. But the road was lovely, too, with the sunny, golden stubble fields, the glossy black crows sitting on the fences, the loaded apple boughs dragging on the grass of the orchards, the pastures spangled with asters, and the sea far out looking so blue and happy, with great fleets of cloudland sailing over it.
Then there was the crowded church among its maples and spruces — the arrangement of the procession — the people standing up — Aunt Hazel trailing down the aisle on father’s arm — Jean Madison and Sally Gardiner behind her — Pat bringing up the rear gallantly with her basket of roses in her brown paws — the sudden hush — the minister’s solemn voice — the prayer — the lovely colours that fell on the people through the stained glass windows, turning them from prosaic folks into miracles. At first Pat was too bewildered to analyse her small sensations. She saw a little quivering ruby of light fall on Aunt Hazel’s white veil . . . she saw Rob Madison’s flying jibs . . . she saw Sally Gardiner’s night-black hair under her green hat . . . she saw the ferns and flowers . . . and suddenly she heard Aunt Hazel saying, “I will,” and saw her looking up at her groom.
A dreadful thing happened to Pat. She turned frantically to Judy Plum who was sitting just behind her at the end of the front pew.
“Judy, lend me your hanky. I’m going to cry,” she whispered in a panic.
Judy fairly came out in gooseflesh. She realised that a desperate situation must be handled desperately. Her hanky was a huge white one which would engulf Pat. Moreover the Binnies were at the back of the church. She bent forward.
“If there do be one tear out av ye to disgrace Silver Bush I’ll niver fry ye an egg in butter agin as long as I live.”
Pat took a brace. Perhaps it was the thought of Silver Bush or the fried egg or both combined. She gave a desperate gulp and swallowed the lump in her throat. Savage winking prevented the fall of a single tear. The ceremony was over . . . nobody had noticed the little by-play . . . and everybody thought Pat had behaved beautifully. The Silver Bush people were much relieved. They had all been more or less afraid that Pat would break down at the last, just as Cora Gardiner had done at her sister’s wedding, erupting into hysterical howls right in the middle of the prayer and having to be walked out by a humiliated mother.
“Ye carried yerself off well, darlint,” whispered Judy proudly.
Pat contrived to get through the reception and the supper but she found she couldn’t eat, not even a chicken slice or the lovely “lily salad” mother had made. She was very near crying again when somebody said to Aunt Hazel,
“What is it like to be Hazel Madison? Do you realise that you are Hazel Madison now?”
Hazel Gardiner no longer! Oh, it was just too much!
Chapter 8
Aftermath
1
And then the going away! For the first time in her life Pat found out what it was like to say good-bye to some one who was not coming back. But she could cry then because everybody cried, even Judy, who seldom cried.
“When I fee
ls like crying,” Judy was accustomed to say, “I just do be sitting down and having a good laugh.”
She would not let Pat stand too long, looking after Aunt Hazel, tranced in her childish tears.
“It’s unlucky to watch a parting friend out av sight,” she told her.
Pat turned away and wandered dismally through the empty rooms. With everything so upset and disarranged upstairs and down Silver Bush wasn’t like home at all. Even the new lace curtains seemed part of the strangeness. The table, that had been so pretty, looked terrible . . . untidy . . . crumby . . . messy . . . with Aunt Hazel’s chair pushed rakily aside just as she had risen from it. Pat’s brown eyes were drowned again.
“Come along wid me, darlint, and help me out a bit,” Judy . . . wise Judy . . . was saying. “Sure and yer mother has gone to bed, rale played out wid all the ruckus, and small wonder. And Winnie’s tying hersilf into kinks wid the stomachache and that’s no puzzle ather wid the way she was after stuffing hersilf. So there’s nobody but us two to look after things. We’ll lave the dining-room as it is till the morning but we’ll straighten up the parlours and the bedrooms. Sure and the poor house do be looking tired.”
Judy had doffed her silk and high heels and company voice and was in her comfortable old drugget and brogans . . . and brogue . . . again. Pat was glad. Judy seemed much more homelike and companionable so.
“Can we put all the furniture back in its right place?” she said eagerly. Somehow it would be a comfort to have the sideboard and the old parlour rocker that had been put out of sight as too shabby, and the vases of pampas grass that had been condemned as old-fashioned, back again where they belonged.
“Oh, oh, we’ll do that. And lave off looking as doleful as if yer Aunt Hazel had been buried instid av being married.”
“I don’t feel much like smiling, Judy.”
“There’s rason in that. Sure and I’ve been grinning that much to-day I fale as if I’d been turned into a chessy-cat. But it’s been one grand widding, so it has, and the like av it Jen Binnie will never see for all av her city beau. As for the supper, Government House itsilf cudn’t bate it. And the cirrimony was that solemn it wud av scared me out av the notion av getting married if I iver had inny.”
“I would have cried and spoiled it all if it hadn’t been for you, Judy dear,” said Pat gratefully.
“Oh, oh, I wasn’t blaming ye. I knew a big, handsome bridesmaid onct and she burst out waping right in the middle av the cirrimony. And the things people did be saying . . . such as she was crying bekase she wasn’t getting married hersilf, whin it was just her full heart. At that it was better than the bridesmaid that was laughing in the middle av things at Rosella Gardiner’s widding. No one iver did be knowing what she laughed at . . . she wud niver tell . . . but the groom thought it was at him, and he niver wud spake to her again. It started a ruckus in the fam’ly that lasted for forty years. Oh, oh, the liddle things that do be having a big inding!”
Pat didn’t think that for the bridesmaid to laugh in the middle of the ceremony was a little thing. She was very glad nothing like that had happened to make Aunt Hazel’s wedding ridiculous.
“Come now and we’ll swape up all this confetti stuff first. The ould days av rice were better I’m thinking. The hins got a good fade innyhow. Oh, oh, this table do be looking like the relics of ould dacency, doesn’t it now? I’m seeing one av the good silver crame jugs has got a dint in it. But whin all’s said and done it don’t be looking much like the table did after yer Great-aunt Margaret’s widding over at the Bay Shore farm. Oh, oh, that was a tommyshaw!”
“What happened, Judy?”
“Happened, is it? Ye may well ask. They had a fringed cloth on the table be way av extry style and whin the groom’s cousin . . . ould Jim Milroy he is now . . . Jim wid the beard he was called thin . . . oh, oh, he had the magnificent beard. Sure and ’twas a shame to shave it off just bekase it wint out av fashion . . . well, where was I at? He wint to get up from the table in a hurry as he always did and didn’t one av his buttons catch in the fringe and away wint fringe and cloth and dishes and all. Niver did inny one see such a smash. I was down to the Bay Shore to hilp thim out a bit and me and yer Aunt Frances claned up the mess, her crying and lamenting all the time and small blame to her. All the illigant dishes smashed and the carpet plastered wid the stuff that was spilled, niver to spake av the poor bride’s dress as was clane ruined be a great cup av tay tipped over in her lap. Oh, oh, I was a young skellup av a thing thin and I thought it a great joke but the Bay Shore people were niver the same agin. Now, run up to yer room, and put off yer finery and we’ll get to work. I belave we’re after having a rainy night av it. The wind’s rising and it’s dark as a squaw’s pocket already.”
It was such a comfort to put things back in their places. When the job was finished Silver Bush looked like home again. Darkness had fallen and rain was beginning to splash against the windows.
“Let’s go into the kitchen now and I’ll get ye a tasty liddle bite afore I do be setting the bread. I noticed ye didn’t ate innything av their fine spread. I’ve a pot of hot pay soup I brewed up for mesilf kaping warm on the back av the stove and there’s some chicken lift over I’m thinking.”
“I don’t feel like eating with Aunt Hazel gone,” said Pat, rather mistily again. That thought would keep coming back.
“Oh, oh, fat sorrow is better than lean sorrow, me jewel. Here now, ain’t this snug as two kittens in a basket? We’ll shut out the dark. And here’s a liddle cat wid an illigant grey suit and a white shirt, be the name av Thursday, wid his small heart breaking for a word after all the neglict av the day.”
A fierce yowl sounded outside. Gentleman Tom was demanding entrance.
“Let me let him in, Judy,” said Pat eagerly. She did so love to let things in out of the cold. Pat held the door open for a moment. It was a wild night after the lovely day. The rain was streaming down. The wind was thrashing the silver bush mercilessly. Snicklefritz was howling dolefully in the church barn since Joe was not yet back from the station to comfort him.
Pat turned away with a shiver. The peace of the old kitchen was in delightful contrast to the storm outside. The stove was glowing clear red in the dusk. Thursday was coiled up under it, thinking this was how things should be. It was so nice to be in this bright, warm room, supping Judy’s hot pea soup and watching the reflection of the kitchen outside through the window. Pat loved to do that. It looked so uncanny and witchlike . . . so real yet so unreal . . . with Judy apparently calmly setting bread under the thrashing maple by the well.
2
Pat loved to watch Judy set bread and listen to her talking to herself as she always did while kneading and thumping. To-night Judy was reviewing the church wedding.
“Oh, oh, she was dressed very gay outside but I’m wondering what was undernath. Sure and it’s well if it was no worse than patches . . . Bertha Holmes is the pert one. Only fifteen and she do be making eyes at the b’ys already. I remimber her at her own aunt’s widding whin she was about the age av Pat here. She was after throwing hersilf on the floor and kicking and scraming. Oh, oh, wudn’t I like to have had the spanking av her! Simon Gardiner was be way av being rale groomed up to-day. Sure and whin I saw him, so starched and proper in his pew, looking as if he was doing the world a big favour be living, it was hard to belave the last time I saw him he was so drunk he thought the table was follying him round, and crying like a baby he was bekase it wud be sure to catch him, having four legs to his two. It tickled me ribs, that. Oh, oh, it’s liddle folks know what other folks do be thinking av thim in church. And wud ye listen to Ould Man Taylor calling his wife sugar-pie and him married thirty years, the ould softy. Though maybe it’s better than George Harvey and his ‘ould woman.’ There was ould Elmer Davidson stumbling in late whin the cirrimony had begun and sp’iling the solemnity. He’ll be late for the resurrection, that one. Mary Jarvis and her yilping whin they were signing the papers! Thim that likes can call it sin
ging. Singing, indade! The Great-aunts av the Bay Shore farm were after being a bit more stately than common . . . be way of showing their contimpt for both Gardiners and Madisons I’m thinking. Sure and it’s a wonder they condescend to come at all. Oh, oh, but the supper wud give thim one in the eye. It’s a long day since they’ve set down to such a spread I’m thinking. Oh, oh, but I got square wid Ould Maid Sands. Sez I to her, sly-like, ‘While there’s life there’s hope.’ She knew well what I was maning, so she did.”
Judy was shaking with silent laughter as she patted her bread. Then she grew sober.
“Oh, oh, there was one at the widding that’ll be to none other. Kate MacKenzie has got the sign.”
“What sign, Judy?” asked Pat drowsily.
“Oh, oh, I forgot liddle pitchers have the long ears, darlint. ’Tis the death sign I mint. But it do be life. There’s always the birth and the death and the bridal mixed up togither. And a nice cheerful widding it was in spite av all.”
Pat was almost asleep. The down-trodden black cats were beginning to trot around the rug under her very eyes.
“Wake up, me jewel, and go to bed properly. Listen at that wind. There’ll be apples to pick up to-morrow.”
Pat looked up, yawning and comforted. After all, life at dear Silver Bush was going on. The world hadn’t come to an end just because Aunt Hazel was gone.
“Judy, tell me again about the man you saw hanged in Ireland before I go to bed.”
“Oh, oh, that do be a tarrible story for bed-time. It wud make yer hair stand on end.”
“I like having my hair stand on end. Please, Judy.”
Judy picked Pat up on her knee.
“Hug me close, Judy, and tell me.”
The harrowing tale was told and Pat, who had heard it a dozen times before, thrilled just as deliciously as at the first. There was no doubt about it . . . she enjoyed “tarrible” things.
“Sure and I shudn’t be telling ye all these tales av bad people,” said Judy, a bit uncomfortably, looking at Pat’s dilated eyes.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 309