“Uncle Brian has just phoned that mother was away to a picnic with some friends of Aunt Helen’s and he couldn’t locate her.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” sighed Pat. “Why, oh, why, do things never happen as you plan? But I don’t care . . . she was lovely . . . and she enjoyed herself. . . .”
“Oh, oh, that she did,” agreed Judy, settling herself on Weeping Willy’s tombstone, while Pat and Cuddles and McGinty squatted on Wild Dick’s, “and nothing could or magnificant about her. But whin she drove in, girls dear, I didn’t be knowing for a minute whither I stud on me heels or me hid. I did be taking her up to the Poet’s room to wash her hands . . . oh, oh, I did all the honours, aven to slipping in that extry nice cake av soap ye brought home the other day, the one wrapped up in shiny paper . . . and the bist av the embridered towels. I cudn’t manage the new sprid but if ye’d heard her ladyship rave over the beautiful patchwork quilt! Thin I dashed up to me room for a squint in me book av Useful Knowledge. But niver a word cud I find about intertaining the nobility so I had to be falling back on what I cud rimimber av the doings at Castle McDermott. It do be a pity I niver thought av slipping into me dress-up dress. But I was a bit excited-like. Whin I’d finished ixplaining to her that I’d phoned for ye nothing wud do her but I must show her all round the place. She said she wanted to see a rale Canadian farm at close range. It did be suiting me for I didn’t be knowing if it was manners to lave her all alone and to sit wid a countess in the Big Parlour was a fearsome thought. I did be taking her all through the orchard and the silver bush and the cats’ burying ground. And thin all through the graveyard and telling her all the ould stories . . . and didn’t she laugh over Waping Willy! Thin whin we wint back to the house she wanted to see me kitchen . . . and me not knowing how Just Dog wud behave. Whin we got in it she sez to me, just like one old frind to another, ‘Cud ye let me have a cup av tay, Judy . . . and what is that delicious odour I smell?’ Well, girls dear, ye know just what it was . . . me bit av baked sausage and pittaties I had in the oven for Tillytuck and mesilf, ivery one ilse being away. ‘Will ye be giving me a taste av it?’ she sez, wheedling-like. ‘Right here in the kitchen, Judy, where the scint av lilacs is coming in through that windy, Judy,’ sez she, ‘and the very same white kittens that hung on me nursery wall more years ago than I’ll admit aven to you, Judy,’ sez she. Sure and I cudn’t stand up to a countess so she had her way. I got out the bist silver taypot and one av the parlour chairs for her. But she plunked hersilf down on ould Nehemiah’s and sez, sez she, ‘I want me tay right out av that ould brown pot. There’s nothing like it for flavour,’ sez she. And nothing wud do but I must sit down wid her and take a share av the sausages and pittaties. But I wasn’t after ating minny, girls dear . . . me appetite wasn’t wid me. Siven av thim sausages disappeared and I et only the one av thim. Think av it, me drinking tay wid a countess, and crooking me liddle finger rale illigant whin I happened to think av it! Madam Binnie’ll niver be belaving it. And wud ye be belaving it, girls dear? She was at Castle McDermott hersilf whin she was a girleen and tould me all about the ould place. It did be making me fale I must be going to see it afore long. Prisently Bold-and-Bad comes along asking ‘have ye room for a cat?’ and jumps up in her lap. Oh, oh, ye saw for yersilves she was a different brade from Cousin Nicholas. Well, we did be sitting there colloguing, her and me and the cats, rale cosy and frindly, whin I heard a tarrible noise in the back porch. It didn’t sound like innything on earth but I did be knowing it was Tillytuck gargling his throat, him thinking it was a bit sore this morning. I did be glancing at the countess a bit apprehensive-like but she was admiring me crame cow and taking no notice apparently. I was fearing whin he finished wid his throat he’d be breaking out into a Psalm but niver did I think he’d have the presumption to come in. I was clane flabbergasted whin I saw him standing in the dureway. I did be giving him the high sign to take himsilf off but he paid no attintion and was all for setting down on her ladyship’s hat which she had tossed on a chair careless-like. I got it away just in time, girls dear, and down he plumped. Wud ye belave it, her ladyship smiled at him in that nice way she has and passed a remark about the weather. And didn’t Tillytuck tell her rain was coming bekase he had rheumatism in his arms! And thin tilting back on the hind-legs av his chair, wid his thumbs tucked into his bilt, casual-like, he wint on to tell her one av his ‘traggedies’ . . . how the lion had got out av his cage and clawed him. ‘It was a lippard last time,’ I cudn’t hilp saying, sarcastic-like. But her ladyship tuk his measure and I cud see she was lading him on, and him thinking he was showing me how to hobnob wid the quality. Thin Just Dog started to throw one av his fits but Tillytuck whisked him out so quick I’m not thinking her ladyship tuk it in. What wid it all, me nerves were getting a bit jumpy and niver was there a more welcome sound to me ears than the ould Russell mare’s trot up the lane.”
“Did you give the countess a swig out of your black bottle, Judy?” asked Sid, who had arrived home and come to find out why nobody had got supper ready for him. “If she left anything in the pantry I’d be glad of a bite.”
“Why did you take her into the pantry just as she was leaving, Judy?” asked Pat.
“Oh, oh, I’d promised to give her a jar av me strawberry jam. But she’ll niver be getting it home safe . . . there do be something in an ocean v’yage it can’t be standing . . . she’ll be firing it overboard afore she’s half way across. She said to me in the pantry, Patsy dear, that ye did be having a lovely smile and a grand sinse av fun. Sure and I’m putting that bit av biscuit she lift on her plate in me glory box for a kapesake. It was her third so there did be no insult in her laving it. Well, it do be all over and whether I’ll slape a wink to-night or not the Good Man Above only knows.”
Judy was snoring soundly enough in the kitchen chamber when Pat and Cuddles went to bed. Young Joe Merritt had been around Silver Bush that night, wanting Pat to go to a picture with him but Pat had refused. Judy, as usual, wanted to know why poor Joe was always being snubbed. Wasn’t he be way av being a rale nice young man and a cousin av the Charlottetown Merritts at that?
“I haven’t a fault to find with him, Judy,” said Pat gravely, “but our taste in jokes is entirely different.”
“Oh, oh, that’s sarious,” agreed Judy . . . and crossed Joe Merritt’s name from her list of possibles.
“Pull up the blind and let the night in, Cuddles. And don’t light the lamp yet. When you light it you make an enemy of the dark. It stares in at you resentfully. Just now it’s kind and friendly. Let’s sit here at the window and talk it all over. It would be wicked to go to sleep too soon on such a night.”
“Sleep! I’ll never sleep again in this world,” sighed Cuddles luxuriously, squatting on the floor and snuggling against Pat’s knee while she proceeded to devour some water-cress sandwiches. They were getting in the habit of these delightful little gossips by their window, with only the trees and the stars to listen. To-night the scent of lilacs drifted in and the night was like a cup of fragrance that had spilled over. A wind was waking far off in the spruces on the hill. The robins were still whistling and the silver bush was an elusive, shadowy world breathing mystery. Bold-and-Bad padded in and insinuated himself into Cuddles’ lap, where he lay and purred, tensing and flexing his claws happily. One lap was quite as good as another to Bold-and-Bad.
“I’ve had too many thrills to-day to be sleepy . . . some just awful and some wonderful. Wasn’t Lady Medchester lovely, Pat? And not because she was a countess. She had such a finished air somehow. She wasn’t a bit handsome . . . did you notice how much she looked like Mrs. Snuffy Madison? . . . and her clothes were really shabby. Except the fox stole of course. But her hat . . . well, it looked as if Tillytuck had sat on it. But for all that there was something about her that we can’t ever get, Pat, in a hundred years.”
“She wouldn’t care what the Binnies thought,” said Pat mischievously.
“Don’t . . . I’m blushing. And I’m
never going even to mention it to Trix. Have a sandwich, Pat? You must be empty. We neither of us had anything since dinner but a biscuit and a scrap of Bishop’s bread. I was only pretending to eat under Lady Medchester’s eyes. Puss, do stop digging your claws into me. I’m sure Lady Medchester will have an amusing tale to tell when she gets home. The stately halls of England will resound to mirth over Judy and Tillytuck.”
“Tillytuck perhaps . . . but not Judy. People laugh with Judy, not at her. Our countess liked Judy. Did you notice what a lovely voice she had? It somehow made me think of old mellow things that had been loved for centuries . . . after I got capable of thinking at all, that is. Cuddles, I’ll never forget the sight as we bounced into the kitchen . . . Judy Plum and the Countess of Medchester tête-à-tête at our kitchen table, with Tillytuck for audience. Nobody will ever believe it. It will be something to tell our grandchildren . . . if we ever have any.”
“I mean to have some,” said Cuddles coolly.
“Well,” said Pat, leaning out of the window to catch a glimpse of that loveliest of created things . . . a young moon in an evening sky . . . “there’s one thing the Countess of Medchester will never know she missed . . . my lemon cocoanut cake and Judy’s fried chicken. I must write Hilary an account of this.”
The Second Year
1
Pat never could discover how Lady Medchester’s visit to Silver Bush got into the Charlottetown papers. But there it was in “Happenings of the Week.” “The Countess of Medchester, who has been spending a few days with friends in Charlottetown, was a visitor at Silver Bush, North Glen, on Thursday last. Lady Medchester is a distant connection of Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Gardiner. Her Ladyship is delighted with our beautiful Island and says that it resembles the old country more than any place she has yet seen in Canada.”
The Silver Bush people did not like the item. It savoured too much of a certain publicity they scorned . . . “putting on dog,” as Sid slangily expressed it. No doubt it reduced the Binnies to speechless impotence for a time and everybody in South Glen church the next Sunday gazed at the Gardiner family with almost the awe they would have accorded to royalty itself. But that did not atone for what Pat felt was a breach of good taste. Even Tillytuck thought it “rather crude, symbolically speaking.” Nobody happened to notice that Judy, who might have been expected to be the most indignant of all, had very little to say and fought shy of the subject. Eventually it was forgotten. After all, there were much more important things to think of at Silver Bush. Countesses might come and countesses might go but wandering turkeys had to be reclaimed at night and Madonna lilies divided and perennial seeds sown, and a new border of delphiniums planned for down the front walk. Lady Medchester’s visit slipped into its proper place in the Silver Bush perspective . . . a gay memory to be talked and laughed over on winter nights before the fire.
Meantime, Uncle Tom had stained and grained his once red front door and had painted his apple house sage green with maroon trim. And everybody in Silver Bush and Swallowfield was wondering more or less uneasily why he had done it. Not but what both needed attention. The apple house had long been a faded affair and the red of the door was badly peeled. Nevertheless they had been that way for years and Uncle Tom had not bothered about them. And now, right in the pinch of hard times, when the hay crop was poor and the potato bugs unusually rampant and the turnips practically non-existent, Uncle Tom was spending good money in this unnecessary fashion.
“He do be getting younger every day,” said Judy. “Oh, oh, it’s suspicious, I’m telling ye.”
“I opine there’s a female in the wind, speaking symbolically,’” said Tillytuck.
It was the one cloud on Pat’s horizon that summer. Some change was brewing and change at Swallowfield was nearly as bad as change at Silver Bush. Everything had been the same there for years. Aunt Edith and Aunt Barbara had held sway in the house, agreeing quite amicably in the main, and both bossing Uncle Tom for his soul’s and body’s good. And now both were uneasy. Tom was getting out of hand.
“It has to do with those California letters . . . I’m sure it has,” Aunt Barbara told Pat unhappily. “We know he gets them . . . the post-office people have told it . . . but we’ve never seen one of them. We don’t know where on earth he keeps them . . . we’ve looked everywhere. Edith says if she can find them she’ll burn them to ashes but I don’t see what good that would do. We haven’t an idea who she is . . . Tom must mail his answers in town.”
“If Tom brings a . . . a wife in here . . .” Aunt Edith choked over the word . . . “you and I will have to go, Barbara.”
“Oh, don’t say that, Edith.” Aunt Barbara was on the verge of tears. She loved Swallowfield almost as much as Pat loved Silver Bush.
“I will say it and I do say it,” repeated Aunt Edith inflexibly. “Can you think for one minute of us staying here, under the thumb of a new mistress? We can get a little house at the Bridge, I suppose.”
“I can’t believe Uncle Tom will really be so foolish at his age,” said Pat.
“I have never been a man,” said Aunt Barbara somewhat superfluously, “but this I do know . . . a man can be a fool at any age. And you know the old proverb. Tom is fifty-nine.”
“I sometimes think,” said Aunt Barbara slowly, “that you . . . that we . . . didn’t do quite right when we broke off Tom’s affair with Merle Henderson, long ago, Edith.”
“Nonsense! What was there to break off?” demanded Aunt Edith crisply. “They weren’t engaged. He had a school-boy’s fancy for her . . . but you know as well as I do, Barbara, that it would never have done for him to have married a Henderson.”
“She was a clever, pretty little thing,” protested Aunt Barbara.
“Her tongue was hung in the middle and her grandmother was insane,” said Aunt Edith.
“Well, Dr. Bentley says everybody is a little insane on some points. I do think we shouldn’t have meddled, Edith.”
Aunt Barbara’s “we” was a concession to peace. Both of them knew it had been Edith’s doings alone.
Pat sympathised with them and her heart hardened against Uncle Tom when she found him waiting for her at the old stile, half way along the Whispering Lane, where the trees screened them from the sight of both Swallowfield and Silver Bush. Pat was all for sailing on with a frosty nod but Uncle Tom put a shy hand on her shoulder.
“Pat,” he said slowly, “I’d . . . I’d like to have a little talk with you. It’s . . . it’s not often I have the chance to see you alone.”
Pat sat down on the stile ungraciously. She had a horrible presentiment of what Uncle Tom wanted to tell her. And she wasn’t going to help him out . . . not she! With his vanishing beard and his front doors and his apple barns he had kept everybody on the two farms jittery all summer.
“It’s . . . it’s a little hard to begin,” said Uncle Tom hesitatingly.
Pat wouldn’t make it any easier. She gazed uncompromisingly through the birches to a field where winds were weaving patterns in the ripening wheat and making sinuous shadows like flowing amber wine. But for once in her life Pat was blind to beauty.
Poor Uncle Tom took off his straw hat and mopped a brow that had not been so high some thirty-odd years back.
“I don’t know if you ever heard of a . . . a . . . a lady by the name of Merle Henderson,” he said desperately.
Pat never had until Aunt Edith had mentioned her that day but . . .
“I have,” she said drily.
Uncle Tom looked relieved.
“Then . . . then perhaps you know that once . . . long ago . . . when I was young . . . ahem, younger . . . I . . . I . . . in short . . . Merle and I were . . . were . . . in short . . .” Uncle Tom burst out with the truth explosively . . . “I was desperately in love with her.”
Pat was furious to find her heart softening. She had always loved Uncle Tom . . . he had always been good to her . . . and he did look so pathetic.
“Why didn’t you marry her?” she asked gently.
“She . . . she wouldn’t have me,” said Uncle Tom, with a sheepish smile. Now that the plunge was over he found himself swimming. “Oh, I know Edith thinks she put the kibosh on it. But not by a jugful. If Merle would have married me a regiment of Ediths wouldn’t have mattered. I don’t wonder Merle turned me down. It would have been a miracle if she had cared for me . . . then. I was nothing but a raw boy and she . . . she was the most beautiful little creature, Pat. I’m not romantic . . . but she always seemed like a . . . like an ethereal being to me, Pat . . . a . . . a fairy, in short.”
Pat had a sudden glimpse of understanding. To Uncle Tom his vanished Merle was not only Merle . . . she was youth, beauty, mystery, romance . . . everything that was lacking in the life of a rather bald, more than middle-aged farmer, domineered over by two maiden sisters.
“She had soft, curly, red-brown hair . . . and soft, sweet red-brown eyes . . . and such a sweet little red mouth. If you could have heard her laugh, Pat . . . I’ve never forgotten that laugh of hers. We used to dance together at parties . . . she was as light as a feather. She was as slim and lovely as . . . as that young white birch in moonlight, Pat. She walked like . . . like spring. I’ve never cared for anybody else . . . I’ve loved her all my life.”
“What became of her?”
“She went out to California . . . she had an aunt there . . . and married there. But she is a widow now, Pat. Two years ago . . . you remember? . . . the Streeters came home from California for a visit. George Streeter was an old pal of mine. He told me all about Merle . . . she wasn’t left well off and she’s had to earn her own living. She’s a public speaker . . . a lecturer . . . oh, she’s very clever, Pat. Her letters are wonderful. I . . . I couldn’t get her out of my head after what George told me. And so . . . I . . . well, I wrote her. And we’ve been corresponding ever since. I’ve asked her to marry me, Pat.”
“And will she?” Pat asked the question kindly. She couldn’t hurt Uncle Tom’s feelings . . . poor old Uncle Tom who had loved and lost and went on faithfully loving still. It was romantic.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 345