“Her heart is in a very bad condition. I can’t understand how she kept up so long.”
“Judy hasn’t felt well all summer,” said Pat heavily. “I’ve known it . . . though she wouldn’t give in that there was anything the matter with her or let me call you. ‘Can he be curing old age?’ she would say. I know I should have insisted . . . I knew she was old but I think I never realised it . . . never believed Judy could be ill . . .”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. I could have done nothing,” said Dr. Bentley. “It’s only a question of a week or two.”
Pat hated him for his casualness. To him Judy was nothing but an old, worn-out servant. When he had gone she went up to the kitchen chamber where Judy was lying. Pale rays slanted through the clouds above the silver bush and gleamed athwart all Judy’s little treasured possessions.
Judy turned her dim old eyes lovingly on Pat’s face.
“Don’t be faling down, Patsy darlint. I’ve been sure iver since Gintleman Tom wint away that me own time wasn’t far off. And of late I’ve been faling it drawing nigh just as ye fale snow in the air before it comes. Oh, oh, I’m glad I won’t be a bother to inny one long or make inny one much trouble dying.”
“Judy . . . Judy . . .”
“Oh, oh, I’m knowing ye wudn’t think innything ye cud do for ould Judy a trouble, darlint. But I’ve always asked the Good Man Above that I wudn’t be bed-rid long whin me time came and I’ve always been hoping I cud die at Silver Bush. It’s been me home for long, long years. I’ve had a happy life here, Patsy, and now death seems rale frindly.”
Pat wondered how many people would think that Judy had had a happy life . . . a life spent in what they would think the monotonous drudgery of service on a little farm. Ah well, “the kingdom of heaven is within you,” Pat knew Judy had been happy . . . that she asked for nothing but that people should turn to her for help . . . should “want” her. Nothing so dreadful could happen to Judy as not to be wanted.
But was it . . . could it be . . . Judy who was talking so calmly of dying? Judy!
Dr. Bentley had given Judy two weeks but she lived for four. She was very happy and contented. Life, she felt, was ending beautifully for her, here where her heart had always been. There would be no going away from Silver Bush . . . no long lingering in uselessness until people came in time to hate her because she was so helpless and in their way. Everything was just as she would have wished it.
Pat was her constant attendant. May would have nothing to do with waiting on her . . . “I hate sick people,” she announced airily . . . but nobody wanted her to.
“Oh, oh, it’s rale nice to be looked after,” Judy told Pat with her old smile.
“You’ve looked after us all long enough, Judy. It’s your turn to be waited on now.”
“Patsy darlint, if I cud just be having you and nobody else to do for me!”
“I’m with you to the last, dearest Judy.”
“I’m knowing ye’ll come as far as ye can wid me but ye mustn’t be tiring yersilf out, Patsy.”
“It doesn’t tire me. I’m just going to do nothing for a while but look after you. May is doing the work . . . to give her her due, Judy, she isn’t lazy.”
“Oh, oh, but she’ll never have the luck wid the young turkeys that I’ve had,” said Judy in a tone of satisfaction.
Bold-and-Bad seldom left Judy. He curled up on the bed beside her where she could stroke him if she wanted to and always purred when she did so. “Looking at me wid his big round eyes, Patsy, as much as to say, ‘I cud spare a life or two, Judy, if ye wanted one.’ Sure and he’s far better company than inny av the Binnies,” she added with a grin. Mrs. Binnie thought it her duty to “sit by” Judy frequently and Judy endured it courteously. She wasn’t going to forget her pretty manners even on her dying bed. But she always sighed with relief when Mrs. Binnie trundled downstairs.
Yes, it was pleasant to lie easily and think over old days and jokes and triumphs . . . all the tears and joys of forgotten years . . . all the pain and beauty of life. “Oh, oh, we’ve had our frolics,” she would think with a little chuckle. Nothing worried her any more.
Pat always sat and talked with her in “the dim.” Sometimes Judy seemed so well and natural that wild hopes would spring up in Pat’s heart.
“I’ve been minding mesilf a bit av the ould days, Patsy. It’s me way av passing the time. De ye be rimimbering the night yer Aunt Edith caught ye dancing naked in Silver Bush and they sint ye to Coventry? And the time Long Alec shaved his moustache off and bruk yer liddle heart? And the night Pepper fell into the well? Do ye be rimimbering whin liddle Jingle and his dog wud be hanging round? There was something in his face I always did be liking. He had a way wid him. And how ye did be hating to hear him called yer beau! ‘That isn’t a beau,’ sez she, indignant, ‘That was just Jingle.’ And the two av ye slipping in to ask me for a handful av raisins. Oh, oh, thim was the good ould days. But I’m thinking these days be good, too. There do be always new good coming up to take the place av the old that goes, Patsy. There’s liddle Mary now . . . she was here this afternoon wid her liddle buttercup head shining like a star in me ould room, and her liddle tongue going nineteen to the dozen. The questions she do be asking. ‘Isn’t there inny Mrs. God, Judy?’ And whin I sez ‘no’ she did just be looking a look at me, and sez she solemn-like, ‘Then is God an ould bachelor, Judy?’ Sure and maybe I shudn’t have laughed, Patsy, but the darlint wasn’t maning inny irriverince and ye’ll be knowing I niver cud miss a joke. I’m thinking God himsilf wud have laughed at the face av her. He must be liking a bit av fun, too, Patsy, whin he made us so fond av it. I’ve been having a long life, Patsy, and minny things to be thankful for but for nothing more than me liddle gift av seeing something to laugh at in almost iverything. And that do be minding me . . . whin Dr. Bentley was here today he did be taking me timperature and I did be thinking av the scare yer Aunt Hazel did be giving us once. She had a rale bad spell av flu and yer Aunt Edith was bound to take her timperature wid her funny liddle thermometer. It didn’t suit yer Aunt Hazel to be fussed over so whiniver me fine Edith’s back was turned Hazel whips the thermometer out av her mouth and sticks it in her hot cup av tay. Whin she heard Edith coming back she sticks it in her mouth again. And poor Edith just about died av fright whin she looked at it and saw what it rigistered. She flew downstairs and sint Long Alec for the doctor at the rate av no man’s business, being sure Hazel had pewmonia wid a timperature like that. Oh, oh, but we had the laugh on her whin the truth come out. Niver cud ye be saying ‘timperature’ to Edith agin, poor soul. Her and me niver were be way av being cronies but I’ll niver deny she had the bist blood av P. E. Island in her veins.”
“Are you sure you’re not tiring yourself, Judy?”
“Talking so much, sez she. Oh, oh, Patsy darlint, it rists me . . . and what do a few hours one way or another be mattering whin ye’ve come to journey’s ind?”
One night Judy talked of the disposal of her few treasures.
“There’ll be a bit av money in the bank after me funeral ixpinses do be paid. I’ve lift it to be divided betwane Winnie and Cuddles and yersilf. Winnie is to hev me autygraph quilt and I promised me blue chist to Siddy years ago. There do be some mats in the garret I put away for ye, Patsy, and me Book av Useful Knowledge and all the liddle things in me glory box. And the book wid all me resates in it. Ye’ll sind Hilary the white kittens, darlint. I’ll be giving me bead pincushion to yer Aunt Barbara for a liddle rimimberance. Her and me always did be hitting it off rale well. And ye’ll see that the ould black bottle is destroyed afore inny one sees it. Folks might be misunderstanding it.”
“I’ll . . . I’ll see to everything, Judy.”
“And, Patsy darlint, ye’ll see that they bury me out there in the ould graveyard where I won’t be far from Silver Bush? There do be a liddle place betwane Waping Willy and the fince where ye can be squazing me in wid a slip av white lilac at me hid. And I’d like a slab on me grave, too,
in place av a standing-up tombstone, so the cats can slape on it. It wud be company-like. And ye’ll dress me in me ould dress-up dress . . . the blue one. I always did be liking it. It won’t be as tight as it was at Winnie’s widding. Do ye be minding?”
“Judy” . . . Pat did not often break down but there were times when she could not help it . . . “however can I . . . however can Silver Bush get along without you?”
“There’ll be a way,” said Judy gently. “There always do be a way. There do be only one thing . . . I’m wondering who’ll white-wash the stones and the posts nixt spring. Me fine May won’t . . . she niver hild be it.”
“I’ll see to that, Judy. Everything is going to be kept at Silver Bush just as you left it.”
“It’ll be too hard on yer hands, Patsy dear.” But Judy was not really worried. She knew the Good Man Above would attend to things.
But it seemed there were one or two things on Judy’s conscience.
“Patsy darlint, do ye be minding whin that bit av news about the countess visiting at Silver Bush was put in the paper and ye niver cud find out who did be doing it? Darlint, it was be way av being mesilf. I’ve been often thinking av owning up to it but niver cud I get up me courage. I did be wanting all the folks to know av it so I ‘phoned it in. The editor, he did be touching it up a bit though. Can ye be forgiving me, Patsy?”
“Forgive? Oh, Judy! Why . . . that was . . . nothing.”
“It wasn’t in kaping wid the traditions av Silver Bush and well I knew it. And, Patsy darlint, all thim stories av mine . . . most av thim happened but maybe I did touch thim up a bit, dramatic-like, now and agin. Me grandmother niver was a witch . . . but she cud see things other folks cudn’t. One day I do be minding I was walking wid her, me being a slip av tin or twilve . . . and we met a man there was talk av. He was alone, saming-like, but me grandmother sez to him, sez she, ‘Good day to you and yer company.’ I’ve niver forgot his face but whin I asked her what she mint she said to thank God I didn’t be knowing and not another word wud she say. He did be hanging himself not long after on his verandah, deliberate-like. And now I’ve tould ye this I’m not worrying over innything. All will be coming right . . . I’m knowing it somehow, being death-wise. Love doesn’t iver be dying, Patsy. I’d like to have seen ye a bride, darlint. But it’s glad I am I’ll niver have to live at Silver Bush wid ye gone.”
One afternoon Judy wandered a little. She thought she heard Joe’s whistle and Rae’s laugh. “The Silver Bush girls always had the pretty way av laughing,” she murmured. She raked down some one who “didn’t be washing the butter properly.” Once she said, “If ye’d set a light in the windy, Patsy.” Again she was hunting through an imaginary parsley bed for something she couldn’t find. “I’m fearing I’ve lost the knack av finding thim,” she sighed.
But when Pat went up to her in the dim she was lying peacefully. Mrs. Binnie had just gone down and had passed Pat on the stairs with an ominous moan.
“Thank the Good Man Above I’ve seen the last av the Binnie gang,” said Judy. “I heard her groaning to you on the stairs. It’s bad luck to mate on the stairs as the mouse said whin the cat caught him half way down, but the luck’ll be on her. She’s been talking av funerals be way av cheering me up. ‘Whin me father died,’ sez she, ‘he had a wonderful funeral. The flowers were grand! And the crowds!’ Ye cud be seeing it was a great comfort to the fam’ly.”
“Are you feeling any worse, Judy?”
“I niver felt better in me life, darlint. I haven’t an ache or a pain. Wud ye be propping me up a bit? I’d like to have a look at the ould silver bush and the clouds having their fun wid the wind over it.”
“Can you guess who’s been here inquiring for you, Judy? Tillytuck, no less. He came all the way from the South shore to ask after you.”
“Oh, oh, that was very affable av him,” said Judy in a gratified tone.
Judy’s bed had been moved so that she could see out of the window when propped up. Pat raised her on her pillows and she looked out with a relish on a scene that was for her full of memories. The owls were calling in the silver bush. The patient acres of the old farm were lying in the fitful light of a windy sunset. But the twilight shadows were falling peacefully over the sheltered kitchen garden where Long Alec was burning weeds. Tillytuck, who had asked Long Alec if he might have a few parsnips, was squatted down on his haunches, busily digging, while a stick of some kind which he had thrust into his pants pocket stuck up behind him with a grotesque resemblance to a forked tail.
Judy reached out and clutched Pat’s hand.
“‘Did ye iver see the devil
Wid his liddle wooden shovel
Digging pittaties in the garden
Wid his tail cocked up?’”
she quoted, laughing, and fell back on her pillows. Her kind loving eyes closed. Judy, who had laughed so bravely, gaily, gallantly all her life, had died laughing.
4
Silver Bush was made ready to receive death. Judy lay in state in the Big Parlour . . . Pat had a queer feeling that it should really have been in the kitchen . . . while outside great flakes of the first snowfall were coming down. Her busy hands were still, quite still, at last. Beautiful flowers had been sent in, but Pat searched her garden and found a few late ‘mums and some crimson leaves and berries to put in Judy’s hands, folded on the breast of her blue dress-up dress. Judy’s face took on a beauty and dignity in death it had never known in life. The funeral was largely attended . . . Pat couldn’t help feeling that Judy would have been proud of it. And then it was over . . . the house, so terribly still, to be put in order and no Judy to talk it over with in the kitchen afterwards! Pat reflected, with a horrible choke, how Judy would have enjoyed talking over her own funeral . . . how she would have chuckled over the jokes. For there had been jokes . . . it seemed that there were jokes everywhere, even at funerals. Old Malcolm Anderson making one of his rare remarks as he looked down on Judy’s dead face, “Poor woman, I hope you’re as happy as you look,” . . . mournfully, as if he rather doubted it; and Olive’s son yowling because his sisters pushed him away from the window and he couldn’t see the flowers being carried out . . . “Never mind,” one of his sisters comforting him, “you’ll see the flowers at mother’s funeral.”
When all was done, Pat, wondering how she could bear the dull, dead ache in her heart, averted her eyes from the spectral winter landscape and went to the kitchen expecting to find it a tragedy of emptiness. But mother was there in Judy’s place, with a chairful of cats beside her. Pat buried her head in mother’s lap and cried out all the tears she had wanted to cry out since Judy was stricken down.
“Oh, mother . . . mother . . . I’ve nothing but you and Silver Bush left now.”
The Eleventh Year
1
There were many times in the year following Judy’s death when cold waves of pain went over Pat. At first it seemed literally impossible to carry on without Judy. Life seemed very savourless now that Judy’s tales were all told. But Pat found, as others have done, that “we forget because we must.” Life began to be livable again and then sweet. Silver Bush seemed to cry to her, “Make me home-like again . . . keep my rooms lighted . . . my heart warmed. Bring young laughter here to keep me from growing old.”
Almost every one she had loved was changed or gone . . . the old voices of gladness sounded no more . . . but Silver Bush was still the same.
That first Christmas without Judy was bitter. Winnie wanted them all to go to the Bay Shore for the day but Pat wouldn’t hear of it. Leave Silver Bush alone for Christmas? Not she! Every tradition was scrupulously carried out. It was easier because mother could share in things now, and they had a good Christmas Day after all. Uncle Tom and Aunt Barbara and Winnie and Frank and their children came. May went home for the day, so there was no jarring presence. A letter came from Rae with the good news that in two years’ time she and Brook would be coming “home” to take charge of the Vancouver branch. Compared to China
Vancouver seemed next door. As Judy used to say, there was always something to take the edge off. Nevertheless Pat was glad when the day was over. The first Christmas above a grave can never be a wholly joyous thing. She and mother talked it over in the kitchen afterwards and laughed a little over certain things. The cats purred around them and Uncle Tom and dad played checkers. But once or twice Pat caught herself listening for Judy’s step on the back stairs.
By spring hope was her friend again and her delight in Silver Bush was keen and vivid once more. Her love for it kept her young. To be sure, often now came little needle-like reminders of the passing years. Now and again there was another grey hair and she knew the quirk at the corner of her mouth was getting a little more pronounced. “We’re all growing old,” she thought with a pang. But she really didn’t mind it so much for herself. It was the change in others she hated to see. Winnie was getting matronly and Frank . . . who had just been elected to membership in the Provincial House . . . was grey above the ears. If other people would only stay young, Pat thought, she wouldn’t mind growing old herself. Though it was rather horrid to be told you “looked young,” as Uncle Brian once did. She knew the Binnies regarded her as definitely “on the shelf” and that they were calling her among themselves “the single perennial.” Even Little Mary once gravely asked her, “Aunt Pat, did you ever have any beaus?” It sometimes amused her to reflect that she was really quite a different person to different people. To the Binnies she was a disappointed spinster who had been “crossed in love” . . . to the Great-aunts at the Bay Shore she was an inexperienced child . . . to Lester Conway she was a divine, alluring, unobtainable creature. For Lester, who was now a young widower, had tried vainly to warm up the cold soup. Pat would none of him. The time when she had been so wildly in love with him in her Queen’s days seemed as far away and unreal as the days of immemorial antiquity. To be sure, he had been slim and romantic and dashing then, whereas he was stout and plump-faced now. And he had once laughed at Silver Bush. Pat had never forgiven him for that . . . never would forgive him.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 367