She could never bear Agnes Ripley and her cult of “secrets” again, and was glad when Agnes left the school, the great Thomas having decided that it was not quite up-to-date enough for his daughter. Agnes wanted to learn tap-dancing.
CHAPTER 6
It was a year now since Jane had learned that she had a father…a year in which Jane had just scraped through as far as her grade was concerned…Phyllis had taken the prize for general proficiency in her year and did Jane hear of it!…had continued to be driven to and from St. Agatha’s, had tried her best to like Phyllis and had not made any great headway at it, had trysted with Jody in the backyard twilights, and had practiced her scales as faithfully as if she liked it.
“Such a pity you are not fonder of music,” said grandmother. “But of course, how could you be?”
It was not so much what grandmother said as how she said it. She made wounds that rankled and festered. And Jane was fond of music…she loved to listen to it. When Mr. Ransome, the musical boarder at 58, played on his violin in his room in the evenings, he never dreamed of the two enraptured listeners he had in the backyard cherry tree. Jane and Jody sat there, their hands clasped, their hearts filled with some nameless ecstasy. When winter came and the bedroom window was shut, Jane felt the loss keenly. The moon was her only escape then, and she slipped away to it oftener than ever, in long visitations of silence which grandmother called “sulks.”
“She has a very sulky disposition,” said grandmother.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” faltered mother. The only times she ever dared to contradict grandmother were in defense of Jane. “She’s just rather…sensitive.”
“Sensitive!” Grandmother laughed. Grandmother did not often laugh, which Jane thought was just as well. As for Aunt Gertrude, if she had ever laughed or jested it must have been so long ago that nobody remembered it. Mother laughed when people were about…little tinkling laughs that Jane could never feel were real. No, there was not much real laughter at 60 Gay, though Jane, with her concealed gift for seeing the funny side of things, could have filled even that big house with laughter. But Jane had known very early that grandmother resented laughter. Even Mary and Frank had to giggle very discreetly in the kitchen.
Jane had shot up appallingly in that year. She was rather more angular and awkward. Her chin was square and cleft.
“It gets more like his every day,” she once heard grandmother saying bitterly to Aunt Gertrude. Jane winced. In her bitter new wisdom she suspected that “his” was her father’s chin, and she straightway detested hers. Why couldn’t it have been a pretty rounded one like mother’s?
The year was very uneventful. Jane would have called it monotonous if she had not as yet been unacquainted with the word. There were only three things in it that made much impression on her…the incident of the kitten, the mysterious affair of Kenneth Howard’s picture, and the unlucky recitation.
Jane had picked the kitten up on the street. One afternoon Frank had been in a big hurry to get somewhere on time for grandmother and mother and he had let Jane walk home from the beginning of Gay Street when he was bringing her from St. Agatha’s. Jane walked along happily, savoring this rare moment of independence. It was very seldom she was allowed to walk anywhere alone…to walk anywhere at all, indeed. And Jane loved walking. She would have liked to walk to and from St. Agatha’s or, since that really was too far, she would have liked to go by street-car. Jane loved traveling on a street car. It was so fascinating to look at the people in it and speculate about them. Who was that lady with the lovely shimmering hair? What was the angry old woman muttering to herself about? Did that little boy like having his mother clean his face with her handkerchief in public? Did that jolly looking little girl have trouble getting her grade? Did that man have toothache and did he ever look pleasant when he hadn’t it? She would have liked to know all about them and sympathize or rejoice as occasion required. But it was very seldom any resident of 60 Gay had a chance to go on a street-car. There was always Frank with the limousine.
Jane walked slowly to prolong the pleasure. It was a cold day in late autumn. It had been miserly of its light from the beginning, with a dim ghost of sun peering through the dull gray clouds, and now it was getting dark and spitting snow. The lights gleamed out: even the grim windows of Victorian Gay were abloom. Jane did not mind the bitter wind, but something else did. Jane heard the most pitiful, despairing little cry and looked down to see the kitten, huddled miserably against an iron fence. She bent and picked it up and held it against her face. The little creature, a handful of tiny bones in its fluffed-out Maltese fur, licked her cheek with an eager tongue. It was cold, starving, forsaken. Jane knew it did not belong to Gay Street. She could not leave it there to perish in the oncoming stormy night.
“Goodness’ sake, Miss Victoria, wherever did you get that?” exclaimed Mary, when Jane entered the kitchen. “You shouldn’t have brought it in. You know your grandmother doesn’t like cats. Your Aunt Gertrude got one once but it clawed all the tassels off the furniture and it had to go. Better put that kitten right out, Miss Victoria.”
Jane hated to be called “Miss Victoria,” but grandmother insisted on the servants addressing her so.
“I can’t put it out in the cold, Mary. Let me give it some supper and leave it here till after dinner. I’ll ask grandmother to let me keep it. Perhaps she will if I promise to keep it out here and in the yard. You wouldn’t mind it round, would you, Mary?”
“I’d like it,” said Mary. “I’ve often thought a cat would be great company…or a dog. Your mother had a dog once but it got poisoned and she would never have another.”
Mary did not tell Jane that she firmly believed the old lady had poisoned the dog. You didn’t tell children things like that, and anyway, she couldn’t be dead sure of it. All she was sure of was that old Mrs. Kennedy had been bitterly jealous of her daughter’s love for the dog.
“How she used to look at it when she didn’t know I saw her,” thought Mary.
Grandmother and Aunt Gertrude and mother were taking in a couple of teas that day, so Jane knew she could count on at least an hour yet. It was a pleasant hour. The kitten was happy and frolicsome, having drunk milk until its little sides tubbed out almost to the bursting point. The kitchen was warm and cozy, Mary let Jane chop the nuts that were to be sprinkled over the cake and cut the pears into slim segments for the salad.
“Oh, Mary, blueberry pie! Why don’t we have it oftener? You can make such delicious blueberry pie.”
“There’s some who can make pies and some who can’t,” said Mary complacently. “As for having it oftener, you know your grandmother doesn’t care much for any kind of pie. She says they’re indigestible…and my father lived to be ninety and had pie for breakfast every morning of his life! I just make it occasional for your mother.”
“After dinner I’ll tell grandmother about the kitten and ask her if I may keep it,” said Jane.
“I think you’ll have your trouble for your pains, you poor child,” said Mary as the door closed behind Jane. “Miss Robin ought to stand up for you more than she does…but there, she’s always been under the thumb of her mother. Anyway, I hope the dinner will go well and keep the old dame in good humor. I wish I hadn’t made the blueberry pie after all. It’s lucky she won’t know Miss Victoria fixed the salad…what folks don’t know never hurts them.”
The dinner did not go well. There was a tension in the air. Grandmother did not talk…evidently some occurrence of the afternoon had put her out. Aunt Gertrude never talked at any time. And mother seemed uneasy and never once tried to pass Jane any of the little signals they had…the touched lip…the lifted eyebrow…the crooked finger…that all meant “honey darling” or “I love you” or “consider yourself kissed.”
Jane, burdened by her secret, was even more awkward than usual, and when she was eating her blueberry pie she dropped a forkful of it on the table.
“This,” said grandmother “might have been excused in a child of five. It is absolutely inexcusable in a girl of your age. Blueberry stain is almost impossible to get out, and this is one of my best tablecloths. But of course that is a matter of small importance.”
Jane gazed at the table in dismay. How such a little bit of pie could have spread itself over so much territory she could not understand. And of course it had to be at this inauspicious moment that a little purry, furry creature escaped the pursuing Mary, skittered across the dining room and bounded into Jane’s lap. Jane’s heart descended to her boots.
“Where did that cat come from?” demanded grandmother.
“I mustn’t be a coward,” thought Jane desperately.
“I found it on the street and brought it in,” she said bravely…defiantly, grandmother thought. “It was so cold and hungry…look how thin it is, grandmother. Please may I keep it? It’s such a darling. I won’t let it trouble you…I’ll…”
“My dear Victoria, don’t be ridiculous. I really supposed you knew we do not keep cats here. Be good enough to put that creature out at once.”
“Oh, not out on the street, grandmother, please. Listen to the sleet…it would die.”
“I expect you to obey me without argument, Victoria. You cannot have your own way all the time. Other people’s wishes must be considered occasionally. Please oblige me by making no further fuss over a trifle.”
“Grandmother,” began Jane passionately. But grandmother lifted a little, wrinkled, sparkling hand.
“Now, now, don’t work yourself into a state, Victoria. Take that thing out at once.”
Jane took the kitten to the kitchen.
“Don’t worry, Miss Victoria. I’ll get Frank to put it in the garage with a rug to lie on. It will be quite comfy. And tomorrow I’ll find a good home for it at my sister’s. She’s fond of cats.”
Jane never cried, so she was not crying when mother slipped rather stealthily into her room for a good-night kiss. She was only tense with rebellion.
“Mummy, I wish we could get away…just you and I. I hate this place, mummy, I hate it.”
Mother said a strange thing and said it bitterly. “There is no escape for either of us now.”
CHAPTER 7
Jane could never understand the affair of the picture. After her hurt and anger passed away she was just hopelessly puzzled. Why…why…should the picture of a perfect stranger matter to anybody at 60 Gay…and to mother, least of all?
She had come across it one day when she was visiting Phyllis. Every once in so long Jane had to spend an afternoon with Phyllis. This one was no more of a success than the former ones had been. Phyllis was a conscientious hostess. She had shown Jane all her new dolls, her new dresses, her new slippers, her new pearl necklace, her new china pig. Phyllis was collecting china pigs and apparently thought anyone “dumb” who was not interested in china pigs. She had patronized and condescended even more than usual. Consequently, Jane was stiffer than usual and both of them were in agonies of boredom. It was a relief to all concerned when Jane picked up a Saturday Evening and buried herself in it, though she was not in the least interested in the society pages, the photographs of brides and debutantes, the stock market, or even in the article, Peaceful Readjustment of International Difficulties, by Kenneth Howard, which was given the place of honor on the front page. Jane had a vague idea that she ought not to be reading Saturday Evening. For some unknown reason grandmother did not approve of it. She would not have a copy of it in her house.
But what Jane did like was the picture of Kenneth Howard on the front page. The moment she looked at it she was conscious of its fascination. She had never seen Kenneth Howard…she had no idea who he was or where he lived…but she felt as if it were the picture of someone she knew very well and liked very much. She liked everything about it…his odd, peaked eyebrows…the way his thick, rather unruly hair sprang back from his forehead…the way his firm mouth tucked in at the corners…the slightly stern look in the eyes which yet had such jolly wrinkles at the corners…and the square, cleft chin which reminded Jane so strongly of something, she couldn’t remember just what. That chin seemed like an old friend. Jane looked at the face and drew a long breath. She knew, right off, that if she had loved her father instead of hating him she would have wanted him to look like Kenneth Howard.
Jane stared at the picture so long that Phyllis became curious.
“What are you looking at, Jane?”
Jane suddenly came to life.
“May I have this picture, Phyllis…please?”
“Whose picture? Why…that? Do you know him?”
“No. I never heard of him before. But I like the picture.”
“I don’t.” Phyllis looked at it contemptuously. “Why…he’s old. And he isn’t a bit handsome. There’s a lovely picture of Norman Tait on the next page, Jane…let me show it to you.”
Jane was not interested in Norman Tait nor any other screen star. Grandmother did not approve of children going to the movies.
“I’d like this picture if I may have it,” she said firmly.
“I guess you can have it,” condescended Phyllis. She thought Jane “dumber” than ever. How she did pity such a dumb girl! “I guess nobody here wants that picture. I don’t like it a bit. He looks as if he was laughing at you behind his eyes.”
Which was a bit of surprising insight on the part of Phyllis. That was just how Kenneth Howard did look. Only it was nice laughter. Jane felt she wouldn’t mind a bit being laughed at like that. She cut the picture carefully out, carried it home, and hid it under the pile of handkerchiefs in her top bureau drawer. She could hardly have told why she did not want to show it to anybody. Perhaps she did not want anyone to ridicule the picture as Phyllis had done. Perhaps it was just because there seemed some strange bond between her and it…something too beautiful to be talked about to anyone, even mother. Not that there was much chance of talking to mother about anything just now. Never had mother been so brilliant, so gay, so beautifully dressed, so constantly on the go to parties and teas and bridges. Even the good-night kiss had become a rare thing…or Jane thought it had. She did not know that always, when her mother came in late, she tiptoed into Jane’s room and dropped a kiss on Jane’s russet hair…lightly so as not to waken her. Sometimes she cried when she went back to her own room but not often, because it might show at breakfast and old Mrs. Robert Kennedy did not like people who cried o’ nights in her house.
For three weeks the picture and Jane were the best of friends. She took it out and looked at it whenever she could…she told it all about Jody and about her tribulations with her homework and about her love for mother. She even told it her moon secret. When she lay lonely in her bed, the thought of it was company. She kissed it good-night and took a peep at it the first thing in the morning.
Then Aunt Gertrude found it.
The moment Jane came in from St. Agatha’s that day she knew something was wrong. The house, which always seemed to be watching her, was watching her more closely than ever, with a mocking, triumphant malice. Great-grandfather Kennedy scowled more darkly than ever at her from the drawing-room wall. And grandmother was sitting bolt-upright in her chair, flanked by mother and Aunt Gertrude. Mother was twisting a lovely red rose to pieces in her little white hands, but Aunt Gertrude was staring at the picture grandmother was holding.
“My picture!” cried Jane aloud.
Grandmother looked at Jane. For once her cold blue eyes were on fire.
“Where did you get this?” she said.
“It’s mine,” cried Jane. “Who took it out of my drawer? Nobody had any business to do that.”
“I don’t think I like your manner, Victoria. And we are not discussing a problem in ethics. I asked a question.”
Jane looked down at the floor. She had no earthly idea why it seemed such a crime to have K
enneth Howard’s picture but she knew she was not going to be allowed to have it anymore. And it seemed to Jane that she just could not bear that.
“Will you be kind enough to look at me, Victoria? And to answer my question? You are not tongue-tied, by any chance, I suppose.”
Jane looked up with stormy and mutinous eyes.
“I cut it out of a paper…out of Saturday Evening.”
“That rag!” Grandmother’s tone consigned Saturday Evening to unfathomable depths of contempt. “Where did you see it?”
“At Aunt Sylvia’s,” retorted Jane, plucking up spirit.
“Why did you cut this out?”
“Because I liked it.”
“Do you know who Kenneth Howard is?”
“No.”
“No, grandmother, if you please. Well, I think it is hardly necessary to keep the picture of a man you don’t know in your bureau drawer. Let us have no more of such absurdity.”
Grandmother lifted the picture in both hands. Jane sprang forward and caught her arm.
“Oh, grandmother, don’t tear it up. You mustn’t. I want it terribly.”
The moment she said it, she knew she had made a mistake. There had never been much chance of getting the picture back but what little there had been was now gone.
“Have you gone completely mad, Victoria?” said grandmother…to whom nobody had ever said, “You mustn’t,” in her whole life before. “Take your hand off my arm, please. As for this…” Grandmother tore the picture deliberately into four pieces and threw them on the fire. Jane, who felt as if her heart were being torn with it, was on the point of a rebellious outburst when she happened to glance at mother. Mother was pale as ashes, standing there with the leaves of the rose she had torn to pieces strewing the carpet around her feet. There was such a dreadful look of pain in her eyes that Jane shuddered. The look was gone in a moment but Jane could never forget that it had been there. And she knew she could not ask mother to explain the mystery of the picture. For some reason she could not guess at, Kenneth Howard meant suffering to mother. And somehow that fact stained and spoiled all her beautiful memories of communion with the picture.
Jane of Lantern Hill Page 4