“Only six more weeks.” It was weeks now where it had been months. Down home the robins would be strutting round Lantern Hill and the mists would be coming in from the sea. Jane ticked off April.
CHAPTER 33
It was the last week in May that Jane saw the house. Mother had gone one evening to visit a friend who had just moved into a new house in the new Lakeside development on the banks of the Humber. She took Jane with her, and it was a revelation to Jane, whose only goings and comings had been so circumscribed that she had never dreamed there were such lovely places in Toronto. Why, it was just like a pretty country village out here…hills and ravines with ferns and wild columbines growing in them and rivers and trees…the green fire of willows, the great clouds of oaks, the plumes of pines and, not far away, the blue mist that was Lake Ontario.
Mrs. Townley lived on a street called Lakeside Gardens, and she showed them proudly over her new house. It was so big and splendid that Jane did not feel very much interested in it, and after a while she slipped away in the dusk to explore the street itself, leaving mother and Mrs. Townley talking cupboards and bathrooms.
Jane decided that she liked Lakeside Gardens. She liked it because it twisted and curved. It was a friendly street. The houses did not look at each other with their noses in the air. Even the big ones were not snooty. They sat among their gardens, with spireas afoam around them and tulips and daffodils all about their toes, and said, “We have lots of room…we don’t have to push with our elbows…we can afford to be gracious.”
Jane looked them over carefully as she went by but it was not until she was nearly at the end of the street, where it turned into a road winding down to the lake, that she saw her house. She had liked a great many of the houses she had passed, but when she saw this house she knew at first sight that it belonged to her…just as Lantern Hill did.
It was a small house for Lakeside Gardens but a great deal bigger than Lantern Hill. It was built of gray stone and had casement windows…some of them beautifully unexpected…and a roof of shingles stained a very dark brown. It was built right on the edge of the ravine overlooking the tree tops, with five great pines just behind it.
“What a darling place!” breathed Jane.
It was a new house: it had just been built and there was a For Sale sign on the lawn. Jane went all around it and peered through every diamond-paned window. There was a living room that would really live when it was furnished, a dining room with a door that opened into a sun room, and the most delightful breakfast nook in pale yellow, with built-in china closets. It should have chairs and table of yellow too, and curtains at the recessed window between gold and green that would look like sunshine on the darkest day. Yes, this house belonged to her…she could see herself in it, hanging curtains, polishing the glass doors, making cookies in the kitchen. She hated the For Sale sign. To think that somebody would be buying that house…her house…was torture.
She prowled round and round it. At the back the ground was terraced right down to the floor of the ravine. There was a rock garden and a group of forsythia bushes that must have been fountains of pale gold in early spring. Three flights of stone steps went down the terraces, with the delicacy of birch shadows about them, and off to one side was a wild garden of slender young Lombardies. A robin winked at her; a nice chubby cat came over from the neighboring rock garden. Jane tried to catch him, but…“Excuse me. This is my busy day,” said the cat and pattered down the stone steps.
Jane finally sat down on the front steps and gave herself up to a secret joy. There was a gap in the trees on the opposite side of the street through which a far, purple-gray hill showed. There were misty, pale green woods over the river. The woods all around Lantern Hill would be misty green too. The banners of a city of night were being flaunted in the sunset sky behind the pines further down. The gulls soared whitely up the river.
It grew darker. Lights bloomed out in the houses. Jane always felt the fascination of lighted houses in the night. There should be a light in the house behind her. She should be turning on the lights in it. She should be living here. She could be happy here. She could be friends with the wind and the rain here: she could love the lake even if it did not have the sparkle and boom of gulf seas; she could put out nuts for the saucy squirrels and hang up birdhouses for the feathered folk and feed the pheasants Mrs. Townley said lived in the ravine.
Suddenly there was a slim, golden new moon over the oaks and the world was still…almost as still as Queen’s Shore on a calm summer night and there was a sparkling of lights along the lake drive like a necklace of gems on some dark beauty’s breast.
“Where were you all the evening, darling?” asked mother as they drove home.
“Picking out a house to buy,” said Jane dreamily. “I wish we lived here instead of at 60 Gay, mummy.”
Mother was silent for a moment.
“You don’t like 60 Gay very well, do you, dearest?”
“No,” said Jane. And then, to her own amazement, added, “Do you?”
She was still more amazed when mother said, quickly and vehemently, “I hate it!”
That night Jane ticked off May. Only ten days more. It was days now where it had been weeks. Oh, suppose she took ill and couldn’t go! But no! God wouldn’t…couldn’t!
CHAPTER 34
Grandmother coldly told mother to buy what clothes…if any…were necessary for Jane. Jane and mother had a happy afternoon’s shopping. Jane picked her own things…things that would suit Lantern Hill and an Island summer. Mother insisted on some smart little knitted sweaters and one pretty dress of rose-pink organdy with delicious frills. Jane didn’t know where she would ever wear it…it was too ornate for the little south church, but she let mother buy it to please her. And mother got her the niftiest little green bathing suit.
“Just think,” reflected Jane happily, “in a week I’ll be on Queen’s Shore. I hope the water won’t be too cold for swimming…”
“We may be going to the Island in August,” said Phyllis. “Dad says he hasn’t been down for so long he’d like to spend another vacation there. If we do, we’ll be stopping at the Harbor Head Hotel and it isn’t very far from there to Queen’s Shore. So we’ll likely see you.”
Jane didn’t know whether she liked this idea or not. She didn’t want Phyllis there, patronizing the Island…looking down her nose at Lantern Hill and the boot-shelf and the Snowbeams.
Jane went to the Maritimes with the Randolphs this year and they left on the morning train instead of the night. It was a dull, cloudy day, but Jane was so happy she positively radiated happiness around her like sunshine. Mrs. Randolph’s opinion of Jane was the very opposite of what Mrs. Stanley’s had been. Mrs. Randolph thought she had never met a more charming child, interested in everything, finding beauty everywhere, even in those interminable stretches of pulpwood lands and lumber forests in New Brunswick. Jane studied the timetable and hailed each station as a friend, especially the ones with quaint, delightful names…Red Pine, Bartibog, Memramcook. And then Sackville where they left the main line and got on the little branch train to Cape Tormentine. How sorry Jane felt for anyone who was not going to the Island!
Cape Tormentine…the car ferry…watching for the red cliffs of the Island…there they were…she had really forgotten how red they were…and beyond them misty green hills. It was raining again, but who cared? Everything the Island did was right. If it wanted to rain…why, rain was Jane’s choice.
Having left Toronto on the morning train, they were in Charlottetown by mid-afternoon. Jane saw dad the moment she stepped off the train…grinning and saying, “Excuse me, but your face seems familiar. Are you by any chance…” but Jane had hurled herself at him. They had never been parted…she had never been away at all. The world was real again. She was Jane again. Oh, dad, dad!
She had been afraid Aunt Irene would be there too…possibly Miss Lilian Morrow as well. But Aun
t Irene, it transpired, was away on a visit to Boston and had taken Miss Morrow with her. Jane secretly hoped that Aunt Irene would be having such a fine time in Boston that she wouldn’t be able to tear herself away for a long time.
“And the car has turned temperamental again,” said dad. “I had to leave it in the garage at the Corners and borrow Step-a-yard’s horse and buggy. You don’t mind?”
Mind? Jane was delighted. She wanted that drive to Lantern Hill to be so slow that she could drink the road in as she drove along. And she liked to be behind a horse. You could talk to a horse as you never could to a car. The fact was, if dad had said they had to walk to Lantern Hill it wouldn’t have mattered to Jane.
Dad put lean, strong hands under her arms and swung her up to the buggy seat.
“Let’s just go on from where we left off. You’ve grown since last summer, my Jane.”
“An inch,” said Jane proudly.
It had stopped raining. The sun was coming out. Beyond, the white wave crests on the harbor were laughing at her…waving their hands at her.
“Let’s go uptown and buy our house some presents, Jane.”
“A double-boiler that won’t leak, dad. Bootie’s always did, a little. And a potato-ricer…can we get a potato-ricer, dad?”
Dad thought the budget would stretch to a potato-ricer.
It was delightful, all of it. But Jane sparkled when they had left town behind them, going home to all the things they loved.
“Drive slow, dad. I don’t want to miss anything on the road.”
She was feasting her eyes on everything…spruce-clad hills, bits of gardens full of unsung beauty tucked away here and there, glimpses of sparkling sea, blue rivers…had those rivers really been so blue last summer? It had been an early spring and all the blossom show was over. Jane was sorry for that. She wondered if she would ever be able to get to the Island in time to see the Titus ladies’ famous cherry walk in its spring-blow.
They called for a moment to see Mrs. Meade, who kissed Jane and was sorry Mr. Meade couldn’t come out to see her, because he was in bed with an abyss in his ear. She gave them a packet of ham sandwiches and cheese to stay their stomachs if they were hungry on the road.
They heard the ocean before they saw it. Jane loved the sound. It was as if the spirit of the sea called to her. And then the first snuff of salt in the air…there was one particular hill where they always got the first tang. And from that same hill they caught their first faraway glimpse of Lantern Hill. It was wonderful to be able to see your own home so far off…to feel that every step the horse took was bringing you nearer to it.
From there on Jane was on her own stamping ground. It was so exciting to recognize all the spots along the road…green wood lanes, old beloved farms that held out their arms to her. The single row of spruces was still marching up Little Donald’s hill. The dunes…and the fishing-boats sailing in…and the little blue pond laughing at her…and Lantern Hill. Home after exile!
Somebody…Jane discovered later that it was the Snowbeams…had made “Welcome” with white stones in the walk. Happy was waiting for them in the yard and nearly ate Jane alive. Bubbles, the new fat white dog, sat apart and looked at her, but he was so cute that Jane forgave him on the spot for being Bubbles.
The first thing was to visit every room, and every room welcomed her back. Nothing was changed. She looked the house over to make sure nothing was missing. The little bronze soldier was still riding on his bronze horse and the green cat kept watch and ward over dad’s desk. But the silver needed polishing and the geraniums needed pruning and when had the kitchen floor been scrubbed?
She had been away from Lantern Hill for nine months, but now it seemed to her that she had never been away at all. She had really been living here all along. It was her spirit’s home.
There was a bunch of little surprises…nice surprises. They had six hens…there was a small hen-house built below the garden…there was a peaked porch roof built over the glass-paned door…and dad had got the telephone in.
First Peter was sitting on the doorstone when Jane came downstairs, with a big mouse in his mouth, very proud of his prowess as a hunter. Jane pounced on him, mouse and all, and then looked around for Second Peter. Where was Second Peter?
Dad put his arm closely around Jane.
“Second Peter died last week, Jane. I don’t know what happened to him…he got sick. I had the vet for him but he could do nothing.”
Jane felt a stinging in her eyes. She would not cry, but she choked.
“I…I…didn’t think anything I loved could die,” she whispered into dad’s shoulder.
“Ah, Jane, love can’t fence out death. He had a happy life, if a short one…and we buried him in the garden. Come out and see the garden, Jane…it burst into bloom as soon as it heard you were coming.”
A wind ran through the garden as they entered it and it looked as if every flower and shrub were nodding a head or waving a hand at them. Dad had a corner where vegetables were all up in neat little rows and there were new beds of annuals.
“Miranda got what you wanted from the seedsman…I think you’ll find everything, even the scabiosa. What do you want with scabiosa, Jane? It’s an abominable name…sounds like a disease.”
“Oh, the flowers are pretty, dad. And there are so many nicer names for them…Lady’s pincushion and Mourning Bride. Aren’t the pansies lovely? I’m so glad I sowed them last August.”
“You look like a pansy yourself, Jane…that red-brown one there with the golden eyes.”
Jane remembered she had wondered if anyone would ever compare her to a flower. In spite of the little pile of shore stones under the lilac…which Young John had piled over the grave of Second Peter…she was happy. Everything was so lovely. Even Mrs. Big Donald’s washing, streaming gallantly out against the blue sky on her hilltop, was charming. And away down by the Watch Tower the surf was breaking on the sand. Jane wanted to be out in that turmoil and smother of the waves. But that must wait till morning. Just now there was supper to be gotten.
“How jolly to be in a kitchen again,” thought Jane, girding on an apron.
“I’m glad my cook is back,” said dad. “I’ve practically lived on salt codfish all winter. It was the easiest thing to cook. But I don’t deny the neighbors helped the commissariat out. And they’ve sent in no end of things for our supper.”
Jane had found the pantry full of them. A cold chicken from the Jimmy Johns, a pat of butter from Mrs. Big Donald, a jug of cream from Mrs. Little Donald, some cheese from Mrs. Snowbeam, some rose-red early radishes from Min’s ma, a pie from Mrs. Bell.
“She said she knew you could make as good pies as she can but she thought it would fill in till you’d have time to make some. There’s a goodish bit of jam left yet and practically all the pickles.”
Jane and dad talked as they ate supper. They had a whole winter of talk to catch up with. Had he missed her? Well, had he now? What did she think? They regarded each other with great content. Jane saw the new moon, over her right shoulder, through the open door. And dad got up and started the ship clock. Time had begun once more.
Jane’s friends, having considerately let her have her first rapture over, came to see her in the evening…the brown, rosy Jimmy Johns and the Snowbeams and Min and Ding-dong. They were all glad to see her. Queen’s Shore had kept her in its heart. It was wonderful to be somebody again…wonderful to be able to laugh all you wanted to without anyone resenting it…wonderful to be among happy people again. All at once Jane realized that nobody was happy at 60 Gay…except, perhaps, Mary and Frank. Grandmother wasn’t…Aunt Gertrude wasn’t…mother wasn’t.
Step-a-yard whispered to her that he had brought over a wheelbarrow-load of sheep manure for her garden. “You’ll find it by the gate…nothing like well-rotted sheep manure for a garden.” Ding-dong had brought her a kitten to replace Second Peter…a
scrap about as big as its mother’s paw, but which was destined to be a magnificent cat in black with four white paws. Jane and dad tried out all kinds of names on it before they went to bed and finally agreed on Silver Penny because of the round white spot between its ears.
To go to her own dear room where a young birch was fairly poking an arm in through the window from the steep hillside…to hear the sound of the sea in the night…to waken in the morning and think she would be with dad all day! Jane sang the song of the morning stars as she dressed and got breakfast.
The first thing Jane did after breakfast was to run with the wind to the shore and take a wild exultant dip in the stormy waves. She fairly flung herself into the arms of the sea.
And what a forenoon it was, polishing silver and window-panes. Nothing had changed really, though there were surface changes. Step-a-yard had grown a beard because of throat trouble…Big Donald had repainted his house…the calves of last summer had grown up…Little Donald was letting his hill pasture go spruce. It was good to be home.
“Timothy Salt is going to take me codfishing next Saturday, dad.”
CHAPTER 35
Uncle David and Aunt Sylvia and Phyllis came in July to the Harbor Head Hotel but could stay only a week. They brought Phyllis over to Lantern Hill late one afternoon and left her there while they went to visit friends in town.
“We’ll come back for her around nine,” said Aunt Sylvia, looking in horror at Jane, who had just got back from Queen’s Creek, where she had been writing a love letter for Joe Gautier to his lady friend in Boston. Evidently there was nothing Jane was afraid to tackle. She was still wearing the khaki overalls she had worn while driving loads of hay into the Jimmy John barn all the forenoon. The overalls were old and faded and were not improved by a huge splash of green paint on a certain portion of Jane’s anatomy. Jane had painted the old garden seat green one day and sat down on it before it was dry.
Jane of Lantern Hill Page 18