The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  “Do for your dinner to-morrow, Jane.”

  “To-morrow is the day for corned beef and cabbage,” said Jane in a scandalized voice. “But we’ll have them the day after. That’s Friday anyhow. Thank you, Step-a-yard.”

  “Anything troubling you, Miss Lion-tamer?”

  Jane opened her heart to him.

  “You just don’t know what poor Jody’s life’s been,” she concluded.

  Step-a-yard nodded.

  “Put upon and overworked and knocked about from pillar to post, I reckon. Poor kid.”

  “And nobody to love her but me. If she goes to an orphanage, I’ll never see her.”

  “Well, now.” Step-a-yard scratched his head reflectively. “We must put our heads together, Jane, and see what can be done about it. We must think hard, Jane, we must think hard.”

  Jane thought hard to no effect but Step-a-yard’s meditations were more fruitful.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he told Jane next day, “what a pity it is the Titus ladies couldn’t adopt Jody. They’ve been wanting to adopt a child for a year now but they can’t agree on what kind of a child they want. Justina wants a girl and Violet wants a boy, though they’d both prefer twins of any sex. But suitable twins looking for parents are kind of scarce, so they’ve given up that idea. Violet wants a dark complected one with brown eyes and Justina wants a fair one with blue eyes. Violet wants one ten years old and Justina wants one about seven. How old is Jody?”

  “Twelve, like me.”

  Step-a-yard looked gloomy.

  “I dunno. That sounds too old for them. But it wouldn’t do any harm to put it up to them. You never can tell what them two girls will do.”

  “I’ll see them to-night right after supper,” resolved Jane.

  She was so excited that she salted the apple sauce and no one could eat it. As soon as the supper dishes were out of the way . . . and that night they were not proud of the way they were washed . . . Jane was off.

  There was a wonderful sunset over the harbour, and Jane’s cheeks were red from the stinging kisses of the wind by the time she reached the narrow perfumed Titus lane where the trees seemed trying to touch you. Beyond was the kind, old, welcoming house, mellowed in the sunshine of a hundred summers, and the Titus ladies were sitting before a beechwood fire in their kitchen. Justina was knitting and Violet was clipping creamy bits of toffee from a long, silvery twist, made from a recipe Jane had never yet been able to wheedle out of them.

  “Come in, dear. We are glad to see you,” said Justina, kindly and sincerely, though she looked a little apprehensively over Jane’s shoulder, as if she feared a lion might be skulking in the shadows. “It was such a cool evening we decided to have a fire. Sit down, dear. Violet, give her some toffee. She is growing very tall, isn’t she?”

  “And handsome,” said Violet. “I like her eyes, don’t you, sister?”

  The Titus ladies had a curious habit of talking Jane over before her face as if she wasn’t there. Jane didn’t mind . . . though they were sometimes not so complimentary.

  “I prefer blue eyes, as you know,” said Justina, “but her hair is beautiful.”

  “Hardly dark enough for my taste,” said Violet. “I have always admired black hair.”

  “The only kind of hair that is really beautiful is curling, red-gold hair,” said Justina. “Her cheek-bones are rather high but her insteps are admirable.”

  “She is very brown,” sighed Violet. “But they tell me that is fashionable now. We were very careful of our complexions when we were girls. Our mother, you remember, always made us wear sunbonnets when we went out of doors . . . pink sunbonnets.”

  “Pink sunbonnets! They were blue,” said Justina.

  “Pink,” said Violet positively.

  “Blue,” said Justina, just as positively.

  They argued for ten minutes over the colour of the sunbonnets. When Jane saw they were getting rather warm over it, she mentioned that Miranda Garland was going to be married in two weeks’ time. The Titus ladies forgot the sunbonnets in their excitement.

  “Two weeks? That’s very sudden, isn’t it? Of course, it is to Ned Mitchell. I heard they were engaged . . . even that seemed to me very precipitate when they had been keeping company only six months . . . but I had no idea they were to be married so soon,” said Violet.

  “She does not want to take a chance on his falling in love with a thinner girl,” said Justina.

  “They’ve hurried up the wedding so that I can be bridesmaid,” explained Jane proudly.

  “She is only seventeen,” said Justina disapprovingly.

  “Nineteen, sister,” said Violet.

  “Seventeen,” said Justina.

  “Nineteen,” said Violet.

  Jane cut short what seemed likely to be another ten minutes’ argument over Miranda’s age by saying she was eighteen.

  “Oh, well, it’s easy enough to get married,” said Justina. “The trick nowadays seems to be to stay married.”

  Jane winced. She knew Justina hadn’t meant to hurt her. But her father and mother hadn’t stayed married.

  “I think,” said Violet, kindling, “that P. E. Island has a very good record in that respect. Only two divorces since Confederation . . . sixty-five years.”

  “Only two real ones,” conceded Justina. “But quite a few . . . at least half a dozen . . . imitation ones . . . going to the States and getting a divorce there. And likely to be more from all accounts.”

  Violet sent Justina a warning glance which Jane, luckily for her peace of mind, did not intercept. Jane had come to the conclusion that she must mention the object of her call now if she were ever going to do it. No use waiting for a chance . . . you just had to make your chance.

  “I hear you want to adopt a child,” she said, with no beating round the bush.

  Again the sisters interchanged glances.

  “We’ve been talking of it off and on for a couple of years,” acknowledged Justina.

  “We’ve got along as far as both being willing for a little girl,” said Violet with a sigh. “I would have liked a boy . . . but, as Justina pointed out, neither of us knows anything about dressing a boy. It would be more fun dressing a little girl.”

  “A little girl about seven, with blue eyes and fair curling hair and a rosebud mouth,” said Justina firmly.

  “A little girl of ten with sloe-black hair and eyes and a creamy skin,” said Violet with equal firmness. “I have given in to you about the sex, sister. It is your turn to give in about the age and the complexion.”

  “The age possibly, but not the complexion.”

  “I know the very girl for you,” said Jane brazenly. “She’s my chum in Toronto, Jody Turner. I know you’ll love her. Let me tell you about her.”

  Jane told them. She left nothing untold that might incline them in Jody’s favour. When she had said what she wanted to say, she held her tongue. Jane always knew the right time to be silent.

  The Titus ladies were silent also. Justina went on knitting and Violet, having finished snipping toffee, took up her crocheting. Now and then they lifted their eyes, looked at each other and dropped them again. The fire crackled companionably.

  “Is she pretty?” said Justina at last. “We wouldn’t want an ugly child.”

  “She will be very handsome when she grows up,” said Jane gravely. “She has the loveliest eyes. Just now she is so thin . . . and never has any nice clothes.”

  “She hasn’t too much bounce, has she?” said Violet. “I don’t like bouncing girls.”

  “She doesn’t bounce at all,” said Jane. But this was a mistake because . . .

  “I like a little bounce,” said Justina.

  “She wouldn’t want to wear pants, would she?” said Violet. “So many girls do nowadays.”

  “I’m sure Jody wouldn’t want to wear anything you didn’t like,” answered Jane.

  “I wouldn’t mind girls wearing pants so much if only they didn’t call them pants,” said Justina.
“But not pyjamas . . . never, never pyjamas.”

  “Certainly not pyjamas,” said Violet.

  “Suppose we got her and couldn’t love her?” said Justina.

  “You couldn’t help loving Jody,” said Jane warmly. “She’s sweet.”

  “I suppose,” hesitated Justina, “she wouldn’t . . . there wouldn’t be any danger . . . of there being . . . of her having . . . unpleasant insects about her?”

  “Certainly not,” said Jane shocked. “Why, she lives on Gay Street.” For the first time in her life Jane found herself standing up for Gay Street. But even Gay Street must have justice. Jane felt sure there were no unpleasant insects on Gay Street.

  “If . . . if she had . . . there is such a thing as a fine-tooth comb,” said Violet heroically.

  Justina drew her black eyebrows together.

  “There has never been any necessity for such an article in our family, Violet.”

  Again they knitted and crocheted and interchanged glances. Finally Justina said, “No.”

  “No,” said Violet.

  “She is too dark,” said Justina.

  “She is too old,” said Violet.

  “And now that is settled perhaps Jane would like to have some of that Devonshire cream I made to-day,” said Justina.

  In spite of the Devonshire cream and the huge bunch of pansies Violet insisted on giving her, Jane went home with a leaden weight of disappointment on her heart. She was surprised to find that Step-a-yard was quite satisfied.

  “If they’d told you they’d take her, you’d likely get word to-morrow that they’d changed their minds. Now it’ll be the other way round.”

  Still, Jane was very much amazed to get a note from the Titus ladies the next day, telling her that they had, on second thought, decided to adopt Jody and would she come down and help them settle the necessary arrangements.

  “We have concluded she is not too old,” said Violet.

  “Or too dark,” said Justina.

  “You’ll love her I know,” said happy Jane.

  “We shall endeavour to be to her as the best and kindest of parents,” said Justina. “We must give her music lessons of course. Do you know if she is musical, Jane?”

  “Very,” said Jane, remembering Jody and the piano at 58.

  “Think of filling her stocking at Christmas,” said Violet.

  “We must get a cow,” said Justina. “She must have a glass of warm milk every night at bedtime.”

  “We must furnish the little south-west room for her,” said Violet. “I think I should like a carpet of pale blue, sister.”

  “She must not expect to find here the excitements of the mad welter of modern life,” said Justina solemnly, “but we shall try to remember that youth requires companionship and wholesome pleasures.”

  “Won’t it be lovely to knit sweaters for her?” said Violet.

  “We must get out those little wooden ducks our uncle whittled for us when we were small,” said Justina.

  “It will be nice to have something young to love,” said Violet. “I’m only sorry she isn’t twins.”

  “On mature reflection,” said Justina, “I am sure you will agree that it is wise for us to find out how we get along with one child before we embark on twins.”

  “Will you let her keep a cat?” asked Jane. “She loves cats.”

  “I don’t suppose we would object to a bachelor cat,” said Justina cautiously.

  It was eventually arranged that when Jane went back to Toronto she was to find someone coming to the Island who might bring Jody along with her, and Justina solemnly counted out and gave into Jane’s keeping enough money for Jody’s travelling expenses and clothes suitable for such travelling.

  “I’ll write to Miss West right away and tell her, but I’ll ask her not to say anything about it to Jody till I get back. I want to tell her . . . I want to see her eyes.”

  “We are much obliged to you, Jane,” said Justina, “you have fulfilled the dream of our lives.”

  “Completely,” said Violet.

  CHAPTER 39

  “If we could only make the summer last longer,” sighed Jane.

  But that was impossible. It was September now, and soon she must put off Jane and put on Victoria. But not before they got Miranda Jimmy John married off. Jane was so busy helping the Jimmy Johns get ready for the wedding that Lantern Hill hardly knew her except to get a bite for dad. And as bridesmaid she had a chance to wear the adorable dress of rose-pink organdie with its embroidered blue and white spots which mother had gotten her. But once the wedding was over, Jane had to say good-bye to Lantern Hill again . . . to the windy silver of the gulf . . . to the pond . . . to Big Donald’s wood-lane . . . which, alas, was going to be cut down and ploughed up . . . to her garden which was to her a garden that never knew winter because she saw it only in summer . . . to the wind that sang in the spruces and the gulls that soared whitely over the harbour . . . to Bubbles and Happy and First Peter and Silver Penny. And dad. But though she felt sad over it, there was none of the despair that had filled her heart the year before. She would be back next summer . . . that was an understood thing now. She would be seeing mother again . . . she did not dislike the idea of going back to St Agatha’s . . . there was Jody’s delight to be looked forward to . . . and dad was going with her as far as Montreal.

  Aunt Irene came to Lantern Hill the day before Jane left and seemed to want to say something she couldn’t quite manage to say. When she went away, she held Jane’s hand and looked at her very significantly.

  “If you hear some news before next spring, lovey . . .”

  “What news am I likely to hear?” said Jane with the terrible directness which Aunt Irene always found so trying.

  “Oh . . . one can never tell . . . who knows what changes may come before then?”

  Jane was uncomfortable for a few moments and then shrugged it away. Aunt Irene was always giving mysterious hints about something, throwing out wisps of insinuation that clung like cobwebs. Jane had learned not to mind Aunt Irene.

  “I’ve never really been able to make as much of that child as I would like,” mourned Aunt Irene to a friend. “She holds you at arms’ length somehow. The Kennedys were all hard . . . her mother now . . . you’d think to look at her she was all rose and cream and sweetness. But underneath, my dear . . . hard as a rock. She ruined my brother’s life and did everything . . . everything, I understand . . . to set his child against him.”

  “Jane seems very fond of her father now,” said the friend.

  “Oh, I’m sure she is . . . as fond as she can be of any one. But Andrew is a very lonely man. And I don’t know if he will ever be anything else. Lately I’ve been wondering . . .”

  “Wondering if he’ll finally work himself up to getting a United States divorce and marrying Lilian Morrow,” said the friend bluntly. She had had much experience in filling up Irene’s blanks.

  Aunt Irene looked quite shocked at such plain speaking.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t like to say that. . . . I don’t really know . . . but of course Lilian is the girl he should have married instead of Robin Kennedy. They have so much in common. And though I don’t approve of divorce ordinarily . . . I think it shocking . . . still . . . there are special circumstances. . . .”

  Jane and dad had a delightful trip to Montreal.

  “How nice to think we’re an hour younger than we were,” said dad, as he put his watch back at Campbellton. He said things like that all along the way about everything.

  Jane clung to him very tightly in Montreal station.

  “Dad darling . . . but I’ll be back next summer, you know.”

  “Of course,” said dad. Then he added:

  “Jane, here’s a spot of hard cash for you. I don’t suppose you get a very huge allowance at 60 Gay.”

  “None at all. . . . But can you spare this, dad?” Jane was looking at the bills he had put into her hand. “Fifty dollars? That’s an awful lot of money, dad.”

&n
bsp; “This has been a good year for me, Jane. Editors have been kind. And somehow . . . when you’re about I write more . . . I’ve felt some of my old ambition stirring this past year.”

  Jane, who had spent all her lion-reward money on things for Lantern Hill and treats for the young fry who had been associated with her in the episode, tucked the money away in her bag, reflecting that it would come in handy at Christmas.

  “Life, deal gently with her . . . love, never desert her,” said Andrew Stuart, looking after the Toronto train as it steamed away.

  Jane found that grandmother had had her room done over for her. When she went up to it, she discovered a wonderful splendour of rose and grey, instead of the old gloom. Silvery carpet . . . shimmering curtains . . . chintz chairs . . . cream-tinted furniture . . . pink silk bedspread. The old bearskin rug . . . the only thing she had really liked . . . was gone. So was the cradle. The big mirror had been replaced by a round rimless one.

  “How do you like it?” asked grandmother watchfully.

  Jane recalled her little room at Lantern Hill with its bare floor and sheepskin rug and white spool bed covered with its patchwork quilt.

  “It is very beautiful, grandmother. Thank you very much.”

  “Fortunately,” said grandmother, “I did not expect much enthusiasm.”

  After grandmother had gone out, Jane turned her back on the splendour and went to the window. The only things of home were the stars. She wondered if dad were looking at them . . . no, of course he wouldn’t be home yet. But they would all be there in their proper places . . . the North Star over the Watch Tower, Orion sparkling over Big Donald’s hill. And Jane knew that she would never be the least bit afraid of grandmother again.

  “Oh, Jane,” said Jody. “Oh, Jane!”

  “I know you’ll be happy with the Titus ladies, Jody. They’re a little old-fashioned but they’re so kind . . . and they have the loveliest garden. You won’t have to make a garden by sticking faded flowers in a plot any more. You’ll see the famous cherry walk in bloom . . . I’ve never seen that.”