Читать книгу Jane of Lantern Hill - L. M. Montgomery - Страница 5

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She and Jody had been pals for a year. Jody matched Jane’s eleven years of life and was tall for her age, too ... though not with Jane’s sturdy tallness. Jody was thin and weedy and looked as if she had never had enough to eat in her life ... which was very likely the case, although she lived in a boarding house ... 58 Gay, which had once been a fashionable residence and was now just a dingy three-story boarding house.

One evening in the spring of the preceding year Jane was out in the back yard of 60 Gay, sitting on a rustic bench in an old disused summer-house. Mother and grandmother were both away and Aunt Gertrude was in bed with a bad cold, or else Jane would not have been sitting in the back yard. She had crept out to have a good look at the full moon ... Jane had her own particular reasons for liking to look at the moon ... and the white-blossoming cherry tree over in the yard of 58. The cherry tree, with the moon hanging over it like a great pearl, was so beautiful that Jane felt a queer lump in her throat when she looked at it ... almost as if she wanted to cry. And then ... somebody really was crying over in the yard of 58. The stifled, piteous sounds came clearly on the still, crystal air of the spring evening.

Jane got up and walked out of the summer-house and around the garage, past the lonely dog-house that had never had a dog in it ... at least, in Jane’s recollection ... and so to the fence that had ceased to be iron and become a wooden paling between 60 and 58. There was a gap in it behind the dog-house where a slat had been broken off amid a tangle of creeper and Jane, squeezing through it, found herself in the untidy yard of 58. It was still quite light and Jane could see a girl huddled at the root of the cherry tree, sobbing bitterly, her face in her hands.

“Can I help you?” said Jane.

Though Jane herself had no inkling of it, those words were the keynote of her character. Any one else would probably have said, “What is the matter?” But Jane always wanted to help: and, though she was too young to realise it, the tragedy of her little existence was that nobody ever wanted her help ... not even mother, who had everything heart could wish.

The child under the cherry tree stopped sobbing and got on her feet. She looked at Jane and Jane looked at her and something happened to both of them. Long afterwards Jane said, “I knew we were the same kind of folks.” Jane saw a girl of about her own age, with a very white little face under a thick bang of black hair cut straight across her forehead. The hair looked as if it had not been washed for a long time but the eyes underneath it were brown and beautiful, though of quite a different brown from Jane’s. Jane’s were goldy-brown like a marigold, with laughter lurking in them, but this girl’s were very dark and very sad ... so sad that Jane’s heart did something queer inside of her. She knew quite well that it wasn’t right that anybody so young should have such sad eyes.

The girl wore a dreadful old blue dress that had certainly never been made for her. It was too long and too elaborate and it was dirty and grease-spotted. It hung on the thin little shoulders like a gaudy rag on a scarecrow. But the dress mattered nothing to Jane. All she was conscious of was those appealing eyes.

“Can I help?” she asked again.

The girl shook her head and the tears welled up in her big eyes.

“Look,” she pointed.

Jane looked and saw between the cherry tree and the fence what seemed like a rudely made flower-bed strewn over with roses that were ground into the earth.

“Dick did that,” said the girl. “He did it on purpose ... because it was my garden. Miss Summers had them roses sent her last week ... twelve great big red ones for her birthday ... and this morning she said they were done and told me to throw them in the garbage pail. But I couldn’t ... they were still so pretty. I come out here and made that bed and stuck the roses all over it. I knew they wouldn’t last long ... but they looked pretty and I pretended I had a garden of my own ... and now ... Dick just come out and stomped all over it ... and laughed.”

She sobbed again. Jane didn’t know who Dick was but at that moment she could cheerfully have wrung his neck with her strong, capable little hands. She put her arm about the girl.

“Never mind. Don’t cry any more. See, we’ll break off a lot of little cherry boughs and stick them all over your bed. They’re fresher than the roses ... and think how lovely they’ll look in the moonlight.”

“I’m scared to do that,” said the girl. “Miss West might be mad.”

Again Jane felt a thrill of understanding. So this girl was afraid of people, too.

“Well, we’ll just climb up on that big bough that stretches out and sit there and admire it,” said Jane. “I suppose that won’t make Miss West mad, will it?”

“I guess she won’t mind that. Of course she’s mad at me anyhow to-night because I stumbled with a tray of tumblers when I was waiting on the supper table and broke three of them. She said if I kept on like that ... I spilled soup on Miss Thatcher’s silk dress last night ... she’d have to send me away.”

“Where would she send you?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t anywhere to go. But she says I’m not worth my salt and she’s only keeping me out of charity.”

“What is your name?” asked Jane. They had scrambled up into the cherry tree as nimbly as pussy cats and its whiteness enclosed and enfolded them, shutting them away into a fragrant world all their own.

“Josephine Turner. But every one calls me Jody.”

Jody! Jane liked that.

“Mine’s Jane Stuart.”

“I thought it was Victoria,” said Jody. “Miss West said it was.”

“It’s Jane,” said Jane firmly. “At least, it’s Jane Victoria but I am Jane. And now” ... briskly ... “let’s get acquainted.”

Before Jane went back through the gap that night she knew practically all there was to be known about Jody. Jody’s father and mother were dead ... had been dead ever since Jody was a baby. Jody’s mother’s cousin, who had been the cook at 58, had taken her and was permitted to keep her at 58 if she never let her out of the kitchen. Two years ago Cousin Millie had died and Jody had just “stayed on.” She helped the new cook ... peeling potatoes, washing dishes, sweeping, dusting, running errands, scouring knives ... and lately had been promoted to waiting on the table. She slept in a little attic cubby-hole which was hot in summer and cold in winter, she wore cast-off things the boarders gave her and went to school every day there was no extra rush. Nobody ever gave her a kind word or took any notice of her ... except Dick who was Miss West’s nephew and pet and who teased and tormented her and called her “charity child.” Jody hated Dick. Once when everybody was out she had slipped into the parlour and picked out a little tune on the piano but Dick had told Miss West and Jody had been sternly informed that she must never touch the piano again.

“And I’d love to be able to play,” she said wistfully. “That and a garden’s the only things I want. I do wish I could have a garden.”

Jane wondered again why things were so criss-cross. She did not like playing on the piano but grandmother had insisted on her taking music lessons and she practised faithfully to please mother. And here was poor Jody hankering for music and with no chance at all of getting it.

“Don’t you think you could have a bit of a garden?” said Jane. “There’s plenty of room here and it’s not too shady, like our yard. I’d help you make a bed and I’m sure mother would give us some seeds....”

“It wouldn’t be any use,” said Jody drearily. “Dick would just stomp on it, too.”

“Then I’ll tell you,” said Jane resolutely, “we’ll get a seed catalogue ... Frank will get me one ... and have an imaginary garden.”

“Ain’t you the one for thinking of things?” said Jody admiringly. Jane tasted happiness. It was the first time any one had ever admired her.