On the next block, above little Gex’s fruit stall, was a small cottage set close to the sidewalk, with two narrow windows covered with batten shutters that no one remembered to have ever seen opened. On one side was a high green fence, in which was a small door, and above this fence some flowering trees were visible. A pink crape-myrtle shed its transparent petals on the sidewalk below. A white oleander and a Cape jasmine made the air fragrant, while a “Gold of Ophir” rose, entwined with a beautiful “Reine Henriette,” crept along the top of the fence, and hung in riotous profusion above the heads of the passers.
Every day, in rain or shine, when Lady Jane visited little Gex, she continued her walk to the green fence, and stood looking wistfully at the clustering roses that bloomed securely beyond the reach of pilfering fingers, vainly wishing that some of them would fall at her feet, or that the gate might accidentally open, so that she could get a peep within.
And Lady Jane was not more curious than most of the older residents of Good Children Street. For many years it had been the desire of the neighborhood to see what was going on behind that impenetrable green fence. Those who were lucky enough to get a glimpse, when the gate was opened for a moment to take the nickel of milk, or loaf of bread, saw a beautiful little garden, carefully tended and filled with exquisite flowers; but Lady Jane was never fortunate enough to be present on one of those rare occasions, as they always happened very early, and when her little yellow head was resting on its pillow; but sometimes, while she lingered on the sidewalk, near the gate, or under the tightly closed shutters, she would hear the melodious song of a bird, or the tinkling, liquid sound of an ancient piano, thin and clear as a trickling rivulet, and with it she would hear sometimes a high, sweet, tremulous voice singing an aria from some old-fashioned opera. Lady Jane didn’t know that it was an old-fashioned opera, but she thought it very odd and beautiful, all the same; and she loved to linger and listen to the correct but feeble rendering of certain passages that touched her deeply: for the child had an inborn love of music and one of the most exquisite little voices ever heard.
Pepsie used to close her eyes in silent ecstasy when Lady Jane sang the few simple airs and lullabies she had learned from her mother, and when her tender little voice warbled
“Sleep, baby, sleep,
The white moon is the shepherdess,
The little stars the sheep,”
Pepsie would cover her face, and cry silently. No one ever heard her sing but Pepsie. She was very shy about it, and if even Tite Souris came into the room she would stop instantly.
Therefore, little Gex was very much surprised one day, when he went out on the banquette, to see his small favorite before the closed shutters with Tony in her arms, his long legs almost touching the sidewalk, so carelessly was he held, while his enraptured little mistress was standing with her serious eyes fixed steadily on the window, her face pale and illumined with a sort of spiritual light, her lips parted, and a ripple of the purest, sweetest, most liquid melody issuing from between them that Gex had ever heard, even in those old days when he used to haunt the French Opera.
He softly drew near to listen; she was keeping perfect time with the tinkling piano and the faded voice of the singer within who with many a quaver and break was singing a beautiful old French song; and the bird-like voice of the child went up and down, in and out through the difficult passages with wonderful passion and precision.