LADY JANE

LADY JANE WAS LINGERING ON THE SIDEWALK, NEAR THE GREEN FENCE

LADY JANE
BY
MRS. C. V. JAMISON
Author of “Toinette’s Philip”

NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1922

Copyright, 1891, by
The Century Co.
Copyright renewed 1918
Printed in U. S. A.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

LADY JANE

LADY JANE

CHAPTER I
THE BLUE HERON

It was in the beautiful Teche country, on a passenger train of the Louisiana and Texas Railroad, that “Lady Jane” first saw a blue heron.

The month was July, the weather was intensely hot, and the dusty, ill-ventilated car was closely packed with a motley crowd. Among the travelers were Texas ranchmen, cattle dealers from the Opelousas, Cajan farmers from the Attakapas, nuns, priests, itinerant merchants, tired, dusty women, dressed in cotton gowns and sun-bonnets, and barefooted, white-headed children, very noisy and restless, wandering constantly back and forth between the water-tank and their lunch-baskets, eating cold chicken or munching stale biscuit. The ranchmen and cattle dealers talked in loud, good-natured voices; the nuns bent over their prayer-books; the priests yawned and nodded; the merchants displayed their wares; the children fretted; the babies cried, while the weary mothers patted, tossed, and coaxed them with untiring love and patience; and the train flew on, with its hot, dusty passengers, over as beautiful a country as ever was seen, through level stretches of sugar-cane and rice, crossed by narrow bayous that intersected the green plane, catching here and there gleams of sunlight, like silver threads, through the dark cypress swamps, whose bleached trees were crowned with hoary moss, while the trunks were clothed in living green, and festooned with the lovely blossoms of the jasmine, and wild passion-flowers entwined with masses of delicate vines, twisted together in cords and loops of luxuriant verdure, that clambered upward from the dank soil toward the sunlight and the blue sky. In places the track seemed to run over beds of glossy latanea and swaying swamp-grasses, where glistened little shallow pools covered with lily-pads and white fragrant blossoms.

In spite of the intense heat, the day was beautiful. Great banks of white clouds drifted across the sun, softening its ruddy glare, and throwing fantastic shadows over the floating prairies and purple islands of cypress that dotted the broad yellow expanse. Now and then, a flock of birds, startled by the rush of the train, rose up with a shrill cry and noisy whirr of wings, and soared away in a long, trailing line toward the lazy drifting clouds.

Of all the passengers, there were, perhaps, none who noticed or cared for the strange and beautiful scenery, that constantly changed as the train sped on, except the quiet occupants of one seat, who were so unlike those around them as to attract no little attention and curiosity. They were a woman and a child; the lady, young, elegant, and pretty, was dressed in deep mourning; the little girl, who was about five years of age, wore a white cambric frock, plain, but exquisitely fine, a wide straw hat, and long black-silk stockings, and her neat shoes were tied with tiny bows. Her skin was delicately fair and rosy, her eyes of purple-blue were shaded by long dark lashes, and her hair, of a pure golden yellow, hung in a thick, wavy mass down to the loops of her black sash. She was a dainty, delicate little creature, and, although very warm and very tired, was evidently too well-bred to annoy others with restlessness or impatience, but remained quietly kneeling on the seat, at the window of the car, her bright eyes fixed on the beautiful landscape, as the train rushed along.

The mother had thrown back her heavy crape veil, and a little ripple of hair as yellow as the child’s showed beneath the widow’s cap. She looked very weary and ill; her eyes were heavy and swollen with weeping; her face, thin and worn in spite of her youth, was flushed with fever, and her lips were parched and drawn as if she suffered intense pain. At times, she pressed her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes; then, she would start suddenly and look about her, with a glance of apprehension, and her clasp would tighten around the child at her side, as if she feared to lose her hold of her even for a moment; and, now and then, the little girl would lean back her rosy face, and press it to her mother’s flushed cheek, saying softly:

“Does your dear head ache, now, mama?”

“A little, darling,” the mother would answer, as she smoothed the golden hair that fell over her black gown.

Then the child would turn back to the window to watch the flight of birds, the purple islands of cypress, and the shadows sailing over the billowy grasses of the floating prairies. And so the train sped on and on, and the morning was verging to noon, when suddenly she turned with eyes full of delight, and said to her mother, whose head had drooped into her open palms:

“Look, mama! Oh, look at the lovely river! See what big trees, and pretty houses, and there is a big boat coming, and lots and lots of lambs are playing in the field. Oh, I wish we could stop here, and walk about a little! Can’t we, mama?”

“No, my dear; there’s no time to get off,” replied the mother, raising her hand and looking out wearily. “Be patient, darling; we shall soon be in New Orleans, and there you shall have everything you wish.”

The train had stopped at a small station on the Teche to take on a passenger, who entered with a brisk step, and slipped into a seat just vacated opposite the mother and child. He was a handsome lad of about sixteen years. His merry brown eyes looked out frankly from under his dark brows; he had a pleasant smile, and the manly, self-reliant air of one accustomed to travel alone.

In one hand he carried a traveling-bag, and in the other a small basket, over which a piece of thin cloth was tightly tied. He sat down, glancing around him with a bright smile, and placing the basket beside him, tapped on the thin cover with his forefinger, and chirruped merrily to the occupant. Presently an answering “Peep—peep!” came from the depths of the basket, at which he laughed heartily.

From the first moment that the new passenger entered the car, the little yellow head of the child was turned in his direction, and the deep blue eyes were fixed on him with an expression of serious interest.

When he laughed so merrily, her lips trembled and her eyes filled with tears, and overcome with some emotion that she vainly tried to suppress, she buried her face on her mother’s shoulder and whispered brokenly:

“Oh, mama, mama, he laughs as papa used to.”

“Hush, hush, my darling!” said the mother, bending an agonized face over the child, while she soothed her gently; “Don’t cry, my love, don’t cry, or I shall be ill again.”

In an instant the little head was raised resolutely, and the child smiled with the tears glistening on her lashes, while her eyes turned again toward the stranger, who seemed to attract her greatly.

The boy had noticed the lovely little creature and the sorrowful young mother, and his generous heart went out to them at once; therefore, when the child raised her tearful eyes and looked at him so earnestly, he smiled responsively and invitingly.

Again the little head went shyly down to the mother’s shoulder, and she whispered:

“Mama, there’s something alive in that basket. How I wish I could see it!”

“My dear, he’s a stranger. I can’t ask him to show it to you; he might not be willing.”

“Oh, I think he would, mama! He smiled at me when I looked at him. Can’t I ask him? Please,—please let me.”

The mother turned a side glance in the direction of the boy, who moved a little nearer the end of the seat and looked at her intelligently, as if he understood that they were speaking of him. Their eyes met, and he smiled good-naturedly, while he nodded and pointed to the basket. “I thought she would like to see it,” he said, as he began untying the string that fastened the cover.

“You’re very kind to gratify her curiosity,” said the mother, in a gentle voice; “she’s sure that it’s something alive.”

“It is,” laughed the boy. “It’s very much alive; so much so that I’m almost afraid to take off the cover.”

“Go, my darling, and see what it is,” said the mother, as the child slipped past her and stood before the boy, looking at him from under the shadow of her black hat with eager, inquiring eyes.

“I don’t think you’ve ever seen anything like him before. They’re not common, and he’s a funny little beggar. I thought you’d like to see him when I saw you looking at the basket. He’s very tame, but we must be careful he doesn’t get out. With all these windows open, he’d be gone before we knew it. Now I’ll lift the cover and hold my hand so that you can peep in.”

The child’s head was bent over the basket, intense curiosity in her wide eyes, and a little, anxious smile on her parted lips. “Oh, oh, how pretty! What is it?” she asked, catching a glimpse of a strange-looking bird, with a very long bill and little, bright eyes, huddled up at the bottom of the basket. “I never saw one like it. What is it?” she repeated, her sparkling eyes full of delight and surprise.

“It’s a blue heron, and they’re very rare about here.”

“He’s not blue—not very blue; but he’s pretty. I wish I could just touch his feathers.”

“You can. You can put your hand in the basket; he won’t bite.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said with confidence, as she stroked the soft feathers.

“If these windows were closed I’d take him out, and let you see him walk. He’s very funny when he walks; and he’s so intelligent. Why, he comes to me when I call him.”

“What do you call him? What is his name?”

“I call him Tony, because when he was very small he made a noise like ‘tone—tone.’”

“Tony,” she repeated, “that’s a pretty name; and it’s a funny one too,” she added, dimpling with smiles.

“Now, won’t you tell me your name?” asked the boy. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d like to know your name.”

“Why, yes, I’ll tell you,” she replied, with charming frankness; “I’m called ‘Lady Jane.’”

“Lady Jane!” repeated the boy; “why, that’s a very odd name.”

“Papa always called me Lady Jane, and now every one does.”

The mother looked at the child sadly, while tears dimmed her eyes.

“Perhaps you would like to see the little fellow, too,” said the boy, rising and holding the basket so that the lady could look into it. “White herons are very common about here, but blue herons are something of a curiosity.”

“Thank you. It is indeed very odd. Did you find it yourself?” she asked with some show of interest.

“Yes, I came upon it quite unexpectedly. I was hunting on my uncle’s plantation, just beyond the station where I got on. It was almost dark; and I was getting out of the swamp as fast as I could, when right under my feet I heard ‘tone—tone,’ and there was this little beggar, so young that he couldn’t fly, looking up at me with his bright eyes. I took him home and tamed him, and now he knows my voice the moment I speak. He’s very amusing.”

The boy was standing, resting the basket on the arm of the seat, and the child was caressing the bird with both dimpled hands.

“She likes him very much,” he said, smiling brightly.

“Yes, she is very fond of pets; she has left hers behind, and she misses them,” and again the mother’s eyes filled.

“I wish,—I wish you’d let me give her Tony—if—if you’d like her to have him.”

“Oh, thank you! No, no, I couldn’t allow you to deprive yourself.”

“I should be very willing, I assure you. I must give him away. I’m going to give him to some one when I get to the city. I can’t take him to college with me, and there’s no one in particular I care to give him to. I wish you’d let me give him to this little lady,” urged the handsome fellow, smiling into the child’s upturned eyes as he spoke.

“Oh, mama,—dear, sweet mama, let me have him; do, do let me have him!” cried Lady Jane, clasping her dimpled hands in entreaty.

“My dear, it would be so selfish to take it. You must not, indeed you must not,” said the mother, looking from the child to the boy in great perplexity.

“But if I wish it—it would be a pleasure to me,” insisted the boy, flushing with eager generosity.

“Well, I’ll think of it. You are really very kind,” she replied wearily. “We still have some hours to decide about it. I find it very hard to refuse the child, especially when you are so generous, but I think she ought not to take it.”

The boy took the basket with a disappointed air, and turned toward the seat opposite. “I hope you’ll decide to let her have it,” he said respectfully.

“Mama,” whispered Lady Jane with her face pressed close to her mother’s, “if you can, if you think it’s right, please let me have the blue heron. You know, I had to leave my kitten, and Carlo, and the lambs, and—and—I’m so sorry, and—I’m lonesome, mama.”

“My darling, my darling,—if you want the bird so much, I’ll try to let you have him. I’ll think about it.”

“And, mama, may I go and sit by the basket and put my hand on his feathers?”

“Let her come and sit with me,” said the boy; “she seems tired, and I may be able to amuse her.”

“Thank you. Yes, she is very tired. We have come a long way,—from San Antonio,—and she’s been very good and patient.”

The boy made room for his charming little companion next the window, and after lowering the blind, so that the bird could not escape, he took the pet from the basket, and placed him in Lady Jane’s arms.

“See here,” he said, “I’ve sewed this band of leather around his leg, and you can fasten a strong string to it. If your mama allows you to have him, you can always tie him to something when you go out, and leave him alone, and he will be there quite safe when you come back.”

“I should never leave him alone. I should keep him with me always,” said the child.

“But, if you should lose him,” continued the boy, spreading one of the pretty wings over Lady Jane’s plump little arm, “I’ll tell you how you can always know him. He’s marked. It’s as good as a brand. See those three black crosses on his wing feathers. As he grows larger they will grow too, and no matter how long a time should pass without your seeing him, you’d always know him by these three little crosses.”

“If mama says I can have him, I can take him with me, can’t I?”

“Certainly, this basket is very light. You can carry it yourself.”

“You know,” she whispered, glancing at her mother, who had leaned her head on the back of the seat in front of her, and appeared to be sleeping, “I want to see Carlo and kitty, and the ranch, and all the lambs; but I mustn’t let mama know, because it’ll make her cry.”

“You’re a good little girl to think of your mother,” said the boy, who was anxious to cultivate her confidence, but too well-bred to question her.

“She has no one now but me to love her,” she continued, lowering her voice. “They took papa from us, and carried him away, and mama says he’ll never come back. He’s not gone to San Antonio, he’s gone to heaven; and we can’t go there now. We’re going to New York; but I’d rather go to heaven where papa is, only mama says there are no trains or ships to take us there, now, but by-and-by we’re going if we’re very good.”

The boy listened to her innocent prattle with a sad smile, glancing uneasily now and then at the mother, fearful lest the plaintive little voice might reach her ear; but she seemed to be sleeping, sleeping uneasily, and with that hot flush still burning on her cheeks.

“Have you ever been in New York?” he asked, looking tenderly at the little head nestled against his arm. She had taken off her hat, and was very comfortably curled up on the seat with Tony in her lap. The bird also seemed perfectly satisfied with his position.

“Oh, no; I’ve never been anywhere only on the ranch. That’s where Carlo, and kitty, and the lambs were, and my pony, Sunflower; he was named Sunflower, because he was yellow. I used to ride on him, and papa lifted me on, and took me off; and Sunflower was so gentle. Dear papa—I—loved him best of all and now he’s gone away, and I can’t see him again.”

Here the rosy little face was buried in Tony’s feathers, and something like a sob made the listener’s heart ache.

“Come, come,” he said softly, “you mustn’t cry, or I shall think you don’t care for the blue heron.”

In a moment, her little head was raised, and a smile shone through her tears. “Oh, I do, I do. And if I can have him I won’t cry for the others.”

“I’m quite sure your mama will consent. Now, let me tell you about my home. I live in New Orleans, and I have lots of pets,” and the boy went on to describe so many delightful things that the child forgot her grief in listening; and soon, very soon the weary little head drooped, and she was sleeping with her rosy cheek pressed against his shoulder, and Tony clasped close in her arms.

And so the long, hot afternoon passed away, and the train sped on toward its destination, while the mother and the child slept, happily unconscious of the strange fate that awaited them in that city, of which the spires and walls were even now visible, bathed in the red light of the evening sun.

CHAPTER II
TONY GOES WITH LADY JANE

And now that the end of the journey was so near, the drowsy passengers began to bestir themselves. In order to look a little more presentable, dusty faces and hands were hastily wiped, frowsy heads were smoothed, tumbled hats and bonnets were arranged, and even the fretful babies, pulled and coaxed into shape, looked less miserable in their soiled garments, while their mothers wore an expression of mingled relief and expectation.

Lady Jane did not open her eyes until her companion gently tried to disengage Tony from her clasp in order to consign him to his basket; then she looked up with a smile of surprise at her mother, who was bending over her. “Why, mama,” she said brightly, “I’ve been asleep, and I had such a lovely dream; I thought I was at the ranch, and the blue heron was there too. Oh, I’m sorry it was only a dream!”

“My dear, you must thank this kind young gentleman for his care of you. We are near New Orleans now, and the bird must go to his basket. Come, let me smooth your hair and put on your hat.”

“But, mama, am I to have Tony?”

The boy was tying the cover over the basket, and, at the child’s question, he looked at the mother entreatingly. “It will amuse her,” he said, “and it’ll be no trouble. May she have it?”

“I suppose I must consent; she has set her heart on it.”

The boy held out the little basket, and Lady Jane grasped it rapturously.

“Oh, how good you are!” she cried. “I’ll never, never forget you, and I’ll love Tony always.”

At that moment the young fellow, although he was smiling brightly, was smothering a pang of regret, not at parting with the blue heron, which he really prized, but because his heart had gone out to the charming child, and she was about to leave him, without any certainty of their ever meeting again. While this thought was vaguely passing through his mind, the lady turned and said to him:

“I am going to Jackson Street, which I believe is uptown. Is there not a nearer station for that part of the city, than the lower one?”

“Certainly, you can stop at Gretna; the train will be there in a few minutes. You cross the river there, and the ferry-landing is at the foot of Jackson Street, where you will find carriages and horse-cars to take you where you wish to go, and you will save an hour.”

“I’m very glad of that; my friends are not expecting me, and I should like to reach them before dark. Is it far to the ferry?”

“Only a few blocks; you’ll have no trouble finding it,” and he was about to add, “Can’t I go with you and show you the way?” when the conductor flung open the door and bawled, “Grate-na! Grate-na! passengers for Grate-na!”

Before he could give expression to the request, the conductor had seized the lady’s satchel, and was hurrying them toward the door. When he reached the platform, the train had stopped, and they had already stepped off. For a moment, he saw them standing on the dusty road, the river and the setting sun behind them—the black-robed, graceful figure of the woman, and the fair-haired child with her violet eyes raised to his, while she clasped the little basket and smiled.

He touched his hat and waved his hand in farewell; the mother lifted her veil and sent him a sad good-by smile, and the child pressed her rosy fingers to her lips, and gracefully and gravely threw him a kiss. Then the train moved on; and the last he saw of them, they were walking hand in hand toward the river.

As the boy went back to his seat, he was reproaching himself for his neglect and stupidity. “Why didn’t I find out her name?—or the name of the people to whom she was going?—or why didn’t I go with her? It was too bad to leave her to cross alone, and she a stranger and looking so ill. She seemed hardly able to walk and carry her bag. I don’t see how I could have been so stupid. It wouldn’t have been much out of my way, and, if I’d crossed with them, I should have found out who they were. I didn’t want to seem too presuming, and especially after I gave the child the heron; but I wish I’d gone with them. Oh, she’s left something,” and in an instant he was reaching under the seat lately occupied by the object of his solicitude.

“It’s a book, ‘Daily Devotions,’ bound in russia, silver clasp, monogram ‘J. C.,’” he said, as he opened it; “and here’s a name.”

On the fly-leaf was written

Jane Chetwynd.
From Papa,
New York, Christmas, 18—.

“‘Jane Chetwynd,’ that must be the mother. It can’t be the child, because the date is ten years ago. ‘New York.’ They’re from the North then; I thought they were. Hello! here’s a photograph.”

It was a group, a family group—the father, the mother, and the child; the father’s a bright, handsome, almost boyish face, the mother’s not pale and tear-stained, but fresh and winsome, with smiling lips and merry eyes, and the child, the little “Lady Jane,” clinging to her father’s neck, two years younger, perhaps, but the same lovely, golden-haired child.

The boy’s heart bounded with pleasure as he looked at the sweet little face that had such a fascination for him.

“I wish I could keep it,” he thought, “but it’s not mine, and I must try to return to it the owner. Poor woman! she will be miserable when she misses it. I’ll advertise it to-morrow, and through it I’m likely to find out all about them.”

Next morning some of the readers of the principal New Orleans journals noticed an odd little advertisement among the personals:

Found, “Daily Devotions”; bound in red russia-leather, silver clasp, with monogram, “J. C.” Address,

Blue Heron, P. O. Box 1121.

For more than a week this advertisement remained in the columns of the paper, but it was never answered, nor was the book ever claimed.

CHAPTER III
MADAME JOZAIN

Madame Jozain was a creole of mixed French and Spanish ancestry. She was a tall, thin woman with great, soft black eyes, a nose of the hawk type, and lips that made a narrow line when closed. In spite of her forbidding features, the upper part of her face was rather pleasing, her mild eyes had a gently appealing expression when she lifted them upward, as she often did, and no one would have believed that the owner of those innocent, candid eyes could have a sordid, avaricious nature, unless he glanced at the lower part of her face, which was decidedly mean and disagreeable. Her nose and mouth had a wily and ensnaring expression, which was at the same time cruel and rapacious. Her friends, and she had but few, endowed her with many good qualities, while her enemies, and they were numerous, declared that she was but little better than a fiend incarnate; but Father Ducros, her confessor, knew that she was a combination of good and evil, the evil largely predominating.

With this strange and complex character, she had but two passions in life. One was for her worthless son, Adraste, and the other was a keen desire for the good opinion of those who knew her. She always wished to be considered something that she was not,—young, handsome, amiable, pious, and the best blanchisseuse de fin in whatever neighborhood she hung out her sign.

And perhaps it is not to be wondered at, that she felt a desire to compensate herself by duplicity for what fate had honestly deprived her of, for no one living had greater cause to complain of a cruel destiny than had Madame Jozain. Early in life she had great expectations. An only child of a well-to-do baker, she inherited quite a little fortune, and when she married the débonnair and handsome André Jozain, she intended, by virtue of his renown and her competency, to live like a lady. He was a politician, and a power in his ward, which might eventually have led him to some prominence; but instead, this same agency had conducted him, by dark and devious ways, to life-long detention in the penitentiary of his State—not, however, until he had squandered her fortune, and lamed her for life by pushing her down-stairs in a quarrel. This accident, had it disabled her arms, might have incapacitated her from becoming a blanchisseuse de fin, which occupation she was obliged to adopt when she found herself deprived of her husband’s support by the too exacting laws of his country.

In her times of despondency it was not her husband’s disgrace, her poverty, her lameness, her undutiful son, her lost illusions, over which she mourned, as much as it was the utter futility of trying to make things seem better than they were. In spite of all her painting, and varnishing, and idealizing, the truth remained horribly apparent: She was the wife of a convict, she was plain, and old, and lame; she was poor, miserably poor, and she was but an indifferent blanchisseuse de fin, while Adraste, or Raste, as he was always called, was the worst boy in the State. If she had ever studied the interesting subject of heredity, she would have found in Raste the strongest confirmation in its favor, for he had inherited all his father’s bad qualities in a greater degree.

On account of Raste’s unsavory reputation and her own incompetency, she was constantly moving from one neighborhood to another, and, by a natural descent in the scale of misfortune, at last found herself in a narrow little street, in the little village of Gretna, one of the most unlovely suburbs of New Orleans.

The small one-story house she occupied contained but two rooms, and a shed, which served as a kitchen. It stood close to the narrow sidewalk, and its green door was reached by two small steps. Madame Jozain, dressed in a black skirt and a white sack, sat upon these steps in the evening and gossiped with her neighbor. The house was on the corner of the street that led to the ferry, and her greatest amusement (for, on account of her lameness, she could not run with the others to see the train arrive) was to sit on her doorstep and watch the passengers walking by on their way to the river.

On this particular hot July evening, she felt very tired, and very cross. Her affairs had gone badly all day. She had not succeeded with some lace she had been doing for Madame Joubert, the wife of the grocer, on the levee, and Madame Joubert had treated her crossly—in fact had condemned her work, and refused to take it until made up again; and Madame Jozain needed the money sorely. She had expected to be paid for the work, but instead of paying her that “little cat of a Madame Joubert” had fairly insulted her. She, Madame Jozain, née Bergeron. The Bergerons were better than the Jouberts. Her father had been one of the City Council, and had died rich, and her husband—well, her husband had been unfortunate, but he was a gentleman, while the Jouberts were common and always had been. She would get even with that proud little fool; she would punish her in some way. Yes, she would do her lace over, but she would soak it in soda, so that it would drop to pieces the first time it was worn.

Meantime she was tired and hungry, and she had nothing in the house but some coffee and cold rice. She had given Raste her last dime, and he had quarreled with her and gone off to play “craps” with his chums on the levee. Besides, she was very lonesome, for there was but one house on her left, and beyond it was a wide stretch of pasture, and opposite there was nothing but the blank walls of a row of warehouses belonging to the railroad, and her only neighbor, the occupant of the next cottage, had gone away to spend a month with a daughter who lived “down town,” on the other side of the river.

So, as she sat there alone, she looked around her with an expression of great dissatisfaction, yawning wearily, and wishing that she was not so lame, so that she could run out to the station, and see what was going on: and that boy, Raste, she wondered if he was throwing away her last dime. He often brought a little money home. If he did not bring some now, they would have no breakfast in the morning.

Then the arriving train whistled, and she straightened up and her face took on a look of expectancy.

“Not many passengers to-night,” she said to herself, as a few men hurried by with bags and bundles. “They nearly all go to the lower ferry, now.”

In a moment they had all passed, and the event of the evening was over. But no!—and she leaned forward and peered up the street with fresh curiosity. “Why, here come a lady and a little girl and they’re not hurrying at all. She’ll lose the ferry if she doesn’t mind. I wonder what ails her?—she walks as if she couldn’t see.”

Presently the two reached her corner, a lady in mourning, and a little yellow-haired girl carefully holding a small basket in one hand, while she clung to her mother’s gown with the other.

Madame Jozain noticed, before the lady reached her, that she tottered several times, as if about to fall, and put out her hand, as if seeking for some support. She seemed dizzy and confused, and was passing on by the corner, when the child said entreatingly, “Stop here a minute, mama, and rest.”

Then the woman lifted her veil and saw Madame Jozain looking up at her, her soft eyes full of compassion.

“Will you allow me to rest here a moment? I’m ill and a little faint,—perhaps you will give me a glass of water?”

“Why, certainly, my dear,” said madame, getting up alertly, in spite of her lameness. “Come in and sit down in my rocking-chair. You’re too late for the ferry. It’ll be gone before you get there, and you may as well be comfortable while you wait—come right in.”

The exhausted woman entered willingly. The room was neat and cool, and a large white bed, which was beautifully clean, for madame prided herself upon it, looked very inviting.

The mother sank into a chair, and dropped her head on the bed; the child set down the basket and clung to her mother caressingly, while she looked around with timid, anxious eyes.

Madame Jozain hobbled off for a glass of water and a bottle of ammonia, which she kept for her laces; then, with gentle, deft hands, she removed the bonnet and heavy veil, and bathed the poor woman’s hot forehead and burning hands, while the child clung to her mother murmuring, “Mama, dear mama, does your head ache now?”

“I’m better now, darling,” the mother replied after a few moments; then turning to madame, she said in her sweet, soft tones, “Thank you so much. I feel quite refreshed. The heat and fatigue exhausted my strength. I should have fallen in the street had it not been for you.”

“Have you traveled far?” asked madame, gently sympathetic.

“From San Antonio, and I was ill when I started”; and again she closed her eyes and leaned her head against the back of the chair.

At the first glance, madame understood the situation. She saw from the appearance of mother and child, that they were not poor. In this accidental encounter was a possible opportunity, but how far she could use it she could not yet determine; so she said only, “That’s a long way to come alone”; then she added, in a casual tone, “especially when one’s ill.”

The lady did not reply, and madame went on tentatively, “Perhaps some one’s waiting for you on the other side, and’ll come back on the ferry to see what’s become of you.”

“No. No one expects me; I’m on my way to New York. I have a friend living on Jackson Street. I thought I would go there and rest a day or so; but I did wrong to get off the train here. I was not able to walk to the ferry. I should have gone on to the lower station, and saved myself the exertion of walking.”

“Well, don’t mind now, dear,” returned madame, soothingly. “Just rest a little, and when it’s time for the boat to be back, I’ll go on down to the ferry with you. It’s only a few steps, and I can hobble that far. I’ll see you safe on board, and when you get across, you’ll find a carriage.”

“Thank you, you’re very good. I should like to get there as soon as possible, for I feel dreadfully ill,” and again the weary eyes closed, and the heavy head fell back against its resting-place.

Madame Jozain looked at her for a moment, seriously and silently; then she turned, smiling sweetly on the child. “Come here, my dear, and let me take off your hat and cool your head while you’re waiting.”

“No, thank you, I’m going with mama.”

“Oh, yes, certainly; but won’t you tell me your name?”

“My name is Lady Jane,” she replied gravely.

“Lady Jane? Well, I declare, that just suits you, for you are a little lady, and no mistake. Aren’t you tired, and warm?”

“I’m very hungry; I want my supper,” said the child frankly.

Madame winced, remembering her empty cupboard, but went on chatting cheerfully to pass away the time.

Presently the whistle of the approaching ferryboat sounded; the mother put on her bonnet, and the child took the bag in one hand, and the basket in the other. “Come, mama, let us go,” she cried eagerly.

“Dear, dear,” said madame, solicitously, “but you look so white and sick. I’m afraid you can’t get to the ferry even with me to help you. I wish my Raste was here; he’s so strong, he could carry you if you gave out.”

“I think I can walk; I’ll try,” and the poor woman staggered to her feet, only to fall back into Madame Jozain’s arms in a dead faint.

CHAPTER IV
AN INTERRUPTED JOURNEY

For a moment, madame debated on what was best to be done; then, finding herself equal to the emergency, she gently laid the unconscious woman on the bed, unfastened her dress, and slowly and softly removed her clothing. Although madame was lame, she was very strong, and in a few moments the sufferer was resting between the clean, cool sheets, while her child clung to her cold hands and sobbed piteously.

“Don’t cry, my little dear, don’t cry. Help me to bathe your mama’s face; help me like a good child, and she’ll be better soon, now she’s comfortable and can rest.”

With the thought that she could be of some assistance, Lady Jane struggled bravely to swallow her sobs, took off her hat with womanly gravity, and prepared herself to assist as nurse.

“Here’s smelling salts, and cologne-water,” she said, opening her mother’s bag. “Mama likes this; let me wet her handkerchief.”

Madame Jozain, watching the child’s movements, caught a glimpse of the silver fittings of the bag, and of a bulging pocket-book within it, and, while the little girl was hanging over her mother, she quietly removed the valuables to the drawer of her armoire, which she locked, and put the key in her bosom.

“I must keep these things away from Raste,” she said to herself; “he’s so thoughtless and impulsive, he might take them without considering the consequences.”

For some time madame bent over the stranger, using every remedy she knew to restore her to consciousness, while the child assisted her with thoughtfulness and self-control, really surprising in one of her age. Sometimes her hot tears fell on her mother’s white face, but no sob or cry escaped her little quivering lips, while she bathed the pale forehead, smoothed the beautiful hair, and rubbed the soft, cold hands.

At length, with a shiver and a convulsive groan, the mother partly opened her eyes, but there was no recognition in their dull gaze.

“Mama, dear, dear mama, are you better?” implored the child, as she hung over her and kissed her passionately.

“You see she’s opened her eyes, so she must be better; but she’s sleepy,” said madame gently. “Now, my little dear, all she needs is rest, and you mustn’t disturb her. You must be very quiet, and let her sleep. Here’s some nice, fresh milk the milkman has just brought. Won’t you eat some rice and milk, and then let me take off your clothes, and bathe you, and you can slip on your little nightgown that’s in your mother’s bag; and then you can lie down beside her and sleep till morning, and in the morning you’ll both be well and nicely rested.”

Lady Jane agreed to madame’s arrangements with perfect docility, but she would not leave her mother, who had fallen into a heavy stupor, and appeared to be resting comfortably.

“If you’ll please to let me sit by the bed close to mama and eat the rice and milk, I’ll take it, for I’m very hungry.”

“Certainly, my dear; you can sit there and hold her hand all the time; I’ll put your supper on this little table close by you.”

And madame bustled about, apparently overflowing with kindly attentions. She watched the child eat the rice and milk, smiling benevolently the while; then she bathed her, and put on the fine little nightgown, braided the thick silken hair, and was about to lift her up beside her mother, when Lady Jane exclaimed in a shocked voice:

“You mustn’t put me to bed yet; I haven’t said my prayers.” Her large eyes were full of solemn reproach as she slipped from madame’s arms down to the side of the bed. “Mama can’t hear them, because she’s asleep, but God can, for he never sleeps.” Then she repeated the touching little formula that all pious mothers teach their children, adding fervently several times, “and please make dear mama well, so that we can leave this place early to-morrow morning.”

Madame smiled grimly at the last clause of the petition, and a great many curious thoughts whirled through her brain.

As the child rose from her knees her eyes fell on the basket containing the blue heron, which stood quite neglected, just where she placed it when her mother fainted.

“Oh, oh!” she cried, springing toward it. “Why, I forgot it! My Tony, my dear Tony!”

“What is it?” asked madame, starting back in surprise at the rustling sound within the basket. “Why, it’s something alive!”

“Yes, it’s alive,” said Lady Jane, with a faint smile. “It’s a bird, a blue heron. Such a nice boy gave it to me on the cars.”

“Ah,” ejaculated madame, “a boy gave it to you; some one you knew?”

“No, I never saw him before.”

“Don’t you know his name?”

“That’s funny,” and the child laughed softly to herself. “No, I don’t know his name. I never thought to ask; besides he was a stranger, and it wouldn’t have been polite, you know.”

“No, it wouldn’t have been polite,” repeated madame. “But what are you going to do with this long-legged thing?”

“It’s not a thing. It’s a blue heron, and they’re very rare,” returned the child stoutly.

She had untied the cover and taken the bird out of the basket, and now stood in her nightgown and little bare feet, holding it in her arms, and stroking the feathers softly, while she glanced every moment toward the bed.

“I’m sure I don’t know what to do with him to-night. I know he’s hungry and thirsty, and I’m afraid to let him out for fear he’ll get away”; and she raised her little anxious face to madame inquiringly, for she felt overburdened with her numerous responsibilities.

“Oh, I know what we’ll do with him,” said madame, alertly—she was prepared for every emergency. “I’ve a fine large cage. It was my parrot’s cage; he was too clever to live, so he died a while ago, and his empty cage is hanging in the kitchen. I’ll get it, and you can put your bird in it for to-night, and we’ll feed him and give him water; he’ll be quite safe, so you needn’t worry about him.”

“Thank you very much,” said Lady Jane, with more politeness than warmth. “My mama will thank you, too, when she wakes.”

After seeing Tony safely put in the cage, with a saucer of rice for his supper, and a cup of water to wash it down, Lady Jane climbed up on the high bed, and not daring to kiss her mother good-night lest she might disturb her, she nestled close to her. Worn out with fatigue, she was soon sleeping soundly and peacefully.

For some time Madame Jozain sat by the bed, watching the sick stranger, and wondering who she was, and whether her sudden illness was likely to be long and serious. “If I could keep her here, and nurse her,” she thought, “no doubt she would pay me well. I’d rather nurse than do lace; and if she’s very bad she’d better not be moved. I’d take good care of her, and make her comfortable; and if she’s no friends about here to look after her, she’d be better off with me than in the hospital. Yes, it would be cruel to send her to the hospital. Ladies don’t like to go there. It looks to me as if she’s going to have a fever,” and madame laid her fingers on the burning hand and fluttering pulse of the sleeper. “This isn’t healthy, natural sleep. I’ve nursed too many with fever, not to know. I doubt if she’ll come to her senses again. If she doesn’t no one will ever know who she is, and I may as well have the benefit of nursing her as any one else; but I must be careful, I mustn’t let her lie here and die without a doctor. That would never do. If she’s not better in the morning I’ll send for Doctor Debrot; I know he’ll be glad to come, for he never has any practice to speak of now, he’s so old and stupid; he’s a good doctor, and I’d feel safe to have him.”

After a while she got up and went out on the doorstep to wait for Raste. The night was very quiet, a fresh breeze cooled the burning heat, the stars shone brightly and softly, and as she sat there alone and lifted her mild eyes toward the sky no one would have dreamed of the strange thoughts that were passing through her mind. Now she was neither hungry nor lonesome; a sudden excitement thrilled her through and through. She was about to engage in a project that might compensate her for all her misfortunes. The glimpse she had of money, of valuables, of possible gain, awakened all her cupidity. The only thing she cared for now was money. She hated work, she hated to be at the beck and call of those she considered beneath her. What a gratification it would be to her to refuse to do Madame Joubert’s lace, to fling it at her, and tell her to take it elsewhere! With a little ready money, she could be so independent and so comfortable. Raste had a knack of getting together a great deal in one way and another. He was lucky; if he had a little to begin with he could, perhaps, make a fortune. Then she started, and looked around as one might who suddenly found himself on the brink of an awful chasm. From within she heard the sick stranger moan and toss restlessly; then, in a moment, all was quiet again. Presently, she began to debate in her mind how far she should admit Raste to her confidence. Should she let him know about the money and valuables she had hidden? The key in her bosom seemed to burn like a coal of fire. No, she would not tell him about the money. While taking the child’s nightgown from the bag, she had discovered the railroad tickets, two baggage checks, and a roll of notes and loose change in a little compartment of the bag. He would think that was all; and she would never tell him of the other.

At that moment, she heard him coming down the street, singing a rollicking song. So she got up, and hobbled toward him, for she feared he might waken the sleepers. He was a great overgrown, red-faced, black-eyed fellow, coarse and strong, with a loud, dashing kind of beauty, and he was very observing, and very shrewd. She often said he had all his father’s cunning and penetration, therefore she must disguise her plans carefully.

“Hallo, mum,” he said, as he saw her limping toward him, her manner eager, her face rather pale and excited; “what’s up now?” It was unusual for her to meet him in that way.

“Hush, hush, Raste. Don’t make a noise. Such a strange thing has happened since you went out!” said madame, in a low voice. “Sit down here on the steps, and I’ll tell you.”

Then briefly, and without much show of interest, she told him of the arrival of the strangers, and of the young woman’s sudden illness.

“And they’re in there asleep,” he said, pointing with his thumb in the direction of the room.

“That’s a fine thing for you to do—to saddle yourself with a sick woman and a child.”

“What could I do?” asked madame indignantly. “You wouldn’t have me turn a fainting woman into the street? It won’t cost anything for her to sleep in my bed to-night.”

“What is she like? Is she one of the poor sort? Did you look over her traps? Has she got any money?” he asked eagerly.

“Oh, Raste, Raste; as if I searched her pockets! She’s beautifully dressed, and so is the child. She’s got a fine watch and chain, and when I opened her bag to get the child’s nightgown, I saw that it was fitted up with silver.”

“What luck!” exclaimed Raste brightly. “Then she’s a swell, and to-morrow when she goes away she’ll give you as much as a ‘fiver.’”

“I don’t believe she’ll be able to go to-morrow. I think she’s down for a long sickness. If she’s no better in the morning, I want you to cross and find Dr. Debrot”

“Old Debrot? That’s fun! Why, he’s no good—he’ll kill her.”

“Nonsense; you know he’s one of the best doctors in the city.”

“Sometimes, yes. But you can’t keep the woman here, if she’s sick; you’ll have to send her to the hospital. And you didn’t find out her name, nor where she belongs? Suppose she dies on your hands? What then?”

“If I take care of her and she dies, I can’t help it; and I may as well have her things as any one else.”

“But has she got anything worth having? Enough to pay you for trouble and expense?” he asked. Then he whistled softly, and added, “Oh, mum, you’re a deep one, but I see through you.”

“I don’t know what you mean, boy,” said madame, indignantly. “Of course, if I nurse the woman, and give up my bed to her, I expect to be paid. I hate to send her to the hospital, and I don’t know her name, nor the name of her friends. So what can I do?”

“Do just what you’ve planned to do, mum. Go right ahead, but be careful and cover up your tracks. Do you understand?”

Madame made no reply to this disinterested piece of advice, but sat silently thinking for some time. At last she said in a persuasive tone, “Didn’t you bring some money from the levee? I’ve had no supper, and I intend to sit up all night with that poor woman. Can’t you go to Joubert’s and get me some bread and cheese?”

“Money, money—look here!” and the young scapegrace pulled out a handful of silver. “That’s what I’ve brought.”

An hour later madame and Raste sat in the little kitchen, chatting over their supper in the most friendly way; while the sick woman and the child still slept profoundly in the small front room.

CHAPTER V
LAST DAYS AT GRETNA

The next morning, Madame Jozain sent Raste across the river for Dr. Debrot, for the sick woman still lay in a heavy stupor, her dull eyes partly closed, her lips parched and dry, and the crimson flush of fever burning on cheek and brow.

Before Raste went, Madame Jozain took the traveling bag into the kitchen, and together they examined its contents. There were the two baggage-checks, the tickets and money, besides the usual articles of clothing, and odds and ends; but there was no letter, nor card, nor name, except the monogram, J. C., on the silver fittings, to assist in establishing the stranger’s identity.

“Hadn’t I better take these,” said Raste, slipping the baggage-checks into his pocket, “and have her baggage sent over? When she comes to, you can tell her that she and the young one needed clothes, and you thought it was best to get them. You can make that all right when she gets well,” and Raste smiled knowingly at madame, whose face wore an expression of grave solicitude as she said:

“Hurry, my son, and bring the doctor back with you. I’m so anxious about the poor thing, and I dread to have the child wake and find her mother no better.”

When Doctor Debrot entered Madame Jozain’s front room, his head was not as clear as it ought to have been, and he did not observe anything peculiar in the situation. He had known madame, more or less, for a number of years, and he might be considered one of the friends who thought well of her. Therefore, he never suspected that the young woman lying there in a stupor was any other than the relative from Texas madame represented her to be. And she was very ill, of that there could be no doubt; so ill as to awaken all the doctor’s long dormant professional ambition. There were new features in the case; the fever was peculiar. It might have been produced by certain conditions and localities. It might be contagious, it might not be, he could not say; but of one thing he was certain, there would be no protracted struggle, the crisis would arrive very soon. She would either be better or beyond help in a few days, and it was more than likely that she would never recover consciousness. He would do all he could to save her, and he knew Madame Jozain was an excellent nurse; she had nursed with him through an epidemic. The invalid could not be in better hands. Then he wrote a prescription, and while he was giving madame some general directions, he patted kindly the golden head of the lovely child, who leaned over the bed with her large, solemn eyes fixed on her mother’s face, while her little hands caressed the tangled hair and burning cheeks.

“Her child?” he asked, looking sadly at the little creature.

“Yes, the only one. She takes it hard. I really don’t know what to do with her.”

“Poor lamb, poor lamb!” he muttered, as madame hurried him to the door.

Shortly after the doctor left, there was a little ripple of excitement, which entered even into the sick-room—the sound of wheels, and Raste giving orders in a subdued voice, while two large, handsome trunks were brought in and placed in the corner of the back apartment. These two immense boxes looked strangely out of place amid their humble surroundings; and when madame looked at them she almost trembled, thinking of the difficulty of getting rid of such witnesses should a day of reckoning ever come. When the little green door closed on them, it seemed as if the small house had swallowed up every trace of the mother and child, and that their identity was lost forever.

For several days the doctor continued his visits, in a more or less lucid condition, and every day he departed with a more dejected expression on his haggard face. He saw almost from the first that the case was hopeless; and his heart (for he still had one) ached for the child, whose wide eyes seemed to haunt him with their intense misery. Every day he saw her sitting by her mother’s side, pale and quiet, with such a pitiful look of age on her little face, such repressed suffering in every line and expression as she watched him for some gleam of hope, that the thought of it tortured him and forced him to affect a cheerfulness and confidence which he did not feel. But, in spite of every effort to deceive her, she was not comforted. She seemed to see deeper than the surface. Her mother had never recognized her, never spoken to her, since that dreadful night, and, in one respect, she seemed already dead to her. Sometimes she seemed unable to control herself, and would break out into sharp, passionate cries, and implore her mother, with kisses and caresses, to speak to her—to her darling, her baby. “Wake up, mama, wake up! It’s Lady Jane! It’s darling! Oh, mama, wake up and speak to me!” she would cry almost fiercely.

Then, when madame would tell her that she must be quiet, or her mother would never get well, it was touching to witness her efforts at self-control. She would sit for hours silent and passive, with her mother’s hand clasped in hers, and her lips pressed to the feeble fingers that had no power to return her tender caress.

Whatever was good in Madame Jozain showed itself in compassion for the suffering little one, and no one could have been more faithful than she in her care of both the mother and child; she felt such pity for them, that she soon began to think she was acting in a noble and disinterested spirit by keeping them with her, and nursing the unfortunate mother so faithfully. She even began to identify herself with them; they were hers by virtue of their friendlessness; they belonged to no one else, therefore they belonged to her; and, in her self-satisfaction, she imagined that she was not influenced by any unworthy motive in her treatment of them.

One day, only a little more than a week after the arrival of the strangers, a modest funeral wended its way through the narrow streets of Gretna toward the ferry, and the passers stopped to stare at Adraste Jozain, dressed in his best suit, sitting with much dignity beside Dr. Debrot in the only carriage that followed the hearse.

“It’s a stranger, a relative of Madame Jozain,” said one who knew. “She came from Texas with her little girl, less than two weeks ago, and yesterday she died, and last night the child was taken down with the same fever, and they say she’s unconscious to-day, so madame couldn’t leave her to go to the funeral. No one will go to the house, because that old doctor from the other side says it may be catching.”

That day the Bergeron tomb in the old St. Louis cemetery was opened for the first time since Madame Jozain’s father was placed there, and the lovely young widow was laid amongst those who were neither kith nor kin.

When Raste returned from the funeral, he found his mother sitting beside the child, who lay in the same heavy stupor that marked the first days of the mother’s illness. The pretty golden hair was spread over the pillow; under the dark lashes were deep violet shadows, and the little cheeks glowed with the crimson hue of fever.

Madame was dressed in her best black gown, and she had been weeping freely. At the sight of Raste in the door, she started up and burst into heart-breaking sobs.

“Oh, mon cher, oh, mon ami, we are doomed. Was ever any one so unfortunate? Was ever any one so punished for a good deed? I’ve taken a sick stranger into my house, and nursed her as if she were my own, and buried her in my family tomb, and now the child’s taken down, and Doctor Debrot says it is a contagious fever, and we may both take it and die. That’s what one gets in this world for trying to do good!”

“Nonsense, mum, don’t look on the dark side; old Debrot don’t know. I’m the one that gave it out that the fever was catching. I didn’t want to have people prying about here, finding out everything. The child’ll be better or worse in a few days, and then we’ll clear out from this place, raise some money on the things, and start fresh somewhere else.”

“Well,” said madame, wiping away her tears, much comforted by Raste’s cheerful view of the situation, “no one can say that I haven’t done my duty to the poor thing, and I mean to be kind to the child, and nurse her through the fever whether it’s catching or not. It’s hard to be tied to a sick bed this hot weather; but I’m almost thankful the little thing’s taken down, and isn’t conscious, for it was dreadful to see the way she mourned for her mother. Poor woman, she was so young and pretty, and had such gentle ways. I wish I knew who she was, especially now I’ve put her in the Bergeron tomb.”

CHAPTER VI
PEPSIE

Every one about that part of Good Children Street knew Pepsie. She had been a cripple from infancy, and her mother, Madelon, or “Bonnie Praline,” as she was called, was also quite a noted figure in the neighborhood. They lived in a tiny, single cottage, wedged in between the pharmacist, on the corner, and M. Fernandez, the tobacconist, on the other side. There was a narrow green door, and one long window, with an ornamental iron railing across it, through which the interior of the little room was visible from the outside. It was a very neat little place, and less ugly than one would expect it to be. A huge four-post bed, with red tester and lace-covered pillows, almost filled one side of the room; opposite the bed a small fireplace was hung with pink paper, and the mantel over it was decorated with a clock, two vases of bright paper flowers, a blue bottle, and a green plaster parrot; a small armoire, a table above which hung a crucifix and a highly colored lithograph of the Bleeding Heart, and a few chairs completed the furniture of the quaint little interior; while the floor, the doorsteps, and even the sidewalk were painted red with powdered brick-dust, which harmonized very well with the faded yellow stucco of the walls and the dingy green of the door and batten shutter.

Behind this one little front room was a tiny kitchen and yard, where Madelon made her pralines and cakes, and where Tite Souris, a half-grown darky, instead of a “little mouse,” washed, cooked, and scrubbed, and “waited on Miss Peps” during Madelon’s absence; for Madelon was a merchant. She had a stand for cakes and pralines upon Bourbon Street, near the French Opera House, and thither she went every morning, with her basket and pans of fresh pralines, sugared pecans, and calas tout chaud, a very tempting array of dainties, which she was sure to dispose of before she returned at night; while Pepsie, her only child, and the treasure of her life, remained at home, sitting in her high chair by the window, behind the iron railing.

And Pepsie sitting at her window was as much a part of the street as were the queer little houses, the tiny shops, the old vegetable woman, the cobbler on the banquette, the wine merchant, or the grocer. Every one knew her: her long, sallow face with flashing dark eyes, wide mouth with large white teeth, which were always visible in a broad smile, and the shock of heavy black hair twisted into a quaint knot on top of her head, which was abnormally large, and set close to the narrow, distorted shoulders, were always visible, “from early morn till dewy eve,” at the window; while her body below the shoulders was quite hidden by a high table drawn forward over her lap. On this table Pepsie shelled the pecans, placing them in three separate piles, the perfect halves in one pile, those broken by accident in another, and those slightly shriveled, and a little rancid, in still another. The first were used to make the sugared pecans for which Madelon was justly famous; the second to manufacture into pralines, so good that they had given her the sobriquet of “Bonne Praline”; and the third pile, which she disdained to use in her business, nothing imperfect ever entering into her concoctions, were swept into a box, and disposed of to merchants who had less principle and less patronage.

All day long Pepsie sat her window, wielding her little iron nutcracker with much dexterity. While the beautiful clean halves fell nearly always unbroken on their especial pile, she saw everything that went on in the street, her bright eyes flashed glances of recognition up and down, her broad smile greeted in cordial welcome those who stopped at her window to chat, and there was nearly always some one at Pepsie’s window. She was so happy, so bright, and so amiable that every one loved her, and she was the idol of all the children in the neighborhood—not, however, because she was liberal with pecans. Oh, no; with Pepsie, business was business, and pecans cost money, and every ten sugared pecans meant a nickel for her mother; but they loved to stand around the window, outside the iron railing, and watch Pepsie at her work. They liked to see her with her pile of nuts and bowl of foaming sugar before her. It seemed like magic, the way she would sugar them, and stick them together, and spread them out to dry on the clean white paper. She did it so rapidly that her long white fingers fairly flashed between the bowl of sugar, the pile of nuts, and the paper. And there always seemed just enough of each, therefore her just discrimination was a constant wonder.

When she finished her task, as she often did before dark, Tite Souris took away the bowl and the tray of sugared nuts, after Pepsie had counted them and put the number down in a little book, as much to protect herself against Tite Souris’s depredations as to know the exact amount of their stock in trade; then she would open the little drawer in the table, and take out a prayer-book, a piece of needlework, and a pack of cards.

She was very pious, and read her prayers several times a day; after she put her prayer-book aside she usually devoted some time to her needlework, for which she had real talent; then, when she thought she had earned her recreation, she put away her work, spread out her cards, and indulged in an intricate game of solitaire. This was her passion; she was very systematic, and very conscientious; but if she ever purloined any time from her duties, it was that she might engage in that fascinating game. She decided everything by it; whatever she wished to know, two games out of three would give her the answer, for or against.

Sometimes she looked like a little witch during a wicked incantation, as she hovered over the rows of cards, her face dark and brooding, her long, thin fingers darting here and there, silent, absorbed, almost breathless under the fatal spell of chance.

In this way she passed day after day, always industrious, always contented, and always happy. She was very comfortable in her snug little room, which was warm in winter and cool in summer, owing to the two high buildings adjoining; and although she was a cripple, and her lower limbs useless, she suffered little pain, unless she was moved roughly, or jarred in some way; and no one could be more carefully protected from discomfort than she was, for although she was over twelve, Madelon still treated her as if she were a baby. Every morning, before she left for the Rue Bourbon, she bathed and dressed the girl, and lifted her tenderly, with her strong arms, into her wheeled chair, where she drank her coffee, and ate her roll, as dainty as a little princess, for she was always exquisitely clean. In the summer she wore pretty little white sacks, with a bright bow of ribbon at the neck, and in winter her shrunken figure was clothed in warm, soft woolen.

Madelon did not sit out all day in rain and shine on Bourbon Street, and make cakes and pralines half the night, for anything else but to provide this crippled mite with every comfort. As I said before, the girl was her idol, and she had toiled day and night to gratify her every wish; and, as far as she knew, there was but one desire unsatisfied, and for the accomplishment of that she was working and saving little by little.

Once Pepsie had said that she would like to live in the country. All she knew of the country was what she had read in books, and what her mother, who had once seen the country, had told her. Often she closed her eyes to shut out the hot, narrow street, and thought of green valleys, with rivers running through them, and hills almost touching the sky, and broad fields shaded by great trees, and covered with waving grass and flowers. That was her one unrealized ideal,—her “Carcassonne,” which she feared she was never to reach, except in imagination.

CHAPTER VII
THE ARRIVAL

On the other side of Good Children Street, and almost directly opposite Madelon’s tiny cottage, was a double house of more pretentious appearance than those just around it. It was a little higher, the door was wider, and a good-sized window on each side had a small balcony, more for ornament than use, as it was scarcely wide enough to stand on. The roof projected well over the sidewalk, and there was some attempt at ornamentation in the brackets that supported it. At one side was a narrow yard with a stunted fig-tree, and a ragged rose-bush straggled up the posts of a small side-gallery.

This house had been closed for some time. The former tenant having died, his family, who were respectable, pleasant people, were obliged to leave it, much to Pepsie’s sorrow, for she was always interested in her neighbors, and she had taken a great deal of pleasure in observing the ways of this household. Therefore she was very tired of looking at the closed doors and windows, and was constantly wishing that some one would take it. At last, greatly to her gratification, one pleasant morning, late in August, a middle-aged woman, very well dressed in black, who was lame and walked with a stick, a young man, and a lovely little girl, appeared on the scene, stopped before the empty house, and after looking at it with much interest mounted the steps, unlocked the door, and entered.

The child interested Pepsie at once. Although she had seen very few high-bred children in her short life, she noticed that this little one was different from the small inhabitants of Good Children Street. Her white frock, black sash, and wide black hat had a certain grace uncommon in that quarter, and every movement and step had an elegant ease, very unlike the good-natured little creoles who played around Pepsie’s window.

However, it was not only the child’s beauty, her tasteful, pretty dress, and high-bred air that interested Pepsie; it was the pale, mournful little face, and the frail little figure, looking so wan and ill. The woman held her by the hand, and she walked very slowly and feebly; the robust, black-eyed young man carried a small basket, which the child watched constantly.

Pepsie could not remove her eyes from the house, so anxious was she to see the child again; but, instead of coming out, as she expected they would after they had looked at the house, much to her joy she saw the young man flinging open the shutters and doors, with quite an air of ownership; then she saw the woman take off her bonnet and veil, and the child’s hat, and hang them on a hook near the window. Presently, the little girl came out on the small side-gallery with something in her arms. Pepsie strained her eyes, and leaned forward as far as her lameness would allow her in order to see what the child had.

“It’s a cat; no, it’s a dog; no, it isn’t. Why, it must be a bird. I can see it flutter its wings. Yes, it’s a bird, a large, strange-looking bird. I wonder what it is!” And Pepsie, in her excitement and undue curiosity, almost tipped out of her chair, while the child looked around her with a listless, uninterested air, and then sat down on the steps, hugging the bird closely and stroking its feathers.

“Certainly, they’ve come to stay,” said Pepsie to herself, “or they wouldn’t open all the windows, and take off their things. Oh, I wonder if they have; I’ll just get my cards, and find out.”

But Pepsie’s oracle was doomed to remain silent, for, before she got them spread on the table, there was a rumbling of wheels in the street, and a furniture-wagon, pretty well loaded, drove up to the door. Pepsie swept her cards into the drawer, and watched it unload with great satisfaction.

At the same moment, the active Tite Souris entered like a whirlwind, her braids of wool sticking up, and her face all eyes and teeth. She had been out on the banquette, and was bursting with news.

“Oh, Miss Peps’, Miss Peps’, sum un’s done tuk dat house ov’ yon’er, an’ is a-movin’ in dis ver’ minit. It’s a woman an’ a boy, an’ a littl’ yaller gal. I means a littl’ gal wid yaller ha’r all ove’ her, an’ she got a littl’ long-legged goslin’, a-huggin’ it up like she awful fond uv it.”

“Oh, stop, Tite; go away to your work,” cried Pepsie, too busy to listen to her voluble handmaid. “Don’t I see them without your telling me? You’d better finish scouring your kitchen, or mama’ll get after you when she comes home.”

“Shore ’nuff, I’se a-scourin’, Miss Peps’, an’ I’se jes a dyin tu git out on dat banquette; dat banquette’s a-spilin’ might’ bad ter be cleaned. Let me do dat banquette right now, Miss Peps’, an’ I’s gwine scour lak fury bymeby.”

“Very well, Tite; go and do the banquette,” returned Pepsie, smiling indulgently. “But mind what I say about the kitchen, when mama comes.”

Such an event as some one moving in Good Children Street was very uncommon. Pepsie thought every one had lived there since the flood, and she didn’t blame Tite Souris to want to be out with the other idle loungers to see what was going on, although she understood the banquette ruse perfectly.

At last all the furniture was carried in, and with it two trunks, so large for that quarter as to cause no little comment.

“Par exemple!” said Monsieur Fernandez, “what a size for a trunk! That madame yonder must have traveled much in the North. I’ve heard they use them there for ladies’ toilets.”

And, straightway, madame acquired greater importance from the conclusion that she had traveled extensively.

Then the wagon went away, the door was discreetly “bowed,” and the loungers dispersed; but Pepsie, from her coign of vantage, still watched every movement of the new-comers. She saw Raste come out with a basket, and she was sure that he had gone to market. She saw madame putting up a pretty lace curtain at one window, and she was curious to know if she intended to have a parlor. Only one blind was thrown open; the other was “bowed” all day, yet she was positive that some one was working behind it. “That must be madame’s room,” she thought; “that big boy will have the back room next to the kitchen, and the little girl will sleep with madame, so the room on this side, with the pretty curtain, will be the parlor. I wonder if she will have a carpet, and a console, with vases of wax-flowers on it, and a cabinet full of shells, and a sofa.” This was Pepsie’s idea of a parlor; she had seen a parlor once long ago, and it was like this.

So she wondered and speculated all day; and all day the pale, sorrowful child sat alone on the side-gallery, holding her bird in her arms; and when night came, Pepsie had not sugared her pecans, neither had she read her prayers, nor even played one game of solitaire; but Madelon did not complain of her idleness. It was seldom the child had such a treat, and even Tite Souris escaped a scolding, in consideration of the great event.

The next morning Pepsie was awake very early, and so anxious was she to get to the window that she could hardly wait to be dressed. When she first looked across the street, the doors and shutters were closed, but some one had been stirring; and Tite Souris informed her, when she brought her coffee, that madame had been out at “sun up,” and had cleaned and “bricked” the banquette her own self.

“Then I’m afraid she isn’t rich,” said Pepsie, “because if she was rich, she’d keep a servant, and perhaps after all she won’t have a parlor.”

Presently there was a little flutter behind the bowed blind, and lo! it was suddenly flung open, and there, right in the middle of the window, hung a very tasty gilt frame, surrounding a white center, on which was printed, in red and gilt letters, “Blanchisseuse de fin, et confections de toute sorte,” and underneath, written in Raste’s boldest hand and best English, “Fin Washun dun hear, an notuns of al sort,” and behind the sign Pepsie could plainly see a flutter of laces and muslins, children’s dainty little frocks and aprons, ladies’ collars, cuffs, and neckties, handkerchiefs and sacks, and various other articles for feminine use and adornment; and on a table, close to the window, were boxes of spools, bunches of tape, cards of buttons, skeins of wool, rolls of ribbons; in short, an assortment of small wares, which presented quite an attractive appearance; and, hovering about them, madame could be discerned, in her black skirt and fresh white sack, while, as smiling and self-satisfied as ever, she arranged her stock to the best advantage, and waited complacently for the customers who she was sure would come.

For the first time since the death of the young widow in Gretna, she breathed freely, for she began to feel some security in her new possessions. At last, everything had turned out as Raste predicted, and she had worked her plans well. The young mother, sleeping in the Bergeron tomb, could never testify against her, and the child was too young to give any but the most sketchy information about herself. She did not even know the name of her parents, and since her recovery from the fever she seemed to have forgotten a great deal that she knew before. Her illness had left her in a pitiable condition; she was weak and dull, and did not appear to care for anything but the blue heron, which was her constant companion. Whether she was conscious of her great loss, and was mourning for her mother, madame could not decide. At first, she had asked constantly for her, and madame had told her kindly, and with caresses, which were not returned, that her mother had gone away for a while, and had left her with her Tante Pauline; and that she must be a good little girl, and love her Tante Pauline, while her mother was away.

Lady Jane looked at madame’s bland face with such solemnly scrutinizing eyes, that she almost made her blush for the falsehood she was telling, but said nothing; her little thoughts and memories were very busy, and very far away; she had not forgotten as much as madame fancied she had, neither did she believe as much as madame thought she did. Whatever of doubt or regret passed through her little brain, she made no sign, but remained quiet and docile; she never laughed, and seldom cried; she was very little trouble, and scarcely noticed anything that was going on around her. In fact, she was stupefied and subdued, by the sudden misfortunes that had come upon her, until she seemed a very different being from the bright, spirited child of a few weeks before.

CHAPTER VIII
LADY JANE FINDS A FRIEND

From the first, madame had insisted that the stranger’s property should not be meddled with until a certain time had passed.

“We must wait,” she said to the eager and impulsive Raste, “to see if she is missed, and advertised for. A person of her position must have friends somewhere, and it would be rather bad for us if she was traced here, and it was found out that she died in our house; we might even be suspected of killing her to get her money. Detectives are capable of anything, and it isn’t best to get in their clutches; but if we don’t touch her things, they can’t accuse us, and Dr. Debrot knows she died of fever, so I would be considered a kind-hearted Christian woman, and I’d be paid well for all my trouble, if it should come out that she died here.”

These arguments had their weight with Raste, who, though thoroughly unscrupulous, was careful about getting into the toils of the law, his father’s fate serving as an example to him of the difficulty of escaping from those toils when they once close upon a victim.

If at that time they had noticed the advertisement in the journals signed “Blue Heron” it would have given them a terrible fright; but they seldom read the papers, and before they thought of looking for a notice of the missing woman and child, it had been withdrawn.

For several weeks Raste went regular to the grocery on the levee, and searched over the daily papers until his eyes ached; but in vain; among all the singular advertisements and “personals,” there was nothing that referred in any way to the subject that interested him.

Therefore, after some six weeks had passed, madame deemed that it was safe to begin to cover her tracks, as Raste had advised with more force than elegance. The first thing to do was to move into another neighborhood; for that reason, she selected the house in Good Children Street, it being as far away from her present residence as she could possibly get, without leaving the city altogether.

At first she was tempted to give up work, and live like a lady for a while; then she considered that her sudden wealth might arouse suspicion, and she decided to carry on her present business, with the addition of a small stock of fancy articles to sell on which she could make a snug little profit, and at the same time give greater importance and respectability to her humble calling.

Among the dead woman’s effects was the pocket-book, containing five hundred dollars, which she had secreted from Raste. From the money in the traveling bag she had paid the humble funeral expenses, and Dr. Debrot’s modest bill, and there still remained some for other demands; but besides the money there were many valuables, the silver toilet articles, jewelry, laces, embroideries, and the handsome wardrobe of both mother and child. In one of the trunks she found a writing-case full of letters written in English. From these letters she could have learned all that it was necessary to know; but she could not read English readily, especially writing; she was afraid to show them, and she feared to keep them; therefore she thought it best to destroy them. So one night, when she was alone, she burned them all in the kitchen stove; not, however, without some misgivings and some qualms of conscience, for at the moment when she saw them crumbling to white ashes the gentle face of the dead woman seemed to come before her, and her blue eyes to look at her sadly and reproachfully.

Then she thought of Father Ducros, so stern and severe; he had but little mercy or charity for those who sinned deliberately and wilfully, as she was doing. She would never dare to go to him, and what would become of her soul? Already she was beginning to feel that the way of the transgressor is hard; but she silenced the striving of conscience with specious arguments. She had not sought the temptation,—it had come to her, in the form of a dying woman; she had done her best by her, and now the child was thrown on her and must be cared for. She did not know the child’s name, so she could not restore her to her friends, even if she had any; it was not likely that she had, or they would have advertised for her; and she meant to be good to the little thing. She would take care of her, and bring her up well. She would be a daughter to her. Surely that was better than sending her to a home for foundlings, as another would do. In this way she persuaded herself that she was really an honest, charitable woman, who was doing what was best for the child by appropriating her mother’s property, and destroying every proof of her identity.

From the child’s wardrobe she selected the plainest and most useful articles for daily wear, laying aside the finest and daintiest to dispose of as her business might offer opportunity; and from the mother’s clothes she also made a selection, taking for her own use what she considered plain enough to wear with propriety, while the beautiful linen, fine laces, and pretty little trifles went a long way in furnishing her show-window handsomely.

Notwithstanding her assurance, she felt some misgivings when she placed those pretty, dainty articles in the broad light of day before an observing public,—and not only the public terrified her, but the child also; suppose she should recognize her mother’s property, and make a scene. Therefore it was with no little anxiety that she waited the first morning for Lady Jane’s appearance in the little shop.

After a while she came in, heavy-edged, pale, listless, and carelessly dressed, her long silken hair uncombed, her little feet and legs bare, and her whole manner that of a sorrowful, neglected child. She carried her bird in her arms, as usual, and was passing out of the side-door to the little yard, without as much as a glance, when madame, who was watching her furtively, said to her in rather a fretful tone:

“Come here, child, and let me button your clothes. And you haven’t brushed your hair; now this won’t do; you’re old enough to dress yourself, and you must do it; I can’t wait on you every minute, I’ve got something else to do.” Then she asked in a softer tone, while she smoothed the golden hair, “See my pretty window. Don’t you think it looks very handsome?”

Lady Jane turned her heavy eyes toward the laces and fluttering things above her, then they slowly fell to the table, and suddenly, with a piercing cry, she seized a little jewel-box, an odd, pretty silver trinket that madame had displayed among her small wares, and exclaimed passionately: “That’s my mama’s; it’s mama’s, and you sha’n’t have it,” and turning, she rushed into madame’s room, leaving Tony to flutter from her arms, while she held the little box tightly clasped to her bosom.

Madame did not notice her outbreak, neither did she attempt to take the box from her, so she carried it about with her all day; but at night, after the little one had fallen asleep, madame unclosed the fingers that still clung to it, and without a pang consigned it to obscurity.

“I mustn’t let her see that again,” she said to herself. “Dear me, what should I do, if she should act like that before a customer? I’ll never feel safe until everything is sold, and out of the way.”

“Well, I declare, if that isn’t the fifth customer Madame Jozain has had this morning,” said Pepsie to Tite Souris, a few days after the new arrival. “She must be doing a good business, for they all buy; at least they all come out with paper parcels.”

“An’ jes’ see dem chil’ren crowd ’roun’ dat do. Lor’, dey doant cum ter yer winner eny mo’, Miss Peps’,” said Tite, with an accent of disgust, as she brushed the pecan-shells from Pepsie’s table. “Dey jes stan’ ober dar ter git a glimge uv dat dar goslin’ de littl’ gal holes all day. Po chile! she might’ lunsum, setten dar all ’lone.”

“Tite, oh, Tite, can’t you coax her across the street? I want to see her near,” cried Pepsie eagerly; “I want to see what kind of a bird that is.”

“Dem chil’ren say how it’s a herin’. I doant believe dat—hit ain’t no ways lak dem herin’s in de sto, what dey has in pickl’. Sho! dat ain’t no herin’, hit’s a goslin’; I’se done see goslin’s on de plantashun, an’ hit’s a goslin’, shore nuff.”

“Well, I want to see for myself, Tite. Go there to the fence, and ask her to come here; tell her I’ll give her some pecans.”

Tite went on her mission, and lingered so long, staring with the others, that her mistress had to call her back. She returned alone. Lady Jane declined to accept the invitation.

“’T ain’t no use,” said Tite energetically. “She wunt cum. She on’ hugs dat dar long-legged bird, an’ looks at yer solum, lak a owel; ’t ain’t no use, she wunt cum. She might’ stuck up, Miss Peps’. She say she doan’t want peccuns. Ain’t dat cur’ous? Oh, Lor, doan’t want peccuns! Well, white chil’ren is der beatenes’ chil’ren!’ and Tite went to her work, muttering her surprise at the “cur-ousness” of white children in general, and Lady Jane in particular.

All day long Pepsie watched, hoping that the little girl might change her mind, and decide to be more neighborly; but she was doomed to disappointment. Near night, feeling that it was useless to hope, and noticing that madame’s customers were dropping off, she sought consolation in a game of solitaire.

Just as she was at the most exciting point, a slight rustling sound attracted her attention, and, looking up, she saw a little figure in a soiled white frock, with long yellow hair falling over her shoulders, and a thick, neglected bang almost touching her eyebrows. The little face was pale and sorrowful; but a faint smile dimpled the lips, and the eyes were bright and earnest. Lady Jane was holding the bird up in both hands over the iron railing, and when she caught Pepsie’s surprised glance she said very politely and very sweetly:

“Would you like to see Tony?”