В Миссисипи

Алла Булаева

ГЛАВА ХХХ Миссисипи. ЛАНЬЕ

Это было за несколько дней до следующего Рождества, и миссис Ланье, которая
только что вернулась из Вашингтона, однажды вечером сидела одна в своей
своей хорошенькой маленькой гостиной, когда слуга вручил ей открытку.

«Артур Мейнард», — прочитала она. «Пусть сейчас подойдет»; и как
служанка вышла из комнаты и добавила про себя: «Милый мальчик! я так рада, что он приходи на Рождество».

Через мгновение в комнате появился красивый молодой человек, пожимая руку.
самый душевный способ.

— Видите ли, я, как обычно, дома на каникулах, миссис Ланье, — сказал он.
показывая ряд очень белых зубов, когда он смеялся.

«Да, вы всегда приходите на Рождество и Марди-гра, не так ли?
Ты еще такой мальчик, Артур, — и миссис Ланье посмотрела на него так, будто
она одобряла его мальчишество. «Садитесь и давайте долго поговорим.
Дети пошли в театр с господином Ланье. я был слишком усталым
пойти с ними. Ты знаешь, что мы добрались до дома только сегодня утром.

"Нет. Я этого не знал, иначе бы не пришел. Ты не хочешь быть
беспокоишься обо мне, когда ты так устал, — сказал Артур, вставая.

«Ерунда, Артур; садиться. Ты всегда поднимаешь мне настроение. Ты такой полный
жизнь и дух, я очень рад тебя видеть».

Пока миссис Ланье говорила, яркие, ясные глаза молодого человека
ходили по комнате и рассматривали все, картины,
безделушки и цветы. Внезапно он издал восклицание и:
вскочив, схватил фотографию в бархатной рамке, стоявшую на
кабинет рядом с ним.

Он представлял собой семейную группу, отца, мать и ребенка; и для
В тот момент он казался слишком удивленным, чтобы говорить. Затем он спросил очень
возбужденным тоном: «Миссис. Ланье, откуда ты это взял и кто эта дама?

«Она моя подруга», — сказала миссис Ланье, очень удивившись. "Почему
— спросишь ты, — ты ее когда-нибудь видел?

«Да, да; и у меня есть копия этой картинки. Это так странно
история; но сначала, прежде чем я скажу хоть слово, пожалуйста, скажи мне, кто она, и
все о ней».

- Артур, ты, кажется, очень заинтересован, - ответила миссис Ланьер с
улыбка. «Эта дама — моя дорогая подруга Джейн Четвинд. Мы были одноклассниками
в школе-интернате в Нью-Йорке; ее отец - богатый мистер Четвинд.
Вы слышали о нем, не так ли?

"Да, в самом деле; но, пожалуйста, продолжайте.

«Хочешь всю историю?»

«Все, пожалуйста. У меня есть серьезная причина хотеть знать все
об оригиналах этой фотографии».

«Ну, этот джентльмен — муж Джейн, мистер Черчилль, англичанин,
а маленькая девочка — «леди Джейн», их единственный ребенок. Есть довольно
роман, связанный с историей Джейн, и я как раз сейчас барахтаюсь в этом
море тьмы в отношении той самой Джейн Четвинд».

«Извольте, идите дальше, и, возможно, я смогу вам помочь», — призвал молодой
чувак, жадно и резко.

«Ну, поскольку эта тема меня очень интересует, я не против.
рассказываю вам всю историю. Джейн Четвинд была единственной дочерью; ее
мать умерла, когда она была ребенком. Джейн была кумиром своего отца; у него был
большие планы на нее, и когда ей было всего восемнадцать, он надеялся, что она
выйти замуж за одного из богатых Биндервиллей. Джейн, однако, вышла замуж за молодого
Англичанин, работавший у ее отца. Молодой человек был красив,
как видно по его фотографии, он родовитый и хорошо образованный; но он
был неизвестен и беден. Для Ричарда Четвинда это было непростительно, и
поэтому он отрекся от Джейн — полностью отстранился от нее, отказался ее видеть или
даже позволить упомянуть ее имя.

«Двоюродный брат г-на Черчилля, живший в Англии, владел прекрасным ранчо в
Техас, и туда молодая пара отправилась провести медовый месяц. Они
были в восторге от ранчо и решили сделать его постоянным домом.

«Там родилась их маленькая девочка, которую назвали в честь матери. На
рассказать о некоторых изящных мелочах, и, чтобы избежать путаницы, ее отец
называл ее леди Джейн.

«В своих частых письмах ко мне моя подруга говорила о ней как о замечательной
ребенком, и, конечно же, она была кумиром своих родителей. Несмотря на
проблемы с отцом, Джейн ни разу не пожалела о своем выборе, и даже ее
изолированная жизнь имела для нее много прелестей. Она была тихой, домашней
нравом и любил страну. Действительно, я знаю, что ее жизнь была
одно из идиллического счастья. Когда ребенку было три года, Джейн отправила
мне эта картина; затем прошло еще около двух лет, за это время я
слышали от нее часто, и после этого вдруг переписка
остановился. Я был в Европе год, а вернувшись, приступил к работе.
чтобы выяснить причину. Многие письма были возвращены из Сан-Антонио.
ближайшее почтовое отделение; но наконец нам удалось пообщаться
с смотрителем ранчо, который сообщил нам, что мистер Черчилль
умер внезапно от распространенной лихорадки прошлым летом - более двух
лет назад, и что миссис Черчилль со своей маленькой девочкой уехала
ранчо сразу после смерти мужа, чтобы вернуться в Нью-Йорк
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 d;bonnair and handsome Andr; 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, n;e
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?”

And that was the way in which Lady Jane and Pepsie first became acquainted.
*

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