Transcriber’s Note
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LADY JANE
[Illustration: LADY JANE WAS LINGERING ON THE SIDEWALK, NEAR THE GREEN
FENCE]
LADY JANE
BY
MRS. C. V. JAMISON
Author of “Toinette’s Philip”
[Illustration: Decoration]
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1922
Copyright, 1891, by
THE CENTURY CO.
Copyright renewed 1918
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE BLUE HERON 3
II TONY GOES WITH LADY JANE 19
III MADAME JOZAIN 25
IV AN INTERRUPTED JOURNEY 36
V LAST DAYS AT GRETNA 48
VI PEPSIE 56
VII THE ARRIVAL 63
VIII LADY JANE FINDS A FRIEND 72
IX THE FIRST VISIT TO PEPSIE 81
X LADY JANE FINDS OTHER FRIENDS 91
XI THE VISIT TO THE PAICHOUX 101
XII TANTE MODESTE’S SUSPICIONS 109
XIII ONE OF THE NOBILITY 117
XIV LADY JANE VISITS THE D’HAUTREVES 125
XV LADY JANE FINDS A MUSIC-TEACHER 133
XVI PEPSIE IS JEALOUS 141
XVII LADY JANE’S DANCING-MASTER 150
XVIII LADY JANE’S CHRISTMAS PRESENTS 158
XIX MARDI-GRAS 167
XX LADY JANE DINES WITH MR. GEX 178
XXI AFTER THE CARNIVAL 187
XXII PAICHOUX MAKES A PURCHASE 195
XXIII MADAME JOZAIN CALLS UPON MAM’SELLE DIANE 211
XXIV RASTE THE PRODIGAL 219
XXV THE JEWEL-BOX 228
XXVI THE FLIGHT 235
XXVII THE LITTLE STREET SINGER 241
XXVIII LADY JANE FINDS SHELTER 254
XXIX TANTE MODESTE FINDS LADY JANE 264
XXX AT MRS. LANIER’S 274
XXXI LADY JANE COMES TO HER OWN 288
XXXII A MERRY CHRISTMAS 299
XXXIII AS IT IS NOW 313
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Lady Jane was lingering on the sidewalk, near the
green fence _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
Mr. Gex at the door of his shop 96
Lady Jane is presented to Madame D’Hautreve 128
“Yes, Lady dear, I want you to learn to play on the piano, and
I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking of,” said Pepsie 148
She cried out pitifully, “It’s Lady Jane” 180
Madame Jozain bargains for her moving 236
Lady Jane, clinging to the railing, looked and looked 256
“Oh, oh! It’s Tony!” cried Lady Jane 300
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.