THE FIRST VISIT TO PEPSIE
When Pepsie first looked at Lady Jane, standing before her holding up
the bird, with the light of the sunset on her yellow hair, and her lips
parted in a smile that made even the solemn eyes bright, she felt as if
she saw a visitor from another world.
For a moment, she could only look at her; then she found voice to say:
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come. Tite said you wouldn’t. We looked for
you all day.”
“I came to show Tony to you before I go to bed. I’ll hold him so you
can see him.” And Lady Jane stretched up on the tips of her little
white toes to reach the bird above the railing.
“Wait a moment, I’ll have Tite open the door for you. Won’t you come
in?”
Tite, who heard Pepsie talking, was peeping through the kitchen-door,
and in an instant she had pushed the bolt aside, and Lady Jane stood in
the little room, and was looking around her with pleased surprise.
“Why, how nice!” she said, with a little sigh of content; “I’m glad I
came. Have you got a kitty?”
“A kitty? you mean a little cat?” asked Pepsie, her face one broad
smile over the child and bird. “No, I haven’t one, and I’m sorry.”
Lady Jane had dropped Tony on the floor, holding him with a long string
fastened to the leather band on his leg, while she looked over Pepsie’s
little, distorted figure with mingled curiosity and pity.
In the mean time, Pepsie and Tite were watching the bird with the
closest attention, while he hopped about, not very gracefully, picking
grains of brick-dust from the cracks of the floor.
At last Tite, unable to control her wonder and admiration, broke forth:
“Miss Peps’, jes look at he. Ain’t he the cur’ousest bird y’ ever seed?
An’ he ain’t no goslin’, shore nuff; jes look at he tail feaders; jes
lak dem feaders on Mam’selle Marie’s hat.”
“And he knows when I speak to him,” said Lady Jane, lifting her lovely
eyes to Pepsie. “Now I’ll call him, and you’ll see him come.”
Then she chirruped softly, and called “Tony, Tony.” The bird turned his
bright eyes on her, and with a fluttering run he hurried to her.
“Oh, oh!” cried Pepsie, quite overcome with surprise. “Isn’t he
knowing! I never saw such a bird. Is he a wild bird?”
“No, he’s very tame, or he’d fly away,” replied Lady Jane, looking at
him fondly. “He’s a blue heron; no one has a bird like him.”
“A blue heron!” repeated Pepsie wonderingly. “I never heard of such a
bird.”
“Didn’t I done tole yer dem chil’ren say he a herin’, an’ he ain’t no
herin’?” interrupted Tite, determined to support her assertion as to
her knowledge of the difference between fish and fowl. “I tole yer,
Miss Peps’, how herin’s fish, an’ he a bird, shore nuff.” And, unable
to repress her mirth at the oddity of the name, she burst into a loud
laugh of derision.
Lady Jane looked hurt and surprised, and, stooping for Tony, she
gathered him up and turned toward the door.
“Oh, don’t go, please don’t!” pleaded Pepsie. “Tite, stop laughing, and
put a chair for the little girl, and then go to your work.”
Tite obeyed reluctantly, with many a grin and backward look, and Lady
Jane, after lingering a moment at the door, shy and undecided, put Tony
down again, and climbed into the chair on the opposite side of the
table.
“Now that darky’s gone,” said Pepsie, with a gaiety that was
reassuring, “we can talk sense. Do you understand me, everything I say?
You know I don’t speak English very well.”
“Oh, yes!” answered Lady Jane; “I know what you say, and I like you.”
“I’m glad of that,” said Pepsie brightly, “because I’ve been just crazy
to have you come over here. Now tell me, is Madame Jozain your aunt or
your grandma?”
“Why, she’s my Tante Pauline; that’s all,” replied the child
indifferently.
“Do you love her dearly?” asked Pepsie, who was something of a little
diplomat.
“No, I don’t love her,” said Lady Jane decidedly.
“Oh my! Why, isn’t she good to you?”
Lady Jane made no reply, but looked wistfully at Pepsie, as if she
would rather not express her opinion on the subject.
“Well, never mind. I guess she’s kind to you, only perhaps you miss
your ma. Has she gone away?” And Pepsie lowered her voice and spoke
very softly; she felt that she was treading on delicate ground, but she
so wanted to know all about the dear little thing, not so much from
curiosity as from the interest she felt in her.
Lady Jane did not reply, and Pepsie again asked very gently:
“Has your mama gone away?”
“Tante Pauline says so,” replied the child, as the woe-begone
expression settled on her little face again. “She says mama’s gone
away, and that she’ll come back. I think she’s gone to heaven to see
papa. You know papa went to heaven before we left the ranch—and mama
got tired waiting for him to come back, and so she’s gone to see him;
but I _wish_ she’d taken me with her. I want to see papa too, and I
don’t like to wait so long.”
The soft, serious little voice fell to a sigh, and she looked solemnly
out of the window at the strip of sunset sky over Madame Jozain’s house.
Pepsie’s great eyes filled with tears, and she turned away her head to
hide them.
“Heaven’s somewhere up there, isn’t it?” she continued, pointing
upward. “Every night when the stars come out, I watch to see if papa
and mama are looking at me. I think they like to stay up there, and
don’t want to come back, and perhaps they’ve forgotten all about Lady
Jane.”
“Lady Jane, is that your name? Why, how pretty!” said Pepsie, trying
to speak brightly; “and what a little darling you are! I don’t think
any one would ever forget you, much less your papa and mama. Don’t
get tired waiting; you’re sure to see them again, and you needn’t to
be lonesome, sitting there on the gallery every day alone. While your
aunt’s busy with her customers, you can come over here with your bird,
and sit with me. I’ll show you how to shell pecans and sugar them, and
I’ll read some pretty stories to you. And oh, I’ll teach you to play
solitaire.”
“What is solitaire?” asked Lady Jane, brightening visibly.
“It’s a game of cards,” and Pepsie nodded toward the table; “I was
playing when you came. It’s very amusing. Now tell me about your bird.
Where did you get him?”
“A boy gave him to me—a nice boy. It was on the cars, and mama said I
could have him; that was before mama’s dear head ached so. It ached so,
she couldn’t speak afterward.”
“And haven’t you a doll?” interrupted Pepsie, seeing that the child was
approaching dangerous ground.
“A doll? Oh yes, I’ve got ever so many at the ranch; but I haven’t any
here. Tante Pauline promised me one, but she hasn’t got it yet.”
“Well, never mind; I’ll make you one; I make lovely dolls for my little
cousins, the Paichoux. I must tell you about the Paichoux. There is
Uncle Paichoux, and Tante Modeste, and Marie, the eldest,—she has taken
her first communion, and goes to balls,—and then there is Tiburce,
a big boy, and Sophie and Nanette, and a lot of little ones, all
good, pleasant children, so healthy and so happy. Uncle Paichoux is a
dairyman; they live on Frenchman Street, way, way down where it is like
the country, and they have a big house, a great deal larger than any
house in this neighborhood, with a garden, and figs and peaches, and
lovely pomegranates that burst open when they are ripe, and Marie has
roses and crape myrtle and jasmine. It is lovely there—just lovely. I
went there once, long ago, before my back hurt me so much.”
“Does your back hurt you now?” interrupted Lady Jane, diverted from the
charming description of the Paichoux home by sudden sympathy for the
speaker.
“Yes, sometimes; you see how crooked it is. It’s all grown out, and I
can’t bear to be jolted; that’s why I never go anywhere; besides, I
can’t walk,” added Pepsie, feeling a secret satisfaction in enumerating
her ills. “But it’s my back; my back’s the worst.”
“What ails it?” asked Lady Jane, with the deepest sympathy in her grave
little voice.
“I’ve got a spine in my back, and the doctor says I’ll never get over
it. It’s something when you once get it that you can’t be cured of,
and it’s mighty bad; but I’ve got used to it now,” and she smiled at
Lady Jane; a smile full of patience and resignation. “I wasn’t always
so bad,” she went on cheerfully, “before papa died. You see papa was a
fireman, and he was killed in a fire when I was very small; but before
that he used to take me out in his arms, and sometimes I used to go out
in Tante Modeste’s milk-cart—such a pretty cart, painted red, and set
up on two high wheels, and in front there are two great cans, as tall
as you are, and they shine like silver, and little measures hang on the
spouts where the milk comes out, and over the seat is a top just like a
buggy top, which they put up when the sun is too hot, or it rains. Oh,
it’s just beautiful to sit up on that high seat, and go like the wind!
I remember how it felt on my face,” and Pepsie leaned back and closed
her eyes in ecstasy, “and then the milk! When I was thirsty, Tante
Modeste would give me a cup of milk out of the big can, and it was so
sweet and fresh. Some day I’m sure she’ll take you, and then you’ll
know how it all was; but I don’t think I shall ever go again, because
I can’t bear the jolting; and besides,” said Pepsie, with a very broad
smile of satisfaction, “I’m so well off here; I can see everything, and
everybody, so I don’t mind; and then I’ve been once, and know just what
it’s like to go fast with the wind in my face.”
“I used to ride on my pony with papa,” began Lady Jane, her memory of
the past awakened by the description of Pepsie’s drive. “My pony was
named Sunflower, now I remember,” and her little face grew radiant,
and her eyes sparkled with joy; “papa used to put me on Sunflower, and
mama was afraid I’d fall.” Then the brief glow faded out of her face,
for she heard Madame Jozain call across the street, “Lady! Lady! Come,
child, come. It’s nearly dark, and time you were in bed.”
With touching docility, and without the least hesitation, she gathered
up Tony, who was standing on one leg under her chair, and, holding up
her face for Pepsie to kiss, she said good-by.
“And you’ll come again in the morning,” cried Pepsie, hugging her
fondly; “you’ll be sure to come in the morning.”
And Lady Jane said yes.