PEPSIE IS JEALOUS
When Mam’selle Diane joined Lady Jane in the garden, she had gained her
mother’s consent to give the child a music lesson once a week. The old
lady had been querulous and difficult; she had discussed and objected,
but finally Mam’selle Diane had overcome her prejudices.
“You don’t know what kind of people her relatives are,” the old lady
said, complainingly, “and if we once open our doors to the child the
aunt may try to crowd in. We don’t want to make any new acquaintances.
There’s one satisfaction we still have, that, although we are poor,
_very_ poor, we are always d’Hautreves, and we always have been
exclusive, and I hope we always shall be. As soon as we allow those
people to break down the barrier between us, they will rush in on us,
and, in a little while, they will forget who we are.”
“Never fear, mama; if the aunt is as well bred as the child, she will
not annoy us. If we wish to know her, we shall probably have to make
the first advances, for, judging by the child, they are not common
people. I have never seen so gentle and polite a little girl. I’m sure
she’ll be no trouble.”
“I don’t know about that. Children are natural gossips, and she is very
intelligent for her age. She will notice everything, and the secret of
your birds will get out.”
“Well, mama dear, if you feel that she will be an intrusion upon our
privacy, I won’t insist; but I should so like to have her, just for
two hours, say, once a week. It would give me a new interest; it would
renew my youth to hear her angelic little voice sometimes.”
“Oh, I suppose you must have your way, Diane, as you always do. Young
people nowadays have no respect for the prejudices of age. We must
yield all our traditions and habits to their new-fashioned ideas, or
else we are severe and tyrannical.”
“Oh, mama, dear mama, I’m sure you’re a little, just a little, unkind
now,” said Mam’selle Diane, soothingly. “I’ll give it up at once if
you really wish it; but I don’t think you do. I’m sure the child will
interest you; besides, I’m getting on so well with the bird—you
wouldn’t have me give up my model, would you?”
“Certainly not, my dear. If you need her, let her come. At least you
can try for a while, and if you find her troublesome, and the lessons a
task, you can stop them when you like.”
When this not very gracious consent was obtained, Mam’selle Diane
hastened to tell Lady Jane that, if her aunt approved, she could come
to her every Saturday, from one to three, when she would teach her the
piano, as well as singing; and that after the lesson, if she liked to
remain awhile in the garden with the birds and flowers, she was at
liberty to do so.
Lady Jane fairly flew to tell Pepsie the good news; but, much to her
surprise, her merry and practical friend burst into tears and hid her
face on the table among the pecan shells.
“Why, Pepsie—dear, dear Pepsie, what ails you?” cried Lady Jane, in an
agony of terror, “tell me what ails you?” and, dropping Tony, she laid
her little face among the shells and cried too.
“I’m—I’m—jealous,” said Pepsie, looking up after a while, and rubbing
her eyes furiously. “I’m a fool, I know, but I can’t help it; I don’t
want her to have you. I don’t want you to go there. Those fine, proud
people will teach you to look down on us. We’re poor, my mother sells
pralines, and the people that live behind that green fence are too
proud and fine to notice any one in this street. They’ve lived here
ever since I was born, and no one’s seen them, because they’ve kept to
themselves always; and now, when I’ve just got you to love, they want
to take you away, they want to teach you to—_despise_—us!” and Pepsie
stumbled over the unusual word in her passionate vehemence, while she
still cried and rubbed angrily.
“But don’t cry, Pepsie,” entreated Lady Jane. “I don’t love Mam’selle
Diane as well as I love you. It’s the music, the singing. Oh, Pepsie,
dear, dear Pepsie, let me learn music, and I’ll be good and love you
_dearly_!”
“No,—no, you won’t, you won’t care any more for me,” insisted Pepsie,
the little demon of jealousy raging to such a degree that she was quite
ready to be unjust, as well as unreasonable.
“Are you cross at me, Pepsie?” and Lady Jane crept almost across the
table to cling tearfully to her friend’s neck. “Don’t be cross, and I
won’t go to Mam’selle Diane. I won’t learn music, and, Pepsie, dear,
I’ll—I’ll—give you Tony!”
This was the extreme of renunciation, and it touched the generous heart
of the girl to the very quick. “You dear little angel!” she cried
with a sudden revulsion of feeling, clasping and kissing the child
passionately. “You’re as sweet and good as you can be, and I’m wicked
and selfish! Yes, wicked and selfish. It’s for your good, and I’m
trying to keep you away. You ought to hate me for being so mean.”
At this moment Tite Souris entered, and, seeing the traces of tears on
her mistress’s cheeks, broke out in stern, reproachful tones.
“Miss Lady, what’s you be’n a-doin’ to my Miss Peps’? You done made her
cry. I see how she’s be’n a-gwine on. You jes’ look out, or her ma’ll
git a’ter you, ef yer makes dat po’ crooked gal cry dat a-way.”
“Hush, Tite,” cried Pepsie, “you needn’t blame Miss Lady. It was my
fault. I was wicked and selfish, I didn’t want her to go to Mam’selle
Diane. I was jealous, that’s all.”
“Pepsie cried because she thought I wouldn’t love her,” put in Lady
Jane, in an explanatory tone, quite ignoring Tite’s burst of loyalty.
“Mam’selle Diane is nobility—French nobility—and Pepsie thought I’d be
proud, and love Mam’selle best,—didn’t you, Pepsie?”
“Now, jes’ hear dat chile,” cried Tite, scornfully. “If dey _is_
nobil’ty, dey is po’ white trash. Shore’s I live, dat tall lean one
wat look lak a graveyard figger, she git outen her bed ’fore sun-up,
an’ brick her _banquette_ her own se’f. I done seed her, one mornin’;
she war a-scrubbin’ lak mad. An’ bress yer, honey, she done had a
veil on; so no one won’t know her. Shore’s I live, she done brick her
_banquette_ wid a veil on.”
“If she cleans the _banquette_ herself, they must be very poor,” was
Pepsie’s logical conclusion. “Perhaps, after all, they’re not so proud;
only they don’t want people to know how poor they are. And, Tite,
don’t you tell that on the poor lady. You know it’s just one of your
stories about her having a veil on. It may have been some one else. You
couldn’t tell who it was, if she had a veil on, as you say.”
This argument did not in the least shake Tite Souris in her conviction
that she had seen the granddaughter of the Count d’Hautreve bricking
her _banquette_ before “sun-up” with a veil over her face.
However, Lady Jane and Pepsie were reconciled, and the little cripple,
to show her confidence in the child’s affection, was now as anxious to
have her go to Mam’selle Diane and learn music, as she was averse to it
before.
“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 as they leaned
confidentially toward each other across the table, “mama has some money
in the bank. She’s been saving it to get something for me. You know,
she does everything I want her to do. I wanted to learn to read, and
she had a teacher come to me every day until I could read and write
very well, so I’m sure she’ll do this, if I want her to; and this is
what it is: She must buy a piano to put right there in that space next
to bed.”
“For me to play on? Oh, Pepsie, how lovely!” and Lady Jane clasped her
hands with delight.
“And you can practise all the time,” continued the practical Pepsie.
“You know, if you ever learn music well you must practise a great deal.
Cousin Marie practised three hours a day in the convent. And then, when
you are grown up, you’ll sing in the cathedral, and earn a great deal
of money; and you can buy a beautiful white satin dress, all trimmed
down the front with lace, and they will ask you to sing in the French
Opera, on Rue Bourbon; and every one will bring you flowers, and rings
and bracelets, and jewels, and you’ll be just like a queen.”
“And sit on a throne, and wear a crown?” gasped Lady Jane, her eyes
wide and sparkling, and her cheeks flushed over the glories of Pepsie’s
riotous imagination.
“Yes,” said Pepsie. Now that she had started she meant to give full
rein to her fancy. “And every one will be ready to worship you, and
you’ll ride out in a blue carriage, with eight white horses.”
“Oh, oh!” interrupted Lady Jane rapturously; “and you’ll go with me,
and it will be just as good as riding in Tante Modeste’s milk cart.”
“Better, much better,” agreed Pepsie, quite willing, in her present
mood, to admit that there was something better; “and then you’ll have a
big, big house in the country, with grass, and trees, and flowers, and
a fountain that will tinkle, tinkle all the time.”
“And you and Mama Madelon will live with me always.” Here a sudden
shadow passed over the bright little face, and the wide eyes grew very
wistful. “And, Pepsie, perhaps God will let papa and mama come and live
with me again.”
[Illustration: “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]
“Perhaps so, dear,” returned Pepsie with quick sympathy. “When I say my
prayers, I’ll ask.”
Presently Lady Jane said softly, with an anxious glance at Pepsie, “You
know, you told me that mama might come back before Christmas. It’s
nearly Christmas, isn’t it? Oh, I wish I could know if she was coming
back! Can’t you ask your cards, Pepsie? Perhaps they’ll tell if she’ll
come.”
“I’ll try,” replied Pepsie, “yes, I’ll try; but sometimes they won’t
tell.”
When Lady Jane asked permission of Madame Jozain to study music with
Mam’selle Diane, Tante Pauline consented readily. In fact, she was
overjoyed. It was no common honor to have one’s niece instructed by
a d’Hautreve, and it was another feather in her much beplumed cap.
By and by people would think more of her and treat her with greater
consideration. When she was once intimate with the d’Hautreve ladies,
the neighbors wouldn’t dare turn the cold shoulder to her; for through
their interest in the child she expected to gain a foothold for
herself; but she had yet to learn how very exclusive a d’Hautreve could
be, under certain circumstances.