THE LITTLE STREET SINGER
It was Christmas Eve, and very nearly dark, when Mrs. Lanier, driving
up St. Charles Avenue in her comfortable carriage quite filled with
costly presents for her children, noticed a forlorn little figure,
standing alone at a street corner. There was something about the
sorrowful looking little figure that moved her strangely, for she
turned and watched it as long as she could discern the child’s face in
the gathering twilight.
It was a little girl, thinly clad in a soiled and torn white frock;
her black stockings were full of holes, and her shoes so worn that the
tiny white toes were visible through the rents. She hugged a thin,
faded shawl around her shoulders, and her yellow hair fell in matted,
tangled strands below her waist; her small face was pale and pinched,
and had a woe-begone look that would melt the hardest heart. Although
she was soiled and ragged, she did not look like a common child, and
it was that indefinable something in her appearance that attracted Mrs.
Lanier’s attention, for she thought as the carriage whirled by and left
the child far behind, “Poor little thing! she didn’t look like a street
beggar. I wish I had stopped and spoken to her!”
It was Lady Jane, and her descent in the scale of misery had been rapid
indeed.
Since that night, some four months before, when Madame Jozain had
awakened her rudely and told her she must come away, she had lived in
a sort of wretched stupor. It was true she had resisted at first, and
had cried desperately for Pepsie, for Mam’selle Diane, for Gex—but all
in vain; Madame had scolded and threatened and frightened her into
submission.
That terrible midnight ride in the wagon, with the piled-up furniture,
the two black drivers, who seemed to the child’s distorted imagination
two frightful demons, madame angry, and at times violent if she
complained or cried, and the frightful threats and cruel hints of a
more dreadful fate, had so crushed and appalled the child that she
scarcely dared open her pale little lips either to protest or plead.
Then the pitiful change in her life, from loving care and pleasant
companionship to utter squalid misery and neglect. She had been,
suddenly taken from comparative comfort and plunged into the most
cruel poverty. Good Children Street had been a paradise compared to
the narrow, dirty lane, on the outskirts of the city, where madame had
hidden herself; for the wretched woman, in her fear and humiliation,
seemed to have lost every vestige of ambition, and to have sunk without
the least effort to save herself, to a level with those around her.
Madame had taken a terrible cold in her hurried flight, and it had
settled in her lame hip; therefore she was obliged to lie in her bed
most of the time, and the little money she had was soon spent. Hunger
was staring her in the face, and the cold autumn winds chilled her
to the marrow. She had been poor and in many bitter straits, but
never before like this. Now she dared not let any one know of her
whereabouts, and for that reason the few friends that she still had
could not help her. She was ill and suffering, and alone in her misery.
Her son had robbed and deserted her, and left her to her punishment,
and, for all she knew, she must die of starvation. Through the aid of
the negro Pete, she had parted with nearly everything of value that
she had, and, to crown her cruelty and Lady Jane’s misery, one day when
the child was absent on a begging expedition she sold the blue heron to
an Italian for two dollars.
The bird was the only comfort the unhappy little creature had, the only
link between the past and the miserable present, and when she returned
to her squalid home and found her only treasure gone, her grief was so
wild and uncontrollable that madame feared for her life. Therefore, in
order to quiet the child, she said the bird had broken his string and
strayed away.
After this, the child spent her days wandering about searching for Tony.
When madame first sent her out into the street to sing and beg, she
went without a protest, so perfect was her habit of obedience, and so
great her anxiety to please and conciliate her cruel tyrant. For, since
the night when madame fled from Good Children Street, she had thrown
off all her pretenses of affection for the hapless little one, whom she
considered the cause of all her misfortunes.
“She has made trouble enough for me,” she would say bitterly, in her
hours of silent communion with her own conscience. “If it hadn’t been
for her mother coming to me, Raste wouldn’t have had that watch and
wouldn’t have got locked up for thirty days. After that disgrace, he
couldn’t stay here, and that was the cause of his taking my money and
running off. Yes, all my trouble has come through her in one way or
another, and now she must sing and beg, or she’ll have to starve.”
Before madame sent her out, she gave Lady Jane instructions in the
most imperative manner. “She must never on any account speak of Good
Children Street, of Madelon or Pepsie, of the d’Hautreves, of Gex, or
the Paichoux, or of any one she had ever known there. She must not talk
with people, and, above all, she must never tell her name, nor where
she lived. She must only sing and hold out her hand. Sometimes she
might cry if she wanted to, but she must _never_ laugh.”
These instructions the child followed to the letter, with the exception
of one. She never cried, for although her little heart was breaking she
was too proud to shed tears.
It was astonishing how many nickels she picked up. Sometimes she would
come home with her little pocket quite heavy, for her wonderful voice,
so sweet and so pathetic, as well as her sad face and wistful eyes,
touched many a heart, even among the coarsest and rudest, and madame
might have reaped quite a harvest if she had not been so avaricious as
to sell Tony for two dollars. When she did that she killed her goose
that laid golden eggs, for after the loss of her pet the child could
not sing; her little heart was too heavy, and the unshed tears choked
her and drowned her voice in quivering sobs.
The moment she was out of Tante Pauline’s sight, instead of gathering
nickels, she was wandering around aimlessly, searching and asking for
the blue heron, and at night, when she returned with an empty pocket,
she shivered and cowered into a corner for fear of madame’s anger.
One morning it was very cold; she had had no breakfast, and she felt
tired and ill, and when madame told her to go out and not to come back
without some money, she fell to crying piteously, and for the first
time begged and implored to stay where she was, declaring that she
could not sing any more, and that she was afraid, because some rude
children had thrown mud at her the day before, and told her not to come
into the street again.
This first revolt seemed to infuriate madame, for reaching out to where
the child stood trembling and sobbing she clutched her and shook her
violently, and then slapping her tear-stained little face until it
tingled, she bade her go out instantly, and not to return unless she
brought some money with her.
This was the first time that Lady Jane had suffered the ignominy of
a blow, and it seemed to arouse her pride and indignation, for she
stopped sobbing instantly, and, wiping the tears resolutely from her
face, shot one glance of mingled scorn and surprise at her tyrant, and
walked out of the room with the dignity of a little princess.
When once outside, she held her hands for a moment to her burning face,
while she tried to still the tumult of anger and sorrow that was raging
in her little heart; then she gathered herself together with a courage
beyond her years, and hurried away without once looking back at the
scene of her torture.
When she was far enough from the wretched neighborhood to feel safe
from observation, she turned in a direction quite different from any
she had taken before. The wind was intensely cold, but the sun shone
brightly, and she hugged her little shawl around her, and ran on and on
swiftly and hopefully.
“If I hurry and walk and walk just as fast as I can, I’m sure to come
to Good Children Street, and then I’ll ask Pepsie or Mam’selle Diane to
keep me, for I’ll never, _never_, go back to Tante Pauline again.”
By and by, when she was quite tired with running and walking, she
came to a beautiful, broad avenue that she had never seen before.
There were large, fine houses, and gardens blooming brightly even in
the chilly December wind, and lovely children; dressed in warm velvet
and furs, walking with their nurses on the wide, clean sidewalks; and
every moment carriages drawn by glossy, prancing horses whirled by, and
people laughed and talked merrily, and looked so happy and contented.
She had never seen anything like it before. It was all delightful,
like a pleasant dream, and even better than Good Children Street. She
thought of Pepsie, and wished that she could see it, and then she
imagined how enchanted her friend would be to ride in one of those fine
carriages, with the sun shining on her, and the fresh wind blowing
in her face. The wind reminded her that she was cold. It pierced
through her thin frock and scanty skirts, and the holes in her shoes
and stockings made her ashamed. After a while she found a sunny corner
on the steps of a church, where she crouched and tried to cover her
dilapidated shoes with her short skirts.
Presently a merry group of children passed, and she heard them talking
of Christmas. “To-morrow is Christmas; this is Christmas Eve, and we
are going to have a Christmas-tree.” Her heart gave a great throb of
joy. By to-morrow she was sure to find Pepsie, and Pepsie had promised
her a Christmas-tree long ago, and she wouldn’t forget; she was sure
to have it ready for her. Oh, if she only dared ask some of these
kind-looking people to show her the way to Good Children Street! But
she remembered what Tante Pauline had told her, and fear kept her
silent. However, she was sure, now that she had got away from that
dreadful place, that some one would find her. Mr. Gex had found her
before when she was lost, and he might find her now, because she didn’t
have a domino on, and he would know her right away; and then she would
get Mr. Gex to hunt for Tony, and perhaps she would have Tony for
Christmas. In this way she comforted herself until she was quite happy.
After a while a kind-looking woman came along with a market-basket on
her arm. She was eating something, and Lady Jane, being very hungry
looked at her so wistfully that the woman stopped and asked her if
she would like a piece of bread. She replied eagerly that she would.
The good woman gave her a roll and a large, rosy apple, and she went
back to her corner and munched them contentedly. Then a fine milk-cart
rattled up to a neighboring door, and her heart almost leaped to her
throat; but it was not Tante Modeste. Still, Tante Modeste might come
any moment. She sold milk way up town to rich people. Yes, she was sure
to come; so she sat in her corner and ate her apple, and waited with
unwavering confidence.
And in this way the day passed pleasantly and comfortably to Lady Jane.
She was not very cold in her sheltered corner, and the good woman’s
kindness had satisfied her hunger; but at last she began to think that
it must be nearly night, for she saw the sun slipping down into the
cold, gray clouds behind the opposite houses, and she wondered what
she should do and where she should go when it was quite dark. Neither
Tante Modeste nor Mr. Gex had come, and now it was too late and she
would have to wait until to-morrow. Then she began to reproach herself
for sitting still. “I should have gone on and on, and by this time I
would have been in Good Children Street,” said she.
She never thought of returning to her old haunts or to Tante Pauline,
and if she had tried she could not have found her way back. She had
wandered too far from her old landmarks, so the only thing to do was
to press on in her search for Good Children Street. It was while she
was standing at a corner, uncertain which way to turn, that Mrs. Lanier
caught a glimpse of her. And what good fortune it would have been to
Lady Jane if that noble-hearted woman had obeyed the kindly impulse
that urged her to stop and speak to the friendless little waif! But
destiny intended it to be otherwise, so she went on her way to her
luxurious home and happy children, while the desolate orphan wandered
about in the cold and darkness, looking in vain for the humble friends
who even at that moment were thinking of her and longing for her.
Poor little soul! she had never been out in the dark night alone
before, and every sound and movement startled her. Once a dog sprang
out and barked at her, and she ran trembling into a doorway, only to
be ordered away by an unkind servant. Sometimes she stopped and looked
into the windows of the beautiful houses as she passed. There were
bright fires, pictures, and flowers, and she heard the merry voices
of children laughing and playing; and the soft notes of a piano, with
some one singing, reminded her of Mam’selle Diane. Then a choking sob
would rise in her throat, and she would cover her face and cry a little
silently.
Presently she found herself before a large, handsome house; the blinds
were open and the parlor was brilliantly lighted. A lady—it was Mrs.
Lanier—sat at the piano playing a waltz, and two little girls in white
frocks and red sashes were dancing together. Lady Jane pressed near the
railing and devoured the scene with wide, sparkling eyes. They were
the same steps that Gex had taught her, and it was the very waltz that
he sometimes whistled. Before she knew it, quite carried away by the
music, and forgetful of everything, she dropped her shawl, and holding
out her soiled ragged skirt, was tripping and whirling as merrily as
the little ones within, while opposite to her, her shadow, thrown by a
street lamp over her head, tripped and bobbed and whirled, not unlike
Mr. Gex, the ancient “professeur of the dance.” And a right merry time
she had out there in the biting December night, pirouetting with her
own shadow.
Suddenly the music stopped, a nurse came and took the little girls
away, and some one drew down the blinds and shut her out alone in the
cold; there was nothing then for her to do but to move on, and picking
up her shawl, she crept away a little wearily, for dancing, although
it had lightened her heart, had wasted her strength, and it seemed to
her that the wind was rising and the cold becoming more intense, for
she shivered from time to time, and her bare little toes and fingers
smarted badly. Once or twice, from sheer exhaustion, she dropped down
on a doorstep, but when she saw any one approaching she sprang up and
hurried along, trying to be brave and patient. Yes, she must come to
Good Children Street very soon, and she never turned a corner that she
did not expect to see Madelon’s little house, wedged in between the two
tall ones, and the light gleaming from Pepsie’s small window.