LADY JANE FINDS SHELTER
At last, when she began to feel very tired and sleepy, she came to a
place where two streets seemed to run together in a long point, and
before her she saw a large building, with lights in all the windows,
and behind it a tall church spire seemed nearly to touch the stars that
hung above it so soft and bright. Her tearful eyes singled out two of
them very near together that looked as though they were watching her,
and she held out her arms, and murmured, “Papa, mama, can’t I come
to you? I’m so cold and sleepy.” Poor little soul! the stars made no
answer to her piteous appeal, but continued to twinkle as serenely as
they have done since time began, and will do until it ends. Then she
looked again toward the brilliantly lighted windows under the shadow
of the church spire. She could not get very near, for in front of the
house was an iron railing, but she noticed a marble slab let into the
wall over the porch, on which was an inscription, and above it a row
of letters were visible in the light from the street lamps. Lady Jane
spelled them out. “‘Orphans’ Home.’ Or-phans! I wonder what orphans
are? Oh, how warm and light it is in there!” Then she put her little
cold toes between the iron railings on the stone coping, and clinging
with her two hands lifted herself a little higher, and there she saw an
enchanting sight. In the center of the room was a tree, a real tree,
growing nearly to the ceiling, with moss and flowers on the ground
around it, and never did the spreading branches of any other tree bear
such glorious fruit. There was a great deal of light and color; and
moving, swaying balls of silver and gold danced and whirled before
her dazzled eyes. At first she could hardly distinguish the different
objects in the confusion of form and color; but at last she saw that
there was everything the most exacting child could desire—birds,
rabbits, dogs, kittens, dolls; globes of gold, silver, scarlet, and
blue; tops, pictures, games, bonbons, sugared fruits, apples, oranges,
and little frosted cakes, in such bewildering profusion that they
were like the patterns in a kaleidoscope. And there was a merry group
of girls, laughing and talking, while they hung, and pinned, and
fastened, more and more, until it seemed as if the branches would break
under their load.
And Lady Jane, clinging to the railing, with stiff, cold hands and
aching feet, pressed her little, white face close to the iron bars, and
looked and looked.
Suddenly the door was opened, and a woman came out, who, when she saw
the child clinging to the railing, bareheaded and scantily clothed in
spite of the piercing cold, went to her and spoke kindly and gently.
Her voice brought Lady Jane back from Paradise to the bitter reality
of her position and the dreary December night. For a moment she could
hardly move, and she was so chilled and cramped that when she unclasped
her hold she almost fell into the motherly arms extended toward her.
“My child, my poor child, what are you doing here so late, in the cold,
and with these thin clothes? Why don’t you go home?”
Then the poor little soul, overcome with a horrible fear, began to
shiver and cry. “Oh, don’t! Oh, please don’t send me back to Tante
Pauline! I’m afraid of her; she shook me and struck me this morning,
and I’ve run away from her.”
[Illustration: LADY JANE, CLINGING TO THE RAILING, LOOKED AND LOOKED]
“Where does your Tante Pauline live?” asked the woman, studying the
tremulous little face with a pair of keen, thoughtful eyes.
“I don’t know; away over there somewhere.”
“Don’t you know the name of the street?”
“It isn’t a street; it’s a little place all mud and water, with boards
to walk on.”
“Can’t you tell me your aunt’s name?”
“Yes, it’s Tante Pauline.”
“But her other name?”
“I don’t know, I only know Tante Pauline. Oh please, _please_ don’t
send me there! I’m afraid to go back, because she said I must sing and
beg money, and I couldn’t sing, and I didn’t like to ask people for
nickels,” and the child’s voice broke into a little wail of entreaty
that touched the kind heart of that noble, tender, loving woman, the
Margaret whom some to-day call Saint Margaret. She had heard just such
pitiful stories before from hundreds of hapless little orphans, who
never appealed to her in vain.
“Where are your father and mother?” she asked, as she led the child to
the shelter of the porch.
Lady Jane made the same pathetic answer as usual:
“Papa went to heaven, and Tante Pauline says that mama’s gone away, and
I think she’s gone where papa is.”
Margaret’s eyes filled with tears, while the child shivered and clung
closer to her. “Would you like to stay here to-night, my dear?” she
asked, as she opened the door. “This is the home of a great many little
homeless girls, and the good Sisters love and care for them all.”
Lady Jane’s anxious face brightened instantly. “Oh, can I—can I stay
here where the Christmas-tree is?”
“Yes, my child, and to-morrow there will be something on it for you.”
And Margaret opened the door and led Lady Jane into that safe and
comfortable haven where so many hapless little ones have found a
shelter.
That night, after the child had been fed and warmed, and was safely in
bed with the other little orphans, the good Margaret sent word to all
the police stations that she had housed a little wanderer who if called
for could be found safe in her care.
But the little wanderer was not claimed the next day, nor the next
week. Time went on, and Lady Jane was considered a permanent inmate of
the home. She wore the plain uniform of blue, and her long golden hair
was plaited in a thick braid, but still she was lovely, although not as
picturesque as when Pepsie brushed her waving locks. She was so lovely
in person and so gentle and obedient that she soon became the idol,
not only of the good Margaret, but of all the Sisters, and even of the
children, and her singing was a constant pleasure, for every day her
voice became stronger and richer, and her thrilling little strains went
straight to the hearts of those who heard them.
“She must be taught music,” said Margaret to Sister Agnes; “such a
voice must be carefully cultivated for the church.” Therefore the
Sister who took her in charge devoted herself to the development of
the child’s wonderful talent, and in a few months she was spoken of as
quite a musical prodigy, and all the wealthy patronesses of the home
singled her out as one that was rare and beautiful, and showered all
sorts of gifts and attentions upon her. Among those who treated her
with marked favor was Mrs. Lanier. She never visited the home without
asking for little Jane (Margaret had thought it best to drop the
“Lady,” and the child, with an intuition of what was right, complied
with the wish), and never went away without leaving some substantial
evidence of her interest in the child.
“I believe Mrs. Lanier would like to adopt little Jane,” said Margaret
one day to Sister Agnes, when that lady had just left. “If she hadn’t
so many children of her own, I don’t think she would leave her long
with us.”
“It _is_ surprising, the interest she takes in her,” returned Sister
Agnes. “When the child sings she just sits as if she was lost to
everything, and listens with all her soul.”
“And she asks the strangest questions about the little thing,”
continued Margaret reflectively. “And she is always suggesting some
way to find out who the child belonged to; but although I’ve tried
every way I can think of, I have never been able to learn anything
satisfactory.”
It was true Margaret had made every effort from the very first to
discover something of the child’s antecedents; but she had been
unsuccessful, owing in a measure to Lady Jane’s reticence. She had
tried by every means to draw some remarks from her that would furnish
a clue to work upon; but all that she could ever induce the child to
say was to repeat the simple statement she had made the first night,
when the good woman found her, cold and forlorn, clinging to the iron
railing in front of the Home.
But Lady Jane’s reticence was not from choice. It was fear that kept
her silent about her life in Good Children Street. Often she would be
about to mention Pepsie, Mam’selle Diane, or the Paichoux, but the
fear of Tante Pauline would freeze the words on her lips. And she was
so happy where she was that even her sorrow for the loss of Tony was
beginning to die out. She loved the good Sisters, and her grateful
little heart clung to Margaret who had saved her from being sent back
to Tante Pauline and the dreadful fate of a little street beggar. And
the warm-hearted little orphans were like sisters to her; they were
merry little playmates, and she was a little queen among them. And
there was the church, with the beautiful altar, the pictures, the
lights, and the music. Oh, how heavenly the music was, and how she
loved to sing with the Sisters! and the grand organ notes carried her
little soul up to the celestial gates on strains of sweet melody. Yes,
she loved it all and was very happy, but she never ceased to think of
Pepsie, Madelon, and Gex, and when she sang, she seemed always to be
with Mam’selle Diane, nestled close to her side, and, mingled with the
strong, rich voices of the Sisters, she fancied she heard the sweet,
faded strains of her beloved teacher and friend.
Sometimes when she was studying her lessons she would forget for a
moment where she was, and her book would fall in her lap, and again
she would be sitting with Pepsie, shelling pecans or watching with
breathless interest a game of solitaire; and at times when she was
playing with the children suddenly she would remember the ancient
“professeur of the dance,” and she would hold out her little blue
skirt, and trip and whirl as gracefully in her coarse shoes as she did
when Gex was her teacher.
And so the months went on with Lady Jane, while her friends in Good
Children Street never ceased to talk of her and to lament over their
loss. Poor Mam’selle Diane was in great trouble. Madame d’Hautreve was
very ill, and there was little hope of her recovery. “She may linger
through the spring,” the doctor said, “but you can hardly expect to
keep her through the summer.” And he was right, for during the last
days of the dry, hot month of August, the poor lady, one of the last of
an old aristocracy, closed her dim eyes on a life that had been full
of strange vicissitudes, and was laid away in the ancient tomb of
the d’Hautreves, not far from Lady Jane’s young mother. And Mam’selle
Diane, the noble, patient, self-sacrificing daughter, was left alone in
the little house, with her memories, her flowers, and her birds. And
often, during those first bitter days of bereavement, she would say to
herself, “Oh, if I had that sweet child now, what a comfort she would
be to me! To hear her heavenly little voice would give me new hope and
courage.”
On the morning of Madame d’Hautreve’s funeral, when Paichoux opened his
paper at the breakfast table, he uttered such a loud exclamation of
surprise that Tante Modeste almost dropped the coffee-pot.
“What is it, papa, what is it?” she cried.
And in reply Paichoux read aloud the notice of the death of Madame _la
veuve_ d’Hautreve, _née_ d’Orgenois; and directly underneath: “Died at
the Charity Hospital, Madame Pauline Jozain, _née_ Bergeron.”