TANTE MODESTE FINDS LADY JANE
When Paichoux read of the death of Madame Jozain in the Charity
Hospital, he said decidedly: “Modeste, that woman never left the city.
She never went to Texas. She has been hidden here all the time, and I
must find that child.”
“And if you find her, papa, bring her right here to me,” said the
kind-hearted woman. “We have a good many children, it’s true; but
there’s always room for Lady Jane, and I love the little thing as well
as if she were mine.”
Paichoux was gone nearly all day, and, much to the disappointment of
the whole family, did not find Lady Jane.
His first visit had been to the Charity Hospital, where he learned that
Madame Jozain had been brought there a few days before by the charity
wagon. It had been called to a miserable little cabin back of the city,
where they had found the woman very ill, with no one to care for her,
and destitute of every necessity. There was no child with her—she was
quite alone; and in the few lucid intervals that preceded her death she
had never spoken of any child. Paichoux then obtained the directions
from the driver of the charity wagon, and after some search he found
the wretched neighborhood. There all they could tell him was that the
woman had come a few weeks before; that she had brought very little
with her, and appeared to be suffering. There was no child with her
then, and none of the neighbors had ever seen one visit her, or, for
that matter, a grown person either. When she became worse they were
afraid she might die alone, and had called the charity wagon to take
her to the hospital. The Public Administrator had taken charge of what
little she left, and that was all they could tell.
Did any one know where she lived before she came there? No one knew; an
old negro had brought her and her few things, and they had not noticed
the number of his wagon. The landlord of the squalid place said that
the same old man who brought her had engaged her room; he did not know
the negro. Madame had paid a month’s rent in advance, and just when
the month was up she had been carried to the hospital.
There the information stopped, and, in spite of every effort, Paichoux
could learn no more. The wretched woman had indeed obliterated, as it
were, every trace of the child. In her fear of detection, after Lady
Jane’s escape from her, she had moved from place to place, hunted and
pursued by a guilty conscience that would never allow her to rest,
and gradually going from bad to worse until she had died in that last
refuge for the miserable, the Charity Hospital.
“And here I am, just where I started!” said Paichoux dejectedly, after
he had told Tante Modeste of his day’s adventure. “However,” said he,
“I sha’n’t give it up. I’m bound to find out what she did with that
child; the more I think of it, the more I’m convinced that she never
went to Texas, and that the child is still here. Now I’ve a mind to
visit every orphan asylum in the city, and see if I can’t find her in
one of them.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Tante Modeste. “We’ll see for ourselves, and
then we shall be satisfied. Unless she gave Lady Jane away, she’s
likely to be in some such place; and I think, as I always have,
Paichoux, that she stole Lady Jane from some rich family, and that was
why she ran off so sudden and hid. That lady’s coming the day after
proves that some one was on madame’s track. Oh, I tell you there’s a
history there, if we can only get at it. We’ll start out to-morrow
and see what can be done. I sha’n’t rest until the child is found and
restored to her own people.”
One morning, while Lady Jane was in the schoolroom busy with her
lessons, Margaret entered with some visitors. It was a very common
thing for people to come during study hours, and the child did not look
up until she heard some one say: “These are the children of that age.
See if you recognize ‘Lady Jane’ among them.”
It was her old name that startled her, and made her turn suddenly
toward the man and woman, who were looking eagerly about the room.
In an instant the bright-faced woman cried, “Yes! yes! Oh, there she
is!” and simultaneously Lady Jane exclaimed, “Tante Modeste, oh, Tante
Modeste!” and, quicker than I can tell it, she was clasped to the
loving heart of her old friend, while Paichoux looked on, twirling his
hat and smiling broadly.
“Jane, you can come with us,” said Margaret, as she led the way to the
parlor.
There was a long and interesting conversation, to which the child
listened with grave wonder, while she nestled close to Tante Modeste.
She did not understand all they said; there was a great deal about
Madame Jozain and Good Children Street, and a gold watch with diamond
initials, and beautiful linen with initial letters, J. C., embroidered
on it, and madame’s sudden flight, and the visit of the elegant lady in
the fine carriage, the Texas story, and madame’s wretched hiding-place
and miserable death in the Charity Hospital; to all of which Margaret
listened with surprise and interest. Then she in turn told the Paichoux
how Lady Jane had been found looking in the window on Christmas Eve,
while she clung to the railings, half-clad and suffering with the cold,
and how she had questioned her and endeavored to get some clue to her
identity.
“Why didn’t you tell Mother Margaret about your friends in Good
Children Street, my dear?” asked Tante Modeste, with one of her bright
smiles.
Lady Jane hesitated a moment, and then replied timidly, “Because I was
afraid.”
“What were you afraid of, my child?” asked Paichoux kindly.
“Tante Pauline told me that I mustn’t.” Then she stopped and looked
wistfully at Margaret. “Must I tell now, Mother Margaret? Will it be
right to tell? Tante Pauline told me not to.”
“Yes, my dear, you can tell everything now. It’s right. You must tell
us all you remember.”
“Tante Pauline told me that I must never, never speak of Good Children
Street nor of any one that lived there, and that I must never tell any
one my name, nor where I lived.”
“Poor child!” said Margaret to Paichoux. “There must have been
some serious reason for so much secrecy. Yes, I agree with you
that there’s a mystery which we must try to clear up, but I would
rather wait a little while. Jane has a friend who is very rich and
very influential—Mrs. Lanier, the banker’s wife. She is absent in
Washington, and when she returns I’ll consult with her, and we’ll see
what’s best to be done. I shouldn’t like to take any important step
until then. But in the meantime, Mr. Paichoux, it will do no harm to
put your plan in operation. I think the idea is good, and in this way
we can work together.”
Then Paichoux promised to begin his investigations at once, for he was
certain that they would bring about some good results, and that, before
many months had passed, Mother Margaret would have one orphan less to
care for.
While Margaret and Paichoux were discussing these important matters,
Tante Modeste and Lady Jane were talking as fast as their tongues could
fly. The child heard for the first time about poor Mam’selle Diane’s
loss, and her eyes filled with tears of sympathy for her gentle friend.
And then, there were Pepsie and Madelon, Gex and Tite—did they remember
her and want to see her? Oh, how glad she was to hear from them all
again; and Tante Modeste cried a little when Lady Jane told of that
terrible midnight ride, of the wretched home she had been carried to,
of her singing and begging in the streets, of her cold and hunger, and
of the blow she had received as the crowning cruelty.
“But the worst of all was losing Tony. Oh, Tante Modeste!” and the
tears sprang to her eyes, “I’m afraid I’ll never, never find him!”
“Yes, you will, my dear. I’ve faith to believe you will,” replied Tante
Modeste hopefully.
“We’ve found you, _ma petite_, and now we’ll find the bird. Don’t fret
about it.”
Then after Margaret had promised to take Lady Jane to Good Children
Street the next day, the good couple went away well pleased with what
they had accomplished.
Tante Modeste could not return home until she had told Pepsie as well
as little Gex the good news. And Mam’selle Diane’s sad heart was
greatly cheered to know that the dear child was safe in the care of the
good Margaret. And oh, what bright hopes and plans filled the lonely
hours of that evening, as she sat dreaming on her little gallery in the
pale, cold moonlight!
The next day Pepsie cried and laughed together when Lady Jane sprang
into her arms and embraced her with her old fervor. “You’re just the
same,” she said, holding the child off and looking at her fondly; “that
is, your face hasn’t changed; but I don’t like your hair braided, and I
don’t like your clothes. I must get Mother Margaret to let me dress you
as I used to.”
And Mam’selle Diane had something of the same feeling when, after the
first long embrace, she looked at the child and asked Mother Margaret
if it was necessary for her to wear the uniform of the Home. “She must
wear it while she is an inmate,” replied Margaret smiling. “But that
will not be long, I suspect. We shall lose her—yes, I’m afraid we shall
lose her soon.”
Then Mam’selle Diane talked a long while with Margaret about her hopes
and plans for Lady Jane. “I am all alone,” she said pathetically, “and
she would give me a new interest in life. If her relatives are not
discovered, why cannot I have her? I will educate her, and teach her
music, and devote my life to her.”
Margaret promised to think it over, and in the mean time she consented
that Lady Jane should remain a few days with Mam’selle Diane and her
friends in Good Children Street.
That night, while the child was nestled close to Mam’selle Diane as
they sat together on the little moonlit gallery, she suddenly asked
with startling earnestness:
“Has your mama gone to heaven, too, Mam’selle Diane?”
“I hope so, my darling; I think so,” replied Diane in a choked voice.
“Well, then, if she has, she’ll see my papa and mama, and tell them
about me, and oh, Mam’selle, won’t they be glad to hear from me?”
“I hope she will tell them how dearly I love you, and what you are to
me,” murmured Mam’selle, pressing her cheeks to the bright little head
resting against her shoulder.
“Look up there, Mam’selle Diane, do you see those two beautiful stars
so near together? I always think they are mama and papa, watching me.
Now I know mama is there, too, and will never come back again; and
see, near those there is another very soft and bright, perhaps that is
_your_ mama shining there with them.”
“Perhaps it is, my dear—yes, perhaps it is,” and Mam’selle Diane raised
her faded eyes toward the sky, with new hope and strength in their calm
depths.
About that time Paichoux began a most laborious correspondence with a
fashionable jeweler in New York, which resulted in some very valuable
information concerning a watch with a diamond monogram.