AT MRS. LANIER’S
It was a few days before the following Christmas, and Mrs. Lanier, who
had just returned from Washington, was sitting alone one evening in her
own pretty little parlor, when a servant handed her a card.
“Arthur Maynard,” she read. “Let him come up at once”; and as the
servant left the room she added to herself: “Dear boy! I’m so glad he’s
come for Christmas.”
In a moment a handsome young fellow was in the room, shaking hands in
the most cordial way.
“You see I’m home, as usual, for the holidays, Mrs. Lanier,” he said,
showing a row of very white teeth when he laughed.
“Yes, you always do come for Christmas and Mardi-gras, don’t you?
You’re such a boy still, Arthur,” and Mrs. Lanier looked at him as if
she approved of his boyishness. “Sit down and let us have a long chat.
The children have gone to the theater with Mr. Lanier. I was too tired
to go with them. You know we reached home only this morning.”
“No. I didn’t know that or I wouldn’t have come. You don’t want to be
bothered with me when you’re so tired,” said Arthur, rising.
“Nonsense, Arthur; sit down. You always cheer me up. You’re so full of
life and spirits, I’m really glad to see you.”
While Mrs. Lanier was speaking, the young fellow’s bright, clear eyes
were traveling about the room, and glancing at everything, pictures,
_bric-à-brac_, and flowers. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation, and,
springing up, seized a photograph in a velvet frame that stood on a
cabinet near him.
It represented a family group, father, mother, and child; and for a
moment he seemed too surprised to speak. Then he asked, in a very
excited tone, “Mrs. Lanier, where did you get this—and who is the lady?”
“She is a friend of mine,” said Mrs. Lanier, much surprised. “Why do
you ask—have you ever seen her?”
“Yes, yes; and I have a copy of this picture. It is such a strange
story; but first, before I say a word, please tell me who she is, and
all about her.”
“Why, Arthur, you seem greatly interested,” returned Mrs. Lanier, with
a smile. “The lady is my dear friend, Jane Chetwynd. We were classmates
at boarding-school in New York; her father is the rich Mr. Chetwynd.
You have heard of him, haven’t you?”
“Yes, indeed; but please go on.”
“Do you want all the history?”
“Everything, please. I’ve a serious reason for wanting to know all
about the originals of this photograph.”
“Well, the gentleman is Jane’s husband, Mr. Churchill, an Englishman,
and the little girl is ‘Lady Jane,’ their only child. There’s quite a
romance connected with Jane’s history, and I’m just now floundering in
a sea of darkness in regard to that same Jane Chetwynd.”
“If you please, go on, and perhaps I can help you out,” urged the young
man, eagerly and abruptly.
“Well, as it’s a subject I’m greatly interested in, I don’t mind
telling you the whole story. Jane Chetwynd was the only daughter; her
mother died when she was a child. Jane was her father’s idol; he had
great plans for her, and when she was only eighteen he hoped she would
marry one of the rich Bindervilles. Jane, however, married a young
Englishman who was in her father’s employ. The young man was handsome,
as you can see by his picture, well born, and well educated; but he
was unknown and poor. To Richard Chetwynd that was unpardonable, and
therefore he disowned Jane—cut her off entirely, refused to see her, or
even to allow her name to be mentioned.
“A cousin of Mr. Churchill, who lived in England, owned a fine ranch in
Texas, and there the young couple went to pass their honeymoon. They
were delighted with the ranch, and decided to make it a permanent home.
“Their little girl was born there, and was named for her mother. On
account of some dainty little ways, and to avoid confusion, her father
called her Lady Jane.
“In her frequent letters to me, my friend spoke of her as a remarkable
child, and of course she was the idol of her parents. In spite of the
trouble with her father, Jane never regretted her choice, and even her
isolated life had many charms for her. She was of a quiet, domestic
disposition, and loved the country. Indeed, I know her life there was
one of idyllic happiness. When the child was three years old Jane sent
me that picture; then about two more years passed, during which time I
heard from her frequently, and after that suddenly the correspondence
stopped. I was in Europe for a year, and when I returned I set to work
to find out the cause. Many letters were returned from San Antonio,
the nearest post-office; but finally we succeeded in communicating
with the overseer on the ranch, who informed us that Mr. Churchill had
died suddenly of a prevalent fever, the summer before,—more than two
years ago now,—and that Mrs. Churchill with her little girl had left
the ranch directly after her husband’s death to return to New York,
since which time he had received no news of her; and the overseer
also expressed surprise in his letter at her long silence, as he said
she had left many valuable things that were to be sent to her when
and where she should direct, after she reached New York; he had since
received no instructions, and the property was still lying there.
“Then I wrote directly to New York to a friend who was very intimate at
one time with the Chetwynds, for some information about Jane; but she
could tell me nothing more than the newspapers told me, that Richard
Chetwynd had gone abroad, to remain some years. Of Jane I could not
hear a word.
“Sometimes I think she may have followed her father to Europe, and that
they are reconciled and living there together. But why does she not
write to me—to the friend whom she always loved so dearly?
“Then there is another thing that has worried me no little, although in
itself it is a trifle. When we were at school together I had a little
birthday gift made at Tiffany’s for Jane, a silver jewel-box, engraved
with pansies and forget-me-nots, and a lot of school-girl nonsense. I
made the design myself, and the design for the monogram also. About
a year ago I found _that very box_ for sale at Madame Hortense’s, on
Canal Street. When I asked Hortense where she got it, she told me that
it was left with her to sell by a woman who lived down town on Good
Children Street, and she gave me the name and address; but when I went
there a day or two afterwards the woman had gone,—left mysteriously in
the night, and none of the neighbors could tell me where she went. Of
course the woman’s sudden disappearance made me feel that there was
something wrong about her, and I can’t help thinking that she got the
little box dishonestly. It may have been stolen, either in Texas or in
New York, and finally drifted here for sale. I got possession of it at
once, very thankful that such a precious relic of my girlhood should
have accidentally fallen into my hands; but every time I look at it I
feel that it is a key which might unlock a mystery if only I knew how
to use it.”
All the while Mrs. Lanier was speaking, Arthur Maynard followed every
word with bright, questioning eyes and eager, intense interest.
Sometimes he seemed about to interrupt her; then he closed his lips
firmly and continued to listen.
Mrs. Lanier was looking at him inquiringly, and when he waited as if to
hear more she said: “I have told you all. Now what have you to tell me?”
“Something quite as strange as anything you have told me,” replied
Arthur Maynard, with an enigmatical air. “You must not think you’re the
only one with a mystery worthy the skill of a Parisian detective. If I
had any such talent I might make myself famous, with your clues and my
clues together.”
“What in the world do you mean, Arthur? What do you know?—for pity’s
sake, tell me! You can’t think how Jane Chetwynd’s long silence
distresses me.”
“Fool that I was!” cried the young fellow, jumping up and pacing the
room with a half-tragic air. “If I hadn’t been an idiot—a simpleton—a
gosling—if I’d had a spark of sense, I could have brought that same
Jane Chetwynd, and the adorable little Lady Jane, straight to your
door. Instead of that, I let them get off the train at Gretna alone
when it was nearly dark, and—Heaven only knows what has happened to
them!”
“Arthur Maynard, what _do_ you mean?” asked Mrs. Lanier, rising to her
feet, pale and trembling. “When—where—where is she now—where is Jane
Chetwynd?”
“I wish I knew. I’m as wretched and anxious as you are, Mrs. Lanier,
and what has happened to-day has quite upset me; but I must tell you my
story, as you have told yours.”
And then, while Mrs. Lanier listened with clasped hands and intent
gaze, Arthur Maynard told of the meeting with Lady Jane and her mother
on the train, of the gift of “Tony,” the blue heron, and of the
separation at Gretna.
“Oh, Arthur, why—_why_ didn’t you go with them and bring them to me?
She was a stranger, and she didn’t know the way, and your being our
friend and all.”
“My dear Mrs. Lanier, she never mentioned your name or number. How
could I guess you were the friend to whom she was going? and I didn’t
want to seem presuming.”
“But where did she go? She never came here!”
“Wait till I tell you the rest, and then we will discuss that. I stood
on the platform until the train started, and watched them walking
toward the ferry, the mother very feebly, and the child skipping along
with the little basket, delighted with her new possession; then I went
back to my seat, angry enough at myself because I wasn’t with them,
when what should I see on the floor, under their seat, but a book they
had left. I have it now, and I’ll bring it to you to-morrow; inside of
the book was a photograph—a duplicate of this, and on the fly-leaf was
written ‘Jane Chetwynd.’”
“I thought so! I knew it was Jane!” exclaimed Mrs. Lanier excitedly.
“But she never came here. Where could she have gone?”
“That’s the mystery. She may have changed her mind and gone to a
hotel, or something may have happened to her. I don’t know. I don’t
like to think of it! However, the next day I advertised the book, and
advertised it for a week; but it was never claimed, and from that day
to this I’ve never been able to discover either the mother or the
child.”
“How strange, how very strange!” said Mrs. Lanier, greatly troubled.
“Why should she have changed her mind so suddenly? If she started to
come to me, why didn’t she come?”
“The only reasonable solution to the problem is that she changed her
mind and went on to New York by the night-train. She evidently did not
go to a hotel, for I have looked over all the hotel registers of that
time, and her name does not appear on any of them. So far there is
nothing very mysterious; she might have taken the night-train.”
“Oh, Arthur, she probably did. Why do you say she _might_ have?”
“Because you see I have a sequel to my story. You had a sequel to
yours, a sequel of a box. Mine is a sequel of a bird—the blue heron
I gave the little Lady Jane. _I bought that same blue heron from a
bird-fancier on Charter Street this very morning_.”
“How can you be sure that it is the same bird, Arthur? How can you be
sure?”
“Because it was marked in a peculiar way. It had three distinct black
crosses on one wing. I knew the rogue as soon as I saw him, although
he has grown twice the size, and—would you believe it?—he has the same
leather band on his leg that I sewed on more than two years ago.”
“And you found out where the fancier bought him?” asked Mrs. Lanier
breathlessly.
“Of course I asked, the first thing, and all the information I could
get from the merchant was that he bought him from an Italian a few days
before, who was very anxious to sell him. When I called the bird by his
name, Tony, he recognized it instantly. So you see that he has always
been called by that name.”
“The child must have lost him, or he must have been stolen. Then the
box, the jewel-box here too. Good heavens! Arthur, what can it mean?”
“It means that Mrs. Churchill never left New Orleans,” said Arthur
decidedly.
“My dear Arthur, you alarm me!” cried Mrs. Lanier; “there is something
dreadful behind all this. Go on, and tell me everything you know.”
“Well, after I bought the bird, and while I was writing my address for
the man to send him home, a funny little old Frenchman came in, and
suddenly pounced on Tony, and began to jabber in the most absurd way. I
thought he was crazy at first; but after a while I made him understand
that the heron belonged to me; and when I had calmed him down somewhat
I gathered from his remarks that this identical blue heron had been
the property of ’one leetle lady’ who formerly lived on Good Children
Street.”
“Good Children Street,” interrupted Mrs. Lanier; “what a remarkable
coincidence!”
“That the bird had been lost, and that he had searched everywhere to
find it for the ‘leetle lady.’ Then I asked him for a description of
the ‘leetle lady.’ And, as I live, Mrs. Lanier, he described that child
to the life,”—and Arthur Maynard pointed to the photograph as he spoke.
“Oh, Arthur, can it be that Jane Chetwynd is _dead_? What else can it
mean? Where is the child? I must see her. Will you go with me to Good
Children Street early to-morrow?”
“Certainly, Mrs. Lanier. But she is not there; the old man told me a
long story of a Madame Jozain, who ran away with the child.”
“Madame Jozain!” cried Mrs. Lanier excitedly—“the same woman who had
the jewel-box.”
“Evidently the same, and we are on her track—or we should be, if she
were alive; but unfortunately she’s dead. The little Frenchman says so,
and the child is now in Margaret’s Orphans’ Home.”
“Oh, I see it all now! It is as clear as day to me!” cried Mrs. Lanier,
springing from her chair and walking excitedly back and forth. “It is
all explained—the mysterious attraction I felt for that child from the
first. Her eyes, her voice, her smile are Jane Chetwynd’s. Arthur,
would you know her again if you saw her?”
“Certainly; she hasn’t grown out of my recollection in two years,
though of course she may not resemble the photograph so much. You see
it is four or five years since that was taken; but she can’t have
changed in two years so that I won’t know her, and I’m very sure also
that she’ll remember me.”
“Well, come to-morrow at eleven, and I think I can have her here. The
lovely child in Margaret’s Home, in whom I have felt such an interest,
must be the one. Her name is Jane. I will write to Margaret at once to
bring her here to-morrow morning, and, Arthur, if you can identify her
she is Jane Chetwynd’s child without a doubt;—but Jane—poor Jane! What
_has_ happened to her? It is a mystery, and I shall never rest until it
is explained.”
“And perhaps you will hate me for my stupidity,” replied Arthur,
looking very much cast down, as he shook hands and said good-night.
“No, no, my dear boy. You were not in the least to blame, and perhaps
your generosity in giving Lady Jane the blue heron may be the means of
restoring her to her friends.”
Thinking the matter over from Mrs. Lanier’s point of view, Arthur went
away somewhat comforted, but still very anxious about the developments
the next day might bring forth.