LADY JANE COMES TO HER OWN
The next morning, when Margaret brought little Jane, Mrs. Lanier sent
for them to come to her room, and there she heard the strange story
that Paichoux had told Margaret.
Putting together one thing and another, the incidents seemed to form
a chain of which there was only one link missing, and that was an
explanation of the mystery surrounding the fate of the young mother.
What had become of her? And how had Madame Jozain got possession of the
child, as well as of the property?
“It is work for a skilful detective,” said Mrs. Lanier, when Margaret
had told her of Paichoux’s plan.
And Margaret replied that, with the aid of a little money, the snarl
could soon be unraveled.
“The money will be forthcoming,” returned Mrs. Lanier. “It shall be my
sacred duty to begin an investigation as soon as the child’s identity
is established. Mr. Lanier will interest himself with me, and every
possible effort shall be made to get at the bottom of the mystery.
Meanwhile, my good Margaret, you must leave little Jane with me. Jane
Chetwynd’s child must not be dependent on charity.”
To this Margaret readily agreed, and then Lady Jane was called from the
nursery, where she had been with Mrs. Lanier’s little girls during this
long serious conversation.
The child came in dressed in her homely orphan’s garb, with all her
beautiful hair braided and hanging stiffly down her back; but she
was lovely in spite of her unlovely attire, her sweet little face
was dimpled with smiles, and her wide eyes were full of pleasant
expectation.
“Come here, my dear,” said Mrs. Lanier, holding out her hands. “Now
tell me, which name do you like best, Lady Jane, or simply Jane?”
She hesitated a moment and looked wistfully at Margaret, while a slight
shadow passed over her face. “_I_ like Lady Jane; but Mother Margaret
likes Jane best.”
Then Mrs. Lanier opened a drawer and took out a photograph in a velvet
frame. “My dear,” she said, holding it before her, “who are these?”
In an instant the child’s face changed; every vestige of color fled
from it, as she fixed her eyes on the picture with a look of eager
affection and pitiful surprise. “It’s papa and mama!” she exclaimed
passionately. “It’s my dear, dear mama!” Then, with a cry of distress,
she threw herself into Margaret’s arms and sobbed bitterly.
“This is proof enough for me,” said Mrs. Lanier, as she laid the
picture away; “the recognition was instantaneous and complete. She is
Jane Chetwynd’s child. Margaret, leave her to me; I will love her and
comfort her.”
An hour after Mrs. Lanier was sitting in her library, writing hastily
and excitedly, when the doorbell rang, and, just as she was addressing
a letter to “Richard Chetwynd,” Arthur Maynard entered.
The boy looked quite pale and anxious, as he glanced at Mrs. Lanier’s
flushed, excited face.
“Don’t ask me any questions; just wait a moment,” she said, with a
reassuring smile.
Presently there was a sound of children’s voices on the stairs, and
three little girls entered the room quietly and demurely. They were
dressed exactly alike in dainty white frocks and broad sashes; two
were pale and dark; they were Ethel and May Lanier; and one was fair
and rosy, with wonderful golden hair hanging in burnished, waving
masses below her waist, while the thick fringe across her forehead,
although it looked a little refractory, as though it had just been cut,
gave her a charmingly infantile and picturesque appearance.
The moment the little Laniers saw Arthur Maynard they ran to him
talking, and laughing gaily, while Lady Jane,—for it was she, quite
metamorphosed through the skill of Mrs. Lanier’s French maid, and one
of Ethel’s dainty suits,—remained standing shyly in the center of the
room.
Mrs. Lanier was watching her sweet little face with its puzzled,
anxious expression. She held her hands tightly clasped, and her soft
brows were slightly contracted, while she looked at the merry group
with large, serious eyes. Presently a winsome smile broke over her
face, and going slowly forward she said softly: “If you please, aren’t
you the boy who gave me the blue heron?”
Arthur Maynard was quite beside himself with delight. Holding out both
hands, he drew her to him, and putting his arm about her caressingly
he said gaily: “Yes, Lady Jane, I’m the very boy. And so you remember
me? I thought you’d forgotten me long ago.”
“Oh, no, no, I hadn’t; but,” with a little, tremulous smile, “you—you
didn’t know me, did you?”
“Yes, you darling, I did; I was only waiting to see if you really
remembered me.”
“Oh, but you didn’t know I saw you once before.”
“No, indeed. When and where was it?” asked Arthur eagerly.
“It was a long while ago. It was Mardi-gras, and I was lost; but you
couldn’t see me, because I had on a domino,” replied Lady Jane, with
dancing eyes and roguish little smile. “I called you, and you heard me,
because you looked around; but you couldn’t see me.”
“Well, I declare! Now I remember! Of course, I couldn’t guess that the
little pink crumpled thing was Lady Jane. Why didn’t you call me again?”
“Oh,” with a little sigh. “I thought maybe you didn’t remember me.”
“As if I could ever forget; but where is Tony? have you given him
away?” and he looked into her eyes with a smile.
“No, I didn’t give him away. I love him too much to give him to any
one; but he’s lost. He broke his string, while I was out singing, and
Tante Pauline was too lame to catch him, and I searched and looked
everywhere for him, and then I couldn’t sing any more—and—” and here
she paused, flushing deeply while the tears gathered on her lashes.
“She’s just the same adorable little creature,” whispered Arthur to
Mrs. Lanier, while he stroked her hair softly. Then he bent over her
and asked her very earnestly and gravely:
“Do you remember that day on the cars, Lady Jane, when I gave you Tony?”
“Why, yes,—or I wouldn’t know you,” she replied ingenuously.
“Well, your mama was with you then. Where is she now?”
“Oh,” with a very sad sigh, “I don’t know; she’s gone away. I thought
she’d come back, and I waited and waited; but now I don’t look any
more. I think she’s with papa, and isn’t coming back.”
“When did she go? My darling, try to remember about your mama,” urged
Mrs. Lanier gently.
“It was so long ago, I can’t tell when it was,” she said dejectedly. “I
was ill, and when I got well Tante Pauline said she had gone.”
“Was it in Good Children Street that she went?”
“No. It was before. It was away across the river, because Tante
Pauline, and Mr. Raste, and I, and Tony in his basket, all came in a
big boat.”
“You see Jane Chetwynd never left Gretna,” said Mrs. Lanier in an
awe-struck voice.
“Where is Tante Pauline now?” continued Arthur.
“I don’t know. I ran away, and I haven’t seen her for ever so long.”
“Why did you run away from her? Didn’t you love her?”
“No, no! Please don’t ask me,—please don’t,” and suddenly she covered
her little flushed, troubled face with both hands and began to cry
silently.
“We mustn’t question her any more, Arthur,” said Mrs. Lanier softly, as
she soothed the child. “Her little heart has been probed to the very
depths. She is a noble little soul, and she won’t utter a complaint
against that wretched woman.”
“Never mind, my darling; forget all about Tante Pauline. You will never
see her again, and no one shall make you unhappy. You are my child
now, and you shall stay with me always, and to-morrow we are going to
buy Christmas presents for all your friends in Good Children Street.”
“And I”—whispered Arthur, pressing his cheek close against her golden
head—“I have a Christmas present for you; so wipe away your tears, and
prepare to be very happy.”
“I have just written to her grandfather,” said Mrs. Lanier, after they
had sent her away to the children, all smiles and dimples again. “I see
by the papers that he has returned from Europe. There’s not the least
doubt that she is Jane’s child, and, if he has any heart, he’ll come
and investigate this mystery. I don’t dare to do anything until I hear
from him.”
“That will be very soon; he will probably be here in a day or two, for
he is on his way now.”
“Arthur, what do you mean? How has he heard?”
“Oh, Lady Jane has a great many friends who are deeply interested
in her. Paichoux, the dairyman, has been in correspondence with
the millionaire, and I have been interviewing Paichoux. The little
Frenchman put me on Paichoux’s track. It seems that Paichoux got Mrs.
Churchill’s watch from Madame Jozain’s son, and Paichoux was inspired
to write to the jeweler in New York, whose name and the number of
the watch were on the inside of the case, to find out for whom that
especial watch was made. After some delay a letter came from Mr.
Richard Chetwynd himself, telling Paichoux that the watch was made for
his daughter Jane Chetwynd. The jeweler had forwarded Paichoux’s letter
to Mr. Chetwynd, who was in Paris, and the millionaire has hastened
home to investigate, which is a favorable omen for Lady Jane.”
The next day, the day before Christmas, and just one year from the
time when Lady Jane sat on the church steps eating the bread and apple
supplied her by a charitable impulse, she was making almost a royal
progress in Mrs. Lanier’s carriage, as lovely in her rich dress as a
little fairy, and every bit as much admired as Pepsie had predicted she
would be when, in the future, she should ride in a blue chariot drawn
by eight white horses. Mrs. Lanier’s generosity allowed her to remember
every one with suitable gifts, and her visit to Good Children Street
was something to be long remembered. Mrs. Lanier almost blushed with
shame and regret when she found herself once more in the presence of
Diana d’Hautreve, to think that for all these years she had forgotten
one who was once a queen in society both by right of birth and wealth.
“It is unpardonable in me,” she said to herself when she saw the
gentle, lonely woman hold the child to her heart so fondly. “It is
unpardonable to forget and neglect one so entirely worthy of the best,
simply because she is poor. However, now that I have discovered her
through Lady Jane, I will try to make up for the indifference of years,
by every attention that I can show her.”
While these thoughts were passing through Mrs. Lanier’s mind, Lady Jane
was unfolding before Mam’selle Diane’s dazzled eyes a rich mourning
silk. “You must have it made right away,” she whispered, pressing her
rosy cheek to her friend’s, “for Mrs. Lanier says you will visit your
friends again, and I want you to wear my Christmas present the first
time you go out.”
Then Pepsie was made happy with a beautiful wheeled chair for the
street, which was so arranged with numerous springs that she could be
lifted over rough places without hurting her poor back, and Madelon
was the recipient of a beautiful warm cloak, and Tite’s love of finery
was fully gratified by a gay hat “wid fedders on it.” Little Gex was
fitted out with a supply of useful articles, and the Paichoux, one and
all, were remembered with gifts suitable for each; while the orphans’
Christmas tree was loaded with presents from Lady Jane, who only the
year before had clung to the railings, cold and hungry, and peeped in
at the glittering display which was being prepared for other little
orphans not half as friendless and needy as she was.
And the homely, kind face of Margaret fairly shone with happiness, as
she watched her little favorite dispensing her pretty gifts.
And there was one hour of that happy Christmas eve that Lady Jane never
forgot. It was when Margaret took her into the chapel and bade her
kneel before the statue of our Saviour, who was once a little child,
and thank him devoutly for all the good things that had come to her.
Then, when she rose from her knees, the sister who had taught her music
played a sweet _Ave Maria_ on the organ, and the child’s angelic voice
rose upward in a rapturous song of praise and adoration; while Margaret
knelt, with bowed head and clasped hands, patient, humble, resigned,
but yet sorrowful at losing the lamb she had taken to her heart and
cherished so tenderly.