CHAPTER XXXILADY JANE COMES TO HER OWN
Thenext 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. “Ilike 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; twowere 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 hesaid 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 oneshall 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 seemsthat 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 foundherself 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 gayhat “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 sweetAve Mariaon 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.