And in this way the day passed pleasantly and comfortably to Lady Jane. She was not very cold in her sheltered corner, and the good woman’s kindness had satisfied her hunger; but at last she began to think that it must be nearly night, for she saw the sun slipping down into the cold, gray clouds behind the opposite houses, and she wondered what she should do and where she should go when it was quite dark. Neither Tante Modeste nor Mr. Gex had come, and now it was too late and she would have to wait until to-morrow. Then she began to reproach herself for sitting still. “I should have gone on and on, and by this time I would have been in Good Children Street,” said she.
She never thought of returning to her old haunts or to Tante Pauline, and if she had tried she could not have found her way back. She had wandered too far from her old landmarks, so the only thing to do was to press on in her search for Good Children Street. It was while she was standing at a corner, uncertain which way to turn, that Mrs. Lanier caught a glimpse of her. And what good fortune it would have been to Lady Jane if that noble-hearted woman had obeyed the kindly impulse that urged her to stop and speak to the friendless little waif! But destiny intended it to be otherwise, so she went on her way to her luxurious home and happy children, while the desolate orphan wandered about in the cold and darkness, looking in vain for the humble friends who even at that moment were thinking of her and longing for her.
Poor little soul! she had never been out in the dark night alone before, and every sound and movement startled her. Once a dog sprang out and barked at her, and she ran trembling into a doorway, only to be ordered away by an unkind servant. Sometimes she stopped and looked into the windows of the beautiful houses as she passed. There were bright fires, pictures, and flowers, and she heard the merry voices of children laughing and playing; and the soft notes of a piano, with some one singing, reminded her of Mam’selle Diane. Then a choking sob would rise in her throat, and she would cover her face and cry a little silently.
Presently she found herself before a large, handsome house; the blinds were open and the parlor was brilliantly lighted. A lady—it was Mrs. Lanier—sat at the piano playing a waltz, and two little girls in white frocks and red sashes were dancing together. Lady Jane pressed near the railing and devoured the scene with wide, sparkling eyes. They were the same steps that Gex had taught her, and it was the very waltz that he sometimes whistled. Before she knew it, quite carried away by the music, and forgetful of everything, she dropped her shawl, and holding out her soiled ragged skirt, was tripping and whirling as merrily as the little ones within, while opposite to her, her shadow, thrown by a street lamp over her head, tripped and bobbed and whirled, not unlike Mr. Gex, the ancient “professeur of the dance.” And a right merry time she had out there in the biting December night, pirouetting with her own shadow.
Suddenly the music stopped, a nurse came and took the little girls away, and some one drew down the blinds and shut her out alone in the cold; there was nothing then for her to do but to move on, and picking up her shawl, she crept away a little wearily, for dancing, although it had lightened her heart, had wasted her strength, and it seemed to her that the wind was rising and the cold becoming more intense, for she shivered from time to time, and her bare little toes and fingers smarted badly. Once or twice, from sheer exhaustion, she dropped down on a doorstep, but when she saw any one approaching she sprang up and hurried along, trying to be brave and patient. Yes, she must come to Good Children Street very soon, and she never turned a corner that she did not expect to see Madelon’s little house, wedged in between the two tall ones, and the light gleaming from Pepsie’s small window.
CHAPTER XXVIII
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.