Among the dead woman’s effects was the pocket-book, containing five hundred dollars, which she had secreted from Raste. From the money in the traveling bag she had paid the humble funeral expenses, and Dr. Debrot’s modest bill, and there still remained some for other demands; but besides the money there were many valuables, the silver toilet articles, jewelry, laces, embroideries, and the handsome wardrobe of both mother and child. In one of the trunks she found a writing-case full of letters written in English. From these letters she could have learned all that it was necessary to know; but she could not read English readily, especially writing; she was afraid to show them, and she feared to keep them; therefore she thought it best to destroy them. So one night, when she was alone, she burned them all in the kitchen stove; not, however, without some misgivings and some qualms of conscience, for at the moment when she saw them crumbling to white ashes the gentle face of the dead woman seemed to come before her, and her blue eyes to look at her sadly and reproachfully.
Then she thought of Father Ducros, so stern and severe; he had but little mercy or charity for those who sinned deliberately and wilfully, as she was doing. She would never dare to go to him, and what would become of her soul? Already she was beginning to feel that the way of the transgressor is hard; but she silenced the striving of conscience with specious arguments. She had not sought the temptation,—it had come to her, in the form of a dying woman; she had done her best by her, and now the child was thrown on her and must be cared for. She did not know the child’s name, so she could not restore her to her friends, even if she had any; it was not likely that she had, or they would have advertised for her; and she meant to be good to the little thing. She would take care of her, and bring her up well. She would be a daughter to her. Surely that was better than sending her to a home for foundlings, as another would do. In this way she persuaded herself that she was really an honest, charitable woman, who was doing what was best for the child by appropriating her mother’s property, and destroying every proof of her identity.
From the child’s wardrobe she selected the plainest and most useful articles for daily wear, laying aside the finest and daintiest to dispose of as her business might offer opportunity; and from the mother’s clothes she also made a selection, taking for her own use what she considered plain enough to wear with propriety, while the beautiful linen, fine laces, and pretty little trifles went a long way in furnishing her show-window handsomely.
Notwithstanding her assurance, she felt some misgivings when she placed those pretty, dainty articles in the broad light of day before an observing public,—and not only the public terrified her, but the child also; suppose she should recognize her mother’s property, and make a scene. Therefore it was with no little anxiety that she waited the first morning for Lady Jane’s appearance in the little shop.
After a while she came in, heavy-edged, pale, listless, and carelessly dressed, her long silken hair uncombed, her little feet and legs bare, and her whole manner that of a sorrowful, neglected child. She carried her bird in her arms, as usual, and was passing out of the side-door to the little yard, without as much as a glance, when madame, who was watching her furtively, said to her in rather a fretful tone:
“Come here, child, and let me button your clothes. And you haven’t brushed your hair; now this won’t do; you’re old enough to dress yourself, and you must do it; I can’t wait on you every minute, I’ve got something else to do.” Then she asked in a softer tone, while she smoothed the golden hair, “See my pretty window. Don’t you think it looks very handsome?”
Lady Jane turned her heavy eyes toward the laces and fluttering things above her, then they slowly fell to the table, and suddenly, with a piercing cry, she seized a little jewel-box, an odd, pretty silver trinket that madame had displayed among her small wares, and exclaimed passionately: “That’s my mama’s; it’s mama’s, and you sha’n’t have it,” and turning, she rushed into madame’s room, leaving Tony to flutter from her arms, while she held the little box tightly clasped to her bosom.
Madame did not notice her outbreak, neither did she attempt to take the box from her, so she carried it about with her all day; but at night, after the little one had fallen asleep, madame unclosed the fingers that still clung to it, and without a pang consigned it to obscurity.
“I mustn’t let her see that again,” she said to herself. “Dear me, what should I do, if she should act like that before a customer? I’ll never feel safe until everything is sold, and out of the way.”