“Yes, my dear, I have, I’ve thought of it a great deal; but I don’t see my way clear quite yet.”
“Why, you’ve got the money in the bank, mama?”
“I can’t touch that money, my dear; it’s for you. If anything should happen to me, and you were left alone.”
“Hush, hush, mama; I shouldn’t need any money then, for I should die too.”
“No, my dear, not if it was the good God’s will that you should live. I don’t want to spend that; I want to feel that you’ve something. A piano costs a great deal of money; besides, what would your uncle and aunt think if I should do such a thing?”
“They’d think you did it because I wanted you to,” returned Pepsie slyly.
“That would be a reason certainly,” said Madelon, laughing, “and I’ll try to do it after a while. Have a little patience, dear, and I think I can manage it without touching the money in the bank.”
“Oh, I hope you can, mama, because Mam’selle Diane says Lady learns very fast, and that she ought to practise. I hate to have her kept back for the need of a piano, and Madame Jozain will never get one for her. You know you could sell it afterward, mama,”—and Pepsie went on to show, with much excellent reasoning, that Lady Jane could never make a great prima donna unless she had advantages. “It’s now, while her fingers are supple, that they must be trained; she ought to practise two hours a day. Oh, I’d rather go without the money than to have Lady kept back. Try, bonne maman, try to get a piano very soon, won’t you?”
And Madelon promised to try, for she was devoted to the child; but Pepsie had begun to think that Lady Jane was her own—her very own, and, in her generous affection, was willing to sacrifice everything for her good.
And Madelon and Pepsie were not the only ones who planned and hoped for the little one with almost a mother’s love and interest. From the first day that Lady Jane smiled up into the sad, worn face of Diane d’Hautreve, a new life had opened to that lonely woman, a new hope, a new happiness brightened her dreary days; for the child’s presence seemed to bring sunshine and youth to her. Had it not been for her mother, she would have kept the gentle little creature with her constantly, as the sweetest hours she knew, or had known for many a weary year, were those she devoted to her lovely little pupil. It was a dream of delight to sit at the tinkling piano with Lady Jane nestled close to her side, the sweet, liquid notes mingling with hers, as they sang an old-fashioned ballad, or a tender lullaby. And the child never disappointed her; she was always docile and thoughtful, and so quiet and polite that even Diane’s mother, captious and querulous though she was, found no cause for complaint, while the toleration with which she had at first received Lady Jane was fast changing into affection. The more they became interested in her, the more they wondered how she could be kin to such a woman as Madame Jozain; for Mam’selle Diane had been obliged to show how exclusive she could be in order to keep madame where she belonged.