Hammer to Fall John Lawton [Lawton

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 Also by John Lawton

1963
Black Out
Old Flames
A Little White Death
Blu ng Mr. Churchill
Flesh Wounds
Second Violin
A Lily of the Field
Sweet Sunday
Then We Take Berlin
The Unfortunate Englishman
Friends and Traitors
 HAMMER
TO FALL
A JOE WILDERNESS NOVEL

JOHN
LAWTON

Atlantic Monthly Press

New York
Copyright © 2020 by John Lawton

Cover photograph © Bohumil Dobrovolsky

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FIRST EDITION

Published simultaneously in Canada

Printed in the United States of America

First Grove Atlantic hardcover edition: March 2020

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data available for this title.

ISBN 978-0-8021-4812-4
eISBN 978-0-8021-4813-1

Atlantic Monthly Press

an imprint of Grove Atlantic
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 per

Marcia
 You cannot fold a ood
And put it in a drawer,
Because the winds would nd it out,
And tell your cedar oor.

—Emily Dickinson
 Table of Contents
Cover
Also by John Lawton
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph

I: Peanut Butter
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Vienna

II: Tea and Stollen

Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten

III: Omelettes
Chapter Eleven
 Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen

IV: Fig Biscuits

Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
V: Vodka
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
 Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Vienna

VI: Armagnac and Easter Eggs

Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-One
 Chapter Ninety-Two
Chapter Ninety-Three
Chapter Ninety-Four
Chapter Ninety-Five
Chapter Ninety-Six
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Chapter Ninety-Eight
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Chapter Hundred
Chapter One Hundred One
Chapter One Hundred Two
Chapter One Hundred Three
Chapter One Hundred Four
Chapter One Hundred Five
Chapter One Hundred Six
Chapter One Hundred Seven
Chapter One Hundred Eight
Chapter One Hundred Nine
Vienna

VII: Beer and Sausages

Chapter One Hundred Ten
Chapter One Hundred Eleven
Chapter One Hundred Twelve
Chapter One Hundred Thirteen
Chapter One Hundred Fourteen
Chapter One Hundred Fifteen
Chapter One Hundred Sixteen
Chapter One Hundred Seventeen
Chapter One Hundred Eighteen
Chapter One Hundred Nineteen
Chapter One Hundred Twenty
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-One
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Two
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Three
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Four
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Five
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Six
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Seven
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Eight
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Nine
Chapter One Hundred Thirty
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-One
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Two
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Three
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Four
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Five
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Six
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Seven
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Eight
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Nine
Chapter One Hundred Forty
Chapter One Hundred Forty-One
Chapter One Hundred Forty-Two
Chapter One Hundred Forty-Three
Chapter One Hundred Forty-Four
Chapter One Hundred Forty-Five
Chapter One Hundred Forty-Six
 Chapter One Hundred Forty-Seven

VIII: Jam Roly-Poly

Chapter One Hundred Forty-Eight
Chapter One Hundred Forty-Nine
Chapter One Hundred Fifty
Chapter One Hundred Fifty-One
Chapter One Hundred Fifty-Two
Chapter One Hundred Fifty-Three
Chapter One Hundred Fifty-Four
Chapter One Hundred Fifty-Five
Chapter One Hundred Fifty-Six
Chapter One Hundred Fifty-Seven
Chapter One Hundred Fifty-Eight
Chapter One Hundred Fifty-Nine
Chapter One Hundred Sixty
Chapter One Hundred Sixty-One
Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Two
Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Three
Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Four
Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Five
Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Six
Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Seven
Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Eight
Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Nine
Chapter One Hundred Seventy
Chapter One Hundred Seventy-One
Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Two
Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Three
 Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Four
Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Five
Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Six
Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Seven
Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Eight
Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Nine
Chapter One Hundred Eighty
Chapter One Hundred Eighty-One
Chapter One Hundred Eighty-Two
Chapter One Hundred Eighty-Three
Chapter One Hundred Eighty-Four
Chapter One Hundred Eighty-Five
Chapter One Hundred Eighty-Six
Chapter One Hundred Eighty-Seven
Chapter One Hundred Eighty-Eight
Chapter One Hundred Eighty-Nine
Chapter One Hundred Ninety
Chapter One Hundred Ninety-One
Chapter One Hundred Ninety-Two
Chapter One Hundred Ninety-Three
Chapter One Hundred Ninety-Four
Chapter One Hundred Ninety-Five
Vienna

IX: Black Co ee
Chapter One Hundred Ninety-Six
Chapter One Hundred Ninety-Seven
Chapter One Hundred Ninety-Eight
Chapter One Hundred Ninety-Nine
 Chapter Two Hundred
Chapter Two Hundred One
Chapter Two Hundred Two
Chapter Two Hundred Three
Chapter Two Hundred Four
Chapter Two Hundred Five
Chapter Two Hundred Six
Chapter Two Hundred Seven
Chapter Two Hundred Eight
Chapter Two Hundred Nine
Chapter Two Hundred Ten
Chapter Two Hundred Eleven
Chapter Two Hundred Twelve
Chapter Two Hundred Thirteen
Chapter Two Hundred Fourteen
Chapter Two Hundred Fifteen

Stu
Acknowledgments
Back Cover
 I
Peanut Butter
 §1
East Berlin: July or August 1948
Das Eishaus: The Egg-Cooling House, Osthafen

“So, Sadie says to Doris—”

“Doris? Что такое дорис?”
“Doris is just a name, Yuri. A woman’s name. Doris, Debbie, Diana
… doesn’t matter. Just a fuckin’ name.”
“Da. Da. Еврейское имя?”
“What?”
Frank turned to Wilderness, the exasperation beginning to show
in his face. Wilderness translated.
“He’s asking if it’s a Jewish name.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah. If you like. It’s a Jewish name. Anyway … Doris
says to Sadie—”
“No,” said Wilderness. “Sadie was talking to Doris.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake. Who’s telling this gag? You or me? So …
Sadie says to Doris, ‘My Hymie’s such a gentleman. Every week he
brings me owers.’ And Doris says, ‘Oh yeah, my Jake is such a
putz, if he brings me owers it can mean only one thing. I’ll be
spending the night with my legs in the air!’ And Sadie says, ‘Oh, you
don’t got a vase?’ ”
Frank laughed at his own joke. All but slapped his thighs.
Wilderness managed a smile. He had heard it before. Three or four
times, in fact, but Frank was never one to preface a gag with, “Stop
me if I told you this one already.”
Yuri looked nonplussed.
 The kid next to him, one of those string-bean youths they had
nicknamed “Yuri’s Silents,” was smirking. He looked to be about the
same age as Wilderness himself, but Wilderness was twenty going
on thirty, and this kid was twenty going on twelve. He always
looked nervous—scared shitless, as Frank would have it—and
perhaps he, a mere corporal, thought it only prudent not to laugh at
a dirty joke his boss, a gilded NKVD major with shoulder boards as
wide as landing strips, couldn’t get.
Yuri got swiftly back to business.
“Sunday? One hundred pounds?”
Frank glanced quickly at Wilderness. Wilderness nodded.
“Sure. One hundred pounds of nest PX Java.”
Yuri stuck out his hand. He liked to shake on every deal. Even
though they’d been trading co ee, butter and anything else the
Russians had on their shopping list for months now, he shook every
time as though resealing a bond between them. Wilderness did not
think Yuri trusted Frank Spoleto, but then he wasn’t at all sure he
trusted Frank either.
They were about halfway back to the jeep. Wilderness could see
Swift Eddie at the wheel, deep in a Penguin paperback, oblivious to
all around him. And he could hear footsteps running behind them.
He turned.
It was the “Silent.” His great at feet slapping down on the
pockmarked tarmac.
“I am sorry. I mean not to surprise you.”
He was a Kolya or a Kostya … one of those abundant Russian
diminutives foisted onto children and rarely abandoned as adults.
He had the look of an adolescent, features scarcely formed, his face
dominated by bright blue eyes that seemed far too trusting to work
for an NKVD rogue like Yuri. His Adam’s apple bobbed above his
collar. His long ngers disappeared into a pocket to produce … an
empty jam jar.
Frank said, “What’s on your mind, kid?”
“Can you get me this?”
Wilderness said, nipping in ahead of Frank, “Our deal is with
Major Myshkin. We don’t undercut him and we don’t deal without
him.”
Frank rolled the jar in his hand, showed Wilderness the label.
“I don’t think Yuri will give a damn about this, Joe.”
The label read,

COUSIN KITTY’S GEORGIA PEANUT BUTTER

And then, egregiously,

YUM, YUMMY YUM YUMS

“Is true,” said Kolya/Kostya. “The major will let me buy.”

Wilderness shrugged. Who was he to stand in the way of a deal,
however petty?
“Can you get it?” he said to Frank.
“Sure. If not this brand, then something like. If there’s one kind of
peanut butter coming out of Georgia, there must be fty. If this is
what he wants. I’ll nd something. God knows why he wants it. The
stu sticks to your teeth like Plasticine.”
“Is … личное дело … personal, yes?”
“Whatever. Fifty cents a jar, OK. And greenbacks. Capisce? None
of those Ostmarks you guys print like toilet paper. US dollars,
right?”
“Of course,” the kid grinned. “Grrrrinbaksy.”
“How many jars?”
“Hundred.”
“A hundred?”
“A hundred … to begin with.”
“OK, kid, you got yourself a deal. Now shake on it, just like your
Uncle Yuri, and me and my partner here will head back to
civilisation.”
They shook, and Kolya/Kostya said, “Major Myshkin not my
uncle. I am Kostya—Konstantin Ilyich Zolotukhin.”
As they climbed into the jeep, Frank had his moan.
“Do any of them have a sense of humour? ‘Uncle’ was just a tease.
And Yuri … what in hell happened to him? It was as though I’d
asked to fuck his grandmother.”
“Maybe he doesn’t like Jewish jokes.”
“Never thought of that. Do you reckon he’s Jewish? I mean, what
kind of a name is Myshkin?”
“A Russian name,” Wilderness replied. “And you can bet your last
dollar it’s not his real name. By the bye … how much does a jar of
peanut butter cost back home?”
Frank’s hand sliced the air, tipping an imaginary fried egg onto an
imaginary plate.
“Around twelve cents.”
“That’s quite a markup.”
“Markup from what? We steal the stu . And how would the kid
ever know the right price? He’s going to hop on a plane to
Shitcreek, New Jersey, and hit the local grocery store?”
“I meant. Fair play. That’s all.”
“Fair play. Jeezus. Joe, this is no time to grow a conscience. If
he’ll pay fty cents then we collect fty cents.”
 §2

The problem had always been their own people. The military police
of the French, British and American occupying forces. The Reds left
them alone. Wilderness assumed that they’d all been told by Yuri
not to mess with his “Schiebers” … his smugglers. Since the airlift
began, the MPs did not cross the line to East Berlin, but on occasion
they were not past demanding the odd, random search—and on
occasion producing papers showing they were in Intelligence cut no
mustard and a half-hearted, odd, random search took place. None of
them had ever thought to open the jerry cans mounted on the jeep—
all packed with contraband.
There was no room in the cans for the peanut butter, so it sat in a
sack in the footwell. So what if it got con scated? The goods that
mattered were the ones that passed for currency … cigarettes and
co ee. And who among the English MPs would know what this stu
was? If needs be, Wilderness was prepared to swear it was bunion
ointment or pile cream.
Come Sunday, they delivered the co ee.
Yuri paid up, in the usual manner, as though each dollar was
ayed from his own back, and disappeared.
They were left alone with Kostya, who beamed with delight at his
purchase, and paid without pain.
“I even got you the same brand,” Frank threw in.
“Da. Most happy. Cousin Kitty. Most happy.”
“To begin with, you said. A hundred jars to begin with.”
Wilderness would not have o ered to extend this deal. It could
not be long before crossing West to East became a logistical
impossibility. They had far bigger concerns than piddling amounts
of peanut butter.
 “I will … let you know.”
“Kid, you sound just like a New York theatrical agent talking to a
Forty-Second Street hoofer. ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you.’ ”
“At the club. I call at the club. At Paradies Verlassen.”
“OK. But time and tide wait for no man, as Shakespeare says.”
“Chaucer, you dimwit,” Wilderness said as they left.
“Chaucer, schmaucer. I should care.”
 §3

Later that week, the Schiebers gathered at the Paradies Verlassen

club, as they did three or four nights of seven. Wilderness thought
they must look odd—odd to any onlooker. A bit like the enlisted
version of the Three Stooges, none remotely resembling the other:
Frank in his US Army olive green, Eddie in his Artillery khaki and
Wilderness in RAF pale blue. One captain, one lance bombardier
and one corporal who knew in his bones he’d never make o cer. If
they only had a Frenchman handy they’d be a representative cross-
section of the occupying powers of West Berlin, but Frank had a
thing against the French, and Wilderness knew from experience that
the French would be the last to forgive and forget and hence would
never make good Schiebers. Neither forgiving nor forgetting was
essential to smuggling, which entailed trading with the likely next
enemy and the certain last enemy, but a self-serving indi erence to
old wounds was. Occasionally they would add a splash of dirty-
brown and a little brighter blue to the mix—the NKVD uniform of
Yuri, Major Myshkin … all jackboots, epaulettes and red stars—but
Yuri rationed his visits.
Tonight, the dirty-brown and blue was worn by a woman—her
uniform far better tailored than the baggy sacks that Yuri wore.
Wilderness caught sight of her across the room just she yanked on
the cord of the Rohrpoststation and sent a note hurtling through the
pneumatic tubes that crisscrossed the ceiling to land, half a minute
later, in the net above his head. She waved, blew him a kiss that
meant nothing.
Wilderness unfolded the note.
“That damn Tosca bitch?” said Frank, part statement part
question, squirming in his chair to look across the room.
 But Tosca had picked up her book and resumed reading, and
Frank seemed to look right past her.
“Yes,” Wilderness replied. “Seems she wants a bit of a chat.”
“You kill me with phrases like that. The English art of
understatement. When she rips o your balls with a bayonet, try
understating that.”
Wilderness, as with so many of Frank’s moans, ignored this. He
crossed the oor, past the man tinkling idly at the piano, to her
table.
“Major Tosca.”
“Corporal Holderness.”
Whilst she was always “Major Tosca” to him, usually he was just
“Wilderness” to her. Once in a while, he was Joe. If Tosca addressed
him by his real name, let alone by his RAF rank, he was probably in
trouble.
She beckoned to a waiter. Ordered two vodka martinis, and
Wilderness (real name Holderness) sat, waiting to hear what was on
her mind.
“You guys don’t give up easy, do you?”
Wilderness loved her voice. New York. Raspy. Like grating
nutmeg. There was much to love about Tosca. Everything Frank
would fail to appreciate. Thirty, maybe thirty- ve at the most, with
eyes like conkers and tits like Jane Russell.
“Do we need to give up? The blockade isn’t working. We both
know that.”
“Plenty of you Schiebers have given up.”
“The ones who have given up are the ones your people have shot.
And so far they’ve all been civilians. You don’t shoot at uniforms.”
“You got a good shield in Yuri.”
“I know.”
“It might not be as wide a shield as you imagine.”
“Meaning?”
“You been going East more often than usual. You have a new
deal, a new customer.”
Wilderness said nothing.
“In short, you got Kostya.”
 “And he works for Yuri.”
A brief silence as the waiter set glasses in front of them, and Tosca
took a rst sip of her martini.
“I’ll miss these if they ever drag me back to Moscow. New York,
London, Moscow. I have to ask myself. Am I on a losing streak?”
“Kostya,” Wilderness prompted.
Tosca pushed a note across the table to him:

Can you meet me Tuesday 7pm at the Café Orpheus in

Warschauer Straße opposite the station? K.

“I don’t mind playing the messenger for you. But make this the
last time.”
“I’m not happy about these deals to begin with, so … yes. We
complete on this one and we’re out.”
“Good. I do not want Kostya hurt, so do not hurt Kostya. Do not
get Kostya hurt. He’s the son of my oldest friend. Besides, he’s just a
kid.”
“I’m just a kid.”
“No, Joe, you’re not just a kid. You were born old. Make this the
last time you sell anything to Kostya. The shit will hit the fan one
day soon. I want Kostya kept clean. If he works for Yuri, OK. Yuri
can bullshit his way out of anything. He’s a survivor. And Spoleto?
Do we any of us give a fuck what happens to Frank?”
“He’s my partner. I care.”
“Admirable. Don’t let caring get you killed. Above all, don’t let
your caring get my Kostya killed. Capisce?”
“Capisco.”
 §4

The Warschauer Straße U-Bahn station was just within the Soviet
sector, a boundary de ned at this point by the River Spree. It was
the easternmost stop on a line that began out at Uhlandstraße and
crossed the river on the upper deck of the Oberbaumbrücke, a
Victorian monstrosity, not unlike Tower Bridge in London, that had
taken a pasting at the very end of the war—not from the Allies, but
from the Wehrmacht, who had blown the central spans to slow
down the Russian entry into Berlin. The lower deck was for vehicles
and pedestrians, and had been the scene of a couple of shootings in
the last few weeks.
They crossed without incident. They were less than two hundred
yards from the Egg Palace and most, if not all the guards would be
on Yuri’s payroll.
There was no Café Orpheus.
They parked the jeep in front of the Café Unterwelt. A cultural
slip of tongue or memory that made sense to Wilderness and Eddie
but was wasted on Frank.
“I hope the kid doesn’t turn out to be total fuck-up. Orpheus …
Unterthing … who knows?”
The café was aptly named. A pit of a place lacking only brimstone
and sulphur, presided over by man wearing a grubby vest and
several layers of grease. He said nothing, just jerked his thumb in
the direction of the back room.
Kostya was not alone. He stood up as they entered, gestured to
the woman seated next to him, and said, “This is Major—”
Frank cut him short.
“Are we dealing with you or with some major we never met?
What is this? Does your army have more majors than grunts?
Everyone’s a fucking major!”
“Со мной будете говорить.”
“What did she say?”
Wilderness said, “Calm down. She says to deal with her.”
The woman looked up. Dark-skinned, thick black hair falling in
ringlets to her blue epaulettes, nut-brown eyes like Tosca, but
sadder eyes, far, far sadder. She looked to be roughly the same age
as Tosca but perhaps she had not worn so well. God alone knew
what life she might have led—women like this had driven tanks
from the Urals to Berlin only a couple of years ago. Women like this
had taken Berlin and crushed the Nazis.
She had a jar of jam and a jar of Cousin Kitty in front of her, and
was spreading what looked to be grape jelly and peanut butter onto
a slice of black bread.
“Oh, God. That’s just disgusting,” Frank said.
“В один прекрасный день будет бозможно купить такую смесь
в одной и той же банке.”
Kostya translated. “The major says one day you will be able to
buy grape jelly and peanut butter in one jar. Progress.”
“Yeah, well it’s disgusting. Like eating ice cream and meatballs o
of the same plate.”
Wilderness said, “Frank, shuttup and let them get to the point.”
“The major asks this of you. We are wish to buy one thousand
jars.”
“Not possible,” Wilderness said.
He felt Frank touch his arm, watched the major bite into her
gooey feast.
“No so fast, kid. Could be doable, could be.”
“Even if you can get hold of a thousand jars, we don’t have
enough hiding places in the jeep for a thousand jars of anything.”
“Excuse us,” said Frank, with an uncharacteristic show of good
manners, and hustled Wilderness to a corner by the door.
“It’s a cool ve hundred, an easy ve hundred. Are we going to
turn down money like that? Who cares if we have to carry it out in
the open? Our guys are lazy, the Reds don’t give a shit and if we’re
caught, we throw ’em a few jars and carry on. It’s not as if it’s
co ee. It’s not the brown gold. It’s sticky kids’ stu in a fucking jar.
You think anyone’s gonna start World War III over peanut butter?”
Wilderness said nothing for a few moments, looked back across
the room, catching the major with a look of pure gastronomic
delight on her face.
“OK. But that’s it. No more irregular runs after this.”
“Irregular?”
“We stick with co ee and butter. We stick with what we know
pays and we deal only with Yuri.”
“OK, OK.”
Frank approached the table.
“One thousand it is. Fifty cents a jar. Five hundred dollars.”
The major wiped her mouth on the back of one hand.
“Двадцать центов за банку.”
Wilderness said, “She’s o ering twenty.”
“No way. I might go to forty- ve.”
“Скидка для навала.”
“She wants a discount for bulk.”
“Are you kidding? This is bullshit.”
The major got to her feet.
“Twenty- ve,” she said, suddenly no longer in need of an
interpreter.
“Forty.”
“Thirty- ve.”
“Done,” said Frank.
She spoke rapidly to Kostya, so rapidly Wilderness could not
follow, but Kostya said simply, “Noon, Friday?”
Then she bustled past them before either Frank or Wilderness had
answered.
“Well, I’ll be dipped in dogshit.”
“That would be justice,” said Wilderness.
“Kid, your buddy drives a hard bargain.”
“Buddy? What is buddy?”
“You know. Pal, chum … mate … fukkit … tovarich.”
“No, not my pal. Это моя мама.”
“What?”
“He said she’s not his buddy, she’s his mother.”
“I don’t fucking believe this.”
“Yes. Yes. My mother, Volga Vasilievna Zolotukhina.”
As Tosca had called her, “my oldest friend.”
“Volga?” Frank said.
“Da. Like the river.”
Frank rolled his eyes, a burlesque of incredulity.
“Would you believe I have an Aunt Mississippi?”
Kostya looked to Wilderness for help, ba ed by Frank.
“Ignore him, Kostya. We’ll be here at noon on Friday.”
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 CHAPTER XXVII
THE LITTLE STREET SINGER

I T was Christmas Eve, and very nearly dark, when Mrs. Lanier,
driving up St. Charles Avenue in her comfortable carriage quite
filled with costly presents for her children, noticed a forlorn little
figure, standing alone at a street corner. There was something about
the sorrowful looking little figure that moved her strangely, for she
turned and watched it as long as she could discern the child’s face in
the gathering twilight.
It was a little girl, thinly clad in a soiled and torn white frock; her
black stockings were full of holes, and her shoes so worn that the
tiny white toes were visible through the rents. She hugged a thin,
faded shawl around her shoulders, and her yellow hair fell in matted,
tangled strands below her waist; her small face was pale and
pinched, and had a woe-begone look that would melt the hardest
heart. Although she was soiled and ragged, she did not look like a
common child, and it was that indefinable something in her
appearance that attracted Mrs. Lanier’s attention, for she thought as
the carriage whirled by and left the child far behind, “Poor little thing!
she didn’t look like a street beggar. I wish I had stopped and spoken
to her!”
It was Lady Jane, and her descent in the scale of misery had been
rapid indeed.
Since that night, some four months before, when Madame Jozain
had awakened her rudely and told her she must come away, she had
lived in a sort of wretched stupor. It was true she had resisted at first,
and had cried desperately for Pepsie, for Mam’selle Diane, for Gex—
but all in vain; Madame had scolded and threatened and frightened
her into submission.
That terrible midnight ride in the wagon, with the piled-up furniture,
the two black drivers, who seemed to the child’s distorted
imagination two frightful demons, madame angry, and at times
violent if she complained or cried, and the frightful threats and cruel
hints of a more dreadful fate, had so crushed and appalled the child
that she scarcely dared open her pale little lips either to protest or
plead.
Then the pitiful change in her life, from loving care and pleasant
companionship to utter squalid misery and neglect. She had been,
suddenly taken from comparative comfort and plunged into the most
cruel poverty. Good Children Street had been a paradise compared
to the narrow, dirty lane, on the outskirts of the city, where madame
had hidden herself; for the wretched woman, in her fear and
humiliation, seemed to have lost every vestige of ambition, and to
have sunk without the least effort to save herself, to a level with
those around her.
Madame had taken a terrible cold in her hurried flight, and it had
settled in her lame hip; therefore she was obliged to lie in her bed
most of the time, and the little money she had was soon spent.
Hunger was staring her in the face, and the cold autumn winds
chilled her to the marrow. She had been poor and in many bitter
straits, but never before like this. Now she dared not let any one
know of her whereabouts, and for that reason the few friends that
she still had could not help her. She was ill and suffering, and alone
in her misery. Her son had robbed and deserted her, and left her to
her punishment, and, for all she knew, she must die of starvation.
Through the aid of the negro Pete, she had parted with nearly
everything of value that she had, and, to crown her cruelty and Lady
Jane’s misery, one day when the child was absent on a begging
expedition she sold the blue heron to an Italian for two dollars.
The bird was the only comfort the unhappy little creature had, the
only link between the past and the miserable present, and when she
returned to her squalid home and found her only treasure gone, her
grief was so wild and uncontrollable that madame feared for her life.
Therefore, in order to quiet the child, she said the bird had broken
his string and strayed away.
 After this, the child spent her days wandering about searching for
Tony.
When madame first sent her out into the street to sing and beg,
she went without a protest, so perfect was her habit of obedience,
and so great her anxiety to please and conciliate her cruel tyrant.
For, since the night when madame fled from Good Children Street,
she had thrown off all her pretenses of affection for the hapless little
one, whom she considered the cause of all her misfortunes.
“She has made trouble enough for me,” she would say bitterly, in
her hours of silent communion with her own conscience. “If it hadn’t
been for her mother coming to me, Raste wouldn’t have had that
watch and wouldn’t have got locked up for thirty days. After that
disgrace, he couldn’t stay here, and that was the cause of his taking
my money and running off. Yes, all my trouble has come through her
in one way or another, and now she must sing and beg, or she’ll
have to starve.”
Before madame sent her out, she gave Lady Jane instructions in
the most imperative manner. “She must never on any account speak
of Good Children Street, of Madelon or Pepsie, of the d’Hautreves,
of Gex, or the Paichoux, or of any one she had ever known there.
She must not talk with people, and, above all, she must never tell her
name, nor where she lived. She must only sing and hold out her
hand. Sometimes she might cry if she wanted to, but she must never
laugh.”
These instructions the child followed to the letter, with the
exception of one. She never cried, for although her little heart was
breaking she was too proud to shed tears.
It was astonishing how many nickels she picked up. Sometimes
she would come home with her little pocket quite heavy, for her
wonderful voice, so sweet and so pathetic, as well as her sad face
and wistful eyes, touched many a heart, even among the coarsest
and rudest, and madame might have reaped quite a harvest if she
had not been so avaricious as to sell Tony for two dollars. When she
did that she killed her goose that laid golden eggs, for after the loss
of her pet the child could not sing; her little heart was too heavy, and
the unshed tears choked her and drowned her voice in quivering
sobs.
The moment she was out of Tante Pauline’s sight, instead of
gathering nickels, she was wandering around aimlessly, searching
and asking for the blue heron, and at night, when she returned with
an empty pocket, she shivered and cowered into a corner for fear of
madame’s anger.
One morning it was very cold; she had had no breakfast, and she
felt tired and ill, and when madame told her to go out and not to
come back without some money, she fell to crying piteously, and for
the first time begged and implored to stay where she was, declaring
that she could not sing any more, and that she was afraid, because
some rude children had thrown mud at her the day before, and told
her not to come into the street again.
This first revolt seemed to infuriate madame, for reaching out to
where the child stood trembling and sobbing she clutched her and
shook her violently, and then slapping her tear-stained little face until
it tingled, she bade her go out instantly, and not to return unless she
brought some money with her.
This was the first time that Lady Jane had suffered the ignominy of
a blow, and it seemed to arouse her pride and indignation, for she
stopped sobbing instantly, and, wiping the tears resolutely from her
face, shot one glance of mingled scorn and surprise at her tyrant,
and walked out of the room with the dignity of a little princess.
When once outside, she held her hands for a moment to her
burning face, while she tried to still the tumult of anger and sorrow
that was raging in her little heart; then she gathered herself together
with a courage beyond her years, and hurried away without once
looking back at the scene of her torture.
When she was far enough from the wretched neighborhood to feel
safe from observation, she turned in a direction quite different from
any she had taken before. The wind was intensely cold, but the sun
shone brightly, and she hugged her little shawl around her, and ran
on and on swiftly and hopefully.
 “If I hurry and walk and walk just as fast as I can, I’m sure to come
to Good Children Street, and then I’ll ask Pepsie or Mam’selle Diane
to keep me, for I’ll never, never, go back to Tante Pauline again.”
By and by, when she was quite tired with running and walking, she
came to a beautiful, broad avenue that she had never seen before.
There were large, fine houses, and gardens blooming brightly even
in the chilly December wind, and lovely children; dressed in warm
velvet and furs, walking with their nurses on the wide, clean
sidewalks; and every moment carriages drawn by glossy, prancing
horses whirled by, and people laughed and talked merrily, and
looked so happy and contented. She had never seen anything like it
before. It was all delightful, like a pleasant dream, and even better
than Good Children Street. She thought of Pepsie, and wished that
she could see it, and then she imagined how enchanted her friend
would be to ride in one of those fine carriages, with the sun shining
on her, and the fresh wind blowing in her face. The wind reminded
her that she was cold. It pierced through her thin frock and scanty
skirts, and the holes in her shoes and stockings made her ashamed.
After a while she found a sunny corner on the steps of a church,
where she crouched and tried to cover her dilapidated shoes with
her short skirts.
Presently a merry group of children passed, and she heard them
talking of Christmas. “To-morrow is Christmas; this is Christmas Eve,
and we are going to have a Christmas-tree.” Her heart gave a great
throb of joy. By to-morrow she was sure to find Pepsie, and Pepsie
had promised her a Christmas-tree long ago, and she wouldn’t
forget; she was sure to have it ready for her. Oh, if she only dared
ask some of these kind-looking people to show her the way to Good
Children Street! But she remembered what Tante Pauline had told
her, and fear kept her silent. However, she was sure, now that she
had got away from that dreadful place, that some one would find her.
Mr. Gex had found her before when she was lost, and he might find
her now, because she didn’t have a domino on, and he would know
her right away; and then she would get Mr. Gex to hunt for Tony, and
perhaps she would have Tony for Christmas. In this way she
comforted herself until she was quite happy.
 After a while a kind-looking woman came along with a market-
basket on her arm. She was eating something, and Lady Jane, being
very hungry looked at her so wistfully that the woman stopped and
asked her if she would like a piece of bread. She replied eagerly that
she would. The good woman gave her a roll and a large, rosy apple,
and she went back to her corner and munched them contentedly.
Then a fine milk-cart rattled up to a neighboring door, and her heart
almost leaped to her throat; but it was not Tante Modeste. Still, Tante
Modeste might come any moment. She sold milk way up town to rich
people. Yes, she was sure to come; so she sat in her corner and ate
her apple, and waited with unwavering confidence.
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

A T 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.
“My child, my poor child, what are you doing here so late, in the
cold, and with these thin clothes? Why don’t you go home?”
Then the poor little soul, overcome with a horrible fear, began to
shiver and cry. “Oh, don’t! Oh, please don’t send me back to Tante
Pauline! I’m afraid of her; she shook me and struck me this morning,
and I’ve run away from her.”
LADY JANE, CLINGING TO THE RAILING, LOOKED AND LOOKED
 “Where does your Tante Pauline live?” asked the woman, studying
the tremulous little face with a pair of keen, thoughtful eyes.
“I don’t know; away over there somewhere.”
“Don’t you know the name of the street?”
“It isn’t a street; it’s a little place all mud and water, with boards to
walk on.”
“Can’t you tell me your aunt’s name?”
“Yes, it’s Tante Pauline.”
“But her other name?”
“I don’t know, I only know Tante Pauline. Oh please, please don’t
send me there! I’m afraid to go back, because she said I must sing
and beg money, and I couldn’t sing, and I didn’t like to ask people for
nickels,” and the child’s voice broke into a little wail of entreaty that
touched the kind heart of that noble, tender, loving woman, the
Margaret whom some to-day call Saint Margaret. She had heard just
such pitiful stories before from hundreds of hapless little orphans,
who never appealed to her in vain.
“Where are your father and mother?” she asked, as she led the
child to the shelter of the porch.
Lady Jane made the same pathetic answer as usual:
“Papa went to heaven, and Tante Pauline says that mama’s gone
away, and I think she’s gone where papa is.”
Margaret’s eyes filled with tears, while the child shivered and clung
closer to her. “Would you like to stay here to-night, my dear?” she
asked, as she opened the door. “This is the home of a great many
little homeless girls, and the good Sisters love and care for them all.”
Lady Jane’s anxious face brightened instantly. “Oh, can I—can I
stay here where the Christmas-tree is?”
“Yes, my child, and to-morrow there will be something on it for
you.”
 And Margaret opened the door and led Lady Jane into that safe
and comfortable haven where so many hapless little ones have
found a shelter.
That night, after the child had been fed and warmed, and was
safely in bed with the other little orphans, the good Margaret sent
word to all the police stations that she had housed a little wanderer
who if called for could be found safe in her care.
But the little wanderer was not claimed the next day, nor the next
week. Time went on, and Lady Jane was considered a permanent
inmate of the home. She wore the plain uniform of blue, and her long
golden hair was plaited in a thick braid, but still she was lovely,
although not as picturesque as when Pepsie brushed her waving
locks. She was so lovely in person and so gentle and obedient that
she soon became the idol, not only of the good Margaret, but of all
the Sisters, and even of the children, and her singing was a constant
pleasure, for every day her voice became stronger and richer, and
her thrilling little strains went straight to the hearts of those who
heard them.
“She must be taught music,” said Margaret to Sister Agnes; “such
a voice must be carefully cultivated for the church.” Therefore the
Sister who took her in charge devoted herself to the development of
the child’s wonderful talent, and in a few months she was spoken of
as quite a musical prodigy, and all the wealthy patronesses of the
home singled her out as one that was rare and beautiful, and
showered all sorts of gifts and attentions upon her. Among those who
treated her with marked favor was Mrs. Lanier. She never visited the
home without asking for little Jane (Margaret had thought it best to
drop the “Lady,” and the child, with an intuition of what was right,
complied with the wish), and never went away without leaving some
substantial evidence of her interest in the child.
“I believe Mrs. Lanier would like to adopt little Jane,” said Margaret
one day to Sister Agnes, when that lady had just left. “If she hadn’t
so many children of her own, I don’t think she would leave her long
with us.”
 “It is surprising, the interest she takes in her,” returned Sister
Agnes. “When the child sings she just sits as if she was lost to
everything, and listens with all her soul.”
“And she asks the strangest questions about the little thing,”
continued Margaret reflectively. “And she is always suggesting some
way to find out who the child belonged to; but although I’ve tried
every way I can think of, I have never been able to learn anything
satisfactory.”
It was true Margaret had made every effort from the very first to
discover something of the child’s antecedents; but she had been
unsuccessful, owing in a measure to Lady Jane’s reticence. She had
tried by every means to draw some remarks from her that would
furnish a clue to work upon; but all that she could ever induce the
child to say was to repeat the simple statement she had made the
first night, when the good woman found her, cold and forlorn, clinging
to the iron railing in front of the Home.
But Lady Jane’s reticence was not from choice. It was fear that
kept her silent about her life in Good Children Street. Often she
would be about to mention Pepsie, Mam’selle Diane, or the
Paichoux, but the fear of Tante Pauline would freeze the words on
her lips. And she was so happy where she was that even her sorrow
for the loss of Tony was beginning to die out. She loved the good
Sisters, and her grateful little heart clung to Margaret who had saved
her from being sent back to Tante Pauline and the dreadful fate of a
little street beggar. And the warm-hearted little orphans were like
sisters to her; they were merry little playmates, and she was a little
queen among them. And there was the church, with the beautiful
altar, the pictures, the lights, and the music. Oh, how heavenly the
music was, and how she loved to sing with the Sisters! and the
grand organ notes carried her little soul up to the celestial gates on
strains of sweet melody. Yes, she loved it all and was very happy, but
she never ceased to think of Pepsie, Madelon, and Gex, and when
she sang, she seemed always to be with Mam’selle Diane, nestled
close to her side, and, mingled with the strong, rich voices of the
Sisters, she fancied she heard the sweet, faded strains of her
beloved teacher and friend.
 Sometimes when she was studying her lessons she would forget
for a moment where she was, and her book would fall in her lap, and
again she would be sitting with Pepsie, shelling pecans or watching
with breathless interest a game of solitaire; and at times when she
was playing with the children suddenly she would remember the
ancient “professeur of the dance,” and she would hold out her little
blue skirt, and trip and whirl as gracefully in her coarse shoes as she
did when Gex was her teacher.
And so the months went on with Lady Jane, while her friends in
Good Children Street never ceased to talk of her and to lament over
their loss. Poor Mam’selle Diane was in great trouble. Madame
d’Hautreve was very ill, and there was little hope of her recovery.
“She may linger through the spring,” the doctor said, “but you can
hardly expect to keep her through the summer.” And he was right, for
during the last days of the dry, hot month of August, the poor lady,
one of the last of an old aristocracy, closed her dim eyes on a life
that had been full of strange vicissitudes, and was laid away in the
ancient tomb of the d’Hautreves, not far from Lady Jane’s young
mother. And Mam’selle Diane, the noble, patient, self-sacrificing
daughter, was left alone in the little house, with her memories, her
flowers, and her birds. And often, during those first bitter days of
bereavement, she would say to herself, “Oh, if I had that sweet child
now, what a comfort she would be to me! To hear her heavenly little
voice would give me new hope and courage.”
On the morning of Madame d’Hautreve’s funeral, when Paichoux
opened his paper at the breakfast table, he uttered such a loud
exclamation of surprise that Tante Modeste almost dropped the
coffee-pot.
“What is it, papa, what is it?” she cried.
And in reply Paichoux read aloud the notice of the death of
Madame la veuve d’Hautreve, née d’Orgenois; and directly
underneath: “Died at the Charity Hospital, Madame Pauline Jozain,
née Bergeron.”
 CHAPTER XXIX
TANTE MODESTE FINDS LADY JANE

W HEN Paichoux read of the death of Madame Jozain in the

Charity Hospital, he said decidedly: “Modeste, that woman
never left the city. She never went to Texas. She has been hidden
here all the time, and I must find that child.”
“And if you find her, papa, bring her right here to me,” said the
kind-hearted woman. “We have a good many children, it’s true; but
there’s always room for Lady Jane, and I love the little thing as well
as if she were mine.”
Paichoux was gone nearly all day, and, much to the
disappointment of the whole family, did not find Lady Jane.
His first visit had been to the Charity Hospital, where he learned
that Madame Jozain had been brought there a few days before by
the charity wagon. It had been called to a miserable little cabin back
of the city, where they had found the woman very ill, with no one to
care for her, and destitute of every necessity. There was no child
with her—she was quite alone; and in the few lucid intervals that
preceded her death she had never spoken of any child. Paichoux
then obtained the directions from the driver of the charity wagon, and
after some search he found the wretched neighborhood. There all
they could tell him was that the woman had come a few weeks
before; that she had brought very little with her, and appeared to be
suffering. There was no child with her then, and none of the
neighbors had ever seen one visit her, or, for that matter, a grown
person either. When she became worse they were afraid she might
die alone, and had called the charity wagon to take her to the
hospital. The Public Administrator had taken charge of what little she
left, and that was all they could tell.
Did any one know where she lived before she came there? No one
knew; an old negro had brought her and her few things, and they
had not noticed the number of his wagon. The landlord of the squalid
place said that the same old man who brought her had engaged her
room; he did not know the negro. Madame had paid a month’s rent
in advance, and just when the month was up she had been carried to
the hospital.
There the information stopped, and, in spite of every effort,
Paichoux could learn no more. The wretched woman had indeed
obliterated, as it were, every trace of the child. In her fear of
detection, after Lady Jane’s escape from her, she had moved from
place to place, hunted and pursued by a guilty conscience that would
never allow her to rest, and gradually going from bad to worse until
she had died in that last refuge for the miserable, the Charity
Hospital.
“And here I am, just where I started!” said Paichoux dejectedly,
after he had told Tante Modeste of his day’s adventure. “However,”
said he, “I sha’n’t give it up. I’m bound to find out what she did with
that child; the more I think of it, the more I’m convinced that she
never went to Texas, and that the child is still here. Now I’ve a mind
to visit every orphan asylum in the city, and see if I can’t find her in
one of them.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Tante Modeste. “We’ll see for ourselves, and
then we shall be satisfied. Unless she gave Lady Jane away, she’s
likely to be in some such place; and I think, as I always have,
Paichoux, that she stole Lady Jane from some rich family, and that
was why she ran off so sudden and hid. That lady’s coming the day
after proves that some one was on madame’s track. Oh, I tell you
there’s a history there, if we can only get at it. We’ll start out to-
morrow and see what can be done. I sha’n’t rest until the child is
found and restored to her own people.”
One morning, while Lady Jane was in the schoolroom busy with
her lessons, Margaret entered with some visitors. It was a very
common thing for people to come during study hours, and the child
did not look up until she heard some one say: “These are the
children of that age. See if you recognize ‘Lady Jane’ among them.”
 It was her old name that startled her, and made her turn suddenly
toward the man and woman, who were looking eagerly about the
room. In an instant the bright-faced woman cried, “Yes! yes! Oh,
there she is!” and simultaneously Lady Jane exclaimed, “Tante
Modeste, oh, Tante Modeste!” and, quicker than I can tell it, she was
clasped to the loving heart of her old friend, while Paichoux looked
on, twirling his hat and smiling broadly.
“Jane, you can come with us,” said Margaret, as she led the way
to the parlor.
There was a long and interesting conversation, to which the child
listened with grave wonder, while she nestled close to Tante
Modeste. She did not understand all they said; there was a great
deal about Madame Jozain and Good Children Street, and a gold
watch with diamond initials, and beautiful linen with initial letters, J.
C., embroidered on it, and madame’s sudden flight, and the visit of
the elegant lady in the fine carriage, the Texas story, and madame’s
wretched hiding-place and miserable death in the Charity Hospital; to
all of which Margaret listened with surprise and interest. Then she in
turn told the Paichoux how Lady Jane had been found looking in the
window on Christmas Eve, while she clung to the railings, half-clad
and suffering with the cold, and how she had questioned her and
endeavored to get some clue to her identity.
“Why didn’t you tell Mother Margaret about your friends in Good
Children Street, my dear?” asked Tante Modeste, with one of her
bright smiles.
Lady Jane hesitated a moment, and then replied timidly, “Because
I was afraid.”
“What were you afraid of, my child?” asked Paichoux kindly.
“Tante Pauline told me that I mustn’t.” Then she stopped and
looked wistfully at Margaret. “Must I tell now, Mother Margaret? Will it
be right to tell? Tante Pauline told me not to.”
“Yes, my dear, you can tell everything now. It’s right. You must tell
us all you remember.”
 “Tante Pauline told me that I must never, never speak of Good
Children Street nor of any one that lived there, and that I must never
tell any one my name, nor where I lived.”
“Poor child!” said Margaret to Paichoux. “There must have been
some serious reason for so much secrecy. Yes, I agree with you that
there’s a mystery which we must try to clear up, but I would rather
wait a little while. Jane has a friend who is very rich and very
influential—Mrs. Lanier, the banker’s wife. She is absent in
Washington, and when she returns I’ll consult with her, and we’ll see
what’s best to be done. I shouldn’t like to take any important step
until then. But in the meantime, Mr. Paichoux, it will do no harm to
put your plan in operation. I think the idea is good, and in this way
we can work together.”
Then Paichoux promised to begin his investigations at once, for he
was certain that they would bring about some good results, and that,
before many months had passed, Mother Margaret would have one
orphan less to care for.
While Margaret and Paichoux were discussing these important
matters, Tante Modeste and Lady Jane were talking as fast as their
tongues could fly. The child heard for the first time about poor
Mam’selle Diane’s loss, and her eyes filled with tears of sympathy for
her gentle friend. And then, there were Pepsie and Madelon, Gex
and Tite—did they remember her and want to see her? Oh, how glad
she was to hear from them all again; and Tante Modeste cried a little
when Lady Jane told of that terrible midnight ride, of the wretched
home she had been carried to, of her singing and begging in the
streets, of her cold and hunger, and of the blow she had received as
the crowning cruelty.
“But the worst of all was losing Tony. Oh, Tante Modeste!” and the
tears sprang to her eyes, “I’m afraid I’ll never, never find him!”
“Yes, you will, my dear. I’ve faith to believe you will,” replied Tante
Modeste hopefully.
“We’ve found you, ma petite, and now we’ll find the bird. Don’t fret
about it.”
 Then after Margaret had promised to take Lady Jane to Good
Children Street the next day, the good couple went away well
pleased with what they had accomplished.
Tante Modeste could not return home until she had told Pepsie as
well as little Gex the good news. And Mam’selle Diane’s sad heart
was greatly cheered to know that the dear child was safe in the care
of the good Margaret. And oh, what bright hopes and plans filled the
lonely hours of that evening, as she sat dreaming on her little gallery
in the pale, cold moonlight!
The next day Pepsie cried and laughed together when Lady Jane
sprang into her arms and embraced her with her old fervor. “You’re
just the same,” she said, holding the child off and looking at her
fondly; “that is, your face hasn’t changed; but I don’t like your hair
braided, and I don’t like your clothes. I must get Mother Margaret to
let me dress you as I used to.”
And Mam’selle Diane had something of the same feeling when,
after the first long embrace, she looked at the child and asked
Mother Margaret if it was necessary for her to wear the uniform of
the Home. “She must wear it while she is an inmate,” replied
Margaret smiling. “But that will not be long, I suspect. We shall lose
her—yes, I’m afraid we shall lose her soon.”
Then Mam’selle Diane talked a long while with Margaret about her
hopes and plans for Lady Jane. “I am all alone,” she said
pathetically, “and she would give me a new interest in life. If her
relatives are not discovered, why cannot I have her? I will educate
her, and teach her music, and devote my life to her.”
Margaret promised to think it over, and in the mean time she
consented that Lady Jane should remain a few days with Mam’selle
Diane and her friends in Good Children Street.
That night, while the child was nestled close to Mam’selle Diane
as they sat together on the little moonlit gallery, she suddenly asked
with startling earnestness:
“Has your mama gone to heaven, too, Mam’selle Diane?”
“I hope so, my darling; I think so,” replied Diane in a choked voice.