Lady Jane

It was in the beautiful Teche country, on a passenger train of the Louisiana and Texas Railroad, that “Lady Jane” first saw a blue heron.

The month was July, the weather was intensely hot, and the dusty, ill-ventilated car was closely packed with a motley crowd. Among the travelers were Texas ranchmen, cattle dealers from the Opelousas, Cajan farmers from the Attakapas, nuns, priests, itinerant merchants, tired, dusty women, dressed in cotton gowns and sun-bonnets, and barefooted, white-headed children, very noisy and restless, wandering constantly back and forth between the water-tank and their lunch-baskets, eating cold chicken or munching stale biscuit. The ranchmen and cattle dealers talked in loud, good-natured voices; the nuns bent over their prayer-books; the priests yawned and nodded; the merchants displayed their wares; the children fretted; the babies cried, while the weary mothers patted, tossed, and coaxed them with untiring love and patience; and the train flew on, with its hot, dusty passengers, over as beautiful a country as ever was seen, through level stretches of sugar-cane and rice, crossed by narrow bayous that intersected the green plane, catching here and there gleams of sunlight, like silver threads, through the dark cypress swamps, whose bleached trees were crowned with hoary moss, while the trunks were clothed in living green, and festooned with the lovely blossoms of the jasmine, and wild passion-flowers entwined with masses of delicate vines, twisted together in cords and loops of luxuriant verdure, that clambered upward from the dank soil toward the sunlight and the blue sky. In places the track seemed to run over beds of glossy latanea and swaying swamp-grasses, where glistened little shallow pools covered with lily-pads and white fragrant blossoms.

In spite of the intense heat, the day was beautiful. Great banks of white clouds drifted across the sun, softening its ruddy glare, and throwing fantastic shadows over the floating prairies and purple islands of cypress that dotted the broad yellow expanse. Now and then, a flock of birds, startled by the rush of the train, rose up with a shrill cry and noisy whirr of wings, and soared away in a long, trailing line toward the lazy drifting clouds.

Of all the passengers, there were, perhaps, none who noticed or cared for the strange and beautiful scenery, that constantly changed as the train sped on, except the quiet occupants of one seat, who were so unlike those around them as to attract no little attention and curiosity. They were a woman and a child; the lady, young, elegant, and pretty, was dressed in deep mourning; the little girl, who was about five years of age, wore a white cambric frock, plain, but exquisitely fine, a wide straw hat, and long black-silk stockings, and her neat shoes were tied with tiny bows. Her skin was delicately fair and rosy, her eyes of purple-blue were shaded by long dark lashes, and her hair, of a pure golden yellow, hung in a thick, wavy mass down to the loops of her black sash. She was a dainty, delicate little creature, and, although very warm and very tired, was evidently too well-bred to annoy others with restlessness or impatience, but remained quietly kneeling on the seat, at the window of the car, her bright eyes fixed on the beautiful landscape, as the train rushed along.

The mother had thrown back her heavy crape veil, and a little ripple of hair as yellow as the child’s showed beneath the widow’s cap. She looked very weary and ill; her eyes were heavy and swollen with weeping; her face, thin and worn in spite of her youth, was flushed with fever, and her lips were parched and drawn as if she suffered intense pain. At times, she pressed her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes; then, she would start suddenly and look about her, with a glance of apprehension, and her clasp would tighten around the child at her side, as if she feared to lose her hold of her even for a moment; and, now and then, the little girl would lean back her rosy face, and press it to her mother’s flushed cheek, saying softly:

“Does your dear head ache, now, mama?”

“A little, darling,” the mother would answer, as she smoothed the golden hair that fell over her black gown.

Then the child would turn back to the window to watch the flight of birds, the purple islands of cypress, and the shadows sailing over the billowy grasses of the floating prairies. And so the train sped on and on, and the morning was verging to noon, when suddenly she turned with eyes full of delight, and said to her mother, whose head had drooped into her open palms:

“Look, mama! Oh, look at the lovely river! See what big trees, and pretty houses, and there is a big boat coming, and lots and lots of lambs are playing in the field. Oh, I wish we could stop here, and walk about a little! Can’t we, mama?”

“No, my dear; there’s no time to get off,” replied the mother, raising her hand and looking out wearily. “Be patient, darling; we shall soon be in New Orleans, and there you shall have everything you wish.”

The train had stopped at a small station on the Teche to take on a passenger, who entered with a brisk step, and slipped into a seat just vacated opposite the mother and child. He was a handsome lad of about sixteen years. His merry brown eyes looked out frankly from under his dark brows; he had a pleasant smile, and the manly, self-reliant air of one accustomed to travel alone.

In one hand he carried a traveling-bag, and in the other a small basket, over which a piece of thin cloth was tightly tied. He sat down, glancing around him with a bright smile, and placing the basket beside him, tapped on the thin cover with his forefinger, and chirruped merrily to the occupant. Presently an answering “Peep—peep!” came from the depths of the basket, at which he laughed heartily.

From the first moment that the new passenger entered the car, the little yellow head of the child was turned in his direction, and the deep blue eyes were fixed on him with an expression of serious interest.

When he laughed so merrily, her lips trembled and her eyes filled with tears, and overcome with some emotion that she vainly tried to suppress, she buried her face on her mother’s shoulder and whispered brokenly:

“Oh, mama, mama, he laughs as papa used to.”

“Hush, hush, my darling!” said the mother, bending an agonized face over the child, while she soothed her gently; “Don’t cry, my love, don’t cry, or I shall be ill again.”

In an instant the little head was raised resolutely, and the child smiled with the tears glistening on her lashes, while her eyes turned again toward the stranger, who seemed to attract her greatly.

The boy had noticed the lovely little creature and the sorrowful young mother, and his generous heart went out to them at once; therefore, when the child raised her tearful eyes and looked at him so earnestly, he smiled responsively and invitingly.

Again the little head went shyly down to the mother’s shoulder, and she whispered:

“Mama, there’s something alive in that basket. How I wish I could see it!”

“My dear, he’s a stranger. I can’t ask him to show it to you; he might not be willing.”

“Oh, I think he would, mama! He smiled at me when I looked at him. Can’t I ask him? Please,—please let me.”

The mother turned a side glance in the direction of the boy, who moved a little nearer the end of the seat and looked at her intelligently, as if he understood that they were speaking of him. Their eyes met, and he smiled good-naturedly, while he nodded and pointed to the basket. “I thought she would like to see it,” he said, as he began untying the string that fastened the cover.

“You’re very kind to gratify her curiosity,” said the mother, in a gentle voice; “she’s sure that it’s something alive.”

“It is,” laughed the boy. “It’s very much alive; so much so that I’m almost afraid to take off the cover.”

“Go, my darling, and see what it is,” said the mother, as the child slipped past her and stood before the boy, looking at him from under the shadow of her black hat with eager, inquiring eyes.

“I don’t think you’ve ever seen anything like him before. They’re not common, and he’s a funny little beggar. I thought you’d like to see him when I saw you looking at the basket. He’s very tame, but we must be careful he doesn’t get out. With all these windows open, he’d be gone before we knew it. Now I’ll lift the cover and hold my hand so that you can peep in.”

The child’s head was bent over the basket, intense curiosity in her wide eyes, and a little, anxious smile on her parted lips. “Oh, oh, how pretty! What is it?” she asked, catching a glimpse of a strange-looking bird, with a very long bill and little, bright eyes, huddled up at the bottom of the basket. “I never saw one like it. What is it?” she repeated, her sparkling eyes full of delight and surprise.

“It’s a blue heron, and they’re very rare about here.”

“He’s not blue—not very blue; but he’s pretty. I wish I could just touch his feathers.”

“You can. You can put your hand in the basket; he won’t bite.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said with confidence, as she stroked the soft feathers.

“If these windows were closed I’d take him out, and let you see him walk. He’s very funny when he walks; and he’s so intelligent. Why, he comes to me when I call him.”

“What do you call him? What is his name?”

“I call him Tony, because when he was very small he made a noise like ‘tone—tone.’”

“Tony,” she repeated, “that’s a pretty name; and it’s a funny one too,” she added, dimpling with smiles.

“Now, won’t you tell me your name?” asked the boy. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d like to know your name.”

“Why, yes, I’ll tell you,” she replied, with charming frankness; “I’m called ‘Lady Jane.’”

“Lady Jane!” repeated the boy; “why, that’s a very odd name.”

“Papa always called me Lady Jane, and now every one does.”