天涯在线书库《www.tianyabook.com》
《A Little Princess》
1. Sara
1. Sara
On a dark winters day, when the yellow fog hung so thid heavy ireets of London that the lamps were lighted and the shop windows blazed with gas as they do at night, an odd- looking little girl sat in a cab with her father and was driven rather slowly through the big thhfares.
She sat with her feet tucked under her, and leaned against her father藏书网, who held her in his arm, as she stared out of the window at the passing people with a queer old-fashiohoughtfulness in her big eyes.
She was such a little girl that one did not expect to see such a look on her small face. It would have been an old look for a child of twelve, and Sara Crewe was only seven. The fact was, however, that she was always dreaming and thinking odd things and could not herself remember any time when she had not been thinking things about grown-up people and the world they beloo. She felt as if she had lived a long, long time.
At this moment she was remembering the voyage she had just made from Bombay with her father, Captain Crewe. She was thinking of the big ship, of the Lascars passing silently to and fro on it, of the children playing about o deck, and of some young officers wives who used to try to make her talk to them and laugh at the things she said.
Principally, she was thinking of what a queer thing it was that at oime one was in India in the blazing sun, and then in the middle of the o, and then driving in a strange vehicle through strareets where the day was as dark as the night. She found this so puzzling that she moved closer to her father.
"Papa," she said in a low, mysterious little voice which was almost a whisper, "papa."
"What is it, darling?" Captain Crewe answered, holding her closer and looking down into her face. "What is Sara thinking of?"
"Is this the place?" Sara whispered, cuddling still closer to him. "Is it, papa?"
"Yes, little Sara, it is. We have reached it at last." And though she was only seven years old, she khat he felt sad when he said it.
It seemed to her many years since he had begun to prepare her mind for "the place," as she always called it. Her mother had died when she was born, so she had never known or missed her. Her young, handsome, rich, petting father seemed to be the only relation she had in the world. They had allayed together and been fond of each other. She only knew he was rich because she had heard people say so whehought she was not listening, and she had also heard them say that when she grew up she would be rich, too. She did not know all that being rich meant. She had always lived in a beautiful bungalow, and had beeo seeing many servants who made salaams to her and called her "Missee Sahib," and gave her her own way ihing. She had had toys as and an ayah who worshipped her, and she had gradually learhat people who were rich had these things. That, however, was all she knew about it.
During her short life only ohing had troubled her, and that thing was "the place" she was to be taken to some day. The climate of India was very bad for children, and as soon as possible they were sent away from it--generally to England and to school. She had seen other children go away, and had heard their fathers and mothers talk about the letters they received from them. She had known that she would be obliged to go also, and though sometimes her fathers stories of the voyage and the new try had attracted her, she had been troubled by the thought that he could not stay with her.
"Couldnt you go to that place with me, papa?" she had asked when she was five years old. "Couldnt you go to school, too? I would help you with your lessons."
"But you will not have to stay for a very long time, little Sara," he had always said. "You will go to a nice house where there will be a lot of little girls, and you will play together, and I will send you plenty of books, and you will grow so fast that it will seem scarcely a year before you are big enough and clever enough to e bad take care of papa."
She had liked to think of that. To keep the house for her father; to ride with him, and sit at the head of his table when he had dinner parties; to talk to him and read his books--that would be what she would like most in9９ｌｉｂ? the world, and if one must go away to "the place" in England to attain it, she must make up her mind to go. She did not care very much for other little girls, but if she had plenty of books she could sole herself. She liked books more than anything else, and was, in fact, always iing stories of beautiful things and telling them to herself. Sometimes she had told them to her father, and he had liked them as much as she did.
"Well, papa," she said softly, "if we are here I suppose we must be resigned."
He laughed at her old-fashioned speed kissed her. He was really not at all resigned himself, though he knew he must keep that a secret. His quaint little Sara had been a great panion to him, and he felt he should be a lonely fellow when, on his return to India, he went into his bungalow knowing he need not expect to see the small figure in its white froe forward to meet him. So he held her very closely in his arms as the cab rolled into the big, dull square in which stood the house which was their destination.
It was a big, dull, brick house, exactly like all the others in its row, but that on the front door there shone a brass plate on which was engraved in black letters:
Miss Min,
Select Seminary for Young Ladies.
"Here we are, Sara," said Captain Crewe, making his voice sound as cheerful as possible. Then he lifted her out of the cab and they mouhe steps and rang the bell. Sara often thought afterward that the house was somehow exactly like Miss Min. It was respectable and well furnished, but everything in it was ugly; and the very armchairs seemed to have hard bones in them. In the hall everything was hard and polished--even the red cheeks of the moon fa the tall clo the er had a severe varnished look. The drawing room into which they were ushered was covered by a carpet with a square pattern upon it, the chairs were square, and a heavy marble timepiece stood upon the heavy marble mantel.
As she sat down in one of the stiff mahogany chairs, Sara cast one of her quick looks about her.
"I dont like it, papa," she said. ";But then I dare say soldiers-- even brave ones--dont really like going into battle."
Captain Crewe laughed ht at this. He was young and full of fun, and he ired of hearing Saras queer speeches.
"Oh, little Sara," he said. "What shall I do when I have no oo say solemn things to me? No one else is as solemn as you are."
"But why do solemn things make you laugh so?" inquired Sara.
"Because you are such fun when you say them," he answered, laughing still more. And then suddenly he swept her into his arms and kissed her very hard, stopping laughing all at ond looking almost as if tears had e into his eyes.
It was just then that Miss Min ehe room. She was very like her house, Sara felt: tall and dull, and respectable and ugly. She had large, cold, fishy eyes, and a large, cold, fishy smile. It spread itself into a very large smile when she saw Sara and Captain Crewe. She had heard a great many desirable things of the young soldier from the lady who had reended her school to him. Among other things, she had heard that he was a rich father illing to spend a great deal of money on his little daughter.
"It will be a great privilege to have charge of such a beautiful and promising child, Captain Crewe," she said, taking Saras hand and stroking it. "Lady Meredith has told me of her unusual cleverness. A clever child is a great treasure in aablishment like mine."
Sara stood quietly, with her eyes fixed upon Miss Mins face. She was thinking something odd, as usual.
"Why does she say I am a beautiful child?" she was thinking. "I am not beautiful at all. el Granges little girl, Isobel, is beautiful. She has dimples and rose-colored cheeks, and long hair the color of gold. I have short black hair and green eyes; besides which, I am a thin child and not fair in the least. I am one of the ugliest children I ever saw. She is beginning by telling a story."
She was mistaken, however, in thinking she was an ugly child. She was not in the least like Isobel Grange, who had been the beauty of the regiment, but she had an odd charm of her own. She was a slim, supple creature, rather tall for her age, and had an intetractive little face. Her hair was heavy and quite blad only curled at the tips; her eyes were greenish gray, it is true, but they were big, wonderful eyes with long, black lashes, and though she herself did not like the color of them, many other people did. Still she was very firm in her belief that she was an ugly little girl, and she was not at all elated by Miss Mins flattery.
"I should be telling a story if I said she was beautiful," she thought; "and I should know I was telling a story. I believe I am as ugly as she is--in my way. What did she say that for?"
After she had known Miss Min longer she learned why she had said it. She discovered that she said the same thing to each papa and mamma whht a child to her school.
Sara stood near her father and listened while he and Miss Min talked. She had been brought to the seminary because Lady Merediths two little girls had been educated there, and Captain Crewe had a great respect for Lady Merediths experience. Sara was to be what was known as "a parlor boarder," and she was to enjoy eveer privileges than parlor boarders usually did. She was to have a pretty bedroom and sitting room of her own; she was to have a pony and a carriage, and a maid to take the place of the ayah who had been her nurse in India.
"I am not in the least anxious about her education," Captain Crewe said, with his gay laugh, as he held Saras hand and patted it. "The difficulty will be to keep her from learning too fast and too much. She is always sitting with her little nose burrowing into books. She doeshem, Miss Min; she gobbles them up as if she were a little wolf instead of a little girl. She is always starving for new books to gobble, and she wants grown-up books--great, big, fat ones--Frend German as well as English--history and biography and poets, and all sorts of things. Drag her away from her books when she reads too much. Make her ride her pony in the Ro out and buy a new doll. She ought to play more with dolls."
"Papa," said Sara, "you see, if I went out and bought a new doll every few days I should have more than I could be fond of. Dolls ought to be intimate friends. Emily is going to be my intimate friend."
Captain Crewe looked at Miss Min and Miss Min looked at Captain Crewe.
"Who is Emily?" she inquired.
"Tell her, Sara," Captain Crewe said, smiling.
Saras green-gray eyes looked very solemn and quite soft as she answered.
"She is a doll I havent got yet," she said. "She is a doll papa is going to buy for me. We are going out together to find her. I have called her Emily. She is going to be my friend when papa is gone. I wao talk to about him."
Miss Mins large, fishy smile became very flattering indeed.
"What an inal child!" she said. "What a darling little creature!"
"Yes," said Captain Crewe, drawing Sara close. "She is a darling little creature. Take great care of her for me, Miss Min."
Sara stayed with her father at his hotel for several days; in fact, she remained with him until he sailed away again to India. They went out and visited many big shops together, and bought a great many things. They bought, indeed, a great many more things than Sara needed; but Captain Crewe was a rash, i young man and wanted his little girl to have everything she admired and everything he admired himself, so betweehey collected a wardrobe much too grand for a child of seven. There were velvet dresses trimmed with costly furs, and lace dresses, and embroidered ones, and hats with great, soft ostrich feathers, and ermine coats and muffs, and boxes of tiny gloves and handkerchiefs and silk stogs in such abundant supplies that the polite young women behind the ters whispered to each other that the odd little girl with the big, solemn eyes must be at least some fn princess--perhaps the little daughter of an Indian rajah.
And at last they found Emily, but they went to a number of toy shops and looked at a great many dolls before they discovered her.
"I wao look as if she wasnt a doll really," Sara said. "I wao look as if she listens when I talk to her. The trouble with dolls, papa"--and she put her head on one side and reflected as she said it--"the trouble with dolls is that they never seem to hear." So they looked at big ones and little ones-- at dolls with black eyes and dolls with blue--at dolls with brown curls and dolls with golden braids, dolls dressed and dolls undressed.
"You see," Sara said when they were examining one who had no clothes. "If, when I find her, she has no frocks, we take her to a dressmaker and have her things made to fit. They will fit better if they are tried on."
After a number of disappois they decided to walk and look in at the shop windows ahe cab follow them. They had passed two or three places without even going in, when, as they were approag a shop which was really not a very large one, Sara suddenly started and clutched her fathers arm.
"Oh, papa!" she cried. "There is Emily!"
A flush had risen to her fad there was an expression in her green-gray eyes as if she had just reized someone she was intimate with and fond of.
"She is actually waiting there for us!" she said. "Let us go in to her."
"Dear me," said Captain Crewe, "I feel as if we ought to have someoo introduce us."
"You must introduce me and I will introduce you," said Sara. "But I knew her the minute I saw her--so perhaps she knew me, too."
Perhaps藏书网 she had known her. She had certainly a very intelligent expression in her eyes when Sara took her in her arms. She was a large doll, but not toe to carry about easily; she had naturally curling golden-brown hair, which hung like a mantle about her, and her eyes were a deep, clear, gray-blue, with soft, thick eyelashes which were real eyelashes and not mere painted lines.
"Of course," said Sara, looking into her face as she held her on her knee, "of course papa, this is Emily."
So Emily was bought and actually taken to a childrens outfitters shop and measured for a wardrobe as grand as Saras own. She had lace frocks, too, a and muslin ones, and hats and coats aiful lace-trimmed underclothes, and gloves and handkerchiefs and furs.
"I should like her always to look as if she was a child with a good mother," said Sara. "Im her mother, though I am going to make a panion of her."
Captain Crewe would really have ehe shopping tremendously, but that a sad thought kept tugging at his heart. This all meant that he was going to be separated from his beloved, quaint little rade.
He got out of his bed in the middle of that night a and stood looking down at Sara, who lay asleep with Emily in her arms. Her black hair read out on the pillow and Emilys golden-brown hair mingled with it, both of them had lace-ruffled nightgowns, and both had long eyelashes which lay and curled up on their cheeks. Emily looked so like a real child that Captain Crewe felt glad she was there. He drew a big sigh and pulled his mustache with a boyish expression.
"Heigh-ho, little Sara!" he said to himself "I dont believe you know how much your daddy will miss you."
The day he took her to Miss Mins a her there. He was to sail away the m. He explaio Miss Min that his solicitors, Messrs. Barro; Skipworth, had charge of his affairs in England and would give her any advice she wanted, and that they would pay the bills she sent in for Saras expenses. He would write to Sara twice a week, and she was to be given every pleasure she asked for.
"She is a sensible little thing, and she never wants anything it isnt safe to give her," he said.
Then he went with Sara into her little sitting room and they bade each ood-by. Sara sat on his knee ahe lapels of his coat in her small hands, and looked long and hard at his face.
"Are you learning me by heart, little Sara?" he said, stroking her hair.
"No," she answered. "I know you by heart. You are inside my heart." And they put their arms round each other and kissed as if they would never let each o.
When the cab drove away from the door, Sara was sitting on the floor of her sitting room, with her hands under her and her eyes following it until it had turhe er of the square. Emily was sitting by her, and she looked after it, too. When Miss Min sent her sister, Miss Amelia, to see what the child was doing, she found she could not open the door.
"I have locked it," said a queer, polite little voice from inside. "I want to be quite by myself, if you please."
Miss Amelia was fat and dumpy, and stood very mu awe of her sister. She was really the better-natured person of the two, but she never disobeyed Miss Min. She went downstairs again, looking almost alarmed.
"I never saw such a funny, old-fashioned child, sister," she said. "She has locked herself in, and she is not making the least particle of noise."
"It is much better than if she kicked and screamed, as some of them do," Miss Min answered. "I expected that a child as much spoiled as she is would set the whole house in an uproar. If ever a child was given her own way ihing, she is."
"Ive been openirunks and puttihings away," said Miss Amelia. "I never saw anything like them--sable and ermine on her coats, and real Valenes la her underclothing. You have seen some of her clothes. What do you think of them?"
"I think they are perfectly ridiculous," replied Miss Min, sharply; "but they will look very well at the head of the line wheake the schoolchildren to chur Sunday. She has been provided for as if she were a little princess."
And upstairs in the locked room Sara and Emily sat on the floor and stared at the er round which the cab had disappeared, while Captain Crewe looked backward, waving and kissing his hand as if he could not bear to stop.
2. A French Lesson
2. A French Lesson
When Sara ehe schoolroom the m everybody looked at her with wide, ied eyes. By that time every pupil-- from Lavinia Herbert, who was nearly thirteen a quite grown up, to Lottie Legh, who was only just four and the baby of the school-- had heard a great deal about her. They knew very certainly that she was Miss Mins show pupil and was sidered a credit to the establishment. One or two of them had even caught a glimpse of her French maid, Mariette, who had arrived the evening before. Lavinia had mao pass Saras room when the door en, and had seen Mariette opening a box which had arrived late from some shop.
"It was full of petticoats with lace frills on them--frills and frills," she whispered to her friend Jessie as she bent over her geography. "I saw her shaking them out. I heard Miss Min say to Miss Amelia that her clothes were so grand that they were ridiculous for a child. My mamma says that children should be dressed simply. She has got one of those petticoats on now. I saw it whe down."
"She has silk stogs on!" whispered Jessie, bending over her geography also. "And what little feet! I never saw such little feet."
"Oh," sniffed Lavinia, spitefully, "that is the way her slippers are made. My mamma says that even big feet be made to look small if you have a clever shoemaker. I dont think she is pretty at all. Her eyes are such a queer color."
"She isnt pretty as other pretty people are," said Jessie, stealing a glance across the room; "but she makes you want to look at her again. She has tremendously long eyelashes, but her eyes are almost green."
Sara was sitting quietly in her seat, waiting to be told what to do. She had been plaear Miss Mins desk. She was not abashed at all by the many pairs of eyes watg her. She was ied and looked back quietly at the children who looked at her. She wondered what they were thinking of, and if they liked Miss Min, and if they cared for their lessons, and if any of them had a papa at all like her own. She had had a long talk with Emily about her papa that m.
"He i９９ｌib?s on the sea now, Emily," she had said. "We must be very great friends to each other and tell each other things. Emily, look at me. You have the eyes I ever saw--but I wish you could speak."
She was a child full of imaginings and whimsical thoughts, and one of her fancies was that there would be a great deal of fort in eveending that Emily was alive and really heard and uood. After Mariette had dressed her in her dark-blue schoolroom frod tied her hair with a dark-blue ribbon, she went to Emily, who sat in a chair of her own, and gave her a book.
"You read that while I am downstairs," she said; and, seeing Mariette looking at her curiously, she spoke to her with a serious little face.
"What I believe about dolls," she said, "is that they do things they will not let us know about. Perhaps, really, Emily read and talk and walk, but she will only do it when people are out of the room. That is her secret. You see, if people khat dolls could do things, they would make them work. So, perhaps, they have promised each other to keep it a secret. If you stay in the room, Emily will just sit there and stare; but if you go out, she will begin to read, perhaps, o and look out of the window. Then if she heard either of us ing, she would just run bad jump into her chair and pretend she had been there all the time."
"e elle est drole!" Mar?９９lｉｂ.iette said to herself, and when she went downstairs she told the head housemaid about it. But she had already begun to like this odd little girl who had su intelligent small fad such perfect manners. She had taken care of children before who were not so polite. Sara was a very fitle person, and had a gentle, appreciative way of saying, "If you please, Mariette," "Thank you, Mariette," which was very charming. Mariette told the head housemaid that she thanked her as if she was thanking a lady.
"Elle a lair dune princesse, cette petite," she said. Indeed, she was very much pleased with her new little mistress and liked her place greatly.
After Sara had sat in her seat in the schoolroom for a few minutes, being looked at by the pupils, Miss Min rapped in a dignified manner upon her desk.
"Young ladies," she said, "I wish to introduce you to your new panion." All the little girls rose in their places, and Sara rose also. "I shall expect you all to be very agreeable to Miss Crewe; she has just e to us from a great distance--in fact, from India. As soon as lessons are over you must make each others acquaintance."
The pupils bowed ceremoniously, and Sara made a little curtsy, and then they sat down and looked at each ain.
"Sara," said Miss Min in her schoolroom manner, "e here to me."
She had taken a book from the desk and was turning over its leaves. Sara went to her politely.
"As your papa has engaged a French maid for you," she began, "I clude that he wishes you to make a special study of the French language."
Sara felt a little awkward.
"I think he engaged her," she said, "because he--he thought I would like her, Miss Min."
"I am afraid," said Miss Min, with a slightly sour smile, "that you have been a very spoiled little girl and always imagihat things are done because you like them. My impression is that your papa wished you to learn French."
If Sara had been older or less punctilious about being quite polite to people, she could have explained herself in a very few words. But, as it was, she felt a flush rising on her cheeks. Miss Min was a very severe and imposing person, and she seemed so absolutely sure that Sara knew nothing whatever of French that she felt as if it would be almost rude to correct her. The truth was that Sara could not remember the time when she had not seemed to know French. Her father had often spoken it to her when she had been a baby. Her mother had been a Frenan, and Captain Crewe had loved her language, so it happehat Sara had always heard and been familiar with it.
"I--I have never really learned French, but--but--" she began, trying shyly to make herself clear.
One of Miss Mins chief secret annoyances was that she did not speak French herself, and was desirous of cealing the irritating fact. She, therefore, had no iion of discussing the matter and laying herself open to i questioning by a new little pupil.
"That is enough," she said with polite tartness. "If you have not learned, you must begin at ohe French master, Monsieur Dufarge, will be here in a few miake this book and look at it until he arrives."
Saras cheeks felt warm. She went back to her seat and opehe book. She looked at the first page with a grave face. She k would be rude to smile, and she was very determined not to be rude. But it was very odd to find herself expected to study a page which told her that "le pere" meant "the father," and "la mere" meant "the mother."
Miss Min glaoward her scrutinizingly.
"You look rather cross, Sara," she said. "I am sorry you do not like the idea of learning French."
"I am very fond of it," answered Sara, thinking she would try again; "but--"
"You must not say `but when you are told to do things," said Miss Min. "Look at your book again."
And Sara did so, and did not smile, even when she found that "le fils" meant "the son," and "le frere" meant "the brother."
"When Monsieur Dufarge es," she thought, "I make him uand."
Monsieur Dufarge arrived very shortly afterward. He was a very nice, intelligent, middle-aged Fren, and he looked ied when his eyes fell upon Sara trying politely to seem absorbed in her little book of phrases.
"Is this a new pupil for me, madame?" he said to Miss Min. "I hope that is my good fortune.".９９ｌｉb?;
"Her papa--Captain Crewe--is very anxious that she should begin the language. But I am afraid she has a childish prejudice against it. She does not seem to wish to learn," said Miss Min.
"I am sorry of that, mademoiselle," he said kindly to Sara. "Perhaps, when we begin to study together, I may show you that it is a charming tongue."
Little Sara rose in her seat. She was beginning to feel rather desperate, as if she were almost in disgrace. She looked up into Monsieur Dufarges face with her big, green-gray eyes, and they were quite ily appealing. She khat he would uand as soon as she spoke. She began to explain quite simply iy and fluent French. Madame had not uood. She had not learned Frely--not out of books--but her papa and other people had always spoken it to her, and she had read it and written it as she had read and written English. Her papa loved it, and she loved it because he did. Her dear mamma, who had died when she was born, had been French. She would be glad to learn anything monsieur would teach her, but what she had tried to explain to madame was that she already khe words in this book-- and she held out the little book of phrases.
When she began to speak Miss Min started quite violently and sat staring at her over her eyeglasses, almost indignantly, until she had finished. Monsieur Dufarge began to smile, and his smile was one of great pleasure. To hear this pretty childish voice speaking his own language so simply and charmingly made him feel almost as if he were in his native land--whi dark, foggy days in London sometimes seemed worlds away. When she had finished, he took the phrase book from her, with a look almost affeate. But he spoke to Miss Min.
"Ah, madame," he said, "there is not much I teach her. She has not learned French; she is French. Her at is exquisite."
"You ought to have told me," exclaimed Miss Min, much mortified, turning to Sara.
"I--I tried," said Sara. "I--I suppose I did not begin right."
Miss Min knew she had tried, and that it had not been her fault that she was not allowed to explain. And when she saw that the pupils had been listening and that Lavinia and Jessie were giggling behind their French grammars, she felt infuriated.
"Silence, young ladies!" she said severely, rapping upon the desk. "Sile once!"
And she began from that mio feel rather a grudge against her show pupil.
3. Ermengarde
3. Ermengarde
On that first m, when Sara sat at Miss Mins side, aware that the whole schoolroom was devoting itself to her, she had noticed very sootle girl, about her own age, who looked at her very hard with a pair of light, rather dull, blue eyes. She was a fat child who did not look as if she were in the least clever, but she had a good-naturedly pouting mouth. Her flaxen hair was braided in a tight pigtail, tied with a ribbon, and she had pulled this pigtail around her neck, and was biting the end of the ribboing her elbows on the desk, as she stared wly at the new pupil. When Monsieur Dufarge began to speak to Sara, she looked a little frightened; and when Sara stepped forward and, looking at him with the i, appealing eyes, answered him, without any warning, in French, the fat little girl gave a startled jump, and grew quite red in her awed amazement. Havi hopeless tears for weeks in her efforts to remember that "la mere" meant "the mother," and "le pere," "the father,"-- when one spoke sensible English--it was almost too much for her suddenly to find herself listening to a child her own age who seemed not only quite familiar with these words, but apparently knew any number of others, and could mix them up with verbs as if they were mere trifles.
She stared so hard and bit the ribbon on her pigtail so fast that she attracted the attention of Miss Min, who, feeliremely cross at the moment, immediately pounced upon her.
"Miss St. John!" she exclaimed severely. "What do you mean by such duct? Remove your elbows! Take your ribbon out of your mouth! Sit up at once!"
Upon which Miss St. John gave another jump, and when Lavinia and Jessie tittered she became redder than ever--so red, ihat she almost looked as if tears were ing into her poor, dull, childish eyes; and Sara saw her and was so sorry for her that she began rather to like her and want to be her friend. It was a way of hers always to want t into any fray in whieone was made unfortable or unhappy.
"If Sara had been a boy and lived a few turies ago," her father used to say, "she would have gone about the try with her sword drawn, resg and defending everyone in distress. She always wants to fight when she sees people in trouble."
So she took rather a fancy to fat, slow, little Miss St. John, a glang toward her through the m. She saw that lessons were no easy matter to her, and that there was no danger of her ever being spoiled by being treated as a show pupil. Her French lesson athetic thing. Her pronunciation made even Monsieur Dufarge smile in spite of himself, and Lavinia and Jessie and the more fortunate girls either giggled or looked at her in w disdain. But Sara did not laugh. She tried to look as if she did not hear when Miss St. John called "le bon pain," "lee bong pang." She had a fine, hot little temper of her own, and it made her feel rather savage when she heard the titters and saw the poor, stupid, distressed childs face.
"It isnt funny, really," she said betweeeeth, as she bent over her book. "They ought not to laugh."
When lessons were over and the pupils gathered together in groups to talk, Sara looked for Miss St. John, and finding her bundled rather dissolately in a window-seat, she walked over to her and spoke. She only said the kind of thing little girls always say to each other by way of beginning an acquaintance, but there was something friendly about Sara, and people always felt it.
"What is your name?" she said.
To explain Miss St. Johns amazement one must recall that a new pupil is, for a short time, a somewhat uain thing; and of this new pupil the entire school had talked the night before until it fell asleep quite exhausted by excitement and tradictory stories. A new pupil with a carriage and a pony and a maid, and a voyage from India to discuss, was not an ordinary acquaintance.
"My names Ermengarde St. John," she answered.
"Mine is Sara Crewe," said Sara. "Yours is very pretty. It sounds like a story book."
"Do you like it?" fluttered Ermengarde. "I--I like yours."
Miss St. Johns chief trouble in life was that she had a clever father. Sometimes this seemed to her a dreadful calamity. If you have a father who knows everything, who speaks seven ht languages, and has thousands of volumes which he has apparently learned by heart, he frequently expects you to be familiar with the tents of your lesson books at least; and it is not improbable that he will feel you ought to be able to remember a few is of history and to write a French exercise. Ermengarde was a severe trial to Mr. St. John. He could not uand how a child of his could be a notably and unmistakably dull creature who never shone in anything.
"Good heavens!" he had said more than once, as he stared at her, "there are times when I think she is as stupid as her Aunt Eliza!"
If her Aunt Eliza had been slow to learn and quick tet a thiirely when she had lear, Ermengarde was strikingly like her. She was the moal dunce of the school, and it could not be denied.
"She must be made to learn," her father said to Miss Min.
sequently Ermengarde spent the greater part of her life in disgrace or in tears. She learhings and fot them; or, if she remembered them, she did not uand them. So it was natural that, having made Saras acquaintance, she should sit and stare at her with profound admiration.
"You speak French, t you?" she said respectfully.
Sara got on to the window-seat, which was a big, deep one, and, tug up her feet, sat with her hands clasped round her knees.
"I speak it because I have heard it all my life," she answered. "You could speak it if you had always heard it."
"Oh, no, I couldnt," said Ermengarde. "I never could speak it!"
"Why?" inquired Sara, curiously.
Ermengarde shook her head so that the pigtail wobbled.
"You heard me just now," she said. "Im always like that. I t say the words. Theyre so queer."
She paused a moment, and then added with a touch of awe in her voice, "You are clever, arent you?".
Sara looked out of the window into the dingy square, where the sparrows were hopping and twittering o, iron railings and the sooty branches of the trees. She reflected a few moments. She had heard it said very often that she was "clever," and she wondered if she was--and if she was, how it had happened.
"I dont know," she said. "I t tell." Then, seeing a mournful look on the round, chubby face, she gave a little laugh and ged the subject.
"Would you like to see Emily?" she inquired.
"Who is Emily?" Ermengarde asked, just as Miss Min had done.
"e up to my room and see," said Sara, holding out her hand.
They jumped down from the window-seat together, a upstairs.
"Is it true," Ermengarde whispered, as they went through the hall- -"is it true that you have a playroom all to yourself?"
"Yes," Sara answered. "Papa asked Miss Min to let me have one, because--well, it was because when I play I make up stories ahem to myself, and I dont like people to hear me. It spoils it if I think people listen."
They had reached the passage leading to Saras room by this time, and Ermengarde stopped short, staring, and quite losing her breath.
"You make up stories!" she gasped. " you do that--as well as speak French? you?"
Sara looked at her in simple surprise.
"Why, anyone make up things," she said. "Have you ried?"
She put her hand warningly ardes.
"Let us go very quietly to the door," she whispered, "and then I will open it quite suddenly; perhaps we may catch her."
She was half laughing, but there was a touysterious hope in her eyes which fasated Ermengarde, though she had not the remotest idea what it meant, or whom it was she wao "catch," or why she wao catch her. Whatsoever she meant, Ermengarde was sure it was something delightfully exg. So, quite thrilled with expectation, she followed her on tiptoe along the passage. They made not the least il they reached the door. Then Sara suddenly turhe handle, and threw it wide open. Its opening revealed the room quite and quiet, a fire gently burning in the grate, and a wonderful doll sitting in a chair by it, apparently reading a book.
"Oh, she got back to her seat before we could see her!" Sara explained. "Of course they always do. They are as quick as lightning."
Ermengarde looked from her to the doll and back again.
" she--walk?" she asked breathlessly.
"Yes," answered Sara. "At least I believe she . At least I pretend I believe she . And that makes it seem as if it were true. Have you never pretehings?"
"No," said Ermengarde. "Never. I--tell me about it."
She was so bewitched by this odd, new panion that she actually stared at Sara instead of at Emily--notwithstanding that Emily was the most attractive doll person she had ever seen.
"Let us sit down," said Sara, "and I will tell you. Its so easy that when you begin you t stop. You just go on and on doing it always. And its beautiful. Emily, you must listen. This is Ermengarde St. John, Emily. Ermengarde, this is Emily. Would you like to hold her?"
"Oh, may I?" said Ermengarde. "May I, really? She is beautiful!" And Emily ut into her arms.
Never in her dull, short life had Miss St. John dreamed of su hour as the one she spent with the queer new pupil before they heard the lunch-bell ring and were obliged to go downstairs.
Sara sat upon the hearth-rug and told her strahings. She sat rather huddled up, and her green eyes shone and her cheeks flushed. She told stories of the voyage, and stories of India; but what fasated Ermengarde the most was her fancy about the dolls who walked and talked, and who could do anything they chose when the human beings were out of the room, but who must keep their powers a secret and so flew back to their places "like lightning" when people returo the room.
"We couldnt do it," said Sara, seriously. "You see, its a kind of magic."
Once, when she was relating the story of the searily, Ermengarde saw her face suddenly ge. A cloud seemed to pass over it and put out the light in her shining eyes. She drew her breath in so sharply that it made a funny, sad little sound, and then she shut her lips ahem tightly closed, as if she was determiher to do or not to do something. Ermengarde had ahat if she had been like any other little girl, she might have suddenly burst out sobbing and g. But she did not藏书网.
"Have you a--a pain?" Ermengarde ventured.
"Yes," Sara answered, after a moments silence. "But it is not in my body." Then she added something in a low voice which she tried to keep quite steady, and it was this: "Do you love your father more than anything else in all the whole world?"
Ermengardes mouth fell open a little. She khat it would be far from behaving like a respectable child at a select seminary to say that it had never occurred to you that you could love your father, that you would do anything desperate to avoid bei alone in his society for ten minutes. She was, indeed, greatly embarrassed.
"I--I scarcely ever see him," she stammered. "He is always in the library--reading things."
"I love mine more than all the world ten times over," Sara said. "That is what my pain is. He has gone away."
She put her head quietly down on her little, huddled-up knees, and sat very still for a few minutes.
"Shes going to cry out loud," thought Ermengarde, fearfully.
But she did not. Her short, black locks tumbled about her ears, and she sat still. Then she spoke without lifting her head.
"I promised him I would bear it," she said. "And I will. You have to bear things. Think what soldiers bear! Papa is a soldier. If there was a war he would have to bear marg and thirstiness and, perhaps, deep wounds. And he would never say a word--not one word."
Ermengarde could only gaze at her, but she felt that she was beginning to adore her. She was so wonderful and different from anyone else.
Prese?t>ntly, she lifted her fad shook back her black locks, with a queer little smile.
"If I go on talking and talking," she said, "and telling you things about pretending, I shall bear it better. You dont fet, but you bear it better."
Ermengarde did not know why a lump came into her throat and her eyes felt as if tears were in them.
"Lavinia and Jessie are `best friends," she said rather huskily. "I wish we could be `best friends. Would you have me for yours? Youre clever, and Im the stupidest child in the school, but I-- oh, I do so like you!"
"Im glad of that," said Sara. "It makes you thankful when you are liked. Yes. We will be friends. And Ill tell you what"-- a sudden gleam lighting her face--"..;I help you with your French lessons."
4. Lottie
4. Lottie
If Sara had been a different kind of child, the life she led at Miss Mins Select Seminary for the few years would not have been at all good for her. She was treated more as if she were a distinguished guest at the establishment than as if she were a mere little girl. If she had been a self-opinionated, domineering child, she might have bee disagreeable enough to be unbearable through being so mudulged and flattered. If she had been an i child, she would have learned nothing. Privately Miss Min disliked her, but she was far too worldly a woman to do or say anything which might make such a desirable pupil wish to leave her school. She knew quite well that if Sara wrote to her papa to tell him she was unfortable or unhappy, Captain Crewe would remove her at once. Miss Mins opinion was that if a child were tinually praised and never forbidden to do what she liked, she would be sure to be fond of the place where she was so treated. Accly, Sara raised for her quiess at her lessons, for her good manners, for her amiability to her fellow pupils, for her generosity if she gave sixpeo a beggar out of her full little purse; the simplest thing she did was treated as if it were a virtue, and if she had not had a disposition and a clever little brain, she might have been a very self-satisfied young person. But the clever little brain told her a great many sensible and true things about herself and her circumstances, and now and thealked these things over tarde as time went on.
"Things happen to people by act," she used to say. "A lot of nice acts have happeo me. It just happehat I always liked lessons and books, and could remember things when I learhem. It just happehat I was born with a father who was beautiful and nid clever, and could give me everything I liked. Perhaps I have not really a good temper at all, but if you have everything you want and everyone is kind to you, how you help but be good-tempered? I dont know"--looking quite serious--"how I shall ever find out whether I am really a nice child or a horrid one. Perhaps Im a hideous child, and no one will ever know, just because I never have any trials."
"Lavinia has no trials," said Ermengarde, stolidly, "and she is horrid enough."
Sara rubbed the end of her little nose reflectively, as she thought the matter over.
"Well," she said at last, "perhaps--perhaps that is because Lavinia is growing." This was the result of a charitable recolle of having heard Miss Amelia say that Lavinia was growing so fast that she believed it affected her health and temper.
Lavinia, in fact, iteful. She was inordinately jealous of Sara. Until the new pupils arrival, she had felt herself the leader in the school. She had led because she was capable of making herself extremely disagreeable if the others did not follow her. She domineered over the little children, and assumed grand airs with those big enough to be her panions. She was rather pretty, and had been the best-dressed pupil in the processiohe Select Seminary walked out two by two, until Saras velvet coats and sable muffs appeared, bined with drooping ostrich feathers, and were led by Miss Min at the head of the lihis, at the beginning, had been bitter enough; but as time went on it became apparent that Sara was a leader, too, and not because she could make herself disagreeable, but because she never did.
"Theres ohing about Sara Crewe," Jessie had enraged her "best friend" by saying holy, "shes never `grand about herself the least bit, and you know she might be, Lavvie. I believe I couldnt help being--just a little--if I had so many fihings and was made such a fuss over. Its disgusting, the way Miss Min shows her off when parents e."
"`Dear Sara must e into the drawing room and talk to Mrs. Musgrave about India," mimicked Lavinia, in her most highly flavored imitation of Miss Min. "`Dear Sara must speak French to Lady Pitkin. Her at is so perfect. She didnt learn her French at the Seminary, at any rate. And theres nothing so clever in her knowing it. She says herself she didnt learn it at all. She just picked it up, because she always heard her papa speak it. And, as to her papa, there is nothing so grand in being an Indian officer."
"Well," said Jessie, slowly, "hes killed tigers. He killed the one in the skin Sara has in her room. Thats why she likes it so. She lies on it and strokes its head, and talks to it as if it was a cat."
"Shes always doing something silly," snapped Lavinia. "My mamma says that way of hers of pretending things is silly. She says she will grow up etric."
It was quite true that Sara was never "grand." She was a friendly little soul, and shared her privileges and belongings with a free hand. The little ones, who were aced to being disdained and ordered out of the way by mature ladies aged ten and twelve, were never made to cry by this most envied of them all. She was a motherly young person, and when people fell down and scraped their knees, she ran and helped them up and patted them, or found in her pocket a bonbon or some other article of a soothing nature. She never pushed them out of her way or alluded to their years as a humiliation and a blot upon their small characters.
"If you are four you are four," she said severely to Lavinia on an occasion of her having--it must be fessed--slapped Lottie and called her "a brat;" "but you will be five year, and six the year after that. And," opening large, vig eyes, "it takes sixteen years to make you twenty."
"Dear me," said Lavinia, "how we calculate!" In fact, it was not to be dehat sixteen and four made twenty--and twenty was ahe most daring were scarcely bold enough to dream of.
So the younger children adored Sara. More than once she had been known to have a tea party, made up of these despised ones, in her own room. And Emily had been played with, and Emilys own tea service used-- the oh cups which held quite a lot of much-sweetened weak tea and had blue flowers on them. No one had seen such a very real dolls tea set before. From that afternoon Sara was regarded as a goddess and a queen by the entire alphabet class.
Lottle Legh worshipped her to su extent that if Sara had not been a motherly person, she would have fouiresome. Lottie had beeo school by a rather flighty young papa who could not imagine what else to do with her. Her young mother had died, and as the child had beeed like a favorite doll or a very spoiled pet monkey or lap dog ever sihe first hour of her life, she was a very appalling little creature. When she wanted anything or did not want anything she wept and howled; and, as she always wahe things she could not have, and did not want the things that were best for her, her shrill little voice was usually to be heard uplifted in wails in one part of the house or another.
Her stro on was that in some mysterious way she had found out that a very small girl who had lost her mother erson who ought to be pitied and made much of. She had probably heard some grown-up people talking her over in the early days, after her mothers death. So it became her habit to make great use of this knowledge.
The first time Sara took her in charge was one m when, on passing a sitting room, she heard both Miss Min and Miss Amelia trying to suppress the angry wails of some child who, evidently, refused to be silenced. She refused so strenuously ihat Miss Min was obliged to almost shout--in a stately and severe manner-- to make herself heard.
"What is she g for?" she almost yelled.
"Oh--oh--oh!" Sara heard; "I havent got any mam--ma-a!"
"Oh, Lottie!" screamed Miss Amelia. "Do stop, darling! Dont cry! Please dont!"
"Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!" Lottle howled tempestuously. "Havent- -got--any--mam--ma-a!"
"She ought to be whipped," Miss Min proclaimed. "You shall be whipped, you naughty child!"
Lottle wailed more loudly than ever. Miss Amelia began to cry. Miss Mins voice rose until it almost thuhen suddenly she sprang up from her chair in impotent indignation and flounced out of the room, leaving Miss Amelia te the matter.
Sara had paused in the hall, w if she ought to go into the room, because she had retly begun a friendly acquaintah Lottie and might be able to quiet her. When Miss Min came out and saw her, she looked rather annoyed. She realized that her voice, as heard from ihe room, could not have sounded either dignified or amiable.
"Oh, Sara!" she exclaimed, endeav to produce a suitable smile.
"I stopped," explained Sara, "because I knew? it was Lottie-- and I thought, perhaps--just perhaps, I could make her be quiet. May I try, Miss Min?"
"If you , you are a clever child," answered Miss Min, drawing in her mouth sharply. Then, seeing that Sara looked slightly chilled by her asperity, she ged her manner. "But you are clever ihing," she said in her approving way. "I dare say you manage her. Go in." And she left her.
When Sara ehe room, Lottie was lying upon the floor, screaming and kig her small fat legs violently, and Miss Amelia was bending over her in sternation and despair, looking quite red and damp with heat. Lottie had always found, when in her own nursery at home, that kig and screaming would always be quieted by any means she insisted on. Poor plump Miss Amelia was trying first ohod, and then another.
"Poor darling," she said one moment, "I know you havent any mamma, poor--" Then in quite aone, "If you dont stop, Lottie, I will shake you. Poor little ahere--! You wicked, bad, detestable child, I will smack you! I will!"
Sara went to them quietly. She did not know at all what she was.9９lｉｂ. going to do, but she had a vague inward vi that it would be better not to say such different kinds of things quite so helplessly aedly.
"Miss Amelia," she said in a low voice, "Miss Min says I may try to make her stop--may I?"
Miss Amelia turned and looked at her hopelessly. "Oh, do you think you ?" she gasped.
"I dont know whether I ", answered Sara, still in her half- whisper; "but I will try."
Miss Amelia stumbled up from her knees with a heavy sigh, and Lotties fat little legs kicked as hard as ever.
"If you will steal out of the room," said Sara, "I will stay with her."
"Oh, Sara!" almost whimpered Miss Amelia. "We never had such a dreadful child before. I dont believe we keep her."
But she crept out of the room, and was very much relieved to find an excuse for doing it.
Sara stood by the howling furious child for a few moments, and looked down at her without saying anything. The down flat on the floor beside her and waited. Except for Lotties angry screams, the room was quite quiet. This was a ate of affairs for little Miss Legh, who was aced, when she screamed, to hear other people protest and implore and and and coax by turns. To lie and kid shriek, and find the only person near you not seeming to mind in the least, attracted her attention. She opened her tight-shut streaming eyes to see who this person was. And it was only another little girl. But it was the one who owned Emily and all the hings. And she was looking at her steadily and as if she was merely thinking. Having paused for a few seds to find this out, Lottie thought she must begin again, but the quiet of the room and of Saras odd, ied face made her first howl rather half-hearted.
"I--havent--any--ma--ma--ma-a!" she announced; but her voice was not s.
Sara looked at her still more steadily, but with a sort of uanding in her eyes.
"her have I," she said.
This was so ued that it was astounding. Lottie actually dropped her legs, gave a wriggle, and lay and stared. A new idea will stop a g child when nothing else will. Also it was true that while Lottie disliked Miss Min, who was cross, and Miss Amelia, who was foolishly indulgent, she rather liked Sara, little as she knew her. She did not want to give up her grievance, but her thoughts were distracted from it, so she wriggled again, and, after a sulky sob, said, "Where is she?"
Sara paused a moment. Because she had been told that her mamma was in heaven, she had thought a great deal about the matter, ahoughts had not been quite like those of other people.
"She went to heaven," she said. "But I am sure she es out sometimes to see me--though I dont see her. So does yours. Perhaps they both see us now. Perhaps they are both in this room."
Lottle sat bolt upright, and looked about her. She retty, little, curly-headed creature, and her round eyes were like wet fet-me-nots. If her mamma had seen her during the last half-hour, she might not have thought her the kind of child who ought to be related to an angel.
Sara went on talking. Perhaps some people might think that what she said was rather like a fairy story, but it was all so real to her own imagination that Lottie began to listen in spite of herself. She had been told that her mamma had wings and a , and she had been shown pictures of ladies iiful white nightgowns, who were said to be angels. But Sara seemed to be telling a real story about a lovely try where real people were.
"There are fields and fields of flowers," she said, fetting herself, as usual, when she began, and talking rather as if she were in a dream, "fields and fields of lilies--and when the soft wind blows over them it wafts the st of them into the air--and everybody always breathes it, because the soft wind is always blowing. And little children run about in the lily fields and gather armfuls of them, and laugh and make little wreaths. And the streets are shining. And people are ired, however far they walk. They float ahey like. And there are walls made of pearl and gold all round the city, but they are low enough for the people to go and lean on them, and look down onto the earth and smile, and seiful messages."
Whatsoever story she had begun to tell, Lottie would, no doubt, have stopped g, and been fas藏书网ated into listening; but there was no denying that this story rettier than most others. She dragged herself close to Sara, and drank in every word until the end came--far too soon. When it did e, she was so sorry that she put up her lip ominously.
"I want to go there," she cried. "I--havent any mamma in this school."
Sara saw the danger signal, and came out of her dream. She took hold of the chubby hand and pulled her close to her side with a coaxing little laugh.
"I will be your mamma," she said. "We will play that you are my little girl. And Emily shall be your sister."
Lotties dimples all began to show themselves.
"Shall she?" she said.
"Yes," answered Sara, jumping to her feet. "Let us go and tell her. And then I will wash your fad brush your hair."
To which Lottie agreed quite cheerfully, and trotted out of the room and upstairs with her, without seeming even to remember that the whole of the last hours tragedy had been caused by the fact that she had refused to be washed and brushed for lund Miss Min had been called in to use her majestic authority.
And from that time Sara was an adopted mother.
5. Becky
5. Becky
Of course the greatest power Sara possessed and the one which gained her even more followers than her luxuries and the fact that she was "the show pupil," the power that Lavinia aain irls were most envious of, and at the same time most fasated by in spite of themselves, was her power of telling stories and of making everything she talked about seem like a story, whether it was one or not.
Anyone who has been at school with a teller of stories knows what the wonder means--how he or she is followed about and besought in a whisper to relate romances; how groups gather round and hang oskirts of the favored party in the hope of being allowed to join in and listen. Sara not only could tell stories, but she adored telling them. Whe or stood in the midst of a circle and began to i wonderful things, her green eyes grew big and shining, her cheeks flushed, and, without knowing that she was doing it, she began to ad made what she told lovely or alarming by the raising or dropping of her voice, the bend and sway of her slim body, and the dramatient of her hands. She fot that she was talking to listening children; she saw and lived with the fairy folk, or the kings and queens aiful ladies, whose adventures she was narrating. Sometimes when she had finished her story, she was quite out of breath with excitement, and would lay her hand ohin, little, quick-rising chest, and half laugh as if at herself.
"When I am telling it," she would say, "it doesnt seem as if it was only made up. It seems more real than you are--more real than the schoolroom. I feel as if I were all the people iory--oer the other. It is queer."
She had been at Miss Mins school about two years when, one foggy winters afternoon, as she was getting out of her carriage, fortably ed up in her warmest velvets and furs and looking very much grahan she knew, she caught sight, as she crossed the pavement, of a dingy little figure standing on the area steps, and stretg its neck so that its wide-open eyes might peer at her through the railings. Something in the eagerness and timidity of the smudgy face made her look at it, and when she looked she smiled because it was her way to smile at people.
But the owner of the smudgy fad the wide-open eyes evidently was afraid that she ought not to have been caught looking at pupils of importance. She dodged out of sight like a ja-the-box and scurried bato the kit, disappearing so suddenly that if she had not been such a poor little forlorn thing, Sara would have laughed in spite of herself. That very evening, as Sara was sitting in the midst of a group of listeners in a er of the schoolroom telling one of her stories, the very same figure timidly ehe room, carrying a coal box much too heavy for her, and k down upon the hearth rug to replenish the fire and sweep up the ashes.
She was er than she had been when she peeped through the area railings, but she looked just as frightened. She was evidently afraid to look at the children or seem to be listening. She put on pieces of coal cautiously with her fingers so that she might make no disturbing noise, and she swept about the fire irons very softly. But Sara saw in two mihat she was deeply ied in what was going on, and that she was doing her work slowly in the hope of catg a word here and there. And realizing this, she raised her void spoke more clearly.
"The Mermaids swam softly about in the crystal-green water, and dragged after them a fishi woven of deep-sea pearls," she said. "The Princess sat on the white rod watched them."
It was a wonderful story about a princess who was loved by a Prince Merman, ao live with him in shining caves uhe sea.
The small drudge before the grate swept the hearth ond the it again. Having do twice, she did it three times; and, as she was doing it the third time, the sound of the story so lured her to listen that she fell uhe spell and actually fot that she had nht to listen at all, and alsot everything else. She sat down upon her heels as she k on the hearth rug, and the brush hung idly in her fingers. The voice of the storyteller went on and drew her with it into winding grottos uhe sea, glowing with soft, clear blue light, and paved with pure golden sands. Strange sea flowers and grasses waved about her, and far away faint singing and music echoed.
The hearth brush fell from the whened hand, and Lavinia Herbert looked round.
"That girl has been listening," she said.
The culprit snatched up her brush, and scrambled to her feet. She caught at the coal box and simply scuttled out of the room like a frightened rabbit.
Sara felt rather hot-tempered.
"I knew she was listening," she said. "Why shouldnt she?"
Lavinia tossed her head with great elegance.
"Well," she remarked, "I do not know whether your mamma would like you to tell stories to servant girls, but I know my mamma wouldnt like me to do it."
"My mamma!" said Sara, looking odd. "I dont believe she would mind in the least. She knows that stories belong to everybody."
"I thought," retorted Lavinia, in severe recolle, "that your mamma was dead. How she know things?"
"Do you think she doesnt know things?" said Sara, iern little voice. Sometimes she had a rather stern little voice.
"Saras mamma knows everything," piped in Lottie. "So does my mamma--cept Sara is my mamma at Miss Mins--my other one knows everything. The streets are shining, and there are fields and fields of lilies, and everybody gathers them. Sara tells me whes me to bed."
"You wicked thing," said Lavinia, turning on Sara; "making fairy stories about heaven."
"There are much more splendid stories in Revelation," returned Sara. "Just look and see! How do you know mine are fairy stories? But I tell you"--with a fi of unheavenly temper--"you will never find out whether they are or not if youre not kio people than you are now. e along, Lottie." And she marched out of the room, rather hoping that she might see the little servant again somewhere, but she found no trace of her whe into the hall.
"Who is that little girl who makes the fires?" she asked Mariette that night.
Mariette broke forth into a flow of description.
Ah, indeed, Mademoiselle Sara might well ask. She was a forlorn little thing who had just taken the place of scullery maid-- though, as to being scullery maid, she was everything else besides. She blacked boots and grates, and carried heavy coal- scuttles up and down stairs, and scrubbed floors and ed windows, and was ordered about by everybody. She was fourteen years old, but was so stunted in growth that she looked about twelve. In truth, Mariette was sorry for her. She was so timid that if one ced to speak to her it appeared as if her poor, frightened eyes would jump out of her head.
"What is her name?" asked Sara, who had sat by the table, with her on her hands, as she listened absorbedly to the recital.
Her name was Becky. Mariette heard everyone below-stairs calling, "Becky, do this," and "Becky, do that," every five minutes in the day.
Sara sat and looked into the fire, refleg on Becky for some time after Mariette left her. She made up a story of which Becky was the ill-used heroine. She thought she looked as if she had never had quite enough to eat. Her very eyes were hungry. She hoped she should see her again, but though she caught sight of her carrying things up or down stairs on several occasions, she always seemed in such a hurry and so afraid of beihat it was impossible to speak to her.
But a few weeks later, on angy afternoon, wheered her sitting room she found herself fronting a rather pathetic picture. In her own special a easy-chair before the bright fire, Becky--with a coal smudge on her nose and several on her apron, with her poor little cap hanging half off her head, and ay coal box on the floor near her--sat fast asleep, tired out beyond even the endurance of her hard-w young body. She had bee up to put the bedrooms in order for the evening. There were a great many of them, and she had been running about all day. Saras rooms she had saved until the last. They were not like the other rooms, which were plain and bare. Ordinary pupils were expected to be satisfied with mere necessaries. Saras fortable sitting room seemed a bower of luxury to the scullery maid, though it was, in fact, merely a nice, bright little room. But there were pictures and books in it, and curious things from India; there was a sofa and the low, soft chair; Emily sat in a chair of her own, with the air of a presiding goddess, and there was always a glowing fire and a polished grate. Becky saved it until the end of her afternoons work, because it rested her to go into it, and she always hoped to snatch a few mio sit down in the soft chair and look about her, and think about the wonderful good fortune of the child who owned such surroundings and who went out on the cold days iiful hats and coats oried to catch a glimpse of through the area railing.
On this afternoon, when she had sat down, the sensation of relief to her short, ag legs had been so wonderful and delightful that it had seemed to soothe her whole body, and the glow of warmth and fort from the fire had crept over her like a spell, until, as she looked at the red coals, a tired, slow smile stole over her smudged face, her head nodded forward without her being aware of it, her eyes drooped, and she fell fast asleep. She had really been only about ten minutes in the room when Sara entered, but she was in as deep a sleep as if she had been, like the Sleepiy, slumbering for a hundred years. But she did not look--poor Becky-- like a Sleepiy at all. She looked only like an ugly, stunted, worn-out little scullery drudge.
Sara seemed as mulike her as if she were a creature from another world.
On this particular afternoon she had been taking her dang lesson, and the afternoon on which the dang master appeared was rather a grand occasion at the seminary, though it occurred every week. The pupils were attired in their prettiest frocks, and as Sara danced particularly well, she was very much brought forward, and Mariette was requested to make her as diaphanous and fine as possible.
Today a frock the color of a rose had been put on her, and Mariette had bought some real buds and made her a wreath to wear on her black locks. She had been learning a new, delightful dan which she had been skimming and flying about the room, like a large rose-colored butterfly, and the enjoyment and exercise had brought a brilliant, happy glow into her face.
Wheered the room, she floated in with a few of the butterfly steps--and there sat Becky, nodding her cap sideways off her head.
"Oh!" cried Sara, softly, when she saw her. "That poor thing!"
It did not occur to her to feel cross at finding her pet chair occupied by the small, dingy figure. To tell the truth, she was quite glad to find it there. When the ill-used heroine of her story wakened, she could talk to her. She crept toward her quietly, and stood looking at her. Becky gave a little snore.
"I wish shed waken herself," Sara said. "I dont like to waken her. But Miss Min would be cross if she f９９lib?ound out. Ill just wait a few minutes."
She took a seat on the edge of the table, and sat swinging her slim, rose-colored legs, and w what it would be best to do. Miss Amelia might e in at any moment, and if she did, Becky would be sure to be scolded.
"But she is so tired," she thought. "She is so tired!"
A piece of flaming coal ended her perplexity for her that very moment. It broke off from a large lump and fell on to the fender. Becky started, and opened her eyes with a frightened gasp. She did not know she had fallen asleep. She had only sat down for one moment ahe beautiful glow--and here she found herself staring in wild alarm at the wonderful pupil, who sat perched quite near her, like a rose-colored fairy, with ied eyes.
She sprang up and clutched at her cap. She felt it dangling over her ear, and tried wildly to put it straight. Oh, she had got herself into trouble now with a vengeao have impudently fallen asleep on such a young ladys chair! She would be turned out of doors without wages.
She made a sound like a big breathless sob.
"Oh, miss! Oh, miss!" she stuttered. "I arst yer pardon, miss! Oh, I do, miss!"
Sara jumped down, and came quite close to her.
"Dont be frightened," she said, quite as if she had been speaking to a little girl like herself. "It doesnt matter the least bit."
"I didnt go to do it, miss," protested Becky. "It was the warm fire--an me bein so tired. It--it wasnt impertience!"
Sara broke into a friendly little laugh, and put her hand on her shoulder.
"You were tired," she said; "you could not help it. You are not really awake yet."
How poor Becky stared at her! In fact, she had never heard such a nice, friendly sound in anyones voice before. She was used to being ordered about and scolded, and having her ears boxed. And this one--in her rose-colored dang afternoon splendor--was looking at her as if she were not a culprit at all--as if she had a right to be tired--even to fall asleep! The touch of the soft, slim little paw on her shoulder was the most amazing thing she had ever known.
"Aint--aint yer angry, miss?" she gasped. "Aint yer goin to tell the missus?"
"No," cried out Sara. "Of course Im not."
The woeful fright in the coal-smutted face made her suddenly so sorry that she could scarcely bear it. One of her queer thoughts rushed into her mind. She put her hand against Beckys cheek.
"Why," she said, "we are just the same--I am onl>y a little girl like you. Its just an act that I am not you, and you are not me!"
Becky did not uand in the least. Her mind could not grasp such amazing thoughts, and "an act" meant to her a calamity in whie one was run over or fell off a ladder and was carried to "the orspital."
"A act, miss," she fluttered respectfully. "Is it?"
"Yes," Sara answered, and she looked at her dreamily for a moment. But the she spoke in a different tone. She realized that Becky did not know what she meant.
"Have you done your work?" she asked. "Dare you stay here a few minutes?"
Becky lost her breath again.
"Here, miss? Me?"
Sara ran to the door, ope, and looked out and listened.
"No one is anywhere about," she explained. "If your bedrooms are finished, perhaps you might stay a tiny while. I thought-- perhaps--you might like a piece of cake."
The en minutes seemed to Becky like a sort of delirium. Sara opened a cupboard, and gave her a thick slice of cake. She seemed to rejoice when it was devoured in hungry bites. She talked and asked questions, and laughed until Beckys fears actually began to calm themselves, and she once or twice gathered boldness enough to ask a question or so herself, daring as she felt it to be.
"Is that--" she ventured, looking longingly at the rose-colored frock. And she asked it almost in a whisper. "Is that there your best?"
"It is one of my dang-frocks," answered Sara. "I like it, dont you?"
For a few seds Becky was almost speechless with admiration. Then she said in an awed voice, "Onct I see a princess. I was standin ireet with the crowd outside Garden, wat the swells go ihe operer. An there was one everyoared at most. They ses to each other, `Thats the princess. She was a growed-up young lady, but she ink all ownd an cloak, an flowers an all. I called her to mind the minnit I see you, sittin there oable, miss. You looked like her."
"Ive often thought," said Sara, in her refleg voice, "that I should like to be a princess; I wonder what it feels like. I believe I will begiending I am one."
Becky stared at her admiringly, and, as before, did not uand her in the least. She watched her with a sort of adoration. Very soon Sara left her refles and turo her with a new question.
"Becky," she said, "werent you listening to that story?"
"Yes, miss," fessed Becky, a little alarmed again. "I knowed I hadnt orter, but it was that beautiful I--I couldnt help it."
"I liked you to listen to it," said Sara. "If you tell stories, you like nothing so much as to tell them to people who want to listen. I dont know why it is. Would you like to hear the rest?"
Becky lost her breath again.
"Me hear it?" she cried. "Like as if I il, miss! All about the Prince--and the little white Mer-babies swimming about laughing--with stars in their hair?"
Sara nodded.
"You havent time to hear it now, Im afraid," she said; "but if you will tell me just what time you e to do my rooms, I will try to be here and tell you a bit of it every day until it is finished. Its a lovely long one--and Im alutting new bits to it."
"Then," breathed Becky, devoutly, "I wouldnt mind how heavy the coal boxes was--or what the cook doo me, if--if I might have that to think of."
"You may," said Sara. "Ill tell it all to you."
When Becky went downstairs, she was not the same Becky who had staggered up, loaded down by the weight of the coal scuttle. She had ara piece of cake in her pocket, and she had been fed and warmed, but not only by cake and fire. Something else had warmed and fed her, and the something else was Sara.
When she was gone Sara sat on her favorite per the end of her table. Her feet were on a chair, her elbows on her knees, and her in her hands.
"If I rincess--a real princess," she murmured, "I could scatter largess to the populace. But even if I am only a pretend princess, I i little things to do for people. Things like this. She was just as happy as if it was largess. Ill pretend that to do things people like is scattering largess. Ive scattered largess."
6. The Diamond Mines
6. The Diamond Mines
Not very long after this a very exg thing happened. Not only Sara, but the entire school, found it exg, and made it the chief subject of versation for weeks after it occurred. In one of his letters Captaiold a most iing story. A friend who had been at school with him when he was a boy had uedly e to see him in India. He was the owner of a large tract of land upon which diamonds had been found, and he was engaged in developing the mines. If all went as was fidently expected, he would bee possessed of such wealth as it made one dizzy to think of; and because he was fond of the friend of his school days, he had given him an opportunity to share in this enormous fortune by being a partner in his scheme. This, at least, was what Sara gathered from his letters. It is true that any other business scheme, however magnifit, would have had but small attra for her or for the schoolroom; but "diamond mines" sounded so like the Arabian Nights that no one could be indifferent. Sara thought them enting, and painted pictures, farde and Lottie, of labyrinthine passages in the bowels of the earth, where sparkling stoudded the walls and roofs and ceilings, and strange, dark men dug them out with heavy picks. Ermengarde delighted iory, and Lottie insisted on its beiold to her every evening. Lavinia was very spiteful about it, and told Jessie that she didnt believe such things as diamond mied.
"My mamma has a diam which cost forty pounds," she said. "And it is not a big oher. If there were mines full of diamonds, people would be so rich it would be ridiculous."
"Perhaps Sara will be so rich that she will be ridiculous," giggled Jessie.
"Shes ridiculous without being rich," Lavinia sniffed.
"I believe you hate her," said Jessie.
"No, I dont," snapped Lavinia. "But I dont believe in mines full of diamonds."
"Well, people have to get them from somewhere," said Jessie. "Lavinia," with a new giggle, "what do you thirude says?"
"I dont know, Im sure; and I dont care if its something more about that everlasting Sara."
"Well, it is. One of her `pretends is that she is a princess. She plays it all the time--even in school. She says it makes her learn her lessoer. She wants Ermengarde to be ooo, but Ermengarde says she is too fat."
"She is too fat," said Lavinia. "And Sara is too thin."
Naturally, Jessie giggled again.
"She says it has nothing to do with what you look like, or what you have. It has only to do with what you think of, and what you do." "I suppose she thinks she could be a princess if she was a beggar," said Lavinia. "Let us begin to call her Your Royal Highness."
Lessons for the day were over, and they were sitting before the schoolroom fire, enjoying the time they liked best. It was the time when Miss Min and Miss Amelia were taking their tea iting room sacred to themselves. At this hreat deal of talking was done, and a great mas ged hands, particularly if the younger pupils behaved themselves well, and did not squabble or run about noisily, which it must be fessed they usually did. When they made an uproar the irls usually interfered with scolding and shakes. They were expected to keep order, and there was dahat if they did not, Miss Min or Miss Amelia would appear and put ao festivities. Even as Lavinia spoke the door opened and Sara entered with Lottie, whose habit was to trot everywhere after her like a little dog.
"There she is, with that horrid child!" exclaimed Lavinia in a whisper. "If shes so fond of her, why doesnt she keep her in her own room? She will begin howling about something in five minutes."
It happehat Lottie had been seized with a sudden desire to play in the schoolroom, and had begged her adopted parent to e with her. She joined a group of little ones who were playing in a er. Sara curled herself up in the window-seat, opened a book, and began to read. It was a book about the French Revolution, and she was soon lost in a harrowing picture of the prisoners in the Bastille--men who had spent so many years in dungeons that when they were dragged out by those who rescued them, their long, gray hair and beards almost hid their faces, and they had fotten that an outside world existed at all, and were like beings in a dream.
She was so far away from the schoolroom that it was not agreeable to be dragged back suddenly by a howl from Lottie. Never did she find anything so difficult as to keep herself from losiemper when she was suddenly disturbed while absorbed in a book. People who are fond of books know the feeling of irritation which sweeps over them at such a moment. The temptation to be unreasonable and snappish is o easy to manage.
"It makes me feel as if someone had hit me," Sara had told Ermengarde on fidence. "And as if I want to hit back. I have to remember things quickly to keep from saying something ill- tempered."
She had to remember things quickly when she laid her book on the window-seat and jumped down from her fortable er.
Lottie had been sliding across the schoolroom floor, and, having first irritated Lavinia and Jessie by making a noise, had ended by falling down and hurting her fat knee. She was screaming and dang up and down in the midst of a group of friends and enemies, who were alternately coaxing and scolding her.
"Stop this minute, you cry-baby! Stop this minute!" Lavinia anded.
"藏书网Im not a cry-baby . . . Im not!" wailed Lottle. "Sara, Sa-- ra!"
"If she doesnt stop, Miss Min will hear her," cried Jessie. "Lottie darling, Ill give you a penny!"
"I dont want your penny," sobbed Lottie; and she looked down at the fat knee, and, seeing a drop of blood on it, burst forth again.
Sara flew across the room and, kneeling down, put her arms round her.
"Now, Lottie," she said. "Now, Lottie, you promised Sara."
"She said I was a cry-baby," wept Lottie.
Sara patted her, but spoke ieady voice Lottie knew.
"But if you cry, you will be one, Lottie pet. You promised." Lottle remembered that she had promised, but she preferred to lift up her voice.
"I havent any mamma," she proclaimed. "I havent--a bit--of mamma."
"Yes, you have," said Sara, cheerfully. "Have you fotten? Dont you know that Sara is your mamma? Dont you want Sara for your mamma?"
Lottie cuddled up to her with a soled sniff.
"e and sit in the window-seat with me," Sara went on, "and Ill whisper a story to you."
"Will you?" whimpered Lottie. "Will you--tell me--about the diamond mines?"
"The diamond mines?" broke out Lavinia. "Nasty, little spoiled thing, I should like to slap her!"
Sara got up quickly on her feet. It must be remembered that she had been very deeply absorbed in the book about the Bastille, and she had had to recall several things rapidly when she realized that she must go and take care of her adopted child. She was not an angel, and she was not fond of Lavinia.
"Well," she said, with some fire, "I should like to slap you-- but I dont want to slap you!" restraining herself. "At least I both want to slap you--and I should like to slap you--but I wont slap you. We are not little gutter children. We are both old enough to know better."
Here was Lavinias opportunity.
"Ah, yes, your royal highness," she said. "rincesses, I believe. At least one of us is. The school ought to be very fashionable now Miss Min has a princess for a pupil."
Sara started toward her. She looked as if she were going to box her ears. Perhaps she was. Her trick of pretending things was the joy of her life. She never spoke of it to girls she was not fond of. Her new "pretend" about being a princess was very o her heart, and she was shy aive about it. She had meant it to be rather a secret, and here was Lavinia deriding it before nearly all the school. She felt the blood rush up into her fad tingle in her ears. She only just saved herself. If you were a princess, you did not fly intes. Her hand dropped, and she stood quite still a moment. When she spoke it was in a quiet, steady voice; she held her head up, and everybody listeo her.
"Its true," she said. "Sometimes I do pretend I am a princess. I pretend I am a princess, so that I try and behave like one."
Lavinia could not think of exactly the right thing to say. Several times she had found that she could not think of a satisfactory reply when she was dealing with Sara. The reason for this was that, somehow, the rest always seemed to be vaguel.９9ｌiｂ.y in sympathy with her oppo. She saw now that they were prig up their ears iedly. The truth was, they liked princesses, and they all hoped they might hear something more definite about this one, and drew nearer Sara accly.
Lavinia could only i one remark, and it fell rather flat.
"Dear me," she said, "I hope, when you asd the throne, you wont fet us!"
"I wont," said Sara, and she did not utter another word, but stood quite still, and stared at her steadily as she saw her take Jessies arm and turn away.
After this, the girls who were jealous of her used to speak of her as "Princess Sara" whehey wished to be particularly disdainful, and those who were fond of her gave her the name among themselves as a term of affe. No one called her "princess" instead of "Sara," but her adorers were much pleased with the picturesqueness and grandeur of the title, and Miss Min, hearing of it, mentio more than oo visiting parents, feeling that it rather suggested a sort of royal b school.
To Becky it seemed the most appropriate thing in the world. The acquaintance begun on the foggy afternoon when she had jumped up terrified from her sleep in the fortable chair, had ripened and grown, though it must be fessed that Miss Min and Miss Amelia knew very little about it. They were aware that Sara was "kind" to the scullery maid, but they knew nothing of certain delightful moments snatched perilously when, the upstairs rooms bei in order with lightning rapidity, Saras sitting room was reached, and the heavy coal box set down with a sigh of joy. At such times stories were told by installments, things of a satisfying nature were either produced aen or hastily tucked into pockets to be disposed of at night, when Becky went upstairs to her attic to bed.
"But I has to eat em careful, miss," she said once; "cos if I leaves crumbs the rats e out to get em."
"Rats!" exclaimed Sara, in horror. "Are there rats there?"
"Lots of em, miss," Becky answered in quite a matter-of-fact manner. "There mostly is rats an mi attics. You gets used to the hey makes scuttling about. Ive got so I dont mind em s long as they dont run over my piller."
"Ugh!" said Sara.
"You gets used to anythin after a bit," said Becky. "You have to, miss, if youre born a scullery maid. Id rather have rats than cockroaches."
"So would I," said Sara; "I suppose you might make friends with a rat in time, but I dont believe I should like to make friends with a cockroach."
Sometimes Becky did not dare to spend more than a few minutes in the bright, warm room, and when this was the case perhaps only a few words could be exged, and a small purchase slipped into the old-fashioned pocket Becky carried under her dress skirt, tied round her waist with a band of tape. The search for and discovery of satisfying things to eat which could be packed into small pass, added a new io Saras existence. When she drove or walked out, she used to look into shop windows eagerly. The first time it occurred to her t home two or three little meat pies, she felt that she had hit upon a discovery. When she exhibited them, Beckys eyes quite sparkled.
"Oh, miss!" she murmured. "Them will be ni fillin. Its fillihats best. Sponge cakes a evenly thing, but it melts away like--if you uand, miss. Thesell just stay iummick."
"Well," hesitated Sara, "I dont think it would be good if they stayed always, but I do believe they will be satisfying."
They were satisfying--and so were beef sandwiches, bought at a cook-shop--and so were rolls and Bologna sausage. In time, Becky began to lose her hungry, tired feeling, and the coal box did not seem so unbearably heavy.
However heavy it was, and whatsoever the temper of the cook, and the hardness of the work heaped upon her shoulders, she had always the ce of the afternoon to look forward to--the ce that Miss Sara would be able to be in her sitting room. In fact, the mere seeing of Miss Sara would have been enough without meat pies. If there was time only for a few words, they were always friendly, merry words that put heart into one; and if there was time for more, then there was an installment of a story to be told, or some other thing one remembered afterward and sometimes lay awake in ones bed iic to think over. Sara--who was only doing what she unsciously liked better than anything else, Nature having made her fiver--had not the least idea what she meant to poor Becky, and how wonderful a beor she seemed. If Nature has made you fiver, your hands are born open, and so is your heart; and though there may be times when your hands are empty, your heart is always full, and you give things out of that--warm things, kind things, sweet things--help and fort and laughter--and sometimes gay, kind laughter is the best help of all.
Becky had scarcely known what laughter was through all her poor, little hard-driven life. Sara made her laugh, and laughed with her; and, though her of them quite k, the laughter was as "fillin" as the meat pies.
A few weeks before Saras eleventh birthday a letter came to her from her father, which did not seem to be written in such boyish high spirits as usual. He was not very well, and was evidently hted by the business ected with the diamond mines.
"You see, little Sara," he wrote, "your daddy is not a businessman at all, and figures and dots bother him. He does not really uand them, and all this seems so enormous. Perhaps, if I was not feverish I should not be awake, tossing about, one half of the night and spend the other half in troublesome dreams. If my little missus were here, I dare say she would give me some solemn, good advice. You would, wouldnt you, Little Missus?"
One of his many jokes had been to call her his "little missus" because she had su old-fashioned air.
He had made wonderful preparations for her birthday. Among other things, a new doll had been ordered in Paris, and her wardrobe was to be, indeed, a marvel of splendid perfe. When she had replied to the letter asking her if the doll would be an acceptable present, Sara had been very quaint.
"I am getting very old," she wrote; "you see, I shall never live to have another doll givehis will be my last doll. There is something solemn about it. If I could write poetry, I am sure a poem about `A Last Doll would be very nice. But I ot write poetry. I have tried, and it made me laugh. It did not sound like Watts or Ce or Shakespeare at all. No one could ever take Emilys place, but I should respect the Last Doll very much; and I am sure the school would love it. They all like dolls, though some of the big ohe almost fifteen ones-- pretend they are too grown up."
Captain Crewe had a splitting headache when he read this letter in his bungalow in India. The table before him was heaped with papers aers which were alarming him and filling him with anxious dread, but he laughed as he had not laughed for weeks.
"Oh," he said, "shes better fun every year she lives. God grant this business may right itself and leave me free to run home and see her. What wouldnt I give to have her little arms round my his minute! What wouldnt I give!"
The birthday was to be celebrated by great festivities. The schoolroom was to be decorated, and there was to be a party. The boxes taining the presents were to be opened with great ceremony, and there was to be a glitteri spread in Miss Mins sacred room. When the day arrived the whole house was in a whirl of excitement. How the m passed nobody quite knew, because there seemed such preparations to be made. The schoolroom was being decked with garlands of holly; the desks had been moved away, and red covers had been put on the forms which were arrayed round the room against the wall.
When Sara went into her sitting room in the m, she found oable a small, dumpy package, tied up in a piece of broer. She k resent, and she thought she could guess whom it came from. She ope quite tenderly. It was a square pincushion, made of not quite red flannel, and black pins had been stuck carefully into it to form the words, "Menny hapy returns."
"Oh!" cried Sara, with a warm feeling in her heart. "ains she has taken! I like it so, it--it makes me feel sorrowful."
But the moment she was mystified. On the under side of the pincushion was secured a card, bearing i letters the name "Miss Amelia Min."
Sara tur over and over.
"Miss Amelia!" she said to herself "How it be!"
And just at that very moment she heard the door being cautiously pushed open and saw Becky peeping round it.
There was an affeate, happy grin on her face, and she shuffled forward and stood nervously pulling at her fingers.
"Do yer like it, Miss Sara?" she said. "Do yer?"
"Like it?" cried Sara. "You darling Becky, you made it all yourself."
Becky gave a hysteric but joyful sniff, and her eyes looked quite moist with delight.
"It aint nothin but flannin, an the flannin aint new; but I wao give yer somethin an I made it of nights. I knew yer could pretend it was satin with diamond pins in. _I_ tried to when I was makin it. The card, miss," rather doubtfully; "t warnt wrong of me to pick it up out o the dust-bin, was it? Miss Meliar had throwed it away. I hadnt no card o my own, an I k wouldnt be a proper presink if I didnt pin a card on-- so I pinned Miss Meliars."
Sara flew at her and hugged her. She could not have told herself or anyone else why there was a lump ihroat.
"Oh, Becky!" she cried out, with a queer little laugh, "I love you, Becky--I do, I do!"
"Oh, miss!" breathed Becky. "Thank yer, miss, kindly; it aint good enough for that. The--the flannin wasnt new."
7. The Diamond Mines Again
7. The Diamond Mines Again
When Sara ehe holly-hung schoolroom iernoon, she did so as the head of a sort of procession. Miss Min, in her gra silk dress, led her by the hand. A manservant followed, carrying the box taining the Last Doll, a housemaid carried a sed box, and Becky brought up the rear, carrying a third and wearing a apron and a ne. Sara would have much preferred to enter in the usual way, but Miss Min had sent for her, and, after an interview in her private sitting room, had expressed her wishes.
"This is not an ordinary occasion," she said. "I do not desire that it should be treated as one."
So Sara was led grandly in a shy when, on her entry, the big girls stared at her and touched each others elbows, and the little ones began to squirm joyously in their seats.
"Silence, young ladies!" said Miss Min, at the murmur which arose. "James, place the box oable and remove the lid. Emma, put yours upon a chair. Becky!" suddenly and severely.
Becky had quite fotten herself in her excitement, and was grinning at Lottie, riggling with rapturous expectation. She almost dropped her box, the disapproving voice so startled her, and her frightened, bobbing curtsy of apology was so funny that Lavinia and Jessie tittered.
"It is not your place to look at the young ladies," said Miss Min. "You fet yourself. Put your box down."
Becky obeyed with alarmed haste and hastily backed toward the door.
"You may leave us," Miss Min annouo the servants with a wave of her hand.
Becky stepped aside respectfully to allow the superior servants to pass out first. She could not help casting a longing gla the box oable. Something made of blue satin eeping from between the folds of tissue paper.
"If you please, Miss Min," said Sara, suddenly, "maynt Becky stay?"
It was a bold thing to do. Miss Min was betrayed into something like a slight jump. The her eyeglass up, and gazed at her show pupil disturbedly.
"Becky!" she exclaimed. "My dearest Sara!"
Sara advanced a step toward her.
"I want her because I know she will like to see the presents," she explained. "She is a little girl, too, you know."
Miss Min was sdalized. She glanced from one figure to the other.
"My dear Sara," she said, "Becky is the scullery maid. Scullery maids--er--are not little girls."
It really had not occurred to her to think of them in that light. Scullery maids were maes who carried coal scuttles and made fires.
"But Becky is," said Sara. "And I know she would enjoy herself. Please let her stay--because it is my birthday."
Miss Min replied with much dignity:
"As you ask it as a birthday favor--she may stay. Rebecca, thank Miss Sara for her great kindness."
Becky had been bag into the er, twisting the hem of her apron in delighted suspense. She came forward, bobbing curtsies, but between Saras eyes and her own there passed a gleam of friendly uanding, while her words tumbled over each other.
"Oh, if you please, miss! Im that grateful, miss! I did want to see the doll, miss, that I did. Thank you, miss. And thank you, maam,"--turning and making an alarmed bob to Miss Min-- "for lettiake the liberty."
Miss Min waved her hand again--this time it was in the dire of the er he door.
"Go and stand there," she anded. "Not too he young ladies."
Becky went to her place, grinning. She did not care where she was sent, so that she might have the luck of being i..he room, instead of being downstairs in the scullery, while these delights were going on. She did not even mind when Miss Min cleared her throat ominously and spoke again.
"Now, young ladies, I have a few words to say to you," she announced.
"Shes going to make a speech," whispered one of the girls. "I wish it was over."
Sara felt rather unfortable. As this was her party, it robable that the speech was about her. It is not agreeable to stand in a schoolroom and have a speech made about you.
"You are aware, young ladies," the speech began--for it eech--"that dear Sara is eleven years old today."
"Dear Sara!" murmured Lavinia.
"Several of you here have also been eleven years old, but Saras birthdays are rather different from other little girls birthdays. When she is older she will be heiress to a large fortune, which it will be her duty to spend in a meritorious manner."
"The diamond mines," giggled Jessie, in a whisper.
Sara did not hear her; but as she stood with her green-gray eyes fixed steadily on Miss Min, she felt herself growing rather hot. When Miss Min talked about money, she felt somehow that she always hated her--and, of course, it was disrespectful to hate grown-up people.
"When her dear papa, Captain Crewe, brought her from India and gave her into my care," the speech proceeded, "he said to me, in a jesting way, `I am afraid she will be very rich, Miss Min. My reply was, `Her education at my seminary, Captain Crewe, shall be such as will adorn the largest fortune. Sara has bey most aplished pupil. Her Frend her dang are a credit to the seminary. Her manners--which have caused you to call her Princess Sara--are perfect. Her amiability she exhibits by giving you this afternoons party. I hope you appreciate her generosity. I wish you to express your appreciation of it by saying aloud all together, `Thank you, Sara!"
The entire schoolroom rose to its feet as it had dohe m Sara remembered so well.
"Thank you, Sara!" it said, and it must be fessed that Lottie jumped up and down. Sara looked rather shy for a moment. She made a curtsy--and it was a very nie.
"Thank you," she said, "for ing to my party."
"Very pretty, indeed, Sara," approved Miss Min. "That is what a real princess does when the populace applauds her. Lavinia"--scathingly--"the sound you just made was extremely like a snort. If you are jealous of your fellow-pupil, I beg you will express your feelings in some more lady-like manner. Now I will leave you to enjoy yourselves."
The instant she had swept out of the room the spell her presence always had upon them was broken. The door had scarcely closed before every seat was empty. The little girls jumped or tumbled out of theirs; the older ones wasted no time iing theirs. There was a rush toward the boxes. Sara had bent over one of them with a delighted face.
"These are books, I know," she said.
The little children broke into a rueful murmur, and Ermengarde looked aghast.
"Does your papa send you books for a birthday present?" she exclaimed. "Why, hes as bad as mine. Dont open them, Sara."
"I like them," Sara laughed, but she turo the biggest box. Wheook out the Last Doll it was so magnifit that the children uttered delighted groans of joy, and actually drew back to gaze at it ihless rapture.
"She is almost as big as Lottie," someone gasped.
Lottie clapped her hands and danced about, giggling.
"Shes dressed for the theater," said Lavinia. "Her cloak is lined with ermine."
"Oh," cried Ermengarde, darting forward, "she has an lass in her hand--a blue-and-gold one!"
"Here is her trunk," said Sara. "Let us open it and look at her things."
She sat down upon the floor and turhe key. The children crowded clam around her, as she lifted tray after tray and revealed their tents. Never had the schoolroom been in su uproar. There were lace collars and silk stogs and handkerchiefs; there was a jewel case taining a necklad a tiara which looked quite as if they were made of real diamonds; there was a long sealskin and muff, there were ball dresses and walking dresses and visiting dresses; there were hats and tea gowns and fans. Even Lavinia and Jessie fot that they were too elderly to care for dolls, and uttered exclamations of delight and caught up things to look at them.
"Suppose," Sara said, as she stood by the table, putting a large, black-velvet hat on the impassively smiling owner of all these splendors--"suppose she uands human talk and feels proud of being admired."
"You are always supposing things," said Lavinia, and her air was very superior.
"I know I am," answered Sara, undisturbedly. "I like it. There is nothing so nice as supposing. Its almost like being a fairy. If you suppose anything hard enough it seems as if it were real."
"Its all very well to suppose things if you have everything," said Lavinia. "Could you suppose and pretend if you were a beggar and lived in a garret?"
Sara stopped arranging the Last Dolls ostrich plumes, and looked thoughtful.
"I believe I could," she said. "If one was a beggar, one would have to suppose and pretend all the time. But it mightnt be easy."
She often thought afterward how stra was that just as she had finished saying this--just at that very moment--Miss Amelia came into the room.
"Sara," she said, "your papas solir. Barrow, has called to see Miss Min, and, as she must talk to him alone and the refreshments are laid in her parlor, you had all better e and have your feast now, so that my sister have her interview here in the schoolroom."
Refreshments were not likely to be disdai any hour, and many pairs of eyes gleamed. Miss Amelia arrahe procession into de, and then, with Sara at her side heading it, she led it away, leaving the Last Doll sitting upon a chair with the glories of her wardrobe scattered about her; dresses and coats hung upon chair backs, piles of lace-frilled petticoats lying upon their seats.
Becky, who was not expected to partake of refreshments, had the indiscretion to linger a moment to look at these beauties--it really was an indiscretion.
"Go back to your work, Becky," Miss Amelia had said; but she had stopped to pick up reverently first a muff and then a coat, and while she stood looking at them adly, she heard Miss Min upohreshold, and, being smitten with terror at the thought of being accused of taking liberties, she rashly darted uhe table, which hid her by its tablecloth.
Miss Min came into the room, apanied by a sharp- featured, dry little gentleman, who looked rather disturbed. Miss Min herself also looked rather disturbed, it must be admitted, and she gazed at the dry little gentleman with an irritated and puzzled expression.
She sat down with stiff dignity, and waved him to a chair.
"Pray, be seated, Mr. Barrow," she said.
Mr. Barrow did not sit down at once. His attention seemed attracted by the Last Doll and the things which surrounded her. He settled his eyeglasses and looked at them in nervous disapproval. The Last Doll herself did not seem to mind this in the least. She merely sat upright aurned his gaze indifferently.
"A hundred pounds," Mr. Barrow remarked suctly. "All expeerial, and made at a Parisian modistes. He spent money lavishly enough, that young man."
Miss Min felt offehis seemed to be a disparagement of her best patron and was a liberty.
Even solicitors had nht to take liberties.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Barrow," she said stiffly. "I do not uand."
"Birthday presents," said Mr. Barrow in the same critical manner, "to a child eleven years old! Mad extravagance, I call it."
Miss Min drew herself up still midly.
"Captain Crewe is a man of fortune," she said. "The diamond mines alone--"
Mr. Barrow wheeled round upon her. "Diamond mines!" he broke out. "There are none! Never were!"
Miss Min actually got up from her chair.
"What!" she cried. "What do you mean?"
"At any rate," answered Mr. Barrow, quite snappishly, "it would have been much better if there never had been any."
"Any diamond mines?" ejaculated Miss Min, catg at the back of a chair and feeling as if a splendid dream was fading away from her.
"Diamond mines spell ruin oftehan they spell wealth," said Mr. Barrow. "When a man is in the hands of a very dear friend and is not a businessman himself, he had better steer clear of the dear friends diamond mines, old mines, or any other kind of mines dear friends want his moo put into. The late Captain Crewe--"
Here Miss Min stopped him with a gasp.
"The late Captain Crewe!" she cried out. "The late! You dont e to tell me that Captain Crewe is--"
"Hes dead, maam," Mr. Barrow answered with jerky brusqueness. "Died of jungle fever and busiroubles bihe jungle fever might not have killed him if he had not been driven mad by the busiroubles, and the busiroubles might not have put ao him if the jungle fever had not assisted. Captain Crewe is dead!"
Miss Min dropped into her chair again. The words he had spoken filled her with alarm.
"What were his busiroubles?" she said. "What were they?"
"Diamond mines," answered Mr. Barrow, "and dear friends--and ruin."
Miss Min lost her breath.
"Ruin!" she gasped out.
"Lost every penny. That young man had too much mohe dear friend was mad on the subject of the diamond mine. He put all his own money into it, and all Captain Crewes. Then the dear friend ran away--Captain Crewe was already stri with fever when the news came. The shock was too much for him. He died delirious, raving about his little girl--and didnt leave a penny."
Now Miss Min uood, and never had she received such a blow in her life. Her show pupil, her show patron, swept away from the Select Seminary at one blow. She felt as if she had been ed and robbed, and that Captain Crewe and Sara and Mr. Barrow were equally to blame.
"Do you mean to tell me," she cried out, "that he left nothing! That Sara will have no fortuhat the child is a beggar! That she is left on my hands a little pauper instead of an heiress?"
Mr. Barrow was a shrewd businessman, a it as well to make his own freedom from responsibility quite clear without any delay.
"She is certainly left a beggar," he replied. "And she is certainly left on your hands, maam--as she hasnt a relation in the world that we know of."
Miss Min started forward. She looked as if she was going to open the door and rush out of the room to stop the festivities going on joyfully and rather noisily that moment over the refreshments.
"It is monstrous!" she said. "Shes in my sitting room at this moment, dressed in silk gauze and lace petticoats, giving a party at my expense."
"Shes giving it at your expense, madam, if shes giving it," said Mr. Barrow, calmly. "Barro; Skipworth are not responsible for anything. There never was a er sweep made of a mans fortune. Captain Crewe died without paying our last bill--and it was a big one."
Miss Min turned back from the door in increased indignation. This was worse than anyone could have dreamed of its being.
"That is what has happeo me!" she cried. "I was always so sure of his payments that I went to all sorts of ridiculous expenses for the child. I paid the bills for that ridiculous doll and her ridiculous fantastic wardrobe. The child was to have anything she wanted. She has a carriage and a pony and a maid, and Ive paid for all of them sihe last cheque came."
Mr. Barrow evidently did not io remain to listen to the story of Miss Mins grievances after he had made the position of his firm clear aed the mere dry facts. He did not feel any particular sympathy for irate keepers of b schools.
"You had better not pay for anything more, maam," he remarked, "unless you want to make presents to the young lady. No one will remember you. She hasnt a brass farthing to call her own."
"But what am I to do?" demanded Miss Min, as if she felt it entirely his duty to make the matter right. "What am I to do?"
"There isnt anything to do," said Mr. Barrow, folding up his eyeglasses and slipping them into his pocket. "Captain Crewe is dead. The child is left a pauper. Nobody is responsible for her but you."
"I am not responsible for her, and I refuse to be made responsible!"
Miss Min became quite white with rage.
Mr. Barrow turo go.
"I have nothing to do with that, madam," he said un- iedly. "Barro; Skipworth are not responsible. Very sorry the thing has happened, of course."
"If you think she is to be foisted off on me, yreatly mistaken," Miss Min gasped. "I have been robbed and cheated; I will turn her into the street!"
If she had not been so furious, she would have been too discreet to say quite so much. She saw herself burdened with aravagantly brought-up child whom she had always resented, and she lost all self-trol.
Mr. Barrow undisturbedly moved toward the door.
"I wouldnt do that, madam," he ented; "it wouldnt look well. Unpleasant story to get about in e with the establishment. Pupil bundled out penniless and without friends."
He was a clever business man, and he knew what he was saying. He also khat Miss Min was a business woman, and would be shrewd enough to see the truth. She could not afford to do a thing which would make people speak of her as cruel and hard- hearted.
"Better keep her and make use of her," he added. "Shes a clever child, I believe. You get a good deal out of her as she grows older."
"I will get a good deal out of her before she grows older!" exclaimed Miss Min.
"I am sure you will, maam," said Mr. Barrow, with a little sinister smile. "I am sure you will. Good m!"
He bowed himself out and closed the door, and it must be fessed that Miss Min stood for a few moments and glared at it. What he had said was quite true. She k. She had absolutely no redress. Her show pupil had melted into nothingness, leaving only a friendless, beggared little girl. Such money as she herself had advanced was lost and could not be regained.
And as she stood there breathless under her sense of injury, there fell upon her ears a burst of gay voices from her own sacred room, which had actually been given up to the feast. She could at least stop this.
But as she started toward the door it ened by Miss Amelia, who, when she caught sight of the ged, angry face, fell back a step in alarm.
"What is the matter, sister?" she ejaculated.
Miss Mins voice was almost fierce when she answered:
"Where is Sara Crewe?"
Miss Amelia was bewildered.
"Sara!" she stammered. "Why, shes with the children in your room, of course."
"Has she a black fro her sumptuous wardrobe?"--in bitter irony.
"A black frock?" Miss Amelia stammered again. "A blae?"
"She has frocks of every other color. Has she a blae?"
Miss Amelia began to turn pale.
"No--ye-es!" she said. "But it is too short for her. She has only the old black velvet, and she has outgrown it."
"Go and tell her to take off that preposterous pink silk gauze, and put the blae on, whether it is too short or not. She has doh finery!"
Then Miss Amelia began t her fat hands and cry.
"Oh, sister!" she sniffed. "Oh, sister! What have happened?"
Miss Min wasted no words.
"Captain Crewe is dead," she said. "He has died without a penny. That spoiled, pampered, fanciful child is left a pauper on my hands."
Miss Amelia sat down quite heavily in the chair.
"Hundreds of pounds have I spent on nonsense for her. And I shall never see a penny of it. Put a stop to this ridiculous party of hers. Go and make her ge her frock at once."
"I?" panted Miss Amelia. "M-must I go and tell her now?"
"This moment!" was the fierswer. "Dont sit staring like a goose. Go!"
Poor Miss Amelia was aced to being called a goose. She knew, in fact, that she was rather a goose, and that it was left to geese to do a great many disagreeable things. It was a somewhat embarrassing thing to go into the midst of a room full of delighted children, ahe giver of the feast that she had suddenly been transformed into a little beggar, and must go upstairs and put on an old black frock which was too small for her. But the thing must be dohis was evidently not the time wheions might be asked.
She rubbed her eyes with her handkerchief until they looked quite red. After which she got up a out of the room, without venturing to say another word. When her older sister looked and spoke as she had done just now, the wisest course to pursue was to obey orders without any ent. Miss Min walked across the room. She spoke to herself aloud without knowing that she was doing it. During the last year the story of the diamond mines had suggested all sorts of possibilities to her. Even proprietors of seminaries might make fortunes in stocks, with the aid of owners of mines. And now, instead of looking forward to gains, she was left to look back upon losses.
"The Princess Sara, indeed!" she said. "The child has been pampered as if she were a queen." She was sweeping angrily past the er table as she said it, and the moment she started at the sound of a loud, sobbing sniff which issued from uhe cover.
"What is that!" she exclaimed angrily. The loud, sobbing sniff was heard again, and she stooped and raised the hanging folds of the table cover.
"How dare you!" she cried out. "How dare you! e out immediately!"
It oor Becky who crawled out, and her cap was knocked on one side, and her face was red with repressed g.
"If you please, m--its me, mum," she explained. "I know I hadnt ought to. But I was lookin at the doll, mum--an I was frightened when you e in--an slipped uhe table."
"You have been there all the time, listening," said Miss Min.
"No, mum," Becky protested, bobbing curtsies. "Not listenin--I thought I could slip out without your noti, but I couldnt an I had to stay. But I didnt listen, mum--I wouldnt for nothin. But I couldnt help hearin."
Suddenly it seemed almost as if she lost all fear of the awful lady before her. She burst into fresh tears.
"Oh, please, m," she said; "I dare say youll give me warnin, mum--but Im so sorry for poor Miss Sara--Im so sorry!"
"Leave the room!" ordered Miss Min.
Becky curtsied again, the tears openly streaming down her cheeks.
"Yes, m; I will, m," she said, trembling; "but oh, I just wao arst you: Miss Sara--shes been such a rich young lady, an shes been waited on, and and foot; an what will she do now, mum, without no maid? If--if, oh please, would you let me wait on her after Ive done my pots ales? Id do em that quick--if youd let me wait on her now shes poor. Oh," breaking out afresh, "poor little Miss Sara, mum--that was called a princess."
Somehow, she made Miss Min feel more angry thahat the very scullery maid should range herself on the side of this child--whom she realized more fully thahat she had never liked--was too much. She actually stamped her foot.
"No--certainly not," she said. "She will wait on herself, and on other people, too. Leave the room this instant, or youll leave your place."
Becky threw her apron over her head and fled. She ran out of the room and doweps into the scullery, and there she sat down among her pots ales, a as if her heart would break.
"Its exactly like the ones iories," she wailed. "Them pore princess ohat was drove into the world."
Miss Min had never looked quite so still and hard as she did when Sara came to her, a few hours later, in respoo a message she had sent her.
Even by that time it seemed to Sara as if the birthday party had either been a dream or a thing which had happened years ago, and had happened in the life of quite another little girl.
Every sign of the festivities had bee away; the holly had been removed from the schoolroom walls, and the forms and desks put bato their places. Miss Mins sitting room looked as it always did--all traces of the feast were gone, and Miss Min had resumed her usual dress. The pupils had been ordered to lay aside their party frocks; and this having been dohey had returo the schoolroom and huddled together in groups, whispering and talkiedly.
"Tell Sara to e to my room," Miss Min had said to her sister. "And explain to her clearly that I will have n or unpleasant ses."
"Sister," replied Miss Amelia, "she is the stra child I ever saw. She has actually made no fuss at all. You remember she made none when Captain Crewe went back to India. When I told her what had happened, she just stood quite still and looked at me without making a sound. Her eyes seemed to get bigger and bigger, and she went quite pale. When I had finished, she still stood staring for a few seds, and then her began to shake, and she turned round and ran out of the room and upstairs. Several of the other children began to cry, but she did not seem to hear them or to be alive to anything but just what I was saying. It made me feel quite queer not to be answered; and when you tell anything sudden and strange, you expect people will say something--whatever it is."
Nobody but Sara herself ever knew what had happened in her room after she had run upstairs and locked her door. In fact, she herself scarcely remembered anything but that she walked up and down, saying over and ain to herself in a voice which did not seem her own, "..;My papa is dead! My papa is dead!"
Once she stopped before Emily, who sat watg her from her chair, and cried out wildly, "Emily! Do you hear? Do you hear-- papa is dead? He is dead in India--thousands of miles away."
When she came into Miss Mins sitting room in ao her summons, her face was white and her eyes had dark rings around them. Her mouth was set as if she did not wish it to reveal what she had suffered and was suffering. She did not look in the least like the rose-colored butterfly child who had flown about from one of her treasures to the other in the decorated schoolroom. She looked instead a strange, desolate, almost grotesque little figure.
She had put on, without Mariettes help, the cast-aside black- velvet frock. It was too short and tight, and her slender legs looked long and thin, showing themselves from beh the brief skirt. As she had not found a piece of black ribbon, her short, thick, black hair tumbled loosely about her fad trasted strongly with its pallor. She held Emily tightly in one arm, and Emily was swathed in a piece of black material.
"Put down your doll," said Miss Min. "What do you mean by bringing her here?"
"No," Sara answered. "I will not put her down. She is all I have. My papa gave her to me."
She had always made Miss Min feel secretly unfortable, and she did so now. She did not speak with rudeness so much as with a cold steadiness with which Miss Min felt it difficult to cope--perhaps because she knew she was doing a heartless and inhuman thing.
"You will have no time for dolls in future," she said. "You will have to work and improve yourself and make yourself useful."
Sara kept her big, strange eyes fixed on her, and said not a word.
"Everything will be very different now," Miss Min went on. "I suppose Miss Amelia has explained matters to you."
"Yes," answered Sara. "My papa is dead. He left me no money. I am quite poor."
"You are a beggar," said Miss Min, her temper rising at the recolle of what all this meant. "It appears that you have ions and no home, and no oo take care of you."
For a moment the thin, pale little face twitched, but Sara again said nothing.
"What are you staring at?" demanded Miss Min, sharply. "Are you so stupid that you ot uand? I tell you that you are quite alone in the world, and have no oo do anything for you, unless I choose to keep you here out of charity."
"I uand," answered Sara, in a low tone; and there was a sound as if she had gulped down something which rose ihroat. "I uand."
"That doll," cried Miss Min, pointing to the splendid birthday gift seated near--"that ridiculous doll, with all her nonsensical, extravagant things--I actually paid the bill for her!"
Sara turned her head toward the chair.
"The Last Doll," she said. "The Last Doll." And her little mournful voice had an odd sound.
"The Last Doll, indeed!" said Miss Min. "And she is mine, not yours. Everything you own is mine."
"Please take it away from me, then," said Sara. "I do not want it."
If she had cried and sobbed and seemed frightened, Miss Min might almost have had more patieh her. She was a woman who liked to domineer and feel her power, and as she looked at Saras pale little steadfast fad heard her proud little voice, she quite felt as if her might was bei naught.
"Dont put on grand airs," she said. "The time for that sort of thing is past. You are not a princess any longer. Your carriage and your pony will be sent away--your maid will be dismissed. You will wear your oldest and plai clothes--your extravagant ones are no longer suited to your station. You are like Becky--you must work for your living."
To her surprise, a faint gleam of light came into the childs eyes--a shade of relief.
" I work?" she said. "If I work it will not matter so much. What I do?"
"You do anything you are told," was the answer. "You are a sharp child, and pick up things readily. If you make yourself useful I may let you stay here. You speak French well, and you help with the younger children."
"May I?" exclaimed Sara. "Oh, please let me! I know I teach them. I like them, and they like me."
"Dont talk nonsense about people liking you," said Miss Min. "You will have to do more than teach the little ones. You will run errands and help i as well as in the schoolroom. If you dont please me, you will be sent away. Remember that. Now go."
Sara stood still just a moment, looking at her. In her young soul, she was thinking deep and strahings. Theuro leave the room.
"Stop!" said Miss Min. "Dont you io thank me?"
Sara paused, and all the deep, strahoughts surged up in her breast.
"What for?" she said.
"For my kio you," replied Miss Min. "For my kindness in giving you a home."
Sara made two or three steps toward her. Her thin little chest heaved up and down, and she spoke in a strange un-childishly fierce way.
"You are not kind," she said. "You are not kind, and it is not a home." And she had turned and run out of the room before Miss Min could stop her or do anything but stare after her with stony anger.
She went up the stairs slowly, but panting for breath and she held Emily tightly against her side.
"I wish she could talk," she said to herself. "If she could speak--if she could speak!"
She meant to go to her room and lie down oiger-skin, with her cheek upon the great cats head, and look into the fire and think and think and think. But just before she reached the landing Miss Amelia came out of the door and closed it behind her, and stood before it, looking nervous and awkward. The truth was that she felt secretly ashamed of the thing she had been ordered to do.
"You--you are not to go in there," she said.
"Not go in?" exclaimed Sara, and she fell back a pace.
"That is not your room now," Miss Amelia answered, reddening a little.
Somehow, all at once, Sara uood. She realized that this was the beginning of the ge Miss Min had spoken of.
"Where is my room?" she asked, hoping very much that her voice did not shake.
"You are to sleep iiext to Becky."
Sara knew where it was. Becky had told her about it. She turned, and mounted up two flights of stairs. The last one was narrow, and covered with shabby strips of old carpet. She felt as if she were walking away and leaving far behihe world in which that other child, who no longer seemed herself, had lived. This child, in her short, tight old frock, climbing the stairs to the attic, was quite a different creature.
When she reached the attic door and ope, her heart gave a dreary little thump. Then she shut the door and stood against it and looked about her.
Yes, this was another world. The room had a slanting roof and was whitewashed. The whitewash was dingy and had fallen off in places. There was a rusty grate, an old iroead, and a hard bed covered with a faded coverlet. Some pieces of furniture too much worn to be used downstairs had bee up. Uhe skylight in the roof, which showed nothing but an oblong piece of dull gray sky, there stood an old battered red footstool. Sara went to it and sat down. She seldom cried. She did not ow. She laid Emily across her knees and put her face down upon her and her arms around her, and sat there, her little black head resting on the black draperies, not saying one word, not making one sound.
And as she sat in this silehere came a lo at the door-- such a low, humble ohat she did not at first hear it, and, indeed, was not roused until the door was timidly pushed open and a poor tear-smeared face appeared peeping round it. It was Beckys face, and Becky had been g furtively for hours and rubbing her eyes with her kit apron until she looked strange indeed.
"Oh, miss," she said under her breath. "Might I--would you allow me--jest to e in?"
Sara lifted her head and looked at her. She tried to begin a smile, and somehow she could not. Suddenly--and it was all through the loving mournfulness of Beckys streaming eyes--her face looked more like a childs not so much too old for her years. She held out her hand and gave a little sob.
"Oh, Becky," she said. "I told you we were just the same--only two little girls--just two little girls. You see how true it is. Theres no differenow. Im not a princess anymore."
Becky ran to her and caught her hand, and hugged it to her breast, kneeling beside her and sobbing with love and pain.
"Yes, miss, you are," she cried, and her words were all broken. "Whatsever appens to you--whatsever--youd be a princess all the same--an nothin couldnt make you nothin different."
8. In the Attic
8. Iic
The first night she spent itic was a thing Sara never fot. During its passing she lived through a wild, unchildlike woe of which she never spoke to anyone about her. There was no one who would have uood. It was, indeed, well for her that as she lay awake in the darkness her mind was forcibly distracted, now and then, by the strangeness of her surroundings. It erhaps, well for her that she was reminded by her small body of material things. If this had not been so, the anguish of her young mind might have been too great for a child to bear. But, really, while the night assing she scarcely khat she had a body at all or remembered any other thing than one.
"My papa is dead!" she kept whispering to herself. "My papa is dead!"
It was not until long afterward that she realized that her bed had been so hard that she turned over and over in it to find a place to rest, that the darkness seemed more intehan any she had ever known, and that the wind howled over the roof among the eys like something which wailed aloud. Then there was something worse. This was certain scufflings and scratgs and squeakings in the walls and behind the skirting boards. She knew what they meant, because Becky had described them. They meant rats and mice who were either fighting with each other or playing together. Once or twice she even heard sharp-toed feet scurrying across the floor, and she remembered in those after days, when she recalled things, that when first she heard them she started up in bed and sat trembling, and when she lay down again covered her head with the bedclothes.
The ge in her life did not e about gradually, but was made all at once.
"She must begin as she is to go on," Miss Min said to Miss Amelia. "She must be taught at once what she is to expect."
Mariette had left the house the m. The glimpse Sara caught of her sitting room, as she pas99ｌib.s open door, showed her that everything had been ged. Her ors and luxuries had been removed, and a bed had been placed in a er to transform it into a new pupils bedroom.
When she went down to breakfast she saw that her seat at Miss Mins side was occupied by Lavinia, and Miss Min spoke to her coldly.
"You will begin your new duties, Sara," she said, "by taking your seat with the younger children at a smaller table. You must keep them quiet, ahat they behave well and do not waste their food. You ought to have been down earlier. Lottie has already upset her tea."
That was the beginning, and from day to day the duties given to her were added to. She taught the younger children Frend heard their other lessons, and these were the least of her labors. It was found that she could be made use of in numberless dires. She could be sent on errands at any time and in all weathers. She could be told to do things other people ed. The cook and the housemaids took their tone from Miss Min, and rather enjoyed about the "young one" who had been made so much fuss over for so long. They were not servants of the best class, and had her good manners nood tempers, and it wa..s frequently veo have at hand someone on whom blame could be laid.
During the first month or two, Sara thought that her willio do things as well as she could, and her silender reproof, might soften those who drove her so hard. In her proud little heart she wahem to see that she was trying to earn her living and not accepting charity. But the time came when she saw that no one was softe all; and the more willing she was to do as she was told, the more domineering aing careless housemaids became, and the more ready a scolding cook was to blame her.
If she had been older, Miss Min would have givehe bigger girls to tead saved money by dismissing an instructress; but while she remained and looked like a child, she could be made more useful as a sort of little superior errand girl and maid of all work. An ordinary errand boy would not have been so clever and reliable. Sara could be trusted with difficult issions and plicated messages. She could even go and pay bills, and she bined with this the ability to dust a room well and to set things in order.
Her own lessons became things of the past. She was taught nothing, and only after long and busy days spent in running here and there at everybodys orders was she grudgingly allowed to go into the deserted schoolroom, with a pile of old books, and study alo night.
"If I do not remind myself of the things I have learned, perhaps I may fet them," she said to herself. "I am almost a scullery maid, and if I am a scullery maid who knows nothing, I shall be like poor Becky. I wonder if I could quite fet and begin to drop my HS and not remember that Henry the Eighth had six wives."
One of the most curious things in her ence was her ged position among the pupils. Instead of being a sort of small royal personage among them, she no longer seemed to be one of their all. She was kept so stantly at work that she scarcely ever had an opportunity of speaking to any of them, and she could not avoid seeing that Miss Min preferred that she should live a life apart from that of the octs of the schoolroom.
"I will not have her f intimacies and talking to the other children," that lady said. "Girls like a grievance, and if she begins to tell romantic stories about herself, she will bee an ill-used heroine, and parents will be given a wrong impression. It is better that she should live a separate life--one suited to her circumstances. I am giving her a home, and that is more than she has any right to expect from me."
Sara did not expect much, and was far too proud to try to tio be intimate with girls who evidently felt rather awkward and uain about her. The fact was that Miss Mins pupils were a set of dull, matter-of-fact young people. They were aced to being rid fortable, and as Saras frocks grew shorter and shabbier and queerer-looking, and it became aablished fact that she wore shoes with holes in them and was sent out to buy groceries and carry them through the streets in a basket on her arm when the cook wahem in a hurry, they felt rather as if, when they spoke to her, they were addressing an under servant.
"To think that she was the girl with the diamond mines, Lavinia ented. "She does look an object. And shes queerer than ever. I never liked her much, but I t bear that way she has now of looking at people without speaking--just as if she was finding them out."
"I am," said Sara, promptly, when she heard of this. "Thats what I look at some people for. I like to know about them. I think them over afterward."
The truth was that she had saved herself annoyance several times by keeping her eye on Lavinia, who was quite ready to make mischief, and would have been rather pleased to have made it for the ex-show pupil.
Sara never made any mischief herself, or interfered with anyone. She worked like a drudge; she tramped through the wet streets, carrying parcels and baskets; she labored with the childish iion of the little ones French lessons; as she became shabbier and more forlorn-looking, she was told that she had better take her meals downstairs; she was treated as if she was nobodys , and her heart grew proud and sore, but she old anyone what she felt.
"Soldiers dont plain," she would say between her small, shut teeth, "I am not going to do it; I will pretend this is part of a war."
But there were hours when her child heart might almost have broken with loneliness but for three people.
The first, it must be owned, was Becky--just Becky. Throughout all that first night spent in the garret, she had felt a vague fort in knowing that oher side of the wall in which the rats scuffled and squeaked there was another young humaure. And during the nights that followed the sense of frew. They had little ce to speak to each other during the day. Each had her own tasks to perform, and any attempt at versation would have been regarded as a tendency to loiter and lose time. "Dont mind me, miss," Becky whispered during the first m, "if I dont say nothin polite. Some und be down on us if I did. I means `please an `thank you an `beg pardon, but I dassnt to take time to say it."
But before daybreak she used to slip into Saras attid button her dress and give her such help as she required before she went downstairs to light the kit fire. And when night came Sara always heard the humble knock at her door which meant that her handmaid was ready to help her again if she was needed. During the first weeks of her grief Sara felt as if she were too stupefied to talk, so it happehat some time passed before they saw each other much or exged visits. Beckys heart told her that it was best that people in trouble should be left alone.
The sed of the trio of forters was Ermengarde, but odd things happened before Ermengarde found her place.
When Saras mind seemed to awaken again to the life about her, she realized that she had fotten that an Ermengarde lived in the world. The two had always been friends, but Sara had felt as if she were years the older. It could not be tested that Ermengarde was as dull as she was affeate. She g to Sara in a simple, helpless way; she brought her lessons to her that she might be helped; she listeo her every word and besieged her with requests for stories. But she had nothing iing to say herself, and she loathed books of every description. She was, in faot a person one would remember when one was caught iorm of a great trouble, and Sara fot her.
It had been all the easier tet her because she had been suddenly called home for a few weeks. When she came back she did not see Sara for a day or two, and whe her for the first time she entered her ing down a corridor with her arms full of garments which were to be taken downstairs to be mended. Sara herself had already been taught to mend them. She looked pale and unlike herself, and she was attired in the queer, outgrown frock whose shortness showed so much thin black leg.
Ermengarde was too slow a girl to be equal to such a situation. She could not think of anything to say. She knew what had happened, but, somehow, she had never imagined Sara could look like this--so odd and poor and almost like a servant. It made her quite miserable, and she could do nothing but break into a short hysterical laugh and exclaim--aimlessly and as if without any meaning, "Oh, Sara, is that you?"
"Yes," answered Sara, and suddenly a strahought passed through her mind and made her face flush. She held the pile of garments in her arms, and her rested upoop of i藏书网t to keep it steady. Something in the look of her straight-gazing eyes made Ermengarde lose her wits still more. She felt as if Sara had ged into a new kind of girl, and she had never known her before. Perhaps it was because she had suddenly grown poor and had to mend things and work like Becky.
"Oh," she stammered. "How--how are you?"
"I dont know," Sara replied. "How are you?"
"Im--Im quite well," said Ermengarde, overwhelmed with shyness. Then spasmodically she thought of something to say which seemed more intimate. "Are you--are you very unhappy?" she said in a rush.
Then Sara was guilty of an injustice. Just at that momeor swelled within her, and she felt that if anyone was as stupid as that, one had better get away from her.
"What do you think?" she said. "Do you think I am very happy?" And she marched past her without another word.
In course of time she realized that if her wretess had not made her fet things, she would have known that poor, dull Ermengarde was not to be blamed for her unready, awkward ways. She was always awkward, and the more she felt, the more stupid she was given to being.
But the sudden thought which had flashed upon her ha99liｂ?d made her over-sensitive.
"She is like the others," she had thought. "She does not really want to talk to me. She knows no one does."
So for several weeks a barrier stood between them. When they met by ce Sara looked the other way, and Ermengarde felt too stiff and embarrassed to speak. Sometimes they o each other in passing, but there were times when they did not even exge a greeting.
"If she would rather not talk to me," Sara thought, "I will keep out of her way. Miss Min makes that easy enough."
Miss Min made it so easy that at last they scarcely saw each other at all. At that time it was noticed that Ermengarde was more stupid than ever, and that she looked listless and unhappy. She used to sit in the window-seat, huddled in a heap, and stare out of the window without speaking. Once Jessie, who assing, stopped to look at her curiously.
"What are y for, Ermengarde?" she asked.
"Im n," answered Ermengarde, in a muffled, unsteady voice.
"You are," said Jessie. "A great big tear just rolled down the bridge of your nose and dropped off at the end of it. And there goes another."
"Well," said Ermengarde, "Im miserable--and no one need interfere." And she turned her plump bad took out her handkerchief and boldly hid her fa it.
That night, when Sara went to her attic, she was later than usual. She had bee at work until after the hour at which the pupils went to bed, and after that she had goo her lessons in the lonely schoolroom. When she reached the top of the stairs, she was surprised to see a glimmer of light ing from uhe attic door.
"Nobody goes there but myself," she thought quickly, "but someone has lighted a dle."
Someone had, indeed, lighted a dle, and it was not burning i dlestick she was expected to use, but in one of those belonging to the pupils bedrooms. The someone was sitting upotered footstool, and was dressed in her nightgown and ed up in a red shawl. It was Ermengarde.
&quarde!" cried Sara. She was so startled that she was almost frightened. "You will get into trouble."
Ermengarde stumbled up from her footstool. She shuffled across the atti her bedroom slippers, which were toe for her. Her eyes and nose were pink with g.
"I know I shall--if Im found out." she said. "But I dont care--I dont care a bit. Oh, Sara, please tell me. What is the matter? Why dont you like me any more?"
Something in her voice made the familiar lump rise in Saras throat. It was so affeate and simple--so like the old Ermengarde who had asked her to be "best friends." It sounded as if she had not meant what she had seemed to mean during these past weeks.
"I do like you," Sara answered. "I thought--you see, everything is different now. I thought you--were different.
Ermengarde opened her wet eyes wide.
"Why, it was you who were different!" she cried. "You didnt want to talk to me. I didnt know what to do. It was you who were different after I came back."
Sara thought a moment. She saw she had made a mistake.
"I am different," she explained, "though not in the way you think. Miss Min does not wao talk to the girls. Most of them dont want to talk to me. I thought--perhaps--you didnt. So I tried to keep out of your way."
"Oh, Sara," Ermengarde almost wailed in her reproachful dismay. And then after one more look they rushed into each others arms. It must be fessed that Saras small black head lay for some minutes on the shoulder covered by the red shawl. When Ermengarde had seemed to desert her, she had felt horribly lonely.
Afterward they sat down upon the flether, Sara clasping her knees with her arms, and Ermengarde rolled up in her shawl. Ermengarde looked at the odd, big-eyed little face adly.
"I couldnt bear it any more," she said. "I dare say you could live without me, Sara; but I couldnt live without you. I was nearly dead. So tonight, when I was g uhe bedclothes, I thought all at once of creeping up here and just begging you to let us be friends again."
"You are han I am," said Sara. "I was too proud to try and make friends. You see, now that trials have e, they have shown that I am not a nice child. I was afraid they would. Perhaps"--wrinkling her forehead wisely--"that is what they were sent for."
"I dont see any good in them," said Ermengarde stoutly.
"her do I--to speak the truth," admitted Sara, frankly. "But I suppose there might be good in things, even if we do. There might"--doubtfully--"Be good in Miss Min."
Ermengarde looked round the attic with a rather fearsome curiosity.
"Sara," she said, "do you think you bear living here?"
Sara looked round also.
"If I pretend its quite different, I ," she answered; "or if I pretend it is a pla a story."
She spoke slowly. Her imagination was beginning to work for her. It had not worked for her at all since her troubles had e upon her. She had felt as if it had been stunned.
"Other people have lived in worse places. Think of the t of Monte Cristo in the dungeons of the Chateau dIf. And think of the people in the Bastille!"
"The Bastille," half whispered Ermengarde, watg her and beginning to be fasated. She remembered stories of the French Revolution which Sara had been able to fix in her mind by her dramatic relation of them. No o Sara could have do.
A well-known glow came into Saras eyes.
"Yes," she said, hugging her knees, "that will be a good place to pretend about. I am a prisoner in the Bastille. I have been here for years and years--and years; and everybody has fotten about me. Miss Min is the jailer--and Becky"--a sudden light adding itself to the glow in her eyes--"Becky is the prisoner in the cell."
She turarde, looking quite like the old Sara.
"I shall pretend that," she said; "and it will be a great fort."
Ermengarde was at onraptured and awed.
"And will you tell me all about it?" she said. "May I creep up here at night, whe is safe, ahe things you have made up in the day? It will seem as if we were more `best friends than ever."
"Yes," answered Sara, nodding. "Adversity tries people, and mine has tried you and proved how nice you are."
9. Melchisedec
9. Melchisedec
The third person irio was Lottie. She was a small thing and did not know what adversity meant, and was much bewildered by the alteration she saw in her young adopted mother. She had heard it rumored that strahings had happeo Sara, but she could not uand why she looked different--why she wore an old black frod came into the schoolroom only to teastead of to sit in her place of honor and learn lessons herself. There had been much whispering among the little ones when it had been discovered that Sara no longer lived in the rooms in which Emily had so long sat in state. Lotties chief difficulty was that Sara said so little when one asked her questions. At seven mysteries must be made very clear if one is to uand them.
"Are you very poor now, Sara?" she had asked fidentially the first m her friend took charge of the small French class. "Are you as poor as a beggar?" She thrust a fat hand into the slim one and opened round, tearful eyes. "I dont want you to be as poor as a beggar."
She looked as if she was going to cry. And Sara hurriedly soled her.
"Beggars have o live," she said ceously. "I have a place to live in."
"Where do you live?" persisted Lottle. "The new girl sleeps in your room, and it isnt pretty any more."
"I live in another room," said Sara.
"Is it a nie?" inquired Lottie. "I want to go a."
"You must not talk," said Sara. "Miss Min is looking at us. She will be angry with me for letting you whisper."
She had found out already that she was to be held atable for everything which was objected to. If the children were not attentive, if they talked, if they were restless, it was she who would be reproved.
But Lottie was a determined little person. If Sara would not tell her where she lived, she would find out in some other way. She talked to her small panions and hung about the elder girls and listened when they were gossiping; and ag upoain information they had unsciously let drop, she started late oernoon on a voyage of discovery, climbing stairs she had never known the existence of, until she reached the attic floor. There she found two doors near each other, and opening one, she saw her beloved Sara standing upon an old table and looking out of a window.
"Sara!" she cried, aghast. "Mamma Sara!" She was aghast because the attic was so bare and ugly and seemed so far away from all the world. Her short legs had seemed to have been mounting hundreds of stairs.
Sara turned round at the sound of her voice. It was her turn to be aghast. What would happen now? If Lottie began to cry and any one ced to hear, they were both lost. She jumped down from her table and ran to the child.
"Dont cry and make a noise," she implored. "I shall be scolded if you do, and I have been scolded all day. Its--its not such a bad room, Lottie."
"Isnt it?" gasped Lottie, and as she looked round it she bit her lip. She oiled child yet, but she was fond enough of her adopted parent to make an effort to trol herself for her sake. Then, somehow, it was quite possible that any pla which Sara lived might turn out to be nice. "Why isnt it, Sara?" she almost whispered.
Sara hugged her close and tried to laugh. There was a sort of fort in the warmth of the plump, childish body. She had had a hard day and had been staring out of the windows with hot eyes.
"You see all sorts of things you t see downstairs," she said.
"What sort of things?" demanded Lottie, with that curiosity Sara could always awaken even in bigger girls.
"eys--quite close to us--with smoke curling up ihs and clouds and going up into the sky--and sparrows hopping about and talking to each other just as if they were people--and other attidows where heads may pop out any minute and you wonder who they belong to. And it all feels as high up--as if it was another world."
"Oh, let me see it!" cried Lottie. "Lift me up!"
Sara lifted her up, and they stood on the old table together and leaned on the edge of the flat window in the roof, and looked out.
Anyone who has not dohis does not know what a different world they saw. The slates spread out oher side of them and slanted down into the rain gutter-pipes. The sparrows, being at home there, twittered and hopped about quite without fear. Two of them perched on the ey top and quarrelled with each other fiercely until one pecked the other and drove him away. The garret window o theirs was shut because the house door was empty.
"I wish someone lived there," Sara said. "It is so close that if there was a little girl iic, we could talk to each other through the windows and climb over to see each other, if we were not afraid of falling."
The sky seemed so muearer than when one saw it from the street, that Lottie was ented. From the attidow, among the ey pots, the things which were happening in the world below seemed almost unreal. One scarcely believed in the existeniss Min and Miss Amelia and the schoolroom, and the roll of wheels in the square seemed a sound belonging to another existence.
"Oh, Sara!" cried Lottie, cuddling in her guarding arm. "I like this attic--I like it! It is han downstairs!"
"Look at that sparrow," whispered Sara. "I wish I had some crumbs to throw to him."
"I have some!" came in a little shriek from Lottie. "I have part of a bun in my pocket; I bought it with my penerday, and I saved a bit."
Whehrew out a few crumbs the sparrow jumped and flew away to an adjat ey top. He was evidently not aced to intimates in attics, and ued crumbs startled him. But when Lottie remained quite still and Sara chirped very softly-- almost as if she were a sparrow herself--he saw that the thing which had alarmed him represented hospitality, after all. He put his head on one side, and from his per the ey looked down at the crumbs with twinkling eyes. Lottie could scarcely keep still.
"Will he e? Will he e?" she whispered.
"His eyes look as if he would," Sara whispered back. "He is thinking and thinking whether he dare. Yes, he will! Yes, he is ing!"
He flew down and hopped toward the crumbs, but stopped a few inches away from them, putting his head on one side again, as if refleg on the ces that Sara and Lottie might turn out to be big cats and jump on him. At last his heart told him they were really han they looked, and he hopped nearer and nearer, darted at the biggest crumb with a lightning peck, seized it, and carried it away to the other side of his ey.
"Now he knows", said Sara. "And he will e back for the others."
He did e back, and even brought a friend, and the frie away and brought a relative, and among them they made a hearty meal over which they twittered and chattered and exclaimed, stopping every now and then to put their heads on one side and examitie and Sara. Lottie was so delighted that she quite fot her first shocked impression of the atti fact, when she was lifted down from the table auro earthly things, as it were, Sara was able to point out to her maies in the room which she herself would not have suspected the existence of.
"It is so little and so high above everything," she said, "that it is almost like a in a tree. The slanting ceiling is so funny. See, you scarcely stand up at this end of the room; and when the m begins to e I lie in bed and lht up into the sky through that flat window in the roof. It is like a square patch of light. If the sun is going to shine, little pink clouds float about, and I feel as if I could touch them. And if it rains, the drops patter and patter as if they were saying something hen if there are stars, you lie and try to t how many go into the patch. It takes such a lot. And just look at that tiny, rusty grate in the er. If it olished and there was a fire in it, just think how would be. You see, its really a beautiful little room."
She was walking round the small place, holding Lotties hand and makiures which described all the beauties she was making herself see. She quite made Lottie see them, too. Lottie could always believe ihings Sara made pictures of.
"You see," she said, "there could be a thick, soft blue Indian rug on the floor; and in that er there could be a soft little sofa, with cushions to curl up on; and just over it could be a shelf full of books so that one could reach them easily; and there could be a fur rug before the fire, and hangings on the wall to cover up the whitewash, and pictures. They would have to be little ones, but they could be beautiful; and there could be a lamp with a deep rose-colored shade; and a table in the middle, with things to have tea with; and a little fat copper kettle singing on the hob; and the bed could be quite different. It could be made soft and covered with a lovely silk coverlet. It could be beautiful. And perhaps we could coax the sparrows until we made such friends with them that they would e and peck at the window and ask to be let in."
"Oh, Sara!" cried Lottie. "I should like to live here!"
When Sara had persuaded her to go downstairs again, and, after setting her on her way, had e back to her attic, she stood in the middle of it and looked about her. The entment of her imaginings for Lottie had died away. The bed was hard and covered with its dingy quilt. The whitewashed wall showed its broken patches, the floor was cold and bare, the grate was broken and rusty, and the battered footstool, tilted sideways on its injured leg, the only seat in the room. She sat down on it for a few minutes a her head drop in her hands. The mere fact that Lottie had e and gone away again made things seem a little worse--just as perhaps prisoners feel a little more desolate after visitors e and go, leaving them behind.
"Its a lonely place," she said. "Sometimes its the lo pla the world."
She was sitting in this way whetention was attracted by a slight sound near her. She lifted her head to see where it came from, and if she had been a nervous child she would have left her seat otered footstool in a great hurry. A large rat was sitting up on his hind quarters and sniffing the air in an ied manner. Some of Lotties crumbs had dropped upon the floor and their st had drawn him out of his hole.
He looked so queer and so like a gray-whiskered dwarf hat Sara was rather fasated. He looked at her with his bright eyes, as if he were asking a question. He was evidently so doubtful that one of the childs queer thoughts came into her mind.
"I dar.99ｌib?t>e say it is rather hard to be a rat," she mused. "Nobody likes you. People jump and run away and scream out, `Oh, a horrid rat! I shouldnt like people to scream and jump and say, `Oh, a horrid Sara! the moment they saw me. Araps for me, and pretend they were dinner. Its so different to be a sparrow. But nobody asked this rat if he wao be a rat when he was made. Nobody said, `Wouldnt you rather be a sparrow?"
She had sat so quietly that the rat had begun to take ce. He was very much afraid of her, but perhaps he had a heart like the sparrow and it told him that she was not a thing which pounced. He was very hungry. He had a wife and a large family in the wall, and they had had frightfully bad luck for several days. He had left the children g bitterly, a he would risk a good deal for a few crumbs, so he cautiously dropped upon his feet.
"e on," said Sara; "Im not a trap. You have them, poor thing! Prisoners in the Bastille used to make friends with rats. Suppose I make friends with you."
How it is that animals uand things I do not know, but it is certain that they do uand. Perhaps there is a language which is not made of words and everything in the world uands it. Perhaps there is a soul hidden ihing and it always speak, without even making a sound, to another soul. But whatsoever was the reason, the rat knew from that moment that he was safe--even though he was a rat. He khat this young human being sitting on the red footstool would not jump up and terrify him with wild, sharp noises or throw heavy objects at him which, if they did not fall and crush him, would send him limping in his scurry back to his hole. He was really a very , and did not mean the least harm. When he had stood on his hind legs and she air, with his bright eyes fixed on Sara, he had hoped that she would uand this, and would not begin by hating him as an enemy. When the mysterious thing which speaks without saying any words told him that she would not, he went softly toward the crumbs and began to eat them. As he did it he glanced every now and then at Sara, just as the sparrows had done, and his expression was so very apologetic that it touched her heart.
She sat and watched him without making any movement. One crumb was very much larger thahers--in fact, it could scarcely be called a crumb. It was evident that he wahat piece very much, but it lay quite he footstool and he was still rather timid.
"I believe he wants it to carry to his family in the wall," Sara thought. "If I do not stir at all, perhaps he will e a."
She scarcely allowed herself to breathe, she was so deeply ied. The rat shuffled a little nearer and ate a few more crumbs, theopped and sniffed delicately, giving a side gla the oct of the footstool; then he darted at the piece of bun with something very like the sudden boldness of the sparrow, and the instant he.. had possession of it fled back to the wall, slipped down a cra the skirting board, and was gone.
"I knew he wa for his children," said Sara. "I do believe I could make friends with him."
A week or so afterward, on one of the rare nights when Ermengarde found it safe to steal up to the attic, wheapped on the door with the tips of her fingers Sara did not e to her for two or three mihere was, indeed, such a silen the room at first that Ermengarde wondered if she could have fallen asleep. Then, to her surprise, she heard her utter a little, low laugh and speak coaxingly to someone.
"There!" Ermengarde heard her say. "Take it and go home, Melchisedee to your wife!"
Almost immediately Sara opehe door, and when she did so she found Ermengarde standing with alarmed eyes upohreshold.
"Who--who are you talking to, Sara?" she gasped out.
Sara drew her in cautiously, but she looked as if something pleased and amused her.
"You must promise not to be frightened--not to scream the least bit, or I t tell you," she answered.
Ermengarde felt almost ined to scream on the spot, but mao trol herself. She looked all round the attid saw no one. A Sara had certainly been speaking to someone. She thought of ghosts.
"Is it--something that will frighten me?" she asked timorously.
"Some people are afraid of them," said Sara. "I was at first-- but I am not now."
"Was it--a ghost?" quaked Ermengarde.
"No," said Sara, laughing. "It was my rat."
Ermengarde made one bound, and landed in the middle of the little dingy bed. She tucked her feet under her nightgown and the red shawl. She did not scream, but she gasped with fright.
"Oh! Oh!" she cried under her breath. "A rat! A rat!"
"I was afraid you would be frightened," said Sara. "But you be. I am making him tame. He actually knows me and es out when I call him. Are you thteo want to see him?"
The truth was that, as the days had gone on and, with the aid of scraps brought up from the kit, her curious friendship had developed, she had gradually fotten that the timid creature she was being familiar with was a mere rat.
At first Ermengarde was too much alarmed to do anything but huddle in a heap upon the bed and tuck up her feet, but the sight of Saras posed little tenand the story of Melchisedecs first appearance began at last to rouse her curiosity, and she leaned forward over the edge of the bed and watched Sara go and kneel down by the hole in the skirting board.
"He--he wont run out quickly and jump on the bed, will he?" she said.
"No," answered Sara. "Hes as polite as we are. He is just like a person. Now watch!"
She began to make a low, whistling sound--so low and coaxing that it could only have been heard iire stillness. She did it several times, lookiirely absorbed in it. Ermengarde thought she looked as if she were w a spell. And at last, evidently in respoo it, a gray-whiskered, bright-eyed head peeped out of the hole. Sara had some crumbs in her hand. She dropped them, and Melchisedec came quietly forth and ate them. A piece of larger size than the rest he took and carried in the most businesslike manner back to his home.
"You see," said Sara, "that is for his wife and children. He is very nice. He os the little bits. After he goes back I always hear his family squeaking for joy. There are three kinds of squeaks. One kind is the childrens, and one is Mrs. Melchisedecs, and one is Melchisedecs own."
Ermengarde began to laugh.
"Oh, Sara!" she said. "You are queer--but you are nice."
"I know I am queer," admitted Sara, cheerfully; "and I try to be nice." She rubbed her forehead with her little brown paw, and a puzzled, tender look came into her face. "Papa always laughed at me," she said; "but I liked it. He thought I was queer, but he liked me to make up things. I--I t help making up things. If I didnt, I dont believe I could live." She paused and glanced around the attic. "Im sure I couldnt live here," she added in a low voice.
Ermengarde was ied, as she always was. "When you talk about things," she said, "they seem as if they grew real. You talk about Melchisedec as if he erson."
"He is a person," said Sara. "He gets hungry and frightened, just as we do; and he is married and has children. How do we know he doesnt think things, just as we do? His eyes look as if he erson. That was why I gave him a name."
She sat down on the floor in her favorite attitude, holding her knees.
"Besides," she said, "he is a Bastille rat sent to be my friend. I always get a bit of bread the cook has thrown away, and it is quite enough to support him."
"Is it the Bastille yet?" asked Ermengarde, eagerly. "Do you alretend it is the Bastille?"
"Nearly always," answered Sara. "Sometimes I try to pretend it is another kind of place; but the Bastille is generally easiest-- particularly when it is cold."
Just at that moment Ermengarde almost jumped off the bed, she was so startled by a sound she heard. It was like two distinocks on the wall.
"What is that?" she exclaimed.
Sara got up from the floor and answered quite dramatically:
"It is the prisoner in the cell."
"Becky!" cried Ermengarde, enraptured.
"Yes," said Sara. "Listen; the two knocks meant, `Prisoner, are you there?"
She khree times on the wall herself, as if in answer.
"That means, `Yes, I am here, and all is well."
Four knocks came from Beckys side of the wall.
"That means," explained Sara, "`Then, fellow-sufferer, we will sleep in peace. Good night."
Ermengarde quite beamed with delight.
"Oh, Sara!" she whispered joyfully. "It is like a story!"
"It is a story," said Sara. "Everythings a story. You are a story--I am a story. Miss Min is a story."
And she sat down again and talked until Ermengarde fot that she was a sort of escaped prisoner herself, and had to be reminded by Sara that she could not remain in the Bastille all night, but must steal noiselessly downstairs again and creep bato her deserted bed.
10. The Indian Gentleman
10. The Indialeman
But it erilous thing farde and Lottie to make pilgrimages to the attic. They could never be quite sure when Sara would be there, and they could scarcely ever be certain that Miss Amelia would not make a tour of iion through the bedrooms after the pupils were supposed to be asleep. So their visits were rare ones, and Sara lived a strange and lonely life. It was a lonelier life when she was downstairs than when she was itic. She had no oo talk to; and when she was sent out on errands and walked through the streets, a forlorn little figure carrying a basket or a parcel, trying to hold her hat ohe wind was blowing, and feeling the water soak through her shoes when it was raining, she felt as if the crowds hurrying past her made her loneliness greater. When she had been the Princess Sara, driving through the streets in her brougham, or walking, attended by Mariette, the sight of her bright, eager little fad picturesque coats and hats had often caused people to look after her. A happy, beautifully cared for little girl naturally attracts attention. Shabby, poorly dressed childre rare enough and pretty enough to make people turn around to look at them and smile. No one looked at Sara in these days, and no one seemed to see her as she hurried along the crowded pavements. She had begun to grow very fast, and, as she was dressed only in such clothes as the plainer remnants of her wardrobe would supply, she knew she looked very queer, indeed. All her valuable garments had been disposed of, and such as had bee for her use she was expected to wear so long as she could put them on at all. Sometimes, when she passed a shop window with a mirror in it, she almost laughed ht on catg a glimpse of herself, and sometimes her face went red and she bit her lip and turned away.
In the evening, when she passed houses whose windows were lighted up, she used to look into the warm rooms and amuse herself by imagining things about the people she saw sitting before the fires or about the tables. It always ied her to catch glimpses of rooms before the shutters were closed. There were several families in the square in which Miss Min lived, with which she had bee quite familiar in a way of her own. The one she liked best she called the Large Family. She called it the Large Family not because the members of it were big- -for, indeed, most of them were little--but because there were so many of them. There were eight children in the Large Family, and a stout, rosy mother, and a stout, rosy father, and a stout, rosy grandmother, and any number of servants. The eight children were always either being taken out to walk or to ride in perambulators by fortable nurses, or they were going to drive with their mamma, or they were flying to the door in the evening to meet their papa and kiss him and dance around him and drag off his overcoat and look in the pockets for packages, or they were crowding about the nursery windows and looking out and pushing each other and laughing--in fact, they were always doing something enjoyable and suited to the tastes of a large family. Sara was quite fond of them, and had given them names out of books--quite romantiames. She called them the Montmorencys when she did not call them the Large Family. The fat, fair baby with the lace cap was Ethelberta Beauchamp Montmorency; the baby was Violet ondeley Montmorency; the little boy who could just stagger and who had such round legs was Sydney Cecil Vivian Montmorency; and then came Lilian Evangeline Maud Marion, Rosalind Gladys, Guy Clarence, Veronica Eustacia, and Claude Harold Hector.
One evening a very funny thing happehough, perhaps, in one se was not a funny thing at all.
Several of the Montmorencys were evidently going to a childrens party, and just as Sara was about to pass the door they were crossing the pavement to get into the carriage which was waiting for them. Veronica Eustacia and Rosalind Gladys, in white-lace frocks and lovely sashes, had just got in, and Guy Clarence, aged five, was following them. He was such a pretty fellow and had such rosy cheeks and blue eyes, and such a darling little round head covered with curls, that Sara fot her basket and shabby cloak altogether--in fact, fot everything but that she wao look at him for a moment. So she paused and looked.
It was Christmas time, and the Large Family had been hearing many stories about children who were poor and had no mammas and papas to fill their stogs and take them to the pantomime-- children who were, in fact, cold and thinly clad and hungry. Iories, kind people--sometimes little boys and girls with tender hearts--invariably saw the poor children and gave them money or rich gifts, or took them home to beautiful dinners. Guy Clarence had been affected to tears that very afternoon by the reading of such a story, and he had burned with a desire to find such a poor child and give her a certain sixpence he possessed, and thus provide for her for life. Aire sixpence, he was sure, would mean affluence for evermore. As he crossed the strip of red carpet laid across the pavement from the door to the carriage, he had this very sixpen the pocket of his very short man-o-war trousers; And just as Rosalind Gladys got into the vehicle and jumped on the seat in order to feel the cushions spring under her, he saw Sara standing o pavement in her shabby frod hat, with her old basket on her arm, looking at him hungrily.
He thought that her eyes looked hungry because she had perhaps had nothing to eat for a long time. He did not know that they looked so because she was hungry for the warm, merry life his home held and his rosy face spoke of, and that she had a hungry wish to snatch him in her arms and kiss him. He only khat she had big eyes and a thin fad thin legs and a on basket and poor clothes. So he put his hand in his pocket and found his sixpend walked up to her benignly.
"Here, poor little girl," he said. "Here is a sixpence. I will give it to you."
Sara started, and all at once realized that she looked exactly like poor children she had seen, in her better days, waiting on the pavement to watch her as she got out of her brougham. And she had given them pennies many a time. Her face went red and then it went pale, and for a sed she felt as if she could not take the dear little sixpence.
"Oh, no!" she said. "Oh, no, thank you; I mustnt take it, indeed!"
Her voice was so unlike an ordinary street childs void her manner was so like the manner of a well-bred little person that Veronica Eustacia (whose real name was Ja) and Rosalind Gladys (who was really called Nora) leaned forward to listen.
But Guy Clarence was not to be thwarted in his benevolence. He thrust the sixpeo her hand.
"Yes, you must take it, poor little girl!" he insisted stoutly. "You buy things to eat with it. It is a whole sixpence!"
There was something so ho and kind in his face, and he looked so likely to be heartbrokenly disappointed if she did not take it, that Sara knew she must not refuse him. To be as proud as that would be a cruel thing. So she actually put her pride in her pocket, though it must be admitted her cheeks burned.
"Thank you," she said. "You are a kind, kind little darling thing." And as he scrambled joyfully into the carriage she went away, trying to smile, though she caught her breath quickly and her eyes were shining through a mist. She had known that she looked odd and shabby, but until now she had not known that she might be taken for a beggar.
As the Large Familys carriage drove away, the children i were talking with ied excitement.
"Oh, Donald," (this was Guy Clarename), Ja exclaimed alarmedly, "why did you offer that little girl your sixpence? Im sure she is not a beggar!"
"She didnt speak like a beggar!" cried Nora. "And her face didnt really look like a beggars face!"
"Besides, she didnt beg," said Ja. "I was so afraid she might be angry with you. You know, it makes people angry to be taken fgars when they are not beggars."
"She wasnt angry," said Donald, a trifle dismayed, but still firm. "She laughed a little, and she said I was a kind, kind little darling thing. And I was!"--stoutly. "It was my whole sixpence."
Ja and Nora exged glances.
"A beggar girl would never have said that," decided Ja. "She would have said, `Thank yer kindly, little gentleman-- thank yer, sir; and perhaps she would have bobbed a curtsy."
Sara knew nothing about the fact, but from that time the Large Family rofoundly ied in her as she was in it. Faces used to appear at the nursery windows when she passed, and many discussions ing her were held round the fire.
"She is a kind of servant at the seminary," Ja said. "I dont believe she belongs to anybody. I believe she is an orphan. But she is not a beggar, however shabby she looks."
And afterward she was called by all of them, "The-little-girl- who-is-not-a-beggar," which was, of course, rather a long name, and sounded very funny sometimes when the you ones said it in a hurry.
Sara mao bore a hole in the sixpend hung it on an old bit of narrow ribbon round her neck. Her affe for the Large Family increased--as, indeed, her affe for everything she could love increased. She grew fonder and fonder of Becky, and she used to look forward to the tws a week when she went into the schoolroom to give the little oheir French lesson. Her small pupils loved her, and strove with each other for the privilege of standing close to her and insinuating their small hands into hers. It fed her hungry heart to feel them ling up to her. She made such friends with the sparrows that wheood upoable, put her head and shoulders out of the attidow, and chirped, s99ｌｉｂ?he heard almost immediately a flutter of wings and answering twitters, and a little flock of dingy town birds appeared and alighted on the slates to talk to her and make much of the crumbs she scattered. With Melchisedec she had bee so intimate that he actually brought Mrs. Melchisedec with him sometimes, and now and then one or two of his children. She used to talk to him, and, somehow, he looked quite as if he uood.
There had grown in her mind rather a strange feeling about Emily, who always sat and looked on at everything. It arose in one of her moments of great desolateness. She would have liked to believe or pretend to believe that Emily uood and sympathized with her. She did not like to own to herself that her only panion could feel and hear nothing. She used to put her in a chair sometimes and sit opposite to her on the old red footstool, and stare and pretend about her until her own eyes would grow large with something which was almost like fear-- particularly at night whehing was so still, when the only sound iic was the occasional sudden scurry and squeak of Melchisedecs family in the wall. One of her "pretends" was that Emily was a kind of good witch who could protect her. Sometimes, after she had stared at her until she was wrought up to the highest pitch of fancifulness, she would ask her questions and find herself almost feeling as if she would presently answer. But she never did.
"As to answering, though," said Sara, trying to sole herself, "I dont answer very often. I never answer when I help it. When people are insulting you, there is nothing so good for them as not to say a word--just to look at them and think. Miss Min turns pale with rage when I do it, Miss Amelia looks frightened, and so do the girls. When you will not fly into a passion people know you are strohan they are, because you are strong enough to hold in ye, and they are not, and they say stupid things they wish they hadnt said afterward. Theres nothing s as rage, except what makes you hold it in--thats stronger. Its a good thing not to answer your enemies. I scarcely ever do. Perhaps Emily is more like me than I am like myself. Perhaps she would rather not answer her friends, even. She keeps it all in her heart."
But though she tried to satisfy herself with these arguments, she did not find it easy. When, after a long, hard day, in which she had bee here and there, sometimes on long errands through wind and cold and rain, she came i and hungry, and was sent out again because nobody chose to remember that she was only a child, and that her slim legs might be tired and her small body might be chilled; when she had been given only harsh words and cold, slighting looks for thanks; when the cook had been vulgar and i; when Miss Min had been in her worst mood, and when she had seen the girls sneering among themselves at her shabbiness--then she was not always able to fort her sore, proud, desolate heart with fancies when Emily merely sat upright in her old chair and stared.
One of these nights, when she came up to the attic cold and hungry, with a tempest raging in her young breast, Emilys stare seemed so vat, her sawdust legs and arms so inexpressive, that Sara lost all trol over herself. There was nobody but Emily-- no one in the world. And there she sat.
"I shall die presently," she said at first.
Emily simply stared.
"I t bear this," said the poor child, trembling. "I know I shall die. Im cold; Im wet; Im starving to death. Ive walked a thousand miles today, and they have dohing but se from m until night. And because I could not find that last thing the cook sent me for, they would not give me any supper. Some men laughed at me because my old shoes made me slip down in the mud. Im covered with mud now. And they laughed. Do you hear?"
She looked at the staring glass eyes and plat face, and suddenly a sort of heartbroken rage seized her. She lifted her little savage hand and knocked Emily off the chair, bursting into a passion of sobbing--Sara who never cried.
"You are nothing but a doll!" she cried. "Nothing but a doll-- doll--doll! You care for nothing. You are stuffed with sawdust. You never had a heart. Nothing could ever make you feel. You are a doll!" Emily lay on the floor, with her legs ignominiously doubled up over her head, and a nela the end of her nose; but she was calm, even dignified. Sara hid her fa her arms. The rats in the wall began to fight and bite each other and squeak and scramble. Melchisedec was chastising some of his family.
Saras sobs gradually quieted themselves. It was so unlike her to break down that she was surprised at herself. After a while she raised her fad looked at Emily, who seemed to be gazing at her round the side of one angle, and, somehow, by this time actually with a kind of glassy-eyed sympathy. Sara bent and picked her up. Remorse overtook her. She even smiled at herself a very little smile.
"You t help being a doll," she said with a resigned sigh, "any more than Lavinia and Jessie help not having any sense. We are not all made alike. Perhaps you do your sawdust best." And she kissed her and shook her clothes straight, and put her back upon her chair.
She had wished very much that some one would take the empty house door. She wished it because of the attidow which was so near hers. It seemed as if it would be so o see it propped open someday and a head and shoulders rising out of the square aperture.
"If it looked a nice head," she thought, "I might begin by saying, `Good m, and all sorts of things might happen. But, of course, its not really likely that a under servants would sleep there."
One m, on turning the er of the square after a visit to the grocers, the butchers, and the bakers, she saw, treat delight, that during her rather prolonged absence, a van full of furniture had stopped before the house, the front doors were thrown open, and men in shirt sleeves were going in and out carrying heavy packages and pieces of furniture.
"Its taken!" she said. "It really is taken! Oh, I do hope a nice head will >..look out of the attidow!"
She would almost have liked to join the group of loiterers who had stopped on the pavement to watch the things carried in. She had ahat if she could see some of the furniture she could guess something about the people it beloo.
"Miss Mins tables and chairs are just like her," she thought; "I remember thinking that the first minute I saw her, even though I was so little. I told papa afterward, and he laughed and said it was true. I am sure the Large Family have fat, fortable armchairs and sofas, and I see that their red-flowery aper is exactly like them. Its warm and cheerful and kind-looking and happy."
She was sent out for parsley to the greengrocers later in the day, and when she came up the area steps her heart gave quite a quick beat nition. Several pieces of furniture had bee out of the van upon the pavement. There was a beautiful table of elaborately wrought teakwood, and some chairs, and a s covered with rich Oriental embroidery. The sight of them gave her a weird, homesick feeling. She had seen things so like them in India. One of the things Miss Min had taken from her was a carved teakwood desk her father had sent her.
"They are beautiful things," she said; "they look as if they ought to belong to a nice person. All the things look rather grand. I suppose it is a rich family."
The vans of furniture came and were unloaded and gave place to others all the day. Several times it so happehat Sara had an opportunity of seeing things carried in. It became plain that she had been right in gues９９ｌｉb?sing that the newers were people of large means. All the furniture was rid beautiful, and a great deal of it was Oriental. Wonderful rugs and draperies and ors were taken from the vans, many pictures, and books enough for a library. Among other things there erb god Buddha in a splendid shrine.
"Someone in the family must have been in India," Sara thought. "They have got used to Indian things and like them. I am glad. I shall feel as if they were friends, even if a head never looks out of the attidow."
When she was taking in the evenings milk for the cook (there was really no odd job she was not called upon to do), she saw something occur which made the situation more iing thahe handsome, rosy man who was the father of the Large Family walked across the square in the most matter-of-fact manner, and ran up the steps of the -door house. He ran up them as if he felt quite at home and expected to run up and down them many a time iure. He stayed inside quite a long time, and several times came out and gave dires to the workmen, as if he had a right to do so. It was quite certain that he was in some intimate way ected with the newers and was ag for them.
"If the new people have children," Sara speculated, "the Large Family children will be sure to e and play with them, and they might e up into the attic just for fun."
At night, after her work was done, Becky came in to see her fellow prisoner and bring her news.
"Its a Nindialeman thats in to live door, miss," she said. "I dont know whether hes a black gentleman or not, but hes a Nindian one. Hes very rich, an hes ill, an the gentleman of the Large Family is his lawyer. Hes had a lot of trouble, an its made him ill an low in his mind. He worships idols, miss. Hes ahen an bows down to wood an stone. I seen a idol bein carried in for him to worship. Somebody had oughter s?99lｉb.end him a trac. You get a trac for a penny."
Sara laughed a little.
"I dont believe he worships that idol," she said; "some people like to keep them to look at because they are iing. My papa had a beautiful one, and he did not worship it."
But Becky was rather ined to prefer to believe that the new neighbor was "ahen." It sounded so much more romantic than that he should merely be the ordinary kind of gentleman who went to church with a prayer book. She sat and talked long that night of what he would be like, of what his wife would be like if he had one, and of what his children would be like if they had children. Sara sarivately she could not help hoping very much that they would all be black, and would wear turbans, and, above all, that--like their parent--they would all be "eathens."
"I never lived door to hens, miss," she said; "I should like to see what sort o ways theyd have."
It was several weeks before her curiosity was satisfied, and then it was revealed that the new oct had her wife nor children. He was a solitary man with no family at all, and it was evident that he was shattered ih and unhappy in mind.
A carriage drove up one day and stopped before the house. When the footman dismounted from the box and opehe door the gentleman who was the father of the Large Family got out first. After him there desded a nurse in uniform, then came doweps two men-servants. They came to assist their master, who, when he was helped out of the carriage, proved to be a man with a haggard, distressed face, and a skeleton body ed in furs. He was carried up the steps, and the head of the Large Family went with him, looking very anxious. Shortly afterward a doctors carriage arrived, and the doctor went in--plainly to take care of him.
"There is such a yellow gentlema door, Sara," Lottie whispered at the French class afterward. "Do you think he is a ee? The geography says the ee men are yellow."
"No, he is not ese," Sara whispered back; "he is very ill. Go on with your exercise, Lottie. `Non, monsieur. Je nai pas le if de mon oncle."
That was the beginning of the story of the Indialeman.
11. Ram Dass
11. Ram Dass
There were fine sus even in the square, sometimes. One could only see parts of them, however, between the eys and over the roofs. From the kit windows one could not see them at all, and could only guess that they were going on because the bricks looked warm and the air rosy or yellow for a while, or perhaps one saw a blazing glow strike a particular pane of glass somewhere. There was, however, one place from whie could see all the splendor of them: the piles of red old clouds in the west; or the purple ones edged with dazzling brightness; or the little fleecy, floating oinged with rose-color and looking like flights of pink doves scurrying across the blue in a great hubbr>藏书网rry if there was a wind. The place where one could see all this, and seem at the same time to breathe a purer air, was, of course, the attidow. When the square suddenly seemed to begin to glow in an ented way and look wonderful in spite of its sooty trees and railings, Sara knew something was going on in the sky; and when it was at all possible to leave the kit without being missed or called back, she invariably stole away and crept up the flights of stairs, and, climbing on the old table, got her head and body as far out of the windoossible. When she had aplished this, she always drew a long breath and looked all round her. It used to seem as if she had all the sky and the world to herself. No one else ever looked out of the other attics. Generally the skylights were closed; but even if they were propped open to admit air, no one seemed to e hem. And there Sara would stand, sometimes turning her face upward to the blue which seemed so friendly and near-- just like a lovely vaulted ceiling--sometimes watg the west and all the wonderful things that happehere: the clouds melting or drifting or waiting softly to be ged pink or crimson or snow-white or purple or pale dove-gray. Sometimes they made islands reat mountains enclosing lakes of deep turquoise- blue, or liquid amber, or chrysoprase-green; sometimes dark headlands jutted inte, lost seas; sometimes slerips of wonderful lands joiher wonderful lands together. There were places where it seemed that one could run or climb or stand and wait to see what was ing--until, perhaps, as it all melted, one could float away. At least it seemed so to Sara, and nothing had ever been quite so beautiful to her as the things she saw as she stood oable--her body half out of the skylight--the sparrows twittering with su softness on the slates. The sparrows always seemed to her to twitter with a sort of subdued softness just when these marvels were going on.
There was such a su as this a few days after the Indialeman was brought to his new home; and, as it fortunately happehat the afternoons work was done i and nobody had ordered her to go anywhere or perform any task, Sara found it easier than usual to slip away and go upstairs.
She mounted her table and stood looking out. It was a wonderful moment. There were floods of molten gold c the west, as if a glorious tide was sweeping over the world. A deep, rich yellow light filled the air; the birds flying across the tops of the houses showed quite black against it.
"Its a Splendid one," said Sara, softly, to herself. "It makes me feel almost afraid--as if something strange was just going to happen. The Splendid ones always make me feel like that."
She suddenly turned her head because she heard a sound a few yards away from her. It was an odd sound like a queer little squeaky chattering. It came from the window of the attieone had e to look at the su as she had. There was a head and a part of a body emerging from the skylight, but it was not the head or body of a little girl or a housemaid; it was the picturesque white-swathed form and dark-faced, gleaming-eyed, white-turbaned head of a native Indian man-servant--"a Lascar," Sara said to herself quickly--and the sound she had heard came from a small monkey he .held in his arms as if he were fond of it, and which was snuggling and chattering against his breast.
As Sara looked toward him he looked toward her. The first thing she thought was that his dark face looked sorrowful and homesick. She felt absolutely sure he had e up to look at the sun, because he had seen it so seldom in England that he longed for a sight of it. She looked at him iedly for a sed, and then smiled across the slates. She had learo know how f a smile, even from a stranger, may be.
Hers was evidently a pleasure to him. His whole expression altered, and he showed such gleaming white teeth as he smiled back that it was as if a light had been illuminated in his dusky face. The friendly look in Saras eyes was always very effective when people felt tired or dull.
It erhaps in making his salute to her that he loosened his hold on the monkey. He was an impish monkey and always ready for adventure, and it is probable that the sight of a little girl excited him. He suddenly broke loose, jumped on to the slates, ran across them chattering, and actually leaped on to Saras shoulder, and from there down into her atti. It made her laugh and delighted her; but she knew he must be restored to his master--if the Lascar was his master--and she wondered how this was to be done. Would he let her catch him, or would he be naughty and refuse to be caught, and perhaps get away and run off over the roofs and be lost? That would not do at all. Perhaps he beloo the Indialeman, and the poor man was fond of him.
She turo the Lascar, feeling glad that she remembered still some of the Hindustani she had learned when she lived with her father. She could make the man uand. She spoke to him in the language he knew.
"Will he let me catch him?" she asked.
She thought she had never seen more surprise and delight th.９9ｌib.an the dark face expressed when she spoke in the familiar tohe truth was that the poor fellow felt as if his gods had intervened, and the kind little voice came from heaven itself. At once Sara saw that he had been aced to European children. He poured forth a flood of respectful thanks. He was the servant of Missee Sahib. The monkey was a good monkey and would not bite; but, unfortunately, he was difficult to catch. He would flee from one spot to another, like the lightning. He was disobedient, though not evil. Ram Dass knew him as if he were his child, and Ram Dass he would sometimes obey, but not always. If Missee Sahib would permit Ram Dass, he himself could cross the roof to her room, ehe windows, and regain the unworthy little animal. But he was evidently afraid Sara might think he was taking a great liberty and perhaps would not let him e.
But Sara gave him leave at once.
" you get across?" she inquired.
"In a moment," he answered her.
"Then e," she said; "he is flying from side to side of the room as if he was frightened."
Ram Dass slipped through his attidow and crossed to hers as steadily and lightly as if he had walked on roofs all his life. He slipped through the skylight and dropped upon his feet without a sound. Theuro Sara and salaamed again. The monkey saw him and uttered a little scream. Ram Dass hastily took the precaution of shutting the skylight, and the in chase of him. It was not a very long chase. The monkey prolo a few minutes evidently for the mere fun of it, but presently he sprang chattering on to Ram Dasss shoulder and sat there chattering and ging to his neck with a weird little skinny arm.
Ram Dass thanked Sara profoundly. She had seen that his quiative eyes had taken in at a glance all the bare shabbiness of the room, but he spoke to her as if he were speaking to the little daughter of a rajah, and pretehat he observed nothing. He did not presume to remain more than a few moments after he had caught the monkey, and those moments were given to further deep and grateful obeisao her iurn for her indulgehis little evil one, he said, stroking the monkey, was, in truth, not so evil as he seemed, and his master, who was ill, was sometimes amused by him. He would have been made sad if his favorite had run away and been lost. Then he salaamed once more and got through the skylight and across the slates again with as much agility as the monkey himself had displayed.
When he had gone Sara stood in the middle of her attid thought of many things his fad his manner had brought back to her. The sight of his native e and the profound reverence of his mairred all her past memories. It seemed a strahing to remember that she--the drudge whom the cook had said insulting things to an ho--had only a few years ago been surrounded by people who all treated her as Ram Dass had treated her; who salaamed when she went by, whose foreheads almost touched the ground when she spoke to them, who were her servants and her slaves. It was like a sort of dream. It was all over, and it could never e back. It certainly seemed that there was no way in whiy ge could take place. She knew what Miss Min intehat her future should be. So long as she was too young to be used as a regular teacher, she would be used as an errand girl and servant a expected to remember what she had learned and in some mysterious way to learn more. The greater number of her evenings she was supposed to spend at study, and at various indefiervals she was examined and knew she would have been severely admonished if she had not advanced as was expected of her. The truth, indeed, was that Miss Min khat she was too anxious to learn to require teachers. Give her books, and she would devour them and end by knowing them by heart. She might be trusted to be equal to teag a good deal in the course of a few years. This was what would happen: when she was older she would be expected te in the schoolroom as she drudged now in various parts of the house; they would be obliged to give her more respectable clothes, but they would be sure to be plain and ugly and to make her look somehow like a servant. That was all there seemed to be to look forward to, and Sara stood quite still for several minutes and thought it over.
Then a thought came back to her which made the color rise in her cheek and a spark light itself in her eyes. She straightened her thin little body and lifted her head.
"Whatever es," she said, "ot alter ohing. If I am a princess in rags and tatters, I be a princess i would be easy to be a princess if I were dressed in cloth of gold, but it is a great deal more of a triumph to be one all the time when no one knows it. There was Marie Antoie when she was in prison ahrone was gone and she had only a black gown on, and her hair was white, and they insulted her and called her Widoet. She was a great deal more like a queehan when she was so gay and everything was so grand. I like her best then. Those howling mobs of people did nhten her. She was strohan they were, evehey cut her head off."
This was not a hought, but quite an old one, by this time. It had soled her through many a bitter day, and she had gone about the house with an expression in her face which Miss Min could not uand and which was a source of great annoyao her, as it seemed as if the child were mentally living a life which held her above he rest of the world. It was as if she scarcely heard the rude and acid things said to her; or, if she heard them, did not care for them at all. Sometimes, when she was in the midst of some harsh, domineering speech, Miss Min would find the still, unchildish eyes fixed upon her with something like a proud smile in them. At such times she did not know that Sara was saying to herself:
"You dont know that you are saying these things to a princess, and that if I chose I could wave my hand and order you to execution. I only spare you because I am a princess, and you are a poor, stupid, unkind, vulgar old thing, and dont know aer."
This used to i and amuse her more than anything else; and queer and fanciful as it was, she found fort in it and it was a good thing for her. While the thought held possession of her, she could not be made rude and malicious by the rudeness and malice of those about her.
"A princess must be polite," she said to herself.
And so when the servants, taking their tone from their mistress, were i and ordered her about, she would hold her head ered reply to them with a quaint civility which often made them stare at her.
"Shes got more airs and graces than if she e from Bugham Palace, that young one," said the cook, chug a little sometimes. "I lose my temper with her often enough, but I will say she never fets her manners. `If you please, cook; `Will you be so kind, cook? `I beg your pardon, cook; `May I trouble you, cook? She drops em about the kit as if they was nothing."
The m after the interview with Ram Dass and his monkey, Sara was in the schoolroom with her small pupils. Having finished giving them their lessons, she utting the French exercise-books together and thinking, as she did it, of the various things royal personages in disguise were called upon to do: Alfred the Great, for instance, burning the cakes aing his ears boxed by the wife of the -herd. Hhtened she must have been when she found out what she had done. If Miss Min should find out that she--Sara, whose toes were almost stig out of her boots--rincess--a real ohe look in her eyes was exactly the look which Miss Min most disliked. She would not have it; she was quite near her and was sed that she actually flew at her and boxed her ears--exactly as the -herds wife had boxed King Alfreds. It made Sara start. She wakened from her dream at the shock, and, catg her breath, stood still a sed. Then, not knowing she was going to do it, she broke into a little laugh.
"What are you laughing at, you bold, impudent child?" Miss Min exclaimed.
It took Sara a few seds to trol herself suffitly to remember that she rincess. Her cheeks were red and smarting from the blows she had received.
"I was thinking," she answered.
"Beg my pardon immediately," said Miss Min.
Sara hesitated a sed before she replied.
"I will beg your pardon for laughing, if it was rude," she said then; "but I wont beg your pardon for thinking.&q>uot;
"What were you thinking?" demanded Miss Min.
"How dare you think? What were you thinking?"
Jessie tittered, and she and Lavinia nudged each other in unison. All the girls looked up from their books to listen. Really, it always ied them a little when Miss Min attacked Sara. Sara always said something queer, and never seemed the least bit frightened. She was not in the least frightened now, though her boxed ears were scarlet and her eyes were as bright as stars.
"I was thinking," she answered grandly and politely, "that you did not know what you were doing."
"That I did not know what I was doing?" Miss Min fairly gasped.
"Yes," said Sara, "and I was thinking what would happen if I were a princess and you boxed my ears--what I should do to you. And I was thinking that if I were one, you would never dare to do it, whatever I said or did. And I was thinking how surprised and frightened you would be if you suddenly found out--"
She had the imagined future so clearly before her eyes that she spoke in a manner which had an effect even upon Miss Min. It almost seemed for the moment to her narrow, unimaginative mind that there must be some real power hidden behind this did daring.
"What?" she exclaimed. "Found out what?"
"That I really rincess," said Sara, "and could do anything--anything I liked."
Every pair of eyes in the room wideo its full limit. Lavinia leaned forward on her seat to look.
"Go to your room," cried Miss Min, breathlessly, "this instant! Leave the schoolroom! Attend to your lessons, young ladies!"
Sara made a little bow.
"Excuse me for laughing if it was impolite," she said, and walked out of the room, leaving Miss Min struggling with her rage, and the girls whispering over their books.
"Did you see her? Did you see how queer she looked?" Jessie broke out. "I should all surprised if she did turn out to be something. Suppose she should!"
12. The Other Side of the Wall
12. The Other Side of the Wall
When one lives in a row of houses, it is iing to think of the things which are being done and said oher side of the wall of the very rooms one is living in. Sara was fond of amusing herself by trying to imagihe things hidden by the wall which divided the Select Seminary from the Indialemans house. She khat the schoolroom was o the Indialemans study, and she hoped that the wall was thick so that the noise made sometimes after lesson hours would not disturb him.
"I am growing quite fond of him," she said tarde; "I should not like him to be disturbed. I have adopted him for a friend. You do that with people you never speak to at all. You just watch them, and think about them and be sorry for them, until they seem almost like relations. Im quite anxious sometimes when I see the doctor call twice a day."
"I have very few relations," said Ermengarde, reflectively, "and Im very glad of it. I dont like those I have. My two aunts are always saying, `Dear me, Ermengarde! You are very fat. You should sweets, and my uncle is always askihings like, `When did Edward the Third asd the throne? and, `Who died of a surfeit of lampreys?"
Sara laughed.
"People you never speak to t ask you questions like that," she said; "and Im sure the Indialeman wouldnt even if he was quite intimate with you. I am fond of him."
She had bee fond of the Large Family because they looked happy; but she had bee fond of the Indialeman because he looked unhappy. He had evidently not fully recovered from some very severe illness. I--where, of course, the servants, through some mysterious means, knew everything--there was much discussion of his case. He was not an Indialeman really, but an Englishman who had lived in India. He had met with great misfortunes which had for a time so imperilled his whole fortuhat he had thought himself ruined and disgraced forever. The shock had been so great that he had almost died of brain fever; and ever since he had been shattered ih, though his fortunes had ged and all his possessions had beeored to him. His trouble and peril had been ected with mines.
"And mines with diamonds in em!" said the cook. "No savins of mine never goes into no mines--particular diamond ones"?９９ｌib?-- with a side gla Sara. "We all know somethin of them." "He felt as my papa felt," Sara thought. "He was ill as my papa was; but he did not die."
So her heart was more drawn to him than before. When she was sent out at night she used sometimes to feel quite glad, because there was always a ce that the curtains of the house dht not yet be closed and she could look into the warm room and see her adopted friend. When no one was about she used sometimes to stop, and, holding to the iron railings, wish him good night as if he could hear her.
"Perhaps you feel if you t hear," was her fancy. "Perhaps kind thoughts reach people somehow, even through windows and doors and walls. Perhaps you feel a little warm and forted, and dont know why, when I am standing here in the cold and hoping you will get well and happy again. I am so sorry for you," she would whisper in an intetle voice. "I wish you had a `Little Missus who could pet you as I used to pet papa when he had a headache. I should like to be your `Little Missus myself, poor dear! Good night--good night. God bless you!"
She would go away, feeling quite forted and a little warmer herself. Her sympathy was s that it seemed as if it must reach him somehow as he sat alone in his armchair by the fire, nearly always in a great dressing gown, and nearly always with his forehead resting in his hand as he gazed hopelessly into the fire. He looked to Sara like a man who had a trouble on his mind still, not merely like one whose troubles lay all in the past.
"He always seems as if he were thinking of something that hurts him now", she said to herself, "but he has got his money bad he will get over his brain fever in time, so he ought not to look like that. I wonder if there is something else."
If there was something else--something even servants did not hear of--she could not help believing that the father of the Large Family k--the gentleman she called Mr. Montmorency. Mr. Montmorency went to see him often, and Mrs. Montmorend all the little Montmorencys went, too, though less often. He seemed particularly fond of the two elder little girls--the Ja and Nora who had been so alarmed when their small brother Donald had given Sara his sixpence. He had, in fact, a very tender pla his heart for all children, and particularly for little girls. Ja and Nora were as fond of him as he was of them, and looked forward with the greatest pleasure to the afternoons when they were allowed to cross the square and make their well-behaved little visits to him. They were extremely decorous little visits because he was an invalid.
"He is a poor thing," said Ja, "and he says we cheer him up. We try to cheer him up very quietly."
Ja was the head of the family, ahe rest of it in order. It was she who decided when it was discreet to ask the Indialeman to tell stories about India, and it was she who saw when he was tired and it was the time to steal quietly away and tell Ram Dass to go to him. They were very fond of Ram Dass. He could have told any number of stories if he had been able to speak anything but Hindustani. The Indialemans real name was Mr. Carrisford, and Jaold Mr. Carrisford about the enter with the little-girl-who-was-not-a-beggar. He was very muterested, and all the more so when he heard from Ram Dass of the adventure of the monkey on the roof. Ram Dass made for him a very clear picture of the attid its desolateness--of the bare floor and broken plaster, the rusty, empty grate, and the hard, narrow bed.
"Carmichael," he said to the father of the Large Family, after he had heard this description, "I wonder how many of the atti this square are like that one, and how many wretched little servant girls sleep on such beds, while I toss on my down pillows, loaded and harassed by wealth that is, most of it--not mine."
"My dear fellow," Mr. Carmichael answered cheerily, "the sooner you cease tormenting yourself the better it will be for you. If you possessed all the wealth of all the Indies, you could not set right all the disforts in the world, and if you began to refurnish all the atti this square, there would still remain all the atti all the other squares and streets to put in order. And there you are!"
Mr. Carrisford sat and bit his nails as he looked into the glowing bed of coals in the grate.
"Do you suppose," he said slowly, after a pause--"do you think it is possible that the other child--the child I never cease thinking of, I believe--could be--could possibly be reduced to any such dition as the poor little soul door?"
Mr. Carmichael looked at him uneasily. He khat the worst thing the man could do for himself, for his reason and his health, was to begin to think in the particular way of this particular subject.
"If the child at Madame Pascals school in Paris was the one you are in search of," he answered soothingly, "she would seem to be in the hands of people who afford to take care of her. They adopted her because she had been the favorite panion of their little daughter who died. They had no other children, and Madame Pascal said that they were extremely well-to-do Russians."
"And the wretched woman actually did not know where they had taken her!" exclaimed Mr. Carrisford.
Mr. Carmichael shrugged his shoulders.
"She was a shrewd, worldly Frenan, and was evidently only too glad to get the child so fortably off her hands whehers death left her totally unprovided for. Women of her type do not trouble themselves about the futures of children who might prove burdens. The adopted parents apparently disappeared a no trace."
"But you say `if the child was the one I am in search of. You say if. We are not sure. There was a differen the name."
"Madame Pascal pronou as if it were Carew instead of Crewe--but that might be merely a matter of pronunciation. The circumstances were curiously similar. An English officer in India had placed his motherless little girl at the school. He had died suddenly after losing his fortune." Mr. Carmichael paused a moment, as if a hought had occurred to him. "Are you sure the child was left at a school in Paris? Are you sure it aris?"
"My dear fellow," broke forth Carrisford, with restless bitterness, "I am sure of nothing. I never saw either the child or her mother. Ralph Crewe and I loved each other as boys, but we had not met since our school days, until we met in India. I was absorbed in the magnifit promise of the mines. He became absorbed, too. The whole thing was so huge and glittering that we half lost our heads. Whe we scarcely spoke of anything else. I only khat the child had beeo school somewhere. I do not even remember, now, how I k."
He was beginning to be excited. He always became excited when his still weakened brain was stirred by memories of the catastrophes of the past.
Mr. Carmichael watched him anxiously. It was necessary to a９9ｌｉｂ?sk some questions, but they must be put quietly and with caution.
"But you had reason to think the school was in Paris?"
"Yes," was the answer, "because her mother was a Frenan, and I had heard that she wished her child to be educated in Paris. It seemed only likely that she would be there."
"Yes," Mr. Carmichael said, "it seems more than probable."
The Indialeman leaned forward and struck the table with a long, wasted hand.
"Carmichael," he said, "I must find her. If she is alive, she is somewhere. If she is friendless and penniless, it is through my fault. How is a man to get back his h a thing like that on his mind? This sudden ge of luck at the mines has made realities of all our most fantastic dreams, and poor Crewes child may be begging ireet!"
"No, no," said Carmichael. "Try to be calm. sole yourself with the fact that when she is found you have a fortuo hand over to her."
"Why was I not man enough to stand my ground when things looked black?" Carrisfroaned iulant misery. "I believe I should have stood my ground if I had not been responsible for other peoples money as well as my own. Poor Creut into the scheme every penny that he owned. He trusted me--he loved me. And he died thinking I had ruined him--I--Tom Carrisford, who played cricket at Eton with him. What a villain he must have thought me!"
"Dont reproach yourself so bitterly."
"I dont reproach myself because the speculation threateo fail--I reproach myself for losing my ce. I ran away like a swindler and a thief, because I could not face my best friend and tell him I had ruined him and his child."
The good-hearted father of the Large Family put his hand on his shoulder fly.
"You ran away because your brain had given way uhe strain of mental torture," he said. "You were half delirious already. If you had not been you would have stayed and fought it out. You were in a hospital, strapped down in bed, raving with brain fever, two days after you left the place. Remember that."
Carrisford dropped his forehead in his hands.
"Good God! Yes," he said. "I was driven mad with dread and horror. I had not slept for weeks. The night I staggered out of my house all the air seemed f?9９ｌｉb?ull of hideous things mog and mouthing at me."
"That is explanation enough in itself," said Mr. Carmichael. "How could a man on the verge of brain fever judge sanely!"
Carrisford shook his drooping head.
"And when I returo sciousness poor Crewe was dead--and buried. And I seemed to remember nothing. I did not remember the child for months and months. Even when I began to recall her existence everything seemed in a sort of haze."
He stopped a moment and rubbed his forehead. "It sometimes seems so now when I try to remember. Surely I must sometime have heard Crewe speak of the school she was sent to. Dont you think so?"
"He might not have spoken of it definitely. You never seem even to have heard her real name."
"He used to call her by an odd pet name he had ied. He called her his `Little Missus. But the wretched mines drove everything else out of our heads. We talked of nothing else. If he spoke of the school, I fot--I fot. And now I shall never remember."
"e, e," said Carmichael. "We shall find her yet. We will tio searadame Pascals good-natured Russians. She seemed to have a vague idea that they lived in Moscoill take that as a clue. I will go to Moscow."
"If I were able to travel, I would go with you," said Carrisford; "but I only sit here ed in furs and stare at the fire. And when I look into it I seem to see Crewes gay young face gazing back at me. He looks as if he were asking me a question. Sometimes I dream of him at night, and he always stands before me and asks the same question in words. you guess what he says, Carmichael?"
Mr. Carmichael answered him in a rather low voice.
"ly," he said.
"He always says, `Tom, old man--Tom--where is the Little Missus?" He caught at Carmichaels hand and g to it. "I must be able to answer him--I must!" he said. "Help me to find her. Help me."
Oher side of the wall Sara was sitting in her garret talking to Melchisedec, who had e out for his evening meal.
"It has been hard to be a prioday, Melchisedec," she said. "It has been harder than usual. It gets harder as the weather grows colder and the streets get more sloppy. When Lavinia laughed at my muddy skirt as I passed her in the hall, I thought of something to say all in a flash--and I only just stopped myself in time. You t sneer back at people like that- -if you are a princess. But you have to bite your too hold yourself in. I bit mi was a cold afternoon, Melchiseded its a cold night."
Quite suddenly she put her black head down in her arms, as she often did when she was alone.
"Oh, papa," she whispered, "what a long time it seems since I was your `Little Missus!"
This was what happehat day on both sides of the wall.
13. One of the Populace
13. One of the Populace
The winter was a wretched ohere were days on which Sara tramped through snow when she went on her errands; there were worse days when the snow melted and biself with mud to form slush; there were others when the fog was .so thick that the lamps ireet were lighted all day and London looked as it had looked the afternoon, several years ago, when the cab had driven through the thhfares with Sara tucked up on its seat, leaning against her fathers shoulder. On such days the windows of the house of the Large Family always looked delightfully cozy and alluring, and the study in which the Indialeman sat glowed with warmth and rich color. But the attic was dismal beyond words. There were no longer sus or suo look at, and scarcely ever any stars, it seemed to Sara. The clouds hung low over the skylight and were either gray or mud-color, or dropping heavy rain. At four oclo the afternoon, evehere was no special fog, the daylight was at an end. If it was necessary to go to her attic for anything, Sara was obliged to light a dle. The women i were depressed, and that made them more ill-tempered than ever. Becky was driven like a little slave.
"Twarnt for you, miss," she said hoarsely to Sara one night when she had crept into the attic--"twarnt for you, an the Bastille, ahe prisoner in the cell, I should die. That there does seem real now, doesnt it? The missus is more like the head jailer every day she lives. I jest see them big keys you say she carries. The cook shes like one of the under-jailers. Tell me some more, please, miss--tell me about the subtranean passage weve dug uhe walls."
"Ill tell you something warmer," shivered Sara. "Get your coverlet and it round you, and Ill get mine, and we will huddle close together on the bed, and Ill tell you about the tropical forest where the Indialemans monkey used to live. When I see him sitting oable he window and looking out into the street with that mournful expression, I always feel sure he is thinking about the tropical forest where he used to swing by his tail from ut trees. I wonder who caught him, and if he left a family behind who had depended on him for uts."
"That is warmer, miss," said Becky, gratefully; "but, someways, even the Bastille is sort of heatin when you gets to tellin about it."
"That is because it makes you think of something else," said Sara, ing the coverlet round her until only her small dark face was to be seen looking out of it. "Ive noticed this. What you have to do with your mind, when your body is miserable, is to make it think of something else."
" you do it, miss?" faltered Becky, regarding her with admiring eyes.
Sara knitted her brows a moment.
"Sometimes I and sometimes I t," she said stoutly. "But when I Im all right. And what I believe is that we always could--if we practiced enough. Ive been practig a good deal lately, and its beginning to be easier than it used to be. When things are horrible--just horrible--I think as hard as ever I of being a princess. I say to myself, `I am a princess, and I am a fairy one, and because I am a fairy nothing hurt me or make me unfortable. You dont know how it makes you fet"-- with a laugh.
She had many opportunities of making her mind think of something else, and many opportunities of proving to herself whether or not she rincess. But one of the stroests she was ever put to came on a certain dreadful day which, she often thought afterward, would never quite fade out of her memory even in the years to e.
For several days it had rained tinuously; the streets were chilly and sloppy and full of dreary, ist; there was mud everywhere--sticky London mud--and over everything the pall of drizzle and fog. Of course there were several long and tiresome errands to be dohere always were on days like this--and Sara was sent out again and again, until her shabby clothes were damp through. The absurd old feathers on her forlorn hat were more draggled and absurd than ever, and her downtrodden shoes were so wet that they could not hold any more water. Added to this, she had been deprived of her dinner, because Miss Min had chosen to punish her. She was so cold and hungry and tired that her face began to have a pinched look, and now and then some kied person passing her ireet gla her with sudden sympathy. But she did not know that. She hurried on, trying to make her mind think of something else. It was really very necessary. Her way of doing it was to "pretend" and "suppose" with all the strength that was left in her. But really this time it was harder than she had ever found it, and once or twice she thought it almost made her more cold and hungry instead of less so. But she persevered obstinately, and as the muddy water squelched through her broken shoes and the wind seemed trying t her thin jacket from her, she talked to herself as she walked, though she did not speak aloud or even move her lips.
"Suppose I had dry clothes on," she thought. "Suppose I had good shoes and a long, thick coat and merino stogs and a whole umbrella. And suppose--suppose--just when I was near a bakers where they sold hot buns, I should find sixpence--which beloo nobody. Suppose if I did, I should go into the shop and buy six of the hottest buns ahem all without stopping."
Some very odd things happen in this world sometimes.
It certainly was an odd thing that happeo Sara. She had to cross the street just when she was saying this to herself. The mud was dreadful--she almost had to wade. She picked her way as carefully as she could, but she could not save herself much; only, in pig her way, she had to look down at her feet and the mud, and in looking down--just as she reached the pavement-- she saw something shining iter. It was actually a piece of silver--a tiny piece trodden upon by ma, but still with spirit enough left to shine a little. Not quite a sixpence, but the hing to it--a fourpenny piece.
In one sed it was in her cold little red-and-blue hand.
"Oh," she gasped, "it is true! It is true!"
And then, if you will believe me, she looked straight at the shop directly fag her. And it was a bakers shop, and a cheerful, stout, motherly woman with rosy cheeks utting into the window a tray of delicious newly baked hot buns, fresh from the oven--large, plump, shiny buns, with currants in them.
It almost made Sara feel faint for a few seds--the shock, and the sight of the buns, and the delightful odors of warm bread floating up through the bakers cellar window.
She knew she need not hesitate to use the little pieoney. It had evidently been lying in the mud for some time, and its owner was pletely lost iream of passing people who crowded and jostled each other all day long.
"But Ill go and ask the baker woman if she has lost anything," she said to herself, rather faintly. So she crossed the pavement and put her wet foot oep. As she did so she saw something that made her stop.
It was a little figure more forlorhan herself--a little figure which was not much more than a bundle s, from which small, bare, red muddy feet peeped out, only because the rags with which their owner was trying to cover them were not long enough. Above the rags appeared a shock head of tangled hair, and a dirty face with big, hollow, hungry eyes.
Sara khey were hungry eyes the moment she saw them, and she felt a sudden sympathy.
"This," she said to herself, with a little sigh, "is one of the populace--and she is huhan I am."
The child--this "one of the populace"--stared up at Sara, and shuffled herself aside a little, so as to give her room to pass. She was used to being made to give room to everybody. She khat if a poli ced to see her he would tell her to "move on."
Sara clutched her little fourpenny pied hesitated for a few seds. Then she spoke to her.
"Are you hungry?" she asked.
The child shuffled herself and her rags a little more.
"Aint I jist?" she said in a hoarse voice. "Jist aint I?"
"Havent you had any dinner?" said Sara.
"No dinner," more hoarsely still and with more shuffling. "Nor yet no brefast--nor yet no supper. No nothin.
"Since when?" asked Sara.
"Dunno. Never got nothin today--nowhere. Ive axed an axed."
Just to look at her made Sara more hungry and faint. But those queer little thoughts were at work in her brain, and she was talking to herself, though she was sick at heart.
"If Im a princess," she was saying, "if Im a princess--when they were poor and driven from their throhey always shared-- with the populace--if they met one poorer and huhan themselves. They always shared. Buns are a penny each. If it had been sixpence I could have eaten six. It wont be enough for either of us. But it will be better than nothing."
"Wait a minute,"９９lｉｂ?; she said to the beggar child.
She went into the shop. It was warm and smelled deliciously. The woman was just going to put some more hot buns into the window.
"If you please," said Sara, "have you lost fourpence--a silver fourpence?" And she held the forlorn little pieoney out to her.
The woman looked at it and then at her--at her intetle fad draggled, once fine clothes.
"Bless us, no," she answered. "Did you find it?"
"Yes," said Sara. "Iter."
"Keep it, then," said the woman. "It may have been there for a week, and goodness knows who lost it. You could never find out."
"I know that," said Sara, "but I thought I would ask you."
"Not many would," said the woman, looking puzzled and ied and good-natured all at once.
"Do you want to buy something?" she added, as she saw Sara gla the buns.
"Four buns, if you please," said Sara. "Those at a penny each."
The womao the windout some in a paper bag.
Sara noticed that she put in six.
"I said four, if you please," she explained. "I have only fourpence."
"Ill throw in two for makeweight," said the woman with her good- natured look. "I dare say you eat them sometime. Arent you hungry?"
A mist rose before Saras eyes.
"Yes," she answered. "I am very hungry, and I am much obliged to you for your kindness; and"--she was going to add--"there is a child outside who is huhan I am." But just at that moment two or three ers came in at once, and eae seemed in a hurry, so she could only thank the woman again and go out.
The beggar girl was still huddled up in the er of the step. She looked frightful in her wet and dirty rags. She was staring straight before her with a stupid look of suffering, and Sara saw her suddenly draw the back of her roughened black hand across her eyes to rub away the tears which seemed to have surprised her by f their way from under her lids. She was muttering to herself.
Sara opehe paper bag and took out one of the hot buns, which had already warmed her own cold hands a little.
"See," she said, putting the bun in the ragged lap, "this is nid hot. Eat it, and you will not feel so hungry."
The child started and stared up at her, as if such sudden, amazing good luck almost frightened her; then she snatched up the bun and began to cram it into her mouth with great wolfish bites.
"Oh, my! Ohbbr>, my!" Sara heard her say hoarsely, in wild delight. "Oh my!"
Sara took out three more buns and put them down.
The sound in the hoarse, ravenous voice was awful.
"She is huhan I am," she said to herself. "Shes starving." But her hand trembled whe down the fourth bun. "Im not starving," she said--and she put down the fifth.
The little ravening London savage was still snatg and dev wheurned away. She was too ravenous to give any thanks, even if she had ever been taught politeness--which she had not. She was only a poor little wild animal.
"Good-bye," said Sara.
When she reached the other side of the street she looked back. The child had a bun in each hand and had stopped in the middle of a bite to watch her. Sara gave her a little nod, and the child, after aare--a curious lingering stare--jerked her shaggy head in response, and until Sara was out of sight she did not take another bite or even finish the one she had begun.
At that moment the baker-woman looked out of her shop window.
"Well, I never!" she exclaimed. "If that young un hasnt given her buns to a beggar child! It wasnt because she didnt want them, either. Well, well, she looked hungry enough. Id give something to know what she did it for."
She stood behind her window for a few moments and pohen her curiosity got the better of her. She went to the door and spoke to the beggar child.
"Who gave you those buns?" she asked her. The child nodded her head toward Saras vanishing figure.
"What did she say?" inquired the woman.
"Axed me if I was ungry," replied the hoarse voice.
"What did you say?"
"Said I was jist."
"And then she came in and got the buns, and gave them to you, did she?"
The child nodded.
"How many?"
"Five."
The woman thought it over.
"Left just one for herself," she said in a low voice. "And she could have eaten the whole six--I saw it in her eyes."
She looked after the little draggled far-away figure a more disturbed in her usually fortable mind than she had felt for many a day.
"I wish she hadnt gone so quick," she said. "Im blest if she shouldnt have had a dozen." Theuro the child.
"Are you hungry yet?" she said.
"Im allus hungry," was the answer, "but t aint as bad as it was."
"e in here," said the woman, and she held open the shop door.
The child got up and shuffled in. To be invited into a lace full of bread seemed an incredible thing. She did not know what was going to happen. She did not care, even.
"Get yourself warm," said the ointing to a fire iiny ba. "And look here; when you are hard up for a bit of bread, you e in here and ask for it. Im blest if I wont give it to you for that young ones sake." * * *
Sara found some fort in her remaining bun. At all events, it was very hot, and it was better than nothing. As she walked along she broke off small pieces and ate them slowly to make them last longer.
"Suppose it was a magi," she said, "and a bite was as much as a whole dinner. I should be overeating myself if I went on like this."
It was dark when she reached the square where the Select Seminary was situated. The lights in the houses were all lighted. The blinds were not yet drawn in the windows of the room where she nearly always caught glimpses of members of the Large Family. Frequently at this hour she could see the gentleman she called Mr. Montmorency sitting in a big chair, with a small swarm round him, talking, laughing, perg on the arms of his seat or on his knees or leaning against them. This evening the swarm was about him, but he was not seated. On the trary, there was a good deal of excitement going on. It was evident that a journey was to be taken, and it was Mr. Montmorency who was to take it. A brougham stood before the door, and a big portmanteau had been strapped upon it. The children were dang about, chattering and hanging on to their father. The pretty rosy mother was standing near him, talking as if she was asking final questions. Sara paused a moment to see the little ones lifted up and kissed and the bigger ones bent over and kissed also.
"I wonder if he will stay away long," she thought. "The portmanteau is rather big. Oh, dear, how they will miss him! I shall miss him myself--even though he doesnt know I am alive."
When the door opened she moved away--remembering the sixpence-- but she saw the traveler e out and stand against the background of the warmly-lighted hall, the older children still h about him.
"Will Moscow be covered with snow?" said the little girl Ja. "Will there be ice everywhere?"
"Shall you drive in a drosky?" cried another. "Shall you see the Czar?"
"I will write and tell you all about it," he answered, laughing. "And I will send you pictures of muzhiks and things. Run into the house. It is a hideous damp night. I would rather stay with you than go to Moscow. Good night! Good night, duckies! God bless you!" And he ran doweps and jumped into the brougham.
"If you find the little girl, give her our love," shouted Guy Clarence, jumping up and down on the door mat.
Then they went in and shut the door.
"Did you see," said Jao Nora, as they went back to the room- -"the little-girl-who-is-not-a-beggar assing? She looked all cold a, and I saw her turn her head over her shoulder and look at us. Mamma says her clothes always look as if they had been given her by someone who was quite rich--someone who only let her have them because they were too shabby to wear. The people at the school always send her out on errands on the horridest days and nights there are."
Sara crossed the square to Miss Mins area steps, feeling faint and shaky.
"I wonder who the little girl is," she thought--"the little girl he is going to look for."
And she went down the area steps, lugging her basket and finding it very heavy indeed, as the father of the Large Family drove quickly on his way to the station to take the train which was to carry him to Moscow, where he was to make his best efforts to search for the lost little daughter of Captain Crewe.
14. What Melchisedec Heard and Saw
14. What Melchisedec Heard and Saw
On this very afternoon, while Sara was out, a strahing happened iily Melchisedec saw and heard it; and he was so much alarmed and mystified that he scuttled back to his hole and hid there, and really quaked and trembled as he peeped out furtively and with great caution to watch what was going on.
The attic had been very still all the day after Sara had left it in the early m. The stillness had only been broken by the pattering of the rain upon the slates and the skylight. Melchisedec had, in fact, found it rather dull; and when the rain ceased to patter and perfect silence reigned, he decided to e out and reoiter, though experieaught him that Sara would not return for some time. He had been rambling and sniffing about, and had just found a totally ued and unexplained crumb left from his last meal, when his attention was attracted by a sound on the roof. He stopped to listen with a palpitati. The sound suggested that something was moving on the roof. It wasbbr> approag the skylight; it reached the skylight. The skylight was being mysteriously opened. A dark face peered into the attic; then another face appeared behind it, and both looked in with signs of caution and i. Two men were outside on the roof, and were making silent preparations to ehrough the skylight itself. One was Ram Dass and the other was a young man who was the Indialemaary; but of course Melchisedec did not know this. He only khat the men were invading the silend privacy of the attid as the oh the dark face let himself down through the aperture with such lightness aerity that he did not make the slightest sound, Melchisedec turail and fled precipitately back to his hole. He was frighteo death. He had ceased to be timid with Sara, and knew she would hrow anything but crumbs, and would never make any sound other than the soft, low, coaxing whistling; but strange men were dangerous things to remain near. He lay close and flat he entrance of his home, just managing to peep through the crack with a bright, alarmed eye. How much he uood of the talk he heard I am not in the least able to say; but, even if he had uood it all, he would probably have remained greatly mystified.
The secretary, who was light and young, slipped through the skylight as noiselessly as Ram Dass had done; and he caught a last glimpse of Melchisedecs vanishing tail.
"Was that a rat?" he asked Ram Dass in a whisper.
"Yes; a rat, Sahib," answered Ram Dass, also whispering. "There are many in the walls."
"Ugh!" exclaimed the young man. "It is a wohe child is not terrified of them."
Ram Dass made a gesture with his hands. He also smiled respectfully. He was in this place as the intimate expo of Sara, though she had only spoken to him once.
"The child is the little friend of all things, Sahib," he answered. "She is not as other children. I see her when she does not see me. I slip across the slates and look at her many nights to see that she is safe. I watch her from my window when she does not know I am near. She stands oable there and looks out at the sky as if it spoke to her. The sparrows e at her call. The rat she has fed and tamed in her loneliness. The poor slave of the house es to her for fort. There is a little childpose she awakened," suggested the secretary; and it was evident that whatsoever the plan referred to was, it had caught and pleased his fancy as well as the Sahib Carrisfords.
"I move as if my feet were of velvet," Ram Dass replied; "and children sleep soundly--even the unhappy ones. I could have ehis room in the night many times, and without causio turn upon her pillow. If the other bearer passes to me the things through the window, I do all and she will not stir. When she awakens she will think a magi has been here."
He smiled as if his heart warmed under his white robe, and the secretary smiled back at him.
"It will be like a story from the Arabian Nights," he said. "Only an Oriental could have pla. It does not belong to London fogs."
They did not remain very long, to the great relief of Melchisedec, who, as he probably did not prehend their versatioheir movements and whispers ominous. The youary seemed ied ihing. He wrote down things about the floor, the fireplace, the broken footstool, the old table, the walls--which last he touched with his hand again and again, seeming much pleased when he found that a number of old nails had been driven in various places.
"You hang things on them," he said.
Ram Dass smiled mysteriously.
"Yesterday, when she was out," he said, "I entered, bringing with me small, sharp nails which be pressed into the wall without blows from a hammer. I placed many in the plaster where I may hem. They are ready."
The Indialem..aary stood still and looked round him as he thrust his tablets bato his pocket.
"I think I have made notes enough; we go now," he said. "The Sahib Carrisford has a warm heart. It is a thousand pities that he has not found the lost child."
"If he should find her his strength would be restored to him," said Ram Dass. "His God may lead her to him yet."
Then they slipped through the skylight as noiselessly as they had e. And, after he was quite sure they had gone, Melchisedec was greatly relieved, and in the course of a few minutes felt it safe to emerge from his hole again and scuffle about in the hope that even such alarming human beings as these might have ced to carry crumbs in their pockets and drop one or two of them.
15. The Magic
15. The Magic
When Sara had passed the house door she had seen Ram Dass closing the shutters, and caught her glimpse of this room also.
"It is a long time since I saw a nice place from the inside," was the thought which crossed her mind.
There was the usual bright fire glowing in the grate, and the Indialeman was sitting before it. His head was resting in his hand, and he looked as lonely and unhappy as ever.
"Poor man!" said Sara. "I wonder what you are supposing."
And this was what he was "supposing" at that very moment.
"Suppose," he was thinking, "suppose--even if Carmichael traces the people to Moscow--the little girl they took from Madame Pascals school in Paris is not the one we are in search of. Suppose she proves to be quite a different child. What steps shall I take ?"
When Sara went into the house she met Miss Min, who had e downstairs to scold the cook.
"Where have you wasted your time?" she demanded. "You have been out for hours."
"It was so wet and muddy," Sara answered, "it was hard to walk, because my shoes were so bad and slipped about."
"Make no excuses," said Miss Min, "and tell no falsehoods."
Sara went in to the cook. The cook had received a severe lecture and was in a fearful temper as a result. She was only too rejoiced to have someoo vent her rage on, and Sara was a venience, as usual.
"Why didnt you stay all night?" she snapped.
Sara laid her purchases oable.
"Here are the things," she said.
The cook looked them rumbling. She was in a very savage humor indeed.
"May I have something to eat?" Sara asked rather faintly.
"Teas over and doh," was the answer. "Did you expect me to keep it hot for you?"
Sara stood silent for a sed.
"I had no dinner," she said , and her voice was quite low. She made it low because she was afraid it would tremble.
"Theres some bread in the pantry," said the cook. "Thats all youll get at this time of day."
Sara went and found the bread. It was old and hard and dry. The cook was in too vicious a humor to give her anything to eat with it. It was always safe and easy to vent her spite on Sara. Really, it was hard for the child to climb the three long flights of stairs leading to her attic. She often found them long and steep when she was tired; but tonight it seemed as if she would never reach the top. Several times she was obliged to stop to rest. When she reached the top landing she was glad to see the glimmer of a light ing from under her door. That meant that Ermengarde had mao creep up to pay her a visit. There was some fort in that. It was better than to go into the room alone and find it empty and desolate. The mere presence of plump, fortable Ermengarde, ed in her red shawl, would warm it a little.
Yes; there Ermengarde was when she opehe door. She was sitting in the middle of the bed, with her feet tucked safely under her. She had never bee intimate with Melchiseded his family, though they rather fasated her. When she found herself alone iic she alreferred to sit on the bed until Sara arrived. She had, in fact, on this occasion had time to bee rather nervous, because Melchisedec had appeared and sniffed about a good deal, and once had made her utter a repressed squeal by sitting up on his hind legs and, while he looked at her, sniffing pointedly in her dire.
"Oh, Sara," she cried out, "I am glad you have e. Melchy would sniff about so. I tried to coax him to go back, but he wouldnt for such a long time. I like him, you know; but it does frighten me when he sniffs right at me. Do you think he ever would jump?"
"No," answered Sara.
Ermengarde crawled forward on the bed to look at her.
"You do look tired, Sara," she said; "you are quite pale."
"I am tired," said Sara, dropping on to the lopsided footstool. "Oh, theres Melchisedec, poor thing. Hes e to ask for his supper."
Melchisedec had e out of his hole as if he had been listening for her footstep. Sara was quite sure he k. He came forward with an affeate, expet expression as Sara put her hand in her pocket and tur i, shaking her head.
"Im very sorry," she said. "I havent one crumb left. Go home, Melchiseded tell your wife there was nothing in my pocket. Im afraid I fot because the cook and Miss Min were so cross."
Melchisedec seemed to uand. He shuffled resignedly, if not tentedly, back to his home.
"I did not expect to see you tonight, Ermie," Sara said. Ermengarde hugged herself in the red shawl.
"Miss Amelia has go to spend the night with her old aunt," she explained. "No one else ever es and looks into the bedrooms after we are in bed. I could stay here until m if I wao."
She poioward the table uhe skylight. Sara had not looked toward it as she came in. A number of books were piled upon it. Ermengardes gesture was a dejected one.
"Papa has sent me some more books, Sara," she said. "There they are."
Sara looked round and got up at once. She ran to the table, and pig up the top volume, turned over its leaves quickly. For the moment she fot her disforts.
"Ah," she cried out, "how beautiful! Carlyles French Revolution. I have so wao read that!"
"I havent," said Ermengarde. "And papa will be so cross if I dont. Hell expect me to know all about it when I go home for the holidays. What shall I do?"
Sara stopped turning over the leaves and looked at her with aed flush on her cheeks.
"Look here," she cried, "if youll lehese books, _Ill_ read them--and tell you everything thats in them afterward-- and Ill tell it so that you will remember it, too."
"Oh, goodness!" exclaimed Ermengarde. "Do you think you ?"
"I know I ," Sara answered. "The little ones always remember what I tell them."
"Sara," said Ermengarde, hope gleaming in her round face, "if youll do that, and make me remember, Ill--Ill give you anything."
"I dont want you to give me anything," said Sara. "I want your books--I want them!" And her eyes grew big, and her chest heaved.
"Take them, then," said Ermengarde. "I wish I wahem--but I dont. Im not clever, and my father is, ahinks I ought to be."
Sara ening one book after the other. "What are you going to tell your father?" she asked, a slight doubt dawning in her mind.
"Oh, he know," answered Ermengarde. "Hell think Ive read them."
Sara put down her book and shook her head slowly. "Thats almost like telling lies," she said. "And lies--well, you see, they are not only wicked--theyre vulgar. Sometimes"-- reflectively--"Ive thought perhaps I might do something wicked-- I might suddenly fly inte and kill Miss Min, you know, when she was ill-treating me--but I couldnt be vulgar. Why t you tell your father _I_ read them?"
"He wants me to read them," said Ermengarde, a little disced by this ued turn of affairs.
"He wants you to know what is in them," said Sara. "And if I tell it to you in an easy way and make you remember it, I should think he would like that."
"Hell like it if I learn anything in any way," said rueful Ermengarde. "You would if you were my father."
"Its not your fault that--" began Sara. She pulled herself up and stopped rather suddenly. She had been going to say, "Its not your fault that you are stupid."
"That what?" Ermengarde asked.
"That you t learn things quickly," amended Sara. "If you t, you t. If I --why, I ; thats all."
She always felt very tender arde, and tried not to let her feel toly the differeween being able to learn anything at once, and not being able to learn anything at all. As she looked at her plump face, one of her wise, old-fashiohoughts came to her.
"Perhaps," she said, "to be able to learn things quickly isnt everything. To be kind is worth a great deal to other people. If Miss Min knew everything oh and was like what she is now, shed still be a detestable thing, and everybody would hate her. Lots of clever people have done harm and have been wicked. Look at Robespierre--"
She stopped and examined Ermengardes tenance, which was beginning to look bewildered. "Dont you remember?" she demanded. "I told you about him not long ago. I believe youve fotten."
"Well, I dont remember all of it," admitted Ermengarde.
"Well, you wait a minute," said Sara, "and Ill take off my wet things and myself in the coverlet and tell you ain."
She took off her hat and coat and hung them on a nail against the wall, and she ged her wet shoes for an old pair of slippers. Then she jumped on the bed, and drawing the coverlet about her shoulders, sat with her arms round her knees. "Now, listen," she said.
She plunged into the gory records of the French Revolution, and told such stories of it that Ermengardes eyes grew round with alarm and she held her breath. But though she was rather terrified, there was a delightful thrill in listening, and she was not likely tet Robespierre again, or to have any doubts about the Princesse de Lamballe.
"You know they put her head on a pike and danced round it," Sara explained. "And she had beautiful floating blonde hair; and when I think of her, I never see her head on her body, but always on a pike, with those furious people dang and howling."
It was agreed that Mr. St. John was to be told the plan they had made, and for the present the books were to be left iic.
"Now lets tell each other things," said Sara. "How are you getting on with your French lessons?"
"Ever so much better sihe last time I came up here and you explaihe jugations. Miss Min could not uand why I did my exercises so well that first m."
Sara laughed a little and hugged her knees.
"She doesnt uand why Lottie is doing her sums so well," she said; "but it is because she creeps up here, too, and I help her." She glanced round the room. "The attic would be rather nice--if it wasnt so dreadful," she said, laughing again. "Its a good place to pretend in."
The truth was that Ermengarde did not know anything of the sometimes almost unbearable side of life iid she had not a suffitly vivid imagination to depict it for herself. On the rare occasions that she could reach Saras room she only saw the side of it which was made exg by things which were "pretended" and stories which were told. Her visits partook of the character of adventures; and though sometimes Sara looked rather pale, and it was not to be dehat she had growhin, her proud little spirit would not admit of plaints. She had never fessed that at times she was almost ravenous with hunger, as she was tonight. She was growing rapidly, and her stant walking and running about would have given her a keen appetite even if she had had abundant and regular meals of a much more nourishing nature than the uizing, inferior food snatched at such odd times as suited the kit venience. She was growing used to a certain gnawing feeling in her young stomach.
"I suppose soldiers feel like this when they are on a long and weary march," she often said to herself. She liked the sound of the phrase, "long and weary march." It made her feel rather like a soldier. She had also a quaint sense of being a hostess iic.
"If I lived in a castle," she argued, "and Ermengarde was the lady of another castle, and came to see me, with knights and squires and vassals riding with her, and pennons flying, when I heard the clarions sounding outside the drawbridge I should go down to receive her, and I should spread feasts in the ba hall and call in mio sing and play ae romances. When she es into the attic I t spread feasts, but I tell stories, and not let her know disagreeable things. I dare say poor chatelaines had to do that in time of famine, when their lands had been pillaged." She roud, brave little chatelaine, and dispensed generously the one hospitality she could offer--the dreams she dreamed--the visions she saw--the imaginings which were her joy and fort.
So, as they sat together, Ermengarde did not know that she was faint as well as ravenous, and that while she talked she now and then wondered if her hunger would let her sleep when she was left alone. She felt as if she had never been quite so hungry before.
"I wish I was as thin as you, Sara," Ermengarde said suddenly. "I believe you are thihan you used to be. Your eyes look so big, and look at the sharp little boig out of your elbow!"
Sara pulled down her sleeve, which had pushed itself up.
"I always was a thin child," she said bravely, "and I always had big green eyes."
"I love your queer eyes," said Ermengarde, looking into them with affeate admiration. "They always look as if they saw such a long way. I love them--and I love them to be green--though they look black generally."
"They are cats eyes," laughed Sara; "but I t see in the dark with them--because I have tried, and I couldnt--I wish I could."
It was just at this mihat something happe the skylight whieither of them saw. If either of them had ced to turn and look, she would have been startled by the sight of a dark face which peered cautiously into the room and disappeared as quickly and almost as silently as it had appeared. Not quite as silently, however. Sara, who had keen ears, suddenly turned a little and looked up at the roof.
"That didnt sound like Melchisedec," she said. "It wasnt scratchy enough."
"What?" said Ermengarde, a little startled.
"Didnt you think you heard something?" asked Sara.
"N-no," Ermengarde faltered. "Did you?" {another ed. has "No- no,"}
"Perhaps I didnt," said Sara; "but I thought I did. It sounded as if something was on the slates--something that dragged softly."
"What could it be?" said Ermengarde. "Could it be--robbers?"
"No," Sara began cheerfully. "There is nothing to steal--"
She broke off in the middle of her words. They both heard the sound that checked her. It was not on the slates, but oairs below, and it was Miss Mins angry voice. Sara sprang off the bed, and put out the dle.
"She is scolding Becky," she whispered, as she stood in the darkness. "She is making her cry."
"Will she e in here?" Ermengarde whispered back, panic- stri.
"No. She will think I am in bed. Dont stir."
It was very seldom that Miss Min mouhe last flight of stairs. Sara could only remember that she had do once before. But now she was angry enough to be ing at least part of the , and it sounded as if she was driving Becky before her.
"You impudent, disho child!" they heard her say. "Cook tells me she has missed things repeatedly."
"T warnt me, mum," said Becky sobbing. "I was ungry enough, but t warnt me--never!"
"You deserve to be sent to prison," said Miss Mins voice. "Pig and stealing! Half a meat pie, indeed!"
"T warnt me," wept Becky. "I could ave eat a whole un--but I never laid a finger on it."
Miss Min was out of breath between temper and mounting the stairs. The meat pie had been intended for her special late supper. It became apparent that she boxed Beckys ears.
"Dont tell falsehoods," she said. "Go to your room this instant."
Both Sara and Ermengarde heard the slap, and then heard Becky run in her slipshod shoes up the stairs and into her attic. They heard her door shut, and khat she threw herself upon her bed.
"I could ave et two of em," they heard her cry into her pillow. "An I ook a bite. Twas cook give it to her poli."
Sara stood in the middle of the room in the darkness. She was g her little teeth and opening and shutting fiercely her outstretched hands. She could scarcely stand still, but she dared not move until Miss Min had gone dowairs and all was still.
"The wicked, cruel thing!" she burst forth. "The cook takes things herself and then says Becky steals them. She doesnt! She doesnt! Shes so hungry sometimes that she eats crusts out of the ash barrel!" She pressed her hands hard against her fad burst into passiotle sobs, and Ermengarde, hearing this unusual thing, was overawed by it. Sara was g! The unquerable Sara! It seemed to denote>藏书网 something new--some mood she had never known. Suppose--suppose--a new dread possibility preseself to her kind, slow, little mind all at once. She crept off the bed in the dark and found her way to the table where the dle stood. She struck a matd lit the dle. When she had lighted it, she bent forward and looked at Sara, with her hought growing to definite fear in her eyes.
"Sara," she said in a timid, almost awe-stri voice, are--are- -you old me--I dont want to be rude, but--are you ever hungry?"
It was too much just at that moment. The barrier broke down. Sara lifted her face from h.9９lｉｂ?er hands.
"Yes," she said in a new passionate way. "Yes, I am. Im so hungry now that I could almost eat you. And it makes it worse to hear poor Becky. Shes huhan I am."
Ermengarde gasped.
"Oh, oh!" she cried woefully. "And I never knew!"
"I didnt want you to know," Sara said. "It would have made me feel like a street beggar. I know I look like a street beggar."
"No, you dont--you dont!" Ermengarde broke in. "Your clothes are a little queer--but you couldnt look like a street beggar. You havent a street-beggar face."
"A little boy once gave me a sixpence for charity," said Sara, with a short little laugh in spite of herself. "Here it is." And she pulled out the thin ribbon from her neck. "He wouldnt have given me his Christmas sixpence if I hadnt looked as if I ."
Somehow the sight of the dear little sixpence was good for both of them. It made them laugh a little, though they both had tears in their eyes.
"Who was he?" asked Ermengarde, looking at it quite as if it had not been a mere ordinary silver sixpence.
"He was a darling little thing going to a party," said Sara. "He was one of the Large Family, the little oh the round legs-- the one I call Guy Clarence. I suppose his nursery was crammed with Christmas presents and hampers full of cakes and things, and he could see I had nothing."
Ermengarde gave a little jump backward. The last sentences had recalled something to her troubled mind and given her a sudden inspiration.
"Oh, Sara!" she cried. "What a silly thing I am not to have thought of it!"
"Of what?"
"Something splendid!" said Ermengarde, in aed hurry. "This very afternoon my au me a box. It is full of good things. I ouched it, I had so much pudding at dinner, and I was so bothered about papas books." Her words began to tumble over each other. "Its got cake in it, and little meat pies, and jam tarts and buns, and es and red- currant wine, and figs and chocolate. Ill creep bay room a this minute, and well eat it now."
Sara almost reeled. When one is faint with huhe mention of food has sometimes a curious effect. She clutched Ermengardes arm.
"Do you think--you could?" she ejaculated.
"I know I could," answered Ermengarde, and she ran to the door-- ope softly--put her head out into the darkness, and listehen she went back to Sara. "The lights are out. Everybodys in bed. I creep--and creep--and no one will hear."
It was so delightful that they caught each others hands and a sudden light sprang into Saras eyes.
"Ermie!" she said. "Let us pretend! Let us pretend its a party! And oh, wont you ihe prisoner in the cell?"
"Yes! Yes! Let us kno the wall now. The jailer wont hear."
Sara went to the wall. Through it she could hear poor Becky g more softly. She knocked four times.
"That means, `e to me through the secret passage uhe wall, she explained. `I have something to unicate."
Five quiocks answered her.
"She is ing," she said.
Almost immediately the door of the attic opened and Becky appeared. Her eyes were red and her cap was sliding off, and when she caught sight arde she began to rub her faervously with her apron.
"Dont mind me a bit, Becky!" cried Ermengarde.
"Miss Ermengarde has asked you to e in," said Sara, "because she is going t a box of good things up here to us."
Beckys cap almost fell off entirely, she broke in with such excitement.
"To eat, miss?" she said. "Things thats good to eat?"
"Yes," answered Sara, "and we are going to pretend a party."
"And you shall have as much as you want to eat," put in Ermengarde. "Ill go this minute!"
She was in such haste that as she tiptoed out of the attic she dropped her red shawl and did not know it had fallen. No one saw it for a minute or so. Becky was too much overpowered by the good luck which had befallen her.
"Oh, miss! oh, miss!" she gasped; "I know it was you that asked her to let me e. It--it makes me cry to think of it." And she went to Saras side and stood and looked at her worshipingly.
But in Saras hungry eyes the old light had begun to glow and transform her world for her. Here iic--with the cold night outside-- with the afternoon in the sloppy streets barely passed--with the memory of the awful unfed look in the beggar childs eyes not yet faded--this simple, cheerful thing had happened like a thing of magic.
She caught her breath.
"Somehow, something always happens," she cried, "just before things get to the very worst. It is as if the Magic did it. If I could only just remember that always. The worst thing never quite es."
She gave Becky a little cheerful shake.
"No, no! You mustnt cry!" she said. "We must make haste ahe table."
"Set the table, miss?" said Becky, gazing round the room. "Whatll we set it with?"
Sara looked round the attic, too.
"There doeso be much," she answered, half laughing.
That moment she saw something and pounced upon it. It was Ermengardes red shawl which lay upon the floor.
"Heres the shawl," she cried. "I know she wont mind it. It will make such a nice red tablecloth."
They pulled the old table forward, and threw the shawl over it. Red is a wonderfully kind and fortable color. It began to make the room look furnished directly.
"How nice a red rug would look on the floor!" exclaimed Sara. "We must pretend there is one!"
Her eye swept the bare boards with a swift glance of admiration. The rug was laid down already.
"How soft and thick it is!" she said, with the little laugh which Becky khe meaning of; and she raised a her foot down again delicately, as if she felt something u.
"Yes, miss," answered Becky, watg her with serious rapture. She was always quite serious.
"What , now?" said Sara, and she stood still and put her hands over her eyes. "Something will e if I think and wait a little"--in a soft, expet voice. "The Magic will tell me."
One of her favorite fancies was that on "the outside," as she called it, thoughts were waiting for people to call them. Becky had seeand and wait many a time before, and khat in a few seds she would uncover an enlightened, laughing face.
In a moment she did.
"There!" she cried. "It has e! I know now! I must look among the things in the old trunk I had when I rincess."
She flew to its er and kneeled down. It had not been put iic for her be, but because there was no room for it elsewhere. Nothing had bee in it but rubbish. But she knew she should find something. The Magic always arrahat kind of thing in one way or another.
In a er lay a package so insignifit-looking that it had been overlooked, and when she herself had found it she had kept it as a relic. It tained a dozen small white handkerchiefs. She seized them joyfully and ran to the table. She began te them upon the red table-cover, patting and coaxing them into shape with the narrow lace edge curling outward, her Magic w its spells for her as she did it.
"These are the plates," she said. "They are golden plates. These are the richly embroidered napkins. Nuns worked them in vents in Spain."
"Did they, miss?" breathed Becky, her very soul uplifted by the information.
"You must pretend it," said Sara. "If you pretend it enough, you will see them."
"Yes, miss," said Becky; and as Sara returo the trunk she devoted herself to the effort of aplishing an end so much to be desired.
Sara turned suddenly to fianding by the table, looking very queer indeed. She had shut her eyes, and was twisting her fa strange vulsive tortions, her hands hanging stiffly ched at her sides. She looked as if she was trying to lift some enormous weight.
"What is the matter, Becky?" Sara cried. "What are you doing?"
Becky opened her eyes with a start.
"I retendin, miss," she answered a little sheepishly; "I was tryin to see it like you do. I almost did," with a hopeful grin. "But it takes a lot o strenth."
"Perhaps it does if you are not used to it," said Sara, with friendly sympathy; "but you dont know how easy it is when youve do often. I wouldnt try so hard just at first. It will e to you after a while. Ill just tell you what things are. Look at these."
She held an old summer hat in her hand which she had fished out of the bottom of the trunk. There was a wreath of flowers on it. She pulled the wreath off.
"These are garlands for the feast," she said grandly. "They fill all the air with perfume. Theres a mug on the wash-stand, Becky. Oh--and bring the soap dish for a terpiece."
Becky hahem to her reverently.
"What are they now, miss?" she inquired. "Youd think they was made of crockery--but I know they aint."
"This is a carven flagon," said Sara, arranging tendrils of the wreath about the mug. "And this"--bending tenderly over the soap dish and heaping it with roses--"is purest alabaster encrusted with gems."
She touched the things gently, a happy smile h about her lips which made her look as if she were a creature in a dream.
"My, aint it lovely!" whispered Becky.
"If we just had something for bonbon dishes," Sara murmured. "There!"--darting to the trunk again. "I remember I saw something this minute."
It was only a bundle of wool ed in red and white tissue paper, but the tissue paper was soon twisted into the form of little dishes, and was bined with the remaining flowers to orhe dlestick which was to light the feast. Only the Magic could have made it more than an old table covered with a red shawl a with rubbish from a long-unoperunk. But Sara drew bad gazed at it, seeing wonders; and Becky, after staring in delight, spoke with bated breath.
"This ere," she suggested, with a glance round the attic--"is it the Bastille now--or has it turned into somethin different?"
"Oh, yes, yes!" said Sara. "Quite different. It is a ba hall!"
"My eye, miss!" ejaculated Becky. "A bla all!" and she turo view the splendors about her with awed bewilderment.
"A ba hall," said Sara. "A vast chamber where feasts are given. It has a vaulted roof, and a minstrels gallery, and a huge ey filled with blazing oaken logs, and it is brilliant with waxen tapers twinkling on every side."
"My eye, Miss Sara!" gasped Becky again.
Then the door opened, and Ermengarde came in, rather staggering uhe weight of her hamper. She started back with an exclamation of joy. To enter from the chill darkness outside, and find ones self fronted by a totally unanticipated festal board, draped with red, adorned with white napery, and wreathed with flowers, was to feel that the preparations were brilliant indeed.
"Oh, Sara!" she cried out. "You are the cleverest girl I ever saw!"
"Isnt it nice?" said Sara. "They are things out of my old trunk. I asked my Magid it told me to go and look."
"But oh, miss," cried Becky, "wait till shes told you what they are! They aint just--oh, miss, please tell her," appealing to Sara.
So Sara told her, and because her Magic helped her she made her almost see it all: the golden platters--the vaulted spaces--the blazing logs--the twinkling waxen tapers. As the things were taken out of the hamper--the frosted cakes--the fruits--the bonbons and the wihe feast became a splendid thing.
"Its like a real party!" cried Ermengarde.
"Its like a queens table," sighed Becky.
Then Ermengarde had a sudden brilliant thought.
"Ill tell you what, Sara," she said. "Pretend you are a princess now and this is a royal feast."
"But its your feast," said Sara; "you must be the princess, and we will be your maids of honor."
"Oh, I t," said Ermengarde. "Im too fat, and I dont know how. You be her."
"Well, if you wao," said Sara.
But suddenly she thought of something else and ran to the rusty grate.
"There is a lot of paper and rubbish stuffed in here!" she exclaimed. "If we light it, there will be a bright blaze for a few minutes, and we shall feel as if it was a real fire." She struck a matd lighted it up with a great specious glow which illumihe room.
"By the time it stops blazing," Sara said, "we shall fet about its not being real."
She stood in the dang glow and smiled.
"Doesnt it look real?" she said. "Noill begin the party."
She led the way to the table. She waved her hand graciously tarde and Becky. She was in the midst of her dream.
"Advance, fair damsels," she said in her happy dream-voice, "and be seated at the baable. My her, the king, who is absent on a long journey, has anded me to feast you." She turned her head slightly toward the er of the room. "What, ho, there, minstrels! Strike up with your viols and bassoons. Princesses," she explained rapidly tarde and Becky, "always had mio play at their feasts. Pretend there is a minstrel gallery up there in the er. Noill begin."
They had barely had time to take their pieces of cake into their hands--not one of them had time to do more, when--they all three sprang to their feet and turned pale faces toward the door-- listening--listening.
Someone was ing up the stairs. There was no mistake about it. Each of them reized the angry, mounting tread and khat the end of all things had e.
"Its--the missus!" choked Becky, and dropped her piece of cake upon the floor.
"Yes," said Sara, her eyes growing shocked and large in her small white face. "Miss Min has found us out."
Miss Min struck the door open with a blow of her hand. She ale herself, but it was with rage. She looked from the frightened faces to the baable, and from the baable to the last flicker of the burnt paper in the grate.
"I have been suspeg something of this sort," she exclaimed; "but I did not dream of such audacity. Lavinia was telling the truth."
So they khat it was Lavinia who had somehow guessed their secret and had betrayed them. Miss Min strode over to Becky and boxed her ears for a sed time.
"You impudent creature!" she said. "You leave the house in the m!"
Sara stood quite still, her eyes growing larger, her face paler. Ermengarde burst into tears.
"Oh, dont send her away," she sobbed. "My au me the hamper. Were--only--having a party."
"So I see," said Miss Min, witheringly. "With the Princess Sara at the head of the table." She turned fiercely on Sara. "It is your doing, I know," she cried. &quarde would never have thought of such a thing. You decorated the table, I suppose--with this rubbish." She stamped her foot at Becky. "Go to your attic!" she anded, and Becky stole away, her face hidden in her apron, her shoulders shaking.
Then it was Saras turn again.
"I will attend to you tomorrow. You shall have her breakfast, dinner, nor supper!"
"I have not had either dinner or supper today, Miss Min," said Sara, rather faintly.
"Then all the better. You will have something to remember. Dont stand there. Put those things into the hamper again."
She began to sweep them off the table into the hamper herself, and caught sight ardes new books.
"And you"--tarde--"have brought your beautiful new books into this dirty attic. Take them up and go back to bed. You will stay there all day tomorrow, and I shall write to your papa. What would he say if he knew where you are tonight?"
Something she saw in Saras grave, fixed gaze at this moment made her turn on her fiercely.
"What are you thinking of?" she demanded. "Why do you look at me like that?"
"I was w," answered Sara, as she had answered that notable day in the schoolroom.
"What were you w?"
It was very like the se in the schoolroom. There was ness in Saras manner. It was only sad and quiet.
"I was w," she said in a low voice, "what my papa would say if he knew where I am tonight."
Miss Min was infuriated just as she had been before and her anger expressed itself, as before, in an intemperate fashion. She flew at her and shook her.
"You i, unmanageable child!" she cried. "How dare you! How dare you!"
She picked up the books, swept the rest of the feast bato the hampe?９９ｌiｂ?r in a jumbled heap, thrust it intardes arms, and pushed her before her toward the door.
"I will leave you to wonder," she said. "Go to bed this instant." And she shut the door behind herself and poor stumbling Ermengarde, a Sara standing quite alone.
The dream was quite at an end. The last spark had died out of the paper in the grate a only black tihe table was left bare, the golden plates and richly embroidered napkins, and the garlands were transformed again into old handkerchiefs, scraps of red and white paper, and discarded artificial flowers all scattered on the floor; the minstrels in the minstrel gallery had stolen away, and the viols and bassoons were still. Emily was sitting with her back against the wall, staring very hard. Sara saw her, a and picked her up with trembling hands.
"There isnt any ba left, Emily," she said. "And there isnt any princess. There is nothi but the prisoners in the Bastille." And she sat down and hid her face.
What would have happened if she had not hidden it just then, and if she had ced to look up at the skylight at the wrong moment, I do not know--perhaps the end of this chapter might have been quite different--because if she had gla the skylight she would certainly have been startled by what she would have seen. She would have seely the same face pressed against the glass and peering in at her as it had peered in earlier in the evening when she had been talking tarde.
But she did not look up. She sat with her little black head in her arms for some time. She always sat like that when she was trying to bear something in silehe up a slowly to the bed.
"I t pretend anything else--while I am awake," she said. "There wouldnt be any use in trying. If I go to sleep, perhaps a dream will e and pretend for me."
She suddenly felt so tired--perhaps through want of food--that she sat down on the edge of the bed quite weakly.
"Suppose there was a bright fire in the grate, with lots of little dang flames," she murmured. "Suppose there was a fortable chair before it--and suppose there was a small table near, with a little hot--hot supper on it. And suppose"--as she drew the thin cs over her--"suppose this was a beautiful soft bed, with fleecy blas and large downy pillows. Suppose-- suppose--" And her very weariness was good to her, for her eyes closed and she fell fast asleep.
She did not know how long she slept. But she had been tired enough to sleep deeply and profoundly--too deeply and soundly to be disturbed by anything, even by the squeaks and scamperings of Melchisedetire family, if all his sons and daughters had chosen to e out of their hole to fight and tumble and play.
When she awake was rather suddenly, and she did not know that any particular thing had called her out of her sleep. The truth was, however, that it was a sound which had called her back--a real sound--the click of the skylight as it fell in closing after a lithe white figure which slipped through it and crouched down close by upon the slates of the roof--just near enough to see what happened iic, but not near enough to be seen.
At first she did not open her eyes. She felt too sleepy and-- curiously enough--too warm and fortable. She was so warm and fortable, ihat she did not believe she was really awake. She never was as warm and cozy as this except in some lovely vision.
"What a nice dream!" she murmured. "I feel quite warm. I--dont- -want--to--wake--up."
Of course it was a dream. She felt as if warm, delightful bedclothes were heaped upon her. She could actually feel blas, and whe out her hand it touched somethily like a satin-covered eider-down quilt. She must not awaken from this delight--she must be quite still and make it last.
But she could not--even though she kept her eyes closed tightly, she could not. Something was f her to awaken--something in the room. It was a sense of light, and a sound--the sound of a crag, r little fire.
"Oh, I am awakening," she said mournfully. "I t help it--I t."
Her eyes opened in spite of herself. And theually smiled--for what she saw she had never seen iic before, and knew she never should see.
"Oh, I havent awakened," she whispered, daring to rise on her elbow and look all about her. "I am dreami." She k must be a dream, for if she were awake such things could not-- could not be.
Do you wohat she felt sure she had not e back to earth? This is what she saw. In the grate there was a glowing, blazing fire; on the hob was a little brass kettle hissing and boiling; spread upon the floor was a thick, warm crims; before the fire a folding-chair, unfolded, and with cushions on it; by the chair a small folding-table, unfolded, covered with a white cloth, and upon it spread small covered dishes, a cup, a saucer, a teapot; on the bed were new warm cs and a satin-covered down quilt; at the foot a curious wadded silk robe, a pair of quilted slippers, and some books. The room of her dream seemed ged into fairyland--and it was flooded with warm light, for a bright lamp stood oable covered with a rosy shade.
She sat up, resting on her elbow, and her breathing came short and fast.
"It does not--melt away," she panted. "Oh, I never had such a dream before." She scarcely dared to stir; but at last she pushed the bedclothes aside, and put her feet on the floor with a rapturous smile.
"I am dreaming--I am getting out of bed," she heard her own voice say; and then, as she stood up in the midst of it all, turning slowly from side to side--"I am dreaming it stays--real! Im dreaming it feels real. Its bewitched--or Im bewitched. I only think I see it all." Her words began to hurry themselves. "If I only keep on thinking it," she cried, "I dont care! I dont care!"
She stood panting a moment longer, and then cried out again.
"Oh, it isnt true!" she said. "It t be true! But oh, how true it seems!"
The blazing fire drew her to it, and she k down and held out her hands close to it--so close that the heat made her start back.
"A fire I only dreamed would," she cried.
She sprang up, touched the table, the dishes, the rug; she went to the bed and touched the blas. She took up the soft wadded dressing-gown, and suddenly clutched it to her breast and held it to her cheek.
"Its warm. Its soft!" she almost sobbed. "Its real. It must be!"
She threw it over her shoulders, and put her feet into the slippers.
"They are real, too. Its all real!" she cried. "I am not--I am not dreaming!"
She almost staggered to the books and opehe one which lay upoop. Something was written on the flyleaf--just a few words, and they were these:
"To the little girl iic. From a friend."
When she saw that--wasnt it a strahing for her to do-- she put her face down upon the page and burst into tears.
"I dont know who it is," she said; "but somebody cares for me a little. I have a friend."
She took her dle and stole out of her own room and into Beckys, and stood by her bedside.
"Becky, Becky!" she whispered as loudly as she dared. "Wake up!"
When Becky wakened, and she sat upright staring aghast, her face still smudged with traces of tears, beside her stood a little figure in a luxurious wadded robe of crimson silk. The face she saw was a shining, wonderful thing. The Princess Sara--as she remembered her--stood at her very bedside, holding a dle in her hand.
"e," she said. "Oh, Becky, e!"
Becky was thteo speak. She simply got up and followed her, with her mouth and eyes open, and without a word.
And when they crossed the threshold, Sara shut the dently and drew her into the warm, glowing midst of things which made her brain reel and her hungry senses faint. "Its true! Its true!" she cried. "Ive touched them all. They are as real as we are. The Magic has e and do, Becky, while we were asleep--the Magic that wohose worst things ever quite happen."
16. The Visitor
16. The Visitor
Imagine, if you , what the rest of the evening was like. How they crouched by the fire which blazed and leaped and made so much of itself itle grate. How they removed the covers of the dishes, and found rich, hot, savory soup, which was a meal in itself, and sandwiches and toast and muffins enough for both of them. The mug from the washstand was used as Beckys tea cup, and the tea was so delicious that it was not necessary to pretend that it was anything but tea. They were warm and full-fed and happy, and it was just like Sara that, having fourange good fortune real, she should give herself up to the enjoyment of it to the utmost. She had lived such a life of imaginings that she was quite equal to accepting any wonderful thing that happened, and almost to cease, in a short time, to find it bewildering.
"I dont know anyone in the world who could have do," she said; "but there has been someone. And here we are sitting by their fire--and--and--its true! And whoever it is--wherever they are--I have a friend, Becky--someone is my friend."
It ot be dehat as they sat before the blazing fire, and ate the nourishing, fortable food, they felt a kind of rapturous awe, and looked into each others eyes with something like doubt.
"Do you think," Becky faltered once, in a whisper, "do you think it could melt away, miss? Hadter be quick?" And she hastily crammed her sandwito her mouth. If it was only a dream, kit manners would be overlooked.
"No, it wo away," said Sara. "I am eating this muffin, and I taste it. You never really eat things in dreams. You only think yoing to eat them. Besides, I keep giving myself pinches; and I touched a hot piece of coal just now, on purpose."
The sleepy fort which at length almost overpowered them was a heavenly thing. It was the drowsiness of happy, well-fed childhood, and they sat in the fire glow and luxuriated in it until Sara found herself turning to look at her transformed bed.
There were even blas enough to share with Becky. The narrow cou the attic was more fortable that night than its oct had ever dreamed that it could be.
As she went out of the room, Becky turned upohreshold and looked about her with dev eyes.
"If it aint here in the mornin, miss," she said, "its beeonight, anyways, an I shant never fet it." She looked at each particular thing, as if to it it to memory. "The fire was there", pointing with her finger, "aable was before it; an the lamp was there, an the light looked rosy red; an there was a satin cover on your bed, an a warm rug on the floor, ahin looked beautiful; an"--she paused a sed, and laid her hand oomach tenderly--"there was soup an sandwiches an muffins--there was." And, with this vi a reality at least, she went away.
Through the mysterious agency which works in schools and among servants, it was quite well known in the m that Sara Crewe was in horrible disgrace, that Ermengarde was under punishment, and that Becky would have been packed out of the house before breakfast, but that a scullery maid could not be dispensed with at ohe servants khat she was allowed to stay because Miss Min could not easily find another creature helpless and humble enough to work like a bounden slave for so few shillings a week. The elder girls in the schoolroom khat if Miss Min did not send Sara away it was for practical reasons of her own.
"Shes growing so fast and learning such a lot, somehow," said Jessie to Lavinia, "that she will be given classes soon, and Miss Min knows she will have to work for nothing. It was rather nasty of you, Lavvy, to tell about her having fun in the garret. How did you find it out?"
"I got it out of Lottie. Shes such a baby she didnt know she was tellihere was nothing nasty at all in speaking to Miss Min. I felt it my duty"--priggishly. "She was beiful. And its ridiculous that she should look so grand, and be made so much of, in her rags and tatters!"
"What were they doing when Miss Min caught them?"
"Pretending some silly thing. Ermengarde had taken up her hamper to share with Sara and Becky. She never invites us to share things. Not that I care, but its rather vulgar of her to share with servant girls in attics. I wonder Miss Min didnt turn Sara out--even if she does want her for a teacher."
"If she was turned out where would she go?" inquired Jessie, a trifle anxiously.
"How do I know?" snapped Lavinia. "Shell look rather queer when she es into the schoolroom this m, I should think-- after whats happened. She had no dinner yesterday, and shes not to have any today."
Jessie was not as ill-natured as she was silly. She picked up her book with a little jerk.
"Well, I think its horrid," she said. "Theyve nht to starve her to death."
When Sara went into the kit that m the cook looked aska her, and so did the housemaids; but she passed them hurriedly. She had, in fact, overslept herself a little, and as Becky had dohe same, her had had time to see the other, and each had e downstairs in haste.
Sara went into the scullery. Becky was violently scrubbing a kettle, and was actually gurgling a little song ihroat. She looked up with a wildly elated face.
"It was there when I wakened, miss--the bla," she whispered excitedly. "It was as real as it was last night."
"So was mine," said Sara. "It is all there now--all of it. While I was dressing I ate some of the cold things we left."
"Oh, laws! Oh, laws!" Becky uttered the exclamation in a sort of rapturous groan, and ducked her head over her kettle just in time, as the cook came in from the kit.
Miss Min had expected to see in Sara, when she appeared in the schoolroom, very much what Lavinia had expected to see. Sara had always been an annoying puzzle to her, because severity never made her cry or lohtened. When she was scolded she stood still and listened politely with a grave face; when she unished she performed her extra tasks or went without her meals, making no plaint or outward sign of rebellion. The very fact that she never made an impudent answer seemed to Miss Min a kind of impuden itself. But after yesterdays deprivation of meals, the violent se of last night, the prospect of huoday, she must surely have broken down. It would be strange indeed if she did not e downstairs with pale cheeks and red eyes and an unhappy, humbled face.
Miss Min saw her for the first time wheered the schoolroom to hear the little French class recite its lessons and superintend its exercises. And she came in with a springing step, color in her cheeks, and a smile h about the ers of her mouth. It was the most astonishing thing Miss Min had ever known. It gave her quite a shock. What was the child made of? What could such a thing mean? She called her at oo her desk.
"You do not look as if you realize that you are in disgrace," she said. "Are you absolutely hardened?"
The truth is that when one is still a child--or even if one is grown up--and has been well fed, and has slept long and softly and warm; when one has goo sleep in the midst of a fairy story, and has wakeo find it real, one ot be unhappy or even look as if one were; and one could not, if oried, keep a glow of joy out of ones eyes. Miss Min was almost struck dumb by the look of Saras eyes when she made her perfectly respectful answer.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Min," she said; "I know that I am in disgrace."
"Be good enough not tet it and look as if you had e into a fortu is an impertinence. And remember you are to have no food today."
"Yes, Miss Min," Sara answered; but as she turned away her heart leaped with the memory of what yesterday had been. "If the Magic had not saved me just in time," she thought, "how horrible it would have been!"
"She t be very hungry," whispered Lavinia. "Just look at her. Perhaps she is pretending she has had a good breakfast"-- with a spiteful laugh.
"Shes different from other people," said Jessie, watg Sara with her class. "Sometimes Im a bit frightened of her."
"Ridiculous thing!" ejaculated Lavinia.
All through the day the light was in Saras face, and the color in her cheek. The servants cast puzzled gla her, and whispered to each other, and Miss Amelias small blue eyes wore an expression of bewilderment. What su audacious look of well-being, under august displeasure could mean she could not uand. It was, however, just like Saras singular obstinate way. She robably determio brave the matter out.
Ohing Sara had resolved upon, as she thought things over. The wonders which had happened must be kept a secret, if such a thing were possible. If Miss Min should choose to mount to the attic again, of course all would be discovered. But it did not seem likely that she would do so for some time at least, unless she was led by suspi. Ermengarde and Lottie would be watched with such striess that they would not dare to steal out of their beds again. Ermengarde could be told the story and trusted to keep it secret. If Lottie made any discoveries, she could be bound to secrecy also. Perhaps the Magic itself would help to hide its own marvels.
"But whatever happens," Sara kept saying to herself all day-- "whatever happens, somewhere in the world there is a heavenly kind person who is my friend--my friend. If I never know who it is--if I never even thank him--I shall never feel quite so lonely. Oh, the Magic was good to me!"
If it ossible for weather to be worse than it had been the day before, it was worse this day--wetter, muddier, colder. There were more errands to be dohe cook was more irritable, and, knowing that Sara was in disgrace, she was more savage. But what does anything matter when ones Magic has just proved itself ones friend. Saras supper of the night before had giverength, she khat she should sleep well and warmly, and, even though she had naturally begun to be hungry again before evening, she felt that she could bear it until breakfast- time on the following day, when her meals would surely be given tain. It was quite late when she was at last allowed to go upstairs. She had been told to go into the schoolroom and study until ten oclock, and she had bee ied in her work, and remained over her books later.
When she reached the top flight of stairs and stood before the attic door, it must be fessed that her heart beat rather fast.
"Of course it might all have been taken away," she whispered, trying to be brave. "It might only have beeo me for just that one awful night. But it was lent to me--I had it. It was real."
She pushed the door open a in. Onside, she gasped slightly, shut the door, and stood with her back against it looking from side to side.
The Magic had been there again. It actually had, and it had done even more than before. The fire was blazing, in lovely leaping flames, more merrily than ever. A number of hings had been brought into the attic which so altered the look of it that if she had not been past doubting she would have rubbed her eyes. Upon the low table another supper stood--this time with cups and plates for Becky as well as herself; a piece ht, heavy, strange embroidery covered the battered mantel, and on it some ors had been placed. All the bare, ugly things which could be covered with draperies had been cealed and made to look quite pretty. Some odd materials of rich colors had been fastened against the wall with fine, sharp tacks--so sharp that they could be pressed into the wood and plaster without hammering. Some brilliant fans were pinned up, and there were several large cushions, big and substantial enough to use as seats. A wooden box was covered with a rug, and some cushions lay on it, so that it wore quite the air of a sofa.
Sara slowly moved away from the door and simply sat down and looked and looked again.
"It is exactly like something fairy e true," she said. "There isnt the least difference. I feel as if I might wish for anything--diamonds s of gold--and they would appear! That wouldnt be any strahan this. Is this my garret? Am I the same cold, ragged, damp Sara? And to think I used to pretend and pretend and wish there were fairies! The ohing I always wanted was to see a fairy story e true. I am living in a fairy story. I feel as if I might be a fairy myself, and able to turn things into anything else."
She rose and knocked upon the wall for the prisoner in the cell, and the prisoner came.
Wheered she almost dropped in a heap upon the floor. For a few seds she quite lost her breath.
"Oh, laws!" she gasped. "Oh, laws, miss!"
"You see," said Sara.
On this night Becky sat on a cushion upon the hearth rug and had a cup and saucer of her own.
When Sara went to bed she found that she had a hick mattress and big downy pillows. Her old mattress and pillow had been removed to Beckys bedstead, and, sequently, with these additions Becky had been supplied with unheard-of fort.
"Where does it all e from?" Becky broke forth once. "Laws, who does it, miss?"
"Do us even ask," said Sara. "If it were not that I want to say, `Oh, thank you, I would rather not know. It makes it more beautiful."
From that time life became more wonderful day by day. The fairy story tinued. Almost every day something new was done. Some new fort or or appeared each time Sara opehe door at night, until in a short time the attic was a beautiful little room full of all sorts of odd and luxurious things. The ugly walls were gradually entirely covered with pictures and draperies, ingenious pieces of folding furniture appeared, a bookshelf was hung up and filled with books, new forts and veniences appeared one by one, until there seemed nothio be desired. When Sara went downstairs in the m, the remains of the supper were oable; and wheuro the atti the evening, the magi had removed them a another tle meal. Miss Min was as harsh and insulting as ever, Miss Amelia as peevish, and the servants were as vulgar and rude. Sara was sent on errands in all weathers, and scolded and driven hither and thither; she was scarcely allowed to speak tarde and Lottie; Lavinia s the increasing shabbiness of her clothes; and the irls stared curiously at her when she appeared in the schoolroom. But what did it all matter while she was living in this wonderful mysterious story? It was more romantid delightful than anything she had ever ied to fort her starved young soul and save herself from despair. Sometimes, when she was scolded, she could scarcely keep from smiling.
"If you only knew!" she was saying to herself. "If you only knew!"
The fort and happiness she enjoyed were makironger, and she had them always to look forward to. If she came home from her errands wet and tired and hungry, she knew she would soon be warm and well fed after she had climbed the stairs. During the hardest day she could occupy herself blissfully by thinking of what she should see when she opehe attic door, and w what new delight had been prepared for her. In a very short time she began to look less thin. Color came into her cheeks, and her eyes did not seem so much too big for her face.
"Sara Crewe looks wonderfully well," Miss Min remarked disapprovingly to her sister.
"Yes," answered poor, silly Miss Amelia. "She is absolutely fattening. She was beginning to look like a little starved crow."
"Starved!" exclaimed Miss Min, angrily. "There was no reason why she should look starved. She always had plenty to eat!"
"Of--of course," agreed Miss Amelia, humbly, alarmed to find that she had, as usual, said the wrong thing.
"There is something very disagreeable in seeing that sort of thing in a child of her age," said Miss Min, with haughty vagueness.
"What--sort of thing?" Miss Amelia ventured.
"It might almost be called defiance," answered Miss Min, feeling annoyed because she khe thing she resented was nothing like defiance, and she did not know what other unpleasao use. "The spirit and will of any other child would have beeirely humbled and broken by--by the ges she has had to submit to. But, upon my word, she seems as little subdued as if--as if she were a princess."
"Do you remember," put in the unwise Miss Amelia, "what she said to you that day in the schoolroom about what you would do if you found out that she was--&quo.９9lib?;
"No, I dont," said Miss Min. "Dont talk nonsense." But she remembered very clearly indeed.
Very naturally, even Becky was beginning to look plumper and less frightened. She could not help it. She had her share in the secret fairy story, too. She had two mattresses, two pillows, plenty of bed-c, and every night a hot supper and a seat on the cushions by the fire. The Bastille had melted away, the prisoners no longer existed. Two forted children sat in the midst of delights. Sometimes Sara read aloud from her books, sometimes she learned her own lessons, sometimes she sat and looked into the fire and tried to imagine who her friend could be, and wished she could say to him some of the things in her heart.
Then it came about that another wonderful thing happened. A man came to the door a several parcels. All were addressed in large letters, "To the Little Girl in the right-hand attic."
Sara herself was sent to open the door and take them in. She laid the twest parcels on the hall table, and was looking at the address, when Miss Min came dowairs and saw her.
"Take the things to the young lady to whom they belong," she said severely. "Dont stand there staring at them.
"They belong to me," answered Sara, quietly.
"To you?" exclaimed Miss Min. "What do you mean?"
"I dont know where they e from," said Sara, "but they are addressed to me. I sleep in the right-hand attic. Becky has the other one."
Miss Min came to her side and looked at the parcels with aed expression.
"What is in them?" she demanded.
"I dont know," replied Sara.
"Open them," she ordered.
Sara did as she was told. When the packages were unfolded Miss Mins tenance wore suddenly a singular expression. What she saretty and fortable clothing--clothing of different kinds: shoes, stogs, and gloves, and a warm aiful coat. There were even a and an umbrella. They were all good and expehings, and on the pocket of the coat inned a paper, on which were written these words: "To be worn every day. Will be replaced by others when necessary."
Miss Min was quite agitated. This was an i which suggested strahings to her sordid mind. Could it be that she had made a mistake, after all, and that the ed child had some powerful though etric friend in the background-- perhaps some previously unknowion, who had suddenly traced her whereabouts, and chose to provide for her in this mysterious and fantastic way? Relations were sometimes very odd-- particularly rich old bachelor uncles, who did not care for having childrehem. A man of that sort might prefer to overlook his youions welfare at a distance. Such a person, however, would be sure to be crotchety and hot-tempered enough to be easily offended. It would not be very pleasant if there were such a one, and he should learn all the truth about the thin, shabby clothes, the st food, and the hard work. She felt very queer indeed, and very uain, and she gave a side gla Sara.
"Well," she said, in a voice such as she had never used sihe little girl lost her father, "someone is very kind to you. As the things have bee, and you are to have new ones when they are worn out, you may as well go and put them on and look respectable. After you are dressed you may e downstairs and learn your lessons in the schoolroom. You need not go out on any more errands today."
About half an hour afterward, when the schoolroom door opened and Sara walked in, the entire seminary was struck dumb.
"My word!" ejaculated Jessie, jogging Lavinias elbow. "Look at the Princess Sara!"
Everybody was looking, and when Lavinia looked she turned quite red.
It was the Princess Sara indeed. At least, sihe days when she had been a princess, Sara had never looked as she did now. She did not seem the Sara they had seen e down the back stairs a few ho. She was dressed in the kind of frock Lavinia had beeo envyihe possession of. It was deep and warm in color, aifully made. Her slender feet looked as they had done when Jessie had admired them, and the hair, whose heavy locks had made her look rather like a Shetland pony when it fell loose about her small, odd face, was tied back with a ribbon.
"Perhaps someone has left her a fortune," Jessie whispered. "I always thought something would happen to her. Shes so queer."
"Perhaps the diamond mines have suddenly appeared again," said Lavinia, scathingly. "Dont please her by staring at her in that way, you silly thing."
"Sara," broke in Miss Mins deep voice, "e and sit here."
And while the whole schoolroom stared and pushed with elbows, and scarcely made any effort to ceal its excited curiosity, Sara went to her old seat of honor, a her head over her books.
That night, when she went to her room, after she and Becky had eaten their supper she sat and looked at the fire seriously for a long time.
"Are you making something up in?９９ｌｉb? your head, miss?" Becky inquired with respectful softness. When Sara sat in silend looked into the coals with dreaming eyes it generally meant that she was making a ory. But this time she was not, and she shook her head.
"No," she answered. "I am w what I ought to do."
Becky stared--still respectfully. She was filled with something approag reverence for everything Sara did and said.
"I t help thinking about my friend," Sara explained. "If he wants to keep himself a secret, it would be rude to try and find out who he is. But I do so want him to know how thankful I am to him--and hoy he has made me. Anyone who is kind wants to know when people have been made happy. They care for that more than for being thanked. I wish--I do wish--"
She stopped short because her eyes at that instant fell upon something standing on a table in a er. It was something she had found in the room when she came up to it only two days before. It was a little writing-case fitted with paper and envelopes and pens and ink.
"Oh," she exclaimed, "why did I not think of that before?"
She rose ao the er and brought the case back to the fire.
"I write to him," she said joyfully, "and leave it oable. Then perhaps the person who takes the things away will take it, too. I wont ask him anything. He wont mind my thanking him, I feel sure."
So she wrote a his is what she said:
I hope you will not think it is impolite that I should write this o you when you wish to keep yourself a secret. Please believe I do not mean to be impolite or try to find out anything at all; only I want to thank you for being so kind to me--so heavenly kind--and making everything like a fairy story. I am so grateful to you, and I am so happy--and so is Becky. Becky feels just as thankful as I do--it is all just as beautiful and wonderful to her as it is to me. We used to be so lonely and cold and hungry, and now--oh, just think what you have done for us! Please let me say just these words. It seems as if I ought to say them. Thank you--thank you--thank you!
The Little Girl iic.
The m she left this otle table, and in the evening it had been taken away with the other things; so she khe Magi had received it, and she was happier for the thought. She was reading one of her new books to Becky just before they went to their respective beds, whetention was attracted by a sound at the skylight. When she looked up from her page she saw that Becky had heard the sound also, as she had turned her head to look and was listening rather nervously.
"Somethings there, miss," she whispered.
"Yes," said Sara, slowly. "It sounds--rather like a cat--trying to get in."
She left her chair ao the skylight. It was a queer little sound she heard--like a soft scratg. She suddenly remembered something and laughed. She remembered a quaint little intruder who had made his way into the attice before. She had seen him that very afternoon, sitting dissolately on a table before a window in the Indialemans house.
"Suppose," she whispered in pleased excitement--"just suppose it was the monkey who got away again. Oh, I wish it was!"
She climbed on a chair, very cautiously raised the skylight, and peeped out. It had been snowing all day, and on the snow, quite near her, crouched a tiny, shivering figure, whose small black face wriself piteously at sight of her.
"It is the monkey," she cried out. "He has crept out of the Lascars attid he saw the light."
Becky ran to her side.
"Are you going to let him in, miss?" she said.
"Yes," Sara answered joyfully. "Its too cold for moo be out. Theyre delicate. Ill coax him in."
She put a hand out delicately, speaking in a coaxing voice--as she spoke to the sparrows and to Melchisedec--as if she were some friendly little animal herself.
"e along, monkey darling," she said. "I wont hurt you."
He knew she would not hurt him. He k before she laid her soft, caressing little paw on him and drew him towards her. He had felt human love in the slim brown hands of Ram Dass, and he felt it in hers. He let her lift him through the skylight, and when he found himself in her arms he cuddled up to her breast and looked up into her face.
"Nice monkey! Nice monkey!" she ed, kissing his funny head. "Oh, I do love little animal things."
He was evidently glad to get to the fire, and whe down and held him on her knee he looked from her to Becky with mingled i and appreciation.
"He is plain-looking, miss, aint he?" said Becky.
"He looks like a very ugly baby," laughed Sara. "I beg your pardon, monkey; but Im glad you are not a baby. Your mother couldnt be proud of you, and no one would dare to say you looked like any of your relations. Oh, I do like you!"
She leaned ba her chair and reflected.
"Perhaps hes sorry hes so ugly," she said, "and its always on his mind. I wonder if he has a mind. Monkey, my love, have you a mind?"
But the monkey only put up a tiny paw and scratched his head.
"What shall you do with him?" Becky asked.
"I shall let him sleep with me tonight, and then take him back to the Indialeman tomorrow. I am sorry to take you back, monkey; but you must go. You ought to be fo of your own family; and Im not a real relation."
And when she went to bed she made him a at her feet, and he curled up and slept there as if he were a baby and much pleased with his quarters.
19. Anne
19. Anne
Never had such jned in the nursery of the Large Family. Never had they dreamed of such delights as resulted from an intimate acquaintah the little-girl-who-was-not-a-beggar. The mere fact of her sufferings and adventures made her a priceless possession. Everybody wao be told over and aihings which had happeo her. When one was sitting by a warm fire in a big, glowing room, it was quite delightful to hear how cold it could be in an attic. It must be admitted that the attic was rather delighted in, and that its ess and bareness quite sank into insignifice when Melchisedec was remembered, and one heard about the sparrows and things one could see if one climbed oable and stues head and shoulders out of the skylight.
Of course the thing loved best was the story of the ba and the dream which was true. Sara told it for the first time the day after she had been found. Several members of the Large Family came to take tea with her, and as they sat or curled up on the hearth-rug she told the story in her own way, and the Indialeman listened and watched her. When she had finished she looked up at him and put her hand on his knee.
"That is my part," she said. "Now wont you tell your part of it, Uom?" He had asked her to call him always "Uom." "I dont know your part yet, and it must be beautiful."
So he told them how, whe alone, ill and dull and irritable, Ram Dass had tried to distract him by describing the passers by, and there was one child who passed oftehan any one else; he had begun to be ied in her--partly perhaps because he was thinking a great deal of a little girl, and partly because Ram Dass had been able to relate the i of his visit to the atti chase of the monkey. He had described its cheerless look, and the bearingbbr>藏书网 of the child, who seemed as if she was not of the class of those who were treated as drudges and servants. Bit by bit, Ram Dass had made discoveries ing the wretess of her life. He had found out how easy a matter it was to climb across the few yards of roof to the skylight, and this fact had been the beginning of all that followed.
"Sahib," he had said one day, "I could cross the slates and make the child a fire when she is out on some errand. Wheurned, wet and cold, to find it blazing, she would think a magi had do."
The idea had been so fanciful that Mr. Carrisfords sad face had lighted with a smile, and Ram Dass had been so filled with rapture that he had enlarged upon it and explaio his master how simple it would be to aplish numbers of other things. He had shown a childlike pleasure and iion, and the preparations for the carrying out of the plan had filled many a day with i which would otherwise have dragged wearily. On the night of the frustrated ba Ram Dass had kept watch, all his packages being in readiness iic which was his own; and the person who was to help him had waited with him, as ied as himself in the odd adventure. Ram Dass had been lying flat upon the slates, looking in at the skylight, when the ba had e to its disastrous clusion; he had been sure of the profoundness of Saras wearied sleep; and then, with a dark lantern, he had crept into the room, while his panion remained outside and handed the things to him. When Sara had stirred ever so faintly, Ram Dass had closed the lantern-slide and lain flat upon the floor. These and many other exg things the children found out by asking a thousand questions.
"I am so glad," Sara said. "I am so glad it was you who were my friend!"
There never were such friends as these two became. Somehow, they seemed to suit each other in a wonderful way. The Indialeman had never had a panion he liked quite as much as he liked Sara. In a months time he was, as Mr. Carmichael had prophesied he would be, a new man. He was always amused and ied, and he began to find an actual pleasure in the possession of the wealth he had imagihat he loathed the burden of. There were so .９9ｌiｂ.many charming things to plan for Sara. There was a little joke betweehat he was a magi, and it was one of his pleasures to ihings to surprise her. She fouiful new flrowing in her room, whimsical little gifts tucked under pillows, and once, as they sat together in the evening, they heard the scratch of a heavy paw on the door, and when Sara went to find out what it was, there stood a great dog--a splendid Russian boarhound--with a grand silver and gold collar bearing an inscription. "I am Boris," it read; "I serve the Princess Sara."
There was nothing the Indialeman loved more than the recolle of the little princess in rags and tatters. The afternoons in which the Large Family, arde and Lottie, gathered to rejoice together were very delightful. But the hours when Sara and the Indialeman sat alone and read or talked had a special charm of their own. During their passing many iing things occurred.
One evening, Mr. Carrisford, looking up from his book, noticed that his panion had not stirred for some time, but sat gazing into the fire.
"What are you `supposing, Sara?" he asked.
Sara looked up, with a bright color on her cheek.
"I was supposing," she said; "I was remembering that hungry day, and a child I saw."
"But there were a great many hungry days," said the Indialeman, with rather a sad tone in his voice. "Which hungry day was it?"
"I fot you didnt know," said Sara. "It was the day the dream came true."
Theold him the story of the bun shop, and the fourpence she picked up out of the sloppy mud, and the child who was huhan herself. She told it quite simply, and in as few words as possible; but somehow the Indialeman found it necessary to shade his eyes with his hand and look down at the carpet.
"And I was supposing a kind of plan," she said, when she had finished. "I was thinking I should like to do something."
"What was it?" said Mr. Carrisford, in a low tone. "You may do anything you like to do, princess."
"I was w," rather hesitated Sara--"you know, you say I have so much money--I was w if I could go to see the bun- woman, and tell her that if, when hungry children--particularly on those dreadful days--e and sit oeps, or look in at the window, she would just call them in and give them something to eat, she might send the bills to me. Could I do that?"
"You shall do it tomorrow m," said the Indialeman.
"Thank you," said Sara. "You see, I know what it is to be hungry, and it is very hard when one ot eveend it away."
"Yes, yes, my dear," said the Indialeman. "Yes, yes, it must be. Try tet it. e and sit on this footstool near my knee, and only remember you are a princess."
"Yes," said Sara, smiling; "and I give buns and bread to the populace." And she went and sat oool, and the Indialeman (he used to like her to call him that, too, sometimes) drew her small dark head down on his knee and stroked her hair.
The m, Miss Min, in looking out of her window, saw the things she perhaps least enjoyed seeing. The Indialemans carriage, with its tall horses, drew up before the door of the house, and its owner and a little figure, warm with soft, rich furs, desded the steps to get into it. The little figure was a familiar one, and reminded Miss Min of days in the past. It was followed by another as familiar--the sight of which she found very irritating. It was Becky, who, in the character of delighted attendant, always apanied her young mistress to her carriage, carrying s and belongings. Already Becky had a pink, round face.
A little later the carriage drew up before the door of the bakers shop, and its octs got out, oddly enough, just as the bun-woman utting a tray of smoking-hot buns into the window.
When Sara ehe shop the woman turned and looked at her, and, leaving the buns, came and stood behind the ter. For a moment she looked at Sara very hard indeed, and then her good- natured face lighted up.
"Im sure that I remember you, miss," she said. "A--"
"Yes," said Sara; "once you gave me six buns for fourpence, and--"
"And you gave five of em to a beggar child," the woman broke in on her. "Ive always remembered it. I couldnt make it out at first." She turned round to the Indialeman and spoke her words to him. "I beg your pardon, sir, but theres not many young people that notices a hungry fa that way; and Ive thought of it many a time. Excuse the liberty, miss,"--to Sara-- "but you look rosier and--well, better than you did that--that--"
"I am better, thank you," said Sara. "And--I am much happier-- and I have e to ask you to do something for me."
"Me, miss!" exclaimed the bun-woman, smiling cheerfully. "Why, bless you! Yes, miss. What I do?"
And then Sara, leaning on the ter, made her little proposal ing the dreadful days and the hungry waifs and the buns.
The woman watched her, and listened with an astonished face.
"Why, bless me!" she said again when she had heard it all; "itll be a pleasure to me to do it. I am a w-woman myself and ot afford to do muy own at, and theres sights of trouble on every side; but, if youll excuse me, Im bound to say Ive given away many a bit of bread sihat wet afternoon, just along o thinking of you--an how wet an cold you was, an how hungry you looked; a you gave away your hot buns as if you rincess."
The Indialeman smiled involuntarily at this, ?and Sara smiled a little, too, remembering what she had said to herself whe the buns down on the ravenous childs ragged lap.
"She looked so hungry," she said. "She was even huhan I was."
"She was starving," said the woman. "Manys the time shes told me of it since--how she sat there i, a as if a wolf was a-tearing at her poor young insides."
"Oh, have you seen her sihen?" exclaimed Sara. "Do you know where she is?"
"Yes, I do," answered the woman, smiling mood-naturedly than ever. "Why, shes in that there ba, miss, an has been for a month; an a det, well-meanin girl shes goin to turn out, an such a help to me in the shop an i as youd scarce believe, knowin how shes lived."
She stepped to the door of the little b..ack parlor and spoke; and the minute a girl came out and followed her behind the ter. And actually it was the beggar-child, aly clothed, and looking as if she had not been hungry for a long time. She looked shy, but she had a nice faow that she was no longer a savage, and the wild look had gone from her eyes. She knew Sara in an instant, and stood and looked at her as if she could never look enough.
"You see," said the woman, "I told her to e when she was hungry, and when shed e Id give her odd jobs to do; an I found she was willing, and somehow I got to like her; and the end of it was, Ive given her a pla a home, and she helps me, an behaves well, an is as thankful as a girl be. Her names Anne. She has no other."
The children stood and looked at each other for a few minutes; and then Sara took her hand out of her muff and held it out across the ter, and Aook it, and they looked straight into each others eyes.
"I am so glad," Sara said. "And I have just thought of something. Perhaps Mrs. Brown will let you be the oo give the buns and bread to the children. Perhaps you would like to do it because you know what it is to be hungry, too."
"Yes, miss," said the girl.
And, somehow, Sara felt as if she uood her, though she said so little, and only stood still and looked and looked after her as she went out of the shop with the Indialeman, and they got into the carriage and drove away.天涯在线书库《www.tianyabook.com》