12. The Other Side of the Wall
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12. The Other Side of the WallWhen 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"<bdo>?９９ｌib?</bdo>-- 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 <mark></mark>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 <cite></cite>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<var>?9９ｌｉb?</var>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.
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