THE DIAMOND-MINES AGAIN
When Sara entered the holly-hung school-room in the afternoon, she did
so as the head of a sort of procession. Miss Minchin, in her grandest
silk dress, led her by the hand. A man-servant followed, carrying the
box containing the Last Doll, a housemaid carried a second box, and
Becky brought up the rear, carrying a third and wearing a clean apron
and a new cap. Sara would have much preferred to enter in the usual way,
but Miss Minchin 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 and felt shy when, on her entry, the big
girls stared at her and touched each other's elbows, and the little ones
began to squirm joyously in their seats.
"Silence, young ladies!" said Miss Minchin, at the murmur which arose.
"James, place the box on the table and remove the lid. Emma, put yours
upon a chair. Becky!" suddenly and severely.
Becky had quite forgotten herself in her excitement, and was grinning at
Lottie, who was wriggling with rapturous expectation. She almost dropped
her box, the disapproving voice so startled her, and her frightened,
bobbing courtesy of apology was so funny that Lavinia and Jessie
tittered.
"It is not your place to look at the young ladies," said Miss Minchin.
"You forget yourself. Put your box down."
Becky obeyed with alarmed haste and hastily backed toward the door.
"You may leave us," Miss Minchin announced to 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 glance at the box on the
table. Something made of blue satin was peeping from between the folds
of tissue-paper.
"If you please, Miss Minchin," said Sara, suddenly, "mayn't Becky stay?"
It was a bold thing to do. Miss Minchin was betrayed into something like
a slight jump. Then she put her eye-glass 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 Minchin was scandalized. 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 machines 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 Minchin 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 backing into the corner, twisting the hem of her apron in
delighted suspense. She came forward, bobbing courtesies, but between
Sara's eyes and her own there passed a gleam of friendly understanding,
while her words tumbled over each other.
"Oh, if you please, miss! I'm that grateful, miss! I did want to see the
doll, miss, that I did. Thank you, miss. And thank you, ma'am,"--turning
and making an alarmed bob to Miss Minchin,--"for letting me take the
liberty."
Miss Minchin waved her hand again--this time it was in the direction of
the corner near the door.
"Go and stand there," she commanded. "Not too near the 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 inside the room, instead of
being down-stairs in the scullery, while these delights were going on.
She did not even mind when Miss Minchin cleared her throat ominously
and spoke again.
"Now, young ladies, I have a few words to say to you," she announced.
"She's going to make a speech," whispered one of the girls. "I wish it
was over."
Sara felt rather uncomfortable. As this was her party, it was probable
that the speech was about her. It is not agreeable to stand in a
school-room and have a speech made about you.
"You are aware, young ladies," the speech began,--for it was a
speech,--"that dear Sara is eleven years old to-day."
"_Dear_ Sara!" murmured Lavinia.
"Several of you here have also been eleven years old, but Sara's
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 Minchin, she felt herself growing rather hot. When Miss
Minchin 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 Minchin.' My reply was, 'Her
education at my seminary, Captain Crewe, shall be such as will adorn the
largest fortune.' Sara has become my most accomplished pupil. Her French
and her dancing 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 afternoon's 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 school-room rose to its feet as it had done the morning Sara
remembered so well.
"Thank you, Sara!" it said, and it must be confessed that Lottie jumped
up and down. Sara looked rather shy for a moment. She made a
courtesy--and it was a very nice one.
"Thank you," she said, "for coming to my party."
"Very pretty, indeed, Sara," approved Miss Minchin. "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 ladylike 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 in deserting 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, he's as bad as mine. Don't open them, Sara."
"I like them," Sara laughed, but she turned to the biggest box. When she
took out the Last Doll it was so magnificent that the children uttered
delighted groans of joy, and actually drew back to gaze at it in
breathless rapture.
"She is almost as big as Lottie," some one gasped.
Lottie clapped her hands and danced about, giggling.
"She's dressed for the theatre," said Lavinia. "Her cloak is lined with
ermine."
"Oh!" cried Ermengarde, darting forward, "she has an opera-glass in her
hand--a blue-and-gold one."
"Here is her trunk," said Sara. "Let us open it and look at her things."
[Illustration: The children crowded clamoring around her.]
She sat down upon the floor and turned the key. The children crowded
clamoring around her, as she lifted tray after tray and revealed their
contents. Never had the school-room been in such an uproar. There
were lace collars and silk stockings and handkerchiefs; there was a
jewel-case containing a necklace and 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 forgot 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 understands 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. It's almost like being a fairy. If you
suppose anything hard enough it seems as if it were real."
"It's 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 Doll's 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 mightn't be easy."
She often thought afterward how strange it was that just as she had
finished saying this--just at that very moment--Miss Amelia came into
the room.
"Sara," she said, "your papa's solicitor, Mr. Barrow, has called to see
Miss Minchin, and, as she must talk to him alone and the refreshments
are laid in her parlor, you had all better come and have your feast now,
so that my sister can have her interview here in the school-room."
Refreshments were not likely to be disdained at any hour, and many
pairs of eyes gleamed. Miss Amelia arranged the procession into decorum,
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 reverently pick up first a muff and then a coat, and while she stood
looking at them adoringly, she heard Miss Minchin upon the threshold,
and, being smitten with terror at the thought of being accused of taking
liberties, she rashly darted under the table, which hid her by its
table-cloth.
Miss Minchin came into the room, accompanied by a sharp-featured, dry
little gentleman, who looked rather disturbed. Miss Minchin 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
eye-glasses and looked at them in nervous disapproval. The Last Doll
herself did not seem to mind this in the least. She merely sat upright
and returned his gaze indifferently.
"A hundred pounds," Mr. Barrow remarked succinctly. "All expensive
material, and made at a Parisian modiste's. He spent money lavishly
enough, that young man."
Miss Minchin felt offended. This seemed to be a disparagement of her
best patron and was a liberty.
Even solicitors had no right to take liberties.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Barrow," she said stiffly. "I do not
understand."
"Birthday presents," said Mr. Barrow in the same critical manner, "to a
child eleven years old! Mad extravagance, I call it."
Miss Minchin drew herself up still more rigidly.
"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 Minchin 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 Minchin, catching at the back of a
chair and feeling as if a splendid dream was fading away from her.
"Diamond-mines spell ruin oftener than they spell wealth," said Mr.
Barrow. "When a man is in the hands of a very dear friend and is not a
business man himself, he had better steer clear of the dear friend's
diamond-mines, or gold-mines, or any other kind of mines dear friends
want his money to put into. The late Captain Crewe--"
Here Miss Minchin stopped him with a gasp.
"The _late_ Captain Crewe!" she cried out; "the _late_! You don't come
to tell me that Captain Crewe is--"
"He's dead, ma'am," Mr. Barrow answered with jerky brusqueness. "Died of
jungle fever and business troubles combined. The jungle fever might not
have killed him if he had not been driven mad by the business troubles,
and the business troubles might not have put an end to him if the jungle
fever had not assisted. Captain Crewe is dead!"
Miss Minchin dropped into her chair again. The words he had spoken
filled her with alarm.
"What _were_ his business troubles?" she said. "What _were_ they?"
"Diamond-mines," answered Mr. Barrow, "and dear friends--and ruin."
Miss Minchin lost her breath.
"Ruin!" she gasped out.
"Lost every penny. That young man had too much money. The dear friend
was mad on the subject of the diamond-mine. He put all his own money
into it, and all Captain Crewe's. Then the dear friend ran away--Captain
Crewe was already stricken with fever when the news came. The shock was
too much for him. He died delirious, raving about his little girl--and
didn't leave a penny."
Now Miss Minchin understood, 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 outraged 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 fortune! That the child is a beggar! That she is left
on my hands a little pauper instead of an heiress?"
Mr. Barrow was a shrewd business man, and felt 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, ma'am,--as she hasn't a relation in the world that we
know of."
Miss Minchin 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. "She's in my sitting-room at this moment,
dressed in silk gauze and lace petticoats, giving a party at my
expense."
"She's giving it at your expense, madam, if she's giving it," said Mr.
Barrow, calmly. "Barrow & Skipworth are not responsible for anything.
There never was a cleaner sweep made of a man's fortune. Captain Crewe
died without paying _our_ last bill--and it was a big one."
Miss Minchin turned back from the door in increased indignation. This
was worse than any one could have dreamed of its being.
"That is what has happened to 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 I've paid for all of them since the
last cheque came."
Mr. Barrow evidently did not intend to remain to listen to the story of
Miss Minchin's grievances after he had made the position of his firm
clear and related the mere dry facts. He did not feel any particular
sympathy for irate keepers of boarding-schools.
"You had better not pay for anything more, ma'am," he remarked, "unless
you want to make presents to the young lady. No one will remember you.
She hasn't a brass farthing to call her own."
"But what am I to do?" demanded Miss Minchin, as if she felt it entirely
his duty to make the matter right. "What am I to do?"
"There isn't anything to do," said Mr. Barrow, folding up his
eye-glasses 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 Minchin became quite white with rage.
Mr. Barrow turned to go.
"I have nothing to do with that, madam," he said uninterestedly. "Barrow
& Skipworth are not responsible. Very sorry the thing has happened, of
course."
"If you think she is to be foisted off on me, you are greatly mistaken,"
Miss Minchin 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 an extravagantly brought-up
child whom she had always resented, and she lost all self-control.
Mr. Barrow undisturbedly moved toward the door.
"I wouldn't do that, madam," he commented; "it wouldn't look well.
Unpleasant story to get about in connection 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
knew that Miss Minchin 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. "She's a clever child,
I believe. You can 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 Minchin.
"I am sure you will, ma'am," said Mr. Barrow, with a little sinister
smile. "I am sure you will. Good morning!"
He bowed himself out and closed the door, and it must be confessed that
Miss Minchin stood for a few moments and glared at it. What he had said
was quite true. She knew it. 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 was opened by Miss Amelia, who,
when she caught sight of the changed, angry face, fell back a step in
alarm.
"What _is_ the matter, sister?" she ejaculated.
Miss Minchin's voice was almost fierce when she answered:
"Where is Sara Crewe?"
Miss Amelia was bewildered.
"Sara!" she stammered. "Why, she's with the children in your room, of
course."
"Has she a black frock in her sumptuous wardrobe?"--in bitter irony.
"A black frock?" Miss Amelia stammered again. "A _black_ one?"
"She has frocks of every other color. Has she a black one?"
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 black one on, whether it is too short or not. She has done with
finery!"
Then Miss Amelia began to wring her fat hands and cry.
"Oh, sister!" she sniffed. "Oh, sister! What _can_ have happened?"
Miss Minchin 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 nearest 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 change her frock at once."
"I?" panted Miss Amelia. "M-must I go and tell her now?"
"This moment!" was the fierce answer. "Don't sit staring like a goose.
Go!"
Poor Miss Amelia was accustomed 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, and tell the
giver of the feast that she had suddenly been transformed into a little
beggar, and must go up-stairs and put on an old black frock which was
too small for her. But the thing must be done. This was evidently not
the time when questions might be asked.
She rubbed her eyes with her handkerchief until they looked quite red.
After which she got up and went 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
comment. Miss Minchin 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 corner table as she said it, and the
next moment she started at the sound of a loud, sobbing sniff which
issued from under the 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! Come out immediately!"
It was poor Becky who crawled out, and her cap was knocked on one side,
and her face was red with repressed crying.
"If you please, 'm--it's me, mum," she explained. "I know I hadn't ought
to. But I was lookin' at the doll, mum--an' I was frightened when you
come in--an' slipped under the table."
"You have been there all the time, listening," said Miss Minchin.
"No, mum," Becky protested, bobbing courtesies. "Not listenin'--I
thought I could slip out without your noticin', but I couldn't an' I had
to stay. But I didn't listen, mum--I wouldn't for nothin'. But I
couldn't 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 you'll give me warnin',
mum,--but I'm so sorry for poor Miss Sara--I'm so sorry!"
"Leave the room!" ordered Miss Minchin.
Becky courtesied again, the tears openly streaming down her cheeks.
"Yes, 'm; I will, 'm," she said, trembling; "but oh, I just wanted to
arst you: Miss Sara--she's been such a rich young lady, an' she's 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 I've done my
pots an' kettles? I'd do 'em that quick--if you'd let me wait on her now
she's poor. Oh,"--breaking out afresh,--"poor little Miss Sara,
mum--that was called a princess."
Somehow, she made Miss Minchin feel more angry than ever. That the very
scullery-maid should range herself on the side of this child--whom she
realized more fully than ever that 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 you'll leave your place."
Becky threw her apron over her head and fled. She ran out of the room
and down the steps into the scullery, and there she sat down among her
pots and kettles, and wept as if her heart would break.
"It's exactly like the ones in the stories," she wailed. "Them pore
princess ones that was drove into the world."
Miss Minchin had never looked quite so still and hard as she did when
Sara came to her, a few hours later, in response to 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 been swept away; the holly had been
removed from the school-room walls, and the forms and desks put back
into their places. Miss Minchin's sitting-room looked as it always
did--all traces of the feast were gone, and Miss Minchin had resumed
her usual dress. The pupils had been ordered to lay aside their party
frocks; and this having been done, they had returned to the school-room
and huddled together in groups, whispering and talking excitedly.
"Tell Sara to come to my room," Miss Minchin had said to her sister.
"And explain to her clearly that I will have no crying or unpleasant
scenes."
"Sister," replied Miss Amelia, "she is the strangest 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 seconds, and then her
chin began to shake, and she turned round and ran out of the room and
up-stairs. 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 up-stairs and locked her door. In fact, she herself scarcely
remembered anything but that she walked up and down, saying over and
over again 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 watching 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 Minchin's sitting-room in answer to 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 school-room. She looked instead a strange,
desolate, almost grotesque little figure.
She had put on, without Mariette's help, the cast-aside black-velvet
frock. It was too short and tight, and her slender legs looked long and
thin, showing themselves from beneath the brief skirt. As she had not
found a piece of black ribbon, her short, thick, black hair tumbled
loosely about her face and contrasted 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 Minchin. "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 Minchin feel secretly uncomfortable, and she
did so now. She did not speak with rudeness so much as with a cold
steadiness with which Miss Minchin 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 Minchin 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 Minchin, her temper rising at the
recollection of what all this meant. "It appears that you have no
relations and no home, and no one to 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 Minchin, sharply. "Are you so
stupid that you cannot understand? I tell you that you are quite alone
in the world, and have no one to do anything for you, unless I choose to
keep you here out of charity."
"I understand," answered Sara, in a low tone; and there was a sound as
if she had gulped down something which rose in her throat. "I
understand."
"That doll," cried Miss Minchin, 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 Minchin. "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 Minchin might
almost have had more patience with her. She was a woman who liked to
domineer and feel her power, and as she looked at Sara's pale little
steadfast face and heard her proud little voice, she quite felt as if
her might was being set at naught.
"Don't 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 plainest 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 child's eyes--a
shade of relief.
"Can I work?" she said. "If I can work it will not matter so much. What
can I do?"
"You can 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 can help with the younger
children."
"May I?" exclaimed Sara. "Oh, please let me! I know I can teach them. I
like them, and they like me."
"Don't talk nonsense about people liking you," said Miss Minchin. "You
will have to do more than teach the little ones. You will run errands
and help in the kitchen as well as in the school-room. If you don't
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 strange things. Then she turned to leave the
room.
"Stop!" said Miss Minchin. "Don't you intend to thank me?"
Sara paused, and all the deep, strange thoughts surged up in her breast.
"What for?" she said.
"For my kindness to you," replied Miss Minchin. "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, unchildishly 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 Minchin
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 on the tiger-skin, with her
cheek upon the great cat's 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 understood. She realized that this was the
beginning of the change Miss Minchin had spoken of.
"Where is my room?" she asked, hoping very much that her voice did not
shake.
"You are to sleep in the attic next 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 behind her the 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 opened it, her heart gave a dreary
little thump. Then she shut the door and stood against it and looked
about her.
[Illustration: She seldom cried. She did not cry now.]
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 iron bedstead, and a hard bed covered with a
faded coverlet. Some pieces of furniture too much worn to be used
down-stairs had been sent up. Under the 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 cry now. 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 silence there came a low tap at the door--such a
low, humble one that 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 Becky's face, and Becky had been
crying furtively for hours and rubbing her eyes with her kitchen apron
until she looked strange indeed.
"Oh, miss," she said under her breath. "Might I--would you allow
me--jest to come 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 Becky's streaming eyes--her face looked more like a
child's 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. There's no
difference now. I'm not a princess any more."
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.
"Whats'ever 'appens to you--whats'ever--you'd be a princess all the
same--an' nothin' couldn't make you nothin' different."