THE VISITOR
Imagine, if you can, what the rest of the evening was like. How they
crouched by the fire which blazed and leaped and made so much of itself
in the little 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 Becky's tea-cup, and the tea was so delicious that
it was not necessary to pretend that it was anything else but tea. They
were warm and full-fed and happy, and it was just like Sara that, having
found her strange 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 don't know any one in the world who could have done it," she
said; "but there has been some one. And here we are sitting by their
fire--and--and--it's _true_! And whoever it is--wherever they are--I
have a friend, Becky--some one is my friend."
It cannot be denied that as they sat before the blazing fire, and ate
the nourishing, comfortable food, they felt a kind of rapturous awe, and
looked into each other's eyes with something like doubt.
"Do you think," Becky faltered once, in a whisper--"do you think it
could melt away, miss? Hadn't we better be quick?" And she hastily
crammed her sandwich into her mouth. If it was only a dream, kitchen
manners would be overlooked.
"No, it won't melt away," said Sara. "I am _eating_ this muffin, and I
can taste it. You never really eat things in dreams. You only think you
are going to eat them. Besides, I keep giving myself pinches; and I
touched a hot piece of coal just now, on purpose."
The sleepy comfort 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 blankets enough to share with Becky. The narrow couch in
the next attic was more comfortable that night than its occupant had
ever dreamed that it could be.
As she went out of the room, Becky turned upon the threshold and looked
about her with devouring eyes.
"If it ain't here in the mornin', miss," she said, "it's been here
to-night, anyways, an' I sha'n't never forget it." She looked at
each particular thing, as if to commit it to memory. "The fire was
_there_," pointing with her finger, "an' the table 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, an' everythin'
looked beautiful; an'"--she paused a second, and laid her hand on her
stomach tenderly--"there _was_ soup an' sandwiches an' muffins--there
_was_." And, with this conviction 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 morning 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 once. The servants knew
that she was allowed to stay because Miss Minchin 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 school-room knew
that if Miss Minchin did not send Sara away it was for practical reasons
of her own.
"She's growing so fast and learning such a lot, somehow," said Jessie to
Lavinia, "that she will be given classes soon, and Miss Minchin 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. She's such a baby she didn't know she was
telling me. There was nothing nasty at all in speaking to Miss Minchin.
I felt it my duty"--priggishly. "She was being deceitful. And it's
ridiculous that she should look so grand, and be made so much of, in her
rags and tatters!"
"What were they doing when Miss Minchin 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 it's rather vulgar of her to share with servant-girls
in attics. I wonder Miss Minchin didn't 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. "She'll look rather queer when she
comes into the school-room this morning, I should think--after what's
happened. She had no dinner yesterday, and she's not to have any
to-day."
Jessie was not as ill-natured as she was silly. She picked up her book
with a little jerk.
"Well, I think it's horrid," she said. "They've no right to starve her
to death."
When Sara went into the kitchen that morning the cook looked askance at
her, and so did the housemaids; but she passed them hurriedly. She had,
in fact, overslept herself a little, and as Becky had done the same,
neither had had time to see the other, and each had come down-stairs in
haste.
Sara went into the scullery. Becky was violently scrubbing a kettle, and
was actually gurgling a little song in her throat. She looked up with a
wildly elated face.
"It was there when I wakened, miss--the blanket," 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 kitchen.
Miss Minchin had expected to see in Sara, when she appeared in the
school-room, very much what Lavinia had expected to see. Sara had always
been an annoying puzzle to her, because severity never made her cry
or look frightened. When she was scolded she stood still and listened
politely with a grave face; when she was punished she performed her
extra tasks or went without her meals, making no complaint or outward
sign of rebellion. The very fact that she never made an impudent
answer seemed to Miss Minchin a kind of impudence in itself. But after
yesterday's deprivation of meals, the violent scene of last night, the
prospect of hunger to-day, she must surely have broken down. It would
be strange indeed if she did not come down-stairs with pale cheeks and
red eyes and an unhappy, humbled face.
Miss Minchin saw her for the first time when she entered the school-room
to hear the little French class its lessons and superintend its
exercises. And she came in with a springing step, color in her cheeks,
and a smile hovering about the corners of her mouth. It was the most
astonishing thing Miss Minchin 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 once to 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 gone to sleep in the midst of a fairy story, and has wakened to
find it real, one cannot be unhappy or even look as if one were; and one
could not, if one tried, keep a glow of joy out of one's eyes. Miss
Minchin was almost struck dumb by the look of Sara's eyes when she
lifted them and made her perfectly respectful answer.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Minchin," she said; "I know that I am in
disgrace."
"Be good enough not to forget it and look as if you had come into a
fortune. It is an impertinence. And remember you are to have no food
to-day."
"Yes, Miss Minchin," 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 can't be very hungry," whispered Lavinia. "Just look at her.
Perhaps she is pretending she has had a good breakfast"--with a spiteful
laugh.
"She's different from other people," said Jessie, watching Sara with her
class. "Sometimes I'm a bit frightened of her."
"Ridiculous thing!" ejaculated Lavinia.
All through the day the light was in Sara's face, and the color in her
cheek. The servants cast puzzled glances at her, and whispered to
each other, and Miss Amelia's small blue eyes wore an expression of
bewilderment. What such an audacious look of well-being, under august
displeasure, could mean she could not understand. It was, however, just
like Sara's singular obstinate way. She was probably determined to brave
the matter out.
One thing 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 Minchin 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 suspicion.
Ermengarde and Lottie would be watched with such strictness 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--"what_ever_
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 can even
thank him--I shall never feel quite so lonely. Oh, the Magic was _good_
to me!"
If it was possible 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 done, the cook was more irritable, and, knowing that Sara
was in disgrace, she was more savage. But what does anything matter when
one's Magic has just proved itself one's friend. Sara's supper of the
night before had given her strength, she knew that 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 to her again. It
was quite late when she was at last allowed to go up-stairs. She had
been told to go into the school-room and study until ten o'clock, and
she had become interested 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 confessed 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 been lent to me for just that one awful
night. But it _was_ lent to me--I had it. It was real."
She pushed the door open and went in. Once inside, 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 new things 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 of bright, heavy, strange embroidery covered the
battered mantel, and on it some ornaments had been placed. All the bare,
ugly things which could be covered with draperies had been concealed 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 come true," she said. "There isn't
the least difference. I feel as if I might wish for anything--diamonds
or bags of gold--and they would appear! _That_ wouldn't be any stranger
than 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 one thing I always wanted was to see a fairy story come 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 next cell,
and the prisoner came.
When she entered she almost dropped in a heap upon the floor. For a few
seconds she quite lost her breath.
"Oh, laws!" she gasped, "Oh, laws, miss!" just as she had done in the
scullery.
"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 new thick mattress and
big downy pillows. Her old mattress and pillow had been removed to
Becky's bedstead, and, consequently, with these additions Becky had been
supplied with unheard-of comfort.
"Where does it all come from?" Becky broke forth once. "Laws! who does
it, miss?"
"Don't let 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
continued. Almost every day something new was done. Some new comfort or
ornament appeared each time Sara opened the 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 book-shelf was hung up and filled with books, new comforts
and conveniences appeared one by one, until there seemed nothing left to
be desired. When Sara went down-stairs in the morning, the remains of
the supper were on the table; and when she returned to the attic in the
evening, the magician had removed them and left another nice little
meal. Miss Minchin 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 to Ermengarde and Lottie; Lavinia sneered
at the increasing shabbiness of her clothes; and the other girls stared
curiously at her when she appeared in the school-room. But what did it
all matter while she was living in this wonderful mysterious story? It
was more romantic and delightful than anything she had ever invented to
comfort 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 comfort and happiness she enjoyed were making her stronger, 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
opened the attic door, and wondering 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 Minchin 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 Minchin, 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 Minchin, with haughty vagueness.
"What--sort of thing?" Miss Amelia ventured.
"It might almost be called defiance," answered Miss Minchin, feeling
annoyed because she knew the thing she resented was nothing like
defiance, and she did not know what other unpleasant term to use. "The
spirit and will of any other child would have been entirely humbled and
broken by--by the changes 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 school-room about what you would do if you found out
that she was--"
"No, I don't," said Miss Minchin. "Don't 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-covering,
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
comforted 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 and left 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 took them in. She laid the
two largest parcels on the hall table, and was looking at the address,
when Miss Minchin came down the stairs and saw her.
"Take the things to the young lady to whom they belong," she said
severely. "Don't stand there staring at them."
"They belong to me," answered Sara, quietly.
"To you?" exclaimed Miss Minchin. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know where they come from," said Sara, "but they are addressed
to me. I sleep in the right-hand attic. Becky has the other one."
Miss Minchin came to her side and looked at the parcels with an excited
expression.
"What is in them?" she demanded.
"I don't know," replied Sara.
"Open them," she ordered.
Sara did as she was told. When the packages were unfolded Miss
Minchin's countenance wore suddenly a singular expression. What she saw
was pretty and comfortable clothing--clothing of different kinds: shoes,
stockings, and gloves, and a warm and beautiful coat. There were even a
nice hat and an umbrella. They were all good and expensive things, and
on the pocket of the coat was pinned a paper, on which were written
these words: "To be worn every day.--Will be replaced by others when
necessary."
Miss Minchin was quite agitated. This was an incident which suggested
strange things to her sordid mind. Could it be that she had made a
mistake, after all, and that the neglected child had some powerful
though eccentric friend in the background--perhaps some previously
unknown relation, 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 children near them. A man of that sort might prefer to
overlook his young relation's 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
scant food, and the hard work. She felt very queer indeed, and very
uncertain, and she gave a side glance at Sara.
"Well," she said, in a voice such as she had never used since the little
girl lost her father, "some one is very kind to you. As the things have
been sent, 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 come down-stairs and learn your lessons in the school-room. You
need not go out on any more errands to-day."
About half an hour afterward, when the school-room door opened and Sara
walked in, the entire seminary was struck dumb with amazement.
"My word!" ejaculated Jessie, jogging Lavinia's 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, since the days when she had
been a princess, Sara had never looked as she did now. She did not seem
the Sara they had seen come down the back stairs a few hours ago. She
was dressed in the kind of frock Lavinia had been used to envying her
the possession of. It was deep and warm in color, and beautifully 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 some one has left her a fortune," Jessie whispered. "I always
thought something would happen to her. She is so queer."
"Perhaps the diamond-mines have suddenly appeared again," said Lavinia,
scathingly. "Don't please her by staring at her in that way, you silly
thing."
"Sara," broke in Miss Minchin's deep voice, "come and sit here."
And while the whole school-room stared and pushed with elbows, and
scarcely made any effort to conceal its excited curiosity, Sara went to
her old seat of honor, and bent 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 your head, miss?" Becky inquired with
respectful softness. When Sara sat in silence and looked into the coals
with dreaming eyes it generally meant that she was making a new story.
But this time she was not, and she shook her head.
"No," she answered. "I am wondering what I ought to do."
Becky stared--still respectfully. She was filled with something
approaching reverence for everything Sara did and said.
"I can'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 how happy he
has made me. Any one 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 corner. 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 and went to the corner and brought the case back to the fire.
"I can write to him," she said joyfully, "and leave it on the table.
Then perhaps the person who takes the things away will take it, too. I
won't ask him anything. He won't mind my thanking him, I feel sure."
So she wrote a note. This is what she said:
"I hope you will not think it is impolite that I should write this
note to 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 IN THE ATTIC."
The next morning she left this on the little table, and in the evening
it had been taken away with the other things; so she knew the Magician
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, when her attention 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.
"Something's there, miss," she whispered.
"Yes," said Sara, slowly. "It sounds--rather like a cat--trying to get
in."
She left her chair and went to the skylight. It was a queer little sound
she heard--like a soft scratching. She suddenly remembered something and
laughed. She remembered a quaint little intruder who had made his way
into the attic once before. She had seen him that very afternoon,
sitting disconsolately on a table before a window in the Indian
gentleman's house.
"Suppose," she whispered in pleased excitement--"just suppose it was the
monkey who had 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 wrinkled
itself piteously at sight of her.
"It _is_ the monkey," she cried out. "He has crept out of the Lascar's
attic, and he saw the light."
Becky ran to her side.
"Are you going to let him in, miss?" she said.
"Yes," Sara answered joyfully. "It's too cold for monkeys to be out.
They're delicate. I'll 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 and lovingly understood their timid wildness.
"Come along, monkey darling," she said. "I won't hurt you."
He knew she would not hurt him. He knew it before she laid her soft,
caressing little paw on him and drew him toward 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 took friendly hold of a piece of her
hair, looking up into her face.
"Nice monkey! Nice monkey!" she crooned, kissing his funny head. "Oh, I
do love little animal things."
[Illustration: She sat down and held him on her knee.]
He was evidently glad to get to the fire, and when she sat down and held
him on her knee he looked from her to Becky with mingled interest and
appreciation.
"He _is_ plain-looking, miss, ain't he?" said Becky.
"He looks like a very ugly baby," laughed Sara. "I beg your pardon,
monkey; but I'm glad you are not a baby. Your mother _couldn't_ 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 back in her chair and reflected.
"Perhaps he's sorry he's so ugly," she said, "and it's 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 to-night, and then take him back to the
Indian gentleman to-morrow. I am sorry to take you back, monkey; but you
must go. You ought to be fondest of your own family; and I'm not a
_real_ relation."
And when she went to bed she made him a nest at her feet, and he curled
up and slept there as if he were a baby and much pleased with his
quarters.