"ANNE"
Never had such joy reigned in the nursery of the Large Family. Never had
they dreamed of such delights as resulted from an intimate acquaintance
with the little-girl-who-was-not-a-beggar. The mere fact of her
sufferings and adventures made her a priceless possession. Everybody
wanted to be told over and over again the things which had happened to
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 coldness
and bareness quite sank into insignificance when Melchisedec was
remembered, and one heard about the sparrows and things one could see if
one climbed on the table and stuck one's head and shoulders out of the
skylight.
Of course the thing loved best was the story of the banquet 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 Indian gentleman 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 won't you tell your part of it, Uncle
Tom?" He had asked her to call him always "Uncle Tom." "I don't know
your part yet, and it must be beautiful."
So he told them how, when he sat 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 oftener than any one else; he had begun to be
interested 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 incident of his visit to the attic in chase of the monkey. He had
described its cheerless look, and the bearing 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 concerning the
wretchedness 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. When she returned, wet and
cold, to find it blazing, she would think a magician had done it."
The idea had been so fanciful that Mr. Carrisford's sad face had lighted
with a smile, and Ram Dass had been so filled with rapture that he had
enlarged upon it and explained to his master how simple it would be to
accomplish numbers of other things. He had shown a childlike pleasure
and invention, and the preparations for the carrying out of the plan
had filled many a day with interest which would otherwise have dragged
wearily. On the night of the frustrated banquet Ram Dass had kept watch,
all his packages being in readiness in the attic which was his own; and
the person who was to help him had waited with him, as interested as
himself in the odd adventure. Ram Dass had been lying flat upon the
slates, looking in at the skylight, when the banquet had come to its
disastrous conclusion; he had been sure of the profoundness of Sara's
wearied sleep; and then, with a dark lantern, he had crept into the
room, while his companion had 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
exciting 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 Indian gentleman had never
had a companion he liked quite as much as he liked Sara. In a month's
time he was, as Mr. Carmichael had prophesied he would be, a new man.
He was always amused and interested, and he began to find an actual
pleasure in the possession of the wealth he had imagined that he loathed
the burden of. There were so many charming things to plan for Sara.
There was a little joke between them that he was a magician, and it
was one of his pleasures to invent things to surprise her. She found
beautiful new flowers growing 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 in raised letters.
"I am Boris," it read; "I serve the Princess Sara."
There was nothing the Indian gentleman loved more than the recollection
of the little princess in rags and tatters. The afternoons in which the
Large Family, or Ermengarde and Lottie, gathered to rejoice together
were very delightful. But the hours when Sara and the Indian gentleman
sat alone and read or talked had a special charm of their own. During
their passing many interesting things occurred.
[Illustration: Noticed that his companion ... sat gazing into the fire.]
One evening, Mr. Carrisford, looking up from his book, noticed that his
companion 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 Indian gentleman,
with rather a sad tone in his voice. "Which hungry day was it?"
"I forgot you didn't know," said Sara. "It was the day the dream came
true."
Then she told him the story of the bun-shop, and the fourpence she
picked up out of the sloppy mud, and the child who was hungrier than
herself. She told it quite simply, and in as few words as possible; but
somehow the Indian gentleman 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 wondering," rather hesitated Sara--"you know, you say I have so
much money--I was wondering if I could go to see the bun-woman, and
tell her that if, when hungry children--particularly on those dreadful
days--come and sit on the steps, 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 to-morrow morning," said the Indian gentleman.
"Thank you," said Sara. "You see, I know what it is to be hungry, and it
is very hard when one cannot even _pretend_ it away."
"Yes, yes, my dear," said the Indian gentleman. "Yes, yes, it must be.
Try to forget it. Come and sit on this footstool near my knee, and only
remember you are a princess."
"Yes," said Sara, smiling; "and I can give buns and bread to the
populace." And she went and sat on the stool, and the Indian gentleman
(he used to like her to call him that, too, sometimes) drew her small
dark head down upon his knee and stroked her hair.
The next morning, Miss Minchin, in looking out of her window, saw the
thing she perhaps least enjoyed seeing. The Indian gentleman's carriage,
with its tall horses, drew up before the door of the next house, and its
owner and a little figure, warm with soft, rich furs, descended the
steps to get into it. The little figure was a familiar one, and reminded
Miss Minchin 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 accompanied her
young mistress to her carriage, carrying wraps and belongings. Already
Becky had a pink, round face.
A little later the carriage drew up before the door of the baker's shop,
and its occupants got out, oddly enough, just as the bun-woman was
putting a tray of smoking-hot buns into the window.
When Sara entered the shop the woman turned and looked at her, and,
leaving the buns, came and stood behind the counter. For a moment she
looked at Sara very hard indeed, and then her good-natured face lighted
up.
"I'm sure that I remember you, miss," she said. "And yet--"
"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. "I've always remembered it. I couldn't make it out at first." She
turned round to the Indian gentleman and spoke her next words to him. "I
beg your pardon, sir, but there's not many young people that notices a
hungry face in that way; and I've 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
come to ask you to do something for me."
"Me, miss!" exclaimed the bun-woman, smiling cheerfully. "Why, bless
you! yes, miss. What can I do?"
And then Sara, leaning on the counter, made her little proposal
concerning the dreadful days and the hungry waifs and the hot buns.
The woman watched her, and listened with an astonished face.
"Why, bless me!" she said again when she had heard it all; "it'll be a
pleasure to me to do it. I am a working-woman myself and cannot afford
to do much on my own account, and there's sights of trouble on every
side; but, if you'll excuse me, I'm bound to say I've given away many
a bit of bread since that wet afternoon, just along o' thinking of
you--an' how wet an' cold you was, an' how hungry you looked; an' yet
you gave away your hot buns as if you was a princess."
The Indian gentleman smiled involuntarily at this, and Sara smiled a
little, too, remembering what she had said to herself when she put the
buns down on the ravenous child's ragged lap.
"She looked so hungry," she said. "She was even hungrier than I was."
"She was starving," said the woman. "Many's the time she's told me of it
since--how she sat there in the wet, and felt as if a wolf was a-tearing
at her poor young insides."
"Oh, have you seen her since then?" exclaimed Sara. "Do you know where
she is?"
"Yes, I do," answered the woman, smiling more good-naturedly than ever.
"Why, she's in that there back room, miss, an' has been for a month; an'
a decent, well-meanin' girl she's goin' to turn out, an' such a help to
me in the shop an' in the kitchen as you'd scarce believe, knowin' how
she's lived."
She stepped to the door of the little back parlor and spoke; and the
next minute a girl came out and followed her behind the counter. And
actually it was the beggar-child, clean and neatly clothed, and looking
as if she had not been hungry for a long time. She looked shy, but she
had a nice face, now 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 come when she was hungry, and
when she'd come I'd 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, I've
given her a place an' a home, and she helps me, an' behaves well, an' is
as thankful as a girl can be. Her name's 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 counter,
and Anne took it, and they looked straight into each other's eyes.
"I am so glad," Sara said. "And I have just thought of something.
Perhaps Mrs. Brown will let you be the one to 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 understood 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 Indian gentleman, and they got into the
carriage and drove away.
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Transcriber's notes: Spaces have been removed from contractions like
"she 's" and "you 'd". Original spelling and hyphenation have been
preserved. The illustrations have been moved slightly for reader
convenience.
End of Project Gutenberg's A Little Princess, by Frances Hodgson Burnett