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 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 anyone in the world who could have done it," she said;
"but there has been someone. 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--someone 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
tonight, anyways, an' I shan'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 schoolroom
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 schoolroom this morning, I should think--after what's
happened. She had no dinner yesterday, and she's 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 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 downstairs 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
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
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 today, she must surely have broken down. It would
be strange indeed if she did not come downstairs with pale cheeks and
red eyes and an unhappy, humbled face.
Miss Minchin saw her for the first time when she entered 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 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 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
today."
"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--"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 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 upstairs. She had been told to go into the schoolroom 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!"
"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 bookshelf 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 downstairs 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
schoolroom. 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 schoolroom 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 take 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, "someone 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 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 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 someone has left her a fortune," Jessie whispered. "I always
thought something would happen to her. She's 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 schoolroom 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. 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 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!