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 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.
"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 towards 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 looked up into her face.
"Nice monkey! Nice monkey!" she crooned, kissing his funny head. "Oh,
I do love little animal things."
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 tonight, and then take him back to the
Indian gentleman tomorrow. 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.
17
"It Is the Child!"
The next afternoon three members of the Large Family sat in the Indian
gentleman's library, doing their best to cheer him up. They had been
allowed to come in to perform this office because he had specially
invited them. He had been living in a state of suspense for some time,
and today he was waiting for a certain event very anxiously. This
event was the return of Mr. Carmichael from Moscow. His stay there had
been prolonged from week to week. On his first arrival there, he had
not been able satisfactorily to trace the family he had gone in search
of. When he felt at last sure that he had found them and had gone to
their house, he had been told that they were absent on a journey. His
efforts to reach them had been unavailing, so he had decided to remain
in Moscow until their return. Mr. Carrisford sat in his reclining
chair, and Janet sat on the floor beside him. He was very fond of
Janet. Nora had found a footstool, and Donald was astride the tiger's
head which ornamented the rug made of the animal's skin. It must be
owned that he was riding it rather violently.
"Don't chirrup so loud, Donald," Janet said. "When you come to cheer
an ill person up you don't cheer him up at the top of your voice.
Perhaps cheering up is too loud, Mr. Carrisford?" turning to the Indian
gentleman.
But he only patted her shoulder.
"No, it isn't," he answered. "And it keeps me from thinking too much."
"I'm going to be quiet," Donald shouted. "We'll all be as quiet as
mice."
"Mice don't make a noise like that," said Janet.
Donald made a bridle of his handkerchief and bounced up and down on the
tiger's head.
"A whole lot of mice might," he said cheerfully. "A thousand mice
might."
"I don't believe fifty thousand mice would," said Janet, severely; "and
we have to be as quiet as one mouse."
Mr. Carrisford laughed and patted her shoulder again.
"Papa won't be very long now," she said. "May we talk about the lost
little girl?"
"I don't think I could talk much about anything else just now," the
Indian gentleman answered, knitting his forehead with a tired look.
"We like her so much," said Nora. "We call her the little un-fairy
princess."
"Why?" the Indian gentleman inquired, because the fancies of the Large
Family always made him forget things a little.
It was Janet who answered.
"It is because, though she is not exactly a fairy, she will be so rich
when she is found that she will be like a princess in a fairy tale. We
called her the fairy princess at first, but it didn't quite suit."
"Is it true," said Nora, "that her papa gave all his money to a friend
to put in a mine that had diamonds in it, and then the friend thought
he had lost it all and ran away because he felt as if he was a robber?"
"But he wasn't really, you know," put in Janet, hastily.
The Indian gentleman took hold of her hand quickly.
"No, he wasn't really," he said.
"I am sorry for the friend," Janet said; "I can't help it. He didn't
mean to do it, and it would break his heart. I am sure it would break
his heart."
"You are an understanding little woman, Janet," the Indian gentleman
said, and he held her hand close.
"Did you tell Mr. Carrisford," Donald shouted again, "about the
little-girl-who-isn't-a-beggar? Did you tell him she has new nice
clothes? P'r'aps she's been found by somebody when she was lost."
"There's a cab!" exclaimed Janet. "It's stopping before the door. It
is papa!"
They all ran to the windows to look out.
"Yes, it's papa," Donald proclaimed. "But there is no little girl."
All three of them incontinently fled from the room and tumbled into the
hall. It was in this way they always welcomed their father. They were
to be heard jumping up and down, clapping their hands, and being caught
up and kissed.
Mr. Carrisford made an effort to rise and sank back again.
"It is no use," he said. "What a wreck I am!"
Mr. Carmichael's voice approached the door.
"No, children," he was saying; "you may come in after I have talked to
Mr. Carrisford. Go and play with Ram Dass."
Then the door opened and he came in. He looked rosier than ever, and
brought an atmosphere of freshness and health with him; but his eyes
were disappointed and anxious as they met the invalid's look of eager
question even as they grasped each other's hands.
"What news?" Mr. Carrisford asked. "The child the Russian people
adopted?"
"She is not the child we are looking for," was Mr. Carmichael's answer.
"She is much younger than Captain Crewe's little girl. Her name is
Emily Carew. I have seen and talked to her. The Russians were able to
give me every detail."
How wearied and miserable the Indian gentleman looked! His hand
dropped from Mr. Carmichael's.
"Then the search has to be begun over again," he said. "That is all.
Please sit down."
Mr. Carmichael took a seat. Somehow, he had gradually grown fond of
this unhappy man. He was himself so well and happy, and so surrounded
by cheerfulness and love, that desolation and broken health seemed
pitifully unbearable things. If there had been the sound of just one
gay little high-pitched voice in the house, it would have been so much
less forlorn. And that a man should be compelled to carry about in his
breast the thought that he had seemed to wrong and desert a child was
not a thing one could face.
"Come, come," he said in his cheery voice; "we'll find her yet."
"We must begin at once. No time must be lost," Mr. Carrisford fretted.
"Have you any new suggestion to make--any whatsoever?"
Mr. Carmichael felt rather restless, and he rose and began to pace the
room with a thoughtful, though uncertain face.
"Well, perhaps," he said. "I don't know what it may be worth. The
fact is, an idea occurred to me as I was thinking the thing over in the
train on the journey from Dover."
"What was it? If she is alive, she is somewhere."
"Yes; she is SOMEWHERE. We have searched the schools in Paris. Let us
give up Paris and begin in London. That was my idea--to search London."
"There are schools enough in London," said Mr. Carrisford. Then he
slightly started, roused by a recollection. "By the way, there is one
next door."
"Then we will begin there. We cannot begin nearer than next door."
"No," said Carrisford. "There is a child there who interests me; but
she is not a pupil. And she is a little dark, forlorn creature, as
unlike poor Crewe as a child could be."
Perhaps the Magic was at work again at that very moment--the beautiful
Magic. It really seemed as if it might be so. What was it that brought
Ram Dass into the room--even as his master spoke--salaaming
respectfully, but with a scarcely concealed touch of excitement in his
dark, flashing eyes?
"Sahib," he said, "the child herself has come--the child the sahib felt
pity for. She brings back the monkey who had again run away to her
attic under the roof. I have asked that she remain. It was my thought
that it would please the sahib to see and speak with her."
"Who is she?" inquired Mr. Carmichael.
"God knows," Mr. Carrrisford answered. "She is the child I spoke of. A
little drudge at the school." He waved his hand to Ram Dass, and
addressed him. "Yes, I should like to see her. Go and bring her in."
Then he turned to Mr. Carmichael. "While you have been away," he
explained, "I have been desperate. The days were so dark and long. Ram
Dass told me of this child's miseries, and together we invented a
romantic plan to help her. I suppose it was a childish thing to do;
but it gave me something to plan and think of. Without the help of an
agile, soft-footed Oriental like Ram Dass, however, it could not have
been done."
Then Sara came into the room. She carried the monkey in her arms, and
he evidently did not intend to part from her, if it could be helped.
He was clinging to her and chattering, and the interesting excitement
of finding herself in the Indian gentleman's room had brought a flush
to Sara's cheeks.
"Your monkey ran away again," she said, in her pretty voice. "He came
to my garret window last night, and I took him in because it was so
cold. I would have brought him back if it had not been so late. I knew
you were ill and might not like to be disturbed."
The Indian gentleman's hollow eyes dwelt on her with curious interest.
"That was very thoughtful of you," he said.
Sara looked toward Ram Dass, who stood near the door.
"Shall I give him to the Lascar?" she asked.
"How do you know he is a Lascar?" said the Indian gentleman, smiling a
little.
"Oh, I know Lascars," Sara said, handing over the reluctant monkey. "I
was born in India."
The Indian gentleman sat upright so suddenly, and with such a change of
expression, that she was for a moment quite startled.
"You were born in India," he exclaimed, "were you? Come here." And he
held out his hand.
Sara went to him and laid her hand in his, as he seemed to want to take
it. She stood still, and her green-gray eyes met his wonderingly.
Something seemed to be the matter with him.
"You live next door?" he demanded.
"Yes; I live at Miss Minchin's seminary."
"But you are not one of her pupils?"
A strange little smile hovered about Sara's mouth. She hesitated a
moment.
"I don't think I know exactly WHAT I am," she replied.
"Why not?"
"At first I was a pupil, and a parlor boarder; but now--"
"You were a pupil! What are you now?"
The queer little sad smile was on Sara's lips again.
"I sleep in the attic, next to the scullery maid," she said. "I run
errands for the cook--I do anything she tells me; and I teach the
little ones their lessons."
"Question her, Carmichael," said Mr. Carrisford, sinking back as if he
had lost his strength. "Question her; I cannot."
The big, kind father of the Large Family knew how to question little
girls. Sara realized how much practice he had had when he spoke to her
in his nice, encouraging voice.
"What do you mean by 'At first,' my child?" he inquired.
"When I was first taken there by my papa."
"Where is your papa?"
"He died," said Sara, very quietly. "He lost all his money and there
was none left for me. There was no one to take care of me or to pay
Miss Minchin."
"Carmichael!" the Indian gentleman cried out loudly. "Carmichael!"
"We must not frighten her," Mr. Carmichael said aside to him in a
quick, low voice. And he added aloud to Sara, "So you were sent up
into the attic, and made into a little drudge. That was about it,
wasn't it?"
"There was no one to take care of me," said Sara. "There was no money;
I belong to nobody."
"How did your father lose his money?" the Indian gentleman broke in
breathlessly.
"He did not lose it himself," Sara answered, wondering still more each
moment. "He had a friend he was very fond of--he was very fond of him.
It was his friend who took his money. He trusted his friend too much."
The Indian gentleman's breath came more quickly.
"The friend might have MEANT to do no harm," he said. "It might have
happened through a mistake."
Sara did not know how unrelenting her quiet young voice sounded as she
answered. If she had known, she would surely have tried to soften it
for the Indian gentleman's sake.
"The suffering was just as bad for my papa," she said. "It killed him."
"What was your father's name?" the Indian gentleman said. "Tell me."
"His name was Ralph Crewe," Sara answered, feeling startled. "Captain
Crewe. He died in India."
The haggard face contracted, and Ram Dass sprang to his master's side.
"Carmichael," the invalid gasped, "it is the child--the child!"
For a moment Sara thought he was going to die. Ram Dass poured out
drops from a bottle, and held them to his lips. Sara stood near,
trembling a little. She looked in a bewildered way at Mr. Carmichael.
"What child am I?" she faltered.
"He was your father's friend," Mr. Carmichael answered her. "Don't be
frightened. We have been looking for you for two years."
Sara put her hand up to her forehead, and her mouth trembled. She
spoke as if she were in a dream.
"And I was at Miss Minchin's all the while," she half whispered. "Just
on the other side of the wall."
18
"I Tried Not to Be"
It was pretty, comfortable Mrs. Carmichael who explained everything.
She was sent for at once, and came across the square to take Sara into
her warm arms and make clear to her all that had happened. The
excitement of the totally unexpected discovery had been temporarily
almost overpowering to Mr. Carrisford in his weak condition.
"Upon my word," he said faintly to Mr. Carmichael, when it was
suggested that the little girl should go into another room. "I feel as
if I do not want to lose sight of her."
"I will take care of her," Janet said, "and mamma will come in a few
minutes." And it was Janet who led her away.
"We're so glad you are found," she said. "You don't know how glad we
are that you are found."
Donald stood with his hands in his pockets, and gazed at Sara with
reflecting and self-reproachful eyes.
"If I'd just asked what your name was when I gave you my sixpence," he
said, "you would have told me it was Sara Crewe, and then you would
have been found in a minute." Then Mrs. Carmichael came in. She looked
very much moved, and suddenly took Sara in her arms and kissed her.
"You look bewildered, poor child," she said. "And it is not to be
wondered at."
Sara could only think of one thing.
"Was he," she said, with a glance toward the closed door of the
library--"was HE the wicked friend? Oh, do tell me!"
Mrs. Carmichael was crying as she kissed her again. She felt as if she
ought to be kissed very often because she had not been kissed for so
long.
"He was not wicked, my dear," she answered. "He did not really lose
your papa's money. He only thought he had lost it; and because he
loved him so much his grief made him so ill that for a time he was not
in his right mind. He almost died of brain fever, and long before he
began to recover your poor papa was dead."
"And he did not know where to find me," murmured Sara. "And I was so
near." Somehow, she could not forget that she had been so near.
"He believed you were in school in France," Mrs. Carmichael explained.
"And he was continually misled by false clues. He has looked for you
everywhere. When he saw you pass by, looking so sad and neglected, he
did not dream that you were his friend's poor child; but because you
were a little girl, too, he was sorry for you, and wanted to make you
happier. And he told Ram Dass to climb into your attic window and try
to make you comfortable."
Sara gave a start of joy; her whole look changed.
"Did Ram Dass bring the things?" she cried out. "Did he tell Ram Dass
to do it? Did he make the dream that came true?"
"Yes, my dear--yes! He is kind and good, and he was sorry for you, for
little lost Sara Crewe's sake."
The library door opened and Mr. Carmichael appeared, calling Sara to
him with a gesture.
"Mr. Carrisford is better already," he said. "He wants you to come to
him."
Sara did not wait. When the Indian gentleman looked at her as she
entered, he saw that her face was all alight.
She went and stood before his chair, with her hands clasped together
against her breast.
"You sent the things to me," she said, in a joyful emotional little
voice, "the beautiful, beautiful things? YOU sent them!"
"Yes, poor, dear child, I did," he answered her. He was weak and
broken with long illness and trouble, but he looked at her with the
look she remembered in her father's eyes--that look of loving her and
wanting to take her in his arms. It made her kneel down by him, just
as she used to kneel by her father when they were the dearest friends
and lovers in the world.
"Then it is you who are my friend," she said; "it is you who are my
friend!" And she dropped her face on his thin hand and kissed it again
and again.
"The man will be himself again in three weeks," Mr. Carmichael said
aside to his wife. "Look at his face already."
In fact, he did look changed. Here was the "Little Missus," and he had
new things to think of and plan for already. In the first place, there
was Miss Minchin. She must be interviewed and told of the change which
had taken place in the fortunes of her pupil.
Sara was not to return to the seminary at all. The Indian gentleman
was very determined upon that point. She must remain where she was,
and Mr. Carmichael should go and see Miss Minchin himself.
"I am glad I need not go back," said Sara. "She will be very angry.
She does not like me; though perhaps it is my fault, because I do not
like her."
But, oddly enough, Miss Minchin made it unnecessary for Mr. Carmichael
to go to her, by actually coming in search of her pupil herself. She
had wanted Sara for something, and on inquiry had heard an astonishing
thing. One of the housemaids had seen her steal out of the area with
something hidden under her cloak, and had also seen her go up the steps
of the next door and enter the house.
"What does she mean!" cried Miss Minchin to Miss Amelia.
"I don't know, I'm sure, sister," answered Miss Amelia. "Unless she
has made friends with him because he has lived in India."
"It would be just like her to thrust herself upon him and try to gain
his sympathies in some such impertinent fashion," said Miss Minchin.
"She must have been in the house for two hours. I will not allow such
presumption. I shall go and inquire into the matter, and apologize for
her intrusion."
Sara was sitting on a footstool close to Mr. Carrisford's knee, and
listening to some of the many things he felt it necessary to try to
explain to her, when Ram Dass announced the visitor's arrival.
Sara rose involuntarily, and became rather pale; but Mr. Carrisford saw
that she stood quietly, and showed none of the ordinary signs of child
terror.
Miss Minchin entered the room with a sternly dignified manner. She was
correctly and well dressed, and rigidly polite.
"I am sorry to disturb Mr. Carrisford," she said; "but I have
explanations to make. I am Miss Minchin, the proprietress of the Young
Ladies' Seminary next door."
The Indian gentleman looked at her for a moment in silent scrutiny. He
was a man who had naturally a rather hot temper, and he did not wish it
to get too much the better of him.
"So you are Miss Minchin?" he said.
"I am, sir."
"In that case," the Indian gentleman replied, "you have arrived at the
right time. My solicitor, Mr. Carmichael, was just on the point of
going to see you."
Mr. Carmichael bowed slightly, and Miss Minchin looked from him to Mr.
Carrisford in amazement.
"Your solicitor!" she said. "I do not understand. I have come here as
a matter of duty. I have just discovered that you have been intruded
upon through the forwardness of one of my pupils--a charity pupil. I
came to explain that she intruded without my knowledge." She turned
upon Sara. "Go home at once," she commanded indignantly. "You shall be
severely punished. Go home at once."
The Indian gentleman drew Sara to his side and patted her hand.
"She is not going."
Miss Minchin felt rather as if she must be losing her senses.
"Not going!" she repeated.
"No," said Mr. Carrisford. "She is not going home--if you give your
house that name. Her home for the future will be with me."
Miss Minchin fell back in amazed indignation.
"With YOU! With YOU sir! What does this mean?"
"Kindly explain the matter, Carmichael," said the Indian gentleman;
"and get it over as quickly as possible." And he made Sara sit down
again, and held her hands in his--which was another trick of her papa's.
Then Mr. Carmichael explained--in the quiet, level-toned, steady manner
of a man who knew his subject, and all its legal significance, which
was a thing Miss Minchin understood as a business woman, and did not
enjoy.
"Mr. Carrisford, madam," he said, "was an intimate friend of the late
Captain Crewe. He was his partner in certain large investments. The
fortune which Captain Crewe supposed he had lost has been recovered,
and is now in Mr. Carrisford's hands."
"The fortune!" cried Miss Minchin; and she really lost color as she
uttered the exclamation. "Sara's fortune!"
"It WILL be Sara's fortune," replied Mr. Carmichael, rather coldly. "It
is Sara's fortune now, in fact. Certain events have increased it
enormously. The diamond mines have retrieved themselves."
"The diamond mines!" Miss Minchin gasped out. If this was true,
nothing so horrible, she felt, had ever happened to her since she was
born.
"The diamond mines," Mr. Carmichael repeated, and he could not help
adding, with a rather sly, unlawyer-like smile, "There are not many
princesses, Miss Minchin, who are richer than your little charity
pupil, Sara Crewe, will be. Mr. Carrisford has been searching for her
for nearly two years; he has found her at last, and he will keep her."
After which he asked Miss Minchin to sit down while he explained
matters to her fully, and went into such detail as was necessary to
make it quite clear to her that Sara's future was an assured one, and
that what had seemed to be lost was to be restored to her tenfold;
also, that she had in Mr. Carrisford a guardian as well as a friend.
Miss Minchin was not a clever woman, and in her excitement she was
silly enough to make one desperate effort to regain what she could not
help seeing she had lost through her worldly folly.
"He found her under my care," she protested. "I have done everything
for her. But for me she should have starved in the streets."
Here the Indian gentleman lost his temper.
"As to starving in the streets," he said, "she might have starved more
comfortably there than in your attic."
"Captain Crewe left her in my charge," Miss Minchin argued. "She must
return to it until she is of age. She can be a parlor boarder again.
She must finish her education. The law will interfere in my behalf."
"Come, come, Miss Minchin," Mr. Carmichael interposed, "the law will do
nothing of the sort. If Sara herself wishes to return to you, I dare
say Mr. Carrisford might not refuse to allow it. But that rests with
Sara."
"Then," said Miss Minchin, "I appeal to Sara. I have not spoiled you,
perhaps," she said awkwardly to the little girl; "but you know that
your papa was pleased with your progress. And--ahem--I have always been
fond of you."
Sara's green-gray eyes fixed themselves on her with the quiet, clear
look Miss Minchin particularly disliked.
"Have YOU, Miss Minchin?" she said. "I did not know that."
Miss Minchin reddened and drew herself up.
"You ought to have known it," said she; "but children, unfortunately,
never know what is best for them. Amelia and I always said you were
the cleverest child in the school. Will you not do your duty to your
poor papa and come home with me?"
Sara took a step toward her and stood still. She was thinking of the
day when she had been told that she belonged to nobody, and was in
danger of being turned into the street; she was thinking of the cold,
hungry hours she had spent alone with Emily and Melchisedec in the
attic. She looked Miss Minchin steadily in the face.
"You know why I will not go home with you, Miss Minchin," she said;
"you know quite well."
A hot flush showed itself on Miss Minchin's hard, angry face.
"You will never see your companions again," she began. "I will see
that Ermengarde and Lottie are kept away--"
Mr. Carmichael stopped her with polite firmness.
"Excuse me," he said; "she will see anyone she wishes to see. The
parents of Miss Crewe's fellow-pupils are not likely to refuse her
invitations to visit her at her guardian's house. Mr. Carrisford will
attend to that."
It must be confessed that even Miss Minchin flinched. This was worse
than the eccentric bachelor uncle who might have a peppery temper and
be easily offended at the treatment of his niece. A woman of sordid
mind could easily believe that most people would not refuse to allow
their children to remain friends with a little heiress of diamond
mines. And if Mr. Carrisford chose to tell certain of her patrons how
unhappy Sara Crewe had been made, many unpleasant things might happen.
"You have not undertaken an easy charge," she said to the Indian
gentleman, as she turned to leave the room; "you will discover that
very soon. The child is neither truthful nor grateful. I suppose"--to
Sara--"that you feel now that you are a princess again."
Sara looked down and flushed a little, because she thought her pet
fancy might not be easy for strangers--even nice ones--to understand at
first.
"I--TRIED not to be anything else," she answered in a low voice--"even
when I was coldest and hungriest--I tried not to be."
"Now it will not be necessary to try," said Miss Minchin, acidly, as
Ram Dass salaamed her out of the room.
She returned home and, going to her sitting room, sent at once for Miss
Amelia. She sat closeted with her all the rest of the afternoon, and
it must be admitted that poor Miss Amelia passed through more than one
bad quarter of an hour. She shed a good many tears, and mopped her
eyes a good deal. One of her unfortunate remarks almost caused her
sister to snap her head entirely off, but it resulted in an unusual
manner.
"I'm not as clever as you, sister," she said, "and I am always afraid
to say things to you for fear of making you angry. Perhaps if I were
not so timid it would be better for the school and for both of us. I
must say I've often thought it would have been better if you had been
less severe on Sara Crewe, and had seen that she was decently dressed
and more comfortable. I KNOW she was worked too hard for a child of her
age, and I know she was only half fed--"
"How dare you say such a thing!" exclaimed Miss Minchin.
"I don't know how I dare," Miss Amelia answered, with a kind of
reckless courage; "but now I've begun I may as well finish, whatever
happens to me. The child was a clever child and a good child--and she
would have paid you for any kindness you had shown her. But you didn't
show her any. The fact was, she was too clever for you, and you always
disliked her for that reason. She used to see through us both--"
"Amelia!" gasped her infuriated elder, looking as if she would box her
ears and knock her cap off, as she had often done to Becky.
But Miss Amelia's disappointment had made her hysterical enough not to
care what occurred next.
"She did! She did!" she cried. "She saw through us both. She saw that
you were a hard-hearted, worldly woman, and that I was a weak fool, and
that we were both of us vulgar and mean enough to grovel on our knees
for her money, and behave ill to her because it was taken from
her--though she behaved herself like a little princess even when she
was a beggar. She did--she did--like a little princess!" And her
hysterics got the better of the poor woman, and she began to laugh and
cry both at once, and rock herself backward and forward.
"And now you've lost her," she cried wildly; "and some other school
will get her and her money; and if she were like any other child she'd
tell how she's been treated, and all our pupils would be taken away and
we should be ruined. And it serves us right; but it serves you right
more than it does me, for you are a hard woman, Maria Minchin, you're a
hard, selfish, worldly woman!"
And she was in danger of making so much noise with her hysterical
chokes and gurgles that her sister was obliged to go to her and apply
salts and sal volatile to quiet her, instead of pouring forth her
indignation at her audacity.
And from that time forward, it may be mentioned, the elder Miss Minchin
actually began to stand a little in awe of a sister who, while she
looked so foolish, was evidently not quite so foolish as she looked,
and might, consequently, break out and speak truths people did not want
to hear.
That evening, when the pupils were gathered together before the fire in
the schoolroom, as was their custom before going to bed, Ermengarde
came in with a letter in her hand and a queer expression on her round
face. It was queer because, while it was an expression of delighted
excitement, it was combined with such amazement as seemed to belong to
a kind of shock just received.
"What IS the matter?" cried two or three voices at once.
"Is it anything to do with the row that has been going on?" said
Lavinia, eagerly. "There has been such a row in Miss Minchin's room,
Miss Amelia has had something like hysterics and has had to go to bed."
Ermengarde answered them slowly as if she were half stunned.
"I have just had this letter from Sara," she said, holding it out to
let them see what a long letter it was.
"From Sara!" Every voice joined in that exclamation.
"Where is she?" almost shrieked Jessie.
"Next door," said Ermengarde, "with the Indian gentleman."
"Where? Where? Has she been sent away? Does Miss Minchin know? Was
the row about that? Why did she write? Tell us! Tell us!"
There was a perfect babel, and Lottie began to cry plaintively.
Ermengarde answered them slowly as if she were half plunged out into
what, at the moment, seemed the most important and self-explaining
thing.
"There WERE diamond mines," she said stoutly; "there WERE!" Open mouths
and open eyes confronted her.
"They were real," she hurried on. "It was all a mistake about them.
Something happened for a time, and Mr. Carrisford thought they were
ruined--"
"Who is Mr. Carrisford?" shouted Jessie.
"The Indian gentleman. And Captain Crewe thought so, too--and he died;
and Mr. Carrisford had brain fever and ran away, and HE almost died.
And he did not know where Sara was. And it turned out that there were
millions and millions of diamonds in the mines; and half of them belong
to Sara; and they belonged to her when she was living in the attic with
no one but Melchisedec for a friend, and the cook ordering her about.
And Mr. Carrisford found her this afternoon, and he has got her in his
home--and she will never come back--and she will be more a princess
than she ever was--a hundred and fifty thousand times more. And I am
going to see her tomorrow afternoon. There!"
Even Miss Minchin herself could scarcely have controlled the uproar
after this; and though she heard the noise, she did not try. She was
not in the mood to face anything more than she was facing in her room,
while Miss Amelia was weeping in bed. She knew that the news had
penetrated the walls in some mysterious manner, and that every servant
and every child would go to bed talking about it.
So until almost midnight the entire seminary, realizing somehow that
all rules were laid aside, crowded round Ermengarde in the schoolroom
and heard read and re-read the letter containing a story which was
quite as wonderful as any Sara herself had ever invented, and which had
the amazing charm of having happened to Sara herself and the mystic
Indian gentleman in the very next house.
Becky, who had heard it also, managed to creep up stairs earlier than
usual. She wanted to get away from people and go and look at the
little magic room once more. She did not know what would happen to it.
It was not likely that it would be left to Miss Minchin. It would be
taken away, and the attic would be bare and empty again. Glad as she
was for Sara's sake, she went up the last flight of stairs with a lump
in her throat and tears blurring her sight. There would be no fire
tonight, and no rosy lamp; no supper, and no princess sitting in the
glow reading or telling stories--no princess!
She choked down a sob as she pushed the attic door open, and then she
broke into a low cry.
The lamp was flushing the room, the fire was blazing, the supper was
waiting; and Ram Dass was standing smiling into her startled face.
"Missee sahib remembered," he said. "She told the sahib all. She
wished you to know the good fortune which has befallen her. Behold a
letter on the tray. She has written. She did not wish that you should
go to sleep unhappy. The sahib commands you to come to him tomorrow.
You are to be the attendant of missee sahib. Tonight I take these
things back over the roof."
And having said this with a beaming face, he made a little salaam and
slipped through the skylight with an agile silentness of movement which
showed Becky how easily he had done it before.
19