his own language expressed a great deal of surprise and delight. He was
waiting for his master to come out to the carriage, and Sara, who was
going on an errand as usual, stopped and spoke a few words. She had a
special gift for languages and had remembered enough Hindustani to make
herself understood by him. When his master came out, the Lascar spoke to
him quickly, and the Indian Gentleman turned and looked at her
curiously. And afterward the Lascar always greeted her with salaams of
the most profound description. And occasionally they exchanged a few
words. She learned that it was true that the Sahib was very rich--that
he was ill--and also that he had no wife nor children, and that England
did not agree with the monkey.
[Illustration: "HE WAS WAITING FOR HIS MASTER TO COME OUT TO THE
CARRIAGE, AND SARA STOPPED AND SPOKE A FEW WORDS TO HIM."]
"He must be as lonely as I am," thought Sara. "Being rich does not seem
to make him happy."
That evening, as she passed the windows, the Lascar was closing the
shutters, and she caught a glimpse of the room inside. There was a
bright fire glowing in the grate, and the Indian Gentleman was sitting
before it, in a luxurious chair. The room was richly furnished, and
looked delightfully comfortable, but the Indian Gentleman sat with his
head resting on his hand, and looked as lonely and unhappy as ever.
"Poor man!" said Sara; "I wonder what _you_ are 'supposing'?"
When she went into the house she met Miss Minchin in the hall.
"Where have you wasted your time?" said Miss Minchin. "You have been
out for hours!"
"It was so wet and muddy," Sara answered. "It was hard to walk, because
my shoes were so bad and slipped about so."
"Make no excuses," said Miss Minchin, "and tell no falsehoods."
Sara went downstairs to the kitchen.
"Why didn't you stay all night?" said the cook.
"Here are the things," said Sara, and laid her purchases on the table.
The cook looked over them, grumbling. She was in a very bad temper
indeed.
"May I have something to eat?" Sara asked rather faintly.
"Tea's over and done with," was the answer. "Did you expect me to keep
it hot for you?"
Sara was silent a second.
"I had no dinner," she said, and her voice was quite low. She made it
low, because she was afraid it would tremble.
"There's some bread in the pantry," said the cook. "That's all you'll
get at this time of day."
Sara went and found the bread. It was old and hard and dry. The cook was
in too bad a humor to give her anything to eat with it. She had just
been scolded by Miss Minchin, and it was always safe and easy to vent
her own spite on Sara.
Really it was hard for the child to climb the three long flights of
stairs leading to her garret. She often found them long and steep when
she was tired, but to-night it seemed as if she would never reach the
top. Several times a lump rose in her throat and she was obliged to stop
to rest.
"I can't pretend anything more to-night," she said wearily to herself.
"I'm sure I can't. I'll eat my bread and drink some water and then go to
sleep, and perhaps a dream will come and pretend for me. I wonder what
dreams are."
Yes, when she reached the top landing there were tears in her eyes, and
she did not feel like a princess--only like a tired, hungry, lonely,
lonely child.
"If my papa had lived," she said, "they would not have treated me like
this. If my papa had lived, he would have taken care of me."
Then she turned the handle and opened the garret-door.
Can you imagine it--can you believe it? I find it hard to believe it
myself. And Sara found it impossible; for the first few moments she
thought something strange had happened to her eyes--to her mind--that
the dream had come before she had had time to fall asleep.
"Oh!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "Oh! It isn't true! I know, I know it
isn't true!" And she slipped into the room and closed the door and
locked it, and stood with her back against it, staring straight before
her.
Do you wonder? In the grate, which had been empty and rusty and cold
when she left it, but which now was blackened and polished up quite
respectably, there was a glowing, blazing fire. On the hob was a little
brass kettle, hissing and boiling; spread upon the floor was a warm,
thick rug; before the fire was a folding-chair, unfolded and with
cushions on it; by the chair was a small folding-table, unfolded,
covered with a white cloth, and upon it were spread small covered
dishes, a cup and saucer, and a tea-pot; on the bed were new, warm
coverings, a curious wadded silk robe, and some books. The little, cold,
miserable room seemed changed into Fairyland. It was actually warm and
glowing.
"It is bewitched!" said Sara. "Or _I_ am bewitched. I only _think_ I see
it all; but if I can only keep on thinking it, I don't care--I don't
care--if I can only keep it up!"
She was afraid to move, for fear it would melt away. She stood with her
back against the door and looked and looked. But soon she began to feel
warm, and then she moved forward.
"A fire that I only _thought_ I saw surely wouldn't _feel_ warm," she
said. "It feels real--real."
She went to it and knelt before it. She touched the chair, the table;
she lifted the cover of one of the dishes. There was something hot and
savory in it--something delicious. The tea-pot had tea in it, ready for
the boiling water from the little kettle; one plate had toast on it,
another, muffins.
"It is real," said Sara. "The fire is real enough to warm me; I can sit
in the chair; the things are real enough to eat."
It was like a fairy story come true--it was heavenly. She went to the
bed and touched the blankets and the wrap. They were real too. She
opened one book, and on the title-page was written in a strange hand,
"The little girl in the attic."
Suddenly--was it a strange thing for her to do?--Sara put her face down
on the queer, foreign-looking quilted robe and burst into tears.
"I don't know who it is," she said, "but somebody cares about me a
little--somebody is my friend."
Somehow that thought warmed her more than the fire. She had never had a
friend since those happy, luxurious days when she had had everything;
and those days had seemed such a long way off--so far away as to be only
like dreams--during these last years at Miss Minchin's.
She really cried more at this strange thought of having a friend--even
though an unknown one--than she had cried over many of her worst
troubles.
But these tears seemed different from the others, for when she had wiped
them away they did not seem to leave her eyes and her heart hot and
smarting.
And then imagine, if you can, what the rest of the evening was like. The
delicious comfort of taking off the damp clothes and putting on the
soft, warm, quilted robe before the glowing fire--of slipping her cold
feet into the luscious little wool-lined slippers she found near her
chair. And then the hot tea and savory dishes, the cushioned chair and
the books!
It was just like Sara, that, once having found the things real, she
should give herself up to the enjoyment of them to the very utmost. She
had lived such a life of imagining, and had found her pleasure so long
in improbabilities, that she was quite equal to accepting any wonderful
thing that happened. After she was quite warm and had eaten her supper
and enjoyed herself for an hour or so, it had almost ceased to be
surprising to her that such magical surroundings should be hers. As to
finding out who had done all this, she knew that it was out of the
question. She did not know a human soul by whom it could seem in the
least degree probable that it could have been done.
"There is nobody," she said to herself, "nobody." She discussed the
matter with Emily, it is true, but more because it was delightful to
talk about it than with a view to making any discoveries.
"But we have a friend, Emily," she said; "we have a friend."
Sara could not even imagine a being charming enough to fill her grand
ideal of her mysterious benefactor. If she tried to make in her mind a
picture of him or her, it ended by being something glittering and
strange--not at all like a real person, but bearing resemblance to a
sort of Eastern magician, with long robes and a wand. And when she fell
asleep, beneath the soft white blanket, she dreamed all night of this
magnificent personage, and talked to him in Hindustani, and made salaams
to him.
Upon one thing she was determined. She would not speak to any one of her
good fortune--it should be her own secret; in fact, she was rather
inclined to think that if Miss Minchin knew, she would take her
treasures from her or in some way spoil her pleasure. So, when she went
down the next morning, she shut her door very tight and did her best to
look as if nothing unusual had occurred. And yet this was rather hard,
because she could not help remembering, every now and then, with a sort
of start, and her heart would beat quickly every time she repeated to
herself, "I have a friend!"
It was a friend who evidently meant to continue to be kind, for when she
went to her garret the next night--and she opened the door, it must be
confessed, with rather an excited feeling--she found that the same hands
had been again at work, and had done even more than before. The fire and
the supper were again there, and beside them a number of other things
which so altered the look of the garret that Sara quite lost her breath.
A piece of bright, strange, heavy cloth 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 in rich colors had been fastened
against the walls with sharp, fine tacks--so sharp that they could be
pressed into the wood without hammering. Some brilliant fans were pinned
up, and there were several large cushions. A long, old wooden box was
covered with a rug, and some cushions lay on it, so that it wore quite
the air of a sofa.
Sara 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
and bags of gold--and they would appear! _That_ couldn't be any stranger
than this. Is this my garret? Am I the same cold, ragged, damp Sara? And
to think how 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 be able to turn things into anything else!"
It was like a fairy story, and, what was best of all, it continued.
Almost every day something new was done to the garret. Some new comfort
or ornament appeared in it when Sara opened her door at night, until
actually, in a short time, it was a bright little room, full of all
sorts of odd and luxurious things. And the magician had taken care that
the child should not be hungry, and that she should have as many books
as she could read. When she left the room in the morning, the remains of
her supper were on the table, and when she returned in the evening, the
magician had removed them, and left another nice little meal. Downstairs
Miss Minchin was as cruel and insulting as ever, Miss Amelia was as
peevish, and the servants were as vulgar. Sara was sent on errands, and
scolded, and driven hither and thither, but somehow it seemed as if she
could bear it all. The delightful sense of romance and mystery lifted
her above the cook's temper and malice. The comfort she enjoyed and
could always look forward to was making her stronger. If she came home
from her errands wet and tired, she knew she would soon be warm, after
she had climbed the stairs. In a few weeks she began to look less thin.
A little color came into her cheeks, and her eyes did not seem much too
big for her face.
It was just when this was beginning to be so apparent that Miss Minchin
sometimes stared at her questioningly, 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 attic." Sara
herself was sent to open the door, and she took them in. She laid the
two largest parcels down on the hall-table and was looking at the
address, when Miss Minchin came down the stairs.
"Take the things upstairs to the young lady to whom they belong," she
said. "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 came from," said Sara, "but they're addressed
to me."
Miss Minchin came to her side and looked at them with an excited
expression.
"What is in them?" she demanded.
"I don't know," said Sara.
"Open them!" she demanded, still more excitedly.
Sara did as she was told. They contained pretty and comfortable
clothing,--clothing of different kinds; shoes and stockings and gloves,
a warm coat, and even an umbrella. On the pocket of the coat was pinned
a paper on which was written, "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 child so neglected and so unkindly
treated by her had some powerful friend in the background? It would not
be very pleasant if there should be such a friend, and he or she should
learn all the truth about the thin, shabby clothes, the scant food, the
hard work. She felt queer indeed and uncertain, and she gave a
side-glance at Sara.
"Well," she said, in a voice such as she had never used since the day
the child lost her father--"well, some one is very kind to you. As you
have the things and are to have new ones when they are worn out, you may
as well go and put them on and look respectable; and after you are
dressed, you may come downstairs and learn your lessons in the
school-room."
So it happened that, about half an hour afterward, Sara struck the
entire school-room of pupils dumb with amazement, by making her
appearance in a costume such as she had never worn since the change of
fortune whereby she ceased to be a show-pupil and a parlor-boarder. She
scarcely seemed to be the same Sara. She was neatly dressed in a pretty
gown of warm browns and reds, and even her stockings and slippers were
nice and dainty.
"Perhaps some one has left her a fortune," one of the girls whispered.
"I always thought something would happen to her, she is so queer."
That night when Sara went to her room she carried out a plan she had
been devising for some time. She wrote a note to her unknown friend. It
ran as follows:
"I hope you will not think it is not polite that I should write
this note to you when you wish to keep yourself a secret, but I do
not mean to be impolite, or to try to find out at all, only I want
to thank you for being so kind to me--so beautiful kind, and making
everything like a fairy story. I am so grateful to you and I am so
happy! I used to be so lonely and cold and, hungry, and now, oh,
just think what you have done for me! 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 it was taken
away with the other things; so she felt sure the magician had received
it, and she was happier for the thought.
A few nights later a very odd thing happened. She found something in the
room which she certainly would never have expected. When she came in as
usual she saw something small and dark in her chair,--an odd, tiny
figure, which turned toward her a little, weird-looking, wistful face.
"Why, it's the monkey!" she cried. "It is the Indian Gentleman's monkey!
Where can he have come from?"
It _was_ the monkey, sitting up and looking so like a mite of a child
that it really was quite pathetic; and very soon Sara found out how he
happened to be in her room. The skylight was open, and it was easy to
guess that he had crept out of his master's garret-window, which was
only a few feet away and perfectly easy to get in and out of, even for a
climber less agile than a monkey. He had probably climbed to the garret
on a tour of investigation, and getting out upon the roof, and being
attracted by the light in Sara's attic, had crept in. At all events this
seemed quite reasonable, and there he was; and when Sara went to him, he
actually put out his queer, elfish little hands, caught her dress, and
jumped into her arms.
"Oh, you queer, poor, ugly, foreign little thing!" said Sara, caressing
him. "I can't help liking you. You look like a sort of baby, but I am so
glad you are not, because your mother could _not_ be proud of you, and
nobody would dare to say you were like any of your relations. But I do
like you; you have such a forlorn little look in your face. Perhaps you
are sorry you are so ugly, and it's always on your mind. I wonder if you
have a mind?"
The monkey sat and looked at her while she talked, and seemed much
interested in her remarks, if one could judge by his eyes and his
forehead, and the way he moved his head up and down, and held it
sideways and scratched it with his little hand. He examined Sara quite
seriously, and anxiously, too. He felt the stuff of her dress, touched
her hands, climbed up and examined her ears, and then sat on her
shoulder holding a lock of her hair, looking mournful but not at all
agitated. Upon the whole, he seemed pleased with Sara.
[Illustration: "THE MONKEY SEEMED MUCH INTERESTED IN HER REMARKS."]
"But I must take you back," she said to him, "though I'm sorry to have
to do it. Oh, the company you _would_ be to a person!"
She lifted him from her shoulder, set him on her knee, and gave him a
bit of cake. He sat and nibbled it, and then put his head on one side,
looked at her, wrinkled his forehead, and then nibbled again, in the
most companionable manner.
"But you must go home," said Sara at last; and she took him in her arms
to carry him downstairs. Evidently he did not want to leave the room,
for as they reached the door he clung to her neck and gave a little
scream of anger.
"You mustn't be an ungrateful monkey," said Sara. "You ought to be
fondest of your own family. I am sure the Lascar is good to you."
Nobody saw her on her way out, and very soon she was standing on the
Indian Gentleman's front steps, and the Lascar had opened the door for
her.
"I found your monkey in my room," she said in Hindustani. "I think he
got in through the window."
The man began a rapid outpouring of thanks; but, just as he was in the
midst of them, a fretful, hollow voice was heard through the open door
of the nearest room. The instant he heard it the Lascar disappeared, and
left Sara still holding the monkey.
It was not many moments, however, before he came back bringing a
message. His master had told him to bring Missy into the library. The
Sahib was very ill, but he wished to see Missy.
Sara thought this odd, but she remembered reading stories of Indian
gentlemen who, having no constitutions, were extremely cross and full of
whims, and who must have their own way. So she followed the Lascar.
When she entered the room the Indian Gentleman was lying on an easy
chair, propped up with pillows. He looked frightfully ill. His yellow
face was thin, and his eyes were hollow. He gave Sara a rather curious
look--it was as if she wakened in him some anxious interest.
"You live next door?" he said.
"Yes," answered Sara. "I live at Miss Minchin's."
"She keeps a boarding-school?"
"Yes," said Sara.
"And you are one of her pupils?"
Sara hesitated a moment.
"I don't know exactly what I am," she replied.
"Why not?" asked the Indian Gentleman.
The monkey gave a tiny squeak, and Sara stroked him.
"At first," she said, "I was a pupil and a parlor boarder; but now----"
"What do you mean by 'at first'?" asked the Indian Gentleman.
"When I was first taken there by my papa."
"Well, what has happened since then?" said the invalid, staring at her
and knitting his brows with a puzzled expression.
"My papa died," said Sara. "He lost all his money, and there was none
left for me--and there was no one to take care of me or pay Miss
Minchin, so----"
"So you were sent up into the garret and neglected, and made into a
half-starved little drudge!" put in the Indian Gentleman. "That is about
it, isn't it?"
The color deepened on Sara's cheeks.
"There was no one to take care of me, and no money," she said. "I belong
to nobody."
"What did your father mean by losing his money?" said the gentleman,
fretfully.
The red in Sara's cheeks grew deeper, and she fixed her odd eyes on the
yellow face.
"He did not lose it himself," she said. "He had a friend he was fond of,
and it was his friend who took his money. I don't know how. I don't
understand. He trusted his friend too much."
She saw the invalid start--the strangest start--as if he had been
suddenly frightened. Then he spoke nervously and excitedly:
"That's an old story," he said. "It happens every day; but sometimes
those who are blamed--those who do the wrong--don't intend it, and are
not so bad. It may happen through a mistake--a miscalculation; they may
not be so bad."
"No," said Sara, "but the suffering is just as bad for the others. It
killed my papa."
The Indian Gentleman pushed aside some of the gorgeous wraps that
covered him.
"Come a little nearer, and let me look at you," he said.
His voice sounded very strange; it had a more nervous and excited tone
than before. Sara had an odd fancy that he was half afraid to look at
her. She came and stood nearer, the monkey clinging to her and watching
his master anxiously over his shoulder.
The Indian Gentleman's hollow, restless eyes fixed themselves on her.
"Yes," he said at last. "Yes; I can see it. Tell me your father's name."
"His name was Ralph Crewe," said Sara. "Captain Crewe. Perhaps,"--a
sudden thought flashing upon her,--"perhaps you may have heard of him?
He died in India."
The Indian Gentleman sank back upon his pillows. He looked very weak,
and seemed out of breath.
"Yes," he said, "I knew him. I was his friend. I meant no harm. If he
had only lived he would have known. It turned out well after all. He was
a fine young fellow. I was fond of him. I will make it right.
Call--call the man."
Sara thought he was going to die. But there was no need to call the
Lascar. He must have been waiting at the door. He was in the room and by
his master's side in an instant. He seemed to know what to do. He lifted
the drooping head, and gave the invalid something in a small glass. The
Indian Gentleman lay panting for a few minutes, and then he spoke in an
exhausted but eager voice, addressing the Lascar in Hindustani:
"Go for Carmichael," he said. "Tell him to come here at once. Tell him I
have found the child!"
When Mr. Carmichael arrived (which occurred in a very few minutes, for
it turned out that he was no other than the father of the Large Family
across the street), Sara went home, and was allowed to take the monkey
with her. She certainly did not sleep very much that night, though the
monkey behaved beautifully, and did not disturb her in the least. It was
not the monkey that kept her awake--it was her thoughts, and her wonders
as to what the Indian Gentleman had meant when he said, "Tell him I have
found the child." "What child?" Sara kept asking herself. "I was the
only child there; but how had he found me, and why did he want to find
me? And what is he going to do, now I am found? Is it something about my
papa? Do I belong to somebody? Is he one of my relations? Is something
going to happen?"
But she found out the very next day, in the morning; and it seemed that
she had been living in a story even more than she had imagined. First,
Mr. Carmichael came and had an interview with Miss Minchin. And it
appeared that Mr. Carmichael, besides occupying the important situation
of father to the Large Family, was a lawyer, and had charge of the
affairs of Mr. Carrisford--which was the real name of the Indian
Gentleman--and, as Mr. Carrisford's lawyer, Mr. Carmichael had come to
explain something curious to Miss Minchin regarding Sara. But, being the
father of the Large Family, he had a very kind and fatherly feeling for
children; and so, after seeing Miss Minchin alone, what did he do but go
and bring across the square his rosy, motherly, warm-hearted wife, so
that she herself might talk to the little lonely girl, and tell her
everything in the best and most motherly way.