Books: A Little Princess
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Frances Hodgson Burnett >> A Little Princess
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"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 Miiss 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
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."
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