A Little Princess (23 page)

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!

THE LITTLE GIRL IN THE ATTIC.

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."