A Little Princess
decorum, and then, with Sara at her side heading it, she led it away,
leaving the Last Doll sitting upon a chair with the glories of her
wardrobe scattered about her; dresses and coats hung upon chair backs,
piles of lace-frilled petticoats lying upon their seats.
Becky, who was not expected to partake of refreshments, had the
indiscretion to linger a moment to look at these beauties--it really
was an indiscretion.
"Go back to your work, Becky," Miss Amelia had said; but she had
stopped to pick up reverently first a muff and then a coat, and while
she stood looking at them adoringly, she heard Miss Minchin upon the
threshold, and, being smitten with terror at the thought of being
accused of taking liberties, she rashly darted under the table, which
hid her by its tablecloth.
Miss Minchin came into the room, accompanied by a sharp-featured, dry
little gentleman, who looked rather disturbed. Miss Minchin herself
also looked rather disturbed, it must be admitted, and she gazed at the
dry little gentleman with an irritated and puzzled expression.
She sat down with stiff dignity, and waved him to a chair.
"Pray, be seated, Mr. Barrow," she said.
Mr. Barrow did not sit down at once. His attention seemed attracted by
the Last Doll and the things which surrounded her. He settled his
eyeglasses and looked at them in nervous disapproval. The Last Doll
herself did not seem to mind this in the least. She merely sat upright
and returned his gaze indifferently.
"A hundred pounds," Mr. Barrow remarked succinctly. "All expensive
material, and made at a Parisian modiste's. He spent money lavishly
enough, that young man."
Miss Minchin felt offended. This seemed to be a disparagement of her
best patron and was a liberty.
Even solicitors had no right to take liberties.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Barrow," she said stiffly. "I do not
understand."
"Birthday presents," said Mr. Barrow in the same critical manner, "to a
child eleven years old! Mad extravagance, I call it."
Miss Minchin drew herself up still more rigidly.
"Captain Crewe is a man of fortune," she said. "The diamond mines
alone--"
Mr. Barrow wheeled round upon her. "Diamond mines!" he broke out.
"There are none! Never were!"
Miss Minchin actually got up from her chair.
"What!" she cried. "What do you mean?"
"At any rate," answered Mr. Barrow, quite snappishly, "it would have
been much better if there never had been any."
"Any diamond mines?" ejaculated Miss Minchin, catching at the back of a
chair and feeling as if a splendid dream was fading away from her.
"Diamond mines spell ruin oftener than they spell wealth," said Mr.
Barrow. "When a man is in the hands of a very dear friend and is not a
businessman himself, he had better steer clear of the dear friend's
diamond mines, or gold mines, or any other kind of mines dear friends
want his money to put into. The late Captain Crewe--"
Here Miss Minchin stopped him with a gasp.
"The LATE Captain Crewe!" she cried out. "The LATE! You don't come to
tell me that Captain Crewe is--"
"He's dead, ma'am," Mr. Barrow answered with jerky brusqueness. "Died
of jungle fever and business troubles combined. The jungle fever might
not have killed him if he had not been driven mad by the business
troubles, and the business troubles might not have put an end to him if
the jungle fever had not assisted. Captain Crewe is dead!"
Miss Minchin dropped into her chair again. The words he had spoken
filled her with alarm.
"What WERE his business troubles?" she said. "What WERE they?"
"Diamond mines," answered Mr. Barrow, "and dear friends--and ruin."
Miss Minchin lost her breath.
"Ruin!" she gasped out.
"Lost every penny. That young man had too much money. The dear friend
was mad on the subject of the diamond mine. He put all his own money
into it, and all Captain Crewe's. Then the dear friend ran
away--Captain Crewe was already stricken with fever when the news came.
The shock was too much for him. He died delirious, raving about his
little girl--and didn't leave a penny."
Now Miss Minchin understood, and never had she received such a blow in
her life. Her show pupil, her show patron, swept away from the Select
Seminary at one blow. She felt as if she had been outraged and robbed,
and that Captain Crewe and Sara and Mr. Barrow were equally to blame.
"Do you mean to tell me," she cried out, "that he left NOTHING! That
Sara will have no fortune! That the child is a beggar! That she is
left on my hands a little pauper instead of an heiress?"
Mr. Barrow was a shrewd businessman, and felt it as well to make his
own freedom from responsibility quite clear without any delay.
"She is certainly left a beggar," he replied. "And she is certainly
left on your hands, ma'am--as she hasn't a relation in the world that
we know of."
Miss Minchin started forward. She looked as if she was going to open
the door and rush out of the room to stop the festivities going on
joyfully and rather noisily that moment over the refreshments.
"It is monstrous!" she said. "She's in my sitting room at this moment,
dressed in silk gauze and lace petticoats, giving a party at my
expense."
"She's giving it at your expense, madam, if she's giving it," said Mr.
Barrow, calmly. "Barrow & Skipworth are not responsible for anything.
There never was a cleaner sweep made of a man's fortune. Captain Crewe
died without paying OUR last bill--and it was a big one."
Miss Minchin turned back from the door in increased indignation. This
was worse than anyone could have dreamed of its being.
"That is what has happened to me!" she cried. "I was always so sure of
his payments that I went to all sorts of ridiculous expenses for the
child. I paid the bills for that ridiculous doll and her ridiculous
fantastic wardrobe. The child was to have anything she wanted. She
has a carriage and a pony and a maid, and I've paid for all of them
since the last cheque came."
Mr. Barrow evidently did not intend to remain to listen to the story of
Miss Minchin's grievances after he had made the position of his firm
clear and related the mere dry facts. He did not feel any particular
sympathy for irate keepers of boarding schools.
"You had better not pay for anything more, ma'am," he remarked, "unless
you want to make presents to the young lady. No one will remember you.
She hasn't a brass farthing to call her own."
"But what am I to do?" demanded Miss Minchin, as if she felt it
entirely his duty to make the matter right. "What am I to do?"
"There isn't anything to do," said Mr. Barrow, folding up his
eyeglasses and slipping them into his pocket. "Captain Crewe is dead.
The child is left a pauper. Nobody is responsible for her but you."
"I am not responsible for her, and I refuse to be made responsible!"
Miss Minchin became quite white with rage.
Mr. Barrow turned to go.
"I have nothing to do with that, madam," he said uninterestedly.
"Barrow & Skipworth are not responsible. Very sorry the thing has
happened, of course."
"If you think she is to be foisted off on me, you are greatly
mistaken," Miss Minchin gasped. "I have been robbed and cheated; I
will turn her into the street!"
If she had not been so furious, she would have been too discreet to say
quite so much. She saw herself burdened with an extravagantly
brought-up child whom she had always resented, and she lost all
self-control.
Mr. Barrow undisturbedly moved toward the door.
"I wouldn't do that, madam," he commented; "it wouldn't look well.
Unpleasant story to get about in connection with the establishment.
Pupil bundled out penniless and without friends."
He was a clever business man, and he knew what he was saying. He also
knew that Miss Minchin was a business woman, and would be shrewd enough
to see the truth. She could not afford to do a thing which would make
people speak of her as cruel and hard-hearted.
"Better keep her and make use of her," he added. "She's a clever
child, I believe. You can get a good deal out of her as she grows
older."
"I will get a good deal out of her before she grows older!" exclaimed
Miss Minchin.
"I am sure you will, ma'am," said Mr. Barrow, with a little sinister
smile. "I am sure you will. Good morning!"
He bowed himself out and closed the door, and it must be confessed that
Miss Minchin stood for a few moments and glared at it. What he had
said was quite true. She knew it. She had absolutely no redress. Her
show pupil had melted into nothingness, leaving only a friendless,
beggared little girl. Such money as she herself had advanced was lost
and could not be regained.
And as she stood there breathless under her sense of injury, there fell
upon her ears a burst of gay voices from her own sacred room, which had
actually been given up to the feast. She could at least stop this.
But as she started toward the door it was opened by Miss Amelia, who,
when she caught sight of the changed, angry face, fell back a step in
alarm.
"What IS the matter, sister?" she ejaculated.
Miss Minchin's voice was almost fierce when she answered:
"Where is Sara Crewe?"
Miss Amelia was bewildered.
"Sara!" she stammered. "Why, she's with the children in your room, of
course."
"Has she a black frock in her sumptuous wardrobe?"--in bitter irony.
"A black frock?" Miss Amelia stammered again. "A BLACK one?"
"She has frocks of every other color. Has she a black one?"
Miss Amelia began to turn pale.
"No--ye-es!" she said. "But it is too short for her. She has only the
old black velvet, and she has outgrown it."
"Go and tell her to take off that preposterous pink silk gauze, and put
the black one on, whether it is too short or not. She has done with
finery!"
Then Miss Amelia began to wring her fat hands and cry.
"Oh, sister!" she sniffed. "Oh, sister! What CAN have happened?"
Miss Minchin wasted no words.
"Captain Crewe is dead," she said. "He has died without a penny. That
spoiled, pampered, fanciful child is left a pauper on my hands."
Miss Amelia sat down quite heavily in the nearest chair.
"Hundreds of pounds have I spent on nonsense for her. And I shall
never see a penny of it. Put a stop to this ridiculous party of hers.
Go and make her change her frock at once."
"I?" panted Miss Amelia. "M-must I go and tell her now?"
"This moment!" was the fierce answer. "Don't sit staring like a goose.
Go!"
Poor Miss Amelia was accustomed to being called a goose. She knew, in
fact, that she was rather a goose, and that it was left to geese to do
a great many disagreeable things. It was a somewhat embarrassing thing
to go into the midst of a room full of delighted children, and tell the
giver of the feast that she had suddenly been transformed into a little
beggar, and must go upstairs and put on an old black frock which was
too small for her. But the thing must be done. This was evidently not
the time when questions might be asked.
She rubbed her eyes with her handkerchief until they looked quite red.
After which she got up and went out of the room, without venturing to
say another word. When her older sister looked and spoke as she had
done just now, the wisest course to pursue was to obey orders without
any comment. Miss Minchin walked across the room. She spoke to herself
aloud without knowing that she was doing it. During the last year the
story of the diamond mines had suggested all sorts of possibilities to
her. Even proprietors of seminaries might make fortunes in stocks,
with the aid of owners of mines. And now, instead of looking forward to
gains, she was left to look back upon losses.
"The Princess Sara, indeed!" she said. "The child has been pampered as