A Little Princess
The child started and stared up at her, as if such sudden, amazing good
luck almost frightened her; then she snatched up the bun and began to
cram it into her mouth with great wolfish bites.
"Oh, my! Oh, my!" Sara heard her say hoarsely, in wild delight. "OH
my!"
Sara took out three more buns and put them down.
The sound in the hoarse, ravenous voice was awful.
"She is hungrier than I am," she said to herself. "She's starving."
But her hand trembled when she put down the fourth bun. "I'm not
starving," she said--and she put down the fifth.
The little ravening London savage was still snatching and devouring
when she turned away. She was too ravenous to give any thanks, even if
she had ever been taught politeness--which she had not. She was only a
poor little wild animal.
"Good-bye," said Sara.
When she reached the other side of the street she looked back. The
child had a bun in each hand and had stopped in the middle of a bite to
watch her. Sara gave her a little nod, and the child, after another
stare--a curious lingering stare--jerked her shaggy head in response,
and until Sara was out of sight she did not take another bite or even
finish the one she had begun.
At that moment the baker-woman looked out of her shop window.
"Well, I never!" she exclaimed. "If that young un hasn't given her
buns to a beggar child! It wasn't because she didn't want them,
either. Well, well, she looked hungry enough. I'd give something to
know what she did it for."
She stood behind her window for a few moments and pondered. Then her
curiosity got the better of her. She went to the door and spoke to the
beggar child.
"Who gave you those buns?" she asked her. The child nodded her head
toward Sara's vanishing figure.
"What did she say?" inquired the woman.
"Axed me if I was 'ungry," replied the hoarse voice.
"What did you say?"
"Said I was jist."
"And then she came in and got the buns, and gave them to you, did she?"
The child nodded.
"How many?"
"Five."
The woman thought it over.
"Left just one for herself," she said in a low voice. "And she could
have eaten the whole six--I saw it in her eyes."
She looked after the little draggled far-away figure and felt more
disturbed in her usually comfortable mind than she had felt for many a
day.
"I wish she hadn't gone so quick," she said. "I'm blest if she
shouldn't have had a dozen." Then she turned to the child.
"Are you hungry yet?" she said.
"I'm allus hungry," was the answer, "but 't ain't as bad as it was."
"Come in here," said the woman, and she held open the shop door.
The child got up and shuffled in. To be invited into a warm place full
of bread seemed an incredible thing. She did not know what was going
to happen. She did not care, even.
"Get yourself warm," said the woman, pointing to a fire in the tiny
back room. "And look here; when you are hard up for a bit of bread,
you can come in here and ask for it. I'm blest if I won't give it to
you for that young one's sake."
* * *
Sara found some comfort in her remaining bun. At all events, it was
very hot, and it was better than nothing. As she walked along she
broke off small pieces and ate them slowly to make them last longer.
"Suppose it was a magic bun," she said, "and a bite was as much as a
whole dinner. I should be overeating myself if I went on like this."
It was dark when she reached the square where the Select Seminary was
situated. The lights in the houses were all lighted. The blinds were
not yet drawn in the windows of the room where she nearly always caught
glimpses of members of the Large Family. Frequently at this hour she
could see the gentleman she called Mr. Montmorency sitting in a big
chair, with a small swarm round him, talking, laughing, perching on the
arms of his seat or on his knees or leaning against them. This evening
the swarm was about him, but he was not seated. On the contrary, there
was a good deal of excitement going on. It was evident that a journey
was to be taken, and it was Mr. Montmorency who was to take it. A
brougham stood before the door, and a big portmanteau had been strapped
upon it. The children were dancing about, chattering and hanging on to
their father. The pretty rosy mother was standing near him, talking as
if she was asking final questions. Sara paused a moment to see the
little ones lifted up and kissed and the bigger ones bent over and
kissed also.
"I wonder if he will stay away long," she thought. "The portmanteau is
rather big. Oh, dear, how they will miss him! I shall miss him
myself--even though he doesn't know I am alive."
When the door opened she moved away--remembering the sixpence--but she
saw the traveler come out and stand against the background of the
warmly-lighted hall, the older children still hovering about him.
"Will Moscow be covered with snow?" said the little girl Janet. "Will
there be ice everywhere?"
"Shall you drive in a drosky?" cried another. "Shall you see the Czar?"
"I will write and tell you all about it," he answered, laughing. "And
I will send you pictures of muzhiks and things. Run into the house. It
is a hideous damp night. I would rather stay with you than go to
Moscow. Good night! Good night, duckies! God bless you!" And he ran
down the steps and jumped into the brougham.
"If you find the little girl, give her our love," shouted Guy Clarence,
jumping up and down on the door mat.
Then they went in and shut the door.
"Did you see," said Janet to Nora, as they went back to the room--"the
little-girl-who-is-not-a-beggar was passing? She looked all cold and
wet, and I saw her turn her head over her shoulder and look at us.
Mamma says her clothes always look as if they had been given her by
someone who was quite rich--someone who only let her have them because
they were too shabby to wear. The people at the school always send her
out on errands on the horridest days and nights there are."
Sara crossed the square to Miss Minchin's area steps, feeling faint and
shaky.
"I wonder who the little girl is," she thought--"the little girl he is
going to look for."
And she went down the area steps, lugging her basket and finding it
very heavy indeed, as the father of the Large Family drove quickly on
his way to the station to take the train which was to carry him to
Moscow, where he was to make his best efforts to search for the lost
little daughter of Captain Crewe.
14
What Melchisedec Heard and Saw
On this very afternoon, while Sara was out, a strange thing happened in
the attic. Only Melchisedec saw and heard it; and he was so much
alarmed and mystified that he scuttled back to his hole and hid there,
and really quaked and trembled as he peeped out furtively and with
great caution to watch what was going on.
The attic had been very still all the day after Sara had left it in the
early morning. The stillness had only been broken by the pattering of
the rain upon the slates and the skylight. Melchisedec had, in fact,
found it rather dull; and when the rain ceased to patter and perfect
silence reigned, he decided to come out and reconnoiter, though
experience taught him that Sara would not return for some time. He had
been rambling and sniffing about, and had just found a totally
unexpected and unexplained crumb left from his last meal, when his
attention was attracted by a sound on the roof. He stopped to listen
with a palpitating heart. The sound suggested that something was moving
on the roof. It was approaching the skylight; it reached the skylight.
The skylight was being mysteriously opened. A dark face peered into
the attic; then another face appeared behind it, and both looked in
with signs of caution and interest. Two men were outside on the roof,
and were making silent preparations to enter through the skylight
itself. One was Ram Dass and the other was a young man who was the
Indian gentleman's secretary; but of course Melchisedec did not know
this. He only knew that the men were invading the silence and privacy
of the attic; and as the one with the dark face let himself down
through the aperture with such lightness and dexterity that he did not
make the slightest sound, Melchisedec turned tail and fled
precipitately back to his hole. He was frightened to death. He had
ceased to be timid with Sara, and knew she would never throw anything
but crumbs, and would never make any sound other than the soft, low,
coaxing whistling; but strange men were dangerous things to remain
near. He lay close and flat near the entrance of his home, just
managing to peep through the crack with a bright, alarmed eye. How much
he understood of the talk he heard I am not in the least able to say;
but, even if he had understood it all, he would probably have remained
greatly mystified.
The secretary, who was light and young, slipped through the skylight as
noiselessly as Ram Dass had done; and he caught a last glimpse of
Melchisedec's vanishing tail.
"Was that a rat?" he asked Ram Dass in a whisper.
"Yes; a rat, Sahib," answered Ram Dass, also whispering. "There are
many in the walls."
"Ugh!" exclaimed the young man. "It is a wonder the child is not
terrified of them."
Ram Dass made a gesture with his hands. He also smiled respectfully.
He was in this place as the intimate exponent of Sara, though she had
only spoken to him once.
"The child is the little friend of all things, Sahib," he answered.
"She is not as other children. I see her when she does not see me. I
slip across the slates and look at her many nights to see that she is
safe. I watch her from my window when she does not know I am near. She
stands on the table there and looks out at the sky as if it spoke to
her. The sparrows come at her call. The rat she has fed and tamed in
her loneliness. The poor slave of the house comes to her for comfort.
There is a little child who comes to her in secret; there is one older
who worships her and would listen to her forever if she might. This I
have seen when I have crept across the roof. By the mistress of the
house--who is an evil woman--she is treated like a pariah; but she has
the bearing of a child who is of the blood of kings!"
"You seem to know a great deal about her," the secretary said.
"All her life each day I know," answered Ram Dass. "Her going out I
know, and her coming in; her sadness and her poor joys; her coldness
and her hunger. I know when she is alone until midnight, learning from
her books; I know when her secret friends steal to her and she is
happier--as children can be, even in the midst of poverty--because they
come and she may laugh and talk with them in whispers. If she were ill
I should know, and I would come and serve her if it might be done."
"You are sure no one comes near this place but herself, and that she
will not return and surprise us. She would be frightened if she found
us here, and the Sahib Carrisford's plan would be spoiled."
Ram Dass crossed noiselessly to the door and stood close to it.
"None mount here but herself, Sahib," he said. "She has gone out with
her basket and may be gone for hours. If I stand here I can hear any
step before it reaches the last flight of the stairs."
The secretary took a pencil and a tablet from his breast pocket.
"Keep your ears open," he said; and he began to walk slowly and softly
round the miserable little room, making rapid notes on his tablet as he
looked at things.
First he went to the narrow bed. He pressed his hand upon the mattress
and uttered an exclamation.
"As hard as a stone," he said. "That will have to be altered some day
when she is out. A special journey can be made to bring it across. It