A Little Princess
cannot be done tonight." He lifted the covering and examined the one
thin pillow.
"Coverlet dingy and worn, blanket thin, sheets patched and ragged," he
said. "What a bed for a child to sleep in--and in a house which calls
itself respectable! There has not been a fire in that grate for many a
day," glancing at the rusty fireplace.
"Never since I have seen it," said Ram Dass. "The mistress of the
house is not one who remembers that another than herself may be cold."
The secretary was writing quickly on his tablet. He looked up from it
as he tore off a leaf and slipped it into his breast pocket.
"It is a strange way of doing the thing," he said. "Who planned it?"
Ram Dass made a modestly apologetic obeisance.
"It is true that the first thought was mine, Sahib," he said; "though
it was naught but a fancy. I am fond of this child; we are both
lonely. It is her way to relate her visions to her secret friends.
Being sad one night, I lay close to the open skylight and listened. The
vision she related told what this miserable room might be if it had
comforts in it. She seemed to see it as she talked, and she grew
cheered and warmed as she spoke. Then she came to this fancy; and the
next day, the Sahib being ill and wretched, I told him of the thing to
amuse him. It seemed then but a dream, but it pleased the Sahib. To
hear of the child's doings gave him entertainment. He became interested
in her and asked questions. At last he began to please himself with
the thought of making her visions real things."
"You think that it can be done while she sleeps? Suppose she
awakened," suggested the secretary; and it was evident that whatsoever
the plan referred to was, it had caught and pleased his fancy as well
as the Sahib Carrisford's.
"I can move as if my feet were of velvet," Ram Dass replied; "and
children sleep soundly--even the unhappy ones. I could have entered
this room in the night many times, and without causing her to turn upon
her pillow. If the other bearer passes to me the things through the
window, I can do all and she will not stir. When she awakens she will
think a magician has been here."
He smiled as if his heart warmed under his white robe, and the
secretary smiled back at him.
"It will be like a story from the Arabian Nights," he said. "Only an
Oriental could have planned it. It does not belong to London fogs."
They did not remain very long, to the great relief of Melchisedec, who,
as he probably did not comprehend their conversation, felt their
movements and whispers ominous. The young secretary seemed interested
in everything. He wrote down things about the floor, the fireplace,
the broken footstool, the old table, the walls--which last he touched
with his hand again and again, seeming much pleased when he found that
a number of old nails had been driven in various places.
"You can hang things on them," he said.
Ram Dass smiled mysteriously.
"Yesterday, when she was out," he said, "I entered, bringing with me
small, sharp nails which can be pressed into the wall without blows
from a hammer. I placed many in the plaster where I may need them.
They are ready."
The Indian gentleman's secretary stood still and looked round him as he
thrust his tablets back into his pocket.
"I think I have made notes enough; we can go now," he said. "The Sahib
Carrisford has a warm heart. It is a thousand pities that he has not
found the lost child."
"If he should find her his strength would be restored to him," said Ram
Dass. "His God may lead her to him yet."
Then they slipped through the skylight as noiselessly as they had
entered it. And, after he was quite sure they had gone, Melchisedec
was greatly relieved, and in the course of a few minutes felt it safe
to emerge from his hole again and scuffle about in the hope that even
such alarming human beings as these might have chanced to carry crumbs
in their pockets and drop one or two of them.
15
The Magic
When Sara had passed the house next door she had seen Ram Dass closing
the shutters, and caught her glimpse of this room also.
"It is a long time since I saw a nice place from the inside," was the
thought which crossed her mind.
There was the usual bright fire glowing in the grate, and the Indian
gentleman was sitting before it. His head was resting in his hand, and
he looked as lonely and unhappy as ever.
"Poor man!" said Sara. "I wonder what you are supposing."
And this was what he was "supposing" at that very moment.
"Suppose," he was thinking, "suppose--even if Carmichael traces the
people to Moscow--the little girl they took from Madame Pascal's school
in Paris is NOT the one we are in search of. Suppose she proves to be
quite a different child. What steps shall I take next?"
When Sara went into the house she met Miss Minchin, who had come
downstairs to scold the cook.
"Where have you wasted your time?" she demanded. "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."
"Make no excuses," said Miss Minchin, "and tell no falsehoods."
Sara went in to the cook. The cook had received a severe lecture and
was in a fearful temper as a result. She was only too rejoiced to have
someone to vent her rage on, and Sara was a convenience, as usual.
"Why didn't you stay all night?" she snapped.
Sara laid her purchases on the table.
"Here are the things," she said.
The cook looked them over, grumbling. She was in a very savage humor
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 stood silent for a second.
"I had no dinner," she said next, 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 vicious a humor to give her anything to eat with it. It was
always safe and easy to vent her spite on Sara. Really, it was hard
for the child to climb the three long flights of stairs leading to her
attic. She often found them long and steep when she was tired; but
tonight it seemed as if she would never reach the top. Several times
she was obliged to stop to rest. When she reached the top landing she
was glad to see the glimmer of a light coming from under her door.
That meant that Ermengarde had managed to creep up to pay her a visit.
There was some comfort in that. It was better than to go into the room
alone and find it empty and desolate. The mere presence of plump,
comfortable Ermengarde, wrapped in her red shawl, would warm it a
little.
Yes; there Ermengarde was when she opened the door. She was sitting in
the middle of the bed, with her feet tucked safely under her. She had
never become intimate with Melchisedec and his family, though they
rather fascinated her. When she found herself alone in the attic she
always preferred to sit on the bed until Sara arrived. She had, in
fact, on this occasion had time to become rather nervous, because
Melchisedec had appeared and sniffed about a good deal, and once had
made her utter a repressed squeal by sitting up on his hind legs and,
while he looked at her, sniffing pointedly in her direction.
"Oh, Sara," she cried out, "I am glad you have come. Melchy WOULD
sniff about so. I tried to coax him to go back, but he wouldn't for
such a long time. I like him, you know; but it does frighten me when
he sniffs right at me. Do you think he ever WOULD jump?"
"No," answered Sara.
Ermengarde crawled forward on the bed to look at her.
"You DO look tired, Sara," she said; "you are quite pale."
"I AM tired," said Sara, dropping on to the lopsided footstool. "Oh,
there's Melchisedec, poor thing. He's come to ask for his supper."
Melchisedec had come out of his hole as if he had been listening for
her footstep. Sara was quite sure he knew it. He came forward with an
affectionate, expectant expression as Sara put her hand in her pocket
and turned it inside out, shaking her head.
"I'm very sorry," she said. "I haven't one crumb left. Go home,
Melchisedec, and tell your wife there was nothing in my pocket. I'm
afraid I forgot because the cook and Miss Minchin were so cross."
Melchisedec seemed to understand. He shuffled resignedly, if not
contentedly, back to his home.
"I did not expect to see you tonight, Ermie," Sara said. Ermengarde
hugged herself in the red shawl.
"Miss Amelia has gone out to spend the night with her old aunt," she
explained. "No one else ever comes and looks into the bedrooms after
we are in bed. I could stay here until morning if I wanted to."
She pointed toward the table under the skylight. Sara had not looked
toward it as she came in. A number of books were piled upon it.
Ermengarde's gesture was a dejected one.
"Papa has sent me some more books, Sara," she said. "There they are."
Sara looked round and got up at once. She ran to the table, and
picking up the top volume, turned over its leaves quickly. For the
moment she forgot her discomforts.
"Ah," she cried out, "how beautiful! Carlyle's French Revolution. I
have SO wanted to read that!"
"I haven't," said Ermengarde. "And papa will be so cross if I don't.
He'll expect me to know all about it when I go home for the holidays.
What SHALL I do?"
Sara stopped turning over the leaves and looked at her with an excited
flush on her cheeks.
"Look here," she cried, "if you'll lend me these books, _I'll_ read
them--and tell you everything that's in them afterward--and I'll tell
it so that you will remember it, too."
"Oh, goodness!" exclaimed Ermengarde. "Do you think you can?"
"I know I can," Sara answered. "The little ones always remember what I
tell them."
"Sara," said Ermengarde, hope gleaming in her round face, "if you'll do
that, and make me remember, I'll--I'll give you anything."
"I don't want you to give me anything," said Sara. "I want your
books--I want them!" And her eyes grew big, and her chest heaved.
"Take them, then," said Ermengarde. "I wish I wanted them--but I
don't. I'm not clever, and my father is, and he thinks I ought to be."
Sara was opening one book after the other. "What are you going to tell
your father?" she asked, a slight doubt dawning in her mind.
"Oh, he needn't know," answered Ermengarde. "He'll think I've read
them."
Sara put down her book and shook her head slowly. "That's almost like
telling lies," she said. "And lies--well, you see, they are not only
wicked--they're VULGAR. Sometimes"--reflectively--"I've thought perhaps
I might do something wicked--I might suddenly fly into a rage and kill
Miss Minchin, you know, when she was ill-treating me--but I COULDN'T be
vulgar. Why can't you tell your father _I_ read them?"
"He wants me to read them," said Ermengarde, a little discouraged by
this unexpected turn of affairs.
"He wants you to know what is in them," said Sara. "And if I can tell
it to you in an easy way and make you remember it, I should think he
would like that."
"He'll like it if I learn anything in ANY way," said rueful Ermengarde.
"You would if you were my father."
"It's not your fault that--" began Sara. She pulled herself up and
stopped rather suddenly. She had been going to say, "It's not your
fault that you are stupid."
"That what?" Ermengarde asked.
"That you can't learn things quickly," amended Sara. "If you can't,
you can't. If I can--why, I can; that's all."
She always felt very tender of Ermengarde, and tried not to let her