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A Little Princess: Being the whole story of Sara Crewe now told for the first time

“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, “some one 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 down-stairs and learn your lessons in the school-room. You need not go out on any more errands to-day.”

About half an hour afterward, when the school-room door opened and Sara walked in, the entire seminary was struck dumb with amazement.

“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 some one has left her a fortune,” Jessie whispered. “I always thought something would happen to her. She is 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 school-room 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. Any one 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 had 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.”

She put a hand out delicately, speaking in a coaxing voice – as she spoke to the sparrows and to Melchisedec – as if she were some friendly little animal herself and lovingly understood their timid wildness.

“Come along, monkey darling,” she said. “I won’t hurt you.”

He knew she would not hurt him. He knew it before she laid her soft, caressing little paw on him and drew him toward her. He had felt human love in the slim brown hands of Ram Dass, and he felt it in hers. He let her lift him through the skylight, and when he found himself in her arms he cuddled up to her breast and took friendly hold of a piece of her hair, looking up into her face.

“Nice monkey! Nice monkey!” she crooned, kissing his funny head. “Oh, I do love little animal things.”

He was evidently glad to get to the fire, and when she sat down and held him on her knee he looked from her to Becky with mingled interest and appreciation.

“He is plain-looking, miss, ain’t he?” said Becky.

“He looks like a very ugly baby,” laughed Sara. “I beg your pardon, monkey; but I’m glad you are not a baby. Your mother couldn’t be proud of you, and no one would dare to say you looked like any of your relations. Oh, I do like you!”

She leaned back in her chair and reflected.

“Perhaps he’s sorry he’s so ugly,” she said, “and it’s always on his mind. I wonder if he has a mind. Monkey, my love, have you a mind?”

But the monkey only put up a tiny paw and scratched his head.

“What shall you do with him?” Becky asked.

“I shall let him sleep with me to-night, and then take him back to the Indian gentleman to-morrow. I am sorry to take you back, monkey; but you must go. You ought to be fondest of your own family; and I’m not a real relation.”

And when she went to bed she made him a nest at her feet, and he curled up and slept there as if he were a baby and much pleased with his quarters.

CHAPTER XVII
“IT IS THE CHILD!”

The next afternoon three members of the Large Family sat in the Indian gentleman’s library, doing their best to cheer him up. They had been allowed to come in to perform this office because he had specially invited them. He had been living in a state of suspense for some time, and to-day he was waiting for a certain event very anxiously. This event was the return of Mr. Carmichael from Moscow. His stay there had been prolonged from week to week. On his first arrival there, he had not been able satisfactorily to trace the family he had gone in search of. When he felt at last sure that he had found them and had gone to their house, he had been told that they were absent on a journey. His efforts to reach them had been unavailing, so he had decided to remain in Moscow until their return. Mr. Carrisford sat in his reclining-chair, and Janet sat on the floor beside him. He was very fond of Janet. Nora had found a footstool, and Donald was astride the tiger’s head which ornamented the rug made of the animal’s skin. It must be owned that he was riding it rather violently.

“Don’t chirrup so loud, Donald,” Janet said. “When you come to cheer an ill person up you don’t cheer him up at the top of your voice. Perhaps cheering up is too loud, Mr. Carrisford?” turning to the Indian gentleman.

But he only patted her shoulder.

“No, it isn’t,” he answered. “And it keeps me from thinking too much.”

“I’m going to be quiet,” Donald shouted. “We’ll all be as quiet as mice.”

“Mice don’t make a noise like that,” said Janet.

Donald made a bridle of his handkerchief and bounced up and down on the tiger’s head.

“A whole lot of mice might,” he said cheerfully. “A thousand mice might.”

“I don’t believe fifty thousand mice would,” said Janet, severely; “and we have to be as quiet as one mouse.”

Mr. Carrisford laughed and patted her shoulder again.

“Papa won’t be very long now,” she said. “May we talk about the lost little girl?”

“I don’t think I could talk much about anything else just now,” the Indian gentleman answered, knitting his forehead with a tired look.

“We like her so much,” said Nora. “We call her the little un-fairy princess.”

“Why?” the Indian gentleman inquired, because the fancies of the Large Family always made him forget things a little.

It was Janet who answered.

“It is because, though she is not exactly a fairy, she will be so rich when she is found that she will be like a princess in a fairy tale. We called her the fairy princess at first, but it didn’t quite suit.”

“Is it true,” said Nora, “that her papa gave all his money to a friend to put in a mine that had diamonds in it, and then the friend thought he had lost it all and ran away because he felt as if he was a robber?”

“But he wasn’t really, you know,” put in Janet, hastily.

The Indian gentleman took hold of her hand quickly.

“No, he wasn’t really,” he said.

“I am sorry for the friend,” Janet said; “I can’t help it. He didn’t mean to do it, and it would break his heart. I am sure it would break his heart.”

“You are an understanding little woman, Janet,” the Indian gentleman said, and he held her hand close.

“Did you tell Mr. Carrisford,” Donald shouted again, “about the little-girl-who-isn’t-a-beggar? Did you tell him she has new nice clothes? P’r’aps she’s been found by somebody when she was lost.”

“There’s a cab!” exclaimed Janet. “It’s stopping before the door. It is papa!”

They all ran to the windows to look out.

“Yes, it’s papa,” Donald proclaimed. “But there is no little girl.”

All three of them incontinently fled from the room and tumbled into the hall. It was in this way they always welcomed their father. They were to be heard jumping up and down, clapping their hands, and being caught up and kissed.

Mr. Carrisford made an effort to rise and sank back again into his chair.

“It is no use,” he said. “What a wreck I am!”

Mr. Carmichael’s voice approached the door.

“No, children,” he was saying; “you may come in after I have talked to Mr. Carrisford. Go and play with Ram Dass.”

Then the door opened and he came in. He looked rosier than ever, and brought an atmosphere of freshness and health with him; but his eyes were disappointed and anxious as they met the invalid’s look of eager question even as they grasped each other’s hands.

“What news?” Mr. Carrisford asked. “The child the Russian people adopted?”

“She is not the child we are looking for,” was Mr. Carmichael’s answer. “She is much younger than Captain Crewe’s little girl. Her name is Emily Carew. I have seen and talked to her. The Russians were able to give me every detail.”

How wearied and miserable the Indian gentleman looked! His hand dropped from Mr. Carmichael’s.

“Then the search has to be begun over again,” he said. “That is all. Please sit down.”

Mr. Carmichael took a seat. Somehow, he had gradually grown fond of this unhappy man. He was himself so well and happy, and so surrounded by cheerfulness and love, that desolation and broken health seemed pitifully unbearable things. If there had been the sound of just one gay little high-pitched voice in the house, it would have been so much less forlorn. And that a man should be compelled to carry about in his breast the thought that he had seemed to wrong and desert a child was not a thing one could face.

“Come, come,” he said in his cheery voice; “we’ll find her yet.”

“We must begin at once. No time must be lost,” Mr. Carrisford fretted. “Have you any new suggestion to make – any whatsoever?”

Mr. Carmichael felt rather restless, and he rose and began to pace the room with a thoughtful, though uncertain face.

“Well, perhaps,” he said. “I don’t know what it may be worth. The fact is, an idea occurred to me as I was thinking the thing over in the train on the journey from Dover.”

“What was it? If she is alive, she is somewhere.”

“Yes; she is somewhere. We have searched the schools in Paris. Let us give up Paris and begin in London. That was my idea – to search London.”

“There are schools enough in London,” said Mr. Carrisford. Then he slightly started, roused by a recollection. “By the way, there is one next door.”

“Then we will begin there. We cannot begin nearer than next door.”

“No,” said Carrisford. “There is a child there who interests me; but she is not a pupil. And she is a little dark, forlorn creature, as unlike poor Crewe as a child could be.”

Perhaps the Magic was at work again at that very moment – the beautiful Magic. It really seemed as if it might be so. What was it that brought Ram Dass into the room – even as his master spoke – salaaming respectfully, but with a scarcely concealed touch of excitement in his dark, flashing eyes?

“Sahib,” he said, “the child herself has come – the child the sahib felt pity for. She brings back the monkey who had again run away to her attic under the roof. I have asked that she remain. It was my thought that it would please the sahib to see and speak with her.”

“Who is she?” inquired Mr. Carmichael.

“God knows,” Mr. Carrisford answered. “She is the child I spoke of. A little drudge at the school.” He waved his hand to Ram Dass, and addressed him. “Yes, I should like to see her. Go and bring her in.” Then he turned to Mr. Carmichael. “While you have been away,” he explained, “I have been desperate. The days were so dark and long. Ram Dass told me of this child’s miseries, and together we invented a romantic plan to help her. I suppose it was a childish thing to do; but it gave me something to plan and think of. Without the help of an agile, soft-footed Oriental like Ram Dass, however, it could not have been done.”

Then Sara came into the room. She carried the monkey in her arms, and he evidently did not intend to part from her, if it could be helped. He was clinging to her and chattering, and the interesting excitement of finding herself in the Indian gentleman’s room had brought a flush to Sara’s cheeks.

“Your monkey ran away again,” she said, in her pretty voice. “He came to my garret window last night, and I took him in because it was so cold. I would have brought him back if it had not been so late. I knew you were ill and might not like to be disturbed.”

The Indian gentleman’s hollow eyes dwelt on her with curious interest.

“That was very thoughtful of you,” he said.

Sara looked toward Ram Dass, who stood near the door.

“Shall I give him to the Lascar?” she asked.

“How do you know he is a Lascar?” said the Indian gentleman, smiling a little.

“Oh, I know Lascars,” Sara said, handing over the reluctant monkey. “I was born in India.”

The Indian gentleman sat upright so suddenly, and with such a change of expression, that she was for a moment quite startled.

“You were born in India,” he exclaimed, “were you? Come here.” And he held out his hand.

Sara went to him and laid her hand in his, as he seemed to want to take it. She stood still, and her green-gray eyes met his wonderingly. Something seemed to be the matter with him.

“You live next door?” he demanded.

“Yes; I live at Miss Minchin’s seminary.”

“But you are not one of her pupils?”

A strange little smile hovered about Sara’s mouth. She hesitated a moment.

“I don’t think I know exactly what I am,” she replied.

“Why not?”

“At first I was a pupil, and a parlor-boarder; but now – ”

“You were a pupil! What are you now?”

The queer little sad smile was on Sara’s lips again.

“I sleep in the attic, next to the scullery-maid,” she said. “I run errands for the cook – I do anything she tells me; and I teach the little ones their lessons.”

“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.”