9. Melchisedec

A Little Princess

by Francis Hodgson Burnett

The third person in the trio was Lottie. She was a small thing
and did not know what adversity meant, and was much bewildered by the
alteration she saw in her young adopted mother. She had heard it
rumored that strange things had happened to Sara, but she could not
understand why she looked different--why she wore an old black frock
and came into the schoolroom only to teach instead of to sit in her
place of honor and learn lessons herself. There had been much
whispering among the little ones when it had been discovered that
Sara no longer lived in the rooms in which Emily had so long sat in
state. Lottie's chief difficulty was that Sara said so little when
one asked her questions. At seven mysteries must be made very clear
if one is to understand them.

"Are you very poor now, Sara?" she had asked confidentially the
first morning her friend took charge of the small French class. "Are
you as poor as a beggar?" She thrust a fat hand into the slim one
and opened round, tearful eyes. "I don't want you to be as poor as a
beggar."

She looked as if she was going to cry. And Sara hurriedly
consoled her.

"Beggars have nowhere to live," she said courageously. "I have
a place to live in."

"Where do you live?" persisted Lottle. "The new girl sleeps in
your room, and it isn't pretty any more."

"I live in another room," said Sara.

"Is it a nice one?" inquired Lottie. "I want to go and see
it."

"You must not talk," said Sara. "Miss Minchin is looking at us.
She will be angry with me for letting you whisper."

She had found out already that she was to be held accountable
for everything which was objected to. If the children were not
attentive, if they talked, if they were restless, it was she who
would be reproved.

But Lottie was a determined little person. If Sara would not
tell her where she lived, she would find out in some other way. She
talked to her small companions and hung about the elder girls and
listened when they were gossiping; and acting upon certain
information they had unconsciously let drop, she started late one
afternoon on a voyage of discovery, climbing stairs she had never
known the existence of, until she reached the attic floor. There she
found two doors near each other, and opening one, she saw her beloved
Sara standing upon an old table and looking out of a window.

"Sara!" she cried, aghast. "Mamma Sara!" She was aghast
because the attic was so bare and ugly and seemed so far away from
all the world. Her short legs had seemed to have been mounting
hundreds of stairs.

Sara turned round at the sound of her voice. It was her turn to
be aghast. What would happen now? If Lottie began to cry and any
one chanced to hear, they were both lost. She jumped down from her
table and ran to the child.

"Don't cry and make a noise," she implored. "I shall be scolded
if you do, and I have been scolded all day. It's--it's not such a
bad room, Lottie."

"Isn't it?" gasped Lottie, and as she looked round it she bit
her lip. She was a spoiled child yet, but she was fond enough of her
adopted parent to make an effort to control herself for her sake.
Then, somehow, it was quite possible that any place in which Sara
lived might turn out to be nice. "Why isn't it, Sara?" she almost
whispered.

Sara hugged her close and tried to laugh. There was a sort of
comfort in the warmth of the plump, childish body. She had had a
hard day and had been staring out of the windows with hot eyes.

"You can see all sorts of things you can't see downstairs," she
said.

"What sort of things?" demanded Lottie, with that curiosity Sara
could always awaken even in bigger girls.

"Chimneys--quite close to us--with smoke curling up in wreaths
and clouds and going up into the sky--and sparrows hopping about and
talking to each other just as if they were people--and other attic
windows where heads may pop out any minute and you can wonder who
they belong to. And it all feels as high up--as if it was another
world."

"Oh, let me see it!" cried Lottie. "Lift me up!"

Sara lifted her up, and they stood on the old table together and
leaned on the edge of the flat window in the roof, and looked out.

Anyone who has not done this does not know what a different
world they saw. The slates spread out on either side of them and
slanted down into the rain gutter-pipes. The sparrows, being at home
there, twittered and hopped about quite without fear. Two of them
perched on the chimney top nearest and quarrelled with each other
fiercely until one pecked the other and drove him away. The garret
window next to theirs was shut because the house next door was
empty.

"I wish someone lived there," Sara said. "It is so close that
if there was a little girl in the attic, we could talk to each other
through the windows and climb over to see each other, if we were not
afraid of falling."

The sky seemed so much nearer than when one saw it from the
street, that Lottie was enchanted. From the attic window, among the
chimney pots, the things which were happening in the world below
seemed almost unreal. One scarcely believed in the existence of Miss
Minchin and Miss Amelia and the schoolroom, and the roll of wheels in
the square seemed a sound belonging to another existence.

"Oh, Sara!" cried Lottie, cuddling in her guarding arm. "I like
this attic--I like it! It is nicer than downstairs!"

"Look at that sparrow," whispered Sara. "I wish I had some
crumbs to throw to him."

"I have some!" came in a little shriek from Lottie. "I have
part of a bun in my pocket; I bought it with my penny yesterday, and
I saved a bit."

When they threw out a few crumbs the sparrow jumped and flew
away to an adjacent chimney top. He was evidently not accustomed to
intimates in attics, and unexpected crumbs startled him. But when
Lottie remained quite still and Sara chirped very softly-- almost as
if she were a sparrow herself--he saw that the thing which had
alarmed him represented hospitality, after all. He put his head on
one side, and from his perch on the chimney looked down at the crumbs
with twinkling eyes. Lottie could scarcely keep still.

"Will he come? Will he come?" she whispered.

"His eyes look as if he would," Sara whispered back. "He is
thinking and thinking whether he dare. Yes, he will! Yes, he is
coming!"

He flew down and hopped toward the crumbs, but stopped a few
inches away from them, putting his head on one side again, as if
reflecting on the chances that Sara and Lottie might turn out to be
big cats and jump on him. At last his heart told him they were
really nicer than they looked, and he hopped nearer and nearer,
darted at the biggest crumb with a lightning peck, seized it, and
carried it away to the other side of his chimney.

"Now he knows", said Sara. "And he will come back for the
others."

He did come back, and even brought a friend, and the friend went
away and brought a relative, and among them they made a hearty meal
over which they twittered and chattered and exclaimed, stopping every
now and then to put their heads on one side and examine Lottie and
Sara. Lottie was so delighted that she quite forgot her first
shocked impression of the attic. In fact, when she was lifted down
from the table and returned to earthly things, as it were, Sara was
able to point out to her many beauties in the room which she herself
would not have suspected the existence of.

"It is so little and so high above everything," she said, "that
it is almost like a nest in a tree. The slanting ceiling is so
funny. See, you can scarcely stand up at this end of the room; and
when the morning begins to come I can lie in bed and look right up
into the sky through that flat window in the roof. It is like a
square patch of light. If the sun is going to shine, little pink
clouds float about, and I feel as if I could touch them. And if it
rains, the drops patter and patter as if they were saying something
nice. Then if there are stars, you can lie and try to count how many
go into the patch. It takes such a lot. And just look at that tiny,
rusty grate in the corner. If it was polished and there was a fire
in it, just think how nice it would be. You see, it's really a
beautiful little room."

She was walking round the small place, holding Lottie's hand and
making gestures which described all the beauties she was making
herself see. She quite made Lottie see them, too. Lottie could
always believe in the things Sara made pictures of.

"You see," she said, "there could be a thick, soft blue Indian
rug on the floor; and in that corner there could be a soft little
sofa, with cushions to curl up on; and just over it could be a shelf
full of books so that one could reach them easily; and there could be
a fur rug before the fire, and hangings on the wall to cover up the
whitewash, and pictures. They would have to be little ones, but they
could be beautiful; and there could be a lamp with a deep
rose-colored shade; and a table in the middle, with things to have
tea with; and a little fat copper kettle singing on the hob; and the
bed could be quite different. It could be made soft and covered with
a lovely silk coverlet. It could be beautiful. And perhaps we could
coax the sparrows until we made such friends with them that they
would come and peck at the window and ask to be let in."

"Oh, Sara!" cried Lottie. "I should like to live here!"

When Sara had persuaded her to go downstairs again, and, after
setting her on her way, had come back to her attic, she stood in the
middle of it and looked about her. The enchantment of her imaginings
for Lottie had died away. The bed was hard and covered with its
dingy quilt. The whitewashed wall showed its broken patches, the
floor was cold and bare, the grate was broken and rusty, and the
battered footstool, tilted sideways on its injured leg, the only seat
in the room. She sat down on it for a few minutes and let her head
drop in her hands. The mere fact that Lottie had come and gone away
again made things seem a little worse--just as perhaps prisoners feel
a little more desolate after visitors come and go, leaving them
behind.

"It's a lonely place," she said. "Sometimes it's the loneliest
place in the world."

She was sitting in this way when her attention was attracted by
a slight sound near her. She lifted her head to see where it came
from, and if she had been a nervous child she would have left her
seat on the battered footstool in a great hurry. A large rat was
sitting up on his hind quarters and sniffing the air in an interested
manner. Some of Lottie's crumbs had dropped upon the floor and their
scent had drawn him out of his hole.

He looked so queer and so like a gray-whiskered dwarf or gnome
that Sara was rather fascinated. He looked at her with his bright
eyes, as if he were asking a question. He was evidently so doubtful
that one of the child's queer thoughts came into her mind.

"I dare say it is rather hard to be a rat," she mused. "Nobody
likes you. People jump and run away and scream out, `Oh, a horrid
rat!' I shouldn't like people to scream and jump and say, `Oh, a
horrid Sara!' the moment they saw me. And set traps for me, and
pretend they were dinner. It's so different to be a sparrow. But
nobody asked this rat if he wanted to be a rat when he was made.
Nobody said, `Wouldn't you rather be a sparrow?'"

She had sat so quietly that the rat had begun to take courage.
He was very much afraid of her, but perhaps he had a heart like the
sparrow and it told him that she was not a thing which pounced. He
was very hungry. He had a wife and a large family in the wall, and
they had had frightfully bad luck for several days. He had left the
children crying bitterly, and felt he would risk a good deal for a
few crumbs, so he cautiously dropped upon his feet.

"Come on," said Sara; "I'm not a trap. You can have them, poor
thing! Prisoners in the Bastille used to make friends with rats.
Suppose I make friends with you."

How it is that animals understand things I do not know, but it
is certain that they do understand. Perhaps there is a language
which is not made of words and everything in the world understands
it. Perhaps there is a soul hidden in everything and it can always
speak, without even making a sound, to another soul. But whatsoever
was the reason, the rat knew from that moment that he was safe--even
though he was a rat. He knew that this young human being sitting on
the red footstool would not jump up and terrify him with wild, sharp
noises or throw heavy objects at him which, if they did not fall and
crush him, would send him limping in his scurry back to his hole. He
was really a very nice rat, and did not mean the least harm. When he
had stood on his hind legs and sniffed the air, with his bright eyes
fixed on Sara, he had hoped that she would understand this, and would
not begin by hating him as an enemy. When the mysterious thing which
speaks without saying any words told him that she would not, he went
softly toward the crumbs and began to eat them. As he did it he
glanced every now and then at Sara, just as the sparrows had done,
and his expression was so very apologetic that it touched her
heart.

She sat and watched him without making any movement. One crumb
was very much larger than the others--in fact, it could scarcely be
called a crumb. It was evident that he wanted that piece very much,
but it lay quite near the footstool and he was still rather timid.

"I believe he wants it to carry to his family in the wall," Sara
thought. "If I do not stir at all, perhaps he will come and get
it."

She scarcely allowed herself to breathe, she was so deeply
interested. The rat shuffled a little nearer and ate a few more
crumbs, then he stopped and sniffed delicately, giving a side glance
at the occupant of the footstool; then he darted at the piece of bun
with something very like the sudden boldness of the sparrow, and the
instant he had possession of it fled back to the wall, slipped down a
crack in the skirting board, and was gone.

"I knew he wanted it for his children," said Sara. "I do
believe I could make friends with him."

A week or so afterward, on one of the rare nights when
Ermengarde found it safe to steal up to the attic, when she tapped on
the door with the tips of her fingers Sara did not come to her for
two or three minutes. There was, indeed, such a silence in the room
at first that Ermengarde wondered if she could have fallen asleep.
Then, to her surprise, she heard her utter a little, low laugh and
speak coaxingly to someone.

"There!" Ermengarde heard her say. "Take it and go home,
Melchisedec! Go home to your wife!"

Almost immediately Sara opened the door, and when she did so she
found Ermengarde standing with alarmed eyes upon the threshold.

"Who--who are you talking to, Sara?" she gasped out.

Sara drew her in cautiously, but she looked as if something
pleased and amused her.

"You must promise not to be frightened--not to scream the least
bit, or I can't tell you," she answered.

Ermengarde felt almost inclined to scream on the spot, but
managed to control herself. She looked all round the attic and saw
no one. And yet Sara had certainly been speaking to someone. She
thought of ghosts.

"Is it--something that will frighten me?" she asked
timorously.

"Some people are afraid of them," said Sara. "I was at first--
but I am not now."

"Was it--a ghost?" quaked Ermengarde.

"No," said Sara, laughing. "It was my rat."

Ermengarde made one bound, and landed in the middle of the
little dingy bed. She tucked her feet under her nightgown and the
red shawl. She did not scream, but she gasped with fright.

"Oh! Oh!" she cried under her breath. "A rat! A rat!"

"I was afraid you would be frightened," said Sara. "But you
needn't be. I am making him tame. He actually knows me and comes
out when I call him. Are you too frightened to want to see him?"

The truth was that, as the days had gone on and, with the aid of
scraps brought up from the kitchen, her curious friendship had
developed, she had gradually forgotten that the timid creature she
was becoming familiar with was a mere rat.

At first Ermengarde was too much alarmed to do anything but
huddle in a heap upon the bed and tuck up her feet, but the sight of
Sara's composed little countenance and the story of Melchisedec's
first appearance began at last to rouse her curiosity, and she leaned
forward over the edge of the bed and watched Sara go and kneel down
by the hole in the skirting board.

"He--he won't run out quickly and jump on the bed, will he?" she
said.

"No," answered Sara. "He's as polite as we are. He is just
like a person. Now watch!"

She began to make a low, whistling sound--so low and coaxing
that it could only have been heard in entire stillness. She did it
several times, looking entirely absorbed in it. Ermengarde thought
she looked as if she were working a spell. And at last, evidently in
response to it, a gray-whiskered, bright-eyed head peeped out of the
hole. Sara had some crumbs in her hand. She dropped them, and
Melchisedec came quietly forth and ate them. A piece of larger size
than the rest he took and carried in the most businesslike manner
back to his home.

"You see," said Sara, "that is for his wife and children. He is
very nice. He only eats the little bits. After he goes back I can
always hear his family squeaking for joy. There are three kinds of
squeaks. One kind is the children's, and one is Mrs. Melchisedec's,
and one is Melchisedec's own."

Ermengarde began to laugh.

"Oh, Sara!" she said. "You are queer--but you are nice."

"I know I am queer," admitted Sara, cheerfully; "and I try to be
nice." She rubbed her forehead with her little brown paw, and a
puzzled, tender look came into her face. "Papa always laughed at
me," she said; "but I liked it. He thought I was queer, but he liked
me to make up things. I--I can't help making up things. If I didn't,
I don't believe I could live." She paused and glanced around the
attic. "I'm sure I couldn't live here," she added in a low voice.

Ermengarde was interested, as she always was. "When you talk
about things," she said, "they seem as if they grew real. You talk
about Melchisedec as if he was a person."

"He is a person," said Sara. "He gets hungry and frightened,
just as we do; and he is married and has children. How do we know he
doesn't think things, just as we do? His eyes look as if he was a
person. That was why I gave him a name."

She sat down on the floor in her favorite attitude, holding her
knees.

"Besides," she said, "he is a Bastille rat sent to be my friend.
I can always get a bit of bread the cook has thrown away, and it is
quite enough to support him."

"Is it the Bastille yet?" asked Ermengarde, eagerly. "Do you
always pretend it is the Bastille?"

"Nearly always," answered Sara. "Sometimes I try to pretend it
is another kind of place; but the Bastille is generally easiest--
particularly when it is cold."

Just at that moment Ermengarde almost jumped off the bed, she
was so startled by a sound she heard. It was like two distinct
knocks on the wall.

"What is that?" she exclaimed.

Sara got up from the floor and answered quite dramatically:

"It is the prisoner in the next cell."

"Becky!" cried Ermengarde, enraptured.

"Yes," said Sara. "Listen; the two knocks meant, `Prisoner, are
you there?'"

She knocked three times on the wall herself, as if in answer.

"That means, `Yes, I am here, and all is well.'"

Four knocks came from Becky's side of the wall.

"That means," explained Sara, "`Then, fellow-sufferer, we will
sleep in peace. Good night.'"

Ermengarde quite beamed with delight.

"Oh, Sara!" she whispered joyfully. "It is like a story!"

"It is a story," said Sara. "Everything's a story. You are a
story--I am a story. Miss Minchin is a story."

And she sat down again and talked until Ermengarde forgot that
she was a sort of escaped prisoner herself, and had to be reminded by
Sara that she could not remain in the Bastille all night, but must
steal noiselessly downstairs again and creep back into her deserted
bed.