16. The Visitor

A Little Princess

by Francis Hodgson Burnett

Imagine, if you can, what the rest of the evening was like. How
they crouched by the fire which blazed and leaped and made so much of
itself in the little grate. How they removed the covers of the
dishes, and found rich, hot, savory soup, which was a meal in itself,
and sandwiches and toast and muffins enough for both of them. The mug
from the washstand was used as Becky's tea cup, and the tea was so
delicious that it was not necessary to pretend that it was anything
but tea. They were warm and full-fed and happy, and it was just like
Sara that, having found her strange good fortune real, she should
give herself up to the enjoyment of it to the utmost. She had lived
such a life of imaginings that she was quite equal to accepting any
wonderful thing that happened, and almost to cease, in a short time,
to find it bewildering.

"I don't know anyone in the world who could have done it," she
said; "but there has been someone. And here we are sitting by their
fire--and--and--it's true! And whoever it is--wherever they are--I
have a friend, Becky--someone is my friend."

It cannot be denied that as they sat before the blazing fire,
and ate the nourishing, comfortable food, they felt a kind of
rapturous awe, and looked into each other's eyes with something like
doubt.

"Do you think," Becky faltered once, in a whisper, "do you think
it could melt away, miss? Hadn't we better be quick?" And she
hastily crammed her sandwich into her mouth. If it was only a dream,
kitchen manners would be overlooked.

"No, it won't melt away," said Sara. "I am eating this muffin,
and I can taste it. You never really eat things in dreams. You only
think you are going to eat them. Besides, I keep giving myself
pinches; and I touched a hot piece of coal just now, on purpose."

The sleepy comfort which at length almost overpowered them was a
heavenly thing. It was the drowsiness of happy, well-fed childhood,
and they sat in the fire glow and luxuriated in it until Sara found
herself turning to look at her transformed bed.

There were even blankets enough to share with Becky. The narrow
couch in the next attic was more comfortable that night than its
occupant had ever dreamed that it could be.

As she went out of the room, Becky turned upon the threshold and
looked about her with devouring eyes.

"If it ain't here in the mornin', miss," she said, "it's been
here tonight, anyways, an' I shan't never forget it." She looked at
each particular thing, as if to commit it to memory. "The fire was
there", pointing with her finger, "an' the table was before it; an'
the lamp was there, an' the light looked rosy red; an' there was a
satin cover on your bed, an' a warm rug on the floor, an' everythin'
looked beautiful; an'"--she paused a second, and laid her hand on her
stomach tenderly--"there was soup an' sandwiches an' muffins--there
was." And, with this conviction a reality at least, she went away.

Through the mysterious agency which works in schools and among
servants, it was quite well known in the morning that Sara Crewe was
in horrible disgrace, that Ermengarde was under punishment, and that
Becky would have been packed out of the house before breakfast, but
that a scullery maid could not be dispensed with at once. The
servants knew that she was allowed to stay because Miss Minchin could
not easily find another creature helpless and humble enough to work
like a bounden slave for so few shillings a week. The elder girls in
the schoolroom knew that if Miss Minchin did not send Sara away it
was for practical reasons of her own.

"She's growing so fast and learning such a lot, somehow," said
Jessie to Lavinia, "that she will be given classes soon, and Miss
Minchin knows she will have to work for nothing. It was rather nasty
of you, Lavvy, to tell about her having fun in the garret. How did
you find it out?"

"I got it out of Lottie. She's such a baby she didn't know she
was telling me. There was nothing nasty at all in speaking to Miss
Minchin. I felt it my duty"--priggishly. "She was being deceitful.
And it's ridiculous that she should look so grand, and be made so
much of, in her rags and tatters!"

"What were they doing when Miss Minchin caught them?"

"Pretending some silly thing. Ermengarde had taken up her
hamper to share with Sara and Becky. She never invites us to share
things. Not that I care, but it's rather vulgar of her to share with
servant girls in attics. I wonder Miss Minchin didn't turn Sara
out--even if she does want her for a teacher."

"If she was turned out where would she go?" inquired Jessie, a
trifle anxiously.

"How do I know?" snapped Lavinia. "She'll look rather queer
when she comes into the schoolroom this morning, I should think--
after what's happened. She had no dinner yesterday, and she's not to
have any today."

Jessie was not as ill-natured as she was silly. She picked up
her book with a little jerk.

"Well, I think it's horrid," she said. "They've no right to
starve her to death."

When Sara went into the kitchen that morning the cook looked
askance at her, and so did the housemaids; but she passed them
hurriedly. She had, in fact, overslept herself a little, and as Becky
had done the same, neither had had time to see the other, and each
had come downstairs in haste.

Sara went into the scullery. Becky was violently scrubbing a
kettle, and was actually gurgling a little song in her throat. She
looked up with a wildly elated face.

"It was there when I wakened, miss--the blanket," she whispered
excitedly. "It was as real as it was last night."

"So was mine," said Sara. "It is all there now--all of it.
While I was dressing I ate some of the cold things we left."

"Oh, laws! Oh, laws!" Becky uttered the exclamation in a sort
of rapturous groan, and ducked her head over her kettle just in time,
as the cook came in from the kitchen.

Miss Minchin had expected to see in Sara, when she appeared in
the schoolroom, very much what Lavinia had expected to see. Sara had
always been an annoying puzzle to her, because severity never made
her cry or look frightened. When she was scolded she stood still and
listened politely with a grave face; when she was punished she
performed her extra tasks or went without her meals, making no
complaint or outward sign of rebellion. The very fact that she never
made an impudent answer seemed to Miss Minchin a kind of impudence in
itself. But after yesterday's deprivation of meals, the violent
scene of last night, the prospect of hunger today, she must surely
have broken down. It would be strange indeed if she did not come
downstairs with pale cheeks and red eyes and an unhappy, humbled
face.

Miss Minchin saw her for the first time when she entered the
schoolroom to hear the little French class recite its lessons and
superintend its exercises. And she came in with a springing step,
color in her cheeks, and a smile hovering about the corners of her
mouth. It was the most astonishing thing Miss Minchin had ever known.
It gave her quite a shock. What was the child made of? What could
such a thing mean? She called her at once to her desk.

"You do not look as if you realize that you are in disgrace,"
she said. "Are you absolutely hardened?"

The truth is that when one is still a child--or even if one is
grown up--and has been well fed, and has slept long and softly and
warm; when one has gone to sleep in the midst of a fairy story, and
has wakened to find it real, one cannot be unhappy or even look as if
one were; and one could not, if one tried, keep a glow of joy out of
one's eyes. Miss Minchin was almost struck dumb by the look of Sara's
eyes when she made her perfectly respectful answer.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Minchin," she said; "I know that I am
in disgrace."

"Be good enough not to forget it and look as if you had come
into a fortune. It is an impertinence. And remember you are to have
no food today."

"Yes, Miss Minchin," Sara answered; but as she turned away her
heart leaped with the memory of what yesterday had been. "If the
Magic had not saved me just in time," she thought, "how horrible it
would have been!"

"She can't be very hungry," whispered Lavinia. "Just look at
her. Perhaps she is pretending she has had a good breakfast"-- with a
spiteful laugh.

"She's different from other people," said Jessie, watching Sara
with her class. "Sometimes I'm a bit frightened of her."

"Ridiculous thing!" ejaculated Lavinia.

All through the day the light was in Sara's face, and the color
in her cheek. The servants cast puzzled glances at her, and
whispered to each other, and Miss Amelia's small blue eyes wore an
expression of bewilderment. What such an audacious look of
well-being, under august displeasure could mean she could not
understand. It was, however, just like Sara's singular obstinate way.
She was probably determined to brave the matter out.

One thing Sara had resolved upon, as she thought things over.
The wonders which had happened must be kept a secret, if such a thing
were possible. If Miss Minchin should choose to mount to the attic
again, of course all would be discovered. But it did not seem likely
that she would do so for some time at least, unless she was led by
suspicion. Ermengarde and Lottie would be watched with such
strictness that they would not dare to steal out of their beds again.
Ermengarde could be told the story and trusted to keep it secret. If
Lottie made any discoveries, she could be bound to secrecy also.
Perhaps the Magic itself would help to hide its own marvels.

"But whatever happens," Sara kept saying to herself all day--
"whatever happens, somewhere in the world there is a heavenly kind
person who is my friend--my friend. If I never know who it is--if I
never can even thank him--I shall never feel quite so lonely. Oh,
the Magic was good to me!"

If it was possible for weather to be worse than it had been the
day before, it was worse this day--wetter, muddier, colder. There
were more errands to be done, the cook was more irritable, and,
knowing that Sara was in disgrace, she was more savage. But what does
anything matter when one's Magic has just proved itself one's friend.
Sara's supper of the night before had given her strength, she knew
that she should sleep well and warmly, and, even though she had
naturally begun to be hungry again before evening, she felt that she
could bear it until breakfast- time on the following day, when her
meals would surely be given to her again. It was quite late when she
was at last allowed to go upstairs. She had been told to go into the
schoolroom and study until ten o'clock, and she had become interested
in her work, and remained over her books later.

When she reached the top flight of stairs and stood before the
attic door, it must be confessed that her heart beat rather fast.

"Of course it might all have been taken away," she whispered,
trying to be brave. "It might only have been lent to me for just
that one awful night. But it was lent to me--I had it. It was
real."

She pushed the door open and went in. Once inside, she gasped
slightly, shut the door, and stood with her back against it looking
from side to side.

The Magic had been there again. It actually had, and it had
done even more than before. The fire was blazing, in lovely leaping
flames, more merrily than ever. A number of new things had been
brought into the attic which so altered the look of it that if she
had not been past doubting she would have rubbed her eyes. Upon the
low table another supper stood--this time with cups and plates for
Becky as well as herself; a piece of bright, heavy, strange
embroidery covered the battered mantel, and on it some ornaments had
been placed. All the bare, ugly things which could be covered with
draperies had been concealed and made to look quite pretty. Some odd
materials of rich colors had been fastened against the wall with
fine, sharp tacks--so sharp that they could be pressed into the wood
and plaster without hammering. Some brilliant fans were pinned up,
and there were several large cushions, big and substantial enough to
use as seats. A wooden box was covered with a rug, and some cushions
lay on it, so that it wore quite the air of a sofa.

Sara slowly moved away from the door and simply sat down and
looked and looked again.

"It is exactly like something fairy come true," she said. "There
isn't the least difference. I feel as if I might wish for
anything--diamonds or bags of gold--and they would appear! That
wouldn't be any stranger than this. Is this my garret? Am I the same
cold, ragged, damp Sara? And to think I used to pretend and pretend
and wish there were fairies! The one thing I always wanted was to
see a fairy story come true. I am living in a fairy story. I feel as
if I might be a fairy myself, and able to turn things into anything
else."

She rose and knocked upon the wall for the prisoner in the next
cell, and the prisoner came.

When she entered she almost dropped in a heap upon the floor.
For a few seconds she quite lost her breath.

"Oh, laws!" she gasped. "Oh, laws, miss!"

"You see," said Sara.

On this night Becky sat on a cushion upon the hearth rug and had
a cup and saucer of her own.

When Sara went to bed she found that she had a new thick
mattress and big downy pillows. Her old mattress and pillow had been
removed to Becky's bedstead, and, consequently, with these additions
Becky had been supplied with unheard-of comfort.

"Where does it all come from?" Becky broke forth once. "Laws,
who does it, miss?"

"Don't let us even ask," said Sara. "If it were not that I want
to say, `Oh, thank you,' I would rather not know. It makes it more
beautiful."

From that time life became more wonderful day by day. The fairy
story continued. Almost every day something new was done. Some new
comfort or ornament appeared each time Sara opened the door at night,
until in a short time the attic was a beautiful little room full of
all sorts of odd and luxurious things. The ugly walls were gradually
entirely covered with pictures and draperies, ingenious pieces of
folding furniture appeared, a bookshelf was hung up and filled with
books, new comforts and conveniences appeared one by one, until there
seemed nothing left to be desired. When Sara went downstairs in the
morning, the remains of the supper were on the table; and when she
returned to the attic in the evening, the magician had removed them
and left another nice little meal. Miss Minchin was as harsh and
insulting as ever, Miss Amelia as peevish, and the servants were as
vulgar and rude. Sara was sent on errands in all weathers, and
scolded and driven hither and thither; she was scarcely allowed to
speak to Ermengarde and Lottie; Lavinia sneered at the increasing
shabbiness of her clothes; and the other girls stared curiously at
her when she appeared in the schoolroom. But what did it all matter
while she was living in this wonderful mysterious story? It was more
romantic and delightful than anything she had ever invented to
comfort her starved young soul and save herself from despair.
Sometimes, when she was scolded, she could scarcely keep from
smiling.

"If you only knew!" she was saying to herself. "If you only
knew!"

The comfort and happiness she enjoyed were making her stronger,
and she had them always to look forward to. If she came home from
her errands wet and tired and hungry, she knew she would soon be warm
and well fed after she had climbed the stairs. During the hardest day
she could occupy herself blissfully by thinking of what she should
see when she opened the attic door, and wondering what new delight
had been prepared for her. In a very short time she began to look
less thin. Color came into her cheeks, and her eyes did not seem so
much too big for her face.

"Sara Crewe looks wonderfully well," Miss Minchin remarked
disapprovingly to her sister.

"Yes," answered poor, silly Miss Amelia. "She is absolutely
fattening. She was beginning to look like a little starved crow."

"Starved!" exclaimed Miss Minchin, angrily. "There was no
reason why she should look starved. She always had plenty to
eat!"

"Of--of course," agreed Miss Amelia, humbly, alarmed to find
that she had, as usual, said the wrong thing.

"There is something very disagreeable in seeing that sort of
thing in a child of her age," said Miss Minchin, with haughty
vagueness.

"What--sort of thing?" Miss Amelia ventured.

"It might almost be called defiance," answered Miss Minchin,
feeling annoyed because she knew the thing she resented was nothing
like defiance, and she did not know what other unpleasant term to
use. "The spirit and will of any other child would have been entirely
humbled and broken by--by the changes she has had to submit to. But,
upon my word, she seems as little subdued as if--as if she were a
princess."

"Do you remember," put in the unwise Miss Amelia, "what she said
to you that day in the schoolroom about what you would do if you
found out that she was--"

"No, I don't," said Miss Minchin. "Don't talk nonsense." But
she remembered very clearly indeed.

Very naturally, even Becky was beginning to look plumper and
less frightened. She could not help it. She had her share in the
secret fairy story, too. She had two mattresses, two pillows, plenty
of bed-covering, and every night a hot supper and a seat on the
cushions by the fire. The Bastille had melted away, the prisoners no
longer existed. Two comforted children sat in the midst of delights.
Sometimes Sara read aloud from her books, sometimes she learned her
own lessons, sometimes she sat and looked into the fire and tried to
imagine who her friend could be, and wished she could say to him some
of the things in her heart.

Then it came about that another wonderful thing happened. A man
came to the door and left several parcels. All were addressed in
large letters, "To the Little Girl in the right-hand attic."

Sara herself was sent to open the door and take them in. She
laid the two largest parcels on the hall table, and was looking at
the address, when Miss Minchin came down the stairs and saw her.

"Take the things to the young lady to whom they belong," she
said severely. "Don't stand there staring at them.

"They belong to me," answered Sara, quietly.

"To you?" exclaimed Miss Minchin. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know where they come from," said Sara, "but they are
addressed to me. I sleep in the right-hand attic. Becky has the
other one."

Miss Minchin came to her side and looked at the parcels with an
excited expression.

"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, "someone 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 downstairs and learn your lessons
in the schoolroom. You need not go out on any more errands
today."

About half an hour afterward, when the schoolroom door opened
and Sara walked in, the entire seminary was struck dumb.

"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 someone has left her a fortune," Jessie whispered. "I
always thought something would happen to her. She's 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 schoolroom 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. Anyone 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 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.

"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 towards 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 looked 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 tonight, and then take him back
to the Indian gentleman tomorrow. 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.