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OfcoursethegreatestpowerSarapossessedandtheonewhichgainedherevenmorefollowersthanherluxuriesandthefactthatshewas“theshowpupil,”thepowerthatLaviniaandcertainothergirlsweremostenviousof,andatthesametimemostfascinatedbyinspiteofthemselves,washerpoweroftellingstoriesandofmakingeverythingshetalkedaboutseemlikeastory,whetheritwasoneornot.
Anyonewhohasbeenatschoolwithatellerofstoriesknowswhatthewondermeans—howheorsheisfollowedaboutandbesoughtinawhispertorelateromances;howgroupsgatherroundandhangontheoutskirtsofthefavoredpartyinthehopeofbeingallowedtojoininandlisten.
Saranotonlycouldtellstories,butsheadoredtellingthem.
Whenshesatorstoodinthemidstofacircleandbegantoinventwonderfulthings,hergreeneyesgrewbigandshining,hercheeksflushed,and,withoutknowingthatshewasdoingit,shebegantoactandmadewhatshetoldlovelyoralarmingbytheraisingordroppingofhervoice,thebendandswayofherslimbody,andthedramaticmovementofherhands.
Sheforgotthatshewastalkingtolisteningchildren;shesawandlivedwiththefairyfolk,orthekingsandqueensandbeautifulladies,whoseadventuresshewasnarrating.
Sometimeswhenshehadfinishedherstory,shewasquiteoutofbreathwithexcitement,andwouldlayherhandonherthin,little,quick-risingchest,andhalflaughasifatherself.
“WhenIamtellingit,”shewouldsay,“itdoesn’tseemasifitwasonlymadeup.
Itseemsmorerealthanyouare—morerealthantheschoolroom.
IfeelasifIwereallthepeopleinthestory—oneaftertheother.Itisqueer.”
ShehadbeenatMissMinchin’sschoolabouttwoyearswhen,onefoggywinter’safternoon,asshewasgettingoutofhercarriage,comfortablywrappedupinherwarmestvelvetsandfursandlookingverymuchgranderthansheknew,shecaughtsight,asshecrossedthepavement,ofadingylittlefigurestandingontheareasteps,andstretchingitsnecksothatitswide-openeyesmightpeeratherthroughtherailings.
Somethingintheeagernessandtimidityofthesmudgyfacemadeherlookatit,andwhenshelookedshesmiledbecauseitwasherwaytosmileatpeople.
Buttheownerofthesmudgyfaceandthewide-openeyesevidentlywasafraidthatsheoughtnottohavebeencaughtlookingatpupilsofimportance.
Shedodgedoutofsightlikeajack-in-the-boxandscurriedbackintothekitchen,disappearingsosuddenlythatifshehadnotbeensuchapoorlittleforlornthing,Sarawouldhavelaughedinspiteofherself.
Thatveryevening,asSarawassittinginthemidstofagroupoflistenersinacorneroftheschoolroomtellingoneofherstories,theverysamefiguretimidlyenteredtheroom,carryingacoalboxmuchtooheavyforher,andkneltdownuponthehearthrugtoreplenishthefireandsweepuptheashes.
Shewascleanerthanshehadbeenwhenshepeepedthroughthearearailings,butshelookedjustasfrightened.
Shewasevidentlyafraidtolookatthechildrenorseemtobelistening.
Sheputonpiecesofcoalcautiouslywithherfingerssothatshemightmakenodisturbingnoise,andshesweptaboutthefireironsverysoftly.
ButSarasawintwominutesthatshewasdeeplyinterestedinwhatwasgoingon,andthatshewasdoingherworkslowlyinthehopeofcatchingawordhereandthere.
Andrealizingthis,sheraisedhervoiceandspokemoreclearly.
“TheMermaidsswamsoftlyaboutinthecrystal-greenwater,anddraggedafterthemafishing-netwovenofdeep-seapearls,”shesaid.“ThePrincesssatonthewhiterockandwatchedthem.”
ItwasawonderfulstoryaboutaprincesswhowaslovedbyaPrinceMerman,andwenttolivewithhiminshiningcavesunderthesea.
Thesmalldrudgebeforethegratesweptthehearthonceandthensweptitagain.
Havingdoneittwice,shediditthreetimes;and,asshewasdoingitthethirdtime,thesoundofthestorysoluredhertolistenthatshefellunderthespellandactuallyforgotthatshehadnorighttolistenatall,andalsoforgoteverythingelse.
Shesatdownuponherheelsasshekneltonthehearthrug,andthebrushhungidlyinherfingers.
Thevoiceofthestorytellerwentonanddrewherwithitintowindinggrottosunderthesea,glowingwithsoft,clearbluelight,andpavedwithpuregoldensands.
Strangeseaflowersandgrasseswavedabouther,andfarawayfaintsingingandmusicechoed.
Thehearthbrushfellfromthework-roughenedhand,andLaviniaHerbertlookedround.
“Thatgirlhasbeenlistening,”shesaid.
Theculpritsnatchedupherbrush,andscrambledtoherfeet.Shecaughtatthecoalboxandsimplyscuttledoutoftheroomlikeafrightenedrabbit.
Sarafeltratherhot-tempered.
“Iknewshewaslistening,”shesaid.“Whyshouldn’tshe?”
Laviniatossedherheadwithgreatelegance.
“Well,”sheremarked,“Idonotknowwhetheryourmammawouldlikeyoutotellstoriestoservantgirls,butIknowmymammawouldn’tlikemetodoit.”
“Mymamma!”saidSara,lookingodd.“Idon’tbelieveshewouldmindintheleast.Sheknowsthatstoriesbelongtoeverybody.”
“Ithought,”retortedLavinia,insevererecollection,“thatyourmammawasdead.Howcansheknowthings?”
“Doyouthinkshedoesn’tknowthings?”saidSara,inhersternlittlevoice.Sometimesshehadarathersternlittlevoice.
“Sara’smammaknowseverything,”pipedinLottie.
“Sodoesmymamma—’ceptSaraismymammaatMissMinchin’s—myotheroneknowseverything.
Thestreetsareshining,andtherearefieldsandfieldsoflilies,andeverybodygathersthem.Saratellsmewhensheputsmetobed.”
“Youwickedthing,”saidLavinia,turningonSara;“makingfairystoriesaboutheaven.”
“TherearemuchmoresplendidstoriesinRevelation,”returnedSara.“Justlookandsee!Howdoyouknowminearefairystories?
ButIcantellyou”—withafinebitofunheavenlytemper—”youwillneverfindoutwhethertheyareornotifyou’renotkindertopeoplethanyouarenow.Comealong,Lottie.”
Andshemarchedoutoftheroom,ratherhopingthatshemightseethelittleservantagainsomewhere,butshefoundnotraceofherwhenshegotintothehall.
“Whoisthatlittlegirlwhomakesthefires?”sheaskedMariettethatnight.
Mariettebrokeforthintoaflowofdescription.
Ah,indeed,MademoiselleSaramightwellask.
Shewasaforlornlittlethingwhohadjusttakentheplaceofscullerymaid—though,astobeingscullerymaid,shewaseverythingelsebesides.
Sheblackedbootsandgrates,andcarriedheavycoal-scuttlesupanddownstairs,andscrubbedfloorsandcleanedwindows,andwasorderedaboutbyeverybody.
Shewasfourteenyearsold,butwassostuntedingrowththatshelookedabouttwelve.Intruth,Mariettewassorryforher.
Shewassotimidthatifonechancedtospeaktoheritappearedasifherpoor,frightenedeyeswouldjumpoutofherhead.
“Whatishername?”askedSara,whohadsatbythetable,withherchinonherhands,asshelistenedabsorbedlytotherecital.
HernamewasBecky.Marietteheardeveryonebelow-stairscalling,“Becky,dothis,”and“Becky,dothat,”everyfiveminutesintheday.
Sarasatandlookedintothefire,reflectingonBeckyforsometimeafterMariettelefther.
ShemadeupastoryofwhichBeckywastheill-usedheroine.
Shethoughtshelookedasifshehadneverhadquiteenoughtoeat.Herveryeyeswerehungry.
Shehopedsheshouldseeheragain,butthoughshecaughtsightofhercarryingthingsupordownstairsonseveraloccasions,shealwaysseemedinsuchahurryandsoafraidofbeingseenthatitwasimpossibletospeaktoher.
Butafewweekslater,onanotherfoggyafternoon,whensheenteredhersittingroomshefoundherselfconfrontingaratherpatheticpicture.
Inherownspecialandpeteasy-chairbeforethebrightfire,Becky—withacoalsmudgeonhernoseandseveralonherapron,withherpoorlittlecaphanginghalfoffherhead,andanemptycoalboxonthefloornearher—satfastasleep,tiredoutbeyondeventheenduranceofherhard-workingyoungbody.
Shehadbeensentuptoputthebedroomsinorderfortheevening.
Therewereagreatmanyofthem,andshehadbeenrunningaboutallday.
Sara’sroomsshehadsaveduntilthelast.
Theywerenotliketheotherrooms,whichwereplainandbare.
Ordinarypupilswereexpectedtobesatisfiedwithmerenecessaries.
Sara’scomfortablesittingroomseemedabowerofluxurytothescullerymaid,thoughitwas,infact,merelyanice,brightlittleroom.
Buttherewerepicturesandbooksinit,andcuriousthingsfromIndia;therewasasofaandthelow,softchair;Emilysatinachairofherown,withtheairofapresidinggoddess,andtherewasalwaysaglowingfireandapolishedgrate.
Beckysavedituntiltheendofherafternoon’swork,becauseitrestedhertogointoit,andshealwayshopedtosnatchafewminutestositdowninthesoftchairandlookabouther,andthinkaboutthewonderfulgoodfortuneofthechildwhoownedsuchsurroundingsandwhowentoutonthecolddaysinbeautifulhatsandcoatsonetriedtocatchaglimpseofthroughthearearailing.
Onthisafternoon,whenshehadsatdown,thesensationofrelieftohershort,achinglegshadbeensowonderfulanddelightfulthatithadseemedtosootheherwholebody,andtheglowofwarmthandcomfortfromthefirehadcreptoverherlikeaspell,until,asshelookedattheredcoals,atired,slowsmilestoleoverhersmudgedface,herheadnoddedforwardwithoutherbeingawareofit,hereyesdrooped,andshefellfastasleep.
ShehadreallybeenonlyabouttenminutesintheroomwhenSaraentered,butshewasinasdeepasleepasifshehadbeen,liketheSleepingBeauty,slumberingforahundredyears.
Butshedidnotlook—poorBecky—likeaSleepingBeautyatall.
Shelookedonlylikeanugly,stunted,worn-outlittlescullerydrudge.
Saraseemedasmuchunlikeherasifshewereacreaturefromanotherworld.
Onthisparticularafternoonshehadbeentakingherdancinglesson,andtheafternoononwhichthedancingmasterappearedwasratheragrandoccasionattheseminary,thoughitoccurredeveryweek.
Thepupilswereattiredintheirprettiestfrocks,andasSaradancedparticularlywell,shewasverymuchbroughtforward,andMariettewasrequestedtomakeherasdiaphanousandfineaspossible.
Todayafrockthecolorofarosehadbeenputonher,andMariettehadboughtsomerealbudsandmadeherawreathtowearonherblacklocks.
Shehadbeenlearninganew,delightfuldanceinwhichshehadbeenskimmingandflyingabouttheroom,likealargerose-coloredbutterfly,andtheenjoymentandexercisehadbroughtabrilliant,happyglowintoherface.
Whensheenteredtheroom,shefloatedinwithafewofthebutterflysteps—andtheresatBecky,noddinghercapsidewaysoffherhead.
“Oh!”criedSara,softly,whenshesawher.“Thatpoorthing!”
Itdidnotoccurtohertofeelcrossatfindingherpetchairoccupiedbythesmall,dingyfigure.
Totellthetruth,shewasquitegladtofinditthere.
Whentheill-usedheroineofherstorywakened,shecouldtalktoher.
Shecrepttowardherquietly,andstoodlookingather.Beckygavealittlesnore.
“Iwishshe’dwakenherself,”Sarasaid.“Idon’tliketowakenher.ButMissMinchinwouldbecrossifshefoundout.I’lljustwaitafewminutes.”
Shetookaseatontheedgeofthetable,andsatswingingherslim,rose-coloredlegs,andwonderingwhatitwouldbebesttodo.
MissAmeliamightcomeinatanymoment,andifshedid,Beckywouldbesuretobescolded.
“Butsheissotired,”shethought.“Sheissotired!”
Apieceofflamingcoalendedherperplexityforherthatverymoment.
Itbrokeofffromalargelumpandfellontothefender.
Beckystarted,andopenedhereyeswithafrightenedgasp.Shedidnotknowshehadfallenasleep.
Shehadonlysatdownforonemomentandfeltthebeautifulglow—andhereshefoundherselfstaringinwildalarmatthewonderfulpupil,whosatperchedquitenearher,likearose-coloredfairy,withinterestedeyes.
Shesprangupandclutchedathercap.Shefeltitdanglingoverherear,andtriedwildlytoputitstraight.
Oh,shehadgotherselfintotroublenowwithavengeance!
Tohaveimpudentlyfallenasleeponsuchayounglady’schair!
Shewouldbeturnedoutofdoorswithoutwages.
Shemadeasoundlikeabigbreathlesssob.
“Oh,miss!Oh,miss!”shestuttered.“Iarstyerpardon,miss!Oh,Ido,miss!”
Sarajumpeddown,andcamequiteclosetoher.
“Don’tbefrightened,”shesaid,quiteasifshehadbeenspeakingtoalittlegirllikeherself.“Itdoesn’tmattertheleastbit.”
“Ididn’tgotodoit,miss,”protestedBecky.“Itwasthewarmfire—an’mebein’sotired.It—itwasn’timpertience!”
Sarabrokeintoafriendlylittlelaugh,andputherhandonhershoulder.
“Youweretired,”shesaid;“youcouldnothelpit.Youarenotreallyawakeyet.”
HowpoorBeckystaredather!Infact,shehadneverheardsuchanice,friendlysoundinanyone’svoicebefore.
Shewasusedtobeingorderedaboutandscolded,andhavingherearsboxed.
Andthisone—inherrose-coloreddancingafternoonsplendor—waslookingatherasifshewerenotaculpritatall—asifshehadarighttobetired—eventofallasleep!
Thetouchofthesoft,slimlittlepawonhershoulderwasthemostamazingthingshehadeverknown.
“Ain’t—ain’tyerangry,miss?”shegasped.“Ain’tyergoin’totellthemissus?”
“No,”criedoutSara.“OfcourseI’mnot.”
Thewoefulfrightinthecoal-smuttedfacemadehersuddenlysosorrythatshecouldscarcelybearit.Oneofherqueerthoughtsrushedintohermind.SheputherhandagainstBecky’scheek.
“Why,”shesaid,“wearejustthesame—Iamonlyalittlegirllikeyou.It’sjustanaccidentthatIamnotyou,andyouarenotme!”
Beckydidnotunderstandintheleast.Hermindcouldnotgraspsuchamazingthoughts,and“anaccident”meanttoheracalamityinwhichsomeonewasrunoverorfelloffaladderandwascarriedto“the‘orspital.”
“A’accident,miss,”sheflutteredrespectfully.“Isit?”
“Yes,”Saraanswered,andshelookedatherdreamilyforamoment.Butthenextshespokeinadifferenttone.SherealizedthatBeckydidnotknowwhatshemeant.
“Haveyoudoneyourwork?”sheasked.“Dareyoustayhereafewminutes?”
Beckylostherbreathagain.
“Here,miss?Me?”
Sararantothedoor,openedit,andlookedoutandlistened.
“Nooneisanywhereabout,”sheexplained.“Ifyourbedroomsarefinished,perhapsyoumightstayatinywhile.Ithought—perhaps—youmightlikeapieceofcake.”
ThenexttenminutesseemedtoBeckylikeasortofdelirium.
Saraopenedacupboard,andgaveherathicksliceofcake.
Sheseemedtorejoicewhenitwasdevouredinhungrybites.
Shetalkedandaskedquestions,andlaugheduntilBecky’sfearsactuallybegantocalmthemselves,andsheonceortwicegatheredboldnessenoughtoaskaquestionorsoherself,daringasshefeltittobe.
“Isthat—”sheventured,lookinglonginglyattherose-coloredfrock.Andsheaskeditalmostinawhisper.“Isthatthereyourbest?”
“Itisoneofmydancing-frocks,”answeredSara.“Ilikeit,don’tyou?”
ForafewsecondsBeckywasalmostspeechlesswithadmiration.
Thenshesaidinanawedvoice,“OnctIseeaprincess.
Iwasstandin’inthestreetwiththecrowdoutsideCovin’Garden,watchin’theswellsgointertheoperer.
An’therewasoneeveryonestaredatmost.
Theysestoeachother,`That’stheprincess.’
Shewasagrowed-upyounglady,butshewaspinkallover—gowndan’cloak,an’flowersan’all.
IcalledhertomindtheminnitIseeyou,sittin’thereonthetable,miss.Youlookedlikeher.”
“I’veoftenthought,”saidSara,inherreflectingvoice,“thatIshouldliketobeaprincess;Iwonderwhatitfeelslike.IbelieveIwillbeginpretendingIamone.”
Beckystaredatheradmiringly,and,asbefore,didnotunderstandherintheleast.
Shewatchedherwithasortofadoration.
VerysoonSaraleftherreflectionsandturnedtoherwithanewquestion.
“Becky,”shesaid,“weren’tyoulisteningtothatstory?”
“Yes,miss,”confessedBecky,alittlealarmedagain.“IknowedIhadn’torter,butitwasthatbeautifulI—Icouldn’thelpit.”
“Ilikedyoutolistentoit,”saidSara.“Ifyoutellstories,youlikenothingsomuchastotellthemtopeoplewhowanttolisten.Idon’tknowwhyitis.Wouldyouliketoheartherest?”
Beckylostherbreathagain.
“Mehearit?”shecried.“LikeasifIwasapupil,miss!AllaboutthePrince—andthelittlewhiteMer-babiesswimmingaboutlaughing—withstarsintheirhair?”
Saranodded.
“Youhaven’ttimetohearitnow,I’mafraid,”shesaid;“butifyouwilltellmejustwhattimeyoucometodomyrooms,Iwilltrytobehereandtellyouabitofiteverydayuntilitisfinished.
It’salovelylongone—andI’malwaysputtingnewbitstoit.”
“Then,”breathedBecky,devoutly,“Iwouldn’tmindhowheavythecoalboxeswas—orwhatthecookdonetome,if—ifImighthavethattothinkof.”
“Youmay,”saidSara.“I’lltellitalltoyou.”
WhenBeckywentdownstairs,shewasnotthesameBeckywhohadstaggeredup,loadeddownbytheweightofthecoalscuttle.
Shehadanextrapieceofcakeinherpocket,andshehadbeenfedandwarmed,butnotonlybycakeandfire.
Somethingelsehadwarmedandfedher,andthesomethingelsewasSara.
WhenshewasgoneSarasatonherfavoriteperchontheendofhertable.Herfeetwereonachair,herelbowsonherknees,andherchininherhands.
“IfIwasaprincess—arealprincess,”shemurmured,“Icouldscatterlargesstothepopulace.
ButevenifIamonlyapretendprincess,Icaninventlittlethingstodoforpeople.Thingslikethis.
Shewasjustashappyasifitwaslargess.
I’llpretendthattodothingspeoplelikeisscatteringlargess.I’vescatteredlargess.”
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