“Up with you, lazybones!” The Stepmother twitched off the blanket. But she was disappointed; nothing was there except a little picture in an oval frame. The snarl on her face changed to a nasty smile as she put it in her pocket.
Next she tried the sink, and out of the pile of washing-up she snatched a saucer so sharply that it got chipped on the tap. “Cracked! One of my beautiful saucers cracked!” She could haul Cinders over the coals for that, at all events.
Next she slithered over to the fire and glared at the cheerful glow upon the hearth. “Blazing like blazes! At this hour!” She grudged the comforting warmth which Cinders had already enjoyed, and shoveled off half the lumps of coal before crossing to find fault with the breakfast table. And there she found as many as her heart desired. “Coffee! Butter! White bread! Honey!” This was the last straw. “HONEY!”
“Who’s there?” asked Cinderella at the door. The glare from the snow outside dazzled her eyes, and she stood blinking over the top of a huge parcel in her arms.
“Who’s there, who’s there?” mocked the Stepmother. “Well may you ask who’s there, you careless, greedy, idle, extravagant—”
“Stepmother,” pleaded Ella.
“Don’t call me Stepmother, call me madam, slut.”
“Yes, madam,” faltered Ella.
“Who said you could eat honey?” The virago advanced on Ella in her bobbing wig.
Ella backed away, murmuring, “Stepmother—madam—”
“Who said you could drink coffee?”
“Madam—” whispered Ella.
“Or eat white bread instead of black, you glutton? Or help yourself to butter, you thief, you sloven?”
“Madam, madam!” Ella dropped the parcel and took flight round the table, the Stepmother after her. At that moment the Father came in, lugging Dobbin’s saddlebags. He let them fall on the floor at the Stepmother’s feet, obliging her to stop. Ella took the chance to slip into the chimney corner. The Stepmother stared icily at the Father.
“So you’ve come home, have you?”
“Yes,” said the Father with a timid little laugh. “Yes, wife, I’ve come home.”
“Home to the kitchen,” sneered the Stepmother. “Hardly the place for gentry, I should have thought.”
“Really, my dear, here’s a welcome!”
“Hoity-toity! What sort of a welcome have you given me? I should have thought it was customary for a husband to salute his wife when he comes home from a journey.”
“I’ve hardly had time, my dear.”
“And how much time does a kiss take, pray?” The Father kissed her cheek meekly. “That didn’t take much time.”
For want of something better to do, he lifted the heavy parcel onto the table. “And what is that?” demanded the Stepmother.
“Just a few knickknacks I picked up in the city.”
“For me?” cried the Stepmother.
“For you and the girls.”
“Presents!” The Stepmother’s face turned red with excitement; her greedy eyes glittered. “Presents for me and the girls? I dote on presents!” She shouted up the basement stairs, “Araminta, come down! Come down, Arethusa! Presents!”
From the bedroom above two grumbling voices answered, “Oh, Ma! You’ve woke us up!”
One of the voices drawled, “You’ve spoiled my beauty sleep.” (That was Arethusa.)
The other voice whined, “You’ve ruined my dream.” (Araminta.)
The two voices drawled and whined together, “It isn’t ten o’clock yet.”
“Come down at once!” shouted the Stepmother. She turned on Ella, who had taken scissors to the parcel. “Never cut string, wasteful!” Then she slapped her. Then she tried to untie the string and broke her fingernail. Then she glared at her husband as much as to say it was his fault; and then she snatched up the bread knife and cut the knots herself. She was tearing off the paper avidly just as her two daughters flopped and slopped down the stairs in their sloppy, floppy wrappers. They yawned and rubbed their eyes as they came, to show how ill-treated they were.
Arethusa was stupid and greedy and fat and flouncy. She had her hair in curlpapers; her pink wrapper had a lot of cheap lace about it, badly torn and very dirty; most of the buttons had come off, and the hem was undone in two places; she had used a whole packet of safety pins to pin the hem up and pull the front together, and the torn lace was held in place by eleven brooches out of Christmas crackers.
Araminta was peevish and sly and thin and scratchy. Her hair was in six plaits no thicker than rat tails; her mustard-yellow wrapper was stained with bacon fat and egg yolk, and her bony elbows were so sharp that they poked through holes they had made in the sleeves.
In spite of all this Arethusa considered herself a dream of beauty, and Araminta thought herself the tip-top of fascination. They were spiteful to Ella, scornful of their Stepfather, and ill-humored with their Mother. Nothing contented them, and one was just as silly as the other.
“Oh, Ma, what is all the fuss about?” grumbled Arethusa.
“You might let a person have her sleep out,” sniffed Araminta. “You might have more thoughtfulness for a person’s nerves.”
“You know how it upsets me to be waked so sudden,” said Arethusa, shuffling to the breakfast table and dipping her thumb in the honey pot. “I’m as sensitive as a plant, that I am.” She sucked her thumb and wiped it down her dressing gown.
“Thusy darling, Minty sweet, my precious pair!” cooed their Mother. “Your Stepfather’s come home.”
“What if he has?” said Arethusa. “You know I’m no good without my twelve hours.”
“You’re not much good with it,” said Araminta.
Arethusa pinched Araminta.
“Don’t you pinch me, you nasty fat lump!”
“You shut up, you horrid old splinter!”
“I’ll give you splinters!” Araminta crooked her nails. Arethusa doubled her fists.
“My pets, my pets!” cried their Mother. “I didn’t wake you for nothing. Your pa has not come back empty-handed.” She displayed the parcel, with its contents bursting through the torn wrappings. The Sisters pounced upon it, screaming, “Presents!”
“Pa, Pa!” cried Thusa. “Did you bring the silks and satins I said about?”
“And my sapphires and rubies?” cried Minta.
“And my sugarplums?”
“And my ostrich feathers?”
“Everything,” the Father assured them. “I remembered everything. So that’s all right, eh?” He smiled anxiously at Ella, who had slipped back into her corner, and hoped she was smiling at him from the shadows.
The Sisters were crumpling and rumpling the contents of the parcel on the table. Arethusa dragged out two gleaming dress lengths crossly. “Blue satin! Pink silk! I distinctly said for blue silk and pink satin. It is disappointing.”
Araminta was examining some glittering jewelry spitefully. “A ruby necklace and a sapphire tiara! Didn’t I tell you sapphire necklace and ruby tiara? I do call it a shame.”
The crosspatches made faces at the Father and threw the presents on the floor.
“I’m very sorry,” he said. “I tried all over the place, really I did—but it’s better than nothing, eh?”
“I think nothing is better than a disappointment,” sulked Arethusa.
“You mean you think nothing is worse than a disappointment,” snapped Araminta.
“No I don’t, do I, Ma?”
“Yes she does, Ma, doesn’t she?”
The Stepmother tried to soothe them. “Never mind, pets, look at these scarves—and these laces, and these fans!”
Araminta made a sudden grab. “There’s my ostrich feathers!” She stuck them round her head.
“There’s my sugarplums!” Arethusa snatched a bagful out of the muddle and crammed her mouth with sweets.
“Give everybody one, dear,” said the Stepmother.
“What for?” asked Arethusa.
“It shows a nice nature.�
��
“Oh, all right,” said Arethusa glumly. “There’s one for you”—she popped a sugarplum into the Stepmother’s mouth—“and one for you”—she did the same to the Father—“and one for you”—she put her tongue out at Araminta as she pushed the sweetmeat in, and went to Ella, standing on the hearth—“and one for—the fire!” She threw Ella’s sugarplum into the flames, saying, “Yah!”
“What a sense of humor!” said the Stepmother fondly. “You want your breakfast, you poor neglected pets. Don’t stand there idling,” she said to Cinderella. “Get their breakfast at once.”
The Father ventured mildly, “Ella hasn’t had hers yet.”
“She can finish the milk in the jug.” The Stepmother looked into the jug of yesterday’s milk. “Why, she has finished it, the greedy-guts!”
“I gave it to Tabitha,” said Ella.
“If you gave it to Tabitha that’s your lookout. Lay the trays for my daughters, and see they have plenty of coffee, and butter, and white bread—”
“And cream and brown sugar—” said Thusa.
“And scrambled eggs on toast—” said Minta.
“And HONEY!” said the Stepmother, shepherding her daughters toward the stairs. “Come along, pets.”
At that moment a tremendous fanfare of trumpets broke the silence of the snow outside the window.
CHAPTER IV
Invitations to the Ball
“WHAT’S THAT?” DEMANDED the Stepmother.
Araminta and Arethusa had already flown to the window and were making white blobs of their noses against the panes.
“Look, look!” squeaked Araminta. “It’s a man!”
“It’s a man!” squealed Arethusa. “Don’t push me.”
“I’m not pushing. It’s a grand man!”
“A very grand man!” gasped Arethusa. “You are pushing.”
“I’m not! You’re shoving me.”
“That’s right, dig your skinny elbows into my poor ribs. I’ll be as blue as blackberries tomorrow.”
“Go on, shove your great shoulders into my backbone, do! I’ll be as black as blueberries tonight.”
Another fanfare trumpeted from the road. The girls’ eyes gobbled up the red-and-gold figure outside the window. “Ma, Ma! It’s the grandest man you ever saw. You never did see such grandness!”
The Father looked over their shoulders and said, “It’s the King’s Herald.”
“Never!” cried the Stepmother, running to the window and pushing all three out of place.
“And the King’s Trumpeter in front,” said the Father, “and the King’s Footman behind with a sackful of letters.”
“Ma, Ma!” squealed Arethusa. “Do you think he’s got a letter for us?”
“Ma, Ma!” squealed Araminta. “He’s giving us the go-by!” She made a dash for the door, calling, “Hi, hi! Here we are!”
“Here we are! Hi, hi!” echoed Arethusa.
The Stepmother dragged them back. “What are you thinking of? We can’t receive the King’s Herald in the kitchen.”
But the mischief was done. The King’s Herald, who had been looking about for the front door, supposed this was it. He made a sign with his haughty forefinger to the Trumpeter. The Trumpeter kicked the door open and marched in, blowing a still louder fanfare as he came. The Herald followed him—a grand man indeed! So elegant in his deportment that a swan would have looked clumsy beside him, so richly beribboned and gold-laced that a peacock would have shut its dingy tail for shame. The Footman was hardly noticeable as he entered last, in spite of his satin sackful of letters.
“Ladies!” The Herald removed his feathered hat and made three bows, completed by three flourishes; each bow was deeper than the one before, and each flourish swung the hat higher to the ceiling.
The ladies curtsied as elegantly as they could in their floppy dressing gowns.
“Sir!” said the Stepmother.
“Sir!” simpered Araminta.
“Sir!” gulped Arethusa, catching her bedroom slipper in her untidy hem and grabbing a chair back so as not to topple over.
The Herald’s manners were as superior as his appearance. He seemed to notice nothing, and gave Arethusa full time to recover her balance before he pronounced, “I come on the King’s business.”
The King’s! The Stepmother pulled herself together and, waving a regal hand to the basement stairs, said in her company voice, “Shall we proceed to the parlor?” She could not bear so genteel a gentleman to suppose that she and her daughters frequented the kitchen.
The Herald was, however, so self-sufficient that he had no need to suppose anything whatever. “The kitchen suffices,” he assured her. “Time presses.”
The Stepmother supposed, nevertheless, that he was supposing all manner of things. “You catch us, as it were,” she explained, “at an unlikely hour.”
“Apologies on apologies for the inconvenience.” The Herald’s flourish swept the ceiling.
“Sir!” The ladies’ curtsies swept the floor, but this time Arethusa held on to the chair before she went down.
The Herald came to the point. “I have, you understand, three thousand invitations to deliver before midday.”
“Invitations?” said the Stepmother, pricking up her ears.
“To us?” asked the Sisters, clasping their hands.
“To every eligible female in the land,” replied the Herald. The Trumpeter blew a fanfare that made the crockery rattle in the sink.
The Stepmother grabbed each girl by the wrist and presented them as if they had been at Court. “My daughters, sir! Arethusa.” Arethusa bobbed. “Araminta.” Araminta ducked. Their wrappers flew open, revealing their nightdresses. The Stepmother observed, “They are not, so to speak, up yet.”
“The fault,” said the Herald politely, “is mine.” He addressed the Sisters. “You are not married?”
“Oh no,” giggled Arethusa, “not in the least.”
Araminta sniggered. “Do we look it?”
“True, ladies,” agreed the Herald. “I might have guessed.” He signaled the Footman; the Footman advanced and opened the mouth of the sack. The Herald dipped in a finger and thumb and produced a large ivory card, printed in gold. “Allow me.” He presented the card to Arethusa, dipped again, and presented a second card to Araminta. “Permit me.”
Bursting with excitement, the Sisters read in turn.
“The King commands—”
“Your presence at a ball—”
“At the Royal Palace tonight—”
“At ten o’clock.”
“Fail not at your peril!” they read together.
“Incomparable phraseology!” breathed the Stepmother. The King! A ball! At the Palace! What could this sumptuous invitation portend?
The Herald had not yet finished with the sack. He brought forth a third card, which he presented to the Stepmother. “Parents are requested to attend.”
His gesture included the Father, who ventured to ask, “And what, sir, is the purpose of this function?”
“The King seeks a bride for his son. At the ball she will be selected.”
The Herald signed to the Footman to close the sack; and having performed his duties, relaxed sufficiently to glance about him. His eyes fell on a little figure in the shadows. “Who is that by the chimney?” he inquired.
The three ladies stopped gloating over their cards, and their gleeful faces became grumpy ones.
“That?” Arethusa tossed her head. “She don’t count.”
“She’s nobody,” sneered Araminta.
“Everybody, in the King’s eyes, is somebody,” said the Herald. “Who is she?”
The Father said timidly, “She’s Ella, sir, my—”
But the Stepmother squashed him. She wasn’t going to have this superior personage connect her with the kitchen slut. “She’s just the Stepsister, sir. She cleans the steps, you know.”
The Herald addressed himself to the little figure. “Your name is Ella?”
; “Yes, sir,” she answered shyly.
“You are unmarried?”
“Yes, sir.”
“She can’t come to the ball!” spat Araminta; and Arethusa fumed, “It’d spoil everything!”
The Herald dipped into the sack again and extended a gilt-edged card to the little figure. “Your invitation, Miss Ella.” The ladies dared not protest. “I have my duties. I perform them. All cards to be presented at the gates. No admittance without one. Ladies!” He bowed so low that his topknot brushed his shoe buckle. “Your servant!”
The Trumpeter blew a fanfare. The Footman opened the door. The Herald passed outside into the snow. His attendants followed him. The door closed.
Dazed with happiness, Ella stood looking at her gold-edged invitation. Her eyes were so blurred with tears of joy that she could not read the golden words on the ivory. But she knew what they were. “The King commands your presence at a ball. . . . At the Royal Palace tonight. . . . At ten o’clock.”
Nothing so wonderful had happened to her since her Mother died. It was too wonderful to be true!
CHAPTER V
The Miniature
OH YES! IT was too wonderful to be true—and it wasn’t going to be true, if Minta and Thusa knew it! They pranced toward Ella, one on each side, mincing and bowing and mimicking the Herald. “Your invitation, Miss Ella!—Miss Ella, your invitation!”
Minta twitched the precious card out of Ella’s hand and dashed across the room. But this was more than Ella could put up with. She chased Minta fiercely, crying, “Give it to me! Give it to me!” and snatched the invitation back.
Minta sneered, “There’s manners!” and Thusa said, “I’ll give her manners!” and they prepared to set about their little Stepsister, who hugged the ivory card against her breast and trembled half with terror, half with anger.
The Glass Slipper Page 2
