The Classic Children's Literature Collection: 39 Classic Novels

by Various Authors

  Five quick knocks answered her.

  “She is coming,” she said.

  Almost immediately the door of the attic opened and Becky appeared. Her eyes were red and her cap was sliding off, and when she caught sight of Ermengarde she began to rub her face nervously with her apron.

  “Don’t mind me a bit, Becky!” cried Ermengarde.

  “Miss Ermengarde has asked you to come in,” said Sara, “because she is going to bring a box of good things up here to us.”

  Becky’s cap almost fell off entirely, she broke in with such excitement.

  “To eat, miss?” she said. “Things that’s good to eat?”

  “Yes,” answered Sara, “and we are going to pretend a party.”

  “And you shall have as much as you WANT to eat,” put in Ermengarde. “I’ll go this minute!”

  She was in such haste that as she tiptoed out of the attic she dropped her red shawl and did not know it had fallen. No one saw it for a minute or so. Becky was too much overpowered by the good luck which had befallen her.

  “Oh, miss! oh, miss!” she gasped; “I know it was you that asked her to let me come. It—it makes me cry to think of it.” And she went to Sara’s side and stood and looked at her worshipingly.

  But in Sara’s hungry eyes the old light had begun to glow and transform her world for her. Here in the attic—with the cold night outside—with the afternoon in the sloppy streets barely passed—with the memory of the awful unfed look in the beggar child’s eyes not yet faded—this simple, cheerful thing had happened like a thing of magic.

  She caught her breath.

  “Somehow, something always happens,” she cried, “just before things get to the very worst. It is as if the Magic did it. If I could only just remember that always. The worst thing never QUITE comes.”

  She gave Becky a little cheerful shake.

  “No, no! You mustn’t cry!” she said. “We must make haste and set the table.”

  “Set the table, miss?” said Becky, gazing round the room. “What’ll we set it with?”

  Sara looked round the attic, too.

  “There doesn’t seem to be much,” she answered, half laughing.

  That moment she saw something and pounced upon it. It was Ermengarde’s red shawl which lay upon the floor.

  “Here’s the shawl,” she cried. “I know she won’t mind it. It will make such a nice red tablecloth.”

  They pulled the old table forward, and threw the shawl over it. Red is a wonderfully kind and comfortable color. It began to make the room look furnished directly.

  “How nice a red rug would look on the floor!” exclaimed Sara. “We must pretend there is one!”

  Her eye swept the bare boards with a swift glance of admiration. The rug was laid down already.

  “How soft and thick it is!” she said, with the little laugh which Becky knew the meaning of; and she raised and set her foot down again delicately, as if she felt something under it.

  “Yes, miss,” answered Becky, watching her with serious rapture. She was always quite serious.

  “What next, now?” said Sara, and she stood still and put her hands over her eyes. “Something will come if I think and wait a little"—in a soft, expectant voice. “The Magic will tell me.”

  One of her favorite fancies was that on “the outside,” as she called it, thoughts were waiting for people to call them. Becky had seen her stand and wait many a time before, and knew that in a few seconds she would uncover an enlightened, laughing face.

  In a moment she did.

  “There!” she cried. “It has come! I know now! I must look among the things in the old trunk I had when I was a princess.”

  She flew to its corner and kneeled down. It had not been put in the attic for her benefit, but because there was no room for it elsewhere. Nothing had been left in it but rubbish. But she knew she should find something. The Magic always arranged that kind of thing in one way or another.

  In a corner lay a package so insignificant-looking that it had been overlooked, and when she herself had found it she had kept it as a relic. It contained a dozen small white handkerchiefs. She seized them joyfully and ran to the table. She began to arrange them upon the red table-cover, patting and coaxing them into shape with the narrow lace edge curling outward, her Magic working its spells for her as she did it.

  “These are the plates,” she said. “They are golden plates. These are the richly embroidered napkins. Nuns worked them in convents in Spain.”

  “Did they, miss?” breathed Becky, her very soul uplifted by the information.

  “You must pretend it,” said Sara. “If you pretend it enough, you will see them.”

  “Yes, miss,” said Becky; and as Sara returned to the trunk she devoted herself to the effort of accomplishing an end so much to be desired.

  Sara turned suddenly to find her standing by the table, looking very queer indeed. She had shut her eyes, and was twisting her face in strange convulsive contortions, her hands hanging stiffly clenched at her sides. She looked as if she was trying to lift some enormous weight.

  “What is the matter, Becky?” Sara cried. “What are you doing?”

  Becky opened her eyes with a start.

  “I was a-’pretendin’,’ miss,” she answered a little sheepishly; “I was tryin’ to see it like you do. I almost did,” with a hopeful grin. “But it takes a lot o’ stren’th.”

  “Perhaps it does if you are not used to it,” said Sara, with friendly sympathy; “but you don’t know how easy it is when you’ve done it often. I wouldn’t try so hard just at first. It will come to you after a while. I’ll just tell you what things are. Look at these.”

  She held an old summer hat in her hand which she had fished out of the bottom of the trunk. There was a wreath of flowers on it. She pulled the wreath off.

  “These are garlands for the feast,” she said grandly. “They fill all the air with perfume. There’s a mug on the wash-stand, Becky. Oh—and bring the soap dish for a centerpiece.”

  Becky handed them to her reverently.

  “What are they now, miss?” she inquired. “You’d think they was made of crockery—but I know they ain’t.”

  “This is a carven flagon,” said Sara, arranging tendrils of the wreath about the mug. “And this"—bending tenderly over the soap dish and heaping it with roses—"is purest alabaster encrusted with gems.”

  She touched the things gently, a happy smile hovering about her lips which made her look as if she were a creature in a dream.

  “My, ain’t it lovely!” whispered Becky.

  “If we just had something for bonbon dishes,” Sara murmured. “There!"—darting to the trunk again. “I remember I saw something this minute.”

  It was only a bundle of wool wrapped in red and white tissue paper, but the tissue paper was soon twisted into the form of little dishes, and was combined with the remaining flowers to ornament the candlestick which was to light the feast. Only the Magic could have made it more than an old table covered with a red shawl and set with rubbish from a long-unopened trunk. But Sara drew back and gazed at it, seeing wonders; and Becky, after staring in delight, spoke with bated breath.

  “This ‘ere,” she suggested, with a glance round the attic—"is it the Bastille now—or has it turned into somethin’ different?”

  “Oh, yes, yes!” said Sara. “Quite different. It is a banquet hall!”

  “My eye, miss!” ejaculated Becky. “A blanket ‘all!” and she turned to view the splendors about her with awed bewilderment.

  “A banquet hall,” said Sara. “A vast chamber where feasts are given. It has a vaulted roof, and a minstrels’ gallery, and a huge chimney filled with blazing oaken logs, and it is brilliant with waxen tapers twinkling on every side.”

  “My eye, Miss Sara!” gasped Becky again.

  Th
en the door opened, and Ermengarde came in, rather staggering under the weight of her hamper. She started back with an exclamation of joy. To enter from the chill darkness outside, and find one’s self confronted by a totally unanticipated festal board, draped with red, adorned with white napery, and wreathed with flowers, was to feel that the preparations were brilliant indeed.

  “Oh, Sara!” she cried out. “You are the cleverest girl I ever saw!”

  “Isn’t it nice?” said Sara. “They are things out of my old trunk. I asked my Magic, and it told me to go and look.”

  “But oh, miss,” cried Becky, “wait till she’s told you what they are! They ain’t just—oh, miss, please tell her,” appealing to Sara.

  So Sara told her, and because her Magic helped her she made her ALMOST see it all: the golden platters—the vaulted spaces—the blazing logs—the twinkling waxen tapers. As the things were taken out of the hamper—the frosted cakes—the fruits—the bonbons and the wine—the feast became a splendid thing.

  “It’s like a real party!” cried Ermengarde.

  “It’s like a queen’s table,” sighed Becky.

  Then Ermengarde had a sudden brilliant thought.

  “I’ll tell you what, Sara,” she said. “Pretend you are a princess now and this is a royal feast.”

  “But it’s your feast,” said Sara; “you must be the princess, and we will be your maids of honor.”

  “Oh, I can’t,” said Ermengarde. “I’m too fat, and I don’t know how. YOU be her.”

  “Well, if you want me to,” said Sara.

  But suddenly she thought of something else and ran to the rusty grate.

  “There is a lot of paper and rubbish stuffed in here!” she exclaimed. “If we light it, there will be a bright blaze for a few minutes, and we shall feel as if it was a real fire.” She struck a match and lighted it up with a great specious glow which illuminated the room.

  “By the time it stops blazing,” Sara said, “we shall forget about its not being real.”

  She stood in the dancing glow and smiled.

  “Doesn’t it LOOK real?” she said. “Now we will begin the party.”

  She led the way to the table. She waved her hand graciously to Ermengarde and Becky. She was in the midst of her dream.

  “Advance, fair damsels,” she said in her happy dream-voice, “and be seated at the banquet table. My noble father, the king, who is absent on a long journey, has commanded me to feast you.” She turned her head slightly toward the corner of the room. “What, ho, there, minstrels! Strike up with your viols and bassoons. Princesses,” she explained rapidly to Ermengarde and Becky, “always had minstrels to play at their feasts. Pretend there is a minstrel gallery up there in the corner. Now we will begin.”

  They had barely had time to take their pieces of cake into their hands—not one of them had time to do more, when—they all three sprang to their feet and turned pale faces toward the door—listening—listening.

  Someone was coming up the stairs. There was no mistake about it. Each of them recognized the angry, mounting tread and knew that the end of all things had come.

  “It’s—the missus!” choked Becky, and dropped her piece of cake upon the floor.

  “Yes,” said Sara, her eyes growing shocked and large in her small white face. “Miss Minchin has found us out.”

  Miss Minchin struck the door open with a blow of her hand. She was pale herself, but it was with rage. She looked from the frightened faces to the banquet table, and from the banquet table to the last flicker of the burnt paper in the grate.

  “I have been suspecting something of this sort,” she exclaimed; “but I did not dream of such audacity. Lavinia was telling the truth.”

  So they knew that it was Lavinia who had somehow guessed their secret and had betrayed them. Miss Minchin strode over to Becky and boxed her ears for a second time.

  “You impudent creature!” she said. “You leave the house in the morning!”

  Sara stood quite still, her eyes growing larger, her face paler. Ermengarde burst into tears.

  “Oh, don’t send her away,” she sobbed. “My aunt sent me the hamper. We’re—only—having a party.”

  “So I see,” said Miss Minchin, witheringly. “With the Princess Sara at the head of the table.” She turned fiercely on Sara. “It is your doing, I know,” she cried. “Ermengarde would never have thought of such a thing. You decorated the table, I suppose—with this rubbish.” She stamped her foot at Becky. “Go to your attic!” she commanded, and Becky stole away, her face hidden in her apron, her shoulders shaking.

  Then it was Sara’s turn again.

  “I will attend to you tomorrow. You shall have neither breakfast, dinner, nor supper!”

  “I have not had either dinner or supper today, Miss Minchin,” said Sara, rather faintly.

  “Then all the better. You will have something to remember. Don’t stand there. Put those things into the hamper again.”

  She began to sweep them off the table into the hamper herself, and caught sight of Ermengarde’s new books.

  “And you"—to Ermengarde—"have brought your beautiful new books into this dirty attic. Take them up and go back to bed. You will stay there all day tomorrow, and I shall write to your papa. What would HE say if he knew where you are tonight?”

  Something she saw in Sara’s grave, fixed gaze at this moment made her turn on her fiercely.

  “What are you thinking of?” she demanded. “Why do you look at me like that?”

  “I was wondering,” answered Sara, as she had answered that notable day in the schoolroom.

  “What were you wondering?”

  It was very like the scene in the schoolroom. There was no pertness in Sara’s manner. It was only sad and quiet.

  “I was wondering,” she said in a low voice, “what MY papa would say if he knew where I am tonight.”

  Miss Minchin was infuriated just as she had been before and her anger expressed itself, as before, in an intemperate fashion. She flew at her and shook her.

  “You insolent, unmanageable child!” she cried. “How dare you! How dare you!”

  She picked up the books, swept the rest of the feast back into the hamper in a jumbled heap, thrust it into Ermengarde’s arms, and pushed her before her toward the door.

  “I will leave you to wonder,” she said. “Go to bed this instant.” And she shut the door behind herself and poor stumbling Ermengarde, and left Sara standing quite alone.

  The dream was quite at an end. The last spark had died out of the paper in the grate and left only black tinder; the table was left bare, the golden plates and richly embroidered napkins, and the garlands were transformed again into old handkerchiefs, scraps of red and white paper, and discarded artificial flowers all scattered on the floor; the minstrels in the minstrel gallery had stolen away, and the viols and bassoons were still. Emily was sitting with her back against the wall, staring very hard. Sara saw her, and went and picked her up with trembling hands.

  “There isn’t any banquet left, Emily,” she said. “And there isn’t any princess. There is nothing left but the prisoners in the Bastille.” And she sat down and hid her face.

  What would have happened if she had not hidden it just then, and if she had chanced to look up at the skylight at the wrong moment, I do not know—perhaps the end of this chapter might have been quite different—because if she had glanced at the skylight she would certainly have been startled by what she would have seen. She would have seen exactly the same face pressed against the glass and peering in at her as it had peered in earlier in the evening when she had been talking to Ermengarde.

  But she did not look up. She sat with her little black head in her arms for some time. She always sat like that when she was trying to bear something in silence. Then she got up and went slowly to the bed.

  “I can’t p
retend anything else—while I am awake,” she said. “There wouldn’t be any use in trying. If I go to sleep, perhaps a dream will come and pretend for me.”

  She suddenly felt so tired—perhaps through want of food—that she sat down on the edge of the bed quite weakly.

  “Suppose there was a bright fire in the grate, with lots of little dancing flames,” she murmured. “Suppose there was a comfortable chair before it—and suppose there was a small table near, with a little hot—hot supper on it. And suppose"—as she drew the thin coverings over her—"suppose this was a beautiful soft bed, with fleecy blankets and large downy pillows. Suppose—suppose—” And her very weariness was good to her, for her eyes closed and she fell fast asleep.

  She did not know how long she slept. But she had been tired enough to sleep deeply and profoundly—too deeply and soundly to be disturbed by anything, even by the squeaks and scamperings of Melchisedec’s entire family, if all his sons and daughters had chosen to come out of their hole to fight and tumble and play.

  When she awakened it was rather suddenly, and she did not know that any particular thing had called her out of her sleep. The truth was, however, that it was a sound which had called her back—a real sound—the click of the skylight as it fell in closing after a lithe white figure which slipped through it and crouched down close by upon the slates of the roof—just near enough to see what happened in the attic, but not near enough to be seen.

  At first she did not open her eyes. She felt too sleepy and—curiously enough—too warm and comfortable. She was so warm and comfortable, indeed, that she did not believe she was really awake. She never was as warm and cozy as this except in some lovely vision.

  “What a nice dream!” she murmured. “I feel quite warm. I—don’t—want—to—wake—up.”

  Of course it was a dream. She felt as if warm, delightful bedclothes were heaped upon her. She could actually FEEL blankets, and when she put out her hand it touched something exactly like a satin-covered eider-down quilt. She must not awaken from this delight—she must be quite still and make it last.