The Frances Hodgson Burnett MEGAPACK ®. Frances Hodgson BurnettЧитать онлайн книгу.
her to go into it, and she always hoped to snatch a few minutes to sit down in the soft chair and look about her, and think about the wonderful good fortune of the child who owned such surroundings and who went out on the cold days in beautiful hats and coats one tried to catch a glimpse of through the area railing.
On this afternoon, when she had sat down, the sensation of relief to her short, aching legs had been so wonderful and delightful that it had seemed to soothe her whole body, and the glow of warmth and comfort from the fire had crept over her like a spell, until, as she looked at the red coals, a tired, slow smile stole over her smudged face, her head nodded forward without her being aware of it, her eyes drooped, and she fell fast asleep. She had really been only about ten minutes in the room when Sara entered, but she was in as deep a sleep as if she had been, like the Sleeping Beauty, slumbering for a hundred years. But she did not look—poor Becky!—like a Sleeping Beauty at all. She looked only like an ugly, stunted, worn-out little scullery drudge.
Sara seemed as much unlike her as if she were a creature from another world.
On this particular afternoon she had been taking her dancing-lesson, and the afternoon on which the dancing-master appeared was rather a grand occasion at the seminary, though it occurred every week. The pupils were attired in their prettiest frocks, and as Sara danced particularly well, she was very much brought forward, and Mariette was requested to make her as diaphanous and fine as possible.
Today a frock the color of a rose had been put on her, and Mariette had bought some real buds and made her a wreath to wear on her black locks. She had been learning a new, delightful dance in which she had been skimming and flying about the room, like a large rose-colored butterfly, and the enjoyment and exercise had brought a brilliant, happy glow into her face.
When she entered the room, she floated in with a few of the butterfly steps,—and there sat Becky, nodding her cap sideways off her head.
“Oh!” cried Sara, softly, when she saw her. “That poor thing!”
It did not occur to her to feel cross at finding her pet chair occupied by the small, dingy figure. To tell the truth, she was quite glad to find it there. When the ill-used heroine of her story wakened, she could talk to her. She crept toward her quietly, and stood looking at her. Becky gave a little snore.
“I wish she’d waken herself,” Sara said. “I don’t like to waken her. But Miss Minchin would be cross if she found out. I’ll just wait a few minutes.”
She took a seat on the edge of the table, and sat swinging her slim, rose-colored legs, and wondering what it would be best to do. Miss Amelia might come in at any moment, and if she did, Becky would be sure to be scolded.
“But she is so tired,” she thought. “She is so tired!”
A piece of flaming coal ended her perplexity for her that very moment. It broke off from a large lump and fell on to the fender. Becky started, and opened her eyes with a frightened gasp. She did not know she had fallen asleep. She had only sat down for one moment and felt the beautiful glow—and here she found herself staring in wild alarm at the wonderful pupil, who sat perched quite near her, like a rose-colored fairy, with interested eyes.
She sprang up and clutched at her cap. She felt it dangling over her ear, and tried wildly to put it straight. Oh, she had got herself into trouble now with a vengeance! To have impudently fallen asleep on such a young lady’s chair! She would be turned out of doors without wages.
She made a sound like a big breathless sob.
“Oh, miss! Oh, miss!” she stuttered. “I arst yer pardon, miss! Oh, I do, miss!”
Sara jumped down, and came quite close to her.
“Don’t be frightened,” she said, quite as if she had been speaking to a little girl like herself. “It doesn’t matter the least bit.”
“I didn’t go to do it, miss,” protested Becky. “It was the warm fire—an’ me bein’ so tired. It—it wasn’t imperence!”
Sara broke into a friendly little laugh, and put her hand on her shoulder.
“You were tired,” she said; “you could not help it. You are not really awake yet.”
How poor Becky stared at her! In fact, she had never heard such a nice, friendly sound in any one’s voice before. She was used to being ordered about and scolded, and having her ears boxed. And this one—in her rose-colored dancing afternoon splendor—was looking at her as if she were not a culprit at all—as if she had a right to be tired—even to fall asleep! The touch of the soft, slim little paw on her shoulder was the most amazing thing she had ever known.
“Ain’t—ain’t yer angry, miss?” she gasped. “Ain’t yer goin’ to tell the missus?”
“No,” cried out Sara. “Of course I’m not.”
The woful fright in the coal-smutted face made her suddenly so sorry that she could scarcely bear it. One of her queer thoughts rushed into her mind. She put her hand against Becky’s cheek.
“Why,” she said, “we are just the same—I am only a little girl like you. It’s just an accident that I am not you, and you are not me!”
Becky did not understand in the least. Her mind could not grasp such amazing thoughts, and “an accident” meant to her a calamity in which some one was run over or fell off a ladder and was carried to “the ’orspital.”
“A’ accident, miss,” she fluttered respectfully. “Is it?”
“Yes,” Sara answered, and she looked at her dreamily for a moment. But the next she spoke in a different tone. She realized that Becky did not know what she meant.
“Have you done your work?” she asked. “Dare you stay here a few minutes?”
Becky lost her breath again.
“Here, miss? Me?”
Sara ran to the door, opened it, and looked out and listened.
“No one is anywhere about,” she explained. “If your bedrooms are finished, perhaps you might stay a tiny while. I thought—perhaps—you might like a piece of cake.”
The next ten minutes seemed to Becky like a sort of delirium. Sara opened a cupboard, and gave her a thick slice of cake. She seemed to rejoice when it was devoured in hungry bites. She talked and asked questions, and laughed until Becky’s fears actually began to calm themselves, and she once or twice gathered boldness enough to ask a question or so herself, daring as she felt it to be.
“Is that—” she ventured, looking longingly at the rose-colored frock. And she asked it almost in a whisper. “Is that there your best?”
“It is one of my dancing-frocks,” answered Sara. “I like it, don’t you?”
For a few seconds Becky was almost speechless with admiration. Then she said in an awed voice:
“Onct I see a princess. I was standin’ in the street with the crowd outside Covin’ Garden, watchin’ the swells go inter the operer. An’ there was one every one stared at most. They ses to each other, ‘That’s the princess.’ She was a growed-up young lady, but she was pink all over—gownd an’ cloak, an’ flowers an’ all. I called her to mind the minnit I see you, sittin’ there on the table, miss. You looked like her.”
“I’ve often thought,” said Sara, in her reflecting voice, “that I should like to be a princess; I wonder what it feels like. I believe I will begin pretending I am one.”
Becky stared at her admiringly, and, as before, did not understand her in the least. She watched her with a sort of adoration. Very soon Sara left her reflections and turned to her with a new question.
“Becky,” she said, “weren’t you listening to that story?”
“Yes, miss,” confessed Becky, a little alarmed again. “I knowed I hadn’t orter, but it was that beautiful I—I couldn’t help