The Frances Hodgson Burnett MEGAPACK ®. Frances Hodgson BurnettЧитать онлайн книгу.
of his many jokes had been to call her his “little missus” because she had such an old-fashioned air.
He had made wonderful preparations for her birthday. Among other things, a new doll had been ordered in Paris, and her wardrobe was to be, indeed, a marvel of splendid perfection. When she had replied to the letter asking her if the doll would be an acceptable present, Sara had been very quaint.
“I am getting very old,” she wrote; “you see, I shall never live to have another doll given me. This will be my last doll. There is something solemn about it. If I could write poetry, I am sure a poem about ‘A Last Doll’ would be very nice. But I cannot write poetry. I have tried, and it made me laugh. It did not sound like Watts or Coleridge or Shakespeare at all. No one could ever take Emily’s place, but I should respect the Last Doll very much; and I am sure the school would love it. They all like dolls, though some of the big ones—the almost fifteen ones—pretend they are too grown up.”
Captain Crewe had a splitting headache when he read this letter in his bungalow in India. The table before him was heaped with papers and letters which were alarming him and filling him with anxious dread, but he laughed as he had not laughed for weeks.
“Oh,” he said, “she’s better fun every year she lives. God grant this business may right itself and leave me free to run home and see her. What wouldn’t I give to have her little arms round my neck this minute! What wouldn’t I give!”
The birthday was to be celebrated by great festivities. The school-room was to be decorated, and there was to be a party. The boxes containing the presents were to be opened with great ceremony, and there was to be a glittering feast spread in Miss Minchin’s sacred room. When the day arrived the whole house was in a whirl of excitement. How the morning passed nobody quite knew, because there seemed such preparations to be made. The school-room was being decked with garlands of holly; the desks had been moved away, and red covers had been put on the forms which were arrayed round the room against the wall.
When Sara went into her sitting-room in the morning, she found on the table a small, dumpy package, tied up in a piece of brown paper. She knew it was a present, and she thought she could guess whom it came from. She opened it quite tenderly. It was a square pincushion, made of not quite clean red flannel, and black pins had been stuck carefully into it to form the words, “Menny hapy returns.”
“Oh!” cried Sara, with a warm feeling in her heart. “What pains she has taken! I like it so, it—it makes me feel sorrowful.”
But the next moment she was mystified. On the under side of the pincushion was secured a card, bearing in neat letters the name “Miss Amelia Minchin.”
Sara turned it over and over.
“Miss Amelia!” she said to herself. “How can it be!”
And just at that very moment she heard the door being cautiously pushed open and saw Becky peeping round it.
There was an affectionate, happy grin on her face, and she shuffled forward and stood nervously pulling at her fingers.
“Do yer like it, Miss Sara?” she said. “Do yer?”
“Like it?” cried Sara. “You darling Becky, you made it all yourself.”
Becky gave a hysteric but joyful sniff, and her eyes looked quite moist with delight.
“It ain’t nothin’ but flannin, an’ the flannin ain’t new; but I wanted to give yer somethin’ an’ I made it of nights. I knew yer could pretend it was satin with diamond pins in. I tried to when I was makin’ it. The card, miss,” rather doubtfully; “’t warn’t wrong of me to pick it up out o’ the dust-bin, was it? Miss ’Meliar had throwed it away. I hadn’t no card o’ my own, an’ I knowed it wouldn’t be a proper presink if I didn’t pin a card on—so I pinned Miss ’Meliar’s.”
Sara flew at her and hugged her. She could not have told herself or any one else why there was a lump in her throat.
“Oh, Becky!” she cried out, with a queer little laugh. “I love you, Becky,—I do, I do!”
“Oh, miss!” breathed Becky. “Thank yer, miss, kindly; It ain’t good enough for that. The—the flannin wasn’t new.”
CHAPTER VII
THE DIAMOND-MINES AGAIN
When Sara entered the holly-hung school-room in the afternoon, she did so as the head of a sort of procession. Miss Minchin, in her grandest silk dress, led her by the hand. A man-servant followed, carrying the box containing the Last Doll, a housemaid carried a second box, and Becky brought up the rear, carrying a third and wearing a clean apron and a new cap. Sara would have much preferred to enter in the usual way, but Miss Minchin had sent for her, and, after an interview in her private sitting-room, had expressed her wishes.
“This is not an ordinary occasion,” she said. “I do not desire that it should be treated as one.”
So Sara was led grandly in and felt shy when, on her entry, the big girls stared at her and touched each other’s elbows, and the little ones began to squirm joyously in their seats.
“Silence, young ladies!” said Miss Minchin, at the murmur which arose. “James, place the box on the table and remove the lid. Emma, put yours upon a chair. Becky!” suddenly and severely.
Becky had quite forgotten herself in her excitement, and was grinning at Lottie, who was wriggling with rapturous expectation. She almost dropped her box, the disapproving voice so startled her, and her frightened, bobbing courtesy of apology was so funny that Lavinia and Jessie tittered.
“It is not your place to look at the young ladies,” said Miss Minchin. “You forget yourself. Put your box down.”
Becky obeyed with alarmed haste and hastily backed toward the door.
“You may leave us,” Miss Minchin announced to the servants with a wave of her hand.
Becky stepped aside respectfully to allow the superior servants to pass out first. She could not help casting a longing glance at the box on the table. Something made of blue satin was peeping from between the folds of tissue-paper.
“If you please, Miss Minchin,” said Sara, suddenly, “mayn’t Becky stay?”
It was a bold thing to do. Miss Minchin was betrayed into something like a slight jump. Then she put her eye-glass up, and gazed at her show pupil disturbedly.
“Becky!” she exclaimed. “My dearest Sara!”
Sara advanced a step toward her.
“I want her because I know she will like to see the presents,” she explained. “She is a little girl, too, you know.”
Miss Minchin was scandalized. She glanced from one figure to the other.
“My dear Sara,” she said, “Becky is the scullery-maid. Scullery-maids—er—are not little girls.”
It really had not occurred to her to think of them in that light. Scullery-maids were machines who carried coal-scuttles and made fires.
“But Becky is,” said Sara. “And I know she would enjoy herself. Please let her stay—because it is my birthday.”
Miss Minchin replied with much dignity:
“As you ask it as a birthday favor—she may stay. Rebecca, thank Miss Sara for her great kindness.”
Becky had been backing into the corner, twisting the hem of her apron in delighted suspense. She came forward, bobbing courtesies, but between Sara’s eyes and her own there passed a gleam of friendly understanding, while her words tumbled over each other.
“Oh, if you please, miss! I’m that grateful, miss! I did want to see the doll, miss, that I did. Thank you, miss. And thank you, ma’am,”—turning and making an alarmed bob to Miss Minchin,—“for letting me take the liberty.”
Miss Minchin waved her hand