The Frances Hodgson Burnett MEGAPACK ®. Frances Hodgson BurnettЧитать онлайн книгу.
had put on, without Mariette’s help, the cast-aside black-velvet frock. It was too short and tight, and her slender legs looked long and thin, showing themselves from beneath the brief skirt. As she had not found a piece of black ribbon, her short, thick, black hair tumbled loosely about her face and contrasted strongly with its pallor. She held Emily tightly in one arm, and Emily was swathed in a piece of black material.
“Put down your doll,” said Miss Minchin. “What do you mean by bringing her here?”
“No,” Sara answered. “I will not put her down. She is all I have. My papa gave her to me.”
She had always made Miss Minchin feel secretly uncomfortable, and she did so now. She did not speak with rudeness so much as with a cold steadiness with which Miss Minchin felt it difficult to cope—perhaps because she knew she was doing a heartless and inhuman thing.
“You will have no time for dolls in future,” she said. “You will have to work and improve yourself and make yourself useful.”
Sara kept her big, strange eyes fixed on her, and said not a word.
“Everything will be very different now,” Miss Minchin went on. “I suppose Miss Amelia has explained matters to you.”
“Yes,” answered Sara. “My papa is dead. He left me no money. I am quite poor.”
“You are a beggar,” said Miss Minchin, her temper rising at the recollection of what all this meant. “It appears that you have no relations and no home, and no one to take care of you.”
For a moment the thin, pale little face twitched, but Sara again said nothing.
“What are you staring at?” demanded Miss Minchin, sharply. “Are you so stupid that you cannot understand? I tell you that you are quite alone in the world, and have no one to do anything for you, unless I choose to keep you here out of charity.”
“I understand,” answered Sara, in a low tone; and there was a sound as if she had gulped down something which rose in her throat. “I understand.”
“That doll,” cried Miss Minchin, pointing to the splendid birthday gift seated near—“that ridiculous doll, with all her nonsensical, extravagant things—I actually paid the bill for her!”
Sara turned her head toward the chair.
“The Last Doll,” she said. “The Last Doll.” And her little mournful voice had an odd sound.
“The Last Doll, indeed!” said Miss Minchin. “And she is mine, not yours. Everything you own is mine.”
“Please take it away from me, then,” said Sara. “I do not want it.”
If she had cried and sobbed and seemed frightened, Miss Minchin might almost have had more patience with her. She was a woman who liked to domineer and feel her power, and as she looked at Sara’s pale little steadfast face and heard her proud little voice, she quite felt as if her might was being set at naught.
“Don’t put on grand airs,” she said. “The time for that sort of thing is past. You are not a princess any longer. Your carriage and your pony will be sent away—your maid will be dismissed. You will wear your oldest and plainest clothes—your extravagant ones are no longer suited to your station. You are like Becky—you must work for your living.”
To her surprise, a faint gleam of light came into the child’s eyes—a shade of relief.
“Can I work?” she said. “If I can work it will not matter so much. What can I do?”
“You can do anything you are told,” was the answer. “You are a sharp child, and pick up things readily. If you make yourself useful I may let you stay here. You speak French well, and you can help with the younger children.”
“May I?” exclaimed Sara. “Oh, please let me! I know I can teach them. I like them, and they like me.”
“Don’t talk nonsense about people liking you,” said Miss Minchin. “You will have to do more than teach the little ones. You will run errands and help in the kitchen as well as in the school-room. If you don’t please me, you will be sent away. Remember that. Now go.”
Sara stood still just a moment, looking at her. In her young soul, she was thinking deep and strange things. Then she turned to leave the room.
“Stop!” said Miss Minchin. “Don’t you intend to thank me?”
Sara paused, and all the deep, strange thoughts surged up in her breast.
“What for?” she said.
“For my kindness to you,” replied Miss Minchin. “For my kindness in giving you a home.”
Sara made two or three steps toward her. Her thin little chest heaved up and down, and she spoke in a strange, unchildishly fierce way.
“You are not kind,” she said. “You are not kind, and it is not a home.” And she had turned and run out of the room before Miss Minchin could stop her or do anything but stare after her with stony anger.
She went up the stairs slowly, but panting for breath, and she held Emily tightly against her side.
“I wish she could talk,” she said to herself. “If she could speak—if she could speak!”
She meant to go to her room and lie down on the tiger-skin, with her cheek upon the great cat’s head, and look into the fire and think and think and think. But just before she reached the landing Miss Amelia came out of the door and closed it behind her, and stood before it, looking nervous and awkward. The truth was that she felt secretly ashamed of the thing she had been ordered to do.
“You—you are not to go in there,” she said.
“Not go in?” exclaimed Sara, and she fell back a pace.
“That is not your room now,” Miss Amelia answered, reddening a little.
Somehow, all at once, Sara understood. She realized that this was the beginning of the change Miss Minchin had spoken of.
“Where is my room?” she asked, hoping very much that her voice did not shake.
“You are to sleep in the attic next to Becky.”
Sara knew where it was. Becky had told her about it. She turned, and mounted up two flights of stairs. The last one was narrow, and covered with shabby strips of old carpet. She felt as if she were walking away and leaving far behind her the world in which that other child, who no longer seemed herself, had lived. This child, in her short, tight old frock, climbing the stairs to the attic, was quite a different creature.
When she reached the attic door and opened it, her heart gave a dreary little thump. Then she shut the door and stood against it and looked about her.
Yes, this was another world. The room had a slanting roof and was whitewashed. The whitewash was dingy and had fallen off in places. There was a rusty grate, an old iron bedstead, and a hard bed covered with a faded coverlet. Some pieces of furniture too much worn to be used down-stairs had been sent up. Under the skylight in the roof, which showed nothing but an oblong piece of dull gray sky, there stood an old battered red footstool. Sara went to it and sat down. She seldom cried. She did not cry now. She laid Emily across her knees and put her face down upon her and her arms around her, and sat there, her little black head resting on the black draperies, not saying one word, not making one sound.
And as she sat in this silence there came a low tap at the door—such a low, humble one that she did not at first hear it, and, indeed, was not roused until the door was timidly pushed open and a poor tear-smeared face appeared peeping round it. It was Becky’s face, and Becky had been crying furtively for hours and rubbing her eyes with her kitchen apron until she looked strange indeed.
“Oh, miss,” she said under her breath. “Might I—would you allow me—jest to come in?”
Sara lifted her head and looked at her. She tried to begin a