12. The Other Side of the Wall

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

　　When one lives in a row of houses, it is interesting to think ofthe things which are being done and said on the other side ofthe wall of the very rooms one is living in. Sara was fond ofamusing herself by trying to imagine the things hidden by thewall which divided the Select Seminary from the Indiangentleman's house. She knew that the schoolroom was next to theIndian gentleman's study, and she hoped that the wall was thickso that the noise made sometimes after lesson hours would notdisturb him."I am growing quite fond of him," she said to Ermengarde; "Ishould not like him to be disturbed. I have adopted him for afriend. You can do that with people you never speak to at all.You can just watch them, and think about them and be sorry forthem, until they seem almost like relations. I'm quite anxioussometimes when I see the doctor call twice a day.""I have very few relations," said Ermengarde, reflectively, "andI'm very glad of it. I don't like those I have. My two auntsare always saying, `Dear me, Ermengarde! You are very fat. Youshouldn't eat sweets,' and my uncle is always asking me thingslike, `When did Edward the Third ascend the throne?' and, `Whodied of a surfeit of lampreys?'"Sara laughed."People you never speak to can't ask you questions like that,"she said; "and I'm sure the Indian gentleman wouldn't even if hewas quite intimate with you. I am fond of him."She had become fond of the Large Family because they lookedhappy; but she had become fond of the Indian gentleman because helooked unhappy. He had evidently not fully recovered from somevery severe illness. In the kitchen--where, of course, theservants, through some mysterious means, knew everything--therewas much discussion of his case. He was not an Indian gentlemanreally, but an Englishman who had lived in India. He had metwith great misfortunes which had for a time so imperilled hiswhole fortune that he had thought himself ruined and disgracedforever. The shock had been so great that he had almost died ofbrain fever; and ever since he had been shattered in health,though his fortunes had changed and all his possessions had beenrestored to him. His trouble and peril had been connected withmines."And mines with diamonds in 'em!" said the cook. "No savin's ofmine never goes into no mines--particular diamond ones"-- with aside glance at Sara. "We all know somethin' of them." "He feltas my papa felt," Sara thought. "He was ill as my papa was; buthe did not die."So her heart was more drawn to him than before. When she wassent out at night she used sometimes to feel quite glad, becausethere was always a chance that the curtains of the house nextdoor might not yet be closed and she could look into the warmroom and see her adopted friend. When no one was about she usedsometimes to stop, and, holding to the iron railings, wish himgood night as if he could hear her."Perhaps you can feel if you can't hear," was her fancy."Perhaps kind thoughts reach people somehow, even throughwindows and doors and walls. Perhaps you feel a little warm andcomforted, and don't know why, when I am standing here in thecold and hoping you will get well and happy again. I am so sorryfor you," she would whisper in an intense little voice. "I wishyou had a `Little Missus' who could pet you as I used to pet papawhen he had a headache. I should like to be your `Little Missus'myself, poor dear! Good night--good night. God bless you!"She would go away, feeling quite comforted and a little warmerherself. Her sympathy was so strong that it seemed as if it mustreach him somehow as he sat alone in his armchair by the fire,nearly always in a great dressing gown, and nearly always withhis forehead resting in his hand as he gazed hopelessly into thefire. He looked to Sara like a man who had a trouble on his mindstill, not merely like one whose troubles lay all in the past."He always seems as if he were thinking of something that hurtshim now", she said to herself, "but he has got his money back andhe will get over his brain fever in time, so he ought not to looklike that. I wonder if there is something else."If there was something else--something even servants did nothear of--she could not help believing that the father of theLarge Family knew it--the gentleman she called Mr. Montmorency.Mr. Montmorency went to see him often, and Mrs. Montmorency andall the little Montmorencys went, too, though less often. Heseemed particularly fond of the two elder little girls--the Janetand Nora who had been so alarmed when their small brother Donaldhad given Sara his sixpence. He had, in fact, a very tenderplace in his heart for all children, and particularly for littlegirls. Janet and Nora were as fond of him as he was of them, andlooked forward with the greatest pleasure to the afternoons whenthey were allowed to cross the square and make their well-behavedlittle visits to him. They were extremely decorous little visitsbecause he was an invalid."He is a poor thing," said Janet, "and he says we cheer him up.We try to cheer him up very quietly."Janet was the head of the family, and kept the rest of it inorder. It was she who decided when it was discreet to ask theIndian gentleman to tell stories about India, and it was she whosaw when he was tired and it was the time to steal quietly awayand tell Ram Dass to go to him. They were very fond of Ram Dass.He could have told any number of stories if he had been able tospeak anything but Hindustani. The Indian gentleman's real namewas Mr. Carrisford, and Janet told Mr. Carrisford about theencounter with the little-girl-who-was-not-a-beggar. He was verymuch interested, and all the more so when he heard from Ram Dassof the adventure of the monkey on the roof. Ram Dass made forhim a very clear picture of the attic and its desolateness--ofthe bare floor and broken plaster, the rusty, empty grate, andthe hard, narrow bed."Carmichael," he said to the father of the Large Family, afterhe had heard this description, "I wonder how many of the attics inthis square are like that one, and how many wretched littleservant girls sleep on such beds, while I toss on my downpillows, loaded and harassed by wealth that is, most of it--notmine.""My dear fellow," Mr. Carmichael answered cheerily, "the sooneryou cease tormenting yourself the better it will be for you. Ifyou possessed all the wealth of all the Indies, you could not setright all the discomforts in the world, and if you began torefurnish all the attics in this square, there would stillremain all the attics in all the other squares and streets to putin order. And there you are!"Mr. Carrisford sat and bit his nails as he looked into theglowing bed of coals in the grate."Do you suppose," he said slowly, after a pause--"do you thinkit is possible that the other child--the child I never ceasethinking of, I believe--could be--could possibly be reduced toany such condition as the poor little soul next door?"Mr. Carmichael looked at him uneasily. He knew that the worstthing the man could do for himself, for his reason and hishealth, was to begin to think in the particular way of thisparticular subject."If the child at Madame Pascal's school in Paris was the one youare in search of," he answered soothingly, "she would seem to bein the hands of people who can afford to take care of her. Theyadopted her because she had been the favorite companion of theirlittle daughter who died. They had no other children, and MadamePascal said that they were extremely well-to-do Russians.""And the wretched woman actually did not know where they hadtaken her!" exclaimed Mr. Carrisford.Mr. Carmichael shrugged his shoulders."She was a shrewd, worldly Frenchwoman, and was evidently onlytoo glad to get the child so comfortably off her hands when thefather's death left her totally unprovided for. Women of hertype do not trouble themselves about the futures of children whomight prove burdens. The adopted parents apparently disappearedand left no trace.""But you say `if the child was the one I am in search of. Yousay 'if.' We are not sure. There was a difference in thename.""Madame Pascal pronounced it as if it were Carew instead ofCrewe--but that might be merely a matter of pronunciation. Thecircumstances were curiously similar. An English officer inIndia had placed his motherless little girl at the school. Hehad died suddenly after losing his fortune." Mr. Carmichaelpaused a moment, as if a new thought had occurred to him. "Areyou sure the child was left at a school in Paris? Are you sureit was Paris?""My dear fellow," broke forth Carrisford, with restlessbitterness, "I am sure of nothing. I never saw either the childor her mother. Ralph Crewe and I loved each other as boys, butwe had not met since our school days, until we met in India. Iwas absorbed in the magnificent promise of the mines. He becameabsorbed, too. The whole thing was so huge and glittering thatwe half lost our heads. When we met we scarcely spoke ofanything else. I only knew that the child had been sent toschool somewhere. I do not even remember, now, how I knew it."He was beginning to be excited. He always became excited whenhis still weakened brain was stirred by memories of thecatastrophes of the past.Mr. Carmichael watched him anxiously. It was necessary to asksome questions, but they must be put quietly and with caution."But you had reason to think the school was in Paris?""Yes," was the answer, "because her mother was a Frenchwoman, andI had heard that she wished her child to be educated in Paris.It seemed only likely that she would be there.""Yes," Mr. Carmichael said, "it seems more than probable."The Indian gentleman leaned forward and struck the table with along, wasted hand."Carmichael," he said, "I must find her. If she is alive, she issomewhere. If she is friendless and penniless, it is through myfault. How is a man to get back his nerve with a thing like thaton his mind? This sudden change of luck at the mines has maderealities of all our most fantastic dreams, and poor Crewe'schild may be begging in the street!""No, no," said Carmichael. "Try to be calm. Console yourselfwith the fact that when she is found you have a fortune to handover to her.""Why was I not man enough to stand my ground when things lookedblack?" Carrisford groaned in petulant misery. "I believe Ishould have stood my ground if I had not been responsible forother people's money as well as my own. Poor Crewe had put intothe scheme every penny that he owned. He trusted me--he lovedme. And he died thinking I had ruined him--I--Tom Carrisford,who played cricket at Eton with him. What a villain he must havethought me!""Don't reproach yourself so bitterly.""I don't reproach myself because the speculation threatened tofail--I reproach myself for losing my courage. I ran away likea swindler and a thief, because I could not face my best friendand tell him I had ruined him and his child."The good-hearted father of the Large Family put his hand on hisshoulder comfortingly."You ran away because your brain had given way under the strainof mental torture," he said. "You were half delirious already.If you had not been you would have stayed and fought it out. Youwere in a hospital, strapped down in bed, raving with brainfever, two days after you left the place. Remember that."Carrisford dropped his forehead in his hands."Good God! Yes," he said. "I was driven mad with dread andhorror. I had not slept for weeks. The night I staggered out ofmy house all the air seemed full of hideous things mocking andmouthing at me.""That is explanation enough in itself," said Mr. Carmichael."How could a man on the verge of brain fever judge sanely!"Carrisford shook his drooping head."And when I returned to consciousness poor Crewe was dead--andburied. And I seemed to remember nothing. I did not rememberthe child for months and months. Even when I began to recall herexistence everything seemed in a sort of haze."He stopped a moment and rubbed his forehead. "It sometimesseems so now when I try to remember. Surely I must sometime haveheard Crewe speak of the school she was sent to. Don't you thinkso?""He might not have spoken of it definitely. You never seem evento have heard her real name.""He used to call her by an odd pet name he had invented. Hecalled her his `Little Missus.' But the wretched mines droveeverything else out of our heads. We talked of nothing else. Ifhe spoke of the school, I forgot--I forgot. And now I shallnever remember.""Come, come," said Carmichael. "We shall find her yet. We willcontinue to search for Madame Pascal's good-natured Russians.She seemed to have a vague idea that they lived in Moscow. Wewill take that as a clue. I will go to Moscow.""If I were able to travel, I would go with you," saidCarrisford; "but I can only sit here wrapped in furs and stare atthe fire. And when I look into it I seem to see Crewe's gayyoung face gazing back at me. He looks as if he were asking me aquestion. Sometimes I dream of him at night, and he alwaysstands before me and asks the same question in words. Can youguess what he says, Carmichael?"Mr. Carmichael answered him in a rather low voice."Not exactly," he said."He always says, `Tom, old man--Tom--where is the LittleMissus?'" He caught at Carmichael's hand and clung to it. "Imust be able to answer him--I must!" he said. "Help me to findher. Help me."On the other side of the wall Sara was sitting in her garrettalking to Melchisedec, who had come out for his evening meal."It has been hard to be a princess today, Melchisedec," shesaid. "It has been harder than usual. It gets harder as theweather grows colder and the streets get more sloppy. WhenLavinia laughed at my muddy skirt as I passed her in the hall, Ithought of something to say all in a flash--and I only juststopped myself in time. You can't sneer back at people like that--if you are a princess. But you have to bite your tongue to holdyourself in. I bit mine. It was a cold afternoon, Melchisedec.And it's a cold night."Quite suddenly she put her black head down in her arms, as sheoften did when she was alone."Oh, papa," she whispered, "what a long time it seems since I wasyour `Little Missus'!"This was what happened that day on both sides of the wall.