13. One of the Populace

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

　　The winter was a wretched one. There were days on which Saratramped through snow when she went on her errands; there wereworse days when the snow melted and combined itself with mud toform slush; there were others when the fog was so thick that thelamps in the street were lighted all day and London looked as ithad looked the afternoon, several years ago, when the cab haddriven through the thoroughfares with Sara tucked up on its seat,leaning against her father's shoulder. On such days the windowsof the house of the Large Family always looked delightfully cozyand alluring, and the study in which the Indian gentleman satglowed with warmth and rich color. But the attic was dismalbeyond words. There were no longer sunsets or sunrises to lookat, and scarcely ever any stars, it seemed to Sara. The cloudshung low over the skylight and were either gray or mud-color, ordropping heavy rain. At four o'clock in the afternoon, even whenthere was no special fog, the daylight was at an end. If it wasnecessary to go to her attic for anything, Sara was obliged tolight a candle. The women in the kitchen were depressed, andthat made them more ill-tempered than ever. Becky was drivenlike a little slave."'Twarn't for you, miss," she said hoarsely to Sara one nightwhen she had crept into the attic--"'twarn't for you, an' theBastille, an' bein' the prisoner in the next cell, I should die.That there does seem real now, doesn't it? The missus is morelike the head jailer every day she lives. I can jest see thembig keys you say she carries. The cook she's like one of theunder-jailers. Tell me some more, please, miss--tell me aboutthe subt'ranean passage we've dug under the walls.""I'll tell you something warmer," shivered Sara. "Get yourcoverlet and wrap it round you, and I'll get mine, and we willhuddle close together on the bed, and I'll tell you about thetropical forest where the Indian gentleman's monkey used to live.When I see him sitting on the table near the window and lookingout into the street with that mournful expression, I always feelsure he is thinking about the tropical forest where he used toswing by his tail from coconut trees. I wonder who caught him,and if he left a family behind who had depended on him forcoconuts.""That is warmer, miss," said Becky, gratefully; "but, someways,even the Bastille is sort of heatin' when you gets to tellin'about it.""That is because it makes you think of something else," saidSara, wrapping the coverlet round her until only her small darkface was to be seen looking out of it. "I've noticed this. Whatyou have to do with your mind, when your body is miserable, is tomake it think of something else.""Can you do it, miss?" faltered Becky, regarding her withadmiring eyes.Sara knitted her brows a moment."Sometimes I can and sometimes I can't," she said stoutly. "Butwhen I can I'm all right. And what I believe is that we alwayscould--if we practiced enough. I've been practicing a good deallately, and it's beginning to be easier than it used to be. Whenthings are horrible--just horrible--I think as hard as ever I canof being a princess. I say to myself, `I am a princess, and I ama fairy one, and because I am a fairy nothing can hurt me or makeme uncomfortable.' You don't know how it makes you forget"--with a laugh.She had many opportunities of making her mind think of somethingelse, and many opportunities of proving to herself whether or notshe was a princess. But one of the strongest tests she was everput to came on a certain dreadful day which, she often thoughtafterward, would never quite fade out of her memory even in theyears to come.For several days it had rained continuously; the streets werechilly and sloppy and full of dreary, cold mist; there was mudeverywhere--sticky London mud--and over everything the pall ofdrizzle and fog. Of course there were several long and tiresomeerrands to be done--there always were on days like this--andSara was sent out again and again, until her shabby clothes weredamp through. The absurd old feathers on her forlorn hat weremore draggled and absurd than ever, and her downtrodden shoeswere so wet that they could not hold any more water. Added tothis, she had been deprived of her dinner, because Miss Minchinhad chosen to punish her. She was so cold and hungry and tiredthat her face began to have a pinched look, and now and then somekind-hearted person passing her in the street glanced at her withsudden sympathy. But she did not know that. She hurried on,trying to make her mind think of something else. It was reallyvery necessary. Her way of doing it was to "pretend" and"suppose" with all the strength that was left in her. But reallythis time it was harder than she had ever found it, and once ortwice she thought it almost made her more cold and hungry insteadof less so. But she persevered obstinately, and as the muddywater squelched through her broken shoes and the wind seemedtrying to drag her thin jacket from her, she talked to herself asshe walked, though she did not speak aloud or even move her lips."Suppose I had dry clothes on," she thought. "Suppose I hadgood shoes and a long, thick coat and merino stockings and awhole umbrella. And suppose--suppose--just when I was near abaker's where they sold hot buns, I should find sixpence--whichbelonged to nobody. Suppose if I did, I should go into the shopand buy six of the hottest buns and eat them all withoutstopping."Some very odd things happen in this world sometimes.It certainly was an odd thing that happened to Sara. She had tocross the street just when she was saying this to herself. The mudwas dreadful--she almost had to wade. She picked her way ascarefully as she could, but she could not save herself much;only, in picking her way, she had to look down at her feet andthe mud, and in looking down--just as she reached the pavement--she saw something shining in the gutter. It was actually a pieceof silver--a tiny piece trodden upon by many feet, but still withspirit enough left to shine a little. Not quite a sixpence, butthe next thing to it--a fourpenny piece.In one second it was in her cold little red-and-blue hand."Oh," she gasped, "it is true! It is true!"And then, if you will believe me, she looked straight at theshop directly facing her. And it was a baker's shop, and acheerful, stout, motherly woman with rosy cheeks was putting intothe window a tray of delicious newly baked hot buns, fresh fromthe oven--large, plump, shiny buns, with currants in them.It almost made Sara feel faint for a few seconds--the shock, andthe sight of the buns, and the delightful odors of warm breadfloating up through the baker's cellar window.She knew she need not hesitate to use the little piece of money.It had evidently been lying in the mud for some time, and itsowner was completely lost in the stream of passing people whocrowded and jostled each other all day long."But I'll go and ask the baker woman if she has lost anything,"she said to herself, rather faintly. So she crossed thepavement and put her wet foot on the step. As she did so she sawsomething that made her stop.It was a little figure more forlorn even than herself--a littlefigure which was not much more than a bundle of rags, from whichsmall, bare, red muddy feet peeped out, only because the ragswith which their owner was trying to cover them were not longenough. Above the rags appeared a shock head of tangled hair,and a dirty face with big, hollow, hungry eyes.Sara knew they were hungry eyes the moment she saw them, and shefelt a sudden sympathy."This," she said to herself, with a little sigh, "is one of thepopulace--and she is hungrier than I am."The child--this "one of the populace"--stared up at Sara, andshuffled herself aside a little, so as to give her room to pass.She was used to being made to give room to everybody. She knewthat if a policeman chanced to see her he would tell her to"move on."Sara clutched her little fourpenny piece and hesitated for a fewseconds. Then she spoke to her."Are you hungry?" she asked.The child shuffled herself and her rags a little more."Ain't I jist?" she said in a hoarse voice. "Jist ain't I?""Haven't you had any dinner?" said Sara."No dinner," more hoarsely still and with more shuffling. "Noryet no bre'fast--nor yet no supper. No nothin'."Since when?" asked Sara."Dunno. Never got nothin' today--nowhere. I've axed an' axed."Just to look at her made Sara more hungry and faint. But thosequeer little thoughts were at work in her brain, and she wastalking to herself, though she was sick at heart."If I'm a princess," she was saying, "if I'm a princess--whenthey were poor and driven from their thrones--they always shared--with the populace--if they met one poorer and hungrier thanthemselves. They always shared. Buns are a penny each. If ithad been sixpence I could have eaten six. It won't be enough foreither of us. But it will be better than nothing.""Wait a minute," she said to the beggar child.She went into the shop. It was warm and smelled deliciously.The woman was just going to put some more hot buns into thewindow."If you please," said Sara, "have you lost fourpence--a silverfourpence?" And she held the forlorn little piece of money outto her.The woman looked at it and then at her--at her intense littleface and draggled, once fine clothes."Bless us, no," she answered. "Did you find it?""Yes," said Sara. "In the gutter.""Keep it, then," said the woman. "It may have been there for aweek, and goodness knows who lost it. You could never find out.""I know that," said Sara, "but I thought I would ask you.""Not many would," said the woman, looking puzzled and interestedand good-natured all at once."Do you want to buy something?" she added, as she saw Saraglance at the buns."Four buns, if you please," said Sara. "Those at a penny each."The woman went to the window and put some in a paper bag.Sara noticed that she put in six."I said four, if you please," she explained. "I have onlyfourpence.""I'll throw in two for makeweight," said the woman with her good-natured look. "I dare say you can eat them sometime. Aren't youhungry?"A mist rose before Sara's eyes."Yes," she answered. "I am very hungry, and I am much obligedto you for your kindness; and"--she was going to add--"there is achild outside who is hungrier than I am." But just at thatmoment two or three customers came in at once, and each oneseemed in a hurry, so she could only thank the woman again and goout.The beggar girl was still huddled up in the corner of the step.She looked frightful in her wet and dirty rags. She was staringstraight before her with a stupid look of suffering, and Sarasaw her suddenly draw the back of her roughened black hand acrossher eyes to rub away the tears which seemed to have surprised herby forcing their way from under her lids. She was muttering toherself.Sara opened the paper bag and took out one of the hot buns, whichhad already warmed her own cold hands a little."See," she said, putting the bun in the ragged lap, "this isnice and hot. Eat it, and you will not feel so hungry."The child started and stared up at her, as if such sudden,amazing good luck almost frightened her; then she snatched up thebun and began to cram it into her mouth with great wolfishbites."Oh, my! Oh, my!" Sara heard her say hoarsely, in wilddelight. "Oh my!"Sara took out three more buns and put them down.The sound in the hoarse, ravenous voice was awful."She is hungrier than I am," she said to herself. "She'sstarving." But her hand trembled when she put down the fourthbun. "I'm not starving," she said--and she put down the fifth.The little ravening London savage was still snatching anddevouring when she turned away. She was too ravenous to give anythanks, even if she had ever been taught politeness--which shehad not. She was only a poor little wild animal."Good-bye," said Sara.When she reached the other side of the street she looked back.The child had a bun in each hand and had stopped in the middle ofa bite to watch her. Sara gave her a little nod, and the child,after another stare--a curious lingering stare--jerked hershaggy head in response, and until Sara was out of sight she didnot take another bite or even finish the one she had begun.At that moment the baker-woman looked out of her shop window."Well, I never!" she exclaimed. "If that young un hasn't givenher buns to a beggar child! It wasn't because she didn't wantthem, either. Well, well, she looked hungry enough. I'd givesomething to know what she did it for."She stood behind her window for a few moments and pondered. Thenher curiosity got the better of her. She went to the door andspoke to the beggar child."Who gave you those buns?" she asked her. The child nodded herhead toward Sara's vanishing figure."What did she say?" inquired the woman."Axed me if I was 'ungry," replied the hoarse voice."What did you say?""Said I was jist.""And then she came in and got the buns, and gave them to you, didshe?"The child nodded."How many?""Five."The woman thought it over."Left just one for herself," she said in a low voice. "And shecould have eaten the whole six--I saw it in her eyes."She looked after the little draggled far-away figure and feltmore disturbed in her usually comfortable mind than she had feltfor many a day."I wish she hadn't gone so quick," she said. "I'm blest if sheshouldn't have had a dozen." Then she turned to the child."Are you hungry yet?" she said."I'm allus hungry," was the answer, "but 't ain't as bad as itwas.""Come in here," said the woman, and she held open the shop door.The child got up and shuffled in. To be invited into a warmplace full of bread seemed an incredible thing. She did notknow what was going to happen. She did not care, even."Get yourself warm," said the woman, pointing to a fire in thetiny back room. "And look here; when you are hard up for a bitof bread, you can come in here and ask for it. I'm blest if Iwon't give it to you for that young one's sake." * * *Sara found some comfort in her remaining bun. At all events, itwas very hot, and it was better than nothing. As she walkedalong she broke off small pieces and ate them slowly to makethem last longer."Suppose it was a magic bun," she said, "and a bite was as muchas a whole dinner. I should be overeating myself if I went onlike this."It was dark when she reached the square where the SelectSeminary was situated. The lights in the houses were alllighted. The blinds were not yet drawn in the windows of theroom where she nearly always caught glimpses of members of theLarge Family. Frequently at this hour she could see thegentleman she called Mr. Montmorency sitting in a big chair, witha small swarm round him, talking, laughing, perching on the armsof his seat or on his knees or leaning against them. Thisevening the swarm was about him, but he was not seated. On thecontrary, there was a good deal of excitement going on. It wasevident that a journey was to be taken, and it was Mr.Montmorency who was to take it. A brougham stood before thedoor, and a big portmanteau had been strapped upon it. Thechildren were dancing about, chattering and hanging on to theirfather. The pretty rosy mother was standing near him, talking asif she was asking final questions. Sara paused a moment to seethe little ones lifted up and kissed and the bigger ones bentover and kissed also."I wonder if he will stay away long," she thought. "Theportmanteau is rather big. Oh, dear, how they will miss him! Ishall miss him myself--even though he doesn't know I am alive."When the door opened she moved away--remembering the sixpence--but she saw the traveler come out and stand against thebackground of the warmly-lighted hall, the older children stillhovering about him."Will Moscow be covered with snow?" said the little girl Janet."Will there be ice everywhere?""Shall you drive in a drosky?" cried another. "Shall you see theCzar?""I will write and tell you all about it," he answered, laughing."And I will send you pictures of muzhiks and things. Run intothe house. It is a hideous damp night. I would rather stay withyou than go to Moscow. Good night! Good night, duckies! Godbless you!" And he ran down the steps and jumped into thebrougham."If you find the little girl, give her our love," shouted GuyClarence, jumping up and down on the door mat.Then they went in and shut the door."Did you see," said Janet to Nora, as they went back to the room--"the little-girl-who-is-not-a-beggar was passing? She lookedall cold and wet, and I saw her turn her head over her shoulderand look at us. Mamma says her clothes always look as if theyhad been given her by someone who was quite rich--someone whoonly let her have them because they were too shabby to wear. Thepeople at the school always send her out on errands on thehorridest days and nights there are."Sara crossed the square to Miss Minchin's area steps, feelingfaint and shaky."I wonder who the little girl is," she thought--"the little girlhe is going to look for."And she went down the area steps, lugging her basket and findingit very heavy indeed, as the father of the Large Family drovequickly on his way to the station to take the train which was tocarry him to Moscow, where he was to make his best efforts tosearch for the lost little daughter of Captain Crewe.