19. Anne

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

　　Never had such joy reigned in the nursery of the Large Family.Never had they dreamed of such delights as resulted from anintimate acquaintance with the little-girl-who-was-not-a-beggar.The mere fact of her sufferings and adventures made her apriceless possession. Everybody wanted to be told over and overagain the things which had happened to her. When one was sittingby a warm fire in a big, glowing room, it was quite delightful tohear how cold it could be in an attic. It must be admitted thatthe attic was rather delighted in, and that its coldness andbareness quite sank into insignificance when Melchisedec wasremembered, and one heard about the sparrows and things one couldsee if one climbed on the table and stuck one's head andshoulders out of the skylight.Of course the thing loved best was the story of the banquet andthe dream which was true. Sara told it for the first time theday after she had been found. Several members of the LargeFamily came to take tea with her, and as they sat or curled up onthe hearth-rug she told the story in her own way, and the Indiangentleman listened and watched her. When she had finished shelooked up at him and put her hand on his knee."That is my part," she said. "Now won't you tell your part ofit, Uncle Tom?" He had asked her to call him always "Uncle Tom.""I don't know your part yet, and it must be beautiful."So he told them how, when he sat alone, ill and dull andirritable, Ram Dass had tried to distract him by describing thepassers by, and there was one child who passed oftener than anyone else; he had begun to be interested in her--partly perhapsbecause he was thinking a great deal of a little girl, and partlybecause Ram Dass had been able to relate the incident of hisvisit to the attic in chase of the monkey. He had described itscheerless look, and the bearing of the child, who seemed as ifshe was not of the class of those who were treated as drudges andservants. Bit by bit, Ram Dass had made discoveries concerningthe wretchedness of her life. He had found out how easy a matterit was to climb across the few yards of roof to the skylight, andthis fact had been the beginning of all that followed."Sahib," he had said one day, "I could cross the slates and makethe child a fire when she is out on some errand. When shereturned, wet and cold, to find it blazing, she would think amagician had done it."The idea had been so fanciful that Mr. Carrisford's sad face hadlighted with a smile, and Ram Dass had been so filled withrapture that he had enlarged upon it and explained to his masterhow simple it would be to accomplish numbers of other things. Hehad shown a childlike pleasure and invention, and thepreparations for the carrying out of the plan had filled many aday with interest which would otherwise have dragged wearily. Onthe night of the frustrated banquet Ram Dass had kept watch, allhis packages being in readiness in the attic which was his own;and the person who was to help him had waited with him, asinterested as himself in the odd adventure. Ram Dass had beenlying flat upon the slates, looking in at the skylight, when thebanquet had come to its disastrous conclusion; he had been sureof the profoundness of Sara's wearied sleep; and then, with adark lantern, he had crept into the room, while his companionremained outside and handed the things to him. When Sara hadstirred ever so faintly, Ram Dass had closed the lantern-slideand lain flat upon the floor. These and many other excitingthings the children found out by asking a thousand questions."I am so glad," Sara said. "I am so glad it was you who weremy friend!"There never were such friends as these two became. Somehow,they seemed to suit each other in a wonderful way. The Indiangentleman had never had a companion he liked quite as much as heliked Sara. In a month's time he was, as Mr. Carmichael hadprophesied he would be, a new man. He was always amused andinterested, and he began to find an actual pleasure in thepossession of the wealth he had imagined that he loathed theburden of. There were so many charming things to plan for Sara.There was a little joke between them that he was a magician, andit was one of his pleasures to invent things to surprise her.She found beautiful new flowers growing in her room, whimsicallittle gifts tucked under pillows, and once, as they sat togetherin the evening, they heard the scratch of a heavy paw on thedoor, and when Sara went to find out what it was, there stood agreat dog--a splendid Russian boarhound--with a grand silver andgold collar bearing an inscription. "I am Boris," it read; "Iserve the Princess Sara."There was nothing the Indian gentleman loved more than therecollection of the little princess in rags and tatters. Theafternoons in which the Large Family, or Ermengarde and Lottie,gathered to rejoice together were very delightful. But the hourswhen Sara and the Indian gentleman sat alone and read or talkedhad a special charm of their own. During their passing manyinteresting things occurred.One evening, Mr. Carrisford, looking up from his book, noticedthat his companion had not stirred for some time, but sat gazinginto the fire."What are you `supposing,' Sara?" he asked.Sara looked up, with a bright color on her cheek."I was supposing," she said; "I was remembering that hungry day,and a child I saw.""But there were a great many hungry days," said the Indiangentleman, with rather a sad tone in his voice. "Which hungryday was it?""I forgot you didn't know," said Sara. "It was the day thedream came true."Then she told him the story of the bun shop, and the fourpenceshe picked up out of the sloppy mud, and the child who washungrier than herself. She told it quite simply, and in as fewwords as possible; but somehow the Indian gentleman found itnecessary to shade his eyes with his hand and look down at thecarpet."And I was supposing a kind of plan," she said, when she hadfinished. "I was thinking I should like to do something.""What was it?" said Mr. Carrisford, in a low tone. "You may doanything you like to do, princess.""I was wondering," rather hesitated Sara--"you know, you say Ihave so much money--I was wondering if I could go to see the bun-woman, and tell her that if, when hungry children--particularlyon those dreadful days--come and sit on the steps, or look in atthe window, she would just call them in and give them somethingto eat, she might send the bills to me. Could I do that?""You shall do it tomorrow morning," said the Indian gentleman."Thank you," said Sara. "You see, I know what it is to behungry, and it is very hard when one cannot even pretend itaway.""Yes, yes, my dear," said the Indian gentleman. "Yes, yes, itmust be. Try to forget it. Come and sit on this footstool nearmy knee, and only remember you are a princess.""Yes," said Sara, smiling; "and I can give buns and bread to thepopulace." And she went and sat on the stool, and the Indiangentleman (he used to like her to call him that, too, sometimes)drew her small dark head down on his knee and stroked her hair.The next morning, Miss Minchin, in looking out of her window, sawthe things she perhaps least enjoyed seeing. The Indiangentleman's carriage, with its tall horses, drew up before thedoor of the next house, and its owner and a little figure, warmwith soft, rich furs, descended the steps to get into it. Thelittle figure was a familiar one, and reminded Miss Minchin ofdays in the past. It was followed by another as familiar--thesight of which she found very irritating. It was Becky, who, inthe character of delighted attendant, always accompanied heryoung mistress to her carriage, carrying wraps and belongings.Already Becky had a pink, round face.A little later the carriage drew up before the door of thebaker's shop, and its occupants got out, oddly enough, just asthe bun-woman was putting a tray of smoking-hot buns into thewindow.When Sara entered the shop the woman turned and looked at her,and, leaving the buns, came and stood behind the counter. For amoment she looked at Sara very hard indeed, and then her good-natured face lighted up."I'm sure that I remember you, miss," she said. "And yet--""Yes," said Sara; "once you gave me six buns for fourpence, and--""And you gave five of 'em to a beggar child," the woman broke inon her. "I've always remembered it. I couldn't make it out atfirst." She turned round to the Indian gentleman and spoke hernext words to him. "I beg your pardon, sir, but there's not manyyoung people that notices a hungry face in that way; and I'vethought of it many a time. Excuse the liberty, miss,"--to Sara--"but you look rosier and--well, better than you did that--that--""I am better, thank you," said Sara. "And--I am much happier--and I have come to ask you to do something for me.""Me, miss!" exclaimed the bun-woman, smiling cheerfully. "Why,bless you! Yes, miss. What can I do?"And then Sara, leaning on the counter, made her little proposalconcerning the dreadful days and the hungry waifs and the buns.The woman watched her, and listened with an astonished face."Why, bless me!" she said again when she had heard it all; "it'llbe a pleasure to me to do it. I am a working-woman myself andcannot afford to do much on my own account, and there's sights oftrouble on every side; but, if you'll excuse me, I'm bound to sayI've given away many a bit of bread since that wet afternoon,just along o' thinking of you--an' how wet an' cold you was, an'how hungry you looked; an' yet you gave away your hot buns as ifyou was a princess."The Indian gentleman smiled involuntarily at this, and Sarasmiled a little, too, remembering what she had said to herselfwhen she put the buns down on the ravenous child's ragged lap."She looked so hungry," she said. "She was even hungrier than Iwas.""She was starving," said the woman. "Many's the time she's toldme of it since--how she sat there in the wet, and felt as if awolf was a-tearing at her poor young insides.""Oh, have you seen her since then?" exclaimed Sara. "Do youknow where she is?""Yes, I do," answered the woman, smiling more good-naturedly thanever. "Why, she's in that there back room, miss, an' has beenfor a month; an' a decent, well-meanin' girl she's goin' to turnout, an' such a help to me in the shop an' in the kitchen asyou'd scarce believe, knowin' how she's lived."She stepped to the door of the little back parlor and spoke; andthe next minute a girl came out and followed her behind thecounter. And actually it was the beggar-child, clean and neatlyclothed, and looking as if she had not been hungry for a longtime. She looked shy, but she had a nice face, now that she wasno longer a savage, and the wild look had gone from her eyes.She knew Sara in an instant, and stood and looked at her as ifshe could never look enough."You see," said the woman, "I told her to come when she washungry, and when she'd come I'd give her odd jobs to do; an' Ifound she was willing, and somehow I got to like her; and the endof it was, I've given her a place an' a home, and she helps me,an' behaves well, an' is as thankful as a girl can be. Hername's Anne. She has no other."The children stood and looked at each other for a few minutes;and then Sara took her hand out of her muff and held it outacross the counter, and Anne took it, and they looked straightinto each other's eyes."I am so glad," Sara said. "And I have just thought ofsomething. Perhaps Mrs. Brown will let you be the one to givethe buns and bread to the children. Perhaps you would like to doit because you know what it is to be hungry, too.""Yes, miss," said the girl.And, somehow, Sara felt as if she understood her, though shesaid so little, and only stood still and looked and looked afterher as she went out of the shop with the Indian gentleman, andthey got into the carriage and drove away.