3. Ermengarde

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

　　On that first morning, when Sara sat at Miss Minchin's side,aware that the whole schoolroom was devoting itself to observingher, she had noticed very soon one little girl, about her ownage, who looked at her very hard with a pair of light, ratherdull, blue eyes. She was a fat child who did not look as if shewere in the least clever, but she had a good-naturedly poutingmouth. Her flaxen hair was braided in a tight pigtail, tied witha ribbon, and she had pulled this pigtail around her neck, andwas biting the end of the ribbon, resting her elbows on the desk,as she stared wonderingly at the new pupil. When MonsieurDufarge began to speak to Sara, she looked a little frightened;and when Sara stepped forward and, looking at him with theinnocent, appealing eyes, answered him, without any warning, inFrench, the fat little girl gave a startled jump, and grew quitered in her awed amazement. Having wept hopeless tears for weeksin her efforts to remember that "la mere" meant "the mother," and"le pere," "the father,"-- when one spoke sensible English--itwas almost too much for her suddenly to find herself listening toa child her own age who seemed not only quite familiar with thesewords, but apparently knew any number of others, and could mixthem up with verbs as if they were mere trifles.She stared so hard and bit the ribbon on her pigtail so fastthat she attracted the attention of Miss Minchin, who, feelingextremely cross at the moment, immediately pounced upon her."Miss St. John!" she exclaimed severely. "What do you mean bysuch conduct? Remove your elbows! Take your ribbon out of yourmouth! Sit up at once!"Upon which Miss St. John gave another jump, and when Lavinia andJessie tittered she became redder than ever--so red, indeed, thatshe almost looked as if tears were coming into her poor, dull,childish eyes; and Sara saw her and was so sorry for her that shebegan rather to like her and want to be her friend. It was a wayof hers always to want to spring into any fray in which someonewas made uncomfortable or unhappy."If Sara had been a boy and lived a few centuries ago," herfather used to say, "she would have gone about the country withher sword drawn, rescuing and defending everyone in distress.She always wants to fight when she sees people in trouble."So she took rather a fancy to fat, slow, little Miss St. John,and kept glancing toward her through the morning. She saw thatlessons were no easy matter to her, and that there was no dangerof her ever being spoiled by being treated as a show pupil. HerFrench lesson was a pathetic thing. Her pronunciation made evenMonsieur Dufarge smile in spite of himself, and Lavinia andJessie and the more fortunate girls either giggled or looked ather in wondering disdain. But Sara did not laugh. She tried tolook as if she did not hear when Miss St. John called "le bonpain," "lee bong pang." She had a fine, hot little temper of herown, and it made her feel rather savage when she heard thetitters and saw the poor, stupid, distressed child's face."It isn't funny, really," she said between her teeth, as shebent over her book. "They ought not to laugh."When lessons were over and the pupils gathered together ingroups to talk, Sara looked for Miss St. John, and finding herbundled rather disconsolately in a window-seat, she walked overto her and spoke. She only said the kind of thing little girlsalways say to each other by way of beginning an acquaintance, butthere was something friendly about Sara, and people always feltit."What is your name?" she said.To explain Miss St. John's amazement one must recall that a newpupil is, for a short time, a somewhat uncertain thing; and ofthis new pupil the entire school had talked the night beforeuntil it fell asleep quite exhausted by excitement andcontradictory stories. A new pupil with a carriage and a ponyand a maid, and a voyage from India to discuss, was not anordinary acquaintance."My name's Ermengarde St. John," she answered."Mine is Sara Crewe," said Sara. "Yours is very pretty. Itsounds like a story book.""Do you like it?" fluttered Ermengarde. "I--I like yours."Miss St. John's chief trouble in life was that she had a cleverfather. Sometimes this seemed to her a dreadful calamity. Ifyou have a father who knows everything, who speaks seven or eightlanguages, and has thousands of volumes which he has apparentlylearned by heart, he frequently expects you to be familiar withthe contents of your lesson books at least; and it is notimprobable that he will feel you ought to be able to remember afew incidents of history and to write a French exercise.Ermengarde was a severe trial to Mr. St. John. He could notunderstand how a child of his could be a notably and unmistakablydull creature who never shone in anything."Good heavens!" he had said more than once, as he stared at her,"there are times when I think she is as stupid as her AuntEliza!"If her Aunt Eliza had been slow to learn and quick to forget athing entirely when she had learned it, Ermengarde was strikinglylike her. She was the monumental dunce of the school, and itcould not be denied."She must be made to learn," her father said to Miss Minchin.Consequently Ermengarde spent the greater part of her life indisgrace or in tears. She learned things and forgot them; or,if she remembered them, she did not understand them. So it wasnatural that, having made Sara's acquaintance, she should sitand stare at her with profound admiration."You can speak French, can't you?" she said respectfully.Sara got on to the window-seat, which was a big, deep one, and,tucking up her feet, sat with her hands clasped round her knees."I can speak it because I have heard it all my life," sheanswered. "You could speak it if you had always heard it.""Oh, no, I couldn't," said Ermengarde. "I never could speakit!""Why?" inquired Sara, curiously.Ermengarde shook her head so that the pigtail wobbled."You heard me just now," she said. "I'm always like that. Ican't say the words. They're so queer."She paused a moment, and then added with a touch of awe in hervoice, "You are clever, aren't you?"Sara looked out of the window into the dingy square, where thesparrows were hopping and twittering on the wet, iron railingsand the sooty branches of the trees. She reflected a fewmoments. She had heard it said very often that she was "clever,"and she wondered if she was--and if she was, how it had happened."I don't know," she said. "I can't tell." Then, seeing amournful look on the round, chubby face, she gave a little laughand changed the subject."Would you like to see Emily?" she inquired."Who is Emily?" Ermengarde asked, just as Miss Minchin haddone."Come up to my room and see," said Sara, holding out her hand.They jumped down from the window-seat together, and wentupstairs."Is it true," Ermengarde whispered, as they went through the hall--"is it true that you have a playroom all to yourself?""Yes," Sara answered. "Papa asked Miss Minchin to let me haveone, because--well, it was because when I play I make up storiesand tell them to myself, and I don't like people to hear me. Itspoils it if I think people listen."They had reached the passage leading to Sara's room by thistime, and Ermengarde stopped short, staring, and quite losing herbreath."You make up stories!" she gasped. "Can you do that--as well asspeak French? Can you?"Sara looked at her in simple surprise."Why, anyone can make up things," she said. "Have you nevertried?"She put her hand warningly on Ermengarde's."Let us go very quietly to the door," she whispered, "and then Iwill open it quite suddenly; perhaps we may catch her."She was half laughing, but there was a touch of mysterious hopein her eyes which fascinated Ermengarde, though she had not theremotest idea what it meant, or whom it was she wanted to"catch," or why she wanted to catch her. Whatsoever she meant,Ermengarde was sure it was something delightfully exciting. So,quite thrilled with expectation, she followed her on tiptoe alongthe passage. They made not the least noise until they reachedthe door. Then Sara suddenly turned the handle, and threw itwide open. Its opening revealed the room quite neat and quiet, afire gently burning in the grate, and a wonderful doll sitting ina chair by it, apparently reading a book."Oh, she got back to her seat before we could see her!" Saraexplained. "Of course they always do. They are as quick aslightning."Ermengarde looked from her to the doll and back again."Can she--walk?" she asked breathlessly."Yes," answered Sara. "At least I believe she can. At least Ipretend I believe she can. And that makes it seem as if it weretrue. Have you never pretended things?""No," said Ermengarde. "Never. I--tell me about it."She was so bewitched by this odd, new companion that sheactually stared at Sara instead of at Emily--notwithstanding thatEmily was the most attractive doll person she had ever seen."Let us sit down," said Sara, "and I will tell you. It's soeasy that when you begin you can't stop. You just go on and ondoing it always. And it's beautiful. Emily, you must listen.This is Ermengarde St. John, Emily. Ermengarde, this is Emily.Would you like to hold her?""Oh, may I?" said Ermengarde. "May I, really? She isbeautiful!" And Emily was put into her arms.Never in her dull, short life had Miss St. John dreamed of suchan hour as the one she spent with the queer new pupil beforethey heard the lunch-bell ring and were obliged to go downstairs.Sara sat upon the hearth-rug and told her strange things. Shesat rather huddled up, and her green eyes shone and her cheeksflushed. She told stories of the voyage, and stories of India;but what fascinated Ermengarde the most was her fancy about thedolls who walked and talked, and who could do anything they chosewhen the human beings were out of the room, but who must keeptheir powers a secret and so flew back to their places "likelightning" when people returned to the room."We couldn't do it," said Sara, seriously. "You see, it's akind of magic."Once, when she was relating the story of the search for Emily,Ermengarde saw her face suddenly change. A cloud seemed to passover it and put out the light in her shining eyes. She drew herbreath in so sharply that it made a funny, sad little sound, andthen she shut her lips and held them tightly closed, as if shewas determined either to do or not to do something. Ermengardehad an idea that if she had been like any other little girl, shemight have suddenly burst out sobbing and crying. But she didnot."Have you a--a pain?" Ermengarde ventured."Yes," Sara answered, after a moment's silence. "But it is notin my body." Then she added something in a low voice which shetried to keep quite steady, and it was this: "Do you love yourfather more than anything else in all the whole world?"Ermengarde's mouth fell open a little. She knew that it wouldbe far from behaving like a respectable child at a selectseminary to say that it had never occurred to you that you couldlove your father, that you would do anything desperate to avoidbeing left alone in his society for ten minutes. She was,indeed, greatly embarrassed."I--I scarcely ever see him," she stammered. "He is always inthe library--reading things.""I love mine more than all the world ten times over," Sara said."That is what my pain is. He has gone away."She put her head quietly down on her little, huddled-up knees,and sat very still for a few minutes."She's going to cry out loud," thought Ermengarde, fearfully.But she did not. Her short, black locks tumbled about her ears,and she sat still. Then she spoke without lifting her head."I promised him I would bear it," she said. "And I will. Youhave to bear things. Think what soldiers bear! Papa is asoldier. If there was a war he would have to bear marching andthirstiness and, perhaps, deep wounds. And he would never say aword--not one word."Ermengarde could only gaze at her, but she felt that she wasbeginning to adore her. She was so wonderful and different fromanyone else.Presently, she lifted her face and shook back her black locks,with a queer little smile."If I go on talking and talking," she said, "and telling youthings about pretending, I shall bear it better. You don'tforget, but you bear it better."Ermengarde did not know why a lump came into her throat and hereyes felt as if tears were in them."Lavinia and Jessie are `best friends,'" she said ratherhuskily. "I wish we could be `best friends.' Would you have mefor yours? You're clever, and I'm the stupidest child in theschool, but I-- oh, I do so like you!""I'm glad of that," said Sara. "It makes you thankful when youare liked. Yes. We will be friends. And I'll tell you what"--a sudden gleam lighting her face--"I can help you with yourFrench lessons."