5. Becky

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

　　Of course the greatest power Sara possessed and the one whichgained her even more followers than her luxuries and the factthat she was "the show pupil," the power that Lavinia and certainother girls were most envious of, and at the same time mostfascinated by in spite of themselves, was her power of tellingstories and of making everything she talked about seem like astory, whether it was one or not.Anyone who has been at school with a teller of stories knowswhat the wonder means--how he or she is followed about andbesought in a whisper to relate romances; how groups gather roundand hang on the outskirts of the favored party in the hope ofbeing allowed to join in and listen. Sara not only could tellstories, but she adored telling them. When she sat or stood inthe midst of a circle and began to invent wonderful things, hergreen eyes grew big and shining, her cheeks flushed, and, withoutknowing that she was doing it, she began to act and made what shetold lovely or alarming by the raising or dropping of her voice,the bend and sway of her slim body, and the dramatic movement ofher hands. She forgot that she was talking to listeningchildren; she saw and lived with the fairy folk, or the kings andqueens and beautiful ladies, whose adventures she was narrating.Sometimes when she had finished her story, she was quite out ofbreath with excitement, and would lay her hand on her thin,little, quick-rising chest, and half laugh as if at herself."When I am telling it," she would say, "it doesn't seem as if itwas only made up. It seems more real than you are--more realthan the schoolroom. I feel as if I were all the people in thestory--one after the other. It is queer."She had been at Miss Minchin's school about two years when, onefoggy winter's afternoon, as she was getting out of hercarriage, comfortably wrapped up in her warmest velvets and fursand looking very much grander than she knew, she caught sight, asshe crossed the pavement, of a dingy little figure standing onthe area steps, and stretching its neck so that its wide-openeyes might peer at her through the railings. Something in theeagerness and timidity of the smudgy face made her look at it,and when she looked she smiled because it was her way to smile atpeople.But the owner of the smudgy face and the wide-open eyesevidently was afraid that she ought not to have been caughtlooking at pupils of importance. She dodged out of sight like ajack-in-the-box and scurried back into the kitchen, disappearingso suddenly that if she had not been such a poor little forlornthing, Sara would have laughed in spite of herself. That veryevening, as Sara was sitting in the midst of a group of listenersin a corner of the schoolroom telling one of her stories, thevery same figure timidly entered the room, carrying a coal boxmuch too heavy for her, and knelt down upon the hearth rug toreplenish the fire and sweep up the ashes.She was cleaner than she had been when she peeped through thearea railings, but she looked just as frightened. She wasevidently afraid to look at the children or seem to belistening. She put on pieces of coal cautiously with her fingersso that she might make no disturbing noise, and she swept aboutthe fire irons very softly. But Sara saw in two minutes that shewas deeply interested in what was going on, and that she wasdoing her work slowly in the hope of catching a word here andthere. And realizing this, she raised her voice and spoke moreclearly."The Mermaids swam softly about in the crystal-green water, anddragged after them a fishing-net woven of deep-sea pearls," shesaid. "The Princess sat on the white rock and watched them."It was a wonderful story about a princess who was loved by aPrince Merman, and went to live with him in shining caves underthe sea.The small drudge before the grate swept the hearth once and thenswept it again. Having done it twice, she did it three times;and, as she was doing it the third time, the sound of the storyso lured her to listen that she fell under the spell and actuallyforgot that she had no right to listen at all, and also forgoteverything else. She sat down upon her heels as she knelt on thehearth rug, and the brush hung idly in her fingers. The voice ofthe storyteller went on and drew her with it into winding grottosunder the sea, glowing with soft, clear blue light, and pavedwith pure golden sands. Strange sea flowers and grasses wavedabout her, and far away faint singing and music echoed.The hearth brush fell from the work-roughened hand, and LaviniaHerbert looked round."That girl has been listening," she said.The culprit snatched up her brush, and scrambled to her feet.She caught at the coal box and simply scuttled out of the roomlike a frightened rabbit.Sara felt rather hot-tempered."I knew she was listening," she said. "Why shouldn't she?"Lavinia tossed her head with great elegance."Well," she remarked, "I do not know whether your mamma wouldlike you to tell stories to servant girls, but I know my mammawouldn't like me to do it.""My mamma!" said Sara, looking odd. "I don't believe she wouldmind in the least. She knows that stories belong to everybody.""I thought," retorted Lavinia, in severe recollection, "that yourmamma was dead. How can she know things?""Do you think she doesn't know things?" said Sara, in her sternlittle voice. Sometimes she had a rather stern little voice."Sara's mamma knows everything," piped in Lottie. "So does mymamma--'cept Sara is my mamma at Miss Minchin's--my other oneknows everything. The streets are shining, and there are fieldsand fields of lilies, and everybody gathers them. Sara tells mewhen she puts me to bed.""You wicked thing," said Lavinia, turning on Sara; "making fairystories about heaven.""There are much more splendid stories in Revelation," returnedSara. "Just look and see! How do you know mine are fairystories? But I can tell you"--with a fine bit of unheavenlytemper--"you will never find out whether they are or not ifyou're not kinder to people than you are now. Come along,Lottie." And she marched out of the room, rather hoping that shemight see the little servant again somewhere, but she found notrace of her when she got into the hall."Who is that little girl who makes the fires?" she askedMariette that night.Mariette broke forth into a flow of description.Ah, indeed, Mademoiselle Sara might well ask. She was a forlornlittle thing who had just taken the place of scullery maid--though, as to being scullery maid, she was everything elsebesides. She blacked boots and grates, and carried heavy coal-scuttles up and down stairs, and scrubbed floors and cleanedwindows, and was ordered about by everybody. She was fourteenyears old, but was so stunted in growth that she looked abouttwelve. In truth, Mariette was sorry for her. She was so timidthat if one chanced to speak to her it appeared as if her poor,frightened eyes would jump out of her head."What is her name?" asked Sara, who had sat by the table, withher chin on her hands, as she listened absorbedly to the recital.Her name was Becky. Mariette heard everyone below-stairscalling, "Becky, do this," and "Becky, do that," every fiveminutes in the day.Sara sat and looked into the fire, reflecting on Becky for sometime after Mariette left her. She made up a story of whichBecky was the ill-used heroine. She thought she looked as if shehad never had quite enough to eat. Her very eyes were hungry.She hoped she should see her again, but though she caught sightof her carrying things up or down stairs on several occasions,she always seemed in such a hurry and so afraid of being seenthat it was impossible to speak to her.But a few weeks later, on another foggy afternoon, when sheentered her sitting room she found herself confronting a ratherpathetic picture. In her own special and pet easy-chair beforethe bright fire, Becky--with a coal smudge on her nose andseveral on her apron, with her poor little cap hanging half offher head, and an empty coal box on the floor near her--sat fastasleep, tired out beyond even the endurance of her hard-workingyoung body. She had been sent up to put the bedrooms in orderfor the evening. There were a great many of them, and she hadbeen running about all day. Sara's rooms she had saved until thelast. They were not like the other rooms, which were plain andbare. Ordinary pupils were expected to be satisfied with merenecessaries. Sara's comfortable sitting room seemed a bower ofluxury to the scullery maid, though it was, in fact, merely anice, bright little room. But there were pictures and books init, and curious things from India; there was a sofa and the low,soft chair; Emily sat in a chair of her own, with the air of apresiding goddess, and there was always a glowing fire and apolished grate. Becky saved it until the end of her afternoon'swork, because it rested her to go into it, and she always hopedto snatch a few minutes to sit down in the soft chair and lookabout her, and think about the wonderful good fortune of thechild who owned such surroundings and who went out on the colddays in beautiful hats and coats one tried to catch a glimpse ofthrough the area railing.On this afternoon, when she had sat down, the sensation ofrelief to her short, aching legs had been so wonderful anddelightful that it had seemed to soothe her whole body, and theglow of warmth and comfort from the fire had crept over her likea spell, until, as she looked at the red coals, a tired, slowsmile stole over her smudged face, her head nodded forwardwithout her being aware of it, her eyes drooped, and she fellfast asleep. She had really been only about ten minutes in theroom when Sara entered, but she was in as deep a sleep as if shehad been, like the Sleeping Beauty, slumbering for a hundredyears. But she did not look--poor Becky-- like a Sleeping Beautyat all. She looked only like an ugly, stunted, worn-out littlescullery drudge.Sara seemed as much unlike her as if she were a creature fromanother world.On this particular afternoon she had been taking her dancinglesson, and the afternoon on which the dancing master appearedwas rather a grand occasion at the seminary, though it occurredevery week. The pupils were attired in their prettiest frocks,and as Sara danced particularly well, she was very much broughtforward, and Mariette was requested to make her as diaphanous andfine as possible.Today a frock the color of a rose had been put on her, andMariette had bought some real buds and made her a wreath to wearon her black locks. She had been learning a new, delightfuldance in which she had been skimming and flying about the room,like a large rose-colored butterfly, and the enjoyment andexercise had brought a brilliant, happy glow into her face.When she entered the room, she floated in with a few of thebutterfly steps--and there sat Becky, nodding her cap sidewaysoff her head."Oh!" cried Sara, softly, when she saw her. "That poor thing!"It did not occur to her to feel cross at finding her pet chairoccupied by the small, dingy figure. To tell the truth, she wasquite glad to find it there. When the ill-used heroine of herstory wakened, she could talk to her. She crept toward herquietly, and stood looking at her. Becky gave a little snore."I wish she'd waken herself," Sara said. "I don't like to wakenher. But Miss Minchin would be cross if she found out. I'lljust wait a few minutes."She took a seat on the edge of the table, and sat swinging herslim, rose-colored legs, and wondering what it would be best todo. Miss Amelia might come in at any moment, and if she did,Becky would be sure to be scolded."But she is so tired," she thought. "She is so tired!"A piece of flaming coal ended her perplexity for her that verymoment. It broke off from a large lump and fell on to thefender. Becky started, and opened her eyes with a frightenedgasp. She did not know she had fallen asleep. She had only satdown for one moment and felt the beautiful glow--and here shefound herself staring in wild alarm at the wonderful pupil, whosat perched quite near her, like a rose-colored fairy, withinterested eyes.She sprang up and clutched at her cap. She felt it danglingover her ear, and tried wildly to put it straight. Oh, she hadgot herself into trouble now with a vengeance! To haveimpudently fallen asleep on such a young lady's chair! She wouldbe turned out of doors without wages.She made a sound like a big breathless sob."Oh, miss! Oh, miss!" she stuttered. "I arst yer pardon, miss!Oh, I do, miss!"Sara jumped down, and came quite close to her."Don't be frightened," she said, quite as if she had beenspeaking to a little girl like herself. "It doesn't matter theleast bit.""I didn't go to do it, miss," protested Becky. "It was the warmfire--an' me bein' so tired. It--it wasn't impertience!"Sara broke into a friendly little laugh, and put her hand on hershoulder."You were tired," she said; "you could not help it. You are notreally awake yet."How poor Becky stared at her! In fact, she had never heard sucha nice, friendly sound in anyone's voice before. She was used tobeing ordered about and scolded, and having her ears boxed. Andthis one--in her rose-colored dancing afternoon splendor--waslooking at her as if she were not a culprit at all--as if she hada right to be tired--even to fall asleep! The touch of thesoft, slim little paw on her shoulder was the most amazing thingshe had ever known."Ain't--ain't yer angry, miss?" she gasped. "Ain't yer goin' totell the missus?""No," cried out Sara. "Of course I'm not."The woeful fright in the coal-smutted face made her suddenly sosorry that she could scarcely bear it. One of her queerthoughts rushed into her mind. She put her hand against Becky'scheek."Why," she said, "we are just the same--I am only a little girllike you. It's just an accident that I am not you, and you arenot me!"Becky did not understand in the least. Her mind could not graspsuch amazing thoughts, and "an accident" meant to her a calamityin which some one was run over or fell off a ladder and wascarried to "the 'orspital.""A' accident, miss," she fluttered respectfully. "Is it?""Yes," Sara answered, and she looked at her dreamily for amoment. But the next she spoke in a different tone. Sherealized that Becky did not know what she meant."Have you done your work?" she asked. "Dare you stay here a fewminutes?"Becky lost her breath again."Here, miss? Me?"Sara ran to the door, opened it, and looked out and listened."No one is anywhere about," she explained. "If your bedrooms arefinished, perhaps you might stay a tiny while. I thought--perhaps--you might like a piece of cake."The next ten minutes seemed to Becky like a sort of delirium.Sara opened a cupboard, and gave her a thick slice of cake. Sheseemed to rejoice when it was devoured in hungry bites. Shetalked and asked questions, and laughed until Becky's fearsactually began to calm themselves, and she once or twicegathered boldness enough to ask a question or so herself, daringas she felt it to be."Is that--" she ventured, looking longingly at the rose-coloredfrock. And she asked it almost in a whisper. "Is that thereyour best?""It is one of my dancing-frocks," answered Sara. "I like it,don't you?"For a few seconds Becky was almost speechless with admiration.Then she said in an awed voice, "Onct I see a princess. I wasstandin' in the street with the crowd outside Covin' Garden,watchin' the swells go inter the operer. An' there was oneeveryone stared at most. They ses to each other, `That's theprincess.' She was a growed-up young lady, but she was pink allover--gownd an' cloak, an' flowers an' all. I called her tomind the minnit I see you, sittin' there on the table, miss. Youlooked like her.""I've often thought," said Sara, in her reflecting voice, "thatI should like to be a princess; I wonder what it feels like. Ibelieve I will begin pretending I am one."Becky stared at her admiringly, and, as before, did notunderstand her in the least. She watched her with a sort ofadoration. Very soon Sara left her reflections and turned to herwith a new question."Becky," she said, "weren't you listening to that story?""Yes, miss," confessed Becky, a little alarmed again. "I knowedI hadn't orter, but it was that beautiful I--I couldn't help it.""I liked you to listen to it," said Sara. "If you tell stories,you like nothing so much as to tell them to people who want tolisten. I don't know why it is. Would you like to hear therest?"Becky lost her breath again."Me hear it?" she cried. "Like as if I was a pupil, miss! Allabout the Prince--and the little white Mer-babies swimming aboutlaughing--with stars in their hair?"Sara nodded."You haven't time to hear it now, I'm afraid," she said; "but ifyou will tell me just what time you come to do my rooms, I willtry to be here and tell you a bit of it every day until it isfinished. It's a lovely long one--and I'm always putting newbits to it.""Then," breathed Becky, devoutly, "I wouldn't mind how heavy thecoal boxes was--or what the cook done to me, if--if I might havethat to think of.""You may," said Sara. "I'll tell it all to you."When Becky went downstairs, she was not the same Becky who hadstaggered up, loaded down by the weight of the coal scuttle. Shehad an extra piece of cake in her pocket, and she had been fedand warmed, but not only by cake and fire. Something else hadwarmed and fed her, and the something else was Sara.When she was gone Sara sat on her favorite perch on the end ofher table. Her feet were on a chair, her elbows on her knees,and her chin in her hands."If I was a princess--a real princess," she murmured, "I couldscatter largess to the populace. But even if I am only a pretendprincess, I can invent little things to do for people. Thingslike this. She was just as happy as if it was largess. I'llpretend that to do things people like is scattering largess.I've scattered largess."