6. The Diamond Mines

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

　　Not very long after this a very exciting thing happened. Notonly Sara, but the entire school, found it exciting, and made itthe chief subject of conversation for weeks after it occurred.In one of his letters Captain Crewe told a most interestingstory. A friend who had been at school with him when he was aboy had unexpectedly come to see him in India. He was the ownerof a large tract of land upon which diamonds had been found, andhe was engaged in developing the mines. If all went as wasconfidently expected, he would become possessed of such wealth asit made one dizzy to think of; and because he was fond of thefriend of his school days, he had given him an opportunity toshare in this enormous fortune by becoming a partner in hisscheme. This, at least, was what Sara gathered from his letters.It is true that any other business scheme, however magnificent,would have had but small attraction for her or for theschoolroom; but "diamond mines" sounded so like the ArabianNights that no one could be indifferent. Sara thought themenchanting, and painted pictures, for Ermengarde and Lottie, oflabyrinthine passages in the bowels of the earth, wheresparkling stones studded the walls and roofs and ceilings, andstrange, dark men dug them out with heavy picks. Ermengardedelighted in the story, and Lottie insisted on its being retoldto her every evening. Lavinia was very spiteful about it, andtold Jessie that she didn't believe such things as diamond minesexisted."My mamma has a diamond ring which cost forty pounds," she said."And it is not a big one, either. If there were mines full ofdiamonds, people would be so rich it would be ridiculous.""Perhaps Sara will be so rich that she will be ridiculous,"giggled Jessie."She's ridiculous without being rich," Lavinia sniffed."I believe you hate her," said Jessie."No, I don't," snapped Lavinia. "But I don't believe in minesfull of diamonds.""Well, people have to get them from somewhere," said Jessie."Lavinia," with a new giggle, "what do you think Gertrude says?""I don't know, I'm sure; and I don't care if it's something moreabout that everlasting Sara.""Well, it is. One of her `pretends' is that she is a princess.She plays it all the time--even in school. She says it makesher learn her lessons better. She wants Ermengarde to be one,too, but Ermengarde says she is too fat.""She is too fat," said Lavinia. "And Sara is too thin."Naturally, Jessie giggled again."She says it has nothing to do with what you look like, or whatyou have. It has only to do with what you think of, and whatyou do." "I suppose she thinks she could be a princess if shewas a beggar," said Lavinia. "Let us begin to call her YourRoyal Highness."Lessons for the day were over, and they were sitting before theschoolroom fire, enjoying the time they liked best. It was thetime when Miss Minchin and Miss Amelia were taking their tea inthe sitting room sacred to themselves. At this hour a great dealof talking was done, and a great many secrets changed hands,particularly if the younger pupils behaved themselves well, anddid not squabble or run about noisily, which it must be confessedthey usually did. When they made an uproar the older girlsusually interfered with scolding and shakes. They were expectedto keep order, and there was danger that if they did not, MissMinchin or Miss Amelia would appear and put an end tofestivities. Even as Lavinia spoke the door opened and Saraentered with Lottie, whose habit was to trot everywhere after herlike a little dog."There she is, with that horrid child!" exclaimed Lavinia in awhisper. "If she's so fond of her, why doesn't she keep her inher own room? She will begin howling about something in fiveminutes."It happened that Lottie had been seized with a sudden desire toplay in the schoolroom, and had begged her adopted parent to comewith her. She joined a group of little ones who were playing ina corner. Sara curled herself up in the window-seat, opened abook, and began to read. It was a book about the FrenchRevolution, and she was soon lost in a harrowing picture of theprisoners in the Bastille--men who had spent so many years indungeons that when they were dragged out by those who rescuedthem, their long, gray hair and beards almost hid their faces,and they had forgotten that an outside world existed at all, andwere like beings in a dream.She was so far away from the schoolroom that it was notagreeable to be dragged back suddenly by a howl from Lottie.Never did she find anything so difficult as to keep herself fromlosing her temper when she was suddenly disturbed while absorbedin a book. People who are fond of books know the feeling ofirritation which sweeps over them at such a moment. Thetemptation to be unreasonable and snappish is one not easy tomanage."It makes me feel as if someone had hit me," Sara had toldErmengarde once in confidence. "And as if I want to hit back. Ihave to remember things quickly to keep from saying something ill-tempered."She had to remember things quickly when she laid her book on thewindow-seat and jumped down from her comfortable corner.Lottie had been sliding across the schoolroom floor, and, havingfirst irritated Lavinia and Jessie by making a noise, had endedby falling down and hurting her fat knee. She was screaming anddancing up and down in the midst of a group of friends andenemies, who were alternately coaxing and scolding her."Stop this minute, you cry-baby! Stop this minute!" Laviniacommanded."I'm not a cry-baby . . . I'm not!" wailed Lottle. "Sara, Sa--ra!""If she doesn't stop, Miss Minchin will hear her," cried Jessie."Lottie darling, I'll give you a penny!""I don't want your penny," sobbed Lottie; and she looked down atthe fat knee, and, seeing a drop of blood on it, burst forthagain.Sara flew across the room and, kneeling down, put her arms roundher."Now, Lottie," she said. "Now, Lottie, you promised Sara.""She said I was a cry-baby," wept Lottie.Sara patted her, but spoke in the steady voice Lottie knew."But if you cry, you will be one, Lottie pet. You promised."Lottle remembered that she had promised, but she preferred tolift up her voice."I haven't any mamma," she proclaimed. "I haven't--a bit--ofmamma.""Yes, you have," said Sara, cheerfully. "Have you forgotten?Don't you know that Sara is your mamma? Don't you want Sara foryour mamma?"Lottie cuddled up to her with a consoled sniff."Come and sit in the window-seat with me," Sara went on, "andI'll whisper a story to you.""Will you?" whimpered Lottie. "Will you--tell me--about thediamond mines?""The diamond mines?" broke out Lavinia. "Nasty, little spoiledthing, I should like to slap her!"Sara got up quickly on her feet. It must be remembered that shehad been very deeply absorbed in the book about the Bastille,and she had had to recall several things rapidly when sherealized that she must go and take care of her adopted child.She was not an angel, and she was not fond of Lavinia."Well," she said, with some fire, "I should like to slap you--but I don't want to slap you!" restraining herself. "At least Iboth want to slap you--and I should like to slap you--but Iwon't slap you. We are not little gutter children. We are bothold enough to know better."Here was Lavinia's opportunity."Ah, yes, your royal highness," she said. "We are princesses, Ibelieve. At least one of us is. The school ought to be veryfashionable now Miss Minchin has a princess for a pupil."Sara started toward her. She looked as if she were going to boxher ears. Perhaps she was. Her trick of pretending things wasthe joy of her life. She never spoke of it to girls she was notfond of. Her new "pretend" about being a princess was very nearto her heart, and she was shy and sensitive about it. She hadmeant it to be rather a secret, and here was Lavinia deriding itbefore nearly all the school. She felt the blood rush up intoher face and tingle in her ears. She only just saved herself.If you were a princess, you did not fly into rages. Her handdropped, and she stood quite still a moment. When she spoke itwas in a quiet, steady voice; she held her head up, and everybodylistened to her."It's true," she said. "Sometimes I do pretend I am a princess.I pretend I am a princess, so that I can try and behave likeone."Lavinia could not think of exactly the right thing to say.Several times she had found that she could not think of asatisfactory reply when she was dealing with Sara. The reasonfor this was that, somehow, the rest always seemed to be vaguelyin sympathy with her opponent. She saw now that they werepricking up their ears interestedly. The truth was, they likedprincesses, and they all hoped they might hear something moredefinite about this one, and drew nearer Sara accordingly.Lavinia could only invent one remark, and it fell rather flat."Dear me," she said, "I hope, when you ascend the throne, youwon't forget us!""I won't," said Sara, and she did not utter another word, butstood quite still, and stared at her steadily as she saw her takeJessie's arm and turn away.After this, the girls who were jealous of her used to speak ofher as "Princess Sara" whenever they wished to be particularlydisdainful, and those who were fond of her gave her the nameamong themselves as a term of affection. No one called her"princess" instead of "Sara," but her adorers were much pleasedwith the picturesqueness and grandeur of the title, and MissMinchin, hearing of it, mentioned it more than once to visitingparents, feeling that it rather suggested a sort of royalboarding school.To Becky it seemed the most appropriate thing in the world. Theacquaintance begun on the foggy afternoon when she had jumped upterrified from her sleep in the comfortable chair, had ripenedand grown, though it must be confessed that Miss Minchin andMiss Amelia knew very little about it. They were aware that Sarawas "kind" to the scullery maid, but they knew nothing ofcertain delightful moments snatched perilously when, the upstairsrooms being set in order with lightning rapidity, Sara's sittingroom was reached, and the heavy coal box set down with a sigh ofjoy. At such times stories were told by installments, things ofa satisfying nature were either produced and eaten or hastilytucked into pockets to be disposed of at night, when Becky wentupstairs to her attic to bed."But I has to eat 'em careful, miss," she said once; "'cos if Ileaves crumbs the rats come out to get 'em.""Rats!" exclaimed Sara, in horror. "Are there rats there?""Lots of 'em, miss," Becky answered in quite a matter-of-factmanner. "There mostly is rats an' mice in attics. You gets usedto the noise they makes scuttling about. I've got so I don'tmind 'em s' long as they don't run over my piller.""Ugh!" said Sara."You gets used to anythin' after a bit," said Becky. "You haveto, miss, if you're born a scullery maid. I'd rather have ratsthan cockroaches.""So would I," said Sara; "I suppose you might make friends with arat in time, but I don't believe I should like to make friendswith a cockroach."Sometimes Becky did not dare to spend more than a few minutes inthe bright, warm room, and when this was the case perhaps only afew words could be exchanged, and a small purchase slipped intothe old-fashioned pocket Becky carried under her dress skirt,tied round her waist with a band of tape. The search for anddiscovery of satisfying things to eat which could be packed intosmall compass, added a new interest to Sara's existence. Whenshe drove or walked out, she used to look into shop windowseagerly. The first time it occurred to her to bring home two orthree little meat pies, she felt that she had hit upon adiscovery. When she exhibited them, Becky's eyes quite sparkled."Oh, miss!" she murmured. "Them will be nice an' fillin.' It'sfillin'ness that's best. Sponge cake's a 'evenly thing, but itmelts away like--if you understand, miss. These'll just stay inyer stummick.""Well," hesitated Sara, "I don't think it would be good if theystayed always, but I do believe they will be satisfying."They were satisfying--and so were beef sandwiches, bought at acook-shop--and so were rolls and Bologna sausage. In time, Beckybegan to lose her hungry, tired feeling, and the coal box did notseem so unbearably heavy.However heavy it was, and whatsoever the temper of the cook, andthe hardness of the work heaped upon her shoulders, she hadalways the chance of the afternoon to look forward to--thechance that Miss Sara would be able to be in her sitting room.In fact, the mere seeing of Miss Sara would have been enoughwithout meat pies. If there was time only for a few words, theywere always friendly, merry words that put heart into one; and ifthere was time for more, then there was an installment of a storyto be told, or some other thing one remembered afterward andsometimes lay awake in one's bed in the attic to think over.Sara--who was only doing what she unconsciously liked better thananything else, Nature having made her for a giver--had not theleast idea what she meant to poor Becky, and how wonderful abenefactor she seemed. If Nature has made you for a giver, yourhands are born open, and so is your heart; and though there maybe times when your hands are empty, your heart is always full,and you can give things out of that--warm things, kind things,sweet things--help and comfort and laughter--and sometimes gay,kind laughter is the best help of all.Becky had scarcely known what laughter was through all her poor,little hard-driven life. Sara made her laugh, and laughed withher; and, though neither of them quite knew it, the laughter wasas "fillin'" as the meat pies.A few weeks before Sara's eleventh birthday a letter came to herfrom her father, which did not seem to be written in such boyishhigh spirits as usual. He was not very well, and was evidentlyoverweighted by the business connected with the diamond mines."You see, little Sara," he wrote, "your daddy is not abusinessman at all, and figures and documents bother him. Hedoes not really understand them, and all this seems so enormous.Perhaps, if I was not feverish I should not be awake, tossingabout, one half of the night and spend the other half introublesome dreams. If my little missus were here, I dare sayshe would give me some solemn, good advice. You would, wouldn'tyou, Little Missus?"One of his many jokes had been to call her his "little missus"because she had such an old-fashioned air.He had made wonderful preparations for her birthday. Amongother things, a new doll had been ordered in Paris, and herwardrobe was to be, indeed, a marvel of splendid perfection.When she had replied to the letter asking her if the doll wouldbe an acceptable present, Sara had been very quaint."I am getting very old," she wrote; "you see, I shall never liveto have another doll given me. This will be my last doll. Thereis something solemn about it. If I could write poetry, I am surea poem about `A Last Doll' would be very nice. But I cannotwrite poetry. I have tried, and it made me laugh. It did notsound like Watts or Coleridge or Shakespeare at all. No onecould ever take Emily's place, but I should respect the Last Dollvery much; and I am sure the school would love it. They all likedolls, though some of the big ones--the almost fifteen ones--pretend they are too grown up."Captain Crewe had a splitting headache when he read this letterin his bungalow in India. The table before him was heaped withpapers and letters which were alarming him and filling him withanxious dread, but he laughed as he had not laughed for weeks."Oh," he said, "she's better fun every year she lives. Godgrant this business may right itself and leave me free to runhome and see her. What wouldn't I give to have her little armsround my neck this minute! What wouldn't I give!"The birthday was to be celebrated by great festivities. Theschoolroom was to be decorated, and there was to be a party. Theboxes containing the presents were to be opened with greatceremony, and there was to be a glittering feast spread in MissMinchin's sacred room. When the day arrived the whole house wasin a whirl of excitement. How the morning passed nobody quiteknew, because there seemed such preparations to be made. Theschoolroom was being decked with garlands of holly; the desks hadbeen moved away, and red covers had been put on the forms whichwere arrayed round the room against the wall.When Sara went into her sitting room in the morning, she foundon the table a small, dumpy package, tied up in a piece of brownpaper. She knew it was a present, and she thought she couldguess whom it came from. She opened it quite tenderly. It was asquare pincushion, made of not quite clean red flannel, and blackpins had been stuck carefully into it to form the words, "Mennyhapy returns.""Oh!" cried Sara, with a warm feeling in her heart. "What painsshe has taken! I like it so, it--it makes me feel sorrowful."But the next moment she was mystified. On the under side of thepincushion was secured a card, bearing in neat letters the name"Miss Amelia Minchin."Sara turned it over and over."Miss Amelia!" she said to herself "How can it be!"And just at that very moment she heard the door being cautiouslypushed open and saw Becky peeping round it.There was an affectionate, happy grin on her face, and sheshuffled forward and stood nervously pulling at her fingers."Do yer like it, Miss Sara?" she said. "Do yer?""Like it?" cried Sara. "You darling Becky, you made it allyourself."Becky gave a hysteric but joyful sniff, and her eyes lookedquite moist with delight."It ain't nothin' but flannin, an' the flannin ain't new; but Iwanted to give yer somethin' an' I made it of nights. I knew yercould pretend it was satin with diamond pins in. _I_ tried towhen I was makin' it. The card, miss," rather doubtfully; "'twarn't wrong of me to pick it up out o' the dust-bin, was it?Miss 'Meliar had throwed it away. I hadn't no card o' my own,an' I knowed it wouldn't be a proper presink if I didn't pin acard on-- so I pinned Miss 'Meliar's."Sara flew at her and hugged her. She could not have toldherself or anyone else why there was a lump in her throat."Oh, Becky!" she cried out, with a queer little laugh, "I loveyou, Becky--I do, I do!""Oh, miss!" breathed Becky. "Thank yer, miss, kindly; it ain'tgood enough for that. The--the flannin wasn't new."