8. In the Attic

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

　　The first night she spent in her attic was a thing Sara neverforgot. During its passing she lived through a wild, unchildlikewoe of which she never spoke to anyone about her. There was noone who would have understood. It was, indeed, well for her thatas she lay awake in the darkness her mind was forciblydistracted, now and then, by the strangeness of her surroundings.It was, perhaps, well for her that she was reminded by her smallbody of material things. If this had not been so, the anguish ofher young mind might have been too great for a child to bear.But, really, while the night was passing she scarcely knew thatshe had a body at all or remembered any other thing than one."My papa is dead!" she kept whispering to herself. "My papa isdead!"It was not until long afterward that she realized that her bedhad been so hard that she turned over and over in it to find aplace to rest, that the darkness seemed more intense than any shehad ever known, and that the wind howled over the roof among thechimneys like something which wailed aloud. Then there wassomething worse. This was certain scufflings and scratchings andsqueakings in the walls and behind the skirting boards. She knewwhat they meant, because Becky had described them. They meantrats and mice who were either fighting with each other or playingtogether. Once or twice she even heard sharp-toed feet scurryingacross the floor, and she remembered in those after days, whenshe recalled things, that when first she heard them she startedup in bed and sat trembling, and when she lay down again coveredher head with the bedclothes.The change in her life did not come about gradually, but wasmade all at once."She must begin as she is to go on," Miss Minchin said to MissAmelia. "She must be taught at once what she is to expect."Mariette had left the house the next morning. The glimpse Saracaught of her sitting room, as she passed its open door, showedher that everything had been changed. Her ornaments and luxurieshad been removed, and a bed had been placed in a corner totransform it into a new pupil's bedroom.When she went down to breakfast she saw that her seat at MissMinchin's side was occupied by Lavinia, and Miss Minchin spoke toher coldly."You will begin your new duties, Sara," she said, "by takingyour seat with the younger children at a smaller table. You mustkeep them quiet, and see that they behave well and do not wastetheir food. You ought to have been down earlier. Lottie hasalready upset her tea."That was the beginning, and from day to day the duties given toher were added to. She taught the younger children French andheard their other lessons, and these were the least of herlabors. It was found that she could be made use of in numberlessdirections. She could be sent on errands at any time and in allweathers. She could be told to do things other people neglected.The cook and the housemaids took their tone from Miss Minchin,and rather enjoyed ordering about the "young one" who had beenmade so much fuss over for so long. They were not servants ofthe best class, and had neither good manners nor good tempers,and it was frequently convenient to have at hand someone on whomblame could be laid.During the first month or two, Sara thought that her willingnessto do things as well as she could, and her silence underreproof, might soften those who drove her so hard. In her proudlittle heart she wanted them to see that she was trying to earnher living and not accepting charity. But the time came when shesaw that no one was softened at all; and the more willing she wasto do as she was told, the more domineering and exacting carelesshousemaids became, and the more ready a scolding cook was toblame her.If she had been older, Miss Minchin would have given her thebigger girls to teach and saved money by dismissing aninstructress; but while she remained and looked like a child, shecould be made more useful as a sort of little superior errandgirl and maid of all work. An ordinary errand boy would not havebeen so clever and reliable. Sara could be trusted withdifficult commissions and complicated messages. She could evengo and pay bills, and she combined with this the ability to dusta room well and to set things in order.Her own lessons became things of the past. She was taughtnothing, and only after long and busy days spent in running hereand there at everybody's orders was she grudgingly allowed to gointo the deserted schoolroom, with a pile of old books, and studyalone at night."If I do not remind myself of the things I have learned, perhapsI may forget them," she said to herself. "I am almost a scullerymaid, and if I am a scullery maid who knows nothing, I shall belike poor Becky. I wonder if I could quite forget and begin todrop my H'S and not remember that Henry the Eighth had sixwives."One of the most curious things in her new existence was herchanged position among the pupils. Instead of being a sort ofsmall royal personage among them, she no longer seemed to be oneof their number at all. She was kept so constantly at work thatshe scarcely ever had an opportunity of speaking to any of them,and she could not avoid seeing that Miss Minchin preferred thatshe should live a life apart from that of the occupants of theschoolroom."I will not have her forming intimacies and talking to the otherchildren," that lady said. "Girls like a grievance, and if shebegins to tell romantic stories about herself, she will become anill-used heroine, and parents will be given a wrong impression.It is better that she should live a separate life--one suited toher circumstances. I am giving her a home, and that is more thanshe has any right to expect from me."Sara did not expect much, and was far too proud to try tocontinue to be intimate with girls who evidently felt ratherawkward and uncertain about her. The fact was that MissMinchin's pupils were a set of dull, matter-of-fact young people.They were accustomed to being rich and comfortable, and as Sara'sfrocks grew shorter and shabbier and queerer-looking, and itbecame an established fact that she wore shoes with holes in themand was sent out to buy groceries and carry them through thestreets in a basket on her arm when the cook wanted them in ahurry, they felt rather as if, when they spoke to her, they wereaddressing an under servant."To think that she was the girl with the diamond mines, Laviniacommented. "She does look an object. And she's queerer thanever. I never liked her much, but I can't bear that way she hasnow of looking at people without speaking--just as if she wasfinding them out.""I am," said Sara, promptly, when she heard of this. "That'swhat I look at some people for. I like to know about them. Ithink them over afterward."The truth was that she had saved herself annoyance several timesby keeping her eye on Lavinia, who was quite ready to makemischief, and would have been rather pleased to have made it forthe ex-show pupil.Sara never made any mischief herself, or interfered with anyone.She worked like a drudge; she tramped through the wet streets,carrying parcels and baskets; she labored with the childishinattention of the little ones' French lessons; as she becameshabbier and more forlorn-looking, she was told that she hadbetter take her meals downstairs; she was treated as if she wasnobody's concern, and her heart grew proud and sore, but shenever told anyone what she felt."Soldiers don't complain," she would say between her small, shutteeth, "I am not going to do it; I will pretend this is part of awar."But there were hours when her child heart might almost havebroken with loneliness but for three people.The first, it must be owned, was Becky--just Becky. Throughoutall that first night spent in the garret, she had felt a vaguecomfort in knowing that on the other side of the wall in whichthe rats scuffled and squeaked there was another young humancreature. And during the nights that followed the sense ofcomfort grew. They had little chance to speak to each otherduring the day. Each had her own tasks to perform, and anyattempt at conversation would have been regarded as a tendency toloiter and lose time. "Don't mind me, miss," Becky whisperedduring the first morning, "if I don't say nothin' polite. Someun'd be down on us if I did. I means `please' an' `thank you'an' `beg pardon,' but I dassn't to take time to say it."But before daybreak she used to slip into Sara's attic andbutton her dress and give her such help as she required beforeshe went downstairs to light the kitchen fire. And when nightcame Sara always heard the humble knock at her door which meantthat her handmaid was ready to help her again if she was needed.During the first weeks of her grief Sara felt as if she were toostupefied to talk, so it happened that some time passed beforethey saw each other much or exchanged visits. Becky's heart toldher that it was best that people in trouble should be left alone.The second of the trio of comforters was Ermengarde, but oddthings happened before Ermengarde found her place.When Sara's mind seemed to awaken again to the life about her,she realized that she had forgotten that an Ermengarde lived inthe world. The two had always been friends, but Sara had feltas if she were years the older. It could not be contested thatErmengarde was as dull as she was affectionate. She clung toSara in a simple, helpless way; she brought her lessons to herthat she might be helped; she listened to her every word andbesieged her with requests for stories. But she had nothinginteresting to say herself, and she loathed books of everydescription. She was, in fact, not a person one would rememberwhen one was caught in the storm of a great trouble, and Saraforgot her.It had been all the easier to forget her because she had beensuddenly called home for a few weeks. When she came back shedid not see Sara for a day or two, and when she met her for thefirst time she encountered her coming down a corridor with herarms full of garments which were to be taken downstairs to bemended. Sara herself had already been taught to mend them. Shelooked pale and unlike herself, and she was attired in the queer,outgrown frock whose shortness showed so much thin black leg.Ermengarde was too slow a girl to be equal to such a situation.She could not think of anything to say. She knew what hadhappened, but, somehow, she had never imagined Sara could looklike this--so odd and poor and almost like a servant. It madeher quite miserable, and she could do nothing but break into ashort hysterical laugh and exclaim--aimlessly and as if withoutany meaning, "Oh, Sara, is that you?""Yes," answered Sara, and suddenly a strange thought passedthrough her mind and made her face flush. She held the pile ofgarments in her arms, and her chin rested upon the top of it tokeep it steady. Something in the look of her straight-gazingeyes made Ermengarde lose her wits still more. She felt as ifSara had changed into a new kind of girl, and she had never knownher before. Perhaps it was because she had suddenly grown poorand had to mend things and work like Becky."Oh," she stammered. "How--how are you?""I don't know," Sara replied. "How are you?""I'm--I'm quite well," said Ermengarde, overwhelmed withshyness. Then spasmodically she thought of something to saywhich seemed more intimate. "Are you--are you very unhappy?" shesaid in a rush.Then Sara was guilty of an injustice. Just at that moment hertorn heart swelled within her, and she felt that if anyone was asstupid as that, one had better get away from her."What do you think?" she said. "Do you think I am very happy?"And she marched past her without another word.In course of time she realized that if her wretchedness had notmade her forget things, she would have known that poor, dullErmengarde was not to be blamed for her unready, awkward ways.She was always awkward, and the more she felt, the more stupidshe was given to being.But the sudden thought which had flashed upon her had made herover-sensitive."She is like the others," she had thought. "She does not reallywant to talk to me. She knows no one does."So for several weeks a barrier stood between them. When theymet by chance Sara looked the other way, and Ermengarde felt toostiff and embarrassed to speak. Sometimes they nodded to eachother in passing, but there were times when they did not evenexchange a greeting."If she would rather not talk to me," Sara thought, "I will keepout of her way. Miss Minchin makes that easy enough."Miss Minchin made it so easy that at last they scarcely saw eachother at all. At that time it was noticed that Ermengarde wasmore stupid than ever, and that she looked listless and unhappy.She used to sit in the window-seat, huddled in a heap, and stareout of the window without speaking. Once Jessie, who waspassing, stopped to look at her curiously."What are you crying for, Ermengarde?" she asked."I'm not crying," answered Ermengarde, in a muffled, unsteadyvoice."You are," said Jessie. "A great big tear just rolled down thebridge of your nose and dropped off at the end of it. And theregoes another.""Well," said Ermengarde, "I'm miserable--and no one needinterfere." And she turned her plump back and took out herhandkerchief and boldly hid her face in it.That night, when Sara went to her attic, she was later thanusual. She had been kept at work until after the hour at whichthe pupils went to bed, and after that she had gone to herlessons in the lonely schoolroom. When she reached the top ofthe stairs, she was surprised to see a glimmer of light comingfrom under the attic door."Nobody goes there but myself," she thought quickly, "butsomeone has lighted a candle."Someone had, indeed, lighted a candle, and it was not burning inthe kitchen candlestick she was expected to use, but in one ofthose belonging to the pupils' bedrooms. The someone wassitting upon the battered footstool, and was dressed in hernightgown and wrapped up in a red shawl. It was Ermengarde."Ermengarde!" cried Sara. She was so startled that she wasalmost frightened. "You will get into trouble."Ermengarde stumbled up from her footstool. She shuffled acrossthe attic in her bedroom slippers, which were too large for her.Her eyes and nose were pink with crying."I know I shall--if I'm found out." she said. "But I don'tcare--I don't care a bit. Oh, Sara, please tell me. What isthe matter? Why don't you like me any more?"Something in her voice made the familiar lump rise in Sara'sthroat. It was so affectionate and simple--so like the oldErmengarde who had asked her to be "best friends." It sounded asif she had not meant what she had seemed to mean during thesepast weeks."I do like you," Sara answered. "I thought--you see, everythingis different now. I thought you--were different.Ermengarde opened her wet eyes wide."Why, it was you who were different!" she cried. "You didn'twant to talk to me. I didn't know what to do. It was you whowere different after I came back."Sara thought a moment. She saw she had made a mistake."I am different," she explained, "though not in the way youthink. Miss Minchin does not want me to talk to the girls. Mostof them don't want to talk to me. I thought--perhaps--youdidn't. So I tried to keep out of your way.""Oh, Sara," Ermengarde almost wailed in her reproachful dismay.And then after one more look they rushed into each other's arms.It must be confessed that Sara's small black head lay for someminutes on the shoulder covered by the red shawl. WhenErmengarde had seemed to desert her, she had felt horriblylonely.Afterward they sat down upon the floor together, Sara claspingher knees with her arms, and Ermengarde rolled up in her shawl.Ermengarde looked at the odd, big-eyed little face adoringly."I couldn't bear it any more," she said. "I dare say you couldlive without me, Sara; but I couldn't live without you. I wasnearly dead. So tonight, when I was crying under thebedclothes, I thought all at once of creeping up here and justbegging you to let us be friends again.""You are nicer than I am," said Sara. "I was too proud to tryand make friends. You see, now that trials have come, they haveshown that I am not a nice child. I was afraid they would.Perhaps"--wrinkling her forehead wisely--"that is what they weresent for.""I don't see any good in them," said Ermengarde stoutly."Neither do I--to speak the truth," admitted Sara, frankly."But I suppose there might be good in things, even if we don'tsee it. There might"--doubtfully--"Be good in Miss Minchin."Ermengarde looked round the attic with a rather fearsomecuriosity."Sara," she said, "do you think you can bear living here?"Sara looked round also."If I pretend it's quite different, I can," she answered; "or ifI pretend it is a place in a story."She spoke slowly. Her imagination was beginning to work forher. It had not worked for her at all since her troubles hadcome upon her. She had felt as if it had been stunned."Other people have lived in worse places. Think of the Count ofMonte Cristo in the dungeons of the Chateau d'If. And think ofthe people in the Bastille!""The Bastille," half whispered Ermengarde, watching her andbeginning to be fascinated. She remembered stories of the FrenchRevolution which Sara had been able to fix in her mind by herdramatic relation of them. No one but Sara could have done it.A well-known glow came into Sara's eyes."Yes," she said, hugging her knees, "that will be a good placeto pretend about. I am a prisoner in the Bastille. I have beenhere for years and years--and years; and everybody has forgottenabout me. Miss Minchin is the jailer--and Becky"--a sudden lightadding itself to the glow in her eyes--"Becky is the prisoner inthe next cell."She turned to Ermengarde, looking quite like the old Sara."I shall pretend that," she said; "and it will be a greatcomfort."Ermengarde was at once enraptured and awed."And will you tell me all about it?" she said. "May I creep uphere at night, whenever it is safe, and hear the things you havemade up in the day? It will seem as if we were more `bestfriends' than ever.""Yes," answered Sara, nodding. "Adversity tries people, andmine has tried you and proved how nice you are."