A Little Princess (21 page)

It was only a bundle of wool wrapped in red and white tissue
paper, but the tissue paper was soon twisted into the form of
little dishes, and was combined with the remaining flowers to
ornament the candlestick which was to light the feast. Only the
Magic could have made it more than an old table covered with a
red shawl and set with rubbish from a long-unopened trunk. But
Sara drew back and gazed at it, seeing wonders; and Becky, after
staring in delight, spoke with bated breath.

"This 'ere," she suggested, with a glance round the attic—"is
it the Bastille now—or has it turned into somethin' different?"

"Oh, yes, yes!" said Sara. "Quite different. It is a banquet
hall!"

"My eye, miss!" ejaculated Becky. "A blanket 'all!" and she
turned to view the splendors about her with awed bewilderment.

"A banquet hall," said Sara. "A vast chamber where feasts are
given. It has a vaulted roof, and a minstrels' gallery, and a
huge chimney filled with blazing oaken logs, and it is brilliant
with waxen tapers twinkling on every side."

"My eye, Miss Sara!" gasped Becky again.

Then the door opened, and Ermengarde came in, rather staggering
under the weight of her hamper. She started back with an
exclamation of joy. To enter from the chill darkness outside,
and find one's self confronted by a totally unanticipated festal
board, draped with red, adorned with white napery, and wreathed
with flowers, was to feel that the preparations were brilliant
indeed.

"Oh, Sara!" she cried out. "You are the cleverest girl I ever
saw!"

"Isn't it nice?" said Sara. "They are things out of my old
trunk. I asked my Magic, and it told me to go and look."

"But oh, miss," cried Becky, "wait till she's told you what they
are! They ain't just—oh, miss, please tell her," appealing to
Sara.

So Sara told her, and because her Magic helped her she made her
ALMOST see it all: the golden platters—the vaulted spaces—the
blazing logs—the twinkling waxen tapers. As the things were
taken out of the hamper—the frosted cakes—the fruits—the
bonbons and the wine—the feast became a splendid thing.

"It's like a real party!" cried Ermengarde.

"It's like a queen's table," sighed Becky.

Then Ermengarde had a sudden brilliant thought.

"I'll tell you what, Sara," she said. "Pretend you are a
princess now and this is a royal feast."

"But it's your feast," said Sara; "you must be the princess, and
we will be your maids of honor."

"Oh, I can't," said Ermengarde. "I'm too fat, and I don't know
how. YOU be her."

"Well, if you want me to," said Sara.

But suddenly she thought of something else and ran to the rusty
grate.

"There is a lot of paper and rubbish stuffed in here!" she
exclaimed. "If we light it, there will be a bright blaze for a
few minutes, and we shall feel as if it was a real fire." She
struck a match and lighted it up with a great specious glow which
illuminated the room.

"By the time it stops blazing," Sara said, "we shall forget
about its not being real."

She stood in the dancing glow and smiled.

"Doesn't it LOOK real?" she said. "Now we will begin the
party."

She led the way to the table. She waved her hand graciously to
Ermengarde and Becky. She was in the midst of her dream.

"Advance, fair damsels," she said in her happy dream-voice, "and
be seated at the banquet table. My noble father, the king, who
is absent on a long journey, has commanded me to feast you." She
turned her head slightly toward the corner of the room. "What,
ho, there, minstrels! Strike up with your viols and bassoons.
Princesses," she explained rapidly to Ermengarde and Becky,
"always had minstrels to play at their feasts. Pretend there is
a minstrel gallery up there in the corner. Now we will begin."

They had barely had time to take their pieces of cake into their
hands—not one of them had time to do more, when—they all three
sprang to their feet and turned pale faces toward the door—
listening—listening.

Someone was coming up the stairs. There was no mistake about
it. Each of them recognized the angry, mounting tread and knew
that the end of all things had come.

"It's—the missus!" choked Becky, and dropped her piece of cake
upon the floor.

"Yes," said Sara, her eyes growing shocked and large in her
small white face. "Miss Minchin has found us out."

Miss Minchin struck the door open with a blow of her hand. She
was pale herself, but it was with rage. She looked from the
frightened faces to the banquet table, and from the banquet
table to the last flicker of the burnt paper in the grate.

"I have been suspecting something of this sort," she exclaimed;
"but I did not dream of such audacity. Lavinia was telling the
truth."

So they knew that it was Lavinia who had somehow guessed their
secret and had betrayed them. Miss Minchin strode over to Becky
and boxed her ears for a second time.

"You impudent creature!" she said. "You leave the house in the
morning!"

Sara stood quite still, her eyes growing larger, her face paler.
Ermengarde burst into tears.

"Oh, don't send her away," she sobbed. "My aunt sent me the
hamper. We're—only—having a party."

"So I see," said Miss Minchin, witheringly. "With the Princess
Sara at the head of the table." She turned fiercely on Sara.
"It is your doing, I know," she cried. "Ermengarde would never
have thought of such a thing. You decorated the table, I
suppose—with this rubbish." She stamped her foot at Becky.
"Go to your attic!" she commanded, and Becky stole away, her face
hidden in her apron, her shoulders shaking.

Then it was Sara's turn again.

"I will attend to you tomorrow. You shall have neither
breakfast, dinner, nor supper!"

"I have not had either dinner or supper today, Miss Minchin,"
said Sara, rather faintly.

"Then all the better. You will have something to remember.
Don't stand there. Put those things into the hamper again."

She began to sweep them off the table into the hamper herself,
and caught sight of Ermengarde's new books.

"And you"—to Ermengarde—"have brought your beautiful new books
into this dirty attic. Take them up and go back to bed. You
will stay there all day tomorrow, and I shall write to your papa.
What would HE say if he knew where you are tonight?"

Something she saw in Sara's grave, fixed gaze at this moment
made her turn on her fiercely.

"What are you thinking of?" she demanded. "Why do you look at
me like that?"

"I was wondering," answered Sara, as she had answered that
notable day in the schoolroom.

"What were you wondering?"

It was very like the scene in the schoolroom. There was no
pertness in Sara's manner. It was only sad and quiet.

"I was wondering," she said in a low voice, "what MY papa would
say if he knew where I am tonight."

Miss Minchin was infuriated just as she had been before and her
anger expressed itself, as before, in an intemperate fashion.
She flew at her and shook her.

"You insolent, unmanageable child!" she cried. "How dare you!
How dare you!"

She picked up the books, swept the rest of the feast back into
the hamper in a jumbled heap, thrust it into Ermengarde's arms,
and pushed her before her toward the door.

"I will leave you to wonder," she said. "Go to bed this
instant." And she shut the door behind herself and poor
stumbling Ermengarde, and left Sara standing quite alone.

The dream was quite at an end. The last spark had died out of
the paper in the grate and left only black tinder; the table was
left bare, the golden plates and richly embroidered napkins, and
the garlands were transformed again into old handkerchiefs,
scraps of red and white paper, and discarded artificial flowers
all scattered on the floor; the minstrels in the minstrel gallery
had stolen away, and the viols and bassoons were still. Emily
was sitting with her back against the wall, staring very hard.
Sara saw her, and went and picked her up with trembling hands.

"There isn't any banquet left, Emily," she said. "And there
isn't any princess. There is nothing left but the prisoners in
the Bastille." And she sat down and hid her face.

What would have happened if she had not hidden it just then, and
if she had chanced to look up at the skylight at the wrong
moment, I do not know—perhaps the end of this chapter might have
been quite different—because if she had glanced at the skylight
she would certainly have been startled by what she would have
seen. She would have seen exactly the same face pressed against
the glass and peering in at her as it had peered in earlier in
the evening when she had been talking to Ermengarde.

But she did not look up. She sat with her little black head in
her arms for some time. She always sat like that when she was
trying to bear something in silence. Then she got up and went
slowly to the bed.

"I can't pretend anything else—while I am awake," she said.
"There wouldn't be any use in trying. If I go to sleep, perhaps
a dream will come and pretend for me."

She suddenly felt so tired—perhaps through want of food—that
she sat down on the edge of the bed quite weakly.

"Suppose there was a bright fire in the grate, with lots of
little dancing flames," she murmured. "Suppose there was a
comfortable chair before it—and suppose there was a small table
near, with a little hot—hot supper on it. And suppose"—as she
drew the thin coverings over her—"suppose this was a beautiful
soft bed, with fleecy blankets and large downy pillows. Suppose—
suppose—" And her very weariness was good to her, for her eyes
closed and she fell fast asleep.

She did not know how long she slept. But she had been tired
enough to sleep deeply and profoundly—too deeply and soundly to
be disturbed by anything, even by the squeaks and scamperings of
Melchisedec's entire family, if all his sons and daughters had
chosen to come out of their hole to fight and tumble and play.

When she awakened it was rather suddenly, and she did not know
that any particular thing had called her out of her sleep. The
truth was, however, that it was a sound which had called her
back—a real sound—the click of the skylight as it fell in
closing after a lithe white figure which slipped through it and
crouched down close by upon the slates of the roof—just near
enough to see what happened in the attic, but not near enough to
be seen.

At first she did not open her eyes. She felt too sleepy and—
curiously enough—too warm and comfortable. She was so warm and
comfortable, indeed, that she did not believe she was really
awake. She never was as warm and cozy as this except in some
lovely vision.

"What a nice dream!" she murmured. "I feel quite warm. I—don't-
-want—to—wake—up."

Of course it was a dream. She felt as if warm, delightful
bedclothes were heaped upon her. She could actually FEEL
blankets, and when she put out her hand it touched something
exactly like a satin-covered eider-down quilt. She must not
awaken from this delight—she must be quite still and make it
last.

But she could not—even though she kept her eyes closed tightly,
she could not. Something was forcing her to awaken—something
in the room. It was a sense of light, and a sound—the sound of
a crackling, roaring little fire.

"Oh, I am awakening," she said mournfully. "I can't help it—I
can't."

Her eyes opened in spite of herself. And then she actually
smiled—for what she saw she had never seen in the attic before,
and knew she never should see.

"Oh, I HAVEN'T awakened," she whispered, daring to rise on her
elbow and look all about her. "I am dreaming yet." She knew it
MUST be a dream, for if she were awake such things could not—
could not be.

Do you wonder that she felt sure she had not come back to earth?
This is what she saw. In the grate there was a glowing, blazing
fire; on the hob was a little brass kettle hissing and boiling;
spread upon the floor was a thick, warm crimson rug; before the
fire a folding-chair, unfolded, and with cushions on it; by the
chair a small folding-table, unfolded, covered with a white
cloth, and upon it spread small covered dishes, a cup, a saucer,
a teapot; on the bed were new warm coverings and a satin-covered
down quilt; at the foot a curious wadded silk robe, a pair of
quilted slippers, and some books. The room of her dream seemed
changed into fairyland—and it was flooded with warm light, for
a bright lamp stood on the table covered with a rosy shade.

She sat up, resting on her elbow, and her breathing came short
and fast.

"It does not—melt away," she panted. "Oh, I never had such a
dream before." She scarcely dared to stir; but at last she
pushed the bedclothes aside, and put her feet on the floor with a
rapturous smile.

"I am dreaming—I am getting out of bed," she heard her own voice
say; and then, as she stood up in the midst of it all, turning
slowly from side to side—"I am dreaming it stays—real! I'm
dreaming it FEELS real. It's bewitched—or I'm bewitched. I
only THINK I see it all." Her words began to hurry themselves.
"If I can only keep on thinking it," she cried, "I don't care! I
don't care!"

She stood panting a moment longer, and then cried out again.

"Oh, it isn't true!" she said. "It CAN'T be true! But oh, how
true it seems!"

The blazing fire drew her to it, and she knelt down and held out
her hands close to it—so close that the heat made her start
back.

"A fire I only dreamed wouldn't be HOT," she cried.

She sprang up, touched the table, the dishes, the rug; she went
to the bed and touched the blankets. She took up the soft
wadded dressing-gown, and suddenly clutched it to her breast and
held it to her cheek.