“We couldn’t do it,” said Sara, seriously. “You see, it’s a kind of magic.”
Once, when she was relating the story of the search for Emily, Ermengarde saw her face suddenly change. A cloud seemed to pass over it and put out the light in her shining eyes. She drew her breath in so sharply that it made a funny, sad little sound, and then she shut her lips and held them tightly closed, as if she was determined either to do or not to do something. Ermengarde had an idea that if she had been like any other little girl, she might have suddenly burst out sobbing and crying. But she did not.
“Have you a—a pain?” Ermengarde ventured.
“Yes,” Sara answered, after a moment’s silence. “But it is not in my body.” Then she added something in a low voice which she tried to keep quite steady, and it was this: “Do you love your father more than anything else in all the whole world?”
Ermengarde’s mouth fell open a little. She knew that it would be far from behaving like a respectable child at a select seminary to say that it had never occurred to you that you could love your father, that you would do anything desperate to avoid being left alone in his society for ten minutes. She was, indeed, greatly embarrassed.
“I—I scarcely ever see him,” she stammered. “He is always in the 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. You have to bear things. Think what soldiers bear! Papa is a soldier. If there was a war he would have to bear marching and thirstiness and, perhaps, deep wounds. And he would never say a word—not one word.”
Ermengarde could only gaze at her, but she felt that she was beginning to adore her. She was so wonderful and different from anyone 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 you things about pretending, I shall bear it better. You don’t forget, but you bear it better.”
Ermengarde did not know why a lump came into her throat and her eyes felt as if tears were in them.
“Lavinia and Jessie are ‘best friends,’ ” she said rather huskily. “I wish we could be ‘best friends.’ Would you have me for yours? You’re clever, and I’m the stupidest child in the school, but I—oh, I do so like you!”
“I’m glad of that,” said Sara. “It makes you thankful when you are liked. Yes. We will be friends. And I’ll tell you what”—a sudden gleam lighting her face—“I can help you with your French lessons.”
IV
Lottie
If Sara had been a different kind of child, the life she led at Miss Minchin’s Select Seminary for the next ten years would not have been at all good for her. She was treated more as if she were a distinguished guest at the establishment than as if she were a mere little girl. If she had been a self-opinionated, domineering child, she might have become disagreeable enough to be unbearable through being so much indulged and flattered. If she had been an indolent child, she would have learned nothing. Privately Miss Minchin disliked her, but she was far too worldly a woman to do or say anything which might make such a desirable pupil wish to leave her school. She knew quite well that if Sara wrote to her papa to tell him she was uncomfortable or unhappy, Captain Crewe would remove her at once. Miss Minchin’s opinion was that if a child were continually praised and never forbidden to do what she liked, she would be sure to be fond of the place where she was so treated. Accordingly, Sara was praised for her quickness at her lessons, for her good manners, for her amiability to her fellow pupils, for her generosity if she gave sixpence to a beggar out of her full little purse; the simplest thing she did was treated as if it were a virtue, and if she had not had a disposition and a clever little brain, she might have been a very self-satisfied young person. But the clever little brain told her a great many sensible and true things about herself and her circumstances, and now and then she talked these things over to Ermengarde as time went on.
“Things happen to people by accident,” she used to say. “A lot of nice accidents have happened to me. It just happened that I always liked lessons and books, and could remember things when I learned them. It just happened that I was born with a father who was beautiful and nice and clever, and could give me everything I liked. Perhaps I have not really a good temper at all, but if you have everything you want and everyone is kind to you, how can you help but be good-tempered? I don’t know”—looking quite serious—“how I shall ever find out whether I am really a nice child or a horrid one. Perhaps I’m a hideous child, and no one will ever know, just because I never have any trials.”
“Lavinia has no trials,” said Ermengarde, stolidly, “and she is horrid enough.”
Sara rubbed the end of her little nose reflectively, as she thought the matter over.
“Well,” she said at last, “perhaps—perhaps that is because Lavinia is growing.”
This was the result of a charitable recollection of having heard Miss Amelia say that Lavinia was
