Princess Sarah and Other Stories

In a poor little street in a crowded city there stood a small house, not alone, but in the middle of a row of other houses exactly like it. There was a tiny bow window on the left of the door, and two very small sash windows in the storey above; the frames were warped, and the paint, like that of the door, was blistered and cracked in many places.

And the doorstep looked as if it had been cleaned a week or so before with whiting instead of pipe-clay, and evidently the person who had done it had, doubtless with the very best intentions in the world, given the lower part of the door a few daubs with the same cloth, which had not at all improved its shabby surface.

Between the house and the pavement there was a small garden, a very humble attempt at a garden, with a rockery in one corner and a raised bed in the middle.

It was a noisy street, though it was not a thoroughfare, for on that hot, sultry day the doors and windows were all open and the children were all playing about pavements and road, caring little for the heat and dust, screaming, laughing, shouting, crying, as children will, except when they found themselves within reach of the house which I have described; then their voices were hushed, their tones sobered; then they stood to gaze up at the closed blinds which beat now and then against the open windows, as if a door had been opened and allowed a draught of air to sweep through the house; then one little maid of ten years old or so lifted a warning finger to check a lesser child, upon whom the fear and knowledge of death had not yet fallen. "Hush--sh! Don't make a noise, Annie," she said. "Mr. Gray is dead."

The younger child, Annie, ceased her laughter, turning from the closed house to stare at two ladies who came slowly down the street, looking from side to side as if they sought one of the houses in particular.

"This must be it," said one, as her eyes fell upon the closed blinds.

"Yes," returned the other; "that must be it."

So they passed in at the little gate and knocked softly at the shabby door.

"Poor fellow!" said one, with a glance at the bit of garden before the bow window, "his doing, evidently; there's not another garden in the street like it."

"No. And what pains he must have taken with it. Poor fellow!" echoed the other.

There was a moment's scuffle within the house, the sound of loudly-whispering voices; then a heavy footstep, and the door was opened by a stout, elderly person in a shabby black gown and white apron--a person who was unmistakably a nurse. She curtsied as she saw the ladies, and the one who had spoken last addressed her.

"We heard early this morning. I see the sad news is too true," she began.

"Yes'm," shaking her head. "He went off quite quiet about ten o'clock last night. Ah, I've seen a-many, but I never saw a more peaceful end--never!"

The two ladies each made a murmur of sympathy.

"And the little girl?" said one of them.

"Well, mum, she do fret a good bit," replied the nurse pityingly.

"Poor little thing! We have brought some fruit and some other little things," said the lady, handing a basket to the nurse.

"It's real kind of you, mum!" the old woman cried. "She'll be rare and pleased, she will, poor little missy! You see, mum, it's been a queer, strange life for a child, for she's been everything to him, and she never could go out and play in the street with the other children. That couldn't be, and it was hard for the little thing to see 'em and be shut off from 'em all day as she was; and the master on that account used to make hisself more to her, which will make it all the harder for her now, poor fatherless, motherless lamb that she is!"

"Of course, of course. Poor little maid! And what will become of her, do you think?"

"I can't say for certain, mum; but the mistress, she had relations, and the master wrote to one of them on Thursday. He was sore troubled about little missy, was the master--aye, sore troubled. The letter was sent, and an answer came this morning to say that one of missy's aunts was coming to-day. The vicar opened it."

"Oh, well, I'm glad somebody is coming to the poor child," said the lady who had brought the basket of fruit. "I hope it will be all right. And you will give her the things, nurse?" with a look at the basket.

"Oh, yes, mum," with a curtsey.

There was not only some fruit in the basket, but a pot of jam and a jar of potted meat, a glass of jelly, some sponge cakes, and a packet of sweeties, such as little folk love.

The old nurse carried them into the sitting-room and set them down on the table before a little girl who was sitting beside it.

"See, missy, what a nice basket of good things Mrs. Tracy has brought for you!" the old woman cried. "Wasn't it kind of her?"

"Very kind," said the little girl, brightening up somewhat at the unexpected kindness from one almost a stranger to her.

"Grapes, Miss Sarah, and peaches, and Orleans plums; and see--potted meat! Now how could she know you're so fond of potted meat?"

"I don't know, nurse; he liked potted meat too, you know."

"Yes, dear, yes; but he's gone where he has all he's most fond of, you know."

"Except me," murmured Sarah, under her breath.

"Ah, that's true, my lamb; but you mustn't repine. Him as took the master away so calm and peaceful last night knew just what was best to do, and He'll do it, never fear! It's hard to bear, my honey, and sure," with a sigh, "no one knows better what bearing such is than old nurse. And--hark! to think of any one coming with a knock like that! enough to waken the----" But then she broke off short, and went to open the door.

A short, stout, well-dressed woman stood upon the door-step, and the cabman was just hauling a box off the roof of his cab.

"Mr. Gray's 'ouse?" demanded the stout lady. "Ah, pore thing! I see it's all over. Pore thing! Well, I'm sorry, of course, though I don't suppose 'e'll be much loss to any one; pore, dreaming, shiftless thing!"

"Miss Sarah is here, mum," said the old nurse, pointing severely towards the door of the sitting-room.

"Miss Sarah--oh, the child! Eh, well, my dear," going into the room, and taking Sarah's limp and shaking hand, "I'm sorry to come on such an errand the first time ever I see you; but that was your pore pa's fault, not mine. I never was one to turn my back on my own flesh and blood--never, though perhaps I say it that shouldn't; but your pore pa, he was that awkward when he got a crotchet into his 'ead, that there was no doing aught with him. I think you favour your ma, my dear," she continued, with a complete change of tone. "Your pore pa-- Eh? What? oh, the cab! Yes, I'll come," and then she bustled out, fumbling at the fastening of a small leather bag which hung over her wrist, and leaving poor Sarah struck dumb with astonishment.

The child crept to the door and watched her new-found aunt settle with the cabman; and it is certain that never had Sarah seen a cabman settled with in that fashion before. They had not indulged in many cabs during the course of her short life; but, on the few occasions that they had enjoyed such luxuries, her father had paid for them with the air of a prince, and with a liberality such as made dispute out of the question. Alas, poor child! if the loving father now lying white and silent in the room above had had less of that princely air, and still less of that princely instinct of hospitality and generosity, life would at that moment probably have been very different for her. But all this was beyond Sarah, who was very young, and therefore not likely to see the advantages of the lengthened haggling process going on just then at the gate. A moment later Mrs. Stubbs entered the house again in triumph.

"Lot of thieving vagabonds them cabmen are, to be sure!" she remarked, with an air of indignation mingled with satisfaction. "But he don't get the better of me, not if I know it; and so I told him. But, dear! dear! 'Ow like your pore ma you are, child! Stubbs 'll be glad of it--he never could abide him as is gone, pore thing! Well, well, we needn't say aught again him now, for he won't trouble us no more; only, as I say, Stubbs 'll be glad of it."

"Please, who is Mr. Stubbs?" Sarah asked plaintively, feeling instinctively that she had better not try to argue with this strange relative.

Mrs. Stubbs, however, was so taken aback at so unexpected a question, that she was obliged to sit down, the better to show the extent of her astonishment.

"Well, I don't 'old with it!" she exclaimed to the nurse, who had come in to spread the cloth for a cup of tea which the visitor had expressed herself able and willing to take. "It's bringing up the child like a 'eathen in ignorance of what her own flesh and blood's very names is--'pon my word it is; it's 'eathenish."

"Miss Sarah doesn't understand," put in the old nurse pointedly.

For a moment Mrs. Stubbs gasped, much as she might have done if the older woman had dashed a pail of water in her face; but she took the hint with a very good grace, and turned to Sarah again.

"Your pore ma, my dear, was Stubbs' own sister," she said.

"Then Mr. Stubbs is my uncle--my own uncle?" Sarah asked.

"Your own uncle, and I'm your aunt; not your own aunt, of course, Sarah, but that's no matter. I've a good and a feeling 'eart, whatever other faults I may have to carry; and what's Stubbs' flesh and blood is my flesh and blood, and so you'll find. Besides, I've seven children of my own, and my 'eart feels for them that has no father nor mother to stand by 'em. And I believe in sticking to your own--everybody's not like that, Sarah, though maybe I say it that shouldn't. There is folks that believes in wearing yourself to the bone for other people's advantage, and letting your own flesh and blood starve in the gutter, so to speak. Ah, well, I ain't one of that sort, and I'm thankful for it, Sarah."

Poor little desolate Sarah, with her suddenly empty life and great aching void in her heart, crept a shade closer to her new-found aunt, and rested her tired head against her substantial arm.

"And I have seven cousins of my own?" she said, the shadows in her eyes clearing away for a moment.

"Seven cousins of your own!" cried Mrs. Stubbs, in an ecstasy of enjoyment. "Seven, Sarah, my dear! Why, I have seven children!"

"And have I some more aunts and uncles?" Sarah asked, feeling not a little bewildered.

"Why, dear, yes, three aunts and two uncles on your pore ma's side, to say naught of all there may be on your pa's side, with which I'm not familiar," said Mrs. Stubbs, with a certain air such as conveyed to Sarah that her ignorance was a decided loss to her father's family in general.

"There's your Uncle Joe--he 'as five boys, and lives at 'Ampstead; and there's your Uncle George--he 'as only three girls, and lives in great style at Brighton. He's in the corn trade, is your Uncle George."

Instinctively Sarah realized why once, when they had been going to the seaside for a fortnight, her father had said, "No, no, not Brighton," when that town was suggested; and as instinctively she kept the recollection to herself.

"And then there's Polly--your Aunt Mary, Sarah! She's the fine lady of the family--very 'aughty, she is, though her and me 'as always been very good friends, always. Still, she's uncommon 'aughty, and maybe she 'as a right, for she married a gentleman in the City, and keeps her carriage and pair and a footman, too. Ah, well! she 'asn't a family, 'asn't Mrs. Lennard; perhaps if she 'ad 'ad seven children, like me, she'd have 'ad to be content with a broom, as I am."

"We have a broom, too," said Sarah, watching the visitor stir her tea round and round; "indeed, we have two, and a very old one that Jane uses to sweep out the yard with."

For a minute Mrs. Stubbs was too thoroughly astounded to speak; then she subsided into weak fits of laughter, such as told Sarah she had made a terrible mistake somehow.

"A very old one to sweep out the yard with!" Mrs. Stubbs cried in gasps. "Oh, dear, dear! Why, child, you're just like a little 'eathen. A broom is a carriage, a close carriage, something like a four-wheel cab, only better. Oh, dear, dear! and we keep three, do we? Oh, what a joke to tell Stubbs!"

"Miss Sarah knows," struck in the old nurse, with some indignation; "the doctor's carriage is what Mrs. Stubbs calls a broom, dearie."

Sarah turned her crimson face from one to the other. "But Father always called that kind of carriage a bro-am," she emphasized, "and I didn't know you meant the same, Aunt."

"Well, never mind, my dear; I shouldn't 'ave laughed at you," returned Mrs. Stubbs, stirring her tea again with fat complaisance. "Little folks can't be expected to know everything, though there are some as does expect it, and most unreasonable it is of 'em. Only, Sarah, it's more stylish to say broom, so try to think of it, there's a good girl."

"I'll try," said Sarah, hoping that she had somewhat retrieved her character by knowing what kind of carriage her aunt meant by a "broom."

Then Mrs. Stubbs had another cup of tea, which she seemed to enjoy particularly.

"And you would like to go upstairs, mum?" said the nurse, as she set the cup down.

"Why, yes, nurse, it's my duty to go, and I'm not one as is ever backward in doing 'er duty," Mrs. Stubbs replied, upheaving herself from the somewhat uncertain depths of the big chair, the only easy chair in the house.

So the two women went up above together to visit that something which Sarah had not seen since the moment of death.

She sat just where they left her--a way she had, for Sarah was a very quiet child--wondering how life would be with this new-found aunt of hers. She was very kind, Sarah decided, and would be very good to her, she knew; and yet--yet--there was something about her from which she shrank instinctively--something she knew would have offended her father beyond everything.

Poor Sarah! At that moment Mrs. Stubbs was standing beside all that was left of him that had loved her so dearly during all the years of her short life.

"Pore thing!" she was saying. "Pore thing! We weren't good friends, nurse, but we must not think of that now; and I'll be a mother to his little girl just as if there'd never been a cloud between us. Pore thing, only thirty-six! Ah, well, pore thing; but he makes a pretty corpse!"

"Pore thing!" she was saying. "Pore thing!"

Two days later Sarah's father was buried, laid quietly away in a pretty little churchyard two miles outside the town, beside the young wife who had died nine years before.

The funeral was a very unostentatious affair; only one cab followed the coffin, and contained Sarah and Mrs. Stubbs, the old nurse, and Jane, the untidy little maid, who, after the manner of her sort, wept and sobbed and choked, until Mrs. Stubbs would right willingly have given her a good shaking.

Sarah was very subdued and quiet, and Mrs. Stubbs cried a little, and would have cried more had she not been so taken up with keeping an eye on "that stupid ninny Jane."

And then they went back to the little hot, stuffy house, and had a cup of tea, after which the vicar of the parish called and had a long talk with Mrs. Stubbs about Sarah's future.

"I can't say we was good friends with him, pore thing," Mrs. Stubbs explained; "but when death comes between, little differences should be forgotten. And Stubbs and me will forget all our differences now; it's Stubbs' wish as well as mine. I believe in sticking to your own flesh and blood, for if your own won't, whose can you expect to do it? So Sarah and me is the best of friends, and she is going back with me to share and share alike with my own children."

"Oh, you are going to take Sarah," said the vicar, who had felt a great interest in the dreamy artist whom they had just left to his last long rest in the quiet country churchyard; "that is very good of you, very good of you. I have been wondering what would become of the poor little woman."

"Why, what should become of her?" Mrs. Stubbs said indignantly. "Her mother was Stubbs' own sister."

"Yes," said the vicar, smiling; "but it is not every lady who would at all encourage the idea of bringing up a child because her mother happened to be her husband's sister."

"You're right there, Mr. Moore; you are right," Mrs. Stubbs cried; "but some women 'ave 'earts of stone instead of flesh and blood. I'm not one of that sort."

"And about the furniture, and so on," the vicar broke in, having heard Mrs. Stubbs's remarks about her own good qualities several times already.

Mrs. Stubbs looked round the room in good-natured contempt. "There's nothing to speak of," she answered--and she was right enough--"but what there is 'll have to go to paying for the doctor and the undertaker. If there's a few pounds left over, Stubbs says put it into the savings bank and let the child 'ave it when she grows up. She'll want to buy a ring or something to remember her father by."

"And you are going to take the sole charge and expense of her?" the vicar exclaimed.

"Oh, yes. We've seven of our own, and when you've so many, one more or less makes very little difference. But I wanted to ask you something else, Mr. Moore, and I'll ask it before it slips my memory. You know Mr. Gray--'e's gone now, pore thing, and I don't wish to say aught against him--brought Sarah up in a very strange way; indeed, as I said at the time to the nurse, it's quite 'eathenish; and, it you'll believe me, sir, she didn't even know how many aunts and uncles she 'ad, nor what our very names were. But he 'as taught her some things, and playing the fiddle is one."

"Yes, Sarah plays the violin remarkably well for her age," said the vicar promptly.

"Yes, so the old nurse says," returned Mrs. Stubbs, with an air of melancholy. "But I don't altogether 'old with it myself; it seems to me such an outlandish thing for a little girl to play on. I wish it had been the piano or the 'arp! There's so much more style about them."

"The violin is the most fashionable instrument a lady can learn just now, Mrs. Stubbs," put in the clergyman hastily, wishing to secure Sarah the free use of her beloved violin, if it were possible.

"Dear me. You don't say so. What, are young ladies about 'ere learning it?" Mrs. Stubbs asked, with interest.

"Yes. I was dining at Lord Allington's last week, and in the evening one of his daughters played a violin solo; but she doesn't play nearly as well as Sarah," he replied.

"Then Sarah shall keep her violin and play to her 'eart's content," Mrs. Stubbs cried enthusiastically. "That was what I wanted to ask you--if you thought I should encourage or discourage the child in keeping it up. But, as you say so plainly encourage, I will; and Sarah shall 'ave good lessons as soon as she's fairly settled down at 'ome."

"Then Sarah shall keep her violin and play to her 'eart's content."

"That will be the greatest delight to Sarah, for the child loves her violin," said the vicar heartily; "and that is not all, Mrs. Stubbs--but, if she goes on as she has begun, there will always be a useful, or at least a remunerative, accomplishment at her fingers' ends."

"Oh, as to that," returned Mrs. Stubbs, with a lordly indifference to money such as told her visitor that she was well blessed with worldly goods, "Stubbs 'll provide for the child along with his own, and maybe her other uncles and aunts 'll do something for her, too. I will say that for his family, as a family they're not mean. I will say that for 'em."

So Sarah's future was arranged. She was to go home with Mrs. Stubbs, who lived at South Kensington, and be one with her children. She was to have the best violin lessons to be had for love or money; and Mrs. Stubbs, in the warmth of her kindly but vulgar heart, even went so far as to suggest that if Sarah was a very good, industrious girl, and got on well with her practising, her uncle might very likely be induced to buy her a new violin for her next birthday, instead of the dingy old thing she was playing on now.

Poor, well-meaning Mrs. Stubbs! She little knew that the whole of Sarah's grateful soul rose in loathing at the suggestion. She dropped her bow upon the nearest chair, and hugged her precious violin as closely to her breast as if it had been a thing of life, and that life was threatened.

"Oh, Auntie!" she burst out; "a new violin!"

"Yes, child; I think it's very likely," returned Mrs. Stubbs, delighted to see the effect of her suggestion upon her pale little niece, and quite mistaking the meaning of her emotion. "Your uncle is very fond of making nice presents. He gave May a new piano last Christmas."

"But," gasped Sarah, "my violin is a real Amati! It belonged to my grandfather."

"And if it did, what then?" ejaculated Mrs. Stubbs, in no way impressed by the information. "All the more reason why you should 'ave a new one. The wonder to me is you play half as well as you do on an old thing like that."

"It's--it's worth five hundred pounds!" Sarah cried, her face in a flame.

"It's--it's worth five hundred pounds!"

Mrs. Stubbs fairly gasped in her surprise. "Sarah," she said, "what are you saying? Little girls ought not to tell stories; it's wicked. Do you know where you'll go to? Sarah, I'm shocked and surprised at you!"

"Auntie, dear," said Sarah, "it's true--all true. It is, indeed! Ask the doctor, ask the vicar--ask any one who knows about violins, and they'll tell you! It's a real Amati; it's worth five hundred pounds--perhaps more. I'm not telling stories, Auntie, but Father was offered that much for it, only he wouldn't take it because he said it was all he had to give me, and that it would be worth more to me some day."

Never had Mrs. Stubbs heard Sarah say so much at one time before; but her earnest face and manner carried conviction with them, and she saw that the child knew what she was talking about, and was speaking only what she believed to be the truth.

"You really mean it, Sarah?" she asked, putting out a hand to touch the wonderful instrument.

"Oh, yes, Auntie, it's absolutely true," returned Sarah, using the longest adjective she could think of the better to impress her aunt.

"Then," exclaimed the good lady, with radiant triumph, "you'd better 'old your tongue about it, Sarah, and not say a word about it--or you'll be 'aving the Probate people down on you, robbing the fatherless and the orphan."