LITTLE SAINT ELIZABETH
And Other Stories
BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT
1888
CONTENTS
Little Saint Elizabeth
The Story of Prince Fairyfoot
The Proud Little Grain of Wheat
Behind the White Brick
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FROM DRAWINGS BY REGINALD B. BIRCH
"There she is," they would cry.
It was Aunt Clotilde, who had sunk forward while kneeling at prayer
The villagers did not stand in awe of her
"Uncle Bertrand," said the child, clasping her hands
"Why is it that you cry?" she asked gently
Her strength deserted her--she fell upon her knees in the snow
"Why," exclaimed Fairyfoot, "I'm surprised"
"What's the matter with the swine?" he asked
Almost immediately they found themselves in a beautiful little dell
Fairyfoot loved her in a moment, and he knelt on one knee
"There's the cake," he said
"Eh! Eh!" he said. "What! What! Who's this Tootsicums?"
LITTLE SAINT ELIZABETH
She had not been brought up in America at all. She had been born inFrance, in a beautiful _chateau_, and she had been born heiress to agreat fortune, but, nevertheless, just now she felt as if she was verypoor, indeed. And yet her home was in one of the most splendid houses inNew York. She had a lovely suite of apartments of her own, though she wasonly eleven years old. She had had her own carriage and a saddle horse, atrain of masters, and governesses, and servants, and was regarded by allthe children of the neighborhood as a sort of grand and mysterious littleprincess, whose incomings and outgoings were to be watched with thegreatest interest.
"There she is," they would cry, flying to their windows to look at her."She is going out in her carriage." "She is dressed all in black velvetand splendid fur." "That is her own, own, carriage." "She has millions ofmoney; and she can have anything she wants--Jane says so!" "She is verypretty, too; but she is so pale and has such big, sorrowful, black eyes.I should not be sorrowful if I were in her place; but Jane says theservants say she is always quiet and looks sad." "Her maid says she livedwith her aunt, and her aunt made her too religious."
She rarely lifted her large dark eyes to look at them with any curiosity.She was not accustomed to the society of children. She had never had achild companion in her life, and these little Americans, who were so veryrosy and gay, and who went out to walk or drive with groups of brothersand sisters, and even ran in the street, laughing and playing andsquabbling healthily--these children amazed her.
Poor little Saint Elizabeth! She had not lived a very natural or healthylife herself, and she knew absolutely nothing of real childish pleasures.You see, it had occurred in this way: When she was a baby of two yearsher young father and mother died, within a week of each other, of aterrible fever, and the only near relatives the little one had were herAunt Clotilde and Uncle Bertrand. Her Aunt Clotilde lived inNormandy--her Uncle Bertrand in New York. As these two were her onlyguardians, and as Bertrand de Rochemont was a gay bachelor, fond ofpleasure and knowing nothing of babies, it was natural that he should bevery willing that his elder sister should undertake the rearing andeducation of the child.
"Only," he wrote to Mademoiselle de Rochemont, "don't end by training herfor an abbess, my dear Clotilde."
"THERE SHE IS," THEY WOULD CRY.]
There was a very great difference between these two people--the distancebetween the gray stone _chateau_ in Normandy and the brown stone mansionin New York was not nearly so great as the distance and differencebetween the two lives. And yet it was said that in her first youthMademoiselle de Rochemont had been as gay and fond of pleasure as eitherof her brothers. And then, when her life was at its brightest andgayest--when she was a beautiful and brilliant young woman--she had had agreat and bitter sorrow, which had changed her for ever. From that timeshe had never left the house in which she had been born, and had livedthe life of a nun in everything but being enclosed in convent walls. Atfirst she had had her parents to take care of, but when they died she hadbeen left entirely alone in the great _chateau_, and devoted herself toprayer and works of charity among the villagers and country people.
"Ah! she is good--she is a saint Mademoiselle," the poor people alwayssaid when speaking of her; but they also always looked a littleawe-stricken when she appeared, and never were sorry when she left them.
She was a tall woman, with a pale, rigid, handsome face, which neversmiled. She did nothing but good deeds, but however grateful herpensioners might be, nobody would ever have dared to dream of loving her.She was just and cold and severe. She wore always a straight black sergegown, broad bands of white linen, and a rosary and crucifix at her waist.She read nothing but religious works and legends of the saints andmartyrs, and adjoining her private apartments was a little stone chapel,where the servants said she used to kneel on the cold floor before thealtar and pray for hours in the middle of the night.
The little _cure_ of the village, who was plump and comfortable, and whohad the kindest heart and the most cheerful soul in the world, used toremonstrate with her, always in a roundabout way, however, never quite asif he were referring directly to herself.
"One must not let one's self become the stone image of goodness," he saidonce. "Since one is really of flesh and blood, and lives among flesh andblood, that is not best. No, no; it is not best."
But Mademoiselle de Rochemont never seemed exactly of flesh andblood--she was more like a marble female saint who had descended from herpedestal to walk upon the earth.
And she did not change, even when the baby Elizabeth was brought to her.She attended strictly to the child's comfort and prayed many prayers forher innocent soul, but it can be scarcely said that her manner was anysofter or that she smiled more. At first Elizabeth used to scream at thesight of the black, nun-like dress and the rigid, handsome face, but incourse of time she became accustomed to them, and, through living in anatmosphere so silent and without brightness, a few months changed herfrom a laughing, romping baby into a pale, quiet child, who rarely madeany childish noise at all.
In this quiet way she became fond of her aunt. She saw little of anyonebut the servants, who were all trained to quietness also. As soon as shewas old enough her aunt began her religious training. Before she couldspeak plainly she heard legends of saints and stories of martyrs. She wastaken into the little chapel and taught to pray there. She believed inmiracles, and would not have been surprised at any moment if she had metthe Child Jesus or the Virgin in the beautiful rambling gardens whichsurrounded the _chateau_. She was a sensitive, imaginative child, and thesacred romances she heard filled all her mind and made up her littlelife. She wished to be a saint herself, and spent hours in wandering inthe terraced rose gardens wondering if such a thing was possible inmodern days, and what she must do to obtain such holy victory. Her chiefsorrow was that she knew herself to be delicate and very timid--so timidthat she often suffered when people did not suspect it--and she wasafraid that she was not brave enough to be a martyr. Once, poor littleone! when she was alone in her room, she held her hand over a burning waxcandle, but the pain was so terrible that she could not keep it there.Indeed, she fell back white and faint, and sank upon her chair,breathless and in tears, because she felt sure that she could not chantholy songs if she were being burned at the stake. She had been vowed tothe Virgin in her babyhood, and was always dressed in white and blue, buther little dress was a small conventual robe, straight and narrow cut, ofwhite woollen stuff, and banded plainly with blue at the waist. She didnot look like other childr
en, but she was very sweet and gentle, and herpure little pale face and large, dark eyes had a lovely dreamy look. Whenshe was old enough to visit the poor with her Aunt Clotilde--and she washardly seven years old when it was considered proper that she shouldbegin--the villagers did not stand in awe of her. They began to adoreher, almost to worship her, as if she had, indeed, been a sacred child.The little ones delighted to look at her, to draw near her sometimes andtouch her soft white and blue robe. And, when they did so, she alwaysreturned their looks with such a tender, sympathetic smile, and spoke tothem in so gentle a voice, that they were in ecstasies. They used totalk her over, tell stories about her when they were playing togetherafterwards.
"The little Mademoiselle," they said, "she is a child saint. I have heardthem say so. Sometimes there is a little light round her head. One dayher little white robe will begin to shine too, and her long sleeves willbe wings, and she will spread them and ascend through the blue sky toParadise. You will see if it is not so."
So, in this secluded world in the gray old _chateau_, with no companionbut her aunt, with no occupation but her studies and her charities, withno thoughts but those of saints and religious exercises, Elizabeth liveduntil she was eleven years old. Then a great grief befell her. Onemorning, Mademoiselle de Rochemont did not leave her room at the regularhour. As she never broke a rule she had made for herself and herhousehold, this occasioned great wonder. Her old maid servant waitedhalf an hour--went to her door, and took the liberty of listening tohear if she was up and moving about her room. There was no sound. OldAlice returned, looking quite agitated. "Would Mademoiselle Elizabethmind entering to see if all was well? Mademoiselle her aunt might be inthe chapel."
Elizabeth went. Her aunt was not in her room. Then she must be in thechapel. The child entered the sacred little place. The morning sun wasstreaming in through the stained-glass windows above the altar--a broadray of mingled brilliant colors slanted to the stone floor and warmlytouched a dark figure lying there. It was Aunt Clotilde, who had sunkforward while kneeling at prayer and had died in the night.
That was what the doctors said when they were sent for. She had been deadsome hours--she had died of disease of the heart, and apparently withoutany pain or knowledge of the change coming to her. Her face was sereneand beautiful, and the rigid look had melted away. Someone said shelooked like little Mademoiselle Elizabeth; and her old servant Alice weptvery much, and said, "Yes--yes--it was so when she was young, before herunhappiness came. She had the same beautiful little face, but she wasmore gay, more of the world. Yes, they were much alike then."
Less than two months from that time Elizabeth was living in the home ofher Uncle Bertrand, in New York. He had come to Normandy for her himself,and taken her back with him across the Atlantic. She was richer than evernow, as a great deal of her Aunt Clotilde's money had been left to her,and Uncle Bertrand was her guardian. He was a handsome, elegant, cleverman, who, having lived long in America and being fond of American life,did not appear very much like a Frenchman--at least he did not appear soto Elizabeth, who had only seen the _cure_ and the doctor of the village.Secretly he was very much embarrassed at the prospect of taking care of alittle girl, but family pride, and the fact that such a very little girl,who was also such a very great heiress, _must_ be taken care of sustainedhim. But when he first saw Elizabeth he could not restrain an exclamationof consternation.
It was Aunt Clotilde, who had sunk forward while kneelingat prayer.]
She entered the room, when she was sent for, clad in a strange littlenun-like robe of black serge, made as like her-dead aunt's as possible.At her small waist were the rosary and crucifix, and in her hand she helda missal she had forgotten in her agitation to lay down--
"But, my dear child," exclaimed Uncle Bertrand, staring at her aghast.
He managed to recover himself very quickly, and was, in his way, verykind to her; but the first thing he did was to send to Paris for afashionable maid and fashionable mourning.
"Because, as you will see," he remarked to Alice, "we cannot travel as weare. It is a costume for a convent or the stage."
Before she took off her little conventual robe, Elizabeth went to thevillage to visit all her poor. The _cure_ went with her and shed tearshimself when the people wept and kissed her little hand. When the childreturned, she went into the chapel and remained there for a long time.
She felt as if she was living in a dream when all the old life was leftbehind and she found herself in the big luxurious house in the gay NewYork street. Nothing that could be done for her comfort had been leftundone. She had several beautiful rooms, a wonderful governess, differentmasters to teach her, her own retinue of servants as, indeed, has beenalready said.
But, secretly, she felt bewildered and almost terrified, everything wasso new, so strange, so noisy, and so brilliant. The dress she wore madeher feel unlike herself; the books they gave her were full of picturesand stories of worldly things of which she knew nothing. Her carriage wasbrought to the door and she went out with her governess, driving roundand round the park with scores of other people who looked at hercuriously, she did not know why. The truth was that her refined littleface was very beautiful indeed, and her soft dark eyes still wore thedreamy spiritual look which made her unlike the rest of the world.
"She looks like a little princess," she heard her uncle say one day. "Shewill be some day a beautiful, an enchanting woman--her mother was so whenshe died at twenty, but she had been brought up differently. This one isa little devotee. I am afraid of her. Her governess tells me she rises inthe night to pray." He said it with light laughter to some of his gayfriends by whom he had wished the child to be seen. He did not know thathis gayety filled her with fear and pain. She had been taught to believegayety worldly and sinful, and his whole life was filled with it. He hadbrilliant parties--he did not go to church--he had no pensioners--heseemed to think of nothing but pleasure. Poor little Saint Elizabethprayed for his soul many an hour when he was asleep after a grand dinneror supper party.
He could not possibly have dreamed that there was no one of whom shestood in such dread; her timidity increased tenfold in his presence.When he sent for her and she went into the library to find himluxurious in his arm chair, a novel on his knee, a cigar in his whitehand, a tolerant, half cynical smile on his handsome mouth, she couldscarcely answer his questions, and could never find courage to tellwhat she so earnestly desired. She had found out early that AuntClotilde and the _cure_ and the life they had led, had only aroused inhis mind a half-pitying amusement. It seemed to her that he did notunderstand and had strange sacrilegious thoughts about them--he did notbelieve in miracles--he smiled when she spoke of saints. How could shetell him that she wished to spend all her money in building churchesand giving alms to the poor? That was what she wished to tell him--thatshe wanted money to send back to the village, that she wanted to giveit to the poor people she saw in the streets, to those who lived in themiserable places.
But when she found herself face to face with him and he said some wittything to her and seemed to find her only amusing, all her courage failedher. Sometimes she thought she would throw herself upon her knees beforehim and beg him to send her back to Normandy--to let her live alone inthe _chateau_ as her Aunt Clotilde had done.
One morning she arose very early, and knelt a long time before the littlealtar she had made for herself in her dressing room. It was only a tablewith some black velvet thrown over it, a crucifix, a saintly image, andsome flowers standing upon it. She had put on, when she got up, thequaint black serge robe, because she felt more at home in it, and herheart was full of determination. The night before she had received aletter from the _cure_ and it had contained sad news. A fever had brokenout in her beloved village, the vines had done badly, there was sicknessamong the cattle, there was already beginning to be suffering, and ifsomething were not done for the people they would not know how to facethe winter. In the time of Mademoiselle de Rochemont they had always beenmade comfortable and happy at
Christmas. What was to be done? The _cure_ventured to write to Mademoiselle Elizabeth.
The villagers did not stand in awe of her.]
The poor child had scarcely slept at all. Her dear village! Her dearpeople! The children would be hungry; the cows would die; there would beno fires to warm those who were old.
"I must go to uncle," she said, pale and trembling. "I must ask him togive me money. I am afraid, but it is right to mortify the spirit. Themartyrs went to the stake. The holy Saint Elizabeth was ready to endureanything that she might do her duty and help the poor."
Because she had been called Elizabeth she had thought and read a greatdeal of the saint whose namesake she was--the saintly Elizabeth whosehusband was so wicked and cruel, and who wished to prevent her from doinggood deeds. And oftenest of all she had read the legend which told thatone day as Elizabeth went out with a basket of food to give to the poorand hungry, she had met her savage husband, who had demanded that sheshould tell him what she was carrying, and when she replied "Roses," andhe tore the cover from the basket to see if she spoke the truth, amiracle had been performed, and the basket was filled with roses, sothat she had been saved from her husband's cruelty, and also from tellingan untruth. To little Elizabeth this legend had been beautiful and quitereal--it proved that if one were doing good, the saints would take careof one. Since she had been in her new home, she had, half consciously,compared her Uncle Bertrand with the wicked Landgrave, though she was toogentle and just to think he was really cruel, as Saint Elizabeth'shusband had been, only he did not care for the poor, and loved only theworld--and surely that was wicked. She had been taught that to care forthe world at all was a fatal sin.
She did not eat any breakfast. She thought she would fast until she haddone what she intended to do. It had been her Aunt Clotilde's habit tofast very often.
She waited anxiously to hear that her Uncle Bertrand had left his room.He always rose late, and this morning he was later than usual as he hadhad a long gay dinner party the night before.
It was nearly twelve before she heard his door open. Then she wentquickly to the staircase. Her heart was beating so fast that she put herlittle hand to her side and waited a moment to regain her breath. Shefelt quite cold.
"Perhaps I must wait until he has eaten his breakfast," she said."Perhaps I must not disturb him yet. It would, make him displeased. Iwill wait--yes, for a little while."
She did not return to her room, but waited upon the stairs. It seemed tobe a long time. It appeared that a friend breakfasted with him. She hearda gentleman come in and recognized his voice, which she had heard before.She did not know what the gentleman's name was, but she had met him goingin and out with her uncle once or twice, and had thought he had a kindface and kind eyes. He had looked at her in an interested way when hespoke to her--even as if he were a little curious, and she had wonderedwhy he did so.
When the door of the breakfast room opened and shut as the servants wentin, she could hear the two laughing and talking. They seemed to beenjoying themselves very much. Once she heard an order given for the mailphaeton. They were evidently going out as soon as the meal was over.
At last the door opened and they were coming out. Elizabeth ran down thestairs and stood in a small reception room. Her heart began to beatfaster than ever.
"The blessed martyrs were not afraid," she whispered to herself.
"Uncle Bertrand!" she said, as he approached, and she scarcely knew herown faint voice. "Uncle Bertrand--"
He turned, and seeing her, started, and exclaimed, ratherimpatiently--evidently he was at once amazed and displeased to see her.He was in a hurry to get out, and the sight of her odd little figure,standing in its straight black robe between the _portieres_, the slenderhands clasped on the breast, the small pale face and great dark eyesuplifted, was certainly a surprise to him.
"Elizabeth!" he said, "what do you wish? Why do you come downstairs? Andthat impossible dress! Why do you wear it again? It is not suitable."
"Uncle Bertrand," said the child, clasping her hands still more tightly,her eyes growing larger in her excitement and terror under hisdispleasure, "it is that I want money--a great deal. I beg your pardon ifI derange you. It is for the poor. Moreover, the _cure_ has written thepeople of the village are ill--the vineyards did not yield well. Theymust have money. I must send them some."
Uncle Bertrand shrugged his shoulders.
"That is the message of _monsieur le cure_, is it?" he said. "He wantsmoney! My dear Elizabeth, I must inquire further. You have a fortune, butI cannot permit you to throw it away. You are a child, and do notunderstand--"
"UNCLE BERTRAND," SAID THE CHILD, CLASPING HER HANDS.]
"But," cried Elizabeth, trembling with agitation, "they are so poor whenone does not help them: their vineyards are so little, and if the year isbad they must starve. Aunt Clotilde gave to them every year--even in thegood years. She said they must be cared for like children."
"That was your Aunt Clotilde's charity," replied her uncle. "Sometimesshe was not so wise as she was devout. I must know more of this. I haveno time at present, I am going out of town. In a few days I will reflectupon it. Tell your maid to give that hideous garment away. Go out todrive--amuse yourself--you are too pale."
Elizabeth looked at his handsome, careless face in utter helplessness.This was a matter of life and death to her; to him it meant nothing.
"But it is winter," she panted, breathlessly; "there is snow. Soon itwill be Christmas, and they will have nothing--no candles for the church,no little manger for the holy child, nothing for the poorest ones. Andthe children--"
"It shall be thought of later," said Uncle Bertrand. "I am too busy now.Be reasonable, my child, and run away. You detain me."
He left her with a slight impatient shrug of his shoulders and the slightamused smile on his lips. She heard him speak to his friend.
"She was brought up by one who had renounced the world," he said,"and she has already renounced it herself--_pauvre petite enfant_! Ateleven years she wishes to devote her fortune to the poor and herselfto the Church."
Elizabeth sank back into the shadow of the _portieres_. Greatburning tears filled her eyes and slipped down her cheeks, fallingupon her breast.
"He does not care," she said; "he does not know. And I do no onegood--no one." And she covered her face with her hands and stood sobbingall alone.
When she returned to her room she was so pale that her maid looked at heranxiously, and spoke of it afterwards to the other servants. They wereall fond of Mademoiselle Elizabeth. She was always kind and gentle toeverybody.
Nearly all the day she sat, poor little saint! by her window looking outat the passers-by in the snowy street. But she scarcely saw the people atall, her thoughts were far away, in the little village where she hadalways spent her Christmas before. Her Aunt Clotilde had allowed her atsuch times to do so much. There had not been a house she had not carriedsome gift to; not a child who had been forgotten. And the church onChristmas morning had been so beautiful with flowers from the hot-housesof the _chateau_. It was for the church, indeed, that the conservatorieswere chiefly kept up. Mademoiselle de Rochemont would scarcely havepermitted herself such luxuries.
But there would not be flowers this year, the _chateau_ was closed; therewere no longer gardeners at work, the church would be bare and cold, thepeople would have no gifts, there would be no pleasure in the littlepeasants' faces. Little Saint Elizabeth wrung her slight hands togetherin her lap.
"Oh," she cried, "what can I do? And then there is the poor here--somany. And I do nothing. The Saints will be angry; they will not intercedefor me. I shall be lost!"
It was not alone the poor she had left in her village who were a grief toher. As she drove through the streets she saw now and then haggard faces;and when she had questioned a servant who had one day come to her to askfor charity for a poor child at the door, she had found that in parts ofthis great, bright city which she had not seen, there was said to becruel want and suffering,
as in all great cities.
"And it is so cold now," she thought, "with the snow on the ground."
The lamps in the street were just beginning to be lighted when her UncleBertrand returned. It appeared that he had brought back with him thegentleman with the kind face. They were to dine together, and UncleBertrand desired that Mademoiselle Elizabeth should join them. Evidentlythe journey out of town had been delayed for a day at least. There camealso another message: Monsieur de Rochemont wished Mademoiselle to sendto him by her maid a certain box of antique ornaments which had beengiven to her by her Aunt Clotilde. Elizabeth had known less of the valueof these jewels than of their beauty. She knew they were beautiful, andthat they had belonged to her Aunt Clotilde in the gay days of hertriumphs as a beauty and a brilliant and adored young woman, but itseemed that they were also very curious, and Monsieur de Rochemont wishedhis friend to see them. When Elizabeth went downstairs she found themexamining them together.
"They must be put somewhere for safe keeping," Uncle Bertrand was saying."It should have been done before. I will attend to it."
The gentleman with the kind eyes looked at Elizabeth with aninterested expression as she came into the room. Her slender littlefigure in its black velvet dress, her delicate little face with itslarge soft sad eyes, the gentle gravity of her manner made her seemquite unlike other children.
He did not seem simply to find her amusing, as her Uncle Bertrand did.She was always conscious that behind Uncle Bertrand's most seriousexpression there was lurking a faint smile as he watched her, but thisvisitor looked at her in a different way. He was a doctor, shediscovered. Dr. Norris, her uncle called him, and Elizabeth wondered ifperhaps his profession had not made him quick of sight and kind.
She felt that it must be so when she heard him talk at dinner. She foundthat he did a great deal of work among the very poor---that he had ahospital, where he received little children who were ill--who had perhapsmet with accidents, and could not be taken care of in their wretchedhomes. He spoke most frequently of terrible quarters, which he calledFive Points; the greatest poverty and suffering was there. And he spokeof it with such eloquent sympathy, that even Uncle Bertrand began tolisten with interest.
"Come," he said, "you are a rich, idle fellow; De Rochemont, and we wantrich, idle fellows to come and look into all this and do something forus. You must let me take you with me some day."
"It would disturb me too much, my good Norris," said Uncle Bertrand, witha slight shudder. "I should not enjoy my dinner after it."
"Then go without your dinner," said Dr. Norris. "These people do. Youhave too many dinners. Give up one."
Uncle Bertrand shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
"It is Elizabeth who fasts," he said. "Myself, I prefer to dine. And yet,some day, I may have the fancy to visit this place with you."
Elizabeth could scarcely have been said to dine this evening. She couldnot eat. She sat with her large, sad eyes fixed upon Dr. Norris' face ashe talked. Every word he uttered sank deep into her heart The want andsuffering of which he spoke were more terrible than anything she had everheard of--it had been nothing like this in the village. Oh! no, no. Asshe thought of it there was such a look in her dark eyes as almoststartled Dr. Norris several times when he glanced at her, but as he didnot know the particulars of her life with her aunt and the strangetraining she had had, he could not possibly have guessed what was goingon in her mind, and how much effect his stories were having. Thebeautiful little face touched him very much, and the pretty French accentwith which the child spoke seemed very musical to him, and added a greatcharm to the gentle, serious answers she made to the remarks he addressedto her. He could not help seeing that something had made littleMademoiselle Elizabeth a pathetic and singular little creature, and hecontinually wondered what it was.
"Do you think she is a happy child?" he asked Monsieur de Rochemont whenthey were alone together over their cigars and wine.
"Happy?" said Uncle Bertrand, with his light smile. "She has been taught,my friend, that to be happy upon earth is a crime. That was my goodsister's creed. One must devote one's self, not to happiness, butentirely to good works. I think I have told you that she, this littleone, desires to give all her fortune to the poor. Having heard you thisevening, she will wish to bestow it upon your Five Points."
When, having retired from the room with a grave and stately littleobeisance to her uncle and his guest, Elizabeth had gone upstairs, it hadnot been with the intention of going to bed. She sent her maid away andknelt before her altar for a long time.
"The Saints will tell me what to do," she said. "The good Saints, who arealways gracious, they will vouchsafe to me some thought which willinstruct me if I remain long enough at prayer."
She remained in prayer a long time. When at last she arose from her kneesit was long past midnight, and she was tired and weak, but the thoughthad not been given to her.
But just as she laid her head upon her pillow it came. The ornamentsgiven to her by her Aunt Clotilde somebody would buy them. They were herown--it would be right to sell them--to what better use could they beput? Was it not what Aunt Clotilde would have desired? Had she not toldher stories of the good and charitable who had sold the clothes fromtheir bodies that the miserable might be helped? Yes, it was right. Thesethings must be done. All else was vain and useless and of the world. Butit would require courage--great courage. To go out alone to find a placewhere the people would buy the jewels--perhaps there might be some whowould not want them. And then when they were sold to find this poor andunhappy quarter of which her uncle's guest had spoken, and to give tothose who needed--all by herself. Ah! what courage it would require. Andthen Uncle Bertrand, some day he would ask about the ornaments, anddiscover all, and his anger might be terrible. No one had ever been angrywith her; how could she bear it. But had not the Saints and Martyrs borneeverything? had they not gone to the stake and the rack with smiles? Shethought of Saint Elizabeth and the cruel Landgrave. It could not be evenso bad as that--but whatever the result was it must be borne.
So at last she slept, and there was upon her gentle little face sosweetly sad a look that when her maid came to waken her in the morningshe stood by the bedside for some moments looking down upon herpityingly.
The day seemed very long and sorrowful to the poor child. It was full ofanxious thoughts and plannings. She was so innocent and inexperienced, soignorant of all practical things. She had decided that it would be bestto wait until evening before going out, and then to take the jewels andtry to sell them to some jeweller. She did not understand thedifficulties that would lie in her way, but she felt very timid.
Her maid had asked permission to go out for the evening and Monsieur deRochemont was to dine out, so that she found it possible to leave thehouse without attracting attention.
As soon as the streets were lighted she took the case of ornaments, andgoing downstairs very quietly, let herself out. The servants were dining,and she was seen by none of them.
When she found herself in the snowy street she felt strangelybewildered. She had never been out unattended before, and she knewnothing of the great busy city. When she turned into the more crowdedthoroughfares, she saw several times that the passers-by glanced at hercuriously. Her timid look, her foreign air and richly furred dress, andthe fact that she was a child and alone at such an hour, could not failto attract attention; but though she felt confused and troubled she wentbravely on. It was some time before she found a jeweller's shop, andwhen she entered it the men behind the counter looked at her inamazement. But she went to the one nearest to her and laid the case ofjewels on the counter before him.
"I wish," she said, in her soft low voice, and with the pretty accent, "Iwish that you should buy these."
The man stared at her, and at the ornaments, and then at her again.
"I beg pardon, miss," he said.
Elizabeth repeated her request.
"I will speak to Mr. Moetyler," he said, after a moment of hesitation.
He went to the other end of the shop to an elderly man who sat behind adesk. After he had spoken a few words, the elderly man looked up as ifsurprised; then he glanced at Elizabeth; then, after speaking a few morewords, he came forward.
"You wish to sell these?" he said, looking at the case of jewels with apuzzled expression.
"Yes," Elizabeth answered.
He bent over the case and took up one ornament after the other andexamined them closely. After he had done this he looked at the littlegirl's innocent, trustful face, seeming more puzzled than before.
"Are they your own?" he inquired.
"Yes, they are mine," she replied, timidly.
"Do you know how much they are worth?"
"I know that they are worth much money," said Elizabeth. "I have heardit said so."
"Do your friends know that you are going to sell them?"
"No," Elizabeth said, a faint color rising in her delicate face. "But itis right that I should do it."
The man spent a few moments in examining them again and, having done so,spoke hesitatingly.
"I am afraid we cannot buy them," he said. "It would be impossible,unless your friends first gave their permission."
"Impossible!" said Elizabeth, and tears rose in her eyes, making themlook softer and more wistful than ever.
"We could not do it," said the jeweller. "It is out of the question underthe circumstances."
"Do you think," faltered the poor little saint, "do you think that nobodywill buy them?"
"I am afraid not," was the reply. "No respectable firm who would paytheir real value. If you take my advice, young lady, you will take themhome and consult your friends."
He spoke kindly, but Elizabeth was overwhelmed with disappointment. Shedid not know enough of the world to understand that a richly dressedlittle girl who offered valuable jewels for sale at night must be astrange and unusual sight.
When she found herself on the street again, her long lashes were heavywith tears.
"If no one will buy them," she said, "what shall I do?"
She walked a long way--so long that she was very tired--and offered themat several places, but as she chanced to enter only respectable shops,the same thing happened each time. She was looked at curiously andquestioned, but no one would buy.
"They are mine," she would say. "It is right that I should sell them."But everyone stared and seemed puzzled, and in the end refused.
At last, after much wandering, she found herself in a poorer quarter ofthe city; the streets were narrower and dirtier, and the people began tolook squalid and wretchedly dressed; there were smaller shops and dingyhouses. She saw unkempt men and women and uncared for little children.The poverty of the poor she had seen in her own village seemed comfortand luxury by contrast. She had never dreamed of anything like this. Nowand then she felt faint with pain and horror. But she went on.
"They have no vineyards," she said to herself. "No trees andflowers--it is all dreadful--there is nothing. They need help more thanthe others. To let them suffer so, and not to give them charity, wouldbe a great crime."
She was so full of grief and excitement that she had ceased to notice howeveryone looked at her--she saw only the wretchedness, and dirt andmisery. She did not know, poor child! that she was surrounded bydanger--that she was not only in the midst of misery, but of dishonestyand crime. She had even forgotten her timidity--that it was growinglate, and that she was far from home, and would not know how toreturn--she did not realize that she had walked so far that she wasalmost exhausted with fatigue.
She had brought with her all the money she possessed. If she could notsell the jewels she could, at least, give something to someone in want.But she did not know to whom she must give first. When she had lived withher Aunt Clotilde it had been their habit to visit the peasants in theirhouses. Must she enter one of these houses--these dreadful places withthe dark passages, from which she heard many times riotous voices, andeven cries, issuing?
"But those who do good must feel no fear," she thought. "It is only tohave courage." At length something happened which caused her to pausebefore one of those places. She heard sounds of pitiful moans and sobbingfrom something crouched upon the broken steps. It seemed like a heap ofrags, but as she drew near she saw by the light of the street lampopposite that it was a woman with her head in her knees, and a wretchedchild on each side of her. The children were shivering with cold andmaking low cries as if they were frightened.
Elizabeth stopped and then ascended the steps.
"Why is it that you cry?" she asked gently. "Tell me."
The woman did not answer at first, but when Elizabeth spoke again shelifted her head, and as soon as she saw the slender figure in its velvetand furs, and the pale, refined little face, she gave a great start.
"Lord have mercy on yez!" she said in a hoarse voice which soundedalmost terrified. "Who are yez, an' what bees ye dow' in a place theloike o' this?"
"I came," said Elizabeth, "to see those who are poor. I wish to helpthem. I have great sorrow for them. It is right that the rich should helpthose who want. Tell me why you cry, and why your little children sit inthe cold." Everybody had shown surprise to whom Elizabeth had spokento-night, but no one had stared as this woman did.
"It's no place for the loike o' yez," she said. "An' it black noight, an'men and women wild in the drink; an' Pat Harrigan insoide bloind an' madin liquor, an' it's turned me an' the children out he has to shlape inthe snow--an' not the furst toime either. An' it's starvin' weare--starvin' an' no other," and she dropped her wretched head on herknees and began to moan again, and the children joined her.
[ILLUSTRATION: "WHY IS IT THAT YOU CRY?" SHE ASKED GENTLY.]
"Don't let yez daddy hear yez," she said to them. "Whisht now--it's comeout an' kill yez he will."
Elizabeth began to feel tremulous and faint.
"Is it that they have hunger?" she asked.
"Not a bite or sup have they had this day, nor yesterday," was theanswer, "The good Saints have pity on us."
"Yes," said Elizabeth, "the good Saints have always pity. I will go andget some food--poor little ones."
She had seen a shop only a few yards away--she remembered passing it.Before the woman could speak again she was gone.
"Yes," she said, "I was sent to them--it is the answer to my prayer--itwas not in vain that I asked so long."
When she entered the shop the few people who were in it stopped what theywere doing to stare at her as others had done--but she scarcely saw thatit was so.
"Give to me a basket," she said to the owner of the place. "Put in itsome bread and wine--some of the things which are ready to eat. It isfor a poor woman and her little ones who starve."
There was in the shop among others a red-faced woman with a cunning lookin her eyes. She sidled out of the place and was waiting for Elizabethwhen she came out.
"I'm starvin' too, little lady," she said. "There's many of us that way,an' it's not often them with money care about it. Give me something too,"in a wheedling voice.
Elizabeth looked up at her, her pure ignorant eyes full of pity.
"I have great sorrows for you," she said. "Perhaps the poor woman willshare her food with you."
"It's the money I need," said the woman.
"I have none left," answered Elizabeth. "I will come again."
"It's now I want it," the woman persisted. Then she looked covetously atElizabeth's velvet fur-lined and trimmed cloak. "That's a pretty cloakyou've on," she said. "You've got another, I daresay."
Suddenly she gave the cloak a pull, but the fastening did not give way asshe had thought it would.
"Is it because you are cold that you want it?" said Elizabeth, in hergentle, innocent way, "I will give it to you. Take it."
Had not the holy ones in the legends given their garments to the poor?Why should she not give her cloak?
In an instant it was unclasped and snatched away, and the woman was gone.She did not even stay long enough to give thanks for the g
ift, andsomething in her haste and roughness made Elizabeth wonder and gave her amoment of tremor.
She made her way back to the place where the other woman and her childrenhad been sitting; the cold wind made her shiver, and the basket was veryheavy for her slender arm. Her strength seemed to be giving way.
As she turned the corner, a great, fierce gust of wind swept round it,and caught her breath and made her stagger. She thought she was going tofall; indeed, she would have fallen but that one of the tall men who werepassing put out his arm and caught her. He was a well dressed man, in aheavy overcoat; he had gloves on. Elizabeth spoke in a faint tone. "Ithank you," she began, when the second man uttered a wild exclamation andsprang forward.
"Elizabeth!" he said, "Elizabeth!"
Elizabeth looked up and uttered a cry herself. It was her Uncle Bertrandwho stood before her, and his companion, who had saved her from falling,was Dr. Norris.
For a moment it seemed as if they were almost struck dumb with horror;and then her Uncle Bertrand seized her by the arm in such agitation thathe scarcely seemed himself--not the light, satirical, jesting UncleBertrand she had known at all.
"What does it mean?" he cried. "What are you doing here, in this horribleplace alone? Do you know where it is you have come? What have you in yourbasket? Explain! explain!"
The moment of trial had come, and it seemed even more terrible than thepoor child had imagined. The long strain and exertion had been too muchfor her delicate body. She felt that she could bear no more; the coldseemed to have struck to her very heart. She looked up at Monsieur deRochemont's pale, excited face, and trembled from head to foot. A strangethought flashed into her mind. Saint Elizabeth, of Thuringia--the cruelLandgrave. Perhaps the Saints would help her, too, since she was tryingto do their bidding. Surely, surely it must be so!
"Speak!" repeated Monsieur de Rochemont. "Why is this? The basket--whathave you in it?"
"Roses," said Elizabeth, "Roses." And then her strength deserted her--shefell upon her knees in the snow--the basket slipped from her arm, and thefirst thing which fell from it was--no, not roses,--there had been nomiracle wrought--not roses, but the case of jewels which she had laid onthe top of the other things that it might be the more easily carried.
[ILLUSTRATION: HER STRENGTH DESERTED HER--SHE FELL UPON HER KNEES INTHE SNOW.]
"Roses!" cried Uncle Bertrand. "Is it that the child is mad? They are thejewels of my sister Clotilde."
Elizabeth clasped her hands and leaned towards Dr. Norris, the tearsstreaming from her uplifted eyes.
"Ah! monsieur," she sobbed, "you will understand. It was for thepoor--they suffer so much. If we do not help them our souls will be lost.I did not mean to speak falsely. I thought the Saints--the Saints---" Buther sobs filled her throat, and she could not finish. Dr. Norris stopped,and took her in his strong arms as if she had been a baby.
"Quick!" he said, imperatively; "we must return to the carriage, DeRochemont. This is a serious matter."
Elizabeth clung to him with trembling hands.
"But the poor woman who starves?" she cried. "The little children--theysit up on the step quite near--the food was for them! I pray you giveit to them."
"Yes, they shall have it," said the Doctor. "Take the basket, DeRochemont--only a few doors below." And it appeared that there wassomething in his voice which seemed to render obedience necessary, forMonsieur de Rochemont actually did as he was told.
For a moment Dr. Norris put Elizabeth on her feet again, but it wasonly while he removed his overcoat and wrapped it about her slightshivering body.
"You are chilled through, poor child," he said; "and you are not strongenough to walk just now. You must let me carry you."
It was true that a sudden faintness had come upon her, and she could notrestrain the shudder which shook her. It still shook her when she wasplaced in the carriage which the two gentlemen had thought it wiser toleave in one of the more respectable streets when they went to explorethe worse ones together.
"What might not have occurred if we had not arrived at that instant!"said Uncle Bertrand when he got into the carriage. "As it is who knowswhat illness--"
"It will be better to say as little as possible now," said Dr. Norris.
"It was for the poor," said Elizabeth, trembling. "I had prayed to theSaints to tell me what was best I thought I must go. I did not mean to dowrong. It was for the poor."
And while her Uncle Bertrand regarded her with a strangely agitated look,and Dr. Norris held her hand between his strong and warm ones, the tearsrolled down her pure, pale little face.
She did not know until some time after what danger she had been in, thatthe part of the city into which she had wandered was the lowest andworst, and was in some quarters the home of thieves and criminals ofevery class. As her Uncle Bertrand had said, it was impossible to saywhat terrible thing might have happened if they had not met her so soon.It was Dr. Norris who explained it all to her as gently and kindly as waspossible. She had always been fragile, and she had caught a severe coldwhich caused her an illness of some weeks. It was Dr. Norris who tookcare of her, and it was not long before her timidity was forgotten in hertender and trusting affection for him. She learned to watch for hiscoming, and to feel that she was no longer lonely. It was through himthat her uncle permitted her to send to the _cure_ a sum of money largeenough to do all that was necessary. It was through him that the poorwoman and her children were clothed and fed and protected. When she waswell enough, he had promised that she should help him among his own poor.And through him--though she lost none of her sweet sympathy for thosewho suffered--she learned to live a more natural and child-like life, andto find that there were innocent, natural pleasures to be enjoyed in theworld. In time she even ceased to be afraid of her Uncle Bertrand, and tobe quite happy in the great beautiful house. And as for Uncle Bertrandhimself, he became very fond of her, and sometimes even helped her todispense her charities. He had a light, gay nature, but he was kind atheart, and always disliked to see or think of suffering. Now and then hewould give more lavishly than wisely, and then he would say, with hishabitual graceful shrug of the shoulders--"Yes, it appears I am notdiscreet. Finally, I think I must leave my charities to you, my goodNorris--to you and Little Saint Elizabeth."
THE STORY OF PRINCE FAIRYFOOT