Little Saint Elizabeth and Other Stories Part 3

There was in the shop among others a red-faced woman with a cunning look in her eyes. She sidled out of the place and was waiting for Elizabeth when 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 will share 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 at Elizabeth's velvet fur-lined and trimmed cloak. "That's a pretty cloak you've on," she said. "You've got another, I daresay."

Suddenly she gave the cloak a pull, but the fastening did not give way as she had thought it would.

"Is it because you are cold that you want it?" said Elizabeth, in her gentle, 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed away, and the woman was gone.

She did not even stay long enough to give thanks for the gift, and something in her haste and roughness made Elizabeth wonder and gave her a moment of tremor.

She made her way back to the place where the other woman and her children had been sitting; the cold wind made her shiver, and the basket was very heavy 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 to fall; indeed, she would have fallen but that one of the tall men who were pa.s.sing put out his arm and caught her. He was a well dressed man, in a heavy overcoat; he had gloves on. Elizabeth spoke in a faint tone. "I thank you," she began, when the second man uttered a wild exclamation and sprang forward.

"Elizabeth!" he said, "Elizabeth!"

Elizabeth looked up and uttered a cry herself. It was her Uncle Bertrand who 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 that he scarcely seemed himself--not the light, satirical, jesting Uncle Bertrand she had known at all.

"What does it mean?" he cried. "What are you doing here, in this horrible place alone? Do you know where it is you have come? What have you in your basket? Explain! explain!"

The moment of trial had come, and it seemed even more terrible than the poor child had imagined. The long strain and exertion had been too much for her delicate body. She felt that she could bear no more; the cold seemed to have struck to her very heart. She looked up at Monsieur de Rochemont's pale, excited face, and trembled from head to foot. A strange thought flashed into her mind. Saint Elizabeth, of Thuringia--the cruel Landgrave. Perhaps the Saints would help her, too, since she was trying to do their bidding. Surely, surely it must be so!

"Speak!" repeated Monsieur de Rochemont. "Why is this? The basket--what have you in it?"

"Roses," said Elizabeth, "Roses." And then her strength deserted her--she fell upon her knees in the snow--the basket slipped from her arm, and the first thing which fell from it was--no, not roses,--there had been no miracle wrought--not roses, but the case of jewels which she had laid on the top of the other things that it might be the more easily carried.

[ILl.u.s.tRATION: HER STRENGTH DESERTED HER--SHE FELL UPON HER KNEES IN THE SNOW.]

"Roses!" cried Uncle Bertrand. "Is it that the child is mad? They are the jewels of my sister Clotilde."

Elizabeth clasped her hands and leaned towards Dr. Norris, the tears streaming from her uplifted eyes.

"Ah! monsieur," she sobbed, "you will understand. It was for the poor--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---" But her 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, De Rochemont. This is a serious matter."

Elizabeth clung to him with trembling hands.

"But the poor woman who starves?" she cried. "The little children--they sit up on the step quite near--the food was for them! I pray you give it to them."

"Yes, they shall have it," said the Doctor. "Take the basket, De Rochemont--only a few doors below." And it appeared that there was something in his voice which seemed to render obedience necessary, for Monsieur de Rochemont actually did as he was told.

For a moment Dr. Norris put Elizabeth on her feet again, but it was only while he removed his overcoat and wrapped it about her slight shivering body.

"You are chilled through, poor child," he said; "and you are not strong enough to walk just now. You must let me carry you."

It was true that a sudden faintness had come upon her, and she could not restrain the shudder which shook her. It still shook her when she was placed in the carriage which the two gentlemen had thought it wiser to leave in one of the more respectable streets when they went to explore the 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 knows what 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 the Saints to tell me what was best I thought I must go. I did not mean to do wrong. 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 tears rolled down her pure, pale little face.

She did not know until some time after what danger she had been in, that the part of the city into which she had wandered was the lowest and worst, and was in some quarters the home of thieves and criminals of every cla.s.s. As her Uncle Bertrand had said, it was impossible to say what 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 was possible. She had always been fragile, and she had caught a severe cold which caused her an illness of some weeks. It was Dr. Norris who took care of her, and it was not long before her timidity was forgotten in her tender and trusting affection for him. She learned to watch for his coming, and to feel that she was no longer lonely. It was through him that her uncle permitted her to send to the _cure_ a sum of money large enough to do all that was necessary. It was through him that the poor woman and her children were clothed and fed and protected. When she was well 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 those who suffered--she learned to live a more natural and child-like life, and to find that there were innocent, natural pleasures to be enjoyed in the world. In time she even ceased to be afraid of her Uncle Bertrand, and to be quite happy in the great beautiful house. And as for Uncle Bertrand himself, he became very fond of her, and sometimes even helped her to dispense her charities. He had a light, gay nature, but he was kind at heart, and always disliked to see or think of suffering. Now and then he would give more lavishly than wisely, and then he would say, with his habitual graceful shrug of the shoulders--"Yes, it appears I am not discreet. Finally, I think I must leave my charities to you, my good Norris--to you and Little Saint Elizabeth."

THE STORY OF PRINCE FAIRYFOOT

PREFATORY NOTE

"THE STORY OF PRINCE FAIRYFOOT" was originally intended to be the first of a series, under the general t.i.tle of "Stories from the Lost Fairy-Book, Re-told by the Child Who Read Them," concerning which Mrs.

Burnett relates:

"When I was a child of six or seven, I had given to me a book of fairy-stories, of which I was very fond. Before it had been in my possession many months, it disappeared, and, though since then I have tried repeatedly, both in England and America, to find a copy of it, I have never been able to do so. I asked a friend in the Congressional Library at Washington--a man whose knowledge of books is almost unlimited--to try to learn something about it for me. But even he could find no trace of it; and so we concluded it must have been out of print some time. I always remembered the impression the stories had made on me, and, though most of them had become very faint recollections, I frequently told them to children, with additions of my own. The story of Fairyfoot I had promised to tell a little girl; and, in accordance with the promise, I developed the outline I remembered, introduced new characters and conversation, wrote it upon note paper, inclosed it in a decorated satin cover, and sent it to her. In the first place, it was re-written merely for her, with no intention of publication; but she was so delighted with it, and read and reread it so untiringly, that it occurred to me other children might like to hear it also. So I made the plan of developing and re-writing the other stories in like manner, and having them published under the t.i.tle of 'Stories from the Lost Fairy-Book, Re-told by the Child Who Read Them.'"

The little volume in question Mrs. Burnett afterwards discovered to be ent.i.tled "Granny's Wonderful Chair and the Tales it Told."