“Oh, you queer, poor, ugly, foreign little thing!” said Sara, caressing him. “I can’t help liking you. You look like a sort of baby, but I am so glad you are not, because your mother could not be proud of you, and nobody would dare to say you were like any of your relations. But I do like you; you have such a forlorn little look in your face. Perhaps you are sorry you are so ugly, and it’s always on your mind. I wonder if you have a mind?”
The monkey sat and looked at her while she talked, and seemed much interested in her remarks, if one could judge by his eyes and his forehead, and the way he moved his head up and down, and held it sideways and scratched it with his little hand. He examined Sara quite seriously, and anxiously, too. He felt the stuff of her dress, touched her hands, climbed up and examined her ears, and then sat on her shoulder holding a lock of her hair, looking mournful but not at all agitated. Upon the whole, he seemed pleased with Sara.
“But I must take you back,” she said to him, “though I’m sorry to have to do it. Oh, the company you would be to a person!”
She lifted him from her shoulder, set him on her knee, and gave him a bit of cake. He sat and nibbled it, and then put his head on one side, looked at her, wrinkled his forehead, and then nibbled again, in the most companionable manner.
“But you must go home,” said Sara at last; and she took him in her arms to carry him downstairs. Evidently he did not want to leave the room, for as they reached the door he clung to her neck and gave a little scream of anger.
“You mustn’t be an ungrateful monkey,” said Sara. “You ought to be fondest of your own family. I am sure the Lascar is good to you.”
Nobody saw her on her way out, and very soon she was standing on the Indian Gentleman’s front steps, and the Lascar had opened the door for her.
“I found your monkey in my room,” she said in Hindustani. “I think he got in through the window.”
The man began a rapid outpouring of thanks; but, just as he was in the midst of them, a fretful, hollow voice was heard through the open door of the nearest room. The instant he heard it the Lascar disappeared, and left Sara still holding the monkey.
It was not many moments, however, before he came back bringing a message. His master had told him to bring Missy into the library. The Sahib was very ill, but he wished to see Missy.
Sara thought this odd, but she remembered reading stories of Indian gentlemen who, having no constitutions, were extremely cross and full of whims, and who must have their own way. So she followed the Lascar.
When she entered the room the Indian Gentleman was lying on an easy chair, propped up with pillows. He looked frightfully ill. His yellow face was thin, and his eyes were hollow. He gave Sara a rather curious look—it was as if she wakened in him some anxious interest.
“You live next door?” he said.
“Yes,” answered Sara. “I live at Miss Minchin’s.”
“She keeps a boarding-school?”
“Yes,” said Sara.
“And you are one of her pupils?”
Sara hesitated a moment.
“I don’t know exactly what I am,” she replied.
“Why not?” asked the Indian Gentleman.
The monkey gave a tiny squeak, and Sara stroked him.
“At first,” she said, “I was a pupil and a parlor boarder; but now—”
“What do you mean by `at first’?” asked the Indian Gentleman.
“When I was first taken there by my papa.”
“Well, what has happened since then?” said the invalid, staring at her and knitting his brows with a puzzled expression.
“My papa died,” said Sara. “He lost all his money, and there was none left for me—and there was no one to take care of me or pay Miss Minchin, so—”
“So you were sent up into the garret and neglected, and made into a half-starved little drudge!” put in the Indian Gentleman. That is about it, isn’t it?”
The color deepened on Sara’s cheeks.
“There was no one to take care of me, and no money,” she said. “I belong to nobody.”
“What did your father mean by losing his money?” said the gentleman, fretfully.
The red in Sara’s cheeks grew deeper, and she fixed her odd eyes on the yellow face.
“He did not lose it himself,” she said. “He had a friend he was fond of, and it was his friend, who took his money. I don’t know how. I don’t understand. He trusted his friend too much.”
She saw the invalid start—the strangest start— as if he had been suddenly frightened. Then he spoke nervously and excitedly:
“That’s an old story,” he said. “It happens every day; but sometimes those who are blamed —those who do the wrong—don’t intend it, and are not so bad. It may happen through a mistake —a miscalculation; they may not be so bad.”
“No,” said Sara, “but the suffering is just as bad for the others. It killed my papa.”
The Indian Gentleman pushed aside some of the gorgeous wraps that covered him.
“Come a little nearer, and let me look at you,” he said.
His voice sounded very strange; it had a more nervous and excited tone than before. Sara had an odd fancy that he was half afraid to look at her. She came and stood nearer, the monkey clinging to her and watching his master anxiously over his shoulder.
The Indian Gentleman’s hollow, restless eyes fixed themselves on her.
“Yes,” he said at last. “Yes; I can see it. Tell me your father’s name.”
“His name was Ralph Crewe,” said Sara. “Captain Crewe. Perhaps,”—a sudden thought flashing upon her,— “perhaps you may have heard of him? He died in India.”
The Indian Gentleman sank back upon his pillows. He looked very weak, and seemed out of breath.
“Yes,” he said, “I knew him. I was his friend. I meant no harm. If he had only lived he would have known. It turned out well after all. He was a fine young fellow. I was fond of him. I will make it right. Call—call the man.”
Sara thought he was going to die. But there was no need to call the Lascar. He must have been waiting at the door. He was in the room and by his master’s side in an instant. He seemed to know what to do. He lifted the drooping head, and gave the invalid something in a small glass. The Indian Gentleman lay panting for a few minutes, and then he spoke in an exhausted but eager voice, addressing the Lascar in Hindustani:
“Go for Carmichael,” he said. Tell him to come here at once. Tell him I have found the child!”
When Mr. Carmichael arrived (which occurred in a very few minutes, for it turned out that he was no other than the father of the Large Family across the street), Sara went home, and was allowed to take the monkey with her. She certainly did not sleep very much that night, though the monkey behaved beautifully, and did not disturb her in the least. It was not the monkey that kept her awake—it was her thoughts, and her wonders as to what the Indian Gentleman had meant when he said, “Tell him I have found the child.” “What child?” Sara kept asking herself.
“I was the only child there; but how had he found me, and why did he want to find me? And what is he going to do, now I am found? Is it something about my papa? Do I belong to somebody? Is he one of my relations? Is something going to happen?”
But she found out the very next day, in the morning; and it seemed that she had been living in a story even more than she had imagined. First, Mr. Carmichael came and had an interview with Miss Minchin. And it appeared that Mr. Carmichael, besides occupying the important situation of father to the Large Family was a lawyer, and had charge of the affairs of Mr. Carrisford—which was the real name of the Indian Gentleman—and, as Mr. Carrisford’s lawyer, Mr. Carmichael had come to explain something curious to Miss Minchin regarding Sara. But, being the father of the Large Family, he had a very kind and fatherly feeling for children; and so, after seeing Miss Minchin alone, what did he do but go and bring across the square his rosy, motherly, warm-hearted wife, so that she herself might talk to the little lonely girl, and tell her everything in the best and most motherly way.