Little Saint Elizabeth and Other Stories - Frances Hodgson Burnett
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 in
France, in a beautiful _chateau_, and she had been born heiress to a
great fortune, but, nevertheless, just now she felt as if she was very
poor, indeed. And yet her home was in one of the most splendid houses in
New York. She had a lovely suite of apartments of her own, though she was
only eleven years old. She had had her own carriage and a saddle horse, a
train of masters, and governesses, and servants, and was regarded by all
the children of the neighborhood as a sort of grand and mysterious little
princess, whose incomings and outgoings were to be watched with the
greatest 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 velvet
and splendid fur." "That is her own, own, carriage." "She has millions of
money; and she can have anything she wants--Jane says so!" "She is very
pretty, 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 the
servants say she is always quiet and looks sad." "Her maid says she lived
with 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 a
child companion in her life, and these little Americans, who were so very
rosy and gay, and who went out to walk or drive with groups of brothers
and sisters, and even ran in the street, laughing and playing and
squabbling healthily--these children amazed her.
Poor little Saint Elizabeth! She had not lived a very natural or healthy
life 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 years
her young father and mother died, within a week of each other, of a
terrible fever, and the only near relatives the little one had were her
Aunt Clotilde and Uncle Bertrand. Her Aunt Clotilde lived in
Normandy--her Uncle Bertrand in New York. As these two were her only
guardians, and as Bertrand de Rochemont was a gay bachelor, fond of
pleasure and knowing nothing of babies, it was natural that he should be
very willing that his elder sister should undertake the rearing and
education of the child.
"Only," he wrote to Mademoiselle de Rochemont, "don't end by training her
for an abbess, my dear Clotilde."
[Illustration: "THERE SHE IS," THEY WOULD CRY.]
There was a very great difference between these two people--the distance
between the gray stone _chateau_ in Normandy and the brown stone mansion
in New York was not nearly so great as the distance and difference
between the two lives. And yet it was said that in her first youth
Mademoiselle de Rochemont had been as gay and fond of pleasure as either
of her brothers. And then, when her life was at its brightest and
gayest--when she was a beautiful and brilliant young woman--she had had a
great and bitter sorrow, which had changed her for ever. From that time
she had never left the house in which she had been born, and had lived
the life of a nun in everything but being enclosed in convent walls. At
first she had had her parents to take care of, but when they died she had
been left entirely alone in the great _chateau_, and devoted herself to
prayer and works of charity among the villagers and country people.
"Ah! she is good--she is a saint Mademoiselle," the poor people always
said when speaking of her; but they also always looked a little
awe-stricken when she appeared, and never were sorry when she left them.
She was a tall woman, with a pale, rigid, handsome face, which never
smiled. She did nothing but good deeds, but however grateful her
pensioners 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 serge
gown, broad bands of white linen, and a rosary and crucifix at her waist.
She read nothing but religious works and legends of the saints and
martyrs, and adjoining her private apartments was a little stone chapel,
where the servants said she used to kneel on the cold floor before the
altar and pray for hours in the middle of the night.
The little _cure_ of the village, who was plump and comfortable, and who
had the kindest heart and the most cheerful soul in the world, used to
remonstrate with her, always in a roundabout way, however, never quite as
if he were referring directly to herself.
"One must not let one's self become the stone image of goodness," he said
once. "Since one is really of flesh and blood, and lives among flesh and
blood, that is not best. No, no; it is not best."
But Mademoiselle de Rochemont never seemed exactly of flesh and
blood--she was more like a marble female saint who had descended from her
pedestal 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 for
her innocent soul, but it can be scarcely said that her manner was any
softer or that she smiled more. At first Elizabeth used to scream at the
sight of the black, nun-like dress and the rigid, handsome face, but in
course of time she became accustomed to them, and, through living in an
atmosphere so silent and without brightness, a few months changed her
from a laughing, romping baby into a pale, quiet child, who rarely made
any childish noise at all.
In this quiet way she became fond of her aunt. She saw little of anyone
but the servants, who were all trained to quietness also. As soon as she
was old enough her aunt began her religious training. Before she could
speak plainly she heard legends of saints and stories of martyrs. She was
taken into the little chapel and taught to pray there. She believed in
miracles, and would not have been surprised at any moment if she had met
the Child Jesus or the Virgin in the beautiful rambling gardens which
surrounded the _chateau_. She was a sensitive, imaginative child, and the
sacred romances she heard filled all her mind and made up her little
life. She wished to be a saint herself, and spent hours in wandering in
the terraced rose gardens wondering if such a thing was possible in
modern days, and what she must do to obtain such holy victory. Her chief
sorrow was that she knew herself to be delicate and very timid--so timid
that she often suffered when people did not suspect it--and she was
afraid that she was not brave enough to be a martyr. Once, poor little
one! when she was alone in her room, she held her hand over a burning wax
candle, 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 chant
holy songs if she were being burned at the stake. She had been vowed to
the Virgin in her babyhood, and was always dressed in white and blue, but
her little dress was a small conventual robe, straight and narrow cut, of
white woollen stuff, and banded plainly with blue at the waist. She did
not look like other children, but she was very sweet and gentle, and her
pure little pale face and large, dark eyes had a lovely dreamy look. When
she was old enough to visit the poor with her Aunt Clotilde--and she was
hardly seven years old when it was considered proper that she should
begin--the villagers did not stand in awe of her. They began to adore
her, 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 and
touch her soft white and blue robe. And, when they did so, she always
returned their looks with such a tender, sympathetic smile, and spoke to
them in so gentle a voice, that they were in ecstasies. They used to
talk her over, tell stories about her when they were playing together
afterwards.
"The little Mademoiselle," they said, "she is a child saint. I have heard
them say so. Sometimes there is a little light round her head. One day
her little white robe will begin to shine too, and her long sleeves will
be wings, and she will spread them and ascend through the blue sky to
Paradise. You will see if it is not so."
So, in this secluded world in the gray old _chateau_, with no companion
but her aunt, with no occupation but her studies and her charities, with
no thoughts but those of saints and religious exercises, Elizabeth lived
until she was eleven years old. Then a great grief befell her. One
morning, Mademoiselle de Rochemont did not leave her room at the regular
hour. As she never broke a rule she had made for herself and her
household, this occasioned great wonder. Her old maid servant waited
half an hour--went to her door, and took the liberty of listening to
hear if she was up and moving about her room. There was no sound. Old
Alice returned, looking quite agitated. "Would Mademoiselle Elizabeth
mind entering to see if all was well? Mademoiselle her aunt might be in
the chapel."
Elizabeth went. Her aunt was not in her room. Then she must be in the
chapel. The child entered the sacred little place. The morning sun was
streaming in through the stained-glass windows above the altar--a broad
ray of mingled brilliant colors slanted to the stone floor and warmly
touched a dark figure lying there. It was Aunt Clotilde, who had sunk
forward while kneeling at prayer and had died in the night.
That was what the doctors said when they were sent for. She had been dead
some hours--she had died of disease of the heart, and apparently without
any pain or knowledge of the change coming to her. Her face was serene
and beautiful, and the rigid look had melted away. Someone said she
looked like little Mademoiselle Elizabeth; and her old servant Alice wept
very much, and said, "Yes--yes--it was so when she was young, before her
unhappiness came. She had the same beautiful little face, but she was
more gay, more of the world. Yes, they were much alike then."
Less than two months from that time Elizabeth was living in the home of
her 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 ever
now, 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, clever
man, 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 so
to 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 a
little 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 sustained
him. But when he first saw Elizabeth he could not restrain an exclamation
of consternation.
[Illustration: It was Aunt Clotilde, who had sunk forward while kneeling
at prayer.]
She entered the room, when she was sent for, clad in a strange little
nun-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 held
a 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, very
kind to her; but the first thing he did was to send to Paris for a
fashionable maid and fashionable mourning.
"Because, as you will see," he remarked to Alice, "we cannot travel as we
are. It is a costume for a convent or the stage."
Before she took off her little conventual robe, Elizabeth went to the
village to visit all her poor. The _cure_ went with her and shed tears
himself when the people wept and kissed her little hand. When the child
returned, 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 left
behind and she found herself in the big luxurious house in the gay New
York street. Nothing that could be done for her comfort had been left
undone. She had several beautiful rooms, a wonderful governess, different
masters to teach her, her own retinue of servants as, indeed, has been
already said.
But, secretly, she felt bewildered and almost terrified, everything was
so new, so strange, so noisy, and so brilliant. The dress she wore made
her feel unlike herself; the books they gave her were full of pictures
and stories of worldly things of which she knew nothing. Her carriage was
brought to the door and she went out with her governess, driving round
and round the park with scores of other people who looked at her
curiously, she did not know why. The truth was that her refined little
face was very beautiful indeed, and her soft dark eyes still wore the
dreamy spiritual look which made her unlike the rest of the world.
"She looks like a little princess," she heard her uncle say one day. "She
will be some day a beautiful, an enchanting woman--her mother was so when
she died at twenty, but she had been brought up differently. This one is
a little devotee. I am afraid of her. Her governess tells me she rises in
the night to pray." He said it with light laughter to some of his gay
friends by whom he had wished the child to be seen. He did not know that
his gayety filled her with fear and pain. She had been taught to believe
gayety worldly and sinful, and his whole life was filled with it. He had
brilliant parties--he did not go to church--he had no pensioners--he
seemed to think of nothing but pleasure. Poor little Saint Elizabeth
prayed for his soul many an hour when he was asleep after a grand dinner
or supper party.
He could not possibly have dreamed that there was no one of whom she
stood in such dread; her timidity increased tenfold in his presence.
When he sent for her and she went into the library to find him
luxurious in his arm chair, a novel on his knee, a cigar in his white
hand, a tolerant, half cynical smile on his handsome mouth, she could
scarcely answer his questions, and could never find courage to tell
what she so earnestly desired. She had found out early that Aunt
Clotilde and the _cure_ and the life they had led, had only aroused in
his mind a half-pitying amusement. It seemed to her that he did not
understand and had strange sacrilegious thoughts about them--he did not
believe in miracles--he smiled when she spoke of saints. How could she
tell him that she wished to spend all her money in building churches
and giving alms to the poor? That was what she wished to tell him--that
she wanted money to send back to the village, that she wanted to give
it to the poor people she saw in the streets, to those who lived in the
miserable places.
But when she found herself face to face with him and he said some witty
thing to her and seemed to find her only amusing, all her courage failed
her. Sometimes she thought she would throw herself upon her knees before
him and beg him to send her back to Normandy--to let her live alone in
the _chateau_ as her Aunt Clotilde had done.
One morning she arose very early, and knelt a long time before the little
altar she had made for herself in her dressing room. It was only a table
with some black velvet thrown over it, a crucifix, a saintly image, and
some flowers standing upon it. She had put on, when she got up, the
quaint black serge robe, because she felt more at home in it, and her
heart was full of determination. The night before she had received a
letter from the _cure_ and it had contained sad news. A fever had broken
out in her beloved village, the vines had done badly, there was sickness
among the cattle, there was already beginning to be suffering, and if
something were not done for the people they would not know how to face
the winter. In the time of Mademoiselle de Rochemont they had always been
made comfortable and happy at Christmas. What was to be done? The _cure_
ventured to write to Mademoiselle Elizabeth.
[Illustration: The villagers did not stand in awe of her.]
The poor child had scarcely slept at all. Her dear village! Her dear
people! The children would be hungry; the cows would die; there would be
no fires to warm those who were old.
"I must go to uncle," she said, pale and trembling. "I must ask him to
give me money. I am afraid, but it is right to mortify the spirit. The
martyrs went to the stake. The holy Saint Elizabeth was ready to endure
anything that she might do her duty and help the poor."
Because she had been called Elizabeth she had thought and read a great
deal of the saint whose namesake she was--the saintly Elizabeth whose
husband was so wicked and cruel, and who wished to prevent her from doing
good deeds. And oftenest of all she had read the legend which told that
one day as Elizabeth went out with a basket of food to give to the poor
and hungry, she had met her savage husband, who had demanded that she
should tell him what she was carrying, and when she replied "Roses," and
he tore the cover from the basket to see if she spoke the truth, a
miracle had been performed, and the basket was filled with roses, so
that she had been saved from her husband's cruelty, and also from telling
an untruth. To little Elizabeth this legend had been beautiful and quite
real--it proved that if one were doing good, the saints would take care
of one. Since she had been in her new home, she had, half consciously,
compared her Uncle Bertrand with the wicked Landgrave, though she was too
gentle and just to think he was really cruel, as Saint Elizabeth's
husband had been, only he did not care for the poor, and loved only the
world--and surely that was wicked. She had been taught that to care for
the world at all was a fatal sin.
She did not eat any breakfast. She thought she would fast until she had
done what she intended to do. It had been her Aunt Clotilde's habit to
fast 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 had
had a long gay dinner party the night before.
It was nearly twelve before she heard his door open. Then she went
quickly to the staircase. Her heart was beating so fast that she put her
little hand to her side and waited a moment to regain her breath. She
felt 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. I
will wait--yes, for a little while."
She did not return to her room, but waited upon the stairs. It seemed to
be a long time. It appeared that a friend breakfasted with him. She heard
a 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 going
in and out with her uncle once or twice, and had thought he had a kind
face and kind eyes. He had looked at her in an interested way when he
spoke to her--even as if he were a little curious, and she had wondered
why he did so.
When the door of the breakfast room opened and shut as the servants went
in, she could hear the two laughing and talking. They seemed to be
enjoying themselves very much. Once she heard an order given for the mail
phaeton. 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 the
stairs and stood in a small reception room. Her heart began to beat
faster than ever.
"The blessed martyrs were not afraid," she whispered to herself.
"Uncle Bertrand!" she said, as he approached, and she scarcely knew her
own faint voice. "Uncle Bertrand--"
He turned, and seeing her, started, and exclaimed, rather
impatiently--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 slender
hands clasped on the breast, the small pale face and great dark eyes
uplifted, was certainly a surprise to him.
"Elizabeth!" he said, "what do you wish? Why do you come downstairs? And
that 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 his
displeasure, "it is that I want money--a great deal. I beg your pardon if
I derange you. It is for the poor. Moreover, the _cure_ has written the
people of the village are ill--the vineyards did not yield well. They
must 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 wants
money! My dear Elizabeth, I must inquire further. You have a fortune, but
I cannot permit you to throw it away. You are a child, and do not
understand--"
[Illustration: "UNCLE BERTRAND," SAID THE CHILD, CLASPING HER HANDS.]
"But," cried Elizabeth, trembling with agitation, "they are so poor when
one does not help them: their vineyards are so little, and if the year is
bad they must starve. Aunt Clotilde gave to them every year--even in the
good years. She said they must be cared for like children."
"That was your Aunt Clotilde's charity," replied her uncle. "Sometimes
she was not so wise as she was devout. I must know more of this. I have
no time at present, I am going out of town. In a few days I will reflect
upon it. Tell your maid to give that hideous garment away. Go out to
drive--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 it
will be Christmas, and they will have nothing--no candles for the church,
no little manger for the holy child, nothing for the poorest ones. And
the 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 slight
amused 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_! At
eleven years she wishes to devote her fortune to the poor and herself
to the Church."
Elizabeth sank back into the shadow of the _portieres_. Great
burning tears filled her eyes and slipped down her cheeks, falling
upon her breast.
"He does not care," she said; "he does not know. And I do no one
good--no one." And she covered her face with her hands and stood sobbing
all alone.
When she returned to her room she was so pale that her maid looked at her
anxiously, and spoke of it afterwards to the other servants. They were
all fond of Mademoiselle Elizabeth. She was always kind and gentle to
everybody.
Nearly all the day she sat, poor little saint! by her window looking out
at the passers-by in the snowy street. But she scarcely saw the people at
all, her thoughts were far away, in the little village where she had
always spent her Christmas before. Her Aunt Clotilde had allowed her at
such times to do so much. There had not been a house she had not carried
some gift to; not a child who had been forgotten. And the church on
Christmas morning had been so beautiful with flowers from the hot-houses
of the _chateau_. It was for the church, indeed, that the conservatories
were chiefly kept up. Mademoiselle de Rochemont would scarcely have
permitted herself such luxuries.
But there would not be flowers this year, the _chateau_ was closed; there
were no longer gardeners at work, the church would be bare and cold, the
people would have no gifts, there would be no pleasure in the little
peasants' faces. Little Saint Elizabeth wrung her slight hands together
in her lap.
"Oh," she cried, "what can I do? And then there is the poor here--so
many. And I do nothing. The Saints will be angry; they will not intercede
for me. I shall be lost!"