Despite his ill health, despite the confusion of his cherished brain, Holmes was determined to continue the search for little Sara Crewe. It took some time to convince him to let me do it instead, that in his condition he would kill himself instead of finding her, but when even Mary joined in in the convincing, he agreed. Mary's ready imagination and soft heart had been quickly touched by what I told her of the missing little girl, now an orphan, perhaps turned out into the streets when her bills could no longer be paid, or perhaps kindly sheltered (we could only pray it was the latter), and when my children learned why their Papa would be spending much of the next months in France, they were more willing to part with me.
No one wants to hear about my futile searches all over France following some vague notions of Holmes', so I shall tell instead about my children's interest in the case and their unconscious involvement during the months I was abroad. The older girls, Janet and Nora, were enchanted by visions of an heiress perhaps their own age in rags, like a princess in a story; my eldest son John, Janet's twin, tried to persuade me that it would be very educational for an eight-year-old boy if I took him along on the search, and my younger son Donald, who had been moved to tears by a pantomime of the Danish story "The Little Match Girl" over the Christmas holidays, was quite desperate that the little heiress should not fall prey to the same fate, as indeed we all were. Baby Harriet was not yet old enough to care. The children had taken to calling her "the little un-fairy princess," because clearly she was not a fairy but she was as rich as a princess, and if she were found, her story would be like a fairy tale.
Meanwhile, they and their friends the Carmichael children (whose father James Carmichael was a solicitor and was assisting me in my search in France) had developed an interest in another little girl, now that impoverished little girls were paramount in their thoughts. Members of a very large family, the four middle children spent much of their Christmas holidays with my four older children, and it was one of their favorite things to sit at the windows and make up stories about the people who passed by. One servant child passed by very often, usually heavily laden down with baskets of purchases for the kitchen of the school next to Holmes. She was older than the "un-fairy princess" of their imaginations, about twelve or thirteen, and much darker than we all pictured little Sara Crewe to be in our minds, having seen the picture Carrisford had given Holmes of the bright, vibrant Ralph Crewe, but her frequent passing, her bedraggled and too-small but well-made clothes, and her dark, thoughtful eyes drew all the children to her. I am sure she had no idea how many times a horde of children would rush to the windows to watch her pass anytime one of them called out that she was coming, and how they invented stories about her which all ended up sounding remarkably like Sara Crewe's because it was the most romantic story they knew, and how they affectionately called her "the-little-girl-who-is-not-a-beggar" because Janet, their little leader, had one day proclaimed that she was not one.
They were all encouraged in their obsession with the servant girl by Holmes' faithful servant and nurse Ram Dass, to whom they were all devoted, despite the fact that they could not speak to him because he knew very little English and they no Hindustani. They knew Ram Dass well because he was often at our house conveying Holmes' physical condition to Mary and because, in his illness, boredom, and depression, Holmes had developed an unforeseen interest in the children's company, in small doses. John and Janet, his godchildren, would often go over together; they were very good at helping him take an interest in their small doings without being noisy about it, and he amused himself by solving their small problems and trying to prove to himself that his mental powers were unimpaired, though we both knew that was not true. Nora sometimes visited with Janet, and only on rare occasions was Donald, who had not yet learned precisely how to speak to an invalid, allowed to go with the older children. When they were not "cheering up Mr Holmes," as they called it, they were following Ram Dass all over the house and pretending like they understood what he said to them. He managed to convey to them that he had met the-little-girl-who-is-not-a-beggar, because the attic she lived in adjoined the attic he had chosen for his own room, and they had both looked out of their windows at the same struggling sunset. He was not able to tell them that she had spoken to him in his own dialect of Hindustani; he had some idea that her speaking of his language in a strange land was a manifestation of the gods rather than a natural part of his interaction with another human. But one very cold night, as he rejoiced in the warmth of a glowing fire in his own room, it occurred to him that a downtrodden servant girl in a school might not have such warmth, and he had slipped across the slanting roof and looked into her room and discovered it dark and cold and lonely.
Somehow he managed to convey this to my children, in his own way, which they, children unconcerned with the details of language, understood readily, and he told them his idea of slipping into her room some day when she was out and starting a fire in her bare little grate, so that it would appear that a Djinn had done it. This delighted them, and Janet cried, "Should it not also be lovely to leave her a nice hot tea? I am certain she often looks very hungry," and demonstrated her idea to Ram Dass by holding out her cup of weak tea and gesturing in the direction of the school next door. His face lit with smiles, she told me later, and he urged her to tell her godfather of their idea.
Janet by now was an expert in dealing with her ill and often irritable and depressed godfather. She knew how to speak quietly to prevent the debilitating headaches that loud noises could cause him and how to demonstrate her quick intelligence and observant mind in conversation. She had no idea that he believed his intelligence to be destroyed, his reason for existing swept away: she only knew he was ill and sad and fascinating and needed tender and unobtrusive cheering up. Holmes, thinking so much of the little girl he believed himself to have wronged, found himself growing fond of the little girl who had a claim on him as his goddaughter.
"Godfather Holmes," she said, "Ram Dass and I have had an idea to make a fairy story for the-little-girl-who-is-not-a-beggar."
"The-little-girl-who-is-not-a-beggar? A very descriptive term."
"Donald gave her a sixpence once, because he thought she was, and one could tell she wasn't when she took it."
"Really? How could you tell, Janet?"
She dimpled, as she always did when he asked her to display her observational skills for him. "She didn't curtsey and say, 'Thank yer kindly, little master.' She went a little red. I think she was hurt, but you know Donald. He is so sweet one can't really get angry at him. She always wears clothes that are too small and very old, but they are not rags. Anyhow, she is a servant at the seminary next door. They always send her out in the worst weather, and she looks so cold and hungry sometimes!"
"And your idea is to be her fairy godmother, is it?"
"How did you know?"
"It was obvious. You and Ram Dass together could be nothing but romantically practical, which seems to me to be the essence of a fairy godmother. What do you wish to do?"
"Her room is just on the other side of the wall from Ram Dass's room, and he told us that it is very cold and ugly, and we want to make it warm—and beautiful! Could we make it beautiful? We want to put a fire in the grate and bring her tea and cakes and sandwiches, so it will be like magic when she comes in late and cold! And maybe we could put some pretty things in there! I would give the coloured picture of the Indian ladies Mama let me tear out of the Strand Magazine last week. He could pin it to her wall like I have it pinned to mine."
Holmes watched her closely, then looked around at all the beautiful Indian things Ram Dass had put in the sitting room he and I used to share, things he hardly looked at and didn't care for. "Why should you not give her some of these things?" he said languidly. "Ram Dass seems to have filled up my rooms unnecessarily."
"Oh, Godfather Holmes!" Janet clasped her hands together in delight. "Could we? John could help Ram Dass carry things across the roof."
"I do not think your parents should care for him going out on the roof. But you might ask the oldest Carmichael boy to assist."
"Godfather Holmes, you always have the best ideas," she said fervently and brought a smile to his thin face.
"God grant that it may continue to be so," he murmured.
