Cinderella

Front matter

CINDERELLA

CINDERELLA

RETOLD•BY• C•S•EVANS

The Little Girl in the Big House

CINDERELLA

CHAPTER I

The Little Girl in the Big House

Once upon a time there was a nobleman who was married to a sweet and beautiful lady. They had one child, a little girl named Ella, and they lived in a big house in the country.

What a fine house that was! There were more rooms in it than you could count on your fingers and toes, and each room was full of the grandest furniture. Ella had a room all to herself, with pictures of fairy-stories on the walls and cupboards full of toys, and she used to play there on wet days after she had done her lessons and her embroidery. When the weather was fine, however, Ella much preferred to play in the garden, which was so big and so full of interesting things that nobody could ever get tired of it. There was a lake in the garden with nine swans on it; and there was a little summer-house all covered with roses; and there was an orchard where apples and pears and plum-trees grew. At the end of a long drive, by the lodge-keeper’s cottage, were the big gates that shut the garden off from the road. The road led to the town, which was a mile away, and all sorts of interesting people came walking along it—pedlar-men and beggars, and soldiers in splendid uniforms with pikes on their shoulders, marching left, right, left, right. Once Ella saw the King and Queen go by in a grand coach. The young Prince was with them, and all the people came out of their cottages to see him and to shout “Hurrah!”—for he was a very handsome and lovable young Prince. He smiled at Ella as he went by, and she waved her hand to him, and wished he would stop and come to play with her in the garden.

Although Ella had no brothers or sisters, she seldom felt lonely, because there was always her mother to play with her and tell her stories. Her mother knew so many stories that she could tell a new one every night

almost, and they were the most interesting stories one could possibly imagine.

Now Ella’s father spent most of his time in the library reading books—great heavy books without a single picture in them, and no conversations, as Ella knew well, for she had one day stolen a peep at one. Perhaps these books were full of stories! If they were, however, her father never told her any of them. In fact, he hardly ever spoke to her or to anybody else. Every morning after breakfast he would go away to his library, and sit there reading, with a big pair of horn spectacles on his nose, or writing with a quill pen that made a funny, scratchy noise.

There were not many little girls who were happier than Ella up to the time when she was twelve years old. Then a great sorrow came into her life, for her mother was taken ill. All the cleverest doctors came from miles around to give her physic, but none of them could do any good. Ella used to stand by the window and watch them drive up in their carriages. They were most of them big, important-looking men, dressed in black, shiny silk clothes with white lace on the sleeves, and they took snuff and said “Hum—ha ” a great many times. Ella was very anxious to know whether they were going to cure her dear mother, but they always spoke in very low voices, and they looked so important and so solemn that she did not dare to ask any questions.

And then one morning, when she came downstairs, she found her father sitting in the big arm-chair with his head buried in his hands. He did not say anything to

her for a long time, and then he came over and put his hand upon her head and stroked her hair.

“We are all alone now, dear,” he said.

And Ella knew, without any more telling, that her mother was dead.

All that day she crept about with a white face, trying to realize what had happened to her. It seemed im­possible to believe that she would never again hear her mother’s voice, or see her gentle smile. At night when she went to bed she could not sleep, and at last she got up and went to the window and stood there looking into the garden. It was very dark and mysterious out there. A wind was blowing among the trees, sighing like some­body in pain, and the moon shone fitfully from behind barred clouds.

And then a strange thing happened; for as Ella stood there, with the tears which she could not restrain rolling down her cheeks, she thought she saw the figure of an old woman among the bushes on the edge of the lawn. It was too dark to see very plainly, but the strange figure seemed to be dressed in a long black cloak and a queer, pointed hat, and to be leaning on a stick. As Ella watched, the moon shone out full for a moment and lighted up the face of the woman, who was staring straight at Ella’s window. It was an old face, but very, very tender, and the smile on the wrinkled lips was so beautiful that Ella stretched out her arms to the figure and gave a cry.

Then the clouds rolled over the face of the moon, and the shadows darkened in the garden; and when Ella looked again, the figure had vanished.

Ella Goes to School

CHAPTER II

Ella Goes to School

What a change came over the house now that there was no mother to keep things in order! Ella’s father shut himself up in his library more than ever. The servants gossiped on the stairs instead of attending to their work, and Ella wandered about the house with nobody to talk to and nothing to do. Even the garden did not seem the same place, and the fruit that grew upon the south wall in the orchard seemed to have lost its flavour. There was no longer any fun in having picnics in the summer-house, for nobody swept it out nowadays, and all sorts of creepy-crawly things, such as spiders and earwigs, which Ella hated, came and made their homes there. How can you enjoy a picnic if you are always picking spiders and long-legged gnats out of your teacup? This state of things was the fault of the gardener, who had become very lazy, and who used to spend the whole day leaning on his spade and smoking a long clay pipe.

And then a worse thing happened, for one day Ella’s father told her that she must go away to school. She did not like this in the least, and begged to be allowed to stay at home and do lessons in the morning, as she had done when her mother was alive.

“All is for your own good, my dear,” said her father. “There is nobody to teach you now, and you will be all the better for the society of other little girls of your own age.” And so her boxes were packed and a chaise came to the door, and Ella drove away.

Ella remained at school for two whole years, and during all that time she did not see her home. Then one day her father came with the carriage to bring her back again.

When they had left the town well behind, he took Ella’s little hand in his big one and said:

“You must have been very lonely in the house after your mother died. Were you not lonely, child?”

“Yes, indeed,” answered Ella, and the tears came into her eyes when she thought of the dear mother whom she would never see again in this world. “But you see,” she went on, “I have been thinking over things while I have been at school, and I have made up my mind to try not to be lonely any more. There are so many things that mother used to do which I can do instead. One of these days I shall have to take her place, so I may as well begin now, mayn’t I?”

“Of course,” said her father, “and you are a very good little girl to think of it; but there has been a change while you have been away, and I want to tell you about it.”

“A change?” cried Ella, opening her eyes wide.

“Yes,” the Baron went on, speaking rather fast, as though he had to say something unpleasant and wanted to get it over. “Somebody has come to live with us while you have been away—somebody who will, I hope, take a mother’s place to you. A lady has—ahem—done me the honour to accept my hand. That is to say, child, I am married again, and my wife has two daughters who will also live with us for the future. You must try to like them for my sake.”

This piece of news was so much of a surprise to Ella that for a time she could not say a word. A stranger in her mother’s house, sitting in her mother’s chair, doing the things her mother used to do! The very thought made a big lump come into her throat.

“What are their names,” she said at last, “the girls’ names, I mean?”

“One is called Charlotte,” answered her father, “and the other Euphronia.”

“I like the name of Charlotte,” said Ella miserably. “Are they big girls or little ones?”

“Well, you see,” said her father, “correctly speaking, they are not girls at all. That is to say, child, they have—ahem—arrived at years of discretion. You must not expect them to play ball or anything like that, or run about the garden with you. They are— what shall we say?— a little sober in temperament; but excellent creatures, nevertheless— excellent creatures. You will get on very well together, I’m sure, with a little give and take on both sides.”

“Just a minute, father,” pleaded Ella. “Do tell me some more about my new sisters. I cannot understand all the big words you use. Do you mean that they are grown up?”

Her father nodded. “In point of fact, adult,” he said, and his tone was so gloomy that Ella had to smile.

“Never mind,” she said. “Some grown-ups are very nice, especially if they know stories or can play pretend-games, as mother used to do. Can Charlotte and Euphronia play pretend-games, do you know?”

“Let me see,” said her father. “Charlotte plays the spinet very nicely, I believe—her mother tells me so. I have not heard her much myself, because I do not care for music, and I always shut the library door when she begins to play. Euphronia—let me see now—what is it Euphronia does? Oh, of course, Euphronia sings. I gather from her mother that she is no mean performer, though I am no judge of these things. But here we are at the house, child, so do not ask any more questions. In a few minutes you shall meet your stepmother and your sisters in person.”

The Home-coming

CHAPTER III

The Home-coming

Half and hour later Ella sat alone in the middle of the big drawing-room feeling very unhappy. She had not yet seen her stepmother or her stepsisters, who were out visiting. But she had found many traces of their presence in the house.

First of all, when she had gone up to her own room she found to her dismay that somebody else had been using it. All her pictures had been taken down from the walls and replaced by ugly steel engravings. The cup­board containing her toys was nowhere to be seen, and in its place stood a tall swinging mirror. The window-seat, where she used to sit curled up on wet days reading a story-book or looking out into the garden, was not there either, nor were the pretty chintz curtains. Instead of the latter, the window was draped with an ugly red brocade, so dark and heavy that it made the entire room seem dull. Facing the window was a queerly shaped flat table with a sort of well in it, and in the well were little pots of white powder and some soft stuff that looked like cream, and sticks of red paint. There was also a small porcelain box containing little patches cut out of black plaster, which Ella knew ladies stuck on their cheeks when they were going out visiting or to a ball. Besides these, there was a hare’s foot for dabbing powder on, and several powder-puffs, and half a dozen bottles of scent and a pair of curling-tongs, and— strangest of all—a bundle of red hair that looked like the front part of a wig, all frizzled up into curls. The room was very untidy, too. Skirts and other articles of clothing were scattered about on the floor, and a hat with a big feather in it was lying on the back of one of the chairs. The cushions on the divan were all creased and crumpled, and a book lay face down on the carpet just where it had been thrown when its owner had done with it.

Ella stood and gazed at all this for some time ; then she heard a step on the stairs, and going to the door saw Belinda, the maid, who had come to help her unpack.

“ Oh, Belinda,” said Ella, “what has happened to my room?”

“It’s not your room any longer, miss,” answered Belinda. “Miss Euphronia took such a fancy to it, because it was pleasant and had an outlook on the garden, that she has turned it into a dressing-room. That’s her table over there, where she titivates herself. She has taken your bedroom, too, and put your things up into the attic.”

“I shall complain to father,” said Ella. “It cannot be his will that I should be so slighted, and he will put matters right.”

“I shouldn’t count too much on that if I were you, miss,” said Belinda. “There’s changes in your father, too. He’s no longer master in his own house, and he’s nagged at day and night. Why, the only peace the poor man can get is to shut himself up in his library, and even then the Baroness,” here Belinda gave a mighty scornful

sniff, “goes and disturbs him half a dozen times a day. The poor man wouldn’t even get his meals if I didn’t take them up to him, for he’d rather face a den of roar­ing lions than the Baroness” (another sniff) “and Miss Charlotte and Miss Euphronia across the dinner-table. And small blame to him, for three more disagreeable females it’s never been my ill fortune to meet. I shouldn’t count too much on your father— not if I were you, miss. You’ll just have to grin and bear it, and make the best of things.”

So it was a very miserable Ella who went upstairs to the dark attic, which smelt of dust and spiders’ webs, and unpacked her trunk beneath the sloping roof. Belinda had made the place look as comfortable as she

could, and had even nailed up some of the pictures on the walls; but there was hardly room to turn round, and when Ella sat on the bed her toes almost touched the opposite wall. What a change from the pretty, airy room that had once been her own!

Her eyes were so full of tears that she could hardly see to unpack, but she wiped them away presently, and took out her prettiest dress, a white muslin, with blue embroidery on the front and a wide sash of blue silk. She put this on, because she thought she might as well look her best, and went down to the drawing-room to wait for her stepmother’s return.

In a little while she heard the crunching of wheels on the drive outside, and then the banging of the front door, and the sound of high-pitched voices. It seemed as though a quarrel were going on, for the voices were very loud and very bad-tempered.

“I tell you, he bowed to me.”

“Stuff and nonsense! I’ll warrant he never even noticed you. He looked straight at me as he walked by the carriage, and I smiled in return.”

“Forward creature!— when you had never been introduced.”

“Minx!”

“Cat!”

And so the two went on, snapping and snarling, until a deeper voice put in, “For goodness’ sake stop your bickering, you two; do now, and help me off with this turban. I don’t expect he bowed to either of you; and if he did, it doesn’t matter, for he’s nothing but a country squire’s son with not a penny in his pocket. I wonder whether that brat of the Baron’s has come home?”

“That’s my stepmother,” thought Ella, “and the Baron’s brat is me ! Oh dear. I wish I ’d stayed at school!” She had half a thought of escaping through the French windows into the garden and running away; but before she could move a step the drawing-room door flew open, and in came the Baroness with her two daughters.

The Baroness and her Daughters

CHAPTER IV

The Baroness and her Daughters

Have you ever noticed that there are some people whom you know you are not going to like the first time you set eyes on them? Well, the Baroness was one of those people, and so were the two

sisters— for three more disagreeable-looking persons never walked into a room together.

The Baroness came first, striding along in a proud and haughty manner, and peering through a pair of tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles which she carried at the end of a long handle. She was fat and stumpy, with more than one chin, and she had cross, crafty eyes set very close together over a big hooked nose. The fingers of her hands were covered with flashing rings, among

which, to her horror, Ella recognized one that had belonged to her mother, and she was dressed in a gown of black and yellow like a gipsy at a fair.

Ella rose and dropped a curtsy as her father intro­duced her, while the Baroness stared at her from head to toe through her lorgnette.

“So this is the girl,” she said at last in a harsh voice. “How do you do, miss? I’ve heard of your airs and graces, and the way you have been mollycoddled, and I want you to understand that that sort of thing has come to an end now. You’ve been to school, I believe.”

“Yes,” faltered Ella.

“Don’t they teach you to say madam when you speak to your elders? Who told you to put on that frock?”

“Nobody,” said Ella, whose face was red with shame. “It is my frock which my father gave to me, and I put it on because I like it best of all my frocks.”

“Oh, indeed! Then you may go and take it off as quickly as you like, and put on the plainest one you have. I don’t like little girls who give themselves airs. Why do you not greet your sisters?”

Now this was hardly fair, for poor little Ella had not had time to greet anybody, or to do anything except answer questions, since her new relations had arrived. Nevertheless, she tried to smile and to appear friendly. “How do you do?” she said. “My father told me about you as we were coming home in the carriage. I think you’ve got such pretty names! But I don’t know yet which is Charlotte and which is Euphronia, so I can’t call you by them!”

“Do you hear that, mamma?” cried one of the girls. “She actually came home in one of our carriages! I suppose she considers herself too much of a fine lady to walk.”

The one who spoke was red-haired, and her face was highly rouged and powdered, so Ella judged that it was she who had taken possession of her room. But in spite of her paint and powder nobody could possibly call this girl handsome. To begin with, she squinted so badly that while one eye was looking at Ella, the gaze of the other was fixed on the corner of the room. And, as if this was not enough, she had inherited her mother’s big hooked nose, which made her face look rather like that of a horse, although no horse could possibly have worn so bad-tempered and discontented an expression.

The other sister, who, as Ella afterwards learned, was the one named Charlotte, was no beauty either, but she was considerably more attractive than Euphronia, though she had a little red nose that was turned up in the most comical way. Nevertheless, Ella thought that there was just a trace of kindliness in Charlotte’s look, so she ventured to appeal to her.

“I am sorry if I did wrong by coming home in the carriage,” she said, “but my father came to the school for me. Please do not be angry, and I will try to please you in future.”

“Come, come,” said the Baron, nervously rubbing his hands. “Do not let us begin to quarrel about such a little thing. The child is really not at fault.”

“Hold your tongue, Charles,” snapped his wife. “And please understand that I will not have the creature pam­pered. We shall have her demanding a boudoir next, and a servant to wait on her!”

“But, my dear …” stammered the Baron.

“Don’t talk to me,” cried his wife, with an angry stamp of the foot. “We shall see whether or not I am to be mistress in my own house! Euphronia, take this naughty girl up into the garret, and lock her in until she comes to her senses. A few days of solitude and a diet of bread and water will do her all the good in the world.”

“Come along, you stuck-up little thing,” said Euphronia, seizing Ella’s wrist with her large bony hand. “You will have to be taught your proper place.”

And so Ella was dragged away. At the door she turned an appealing glance towards her father, but he was looking at his toes and made no movement to interfere.

The last thing Ella heard as she went up the stairs was the voice of the Baroness storming at her husband. Even when the door of the garret was slammed upon her she could still hear it, deep and booming, like the rumble of distant thunder!

How Ella Became Cinderella

CHAPTER V

How Ella Became Cinderella

So there was poor little Ella in the dark garret at the top of the house, where she remained for twenty-four hours with no food but bread and water. There was nothing in the room except a straw mattress which had been turned out of one of the servants’ chambers, and on this she lay down, burying her head in her hands, and sobbing as if her heart would break. What hurt her more than anything else was the thought that her father had done nothing to protect her against her stepmother’s ill-treatment. She had wild thoughts of running away and going to the town to hire herself as a maid-of-all-work at one of the inns, but the little window of her room was barred on the outside, so she had perforce to stay where she was until it pleased her captors to come and let her out.

Presently it grew dark, and then the loneliness was awful; but Ella shut her eyes and consoled herself by thinking about the happy days she used to spend when her mother was alive. After a time she fell into a sleep, and in her dreams it seemed to her as though her mother was standing beside the wretched bed, looking down upon her with eyes of pity and of love.

It was Euphronia who came the next day to let Ella out. She threw open the door and stood on the threshold for a time, smiling spitefully.

“Well, miss,” she said, “ and how did you like your bedroom? Did you find it airy and comfortable?”

“Why are you so horrid to me?” asked Ella. “I’m sure I’ve done nothing to deserve it. If you do not like to have me in the house I will go away and not trouble you any more. Let me go back to school and spend my holidays there, as I have done before.”

“A splendid idea,” mocked Euphronia, “and I’ve no doubt it is just what you would like. There is to be nomore school for you, miss. Too much money has been wasted on you already, and we will certainly spend no more. What does a little chit like you want of learning Italian and history and dancing! You will have to make yourself useful now, and do something to earn your keep!”

If anybody had told Ella a day or two before that she would have been miserable at the idea of not being allowed to go back to school, she would not have believed them; but at these words her heart sank. What further humiliations had Fate in store?

She was soon to learn, for Euphronia hustled her off into the kitchen and made her sit down at the table with the servants. There she was given a hunk of coarse bread and a mugful of milk, and told to eat heartily because that was all she would get until the following morning. She learnt, too, that she was not even to have the attic where she had unpacked her clothes, but was to sleep henceforward in the very garret where she had been imprisoned, on that ragged straw mattress that had not been good enough for a scullion.

“Oh, Belinda,” sobbed Ella, when her sister at last had gone away. “I am the most unhappy girl in all the world. Whatever shall I do?”

“Put a bold face on it, missy,” said Belinda, “and keep up your courage. Perhaps they don’t mean all they say, and will be kinder to you when they have worked off their spite. At any rate, nothing is to be gained by crying your pretty eyes out.”

“You will be good to me, won’t you, Belinda, and let me stay here? I never want to go upstairs again while my stepmother and my stepsisters are in the house. We can be quite cosy together, and I’ll help you all I can, and teach you some of the things I have learnt at school.”

“That would be very nice, missy,” answered Belinda, “and you may stay here and welcome, but I’m afraid you won’t have my company, because I’m leaving at the end of the week. All the house servants are under notice to leave. The mistress says she means to econo­mize and to stop the waste that has been going on for years. I expect she wants the money to buy jewels to hang on herself and her ugly daughters. Ugh, the nasty creatures!” And Belinda shook her head and walked away muttering.

Ella was very dejected at the prospect of losing one whom she had come to consider her only friend in the world; but before a week had gone by she discovered that Belinda’s words were only too true. One by one the servants left, until there was nobody left in the kitchen but Ella herself and a little scullery-maid who sniffed all day long through her nose and walked about on shoes that had no heels.

Now Ella discovered what her stepsister had meant when she said that she had got to learn to make herself useful. For a day or two she was left to do as she liked, and then one morning Euphronia came down to the kitchen and found her sitting at the window reading a book.

“Well I never!” cried Euphronia. “So that’s how you spend your time! Come here at once, and put on this coarse apron and then go down on your knees and scrub the floor.”

“I am doing no harm,” said Ella mildly. “Mother always used to let me read in the morning, after my lessons were done. As for the floor, it is quite clean, for the scullerv-maid has only just finished scrubbing it. Please, Euphronia, let me go on with my work.”

“What, what!” screamed Euphronia, working her­self up into a fine rage. “More airs and graces! Take that, you miserable brat, and that, for daring to be impudent to your betters!” And with her great hard hand she struck poor Ella several blows on the cheek. Then the poor girl was locked up in the garret once more and almost starved until her spirit was broken.

Things went on in this way for over a month, during which Ella never saw her father or her stepmother. Euphronia was her taskmistress, and she seemed to take a delight in heaping insults and cruelties upon Ella’s head. Sometimes Charlotte came down into the kitchen and stood watching while Ella cleaned the silver, or did some similar menial work, but she did not say anything, except to quarrel with her elder sister, in which occupation these two amiable beings seemed to pass the greater part of their time.

Little by little Ella became accustomed to her new position, and took up more and more of the duties of a kitchen-maid. Early in the morning she would rise from her bed and go downstairs to rake out the grates and light the fires. Then she would wash up the greasy crockery left over from the previous night’s dinner, and sweep the kitchen floor, and prepare a dish of tea to take up to her stepsisters, who always lay abed until ten or eleven o’clock in the morning. Euphronia looked so funny in bed with her false curls off and her bald fore­head showing that Ella felt very much inclined to laugh, but she dared not for fear of a beating. Both the sisters were lazybones, and even when they did arouse them­selves to get up, they would walk about the house in their wrappers, with untidy, down-at-heel slippers on their feet. Ella grew to hate the sound of their footsteps—slip-slop, slip-slop, over the polished floors.