Chapter Five.“O what a tangled web we weave,When first we practise to deceive!”Susan’s mind was very full of all this, and she was still watching her companion with suspicion, when something happened which gave her thoughts a new direction; for shortly after the strange minister had preached at the chapel, Sophia Jane became very ill. She had been ailing for some time, and had refused to join Susan in their usual games; complaining of headache, but no one had taken much notice of this; she was so often perverse and tiresome that it was natural to think her only sulky when she sat about in corners with her head propped on her hand and her eyes closed. But at last Aunt Hannah called in the doctor, and after his visit she looked very grave, and talked in a low voice to Buskin. Susan could not hear all she said, but she gathered enough to know that the doctor thought Sophia Jane very ill, and that he could not yet say what sort of illness it would be. She longed to ask some questions about it, but she knew from the worried look on Aunt Hannah’s face that it would be better to wait, so she took Grace and stole upstairs to Sophia Jane’s door. She had been put to bed in a small inner room opening out of Aunt Hannah’s, which was rather apart from the other bed-rooms, and had a little flight of stairs all to itself. On these stairs Susan took up her post, and listened anxiously to the sounds within; the door was a little open and she could hear her aunt giving some orders to Buskin, who presently came hurriedly out, nearly tumbling over her in her haste.“Gracious me, miss! find some other place to sit in, do,” she said crossly clutching at the balusters.“What’s the matter with Sophia Jane?” asked Susan. But Buskin only muttered to herself, rubbed her elbow, and went quickly on. Susan wished they would let her go in and sit with Sophia Jane. She would be very useful and quiet, she thought to herself; she was quite used to that when Freddie had bad headaches. She wished now that she had not called her companion cross and stupid so often lately; but perhaps to-morrow she would be better, and then she would tell her she was sorry. Just then Nanna came up, and not being so full of business as Buskin, was able to answer a few questions. From her Susan learned that Dr Martin thought Sophia Jane was sickening from a fever of some kind; perhaps, if it did not prove infectious, Susan would be allowed to see her sometimes.“What is infectious?” asked Susan.“Anything you can catch,” answered Nanna.“If it’s scarlet fever, or measles, or anything of that kind, I should think aunt will send you away.”“Where to?” asked Susan in alarm.“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Nanna; “anywhere. But I can’t stay now, I have to go to the chemist’s for aunt.”She went down-stairs, and Susan was left to her own thoughts. She hoped that Aunt Hannah would not send her away, for she felt sure she could be of great use in nursing Sophia Jane if they would only let her try. And where could she be sent? Perhaps to stay with Mrs Bevis, the minister’s wife, who lived in a dull house near the chapel with no children but only Mr Bevis. The idea was an alarming one, but it did not trouble her long, for when Dr Martin called the next morning he declared the illness to be a low fever, and not in the least infectious; there was no necessity, he said, for Susan to leave the house, though she ought not be much in the sick-room. Alter this she was allowed to do very much as she liked; the days passed as they had done in London when Freddie was so ill, for the thought of every one in the house was fixed on the patient. Suddenly, from utter insignificance Sophia Jane was raised to importance. Her whims and fancies, once unheeded, were now attended to with care; the least change in her condition was marked with interest, and her name was in every one’s mouth, spoken softly and with kindness. Poor little Sophia Jane! She had not much strength, Dr Martin said, to fight against this attack; it was a serious matter for any one so frail and weak, and she must be carefully nursed. Every one did their best. Aunt Hannah sat up at night with her, and in the day-time while she rested, Nanna and Margaretta took turns to be in the sick-room. Buskin bent her whole mind on beef-tea, broth, and jelly, became shorter in her speech, and less inclined to answer questions as the days went on. Only Susan, in spite of her most earnest wish, was not allowed to go into Sophia Jane’s room, and found there was very little she could do to help. She had no opportunity, therefore, of telling her companion that she was sorry for her past unkindness; she could only sit on the stairs outside her room ready to carry messages when wanted, watching for the visits of the doctor, and trying to gather from the expression of his face whether Sophia Jane were better.It was hard to be left out when every one else was doing something, and at last Susan bethought herself that Grace might be a comfort to the invalid, and sent her in by Nanna. To her disappointment, however, she brought the doll back almost directly, dropped it into Susan’s lap, and said:“She’s too ill to take any notice of it.”Too ill to take any notice of Grace dressed in her new bonnet, Sophia Jane must indeed be unlike herself. Perhaps her head ached very badly like Freddie’s. “How I wish they would let me help with the bandages!” sighed Susan to herself. Day after day followed, till Sophia Jane had been ill a week. No improvement. The fever did not leave her; each morning she seemed a little weaker and less able to bear it, and each morning Aunt Hannah’s face looked graver and more conscious, so that Susan did not like to ask the question always in her mind, “May I see Sophia Jane to-day?”One afternoon, however, she was in her usual place on the stairs reading when the door behind her opened, and some one said softly, “Susan.” She looked up; Aunt Hannah stood there beckoning her to come in.“You may see Sophia Jane for five minutes,” she said; “she wants to ask you something. You must promise her to do whatever she wishes, and speak very gently.”Susan followed on tip-toe through the first room, where there were medicine bottles and a strong smell of vinegar, into the second. She looked timidly towards the bed and felt as though she should see a stranger there and not Sophia Jane. This was almost the case, for the little figure sitting propped up with pillows had nothing familiar about it. Her hair had been cut quite short, and stood up in spikes all over her head, there was a burning pink flush on each cheek, and her eyes glistened like two steel beads.“My darling,” said Aunt Hannah soothingly, as she led Susan forward, “here is Susan, tell her what you wish, and then you must lie down quietly and go to sleep, as you promised.”What a different voice Aunt Hannah had now that Sophia Jane was ill! And she had called her “darling!” Such a thing had never happened before!But Sophia Jane took no notice of the caressing tone: she waved her hand fretfully as Aunt Hannah bent over her, and the gesture said more plainly than words, “Go away, and let me speak to her.” Everything seemed strangely altered, for, to Susan’s surprise, Aunt Hannah meekly obeyed, went into the next room, and shut the door.At this Sophia Jane put out a hand about the size of a canary’s claw, and caught hold of Susan’s sleeve:“It’s behind the big box in the attic!” she said, in a small hoarse voice. Of course it was the half-crown, but Susan was so confused by the eager gaze fixed on her, that she only said:“What is?”“A parcel. Done up in newspaper. For Madmozal. You must give it her.”Susan nodded.“Soon,” said Sophia Jane, with a feeble pull at the sleeve.“To-morrow, if I can,” answered Susan earnestly. “What shall I say to her?”Sophia Jane’s fingers let go their hold, her head drooped on the pillows, and she closed her eyes; but she murmured something as she did so, and, bending down to listen, Susan heard:“A collar for his cat.”“Come away, my dear,” said Aunt Hannah’s voice. “She is too tired to talk any more. Perhaps she will sleep now.”Susan went softly out of the room and sat down in her old place on the stairs. So this was how Sophia Jane had spent the half-crown! How differently to anything Susan had imagined. Instead of being miserly and selfish, she was generous and self-sacrificing—instead of her own pleasure, she had preferred to give pleasure to Monsieur. And why? Because he had been kind to her. He was the only person, Susan remembered, who had ever praised Sophia Jane, or had looked at her as though he liked her; and so, in return, she had given him her very best—all she had. As she considered this she grew more and more sorry to think how she had despised her poor little companion, and suspected her of being mean; how she had always joined Margaretta and Nanna in blaming and laughing at her, and how ready she had been to say, “It’s Sophia Jane’s fault.” She longed more than ever now to be able to tell her how sorry she was for all this, and resolved very earnestly that when she got well she would never behave unkindly to her again. Meanwhile, there was the collar—she would go and look for it at once, so that on the first opportunity she might take it to Mademoiselle Delphine. She could not give it to Monsieur, for his lessons had been discontinued since Sophia Jane’s illness.She went up to the attic which she and Sophia Jane had made their play-room, and where they had had such merry games together. How deserted and cheerless it looked! Everything seemed to know that Sophia Jane was ill. It was late in the afternoon, dark, and gloomy; there was never too much light in the attic at the brightest of times, and now it was so shadowy and dull that Susan shivered as she glanced round it. There was the dusty roll of wall-paper leaning up in one corner; there was the thin, bent, old poker, which had somehow a queer likeness to Sophia Jane; there was the body of the poor doll, still headless and forlorn, stretched on the floor; and there, under the cobwebby window, was the big black box. Behind that was what she had come to seek—the collar.Susan knelt on the top of the box, and, peering down, could plainly see the parcel jammed tightly between it and the wall. It was too far for her to reach, but presently with the help of the poker she got it up, and proceeded to examine it, quite breathless with excitement. The newspaper had been partly torn away from it already, and soon the collar itself was in her hands. She gave an exclamation of delight. Itwasa pretty collar! Not only was it made of brass and lined with bright scarlet leather, but at the side was fastened a little round bell which gave a charming tinkle. The very present of all others which Susan would have chosen herself for Monsieur—if she had thought of it. But it was not her present at all; it was Sophia Jane who had thought of it, and of course it was very good of her. And yet—she went on to think, turning the collar round and round—Sophia Jane couldn’t have bought it if I hadn’t given her that half-crown. Itreallyis as much my present as hers, but Monsieur and Mademoiselle won’t ever know anything about that. It was not nice of Sophia Jane to keep it all to herself; if she had told me I should have said, “Let me pay half,” and then we could have given it together. I liked Monsieur and Mademoiselle before she did.Every moment, as she looked at the pretty collar, Susan’s thoughts became more and more jealous and unjust; she almost forgot her companion’s illness and what she had asked her to do, in the sense that she herself had been hardly treated; she forgot, too, all her resolves to behave more kindly. As she sat thus, the shadows grew deeper and deeper in the attic until it became almost dark, and looking up, she could only see one thing quite distinctly: it was the body of Sophia Jane’s doll. There it lay without a head—it would most likely never have one now; it had a sad deserted look, and yet it reminded her as nothing else would have done of her promise half an hour ago. She seemed to see Sophia Jane’s eager little face, to hear her whisper “soon,” and to feel the clasp of her weak fingers. Better feelings came back, to her. She put her jealous thoughts aside with a struggle, and as she wrapped up the collar again determined that to-morrow, if possible, she would take it to Mademoiselle and tell her. It was Sophia Jane’s present.Strange dreams visited Susan that night: sometimes she saw Gambetta’s comfortable furry face, which seemed to smile smugly at her; and then it changed; and there was Sophia Jane frowning angrily, with terribly bright eyes. The first thing she saw when she woke in the morning was the collar, which she had put on a chair by her bedside, and she at once remembered what she was to do that day. As she dressed herself she could not help the wish returning strongly that it was to be her present as well as Sophia Jane’s. How well Gambetta would look in it, and how delighted Mademoiselle would be! And this time nothing happened to check those reflections, so that by the time she went down-stairs they filled her mind entirely.Aunt Hannah looked much more cheerful this morning. Sophia Jane had slept quietly for some hours, and the fever was less; it was the first improvement she had seen.She was quite ready to consent when Susan asked if she might go to see Mademoiselle.“Certainly,” she said; “Margaretta shall take you, and, if convenient to Mademoiselle La Roche, you can stay there an hour or so. Perhaps she will bring you back herself in the afternoon; if not, I will manage to send Buskin.”So it was settled, and at twelve o’clock they set forth, the precious parcel tucked under Susan’s arm, and reminding her every moment of her promise to Sophia Jane. Mademoiselle was not there when they arrived; she was generally out at this hour, the woman of the house said, but would certainly return before long. Susan, therefore, was left with Aunt Hannah’s note to wait her coming, while Margaretta hastened back at once. There was no one in the room but Gambetta, who sat stiffly upright in Monsieur’s arm-chair blinking his yellow eyes. Susan went up to him, scratched his head, and made some friendly advances, but he took very little notice of her. He evidently kept his “pleasantries,” as Mademoiselle called them, for his friends, and would not waste them on strangers. How soft and thick his fur was! particularly just at the neck, where it stood out in a sort of ruff. How would he look in the new collar, and would it fit him properly? He had such a large neck. It would surely be a good plan to put the collar on, so that Mademoiselle might have all the pleasure of a great surprise when she came in. It was such a splendid idea, and there was so much risk of her arriving too soon, that Susan’s fingers quite trembled with excitement as she unwrapped the newspaper. As she did so, the little bell tinkled, and Gambetta looked up in lazy surprise at the noise close to his ears. “Pretty puss,” said Susan coaxingly, and she quickly slipped the collar over his head and fastened the strap. It fitted beautifully, and though it gave Gambetta a somewhat constrained air, like that of a gentleman with too tight a shirt collar, it was certainly very becoming, and made him look like a cat of dignity and high rank. It was hardly done, and Susan still stood with clasped hands admiring his appearance, when Mademoiselle’s quick step and quicker chatter were heard on the stairs. In a moment she hurried in with a neat basket on her arm, and her face alive with eagerness. She chattered so fast in French and English that it was some minutes before Susan could present her aunt’s note, and when Mademoiselle had read that, she had still more to say. For in one breath she was charmed to see Susan, and in the next desolated to hear that Sophia Jane was ill, and she flew from one subject to the other with such astonishing rapidity that Susan gave up trying to follow her, and waited patiently till she should have leisure to notice Gambetta. And at length he drew attention to himself, for evidently feeling neglected, he opened his mouth and uttered a tiny plaintive mew. Mademoiselle looked round at once at her favourite, and her eye fell on the new decoration.“Mais—ciel!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands. She was a person of such quick thoughts and impulses that, waiting for no explanation, she at once took for granted that Susan had given the collar, and poured out her delighted thanks mingled with caresses. It was really difficult to get in a word, though Susan several times tried to begin the sentence, “It’s Sophia Jane’s present;” but the words were choked by hugs and kisses, and she said to herself, “I’ll tell her presently when she gets quieter.”This time did not come soon, for even when her first excitement was over Mademoiselle’s spirits continued to be very gay, and she talked without ceasing; she was unusually happy, she presently told Susan, because Adolphe had that very day obtained another excellent engagement.“Figure to yourself,” she said, as she carefully took some fresh eggs out of her basket and laid them on a dish, “how rejoiced I am that his patience is at length rewarded. As I went out this morning I said to myself, ‘Delphine, this occasion demands a little fête of some kind; it would be well to prepare an omelette au fines herbes for supper.’ I therefore buy fresh eggs in addition to my usual outlay. I return, and behold! all good things arrive at once. You are here, petite, and have been so amiable for our cherished Gambetta. He, too, will join the fête this evening in his charming new toilette, for I have not forgotten to provide the morsel of liver he loves much.”Susan looked on and listened, and soon became very much interested in Mademoiselle’s preparations. It appeared that as Adolphe was never home till late they were accustomed to have their principal meal together in the evening; to-day, however, in honour of her guest, she was bent on preparing a choice little mid-day repast. First she made some coffee and put the pot on the hearth to keep warm, and then, Susan having helped her to lay the table, she proceeded to make a sweet omelette. This process was most attractive. It was delightful to see how deftly she shook the handle of the little pan, how she coaxed and patted and tossed the eggs into the form of an omelette, and how, just at the very right moment, she hastily removed it into a hot dish, swiftly inserted the jam, and folded it over. It looked like magic to Susan, and for the moment it put everything about Sophia Jane out of her head. She soon thought of her again, however. Mademoiselle, having taken off a large white apron, sat down to do the honour of the table with a slightly increased colour but unsubdued powers of conversation, and her first remark was:“So the poor little companion is ill. That is a great pity. You are quite alone, petite, are you not?”Here was the very moment to correct the mistake, and Susan was just going to speak when Delphine added:“Adolphe has informed me of the excellent progress she has lately made. It is a child of much ability he considers, and very amiable.”Alas for Susan! This remark checked the words on her lips, and brought back all her jealous feelings of Sophia Jane. She could not bear to hear her praised. She would put off saying anything about the present just now, she thought. She would still do it of course; but it would be easier out of doors when she and Mademoiselle were walking home together. And it really seemed as though she were to have constant opportunities given to her; for, when they started an hour or so later, Mademoiselle remarked that the doll Grace wore her new bonnet, and asked:“And does your little friend yet possess a doll with a head?”What could be better? The answer in Susan’s mind was, “she might have had one, but she bought the collar instead;” but somehow she could not get the words out. A strange voice seemed to reply for her:“She doesn’t care about dolls, now she’s ill.”“Pauvre petite!” exclaimed Mademoiselle in a tone full of sympathy, then suddenly glancing across the road her face became alight with smiles, she waved her hand to someone, bowed repeatedly, and said in a low voice, “It is that brave Madame Jones!” Susan looked in the same direction; she had always been curious to see Madame Jones since the story of the beefsteak. There she was, standing at the door of her shop with her sleeves tucked up; joints of meat and carcasses hung all round. Her face was broad and red, and she wore a black net cap with pink roses in it. She might be brave, and noble, and all that Mademoiselle had said, but Susan thought her not at all nice-looking, and was quite disappointed. She had not expected her to be like that.“It is a most excellent woman,” murmured Delphine enthusiastically, “and of a noble heart. It is to her we owe the commencement of our success.”Aunt Hannah’s gate was reached wonderfully soon after this, and still Susan had not told her of the mistake. “It was only put off, however,” she said to herself, “and it really had not been her fault. She would explain all, the very next time they met.”Mademoiselle left her at the gate with an affectionate good-bye, and as Susan walked up the path to the door the doctor came out. He was generally in’s great hurry, but to-day he stopped and smiled at her:“Good news,” he said. “If this improvement continues you may see your companion to-morrow, and sit with her an hour. She’s much stronger and better.”Was it good news? Of course Susan was glad that Sophia was better, but the thought at once came into her mind, as she watched the doctor out of the gate, “she will ask me about the collar. She will expect a message from Mademoiselle.” All that evening she was troubled about this, and even hoped that Sophia Jane might not bequiteso well to-morrow, so that she might have time to see Mademoiselle again and make it all right. “What should I do if Sophia Jane asks me straight out whether I said the collar was from her? I couldn’t tell her I didn’t, and I couldn’t tell her I did. Oh, how I wish I had not put it off.” Now, in all her reflections, Susan still made excuses for herself, and still said, “it was not my fault.” She did not see that she had been mean and jealous and deceitful; but she did see that she had got herself into a difficulty, and was anxious, not to atone for her fault, but to escape the consequences of it. When conscience told her that the right thing was confession to her companion, she would not listen. “After all,” she said, “she perhaps won’t ask me, and then it will be all right; for Icertainly willexplain it to Mademoiselle, as I always meant to.” And in this way Susan got more and more enclosed in the tangled web she was weaving; for how can we make anything right unless we first see that it is wrong?Sophia Jane continued better, and was much looking forward, Aunt Hannah said, to her companion’s visit. Susan was cautioned before she went upstairs to be very kind and gentle, not to vex or thwart the invalid, and to call Buskin if anything should be wanted. Aunt Hannah would go out a little while, which she had scarcely done since Sophia Jane’s illness. All this was promised, and it seemed another reason against saying anything about the collar; for, if Sophia Jane knew the truth, it would certainly vex and thwart her. Susan collected some things which she thought might amuse her, and perhaps prevent her from dwelling long on the dreaded subject. The game of dominoes, Grace, a box of beads, and Andersen’s fairy tales. Struggling upstairs with these, she was soon in the invalid’s room.Sophia Jane looked much more like herself than when Susan had last seen her. She was lying quietly down among her pillows with a very white little face, and one hand resting feebly on the substantial form of Dinah, Margaretta’s black doll. By her side was a tiny bunch of snowdrops which Nanna had found in the garden that morning; how kind everyone was to her now! It gave Susan a little pang to remember that she herself had done nothing to please her, but just the opposite. Often, when Sophia Jane was well, she had asked to be allowed to have Dinah to herself for a little while, but had always been refused. Now, here she was. She was a most attractive doll, for there was a foreign air about her that distinguished her from all English ones. The nuns at Bahia had stuffed her so cleverly that her plump black face and limbs glistened; she wore earrings, a gay turban, and very full flowered chintz skirts. All her under-garments would “take off,” and were trimmed with curious hand-made lace. It was a great privilege to be allowed to play with her.Sophia Jane received her visitor quietly, with a small pinched smile. In answer to Susan’s inquiries she pronounced herself better, but added with her usual old-fashioned air:“I’m not well yet, though. I’m still ill and shaky.”“What would you like to play at?” was Susan’s next inquiry put rather hastily.“Nothing at all,” was the decided answer. “I want to talk.”“But,” said Susan earnestly, “aunt told me you were not to talk much—she did, really.”“Well, I’ll ask questions, and you talk,” said Sophia Jane.“Wouldn’t you rather have a game of dominoes?” Susan ventured to suggest.“No,” answered Sophia Jane snappishly, “I wouldn’t.” Such an angry gleam came into her eyes that Susan, remembering she was not to vex or thwart her, resigned herself to be questioned. Her heart beat quickly. What would the first question be? It was quite an easy one.“Did she like it?” asked Sophia Jane, settling herself comfortably on her elbow, and staring at her companion.“Very much indeed,” answered Susan.“Did it fit him? Tell me all about it.”“Beautifully. I put it on myself, and he looked very nice in it. I had dinner with Mademoiselle, and she made an omelette—and coffee—and I helped to lay the table—and to wash the things afterwards—and she told me Monsieur has got some more lessons. Then she brought me home, and on the way we saw Mrs Jones standing in the door of the shop. She’s not a nice-looking woman, but Mademoiselle says she has a noble heart. I should think it must be horrid to be a butcher’s wife. Shouldn’t you?”Pausing for a reply, Susan gave a nervous glance at her companion, whose eyes were still fixed upon her, and who took no notice whatever of the question.“Did Mademoiselle send a message to me about the collar?” she asked.“No, she didn’t,” said Susan. Then, seeing how crest-fallen the poor little face looked, she added hastily:“I expect she means to come and thank you herself, or perhaps to write you a letter.”A small tear had gathered in each of Sophia Jane’s eyes, but she winked them quickly away.“You’resure,” she said in a troubled voice, “that she understood it was from me?”The moment had come. Susan looked straight back in her friend’s face and answered instantly:“Yes; I am quite sure.”It was over. She had now told a real story—a very bad one. Nothing worse could happen.Sophia Jane seemed satisfied, She gave a little sigh, and said softly:“Thank you. Then I expect she’ll write.”After this she did not mention the collar again, but was willing to play at dominoes, though she could not get through more than one game.“I’m tired now,” she said. “You may read aloud.” When, however, she found that Susan had only brought a book of fairy tales, she was much displeased, and declared fretfully that fairy tales were nonsense. “They’re wicked too,” she added, “because they tell stories.”Susan disputed this, whereupon Sophia Jane grew so excited and angry, and spoke in such a shrill voice that Buskin came in from the next room to see what was the matter.“You’ve been here long enough, Miss Susan,” she said, glancing at Sophia Jane’s flushed cheeks. “You better go down-stairs and let Miss Sophia Jane be quiet. It’s time she took her medicine.”Susan collected her property and went away. There were a good many things to carry, but she took one with her which weighed more heavily than all the rest put together—the knowledge that she had told a story.And now, at last, her eyes were opened wide, and she could see clearly the tangled web she had been weaving for some time past. She could see that she had first despised Sophia Jane, and then been jealous of her; first been conceited and proud, and then mean and deceitful. Good Susan no longer, but far far worse than her poor little friend, whom she had always considered so naughty. Little by little the web had become more and more twisted and confused. Would it ever be straight again? She made no excuse for herself now. Her heart was so full of sorrow and repentance that she hardly knew how to bear it, and, creeping sorrowfully up into the attic, she cast herself down on the big black box and cried. She had thought herself so good since she had come to Ramsgate, they had all told her so, and yet how naughty she had been—naughtier and naughtier, until at last she had told a story. What should she do? An old rhyme of Maria’s came into her head as she lay there sobbing:“A fault confessedIs half redressed.”That was what she must do. Confess it all to Sophia Jane. But what a humbling, miserable thing! She could see the expression on Sophia Jane’s face when she heard that Susan—good Susan—who had always been held up as an example, had deceived Mademoiselle and told a story. “Oh, Icouldn’t!” said Susan to herself. “Anything else—any other punishment I would bear, butnotthat.” And then she went on to remember Monsieur and Mademoiselle would know too, and they would never like her again, or think her a good little girl—it would be too dreadful. “I shall never never be happy again any way,” said Susan half aloud. “If I don’t tell I shall be miserable, and if I do tell I shall be miserable too.”Nanna’s voice calling her down to tea put an end for the moment to these thoughts; but they came back during the evening with yet greater force, and when she went to bed she felt unhappier than she had ever been in her life. She was still, however, undecided about confessing her fault.During the next few days she did not see Sophia Jane, though the improvement continued. It was a relief not to see her; and yet to go about with a feeling like a lump of lead in her bosom was not, Susan found, a comfortable thing. It did not get lighter as each day passed, and at last something happened which so increased its weight that she thought any punishment—any open disgrace—would be easier to bear. For, how it happened no one could tell, Sophia Jane managed to catch a chill, the fever returned with renewed violence, and she became seriously ill again. Susan could soon tell from the grave face of the doctor, and from the scraps of conversation she overheard, that her poor little companion was even worse than she had been. Besides this, Mr Bevis came one evening, and after he had talked a little while to Aunt Hannah her eyes filled with tears, and Susan heard her say:“The child’s life hangs on a thread.”Mr Bevis said some texts and soon went away, but that one sentence remained in Susan’s mind and made her more miserable than ever. A thread! It was such a thin, weak thing to hang on, and if it snapped where would Sophia Jane’s life be? Perhaps it would break soon, that very night, before she could see her again and ask her pardon. It was such a dreadful thought that Susan was unable to keep it to herself any longer. She shut her eyes, said her evening prayer all through, and at the end added very earnestly: “Don’t let it break.Pleasedon’t let it break.”Then Margaretta came rushing into the sitting-room where Susan was curled up in the window seat. She looked pale and frightened.“Where’s Aunt Hannah?” she said.“Just gone out of the room,” answered Susan.“Oh!” she added, “dotell me—is Sophia Jane worse?”“I don’t know,” said Margaretta hurriedly. “I want aunt. She ought to see her; I think perhaps she would send for Dr Martin again.”Dr Martin was sent for, and came, but he did not give much comfort.“You can’t do anything,” he said, “but try and keep up her strength. A great deal will depend on the next few hours.”From her lonely corner Susan watched and waited all that wretched evening, and, not daring to ask questions, stayed there, chill with misery, until long past her usual bed-time. At last Buskin came to find her. Wonder of wonders! there were tears in Buskin’s eyes, and Susan was encouraged by this display of softness to stretch out her arms to her for comfort, and whisper, “Will she get better?”“The Lord only knows, my dear,” answered Buskin gruffly; “we’reall in His hands.”
“O what a tangled web we weave,When first we practise to deceive!”
“O what a tangled web we weave,When first we practise to deceive!”
Susan’s mind was very full of all this, and she was still watching her companion with suspicion, when something happened which gave her thoughts a new direction; for shortly after the strange minister had preached at the chapel, Sophia Jane became very ill. She had been ailing for some time, and had refused to join Susan in their usual games; complaining of headache, but no one had taken much notice of this; she was so often perverse and tiresome that it was natural to think her only sulky when she sat about in corners with her head propped on her hand and her eyes closed. But at last Aunt Hannah called in the doctor, and after his visit she looked very grave, and talked in a low voice to Buskin. Susan could not hear all she said, but she gathered enough to know that the doctor thought Sophia Jane very ill, and that he could not yet say what sort of illness it would be. She longed to ask some questions about it, but she knew from the worried look on Aunt Hannah’s face that it would be better to wait, so she took Grace and stole upstairs to Sophia Jane’s door. She had been put to bed in a small inner room opening out of Aunt Hannah’s, which was rather apart from the other bed-rooms, and had a little flight of stairs all to itself. On these stairs Susan took up her post, and listened anxiously to the sounds within; the door was a little open and she could hear her aunt giving some orders to Buskin, who presently came hurriedly out, nearly tumbling over her in her haste.
“Gracious me, miss! find some other place to sit in, do,” she said crossly clutching at the balusters.
“What’s the matter with Sophia Jane?” asked Susan. But Buskin only muttered to herself, rubbed her elbow, and went quickly on. Susan wished they would let her go in and sit with Sophia Jane. She would be very useful and quiet, she thought to herself; she was quite used to that when Freddie had bad headaches. She wished now that she had not called her companion cross and stupid so often lately; but perhaps to-morrow she would be better, and then she would tell her she was sorry. Just then Nanna came up, and not being so full of business as Buskin, was able to answer a few questions. From her Susan learned that Dr Martin thought Sophia Jane was sickening from a fever of some kind; perhaps, if it did not prove infectious, Susan would be allowed to see her sometimes.
“What is infectious?” asked Susan.
“Anything you can catch,” answered Nanna.
“If it’s scarlet fever, or measles, or anything of that kind, I should think aunt will send you away.”
“Where to?” asked Susan in alarm.
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Nanna; “anywhere. But I can’t stay now, I have to go to the chemist’s for aunt.”
She went down-stairs, and Susan was left to her own thoughts. She hoped that Aunt Hannah would not send her away, for she felt sure she could be of great use in nursing Sophia Jane if they would only let her try. And where could she be sent? Perhaps to stay with Mrs Bevis, the minister’s wife, who lived in a dull house near the chapel with no children but only Mr Bevis. The idea was an alarming one, but it did not trouble her long, for when Dr Martin called the next morning he declared the illness to be a low fever, and not in the least infectious; there was no necessity, he said, for Susan to leave the house, though she ought not be much in the sick-room. Alter this she was allowed to do very much as she liked; the days passed as they had done in London when Freddie was so ill, for the thought of every one in the house was fixed on the patient. Suddenly, from utter insignificance Sophia Jane was raised to importance. Her whims and fancies, once unheeded, were now attended to with care; the least change in her condition was marked with interest, and her name was in every one’s mouth, spoken softly and with kindness. Poor little Sophia Jane! She had not much strength, Dr Martin said, to fight against this attack; it was a serious matter for any one so frail and weak, and she must be carefully nursed. Every one did their best. Aunt Hannah sat up at night with her, and in the day-time while she rested, Nanna and Margaretta took turns to be in the sick-room. Buskin bent her whole mind on beef-tea, broth, and jelly, became shorter in her speech, and less inclined to answer questions as the days went on. Only Susan, in spite of her most earnest wish, was not allowed to go into Sophia Jane’s room, and found there was very little she could do to help. She had no opportunity, therefore, of telling her companion that she was sorry for her past unkindness; she could only sit on the stairs outside her room ready to carry messages when wanted, watching for the visits of the doctor, and trying to gather from the expression of his face whether Sophia Jane were better.
It was hard to be left out when every one else was doing something, and at last Susan bethought herself that Grace might be a comfort to the invalid, and sent her in by Nanna. To her disappointment, however, she brought the doll back almost directly, dropped it into Susan’s lap, and said:
“She’s too ill to take any notice of it.”
Too ill to take any notice of Grace dressed in her new bonnet, Sophia Jane must indeed be unlike herself. Perhaps her head ached very badly like Freddie’s. “How I wish they would let me help with the bandages!” sighed Susan to herself. Day after day followed, till Sophia Jane had been ill a week. No improvement. The fever did not leave her; each morning she seemed a little weaker and less able to bear it, and each morning Aunt Hannah’s face looked graver and more conscious, so that Susan did not like to ask the question always in her mind, “May I see Sophia Jane to-day?”
One afternoon, however, she was in her usual place on the stairs reading when the door behind her opened, and some one said softly, “Susan.” She looked up; Aunt Hannah stood there beckoning her to come in.
“You may see Sophia Jane for five minutes,” she said; “she wants to ask you something. You must promise her to do whatever she wishes, and speak very gently.”
Susan followed on tip-toe through the first room, where there were medicine bottles and a strong smell of vinegar, into the second. She looked timidly towards the bed and felt as though she should see a stranger there and not Sophia Jane. This was almost the case, for the little figure sitting propped up with pillows had nothing familiar about it. Her hair had been cut quite short, and stood up in spikes all over her head, there was a burning pink flush on each cheek, and her eyes glistened like two steel beads.
“My darling,” said Aunt Hannah soothingly, as she led Susan forward, “here is Susan, tell her what you wish, and then you must lie down quietly and go to sleep, as you promised.”
What a different voice Aunt Hannah had now that Sophia Jane was ill! And she had called her “darling!” Such a thing had never happened before!
But Sophia Jane took no notice of the caressing tone: she waved her hand fretfully as Aunt Hannah bent over her, and the gesture said more plainly than words, “Go away, and let me speak to her.” Everything seemed strangely altered, for, to Susan’s surprise, Aunt Hannah meekly obeyed, went into the next room, and shut the door.
At this Sophia Jane put out a hand about the size of a canary’s claw, and caught hold of Susan’s sleeve:
“It’s behind the big box in the attic!” she said, in a small hoarse voice. Of course it was the half-crown, but Susan was so confused by the eager gaze fixed on her, that she only said:
“What is?”
“A parcel. Done up in newspaper. For Madmozal. You must give it her.”
Susan nodded.
“Soon,” said Sophia Jane, with a feeble pull at the sleeve.
“To-morrow, if I can,” answered Susan earnestly. “What shall I say to her?”
Sophia Jane’s fingers let go their hold, her head drooped on the pillows, and she closed her eyes; but she murmured something as she did so, and, bending down to listen, Susan heard:
“A collar for his cat.”
“Come away, my dear,” said Aunt Hannah’s voice. “She is too tired to talk any more. Perhaps she will sleep now.”
Susan went softly out of the room and sat down in her old place on the stairs. So this was how Sophia Jane had spent the half-crown! How differently to anything Susan had imagined. Instead of being miserly and selfish, she was generous and self-sacrificing—instead of her own pleasure, she had preferred to give pleasure to Monsieur. And why? Because he had been kind to her. He was the only person, Susan remembered, who had ever praised Sophia Jane, or had looked at her as though he liked her; and so, in return, she had given him her very best—all she had. As she considered this she grew more and more sorry to think how she had despised her poor little companion, and suspected her of being mean; how she had always joined Margaretta and Nanna in blaming and laughing at her, and how ready she had been to say, “It’s Sophia Jane’s fault.” She longed more than ever now to be able to tell her how sorry she was for all this, and resolved very earnestly that when she got well she would never behave unkindly to her again. Meanwhile, there was the collar—she would go and look for it at once, so that on the first opportunity she might take it to Mademoiselle Delphine. She could not give it to Monsieur, for his lessons had been discontinued since Sophia Jane’s illness.
She went up to the attic which she and Sophia Jane had made their play-room, and where they had had such merry games together. How deserted and cheerless it looked! Everything seemed to know that Sophia Jane was ill. It was late in the afternoon, dark, and gloomy; there was never too much light in the attic at the brightest of times, and now it was so shadowy and dull that Susan shivered as she glanced round it. There was the dusty roll of wall-paper leaning up in one corner; there was the thin, bent, old poker, which had somehow a queer likeness to Sophia Jane; there was the body of the poor doll, still headless and forlorn, stretched on the floor; and there, under the cobwebby window, was the big black box. Behind that was what she had come to seek—the collar.
Susan knelt on the top of the box, and, peering down, could plainly see the parcel jammed tightly between it and the wall. It was too far for her to reach, but presently with the help of the poker she got it up, and proceeded to examine it, quite breathless with excitement. The newspaper had been partly torn away from it already, and soon the collar itself was in her hands. She gave an exclamation of delight. Itwasa pretty collar! Not only was it made of brass and lined with bright scarlet leather, but at the side was fastened a little round bell which gave a charming tinkle. The very present of all others which Susan would have chosen herself for Monsieur—if she had thought of it. But it was not her present at all; it was Sophia Jane who had thought of it, and of course it was very good of her. And yet—she went on to think, turning the collar round and round—Sophia Jane couldn’t have bought it if I hadn’t given her that half-crown. Itreallyis as much my present as hers, but Monsieur and Mademoiselle won’t ever know anything about that. It was not nice of Sophia Jane to keep it all to herself; if she had told me I should have said, “Let me pay half,” and then we could have given it together. I liked Monsieur and Mademoiselle before she did.
Every moment, as she looked at the pretty collar, Susan’s thoughts became more and more jealous and unjust; she almost forgot her companion’s illness and what she had asked her to do, in the sense that she herself had been hardly treated; she forgot, too, all her resolves to behave more kindly. As she sat thus, the shadows grew deeper and deeper in the attic until it became almost dark, and looking up, she could only see one thing quite distinctly: it was the body of Sophia Jane’s doll. There it lay without a head—it would most likely never have one now; it had a sad deserted look, and yet it reminded her as nothing else would have done of her promise half an hour ago. She seemed to see Sophia Jane’s eager little face, to hear her whisper “soon,” and to feel the clasp of her weak fingers. Better feelings came back, to her. She put her jealous thoughts aside with a struggle, and as she wrapped up the collar again determined that to-morrow, if possible, she would take it to Mademoiselle and tell her. It was Sophia Jane’s present.
Strange dreams visited Susan that night: sometimes she saw Gambetta’s comfortable furry face, which seemed to smile smugly at her; and then it changed; and there was Sophia Jane frowning angrily, with terribly bright eyes. The first thing she saw when she woke in the morning was the collar, which she had put on a chair by her bedside, and she at once remembered what she was to do that day. As she dressed herself she could not help the wish returning strongly that it was to be her present as well as Sophia Jane’s. How well Gambetta would look in it, and how delighted Mademoiselle would be! And this time nothing happened to check those reflections, so that by the time she went down-stairs they filled her mind entirely.
Aunt Hannah looked much more cheerful this morning. Sophia Jane had slept quietly for some hours, and the fever was less; it was the first improvement she had seen.
She was quite ready to consent when Susan asked if she might go to see Mademoiselle.
“Certainly,” she said; “Margaretta shall take you, and, if convenient to Mademoiselle La Roche, you can stay there an hour or so. Perhaps she will bring you back herself in the afternoon; if not, I will manage to send Buskin.”
So it was settled, and at twelve o’clock they set forth, the precious parcel tucked under Susan’s arm, and reminding her every moment of her promise to Sophia Jane. Mademoiselle was not there when they arrived; she was generally out at this hour, the woman of the house said, but would certainly return before long. Susan, therefore, was left with Aunt Hannah’s note to wait her coming, while Margaretta hastened back at once. There was no one in the room but Gambetta, who sat stiffly upright in Monsieur’s arm-chair blinking his yellow eyes. Susan went up to him, scratched his head, and made some friendly advances, but he took very little notice of her. He evidently kept his “pleasantries,” as Mademoiselle called them, for his friends, and would not waste them on strangers. How soft and thick his fur was! particularly just at the neck, where it stood out in a sort of ruff. How would he look in the new collar, and would it fit him properly? He had such a large neck. It would surely be a good plan to put the collar on, so that Mademoiselle might have all the pleasure of a great surprise when she came in. It was such a splendid idea, and there was so much risk of her arriving too soon, that Susan’s fingers quite trembled with excitement as she unwrapped the newspaper. As she did so, the little bell tinkled, and Gambetta looked up in lazy surprise at the noise close to his ears. “Pretty puss,” said Susan coaxingly, and she quickly slipped the collar over his head and fastened the strap. It fitted beautifully, and though it gave Gambetta a somewhat constrained air, like that of a gentleman with too tight a shirt collar, it was certainly very becoming, and made him look like a cat of dignity and high rank. It was hardly done, and Susan still stood with clasped hands admiring his appearance, when Mademoiselle’s quick step and quicker chatter were heard on the stairs. In a moment she hurried in with a neat basket on her arm, and her face alive with eagerness. She chattered so fast in French and English that it was some minutes before Susan could present her aunt’s note, and when Mademoiselle had read that, she had still more to say. For in one breath she was charmed to see Susan, and in the next desolated to hear that Sophia Jane was ill, and she flew from one subject to the other with such astonishing rapidity that Susan gave up trying to follow her, and waited patiently till she should have leisure to notice Gambetta. And at length he drew attention to himself, for evidently feeling neglected, he opened his mouth and uttered a tiny plaintive mew. Mademoiselle looked round at once at her favourite, and her eye fell on the new decoration.
“Mais—ciel!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands. She was a person of such quick thoughts and impulses that, waiting for no explanation, she at once took for granted that Susan had given the collar, and poured out her delighted thanks mingled with caresses. It was really difficult to get in a word, though Susan several times tried to begin the sentence, “It’s Sophia Jane’s present;” but the words were choked by hugs and kisses, and she said to herself, “I’ll tell her presently when she gets quieter.”
This time did not come soon, for even when her first excitement was over Mademoiselle’s spirits continued to be very gay, and she talked without ceasing; she was unusually happy, she presently told Susan, because Adolphe had that very day obtained another excellent engagement.
“Figure to yourself,” she said, as she carefully took some fresh eggs out of her basket and laid them on a dish, “how rejoiced I am that his patience is at length rewarded. As I went out this morning I said to myself, ‘Delphine, this occasion demands a little fête of some kind; it would be well to prepare an omelette au fines herbes for supper.’ I therefore buy fresh eggs in addition to my usual outlay. I return, and behold! all good things arrive at once. You are here, petite, and have been so amiable for our cherished Gambetta. He, too, will join the fête this evening in his charming new toilette, for I have not forgotten to provide the morsel of liver he loves much.”
Susan looked on and listened, and soon became very much interested in Mademoiselle’s preparations. It appeared that as Adolphe was never home till late they were accustomed to have their principal meal together in the evening; to-day, however, in honour of her guest, she was bent on preparing a choice little mid-day repast. First she made some coffee and put the pot on the hearth to keep warm, and then, Susan having helped her to lay the table, she proceeded to make a sweet omelette. This process was most attractive. It was delightful to see how deftly she shook the handle of the little pan, how she coaxed and patted and tossed the eggs into the form of an omelette, and how, just at the very right moment, she hastily removed it into a hot dish, swiftly inserted the jam, and folded it over. It looked like magic to Susan, and for the moment it put everything about Sophia Jane out of her head. She soon thought of her again, however. Mademoiselle, having taken off a large white apron, sat down to do the honour of the table with a slightly increased colour but unsubdued powers of conversation, and her first remark was:
“So the poor little companion is ill. That is a great pity. You are quite alone, petite, are you not?”
Here was the very moment to correct the mistake, and Susan was just going to speak when Delphine added:
“Adolphe has informed me of the excellent progress she has lately made. It is a child of much ability he considers, and very amiable.”
Alas for Susan! This remark checked the words on her lips, and brought back all her jealous feelings of Sophia Jane. She could not bear to hear her praised. She would put off saying anything about the present just now, she thought. She would still do it of course; but it would be easier out of doors when she and Mademoiselle were walking home together. And it really seemed as though she were to have constant opportunities given to her; for, when they started an hour or so later, Mademoiselle remarked that the doll Grace wore her new bonnet, and asked:
“And does your little friend yet possess a doll with a head?”
What could be better? The answer in Susan’s mind was, “she might have had one, but she bought the collar instead;” but somehow she could not get the words out. A strange voice seemed to reply for her:
“She doesn’t care about dolls, now she’s ill.”
“Pauvre petite!” exclaimed Mademoiselle in a tone full of sympathy, then suddenly glancing across the road her face became alight with smiles, she waved her hand to someone, bowed repeatedly, and said in a low voice, “It is that brave Madame Jones!” Susan looked in the same direction; she had always been curious to see Madame Jones since the story of the beefsteak. There she was, standing at the door of her shop with her sleeves tucked up; joints of meat and carcasses hung all round. Her face was broad and red, and she wore a black net cap with pink roses in it. She might be brave, and noble, and all that Mademoiselle had said, but Susan thought her not at all nice-looking, and was quite disappointed. She had not expected her to be like that.
“It is a most excellent woman,” murmured Delphine enthusiastically, “and of a noble heart. It is to her we owe the commencement of our success.”
Aunt Hannah’s gate was reached wonderfully soon after this, and still Susan had not told her of the mistake. “It was only put off, however,” she said to herself, “and it really had not been her fault. She would explain all, the very next time they met.”
Mademoiselle left her at the gate with an affectionate good-bye, and as Susan walked up the path to the door the doctor came out. He was generally in’s great hurry, but to-day he stopped and smiled at her:
“Good news,” he said. “If this improvement continues you may see your companion to-morrow, and sit with her an hour. She’s much stronger and better.”
Was it good news? Of course Susan was glad that Sophia was better, but the thought at once came into her mind, as she watched the doctor out of the gate, “she will ask me about the collar. She will expect a message from Mademoiselle.” All that evening she was troubled about this, and even hoped that Sophia Jane might not bequiteso well to-morrow, so that she might have time to see Mademoiselle again and make it all right. “What should I do if Sophia Jane asks me straight out whether I said the collar was from her? I couldn’t tell her I didn’t, and I couldn’t tell her I did. Oh, how I wish I had not put it off.” Now, in all her reflections, Susan still made excuses for herself, and still said, “it was not my fault.” She did not see that she had been mean and jealous and deceitful; but she did see that she had got herself into a difficulty, and was anxious, not to atone for her fault, but to escape the consequences of it. When conscience told her that the right thing was confession to her companion, she would not listen. “After all,” she said, “she perhaps won’t ask me, and then it will be all right; for Icertainly willexplain it to Mademoiselle, as I always meant to.” And in this way Susan got more and more enclosed in the tangled web she was weaving; for how can we make anything right unless we first see that it is wrong?
Sophia Jane continued better, and was much looking forward, Aunt Hannah said, to her companion’s visit. Susan was cautioned before she went upstairs to be very kind and gentle, not to vex or thwart the invalid, and to call Buskin if anything should be wanted. Aunt Hannah would go out a little while, which she had scarcely done since Sophia Jane’s illness. All this was promised, and it seemed another reason against saying anything about the collar; for, if Sophia Jane knew the truth, it would certainly vex and thwart her. Susan collected some things which she thought might amuse her, and perhaps prevent her from dwelling long on the dreaded subject. The game of dominoes, Grace, a box of beads, and Andersen’s fairy tales. Struggling upstairs with these, she was soon in the invalid’s room.
Sophia Jane looked much more like herself than when Susan had last seen her. She was lying quietly down among her pillows with a very white little face, and one hand resting feebly on the substantial form of Dinah, Margaretta’s black doll. By her side was a tiny bunch of snowdrops which Nanna had found in the garden that morning; how kind everyone was to her now! It gave Susan a little pang to remember that she herself had done nothing to please her, but just the opposite. Often, when Sophia Jane was well, she had asked to be allowed to have Dinah to herself for a little while, but had always been refused. Now, here she was. She was a most attractive doll, for there was a foreign air about her that distinguished her from all English ones. The nuns at Bahia had stuffed her so cleverly that her plump black face and limbs glistened; she wore earrings, a gay turban, and very full flowered chintz skirts. All her under-garments would “take off,” and were trimmed with curious hand-made lace. It was a great privilege to be allowed to play with her.
Sophia Jane received her visitor quietly, with a small pinched smile. In answer to Susan’s inquiries she pronounced herself better, but added with her usual old-fashioned air:
“I’m not well yet, though. I’m still ill and shaky.”
“What would you like to play at?” was Susan’s next inquiry put rather hastily.
“Nothing at all,” was the decided answer. “I want to talk.”
“But,” said Susan earnestly, “aunt told me you were not to talk much—she did, really.”
“Well, I’ll ask questions, and you talk,” said Sophia Jane.
“Wouldn’t you rather have a game of dominoes?” Susan ventured to suggest.
“No,” answered Sophia Jane snappishly, “I wouldn’t.” Such an angry gleam came into her eyes that Susan, remembering she was not to vex or thwart her, resigned herself to be questioned. Her heart beat quickly. What would the first question be? It was quite an easy one.
“Did she like it?” asked Sophia Jane, settling herself comfortably on her elbow, and staring at her companion.
“Very much indeed,” answered Susan.
“Did it fit him? Tell me all about it.”
“Beautifully. I put it on myself, and he looked very nice in it. I had dinner with Mademoiselle, and she made an omelette—and coffee—and I helped to lay the table—and to wash the things afterwards—and she told me Monsieur has got some more lessons. Then she brought me home, and on the way we saw Mrs Jones standing in the door of the shop. She’s not a nice-looking woman, but Mademoiselle says she has a noble heart. I should think it must be horrid to be a butcher’s wife. Shouldn’t you?”
Pausing for a reply, Susan gave a nervous glance at her companion, whose eyes were still fixed upon her, and who took no notice whatever of the question.
“Did Mademoiselle send a message to me about the collar?” she asked.
“No, she didn’t,” said Susan. Then, seeing how crest-fallen the poor little face looked, she added hastily:
“I expect she means to come and thank you herself, or perhaps to write you a letter.”
A small tear had gathered in each of Sophia Jane’s eyes, but she winked them quickly away.
“You’resure,” she said in a troubled voice, “that she understood it was from me?”
The moment had come. Susan looked straight back in her friend’s face and answered instantly:
“Yes; I am quite sure.”
It was over. She had now told a real story—a very bad one. Nothing worse could happen.
Sophia Jane seemed satisfied, She gave a little sigh, and said softly:
“Thank you. Then I expect she’ll write.”
After this she did not mention the collar again, but was willing to play at dominoes, though she could not get through more than one game.
“I’m tired now,” she said. “You may read aloud.” When, however, she found that Susan had only brought a book of fairy tales, she was much displeased, and declared fretfully that fairy tales were nonsense. “They’re wicked too,” she added, “because they tell stories.”
Susan disputed this, whereupon Sophia Jane grew so excited and angry, and spoke in such a shrill voice that Buskin came in from the next room to see what was the matter.
“You’ve been here long enough, Miss Susan,” she said, glancing at Sophia Jane’s flushed cheeks. “You better go down-stairs and let Miss Sophia Jane be quiet. It’s time she took her medicine.”
Susan collected her property and went away. There were a good many things to carry, but she took one with her which weighed more heavily than all the rest put together—the knowledge that she had told a story.
And now, at last, her eyes were opened wide, and she could see clearly the tangled web she had been weaving for some time past. She could see that she had first despised Sophia Jane, and then been jealous of her; first been conceited and proud, and then mean and deceitful. Good Susan no longer, but far far worse than her poor little friend, whom she had always considered so naughty. Little by little the web had become more and more twisted and confused. Would it ever be straight again? She made no excuse for herself now. Her heart was so full of sorrow and repentance that she hardly knew how to bear it, and, creeping sorrowfully up into the attic, she cast herself down on the big black box and cried. She had thought herself so good since she had come to Ramsgate, they had all told her so, and yet how naughty she had been—naughtier and naughtier, until at last she had told a story. What should she do? An old rhyme of Maria’s came into her head as she lay there sobbing:
“A fault confessedIs half redressed.”
“A fault confessedIs half redressed.”
That was what she must do. Confess it all to Sophia Jane. But what a humbling, miserable thing! She could see the expression on Sophia Jane’s face when she heard that Susan—good Susan—who had always been held up as an example, had deceived Mademoiselle and told a story. “Oh, Icouldn’t!” said Susan to herself. “Anything else—any other punishment I would bear, butnotthat.” And then she went on to remember Monsieur and Mademoiselle would know too, and they would never like her again, or think her a good little girl—it would be too dreadful. “I shall never never be happy again any way,” said Susan half aloud. “If I don’t tell I shall be miserable, and if I do tell I shall be miserable too.”
Nanna’s voice calling her down to tea put an end for the moment to these thoughts; but they came back during the evening with yet greater force, and when she went to bed she felt unhappier than she had ever been in her life. She was still, however, undecided about confessing her fault.
During the next few days she did not see Sophia Jane, though the improvement continued. It was a relief not to see her; and yet to go about with a feeling like a lump of lead in her bosom was not, Susan found, a comfortable thing. It did not get lighter as each day passed, and at last something happened which so increased its weight that she thought any punishment—any open disgrace—would be easier to bear. For, how it happened no one could tell, Sophia Jane managed to catch a chill, the fever returned with renewed violence, and she became seriously ill again. Susan could soon tell from the grave face of the doctor, and from the scraps of conversation she overheard, that her poor little companion was even worse than she had been. Besides this, Mr Bevis came one evening, and after he had talked a little while to Aunt Hannah her eyes filled with tears, and Susan heard her say:
“The child’s life hangs on a thread.”
Mr Bevis said some texts and soon went away, but that one sentence remained in Susan’s mind and made her more miserable than ever. A thread! It was such a thin, weak thing to hang on, and if it snapped where would Sophia Jane’s life be? Perhaps it would break soon, that very night, before she could see her again and ask her pardon. It was such a dreadful thought that Susan was unable to keep it to herself any longer. She shut her eyes, said her evening prayer all through, and at the end added very earnestly: “Don’t let it break.Pleasedon’t let it break.”
Then Margaretta came rushing into the sitting-room where Susan was curled up in the window seat. She looked pale and frightened.
“Where’s Aunt Hannah?” she said.
“Just gone out of the room,” answered Susan.
“Oh!” she added, “dotell me—is Sophia Jane worse?”
“I don’t know,” said Margaretta hurriedly. “I want aunt. She ought to see her; I think perhaps she would send for Dr Martin again.”
Dr Martin was sent for, and came, but he did not give much comfort.
“You can’t do anything,” he said, “but try and keep up her strength. A great deal will depend on the next few hours.”
From her lonely corner Susan watched and waited all that wretched evening, and, not daring to ask questions, stayed there, chill with misery, until long past her usual bed-time. At last Buskin came to find her. Wonder of wonders! there were tears in Buskin’s eyes, and Susan was encouraged by this display of softness to stretch out her arms to her for comfort, and whisper, “Will she get better?”
“The Lord only knows, my dear,” answered Buskin gruffly; “we’reall in His hands.”
Chapter Six.Sophia Jane posts a Letter, and Susan pays a Visit.Susan remained awake a long, long time that night listening with strained ears to the subdued noises in the house. She heard Dr Martin come and go away again, his boots creaking softly on each stair; she heard Aunt Hannah’s voice, mysterious and low, wishing him good-night, and after that the shutting of the door. Then a great stillness seemed to fall over everything, and she went to sleep at last.When she next opened her eyes the darkness was over—here was bright daylight again, and Buskin drawing up her blind. The first words she heard were like part of a dream:“She’s had a beautiful sleep, and the fever’s taken a turn.”Susan rubbed her eyes to be quite sure she was awake, and that the good news was true.“The doctor’s been already this morning,” continued Buskin, coming up to the bedside, “and he says she’ll do now with care.”Susan had a hundred questions to ask, and her joy and relief were so great that she wanted to pour it all out at once. But this morning Buskin was “herself again,” her soft expression was gone; she was cold and stiff as usual, and would scarcely say more than “yes” and “no” to these eager inquiries. “I shall hear all about it,” said Susan to herself, “at breakfast-time;” and she dressed as quickly as she could and went down-stairs.She was right, for no one mentioned any other subject throughout the meal. Sophia Jane had been neither liked or valued while she was strong and well, but her illness seemed to have drawn all hearts towards her. And yet she was the same Sophia Jane!“I never could have believed,” said Aunt Hannah with tears in her eyes, as she put down her tea-cup, “that I should have grown so fond of that child!”“Poor little darling!” said Nanna.“I cried my eyes out last night,” added Margaretta, “after Dr Martin had gone.”“The relief of seeing her fall asleep!” continued Aunt Hannah. “I shall never forget it! It was just two o’clock, and I had sent Buskin to bed. Presently, I thought the child was lying more quietly, and her breathing sounded different. I hardly dared to look at her, but when I did she was sleeping as calmly as a baby, and her forehead quite moist. I shall never forget it!”“Dear little thing!” repeated Nanna.“We shall all be very thankful, I’m sure,” said Aunt Hannah looking round the table, “if Sophia Jane gets quite well again.”“Of course we shall!” exclaimed everyone together.“And during her illness I have felt that when she was well we were all sometimes too hard upon her faults.”There was silence.“Everyone is better for being loved,” pursued Aunt Hannah. “And I fancy no one has ever loved Sophia Jane much in her life. Perhaps this has made her hard and disagreeable. At any rate, I think we might all with advantage be more patient and kind than we have been.”It seemed difficult to Aunt Hannah to get through this speech, for she stopped very often; and Susan could see that once she was nearly crying. She had been sitting up half the night and was no doubt very tired, but how wonderful it was to hear her speak like that of Sophia Jane! It made her resolve still more firmly than she had yet done, that as soon as ever her companion was well enough she would make full and free confession of her fault.And this time Sophia Jane seemed to have made up her mind to go straight on and get well, for she improved every day; and though it was only a little way at a time there were no drawbacks. The morning arrived which Susan had long been waiting for, when Aunt Hannah said, “You may see Sophia Jane.” Susan thought that Mary Queen of Scots could not have felt worse when they told her that the block was ready; but she did not flinch. The moment she was alone with Sophia Jane she faltered out her story, and stood before her with burning cheeks and downcast eyes. The little invalid peered curiously out of the frilled white cap she wore. It was one of Aunt Hannah’s adapted to her size, because she complained that her head felt cold, and it gave her such a strangely old witch-like air that it greatly increased Susan’s fear and distress.“But I thought you said Mademoiselle understood I sent it?”“So I did,” murmured Susan.“But that was a story?”No answer.“But I thought you were always good?” with a gleam of gratification in her eyes.“I’m very sorry,” said the culprit.Sophia Jane paused a moment, then she asked:“Does Mademoiselle know now?”“No,” said Susan. “I haven’t seen her.”“Well!” exclaimed Sophia Jane scornfully, “I should think you might write.”“So I will,” said Susan earnestly; “and then will you forgive me?”“Oh, I don’t know about that!” said Sophia Jane, shaking her head till the frill of her cap trembled. “You see it was so very bad of you.”“I know,” said Susan humbly. Then venturing to glance at Sophia Jane’s face she was surprised to see a sudden little smile appear, and to hear her exclaim:“At any rate there’sonething! They’ll never be able to say again, ‘try to be as good as Susan,’ because you’ve been much naughtier now than I’ve ever been!”She chuckled softly to herself, and then said—suddenly and sharply:“Why don’t you write the letter?”It was not the least part of Susan’s punishment to be treated as a child who could not be trusted. But she bore it patiently, fetched her desk, and wrote the words sternly dictated by Sophia Jane. The latter then requested that she might read the letter, and having done so watched while Susan directed the envelope and put a stamp on it. Then she said:“Give it me,” and immediately pushed it under her pillow.“Sha’n’t I post it?” asked Susan humbly.“Certainly not!” said Sophia Jane decidedly. “That would be a pretty thing indeed!”Susan felt humbled to the dust, and yet when she left her companion’s room her heart was lighter, and she was really happier than she had been for a long time. She had done what she could to repair her fault, and all the pricks and stabs which Sophia Jane thrust into her were not nearly so hard to bear as the reproaches of her own self. True they were painful, for Susan was a proud child and liked to be well thought of; but after all she was suffering justly. Even if Monsieur and Mademoiselle should always despise her after reading that letter she should deserve it. But, oh, what a pity it was! So the thing next to be dreaded was the meeting with Mademoiselle Delphine, and to see her kindly brown face look cold and displeased. Susan could not help hoping that it would not happen just yet. She did not want to see either her or Monsieur for a long time. She wondered whether Sophia Jane had sent the letter at once, and whether Mademoiselle would write in answer or come herself. She was not, however, kept long in uncertainty about this, for two days after her interview with Sophia Jane there came a note for Aunt Hannah, which she opened at breakfast, saying:“This is from Mademoiselle Delphine.”Susan watched her face anxiously, and saw a puzzled expression as she read on.“She wants to know,” said Aunt Hannah, at last looking up, “if she may come and see Sophia Jane this evening at five o’clock, and says she brings a friend. What friend can she mean?”“Very strange, indeed!” said Margaretta. “I’ve no objection whatever to Mademoiselle’s seeing the child,” continued Aunt Hannah. “In fact, I think it would interest and amuse her to have a visitor. But the friend! I must say I consider that rather thoughtless and ill-judged. I am always glad to see Monsieur La Roche or his sister—but theirfriends! That is quite another matter.”“Quite,” said Nanna and Margaretta both at once.Susan was at first too occupied with the idea that Mademoiselle was coming that very evening to think about the friend at all, or to wonder whom it could be; she hastened with the news to Sophia Jane, who had now so far improved in strength that she was allowed to sit up a little while every afternoon. She was delighted at the idea of the visit, and at once made a suggestion about the friend which filled Susan with dismay, it was this:“Perhaps, as she’s so fond of Mrs Jones, she means to bring her.”What an idea! and yet when Susan thought it over it did not seem unlikely, for Mademoiselle always spoke with great admiration of “Madame Jones” as an acquaintance to be much valued. “A noble-hearted being,” she had called her more than once. Susan wondered what Margaretta and Nanna would think of her if she came. They always talked so much about appearance, and manner, and dress, and if they disapproved of it they said, “rather common.” They would certainly call Madame Jones “rather common,” for they would not understand about her noble heart; and indeed Susan remembered she should not have done so herself without Mademoiselle’s explanation. It was a pity that when people had noble hearts it did not make them look noble outside, and she ended by hoping very much that Madame Jones would not come.It was between four and five o’clock in the afternoon of the expected visit, and the little girls were alone together. Aunt Hannah had promised that Mademoiselle should have a snug tea with them upstairs if she came alone, so that they were awaiting her arrival with some anxiety. Susan could not help a little secret hope now that she wouldnotbe alone, so that the dreaded meeting might be deferred. Sophia Jane had made no further reference to the collar, but Susan felt as much abashed in her presence as any prisoner before his judge, and sometimes found it difficult to talk. She gave a timid look at her; she was in a large arm-chair close to the fire, very much covered up and surrounded by pillows, in the midst of which she looked like a small white mouse in a red-flannel gown. Her features were sharpened by illness, and she still insisted on wearing Aunt Hannah’s cap; but though all this made her more like an old woman than a child, there was to-day a softened light in her blue eyes which Susan noticed at once. She had never seen it there before. She took courage.“Do you suppose,” she said, glancing at black Dinah, “that Margaretta will let you play with Dinah when you are well?”“I don’t want to get well,” said Sophia Jane at once.“Don’t—want—to get—well!” repeated Susan in surprise.“I shouldn’t mind always being ill,” said Sophia Jane. “Everyone’s kind, no one scolds you; you have nice things to eat, and lemonade. I don’t want to get well.”“I want you to get well to play with me again,” said Susan. “And I know everybody wants you to get well.”“Why do they?” asked the invalid.“Oh, because—of course they do,” was the only reason Susan could give.“Well,” said Sophia Jane thoughtfully, “of course there’s the trouble of it, and the doctor to pay.”She wrinkled her brow as she said this, and looked sideways at Susan with her old cunning expression.“Oh, it isn’t that,” said Susan very earnestly; “why, they’re all dreadfully sorry. That night you were worst, you know, Aunt Hannah cried, and every one, and so did Buskin.”“I don’t think I should cry if they were ill,” said Sophia Jane after some reflection.“Well, it shows how fond they are of you, doesn’t it?” remarked Susan.“Perhaps,” replied Sophia Jane, and after that she was silent for a long time, and Susan stationed herself at the window to watch for Mademoiselle and her friend.Whenever she saw two people in the distance she cried out, “Here they are!” And this happened so often, and turned out to be not the least like them, that at last it made the invalid quite peevish. So many false alarms, when she could not look out of the window herself, were most distracting.“You’re not to say it again,” she exclaimed in a weak voice of command, “unless you see themacshallycoming in at the gate.”Susan controlled herself with difficulty, for she was getting very much excited as the time drew near. And now, stepping quickly and neatly along with a large basket on her arm, Mademoiselle’s figure did really appear—alone. Where was the friend? Susan’s heart sank, and her hands grew quite cold. In another minute she must meet Mademoiselle, and then— “She’s coming in at the gate,” she announced to the invalid in a trembling voice; “and she hasn’t brought Mrs Jones or anyone, but only a large basket.”“You’re sure?” said Sophia Jane in a husky agitated tone; “then look here, quick, before she comes in.”Susan turned sharply round from the window. Sophia Jane was leaning forward over the grate, with a flush on her white cheeks and her eyes very bright, and in her hand she held, soiled and crumpled, Susan’s letter of confession. The next second it had dropped into the heart of the fire, and as the door opened to admit Mademoiselle a little flame sprang brightly up. And that was how Sophia Jane posted the letter. It was such a sudden thing, and so completely altered the state of affairs that Susan could not at first take it in, or remember that she might now answer Mademoiselle’s greetings without shame. These were most affectionate and cheerful, and she presently seated herself close to Sophia Jane’s arm-chair with her basket on her knees, and untied her bonnet-strings.“Madame, your aunt, is so kind to ask me to take tea with you,” she said, “and I have taken the liberty to bring also a Monsieur who is anxious to make his compliments to Miss Sophia.”“Is he down-stairs?” asked Sophia Jane.“Mais non,” said Mademoiselle with a little burst of laughter; “he is here, in this room, and waits to make himself known.”She opened the lid of the basket a very little way and peeped in.“It’s Gambetta!” exclaimed Sophia Jane, in a voice hoarse with excitement; “that’s what you meant by a friend.”There was the tiny tinkle of a bell. Mademoiselle opened the basket wide, and there indeed was Gambetta in all the dignity of the new collar.Nothing could exceed Sophia Jane’s delight as she clasped her hands in an ecstasy and laughed aloud. “Doesn’t he look nice in it?” she said. Mademoiselle smiled and nodded in return; everyone looked pleased except Gambetta himself, who held his neck stiffly as though he said, “Pride must suffer pain.”Susan stood a little behind the group while this was going on; now she came in front of Mademoiselle and caressed Gambetta’s soft furry neck.“It’s Sophia Jane’s present,” she said, “not mine. She sent it to Monsieur for him.”Mademoiselle looked puzzled.“It was got with Susan’s half-crown,” added Sophia Jane quickly, “so it’s from both of us.”“Ah, that is very amiable of you both,” said Mademoiselle. “Gambetta has both the two of you to thank—and Adolphe also; that is very agreeable.”And so the event which Susan had thought of and dreaded so much passed with this slight remark. The confession had been made, and her mind was clear again, and free. Free to laugh, and talk, and look people straight in the face, and be her old happy self. But there was one thing she never forgot, and that was Sophia Jane’s generosity. By burning that letter she had gained not only Susan’s affection but her respect; she should never look down upon her again.Meanwhile Gambetta became restive, and, in spite of all his mistress’s entreaties, broke away from her, and refused to settle down till he had made a thorough examination of the room. He jumped on to the table, smelt all the chairs, looked suspiciously behind the chest of drawers, and walked gingerly in his high furry boots amongst Sophia Jane’s medicine bottles. His every movement was watched and admired, and by the time Buskin brought in tea he had finished his inquiries and drawn near the group by the fire. Then, after one thoughtful glance round, he chose Sophia Jane’s position as being the warmest, softly leapt on to her lap, and snuggled himself among her shawls, In this situation he presently began a purring song of comfort, in which he was joined by the tea-kettle. Sophia Jane’s satisfaction was now complete. Mademoiselle Delphine’s face beamed, and Susan, pouring out tea with Aunt Hannah’s best pink set, felt almost too happy for words. Probably few rooms held four happier creatures that evening.It was pleasant to see how Mademoiselle enjoyed herself; how she said, “Excellente!” to the tea, and water-cresses, and muffins, and how she coaxed Sophia Jane to eat, and made her laugh. She was one of those fortunate people who pick up pleasures everywhere, and find amusement in the most common things of life. After tea she told them stories. Interesting details about Paris, and Adolphe, and their journey to England with poor Gambetta in a basket, and all this made the time pass so quickly, that when the clock struck seven everyone was startled. Mademoiselle herself sprang up at once with a little shriek. She had promised to meet Adolphe at a certain point on her way home, and he would without doubt be waiting for her. Gambetta, therefore, was hustled into his basket before he had time to resist, and Mademoiselle, having embraced her little friends heartily, was soon on her way.The two little girls were silent for a minute after she had gone. Sophia Jane, languid after such unusual excitement, stared absently at the fire, and Susan, not yet quite at her ease, did not like to speak first. But when Buskin entered it seemed to give her courage, and she said:“Haven’t we had a nice tea-party?”“Yes,” answered Sophia Jane; and added thoughtfully, “it’s very nice to be ill.”“But I want you to get well,” said Susan. “You can’t think how dull it is down-stairs without you.”Buskin would not allow any further conversation, and Susan had to say good-night and go away. As she kissed her friend’s tiny befrilled face, she felt for the first time really fond of her, and grateful also. She had made the discovery lately that you could not judge people by their outsides, or even by what others said of them. Under her cross, crabbed manner Sophia Jane had hidden a grateful heart, which had answered to the first touch of kindness; and disguised by sharp and shrewish words, she had shown a really generous and forgiving spirit. Like Madame Jones, it appeared that she had a noble heart.The next day was one of some excitement to Susan, for it had been arranged that she was to spend it with some friends of Margaretta and Nanna who lived at Ramsgate. Their name was Winslow. It was not altogether a pleasant prospect, for she had never been there before, and she had very little hope that she should find them agreeable. Not that she knew anything against them; on the contrary, their name was never uttered without words of admiration, and if Nanna or Margaretta wished to bestow high approval on anything, they always said it was like something the Winslows had. It appeared, indeed, that these friends were much favoured by fortune. Their house was the pleasantest, their horses the best, their taste the most excellent, their children the prettiest and most clever. It was this last point which had specially interested Sophia Jane and Susan, and they had gradually come to dislike the little Winslows, though they knew nothing of them but their names and appearance. Whenever Nanna or Margaretta returned from seeing these friends they were brimful of admiration at the excellent conduct and talent of the children, and did not fail to draw unfavourable contrasts. They described their dresses, repeated their speeches, and gave many instances of their polite behaviour and obedience to rules. Little Eva, who was not so old as Susan, could already play “The Harmonious Blacksmith” without a mistake. Dear Julia, who was Sophia Jane’s exact age, danced the minuet with the utmost elegance, and always held herself upright. As for darling Lucy, she spoke French with ease, and had begged to be allowed to begin German.Although they had never spoken to these wonderful children, the little girls had often met them out of doors walking with their governess, and had long ago made up their minds about them.They thought them prim and dull-looking, and found something annoying in their neatly-dressed little figures, and the perfect propriety with which they stepped along, holding their small round heads rather high. They imagined, too, that they had seen them cast glances of surprise and disdain on Sophia Jane’s clothes, which were often shabby, and never becoming. They agreed, therefore, in considering them disagreeable children, and were by no means anxious for their acquaintance.Remembering all this, Susan felt there was no chance at all that she should enjoy herself, and she did not get much comfort from Sophia Jane, when she went to say good-bye.“I’m glad I’m not going,” she said. “I know I should hate ’em. You know we always have.”“Perhaps they’ll be nicer in-doors,” said Susan, though she did not think it probable.“I believe they’re all horrid, every one of ’em,” said Sophia Jane decidedly, “in-doors and out, and I’m glad I’m not going.”“It wouldn’t be quite so bad if you were,” said Susan with a sigh, “because we could talk about it afterwards. But I must go; there’s Margaretta calling me.”“I hope, Susan,” said Margaretta, as they walked along the parade together, “that you will remember to behave very nicely, and answer properly when Mrs Winslow speaks to you. Don’t blush and look shy. The little Winslows never look silly, and I have never seen them blush.”“Are you fond of Mrs Winslow?” asked Susan. “She’s very kind,” answered Margaretta, “and very clever. She knows a great deal about education.”Susan asked no more questions, and in a quarter of an hour they arrived at the house which was large and tall, with green balconies, and a great many windows. Part of it faced the sea, and part of it went round the corner into a street, and it all looked, inside and out, so bright and clean and new that it was quite dazzling. Susan thought she had never seen a house where everything shone so much, and there was so much light. Not a shadow, not a dark corner anywhere, and all the furniture was polished so highly that she saw herself and Margaretta reflected a dozen times as they moved along. When they reached the drawing-room it was still more confusing, for there were so many mirrors, and windows, and statuettes under glass cases, that the brilliancy almost brought tears to her eyes, it was such a contrast to the dimness of Aunt Hannah’s low ceilings and small rooms. Wherever she turned her head, too, another Susan stared at her, and this made her feel shy and uncomfortable.“Isn’t it a beautiful room?” said Margaretta, seating herself on a pompous yellow sofa. “So cheerful!”Before Susan could answer, Mrs Winslow came in. She was a fair lady with a very straight nose, and she welcomed them kindly, and asked after Sophia Jane.“My little people,” she continued, scarcely waiting, Susan noticed, for Margaretta’s answer, “are just returning from their walk. Air and light are as necessary to the young as to flowers, are they not? How can we expect their minds to expand unless the body is healthy?”“No, indeed,” said Margaretta.Mrs Winslow then proposed that they should go and take off their hats, which being done she led the way down-stairs into the dining-room, where the “little people” were already assembled with their governess for their early dinner. During this Susan had plenty of time for observation, and she soon decided that she should have to tell Sophia Jane that they werenotnicer in-doors than out. They were wonderfully alike: all had little straight noses, fair complexions, and pale blue eyes, and when they spoke they said all their words very distinctly, and never cut any of them short. They were very polite to Susan.“I encourage conversation with my children during meal-time, on principle,” said Mrs Winslow. “How can you expect them to acquire right habits of speaking if silence is imposed?”“No, indeed,” said Margaretta again.“The force of habit,” continued Mrs Winslow, putting down her knife and fork, and looking from Margaretta to Miss Pink, the governess, “has never, it seems to me, been sufficiently considered in education. It in a giant power. It rests with us to turn it this way or that, to give it a right or a wrong direction, to use it for good or for evil. I say to my children, for instance, ‘always think before you act, in the smallest as well as the greatest things.’ By degrees I thus form in them habits of steadiness, thoughtfulness, calmness, which will not desert them when called upon to act in moments of danger and difficulty. ‘Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it’—nay more, hecannotdepart from it.”It was quite by chance as Mrs Winslow said these last words that her eyes rested on Susan, who had been staring at her all the while she had been speaking, and who now felt that an answer of some kind was expected. She had none to give, however, for she had not been listening at all to what had been said, her mind being filled with wonder and awe at Mrs Winslow, who talked as though she were reading aloud. She only blushed, therefore, and immediately became aware that three pairs of pale blue eyes were fastened upon her from the other side of the table. The little Winslows never blushed, Margaretta had said, and of course they thought her very silly. She longed for the meal to be over, and the visit also. Why, she wondered, were Margaretta and Nanna so fond of coming here? Margaretta did not look as if she were enjoying herself much. She was sitting in a stiff position, with her head a little on one side, watching every glance of Mrs Winslow’s, so that she might say, “yes, indeed,” or “quite so,” or “exactly,” in the right place. Her voice did not sound like the voice she had at Aunt Hannah’s, but smaller, and she said her words mincingly. Susan felt sure she was not enjoying herself. Whydidshe come?Presently the conversation became more interesting, and Susan now listened to it with some anxiety, for Mrs Winslow was making arrangements for the afternoon, and she hoped to hear of an early return to Belmont Cottage. She did not want to see any more of the little Winslows, and quite longed to get back to Sophia Jane and tell her all about them. It was disappointing, therefore, to hear it decided that Margaretta should drive out with Mrs Winslow, who would leave her at Aunt Hannah’s, and that Susan should walk back later with Miss Pink and the little people. Margaretta was almost to be envied. Perhaps it was because she liked driving in a carriage with a pair of swift horses that she liked coming here. And yet Mrs Winslow’s presence would spoil anything, Susan thought. If she went on talking like that, and Margaretta had to sit up and listen to her and make little remarks, the drive would not be worth having; it could not be much worse to walk home with the little Winslows.After dinner the little girls took their visitor into the schoolroom, where they were to amuse themselves until it was time to start for their walk. It was a large bright room like all the others in the house; but this cheerfulness did not seem to have affected the Winslows themselves. They were quiet children, always good and obedient, but rather dull. They did not seem to understand games, and seldom laughed. How very different they were to Sophia Jane! Certainly she was not nearly so well behaved, but then she was a far more amusing companion. The afternoon seemed endless.“Don’t you ever play with dolls?” Susan asked at last.“No,” answered Lucy the eldest, “we are too old. Eva has one, but we put away our dolls on my last birthday.”“Whatdoyou play at?” inquired Susan.“We haven’t much time to play,” replied Lucy seriously, “because we belong to so many things.”“What things?”“There’s the ‘Early Rising Society,’ and the ‘Half-hour Needlework for the East-End Society,’ and the ‘Reading Society,’ and the ‘Zenana Meetings;’ and we’re all ‘Young Abstainers.’”“What’s that?” asked Susan.“It’s the children’s temperance society. We pledge ourselves not to take alcohol, and to prevent others from taking it if we can. There’s a meeting once a month. It’s our turn next time to have it here.”“What do you do when you meet?” inquired Susan.“Some of us work,” said Lucy, “and someone reads aloud.”“And then,” added little Eva, “we have tea.”There was a faint look of satisfaction on Eva’s face as she said this.“Eva thinks tea is the best part of all,” said Julia, the next sister, rather scornfully.“Well,” said Susan, “I expect I should too, because I’m not fond of needlework. Unless,” she added, “the book wasveryinteresting to listen to.”“Sometimes it is,” said Julia, “and sometimes it isn’t. Are you fond of reading?”“Some books,” answered Susan.“If you belonged to the Reading Society,” put in Lucy, “you’d have to read an improving book for half an hour every day, and perhaps at the end of the year you’d get a prize.”“I suppose you mean an uninteresting book like a lesson book,” said Susan. “I shouldn’t like that.”“Well, of course, it mustn’t be astory-book,” said Julia.“Would thePilgrim’s Progressdo?” asked Susan.The little girls looked doubtfully at each other. “I’m not sure,” said Lucy, “whether that thatwouldbe considered an improving book.”Susan proceeded to make more inquiries about the various societies, but she did not think any of them sounded attractive, and certainly had no wish to join the little Winslows in belonging to them. This filled up the time until four o’clock, when, with Miss Pink, they all set out on their walk to Belmont Cottage. Susan was surprised to see that each little girl was provided with a hoop, which was the nearest approach to a toy of any kind that she had observed during her visit.“We always take hoops out in the afternoon until the month of May,” explained Lucy. “Mother considers the exercise healthy.”It was such a relief to Susan to feel that the visit was over, and that she was really going back, that she could not walk quite soberly with Miss Pink, but danced along the parade by little Eva’s side as she bowled her hoop, and was almost inclined to sing aloud with pleasure. There were a great many people about, and quite a crowd of carriages, and soon in the distance they saw Mrs Winslow’s black horses approaching. She had left Margaretta at Belmont Cottage, and was now returning. Just as the carriage passed, Eva, who was staring at her mother, gave her hoop a blow which sent it in the wrong direction, and it trundled out into the middle of the road, almost under the horses’ feet. Not quite, however, for Susan, who was watching it, sprang after it and caught it away just in time. Mrs Winslow nodded and smiled at the children, the carriage drove on, and Susan carried the hoop back to the path where the little Winslows were drawn up in a row with very serious faces.“You might have been run over,” said Lucy gravely.“I didn’t think about it,” said Susan.“Mother says,” continued Lucy, “Alwaysthink before you act.”“My dear,” interrupted Miss Pink hastily, “Susan has done very well. There are exceptions to every rule.”When Susan reached home she found Sophia Jane still sitting up, and eager to hear all the news about the visit. She at once inquired if the Winslows were “horrid;” but Susan would not quite say that. “They were very kind to her and very good, but—” she added, “I haven’t enjoyed myself a bit, and I never want to go there again or see them any more.”“I told you so,” said Sophia Jane, and she gave herself a hug of satisfaction.
Susan remained awake a long, long time that night listening with strained ears to the subdued noises in the house. She heard Dr Martin come and go away again, his boots creaking softly on each stair; she heard Aunt Hannah’s voice, mysterious and low, wishing him good-night, and after that the shutting of the door. Then a great stillness seemed to fall over everything, and she went to sleep at last.
When she next opened her eyes the darkness was over—here was bright daylight again, and Buskin drawing up her blind. The first words she heard were like part of a dream:
“She’s had a beautiful sleep, and the fever’s taken a turn.”
Susan rubbed her eyes to be quite sure she was awake, and that the good news was true.
“The doctor’s been already this morning,” continued Buskin, coming up to the bedside, “and he says she’ll do now with care.”
Susan had a hundred questions to ask, and her joy and relief were so great that she wanted to pour it all out at once. But this morning Buskin was “herself again,” her soft expression was gone; she was cold and stiff as usual, and would scarcely say more than “yes” and “no” to these eager inquiries. “I shall hear all about it,” said Susan to herself, “at breakfast-time;” and she dressed as quickly as she could and went down-stairs.
She was right, for no one mentioned any other subject throughout the meal. Sophia Jane had been neither liked or valued while she was strong and well, but her illness seemed to have drawn all hearts towards her. And yet she was the same Sophia Jane!
“I never could have believed,” said Aunt Hannah with tears in her eyes, as she put down her tea-cup, “that I should have grown so fond of that child!”
“Poor little darling!” said Nanna.
“I cried my eyes out last night,” added Margaretta, “after Dr Martin had gone.”
“The relief of seeing her fall asleep!” continued Aunt Hannah. “I shall never forget it! It was just two o’clock, and I had sent Buskin to bed. Presently, I thought the child was lying more quietly, and her breathing sounded different. I hardly dared to look at her, but when I did she was sleeping as calmly as a baby, and her forehead quite moist. I shall never forget it!”
“Dear little thing!” repeated Nanna.
“We shall all be very thankful, I’m sure,” said Aunt Hannah looking round the table, “if Sophia Jane gets quite well again.”
“Of course we shall!” exclaimed everyone together.
“And during her illness I have felt that when she was well we were all sometimes too hard upon her faults.”
There was silence.
“Everyone is better for being loved,” pursued Aunt Hannah. “And I fancy no one has ever loved Sophia Jane much in her life. Perhaps this has made her hard and disagreeable. At any rate, I think we might all with advantage be more patient and kind than we have been.”
It seemed difficult to Aunt Hannah to get through this speech, for she stopped very often; and Susan could see that once she was nearly crying. She had been sitting up half the night and was no doubt very tired, but how wonderful it was to hear her speak like that of Sophia Jane! It made her resolve still more firmly than she had yet done, that as soon as ever her companion was well enough she would make full and free confession of her fault.
And this time Sophia Jane seemed to have made up her mind to go straight on and get well, for she improved every day; and though it was only a little way at a time there were no drawbacks. The morning arrived which Susan had long been waiting for, when Aunt Hannah said, “You may see Sophia Jane.” Susan thought that Mary Queen of Scots could not have felt worse when they told her that the block was ready; but she did not flinch. The moment she was alone with Sophia Jane she faltered out her story, and stood before her with burning cheeks and downcast eyes. The little invalid peered curiously out of the frilled white cap she wore. It was one of Aunt Hannah’s adapted to her size, because she complained that her head felt cold, and it gave her such a strangely old witch-like air that it greatly increased Susan’s fear and distress.
“But I thought you said Mademoiselle understood I sent it?”
“So I did,” murmured Susan.
“But that was a story?”
No answer.
“But I thought you were always good?” with a gleam of gratification in her eyes.
“I’m very sorry,” said the culprit.
Sophia Jane paused a moment, then she asked:
“Does Mademoiselle know now?”
“No,” said Susan. “I haven’t seen her.”
“Well!” exclaimed Sophia Jane scornfully, “I should think you might write.”
“So I will,” said Susan earnestly; “and then will you forgive me?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that!” said Sophia Jane, shaking her head till the frill of her cap trembled. “You see it was so very bad of you.”
“I know,” said Susan humbly. Then venturing to glance at Sophia Jane’s face she was surprised to see a sudden little smile appear, and to hear her exclaim:
“At any rate there’sonething! They’ll never be able to say again, ‘try to be as good as Susan,’ because you’ve been much naughtier now than I’ve ever been!”
She chuckled softly to herself, and then said—suddenly and sharply:
“Why don’t you write the letter?”
It was not the least part of Susan’s punishment to be treated as a child who could not be trusted. But she bore it patiently, fetched her desk, and wrote the words sternly dictated by Sophia Jane. The latter then requested that she might read the letter, and having done so watched while Susan directed the envelope and put a stamp on it. Then she said:
“Give it me,” and immediately pushed it under her pillow.
“Sha’n’t I post it?” asked Susan humbly.
“Certainly not!” said Sophia Jane decidedly. “That would be a pretty thing indeed!”
Susan felt humbled to the dust, and yet when she left her companion’s room her heart was lighter, and she was really happier than she had been for a long time. She had done what she could to repair her fault, and all the pricks and stabs which Sophia Jane thrust into her were not nearly so hard to bear as the reproaches of her own self. True they were painful, for Susan was a proud child and liked to be well thought of; but after all she was suffering justly. Even if Monsieur and Mademoiselle should always despise her after reading that letter she should deserve it. But, oh, what a pity it was! So the thing next to be dreaded was the meeting with Mademoiselle Delphine, and to see her kindly brown face look cold and displeased. Susan could not help hoping that it would not happen just yet. She did not want to see either her or Monsieur for a long time. She wondered whether Sophia Jane had sent the letter at once, and whether Mademoiselle would write in answer or come herself. She was not, however, kept long in uncertainty about this, for two days after her interview with Sophia Jane there came a note for Aunt Hannah, which she opened at breakfast, saying:
“This is from Mademoiselle Delphine.”
Susan watched her face anxiously, and saw a puzzled expression as she read on.
“She wants to know,” said Aunt Hannah, at last looking up, “if she may come and see Sophia Jane this evening at five o’clock, and says she brings a friend. What friend can she mean?”
“Very strange, indeed!” said Margaretta. “I’ve no objection whatever to Mademoiselle’s seeing the child,” continued Aunt Hannah. “In fact, I think it would interest and amuse her to have a visitor. But the friend! I must say I consider that rather thoughtless and ill-judged. I am always glad to see Monsieur La Roche or his sister—but theirfriends! That is quite another matter.”
“Quite,” said Nanna and Margaretta both at once.
Susan was at first too occupied with the idea that Mademoiselle was coming that very evening to think about the friend at all, or to wonder whom it could be; she hastened with the news to Sophia Jane, who had now so far improved in strength that she was allowed to sit up a little while every afternoon. She was delighted at the idea of the visit, and at once made a suggestion about the friend which filled Susan with dismay, it was this:
“Perhaps, as she’s so fond of Mrs Jones, she means to bring her.”
What an idea! and yet when Susan thought it over it did not seem unlikely, for Mademoiselle always spoke with great admiration of “Madame Jones” as an acquaintance to be much valued. “A noble-hearted being,” she had called her more than once. Susan wondered what Margaretta and Nanna would think of her if she came. They always talked so much about appearance, and manner, and dress, and if they disapproved of it they said, “rather common.” They would certainly call Madame Jones “rather common,” for they would not understand about her noble heart; and indeed Susan remembered she should not have done so herself without Mademoiselle’s explanation. It was a pity that when people had noble hearts it did not make them look noble outside, and she ended by hoping very much that Madame Jones would not come.
It was between four and five o’clock in the afternoon of the expected visit, and the little girls were alone together. Aunt Hannah had promised that Mademoiselle should have a snug tea with them upstairs if she came alone, so that they were awaiting her arrival with some anxiety. Susan could not help a little secret hope now that she wouldnotbe alone, so that the dreaded meeting might be deferred. Sophia Jane had made no further reference to the collar, but Susan felt as much abashed in her presence as any prisoner before his judge, and sometimes found it difficult to talk. She gave a timid look at her; she was in a large arm-chair close to the fire, very much covered up and surrounded by pillows, in the midst of which she looked like a small white mouse in a red-flannel gown. Her features were sharpened by illness, and she still insisted on wearing Aunt Hannah’s cap; but though all this made her more like an old woman than a child, there was to-day a softened light in her blue eyes which Susan noticed at once. She had never seen it there before. She took courage.
“Do you suppose,” she said, glancing at black Dinah, “that Margaretta will let you play with Dinah when you are well?”
“I don’t want to get well,” said Sophia Jane at once.
“Don’t—want—to get—well!” repeated Susan in surprise.
“I shouldn’t mind always being ill,” said Sophia Jane. “Everyone’s kind, no one scolds you; you have nice things to eat, and lemonade. I don’t want to get well.”
“I want you to get well to play with me again,” said Susan. “And I know everybody wants you to get well.”
“Why do they?” asked the invalid.
“Oh, because—of course they do,” was the only reason Susan could give.
“Well,” said Sophia Jane thoughtfully, “of course there’s the trouble of it, and the doctor to pay.”
She wrinkled her brow as she said this, and looked sideways at Susan with her old cunning expression.
“Oh, it isn’t that,” said Susan very earnestly; “why, they’re all dreadfully sorry. That night you were worst, you know, Aunt Hannah cried, and every one, and so did Buskin.”
“I don’t think I should cry if they were ill,” said Sophia Jane after some reflection.
“Well, it shows how fond they are of you, doesn’t it?” remarked Susan.
“Perhaps,” replied Sophia Jane, and after that she was silent for a long time, and Susan stationed herself at the window to watch for Mademoiselle and her friend.
Whenever she saw two people in the distance she cried out, “Here they are!” And this happened so often, and turned out to be not the least like them, that at last it made the invalid quite peevish. So many false alarms, when she could not look out of the window herself, were most distracting.
“You’re not to say it again,” she exclaimed in a weak voice of command, “unless you see themacshallycoming in at the gate.”
Susan controlled herself with difficulty, for she was getting very much excited as the time drew near. And now, stepping quickly and neatly along with a large basket on her arm, Mademoiselle’s figure did really appear—alone. Where was the friend? Susan’s heart sank, and her hands grew quite cold. In another minute she must meet Mademoiselle, and then— “She’s coming in at the gate,” she announced to the invalid in a trembling voice; “and she hasn’t brought Mrs Jones or anyone, but only a large basket.”
“You’re sure?” said Sophia Jane in a husky agitated tone; “then look here, quick, before she comes in.”
Susan turned sharply round from the window. Sophia Jane was leaning forward over the grate, with a flush on her white cheeks and her eyes very bright, and in her hand she held, soiled and crumpled, Susan’s letter of confession. The next second it had dropped into the heart of the fire, and as the door opened to admit Mademoiselle a little flame sprang brightly up. And that was how Sophia Jane posted the letter. It was such a sudden thing, and so completely altered the state of affairs that Susan could not at first take it in, or remember that she might now answer Mademoiselle’s greetings without shame. These were most affectionate and cheerful, and she presently seated herself close to Sophia Jane’s arm-chair with her basket on her knees, and untied her bonnet-strings.
“Madame, your aunt, is so kind to ask me to take tea with you,” she said, “and I have taken the liberty to bring also a Monsieur who is anxious to make his compliments to Miss Sophia.”
“Is he down-stairs?” asked Sophia Jane.
“Mais non,” said Mademoiselle with a little burst of laughter; “he is here, in this room, and waits to make himself known.”
She opened the lid of the basket a very little way and peeped in.
“It’s Gambetta!” exclaimed Sophia Jane, in a voice hoarse with excitement; “that’s what you meant by a friend.”
There was the tiny tinkle of a bell. Mademoiselle opened the basket wide, and there indeed was Gambetta in all the dignity of the new collar.
Nothing could exceed Sophia Jane’s delight as she clasped her hands in an ecstasy and laughed aloud. “Doesn’t he look nice in it?” she said. Mademoiselle smiled and nodded in return; everyone looked pleased except Gambetta himself, who held his neck stiffly as though he said, “Pride must suffer pain.”
Susan stood a little behind the group while this was going on; now she came in front of Mademoiselle and caressed Gambetta’s soft furry neck.
“It’s Sophia Jane’s present,” she said, “not mine. She sent it to Monsieur for him.”
Mademoiselle looked puzzled.
“It was got with Susan’s half-crown,” added Sophia Jane quickly, “so it’s from both of us.”
“Ah, that is very amiable of you both,” said Mademoiselle. “Gambetta has both the two of you to thank—and Adolphe also; that is very agreeable.”
And so the event which Susan had thought of and dreaded so much passed with this slight remark. The confession had been made, and her mind was clear again, and free. Free to laugh, and talk, and look people straight in the face, and be her old happy self. But there was one thing she never forgot, and that was Sophia Jane’s generosity. By burning that letter she had gained not only Susan’s affection but her respect; she should never look down upon her again.
Meanwhile Gambetta became restive, and, in spite of all his mistress’s entreaties, broke away from her, and refused to settle down till he had made a thorough examination of the room. He jumped on to the table, smelt all the chairs, looked suspiciously behind the chest of drawers, and walked gingerly in his high furry boots amongst Sophia Jane’s medicine bottles. His every movement was watched and admired, and by the time Buskin brought in tea he had finished his inquiries and drawn near the group by the fire. Then, after one thoughtful glance round, he chose Sophia Jane’s position as being the warmest, softly leapt on to her lap, and snuggled himself among her shawls, In this situation he presently began a purring song of comfort, in which he was joined by the tea-kettle. Sophia Jane’s satisfaction was now complete. Mademoiselle Delphine’s face beamed, and Susan, pouring out tea with Aunt Hannah’s best pink set, felt almost too happy for words. Probably few rooms held four happier creatures that evening.
It was pleasant to see how Mademoiselle enjoyed herself; how she said, “Excellente!” to the tea, and water-cresses, and muffins, and how she coaxed Sophia Jane to eat, and made her laugh. She was one of those fortunate people who pick up pleasures everywhere, and find amusement in the most common things of life. After tea she told them stories. Interesting details about Paris, and Adolphe, and their journey to England with poor Gambetta in a basket, and all this made the time pass so quickly, that when the clock struck seven everyone was startled. Mademoiselle herself sprang up at once with a little shriek. She had promised to meet Adolphe at a certain point on her way home, and he would without doubt be waiting for her. Gambetta, therefore, was hustled into his basket before he had time to resist, and Mademoiselle, having embraced her little friends heartily, was soon on her way.
The two little girls were silent for a minute after she had gone. Sophia Jane, languid after such unusual excitement, stared absently at the fire, and Susan, not yet quite at her ease, did not like to speak first. But when Buskin entered it seemed to give her courage, and she said:
“Haven’t we had a nice tea-party?”
“Yes,” answered Sophia Jane; and added thoughtfully, “it’s very nice to be ill.”
“But I want you to get well,” said Susan. “You can’t think how dull it is down-stairs without you.”
Buskin would not allow any further conversation, and Susan had to say good-night and go away. As she kissed her friend’s tiny befrilled face, she felt for the first time really fond of her, and grateful also. She had made the discovery lately that you could not judge people by their outsides, or even by what others said of them. Under her cross, crabbed manner Sophia Jane had hidden a grateful heart, which had answered to the first touch of kindness; and disguised by sharp and shrewish words, she had shown a really generous and forgiving spirit. Like Madame Jones, it appeared that she had a noble heart.
The next day was one of some excitement to Susan, for it had been arranged that she was to spend it with some friends of Margaretta and Nanna who lived at Ramsgate. Their name was Winslow. It was not altogether a pleasant prospect, for she had never been there before, and she had very little hope that she should find them agreeable. Not that she knew anything against them; on the contrary, their name was never uttered without words of admiration, and if Nanna or Margaretta wished to bestow high approval on anything, they always said it was like something the Winslows had. It appeared, indeed, that these friends were much favoured by fortune. Their house was the pleasantest, their horses the best, their taste the most excellent, their children the prettiest and most clever. It was this last point which had specially interested Sophia Jane and Susan, and they had gradually come to dislike the little Winslows, though they knew nothing of them but their names and appearance. Whenever Nanna or Margaretta returned from seeing these friends they were brimful of admiration at the excellent conduct and talent of the children, and did not fail to draw unfavourable contrasts. They described their dresses, repeated their speeches, and gave many instances of their polite behaviour and obedience to rules. Little Eva, who was not so old as Susan, could already play “The Harmonious Blacksmith” without a mistake. Dear Julia, who was Sophia Jane’s exact age, danced the minuet with the utmost elegance, and always held herself upright. As for darling Lucy, she spoke French with ease, and had begged to be allowed to begin German.
Although they had never spoken to these wonderful children, the little girls had often met them out of doors walking with their governess, and had long ago made up their minds about them.
They thought them prim and dull-looking, and found something annoying in their neatly-dressed little figures, and the perfect propriety with which they stepped along, holding their small round heads rather high. They imagined, too, that they had seen them cast glances of surprise and disdain on Sophia Jane’s clothes, which were often shabby, and never becoming. They agreed, therefore, in considering them disagreeable children, and were by no means anxious for their acquaintance.
Remembering all this, Susan felt there was no chance at all that she should enjoy herself, and she did not get much comfort from Sophia Jane, when she went to say good-bye.
“I’m glad I’m not going,” she said. “I know I should hate ’em. You know we always have.”
“Perhaps they’ll be nicer in-doors,” said Susan, though she did not think it probable.
“I believe they’re all horrid, every one of ’em,” said Sophia Jane decidedly, “in-doors and out, and I’m glad I’m not going.”
“It wouldn’t be quite so bad if you were,” said Susan with a sigh, “because we could talk about it afterwards. But I must go; there’s Margaretta calling me.”
“I hope, Susan,” said Margaretta, as they walked along the parade together, “that you will remember to behave very nicely, and answer properly when Mrs Winslow speaks to you. Don’t blush and look shy. The little Winslows never look silly, and I have never seen them blush.”
“Are you fond of Mrs Winslow?” asked Susan. “She’s very kind,” answered Margaretta, “and very clever. She knows a great deal about education.”
Susan asked no more questions, and in a quarter of an hour they arrived at the house which was large and tall, with green balconies, and a great many windows. Part of it faced the sea, and part of it went round the corner into a street, and it all looked, inside and out, so bright and clean and new that it was quite dazzling. Susan thought she had never seen a house where everything shone so much, and there was so much light. Not a shadow, not a dark corner anywhere, and all the furniture was polished so highly that she saw herself and Margaretta reflected a dozen times as they moved along. When they reached the drawing-room it was still more confusing, for there were so many mirrors, and windows, and statuettes under glass cases, that the brilliancy almost brought tears to her eyes, it was such a contrast to the dimness of Aunt Hannah’s low ceilings and small rooms. Wherever she turned her head, too, another Susan stared at her, and this made her feel shy and uncomfortable.
“Isn’t it a beautiful room?” said Margaretta, seating herself on a pompous yellow sofa. “So cheerful!”
Before Susan could answer, Mrs Winslow came in. She was a fair lady with a very straight nose, and she welcomed them kindly, and asked after Sophia Jane.
“My little people,” she continued, scarcely waiting, Susan noticed, for Margaretta’s answer, “are just returning from their walk. Air and light are as necessary to the young as to flowers, are they not? How can we expect their minds to expand unless the body is healthy?”
“No, indeed,” said Margaretta.
Mrs Winslow then proposed that they should go and take off their hats, which being done she led the way down-stairs into the dining-room, where the “little people” were already assembled with their governess for their early dinner. During this Susan had plenty of time for observation, and she soon decided that she should have to tell Sophia Jane that they werenotnicer in-doors than out. They were wonderfully alike: all had little straight noses, fair complexions, and pale blue eyes, and when they spoke they said all their words very distinctly, and never cut any of them short. They were very polite to Susan.
“I encourage conversation with my children during meal-time, on principle,” said Mrs Winslow. “How can you expect them to acquire right habits of speaking if silence is imposed?”
“No, indeed,” said Margaretta again.
“The force of habit,” continued Mrs Winslow, putting down her knife and fork, and looking from Margaretta to Miss Pink, the governess, “has never, it seems to me, been sufficiently considered in education. It in a giant power. It rests with us to turn it this way or that, to give it a right or a wrong direction, to use it for good or for evil. I say to my children, for instance, ‘always think before you act, in the smallest as well as the greatest things.’ By degrees I thus form in them habits of steadiness, thoughtfulness, calmness, which will not desert them when called upon to act in moments of danger and difficulty. ‘Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it’—nay more, hecannotdepart from it.”
It was quite by chance as Mrs Winslow said these last words that her eyes rested on Susan, who had been staring at her all the while she had been speaking, and who now felt that an answer of some kind was expected. She had none to give, however, for she had not been listening at all to what had been said, her mind being filled with wonder and awe at Mrs Winslow, who talked as though she were reading aloud. She only blushed, therefore, and immediately became aware that three pairs of pale blue eyes were fastened upon her from the other side of the table. The little Winslows never blushed, Margaretta had said, and of course they thought her very silly. She longed for the meal to be over, and the visit also. Why, she wondered, were Margaretta and Nanna so fond of coming here? Margaretta did not look as if she were enjoying herself much. She was sitting in a stiff position, with her head a little on one side, watching every glance of Mrs Winslow’s, so that she might say, “yes, indeed,” or “quite so,” or “exactly,” in the right place. Her voice did not sound like the voice she had at Aunt Hannah’s, but smaller, and she said her words mincingly. Susan felt sure she was not enjoying herself. Whydidshe come?
Presently the conversation became more interesting, and Susan now listened to it with some anxiety, for Mrs Winslow was making arrangements for the afternoon, and she hoped to hear of an early return to Belmont Cottage. She did not want to see any more of the little Winslows, and quite longed to get back to Sophia Jane and tell her all about them. It was disappointing, therefore, to hear it decided that Margaretta should drive out with Mrs Winslow, who would leave her at Aunt Hannah’s, and that Susan should walk back later with Miss Pink and the little people. Margaretta was almost to be envied. Perhaps it was because she liked driving in a carriage with a pair of swift horses that she liked coming here. And yet Mrs Winslow’s presence would spoil anything, Susan thought. If she went on talking like that, and Margaretta had to sit up and listen to her and make little remarks, the drive would not be worth having; it could not be much worse to walk home with the little Winslows.
After dinner the little girls took their visitor into the schoolroom, where they were to amuse themselves until it was time to start for their walk. It was a large bright room like all the others in the house; but this cheerfulness did not seem to have affected the Winslows themselves. They were quiet children, always good and obedient, but rather dull. They did not seem to understand games, and seldom laughed. How very different they were to Sophia Jane! Certainly she was not nearly so well behaved, but then she was a far more amusing companion. The afternoon seemed endless.
“Don’t you ever play with dolls?” Susan asked at last.
“No,” answered Lucy the eldest, “we are too old. Eva has one, but we put away our dolls on my last birthday.”
“Whatdoyou play at?” inquired Susan.
“We haven’t much time to play,” replied Lucy seriously, “because we belong to so many things.”
“What things?”
“There’s the ‘Early Rising Society,’ and the ‘Half-hour Needlework for the East-End Society,’ and the ‘Reading Society,’ and the ‘Zenana Meetings;’ and we’re all ‘Young Abstainers.’”
“What’s that?” asked Susan.
“It’s the children’s temperance society. We pledge ourselves not to take alcohol, and to prevent others from taking it if we can. There’s a meeting once a month. It’s our turn next time to have it here.”
“What do you do when you meet?” inquired Susan.
“Some of us work,” said Lucy, “and someone reads aloud.”
“And then,” added little Eva, “we have tea.”
There was a faint look of satisfaction on Eva’s face as she said this.
“Eva thinks tea is the best part of all,” said Julia, the next sister, rather scornfully.
“Well,” said Susan, “I expect I should too, because I’m not fond of needlework. Unless,” she added, “the book wasveryinteresting to listen to.”
“Sometimes it is,” said Julia, “and sometimes it isn’t. Are you fond of reading?”
“Some books,” answered Susan.
“If you belonged to the Reading Society,” put in Lucy, “you’d have to read an improving book for half an hour every day, and perhaps at the end of the year you’d get a prize.”
“I suppose you mean an uninteresting book like a lesson book,” said Susan. “I shouldn’t like that.”
“Well, of course, it mustn’t be astory-book,” said Julia.
“Would thePilgrim’s Progressdo?” asked Susan.
The little girls looked doubtfully at each other. “I’m not sure,” said Lucy, “whether that thatwouldbe considered an improving book.”
Susan proceeded to make more inquiries about the various societies, but she did not think any of them sounded attractive, and certainly had no wish to join the little Winslows in belonging to them. This filled up the time until four o’clock, when, with Miss Pink, they all set out on their walk to Belmont Cottage. Susan was surprised to see that each little girl was provided with a hoop, which was the nearest approach to a toy of any kind that she had observed during her visit.
“We always take hoops out in the afternoon until the month of May,” explained Lucy. “Mother considers the exercise healthy.”
It was such a relief to Susan to feel that the visit was over, and that she was really going back, that she could not walk quite soberly with Miss Pink, but danced along the parade by little Eva’s side as she bowled her hoop, and was almost inclined to sing aloud with pleasure. There were a great many people about, and quite a crowd of carriages, and soon in the distance they saw Mrs Winslow’s black horses approaching. She had left Margaretta at Belmont Cottage, and was now returning. Just as the carriage passed, Eva, who was staring at her mother, gave her hoop a blow which sent it in the wrong direction, and it trundled out into the middle of the road, almost under the horses’ feet. Not quite, however, for Susan, who was watching it, sprang after it and caught it away just in time. Mrs Winslow nodded and smiled at the children, the carriage drove on, and Susan carried the hoop back to the path where the little Winslows were drawn up in a row with very serious faces.
“You might have been run over,” said Lucy gravely.
“I didn’t think about it,” said Susan.
“Mother says,” continued Lucy, “Alwaysthink before you act.”
“My dear,” interrupted Miss Pink hastily, “Susan has done very well. There are exceptions to every rule.”
When Susan reached home she found Sophia Jane still sitting up, and eager to hear all the news about the visit. She at once inquired if the Winslows were “horrid;” but Susan would not quite say that. “They were very kind to her and very good, but—” she added, “I haven’t enjoyed myself a bit, and I never want to go there again or see them any more.”
“I told you so,” said Sophia Jane, and she gave herself a hug of satisfaction.