Susan, Amy Walton [most read books in the world of all time TXT] 📗

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 them _acshally_ coming 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