Susan - Amy Walton (bearly read books .txt) 📗

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're_ all 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's _one_ thing! 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 their _friends_! 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 would _not_ be 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.