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

broken French sentences, and lifting their eyes to the sky, while tears rolled unrestrained down their faces. "If any one else saw them," said Susan to herself, "they would think they were mad," and she looked with some anxiety towards the inn door. There was no one in sight fortunately, and soon, a little subdued but still in a strange excited state, the brother and sister advanced hand in hand to the table. The odd part of it was that Mademoiselle was now actually laughing though her eyes were wet with tears.

"Forgive us, my children," she said, "it relieves the heart to weep. Trouble we have borne without complaint, but now joy comes, the tears come also. Adolphe, my brother, you are more able to speak. Tell them. I can no more."

She sunk down in a chair and covered her face with her hands.

Thus appealed to, Monsieur stood up at the end of the table facing the sea, like one prepared to make a speech, took off his sailor hat, and passed his hand thoughtfully over his closely-cropped head. Susan and Sophia Jane, still puzzled and confused, stared up at him spellbound without saying a word, deeply impressed. For suddenly there seemed to be a change in Monsieur. He looked taller, and drew a deep breath like one who is relieved from some oppression. It was as though a burden had dropped from his shoulders, and set him free to stand quite upright at last.

His grey eyes, though red with weeping, had a light in them now of hope and courage, and he fixed them on the distance as though he were talking to someone far away across the sea in his native country.

"My children," he said, "my sister has told you that we have borne our troubles without complaint, and that is true. But they have been hard troubles. Not only often to be hungry and very weary in the body--that is bad, but there is worse. It is a sore thing to be hungry in the mind and grieved in the spirit. To leave one's real work undone, so that one may earn something to eat and drink, to have no outlet for one's thoughts, to lose the conversation and sympathy of literary men. That is a bondage and a slavery, and that is what a man who is very poor must do. He must leave his best part unused, wasted, unknown. He is bound and fettered as though with iron. But that is now past. To-day we hear that we are no longer poor people. This letter tells me that I am now a rich man. Free. Free to go back to Paris to take up again my neglected work, to see my sister's adorable patience rewarded by a life of ease and leisure--to see again my friends--"

Monsieur stopped suddenly, and Mademoiselle, clasping his hand, immediately rushed in with a mixture of French and English.

"Oh, Adolphe! Adolphe! it is too much. Figure it all to yourself! The Champs Elysees, and the Bois, and the toilettes and the sunshine. To dine at Phillippe's perhaps, and go the theatre, and to hear French words, and see French faces, and taste a French cuisine again. Nothing more English at all! No more cold looks and cold skies--"

"Calm yourself, Delphine, my sister," said Monsieur, "we forget our little friends here."

"It is true," said Mademoiselle wiping her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief, and glancing at the children's upturned astonished faces, "I am too much exalted. I will restrain myself. Voyons petites amies," she continued, sitting down between them, "it is this which has so much moved us. It is that a magnificent, yes, a magnificent fortune comes to my brother by the death of his cousin. It is a little sudden at first, but," drawing herself up with dignity, "he will adorn the position, and we shall now resume the `De' in our name, for our family is an ancient one."

"Shall you go away?" asked Sophia Jane.

"Assuredly. My brother," looking with much admiration at Adolphe, "will now have large and important affairs to conduct in Paris."

"I am sorry," said Sophia Jane dejectedly.

Mademoiselle kissed her and Susan with much affection.

"If the sky is cold and grey here in England, we have also found good and warm hearts," she said, "which we shall never forget. It is Gambetta with his little tinkling bell who will remind us of some of them."

But Sophia Jane still looked grave. It was difficult to be glad that Monsieur and his sister were going away, and Susan's spirits were also more sober, though it was a relief to find that the letter had contained good news. A quietness had indeed fallen upon the whole party, for Adolphe, now that the first excitement was over, sat silently musing with his gaze fixed dreamily on the distance. Even for Mademoiselle it was almost impossible to keep on talking all alone, and her remarks gradually became fewer until the start homewards was made. Then the movement and the chill evening air seemed to restore her usual briskness, and she proceeded to describe to the children the exact situation of the "appartement" which she and Adolphe would occupy on their return to Paris, and make many brilliant plans for the future. As they entered the town, observing that her brother still remained silent and thoughtful, she touched him gently on the knee.

"A quoi pense tu, mon frere?" she asked.

"Of many things, my sister," he replied in French; "and amongst them, of how we shall best recompense the brave Madame Jones."

Buskin was waiting to take the little girls home, and looked on with severity at Monsieur's parting bows and graceful wavings of the sailor hat.

"Make my compliments to Madame, your aunt," said Delphine to Susan, "and say that I shall wait on her to-morrow."

So Sophia Jane's party to Pegwell Bay was over, and all that remained was to repeat the wonderful news of Monsieur's fortune at Belmont Cottage. It was received with enough excitement and interest to be quite satisfactory, and to be sufficient reason for sitting up much later than usual. There were many questions to answer from everyone, and Nanna and Margaretta appeared to find the smallest details welcome. "How did Monsieur look when he opened the letter? What did he say? What did Mademoiselle say? How large was the fortune? What was the cousin's name who left it to him?"

"They're an ancient family," said Sophia Jane, "and you must be sure to call them _De_ La Roche now."

"I always thought," said Margaretta, "that there was something gentlemanly about Monsieur. Odd, you know, but not common."

"Oh, certainly not common!" replied Nanna.

It seemed strange to Susan to hear that, for she remembered how they had both thought it impossible to invite anyone to meet him at Pegwell Bay.

She was still occupied with wondering about this when the evening post came in. There was a letter for Aunt Hannah, and when she had read it she looked over her glasses at Susan.

"Dear me!" she said. "This is sudden news indeed. Your mother writes from London, my dear, where she arrived yesterday."

"Am I to go home?" said Susan, getting up from her chair as though ready to start at once.

"Nurse is to fetch you the day after to-morrow," said Aunt Hannah, looking at the letter again. "Are you in such a great hurry to leave us that you cannot wait till then?"

Susan had grown fond of Aunt Hannah, and did not wish to seem ungrateful. She went and stood by her chair and said earnestly:

"I'm very sorry to go away. I am, indeed; but, of course, I want to see Mother."

As she spoke she gave a glance at Sophia Jane. "Did she mind? Was she sorry now that the time had come?"

If she were she gave no sign of it. Her face expressed neither surprise, or interest, or sorrow, but was bent closely over some shells she had brought from Pegwell Bay.

"We shall all miss our little Susan," continued Aunt Hannah, kissing her affectionately.

"That we shall," said Nanna.

"Dear, good little thing!" said Margaretta.

Surely Sophia Jane would say something too. No. She went on arranging her shells in small heaps, and took no manner of notice.

"And as for Sophia Jane," continued Aunt Hannah, "she will be completely lost without her companion."

Susan looked entreatingly at her friend, longing for a word or look of affection, but not a muscle of the small face moved; it might have been made of stone.

"Won't you be sorry to lose Susan, my dear?" asked Aunt Hannah.

"I suppose so," was all the answer, with an impatient jerk of the shoulders.

Susan was so hurt at this coldness that she went to bed in low spirits, and thought of it sorrowfully for a long while before she slept. It cast a gloom over the prospect even of going home to think that Sophia Jane did not love her.

She had evidently not forgotten Susan's behaviour in the past, and did not wish to have her for a friend. It was the more distressing because Susan had made a plan which she thought a very pleasant one, and was anxious to carry out. It was to ask her mother to allow her to have Sophia Jane on a visit in London. She would then be able to show her many things and places she had never seen, and enjoy her enjoyment and surprise. The Tower, the Zoological Gardens, Astley's, Westminster Abbey, Saint Paul's, and all the wonders and delights of town. It was a beautiful idea, but if Sophia Jane held aloof in this way it must be given up. And yet it was a most puzzling thing to account for this chilling behaviour, because lately she had been more kind and pleasant than usual, and sometimes almost affectionate. It was useless, however, as Susan now knew, to wonder about Sophia Jane's moods. They came and they went, and it was, after all, just possible that she would be quite different in the morning.

When the next day came she got up with a feeling that she had a great deal on her hands, for it was her last day at Ramsgate, and she must say good-bye to everyone and let them know she was going away. At breakfast-time something was said about going to make a farewell visit to the Winslows, but Susan thought there were more important matters to be done first.

"I'll go if I've time," she said seriously; "but you see I have a great deal to do, because this is my last day."

Her round of acquaintances was not large, but the people who formed it lived at long distances from each other, so that it took up a good deal of time to see them all. There was the periwinkle woman, who sat at the corner of Aunt Hannah's road; there was the donkey and bath-chair man, and a favourite white donkey; there was Billy Stokes, the sweetmeat man; and Miss Powter, who kept the toy-shop. There was also a certain wrinkled, old Cap'en Jemmy, who walked