"HALF-A-CROWN."
Mademoiselle now turned her attention to her guest with many
exclamations of pity and endearment. She took off Susan's wet frock,
boots, and stockings, rubbed her cold feet and hands, and placed her,
wrapped in a large shawl in the rocking-chair close to the fire. Next
she poured something out of the saucepan into a little white basin and
knelt beside her, saying coaxingly:
"Take this, cherie, it will do you good."
It was Monsieur's soup Susan knew, prepared for his supper, and the
saucepan was so small that there could not be much left; it was as bad
as taking half his biscuit, and after having been so ungrateful to him,
she felt she could not do it.
"No, thank you," she said faintly, turning her head away from Delphine's
sharp black eyes and the steaming basin.
But Mademoiselle was a person of authority, and would not have it
disputed.
"Mais oui, mais oui," she said impatiently, taking some of the broth in
the spoon. "Take it at once, mon enfant, it will do you good."
She looked so determined that Susan, much against her own will,
submissively took the spoon and drank the soup. It tasted poor and
thin, like hot water with something bitter in it; but she finished it
all, and Mademoiselle received the empty basin with a nod of
satisfaction. Then she busied herself in examining the condition of
Susan's wet clothes, and presently hung them all to dry at a careful
distance from the hearth. Susan herself, meanwhile, leaning lazily back
in the rocking-chair, began to feel warm and comfortable again; how
delicious it was after being so cold and wet and frightened! What would
she have done without Monsieur's help? His fire had warmed her, his
broth had fed her, his house had sheltered her, and now he had gone out
again into the cold night on her service. And yet, she had always been
rude and naughty to him. What would Delphine say, Susan wondered, if
she knew of it? She did not look as though she had the "temper of an
angel" like her brother. Her black eyes had quick sparkles in them,
quite unlike his, which were grey and quiet, shining always with a
gentle light. Mademoiselle Delphine looked quite capable of being
angry. Susan felt half afraid of her; and yet, it was pleasant to watch
her neat movements as she darted swiftly about the room preparing
another dish for Adolphe's supper, and Susan kept her eyes fixed on her.
At last, her arrangements over, she drew a chair near Susan, and took
up her darning; as she did so there was a sudden pattering of rain-drops
against the window-pane.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, holding up the brown sock, "that poor Adolphe! How
he will be wet!"
This made Susan feel still more guilty, but she could not think of
anything to say, and Delphine, who seemed to like talking better than
silence, soon began again.
"Always rain, always clouds and mist, and shadow. The sun does not
shine here as in our beautiful, bright Paris?"
"Doesn't it ever rain in Paris?" asked Susan.
"Mais certainement, at moments," replied Mademoiselle; "enough to give a
charming freshness to the air."
"Why did you come away?" asked Susan, gathering courage.
Delphine dropped the brown sock into her lap, and raised her eyes to the
ceiling.
"Mon enfant," she said slowly, "we are exiles! Exiles of poverty."
Susan remembered that Sophia Jane had called Monsieur "a poor eggsile;"
but this way of putting it sounded much better, and she repeated it to
herself that she might be able to tell her when she went home.
Meanwhile Mademoiselle bent her eyes on her darning again, and
proceeded:
"We were never rich, you see, in Paris, but we had enough to live in a
pretty little appartement, very different from this. My brother Adolphe
wrote articles for a paper of celebrity on political affairs; he had a
great name for them, and if the pay was small it was certain. For me, I
was occupied with the cares of the menage, and we were both content with
our lives--often even gay. But trouble came. There was a crise in
affaires. Adolphe's opinions were no longer those of the many; the
paper for which he wrote changed its views to suit the world. Adolphe
was offered a magnificent sum to change also, and write against his
conscience. He lost his post; we became poorer every day. `Unless you
write, Adolphe,' I said to him, `we starve.' He has a noble heart, my
brother, full of honesty and truth. `I will rather starve,' he replied,
`than write lies.' So after a time we resolved to try our fortune here
in this cold, grey England. And we came. Adolphe was to become a
Professor of French, but it was long before he found work, and we
suffered. Mon Dieu! how we suffered during that first month!"
She paused a moment when she reached this point, and nodded her head
several times without speaking, as though words failed her. Susan, who
had listened to it all with the most earnest attention, feared she would
not go on, and she wanted very much to know what happened next.
"Was it because you had no money?" she asked softly at length.
"My child," said Delphine, her bright eyes moist with tears, which she
winked quickly away, "it is a terrible thing to be hungry one's self,
but it is far worse to see anyone you love hungry and heart-broken, and
yet patient. That is a thing one does not forget. But at last, when we
almost despaired, the Bon Dieu sent us a friend. It is a little history
which may, perhaps, amuse you; it was like this:--
"One night Adolphe was returning to me to say, as usual, that he could
find no place; no one wanted a French master. He had scarcely eaten
that day, and for weeks we had neither of us tasted meat, for we lived
on what I could make by sewing, and it was very little. Adolphe
therefore felt low in spirits and body, for he had walked about all the
day, and his heart was heavy. As he passed a butcher's shop near here,
the wife, who stood in the doorway, greeted him. He had once bought of
her some scraps of meat, such as you English give to your cats and dogs,
but which, in hands that understand the French cuisine, can be made to
form a ragout of great delicacy.
"`Good evening,' said she; `and how did the cat like his dinner?'
"My brother removed his hat and bowed, (you may have observed his noble
air at such moments), then, drawing himself to his full height:--
"`Madame,' he replied, `_I_ am the cat!'
"This answer, joined to the graceful manner of Adolphe, struck the good
Madame Jones deeply. They at once enter into conversation, and my
brother relates to her his vain attempts to find employment. She
listens with pity; she gives encouragement. Finally, before they part
she forces upon his acceptance two pounds of fillet steak. He returns
to me with the meat enveloped in a cabbage leaf, and that night we
satisfy our hunger with appetising food, and our hearts are full of
gratitude to Heaven and this good Madame Jones. And from that time,"
finished Mademoiselle holding up one hand with the sock stretched upon
it, "things mend. Madame Jones recommends Adolphe to Madame, your aunt;
she again tells others of him, and he has now, enough to do. We are
hungry no longer. It is not very gay in the appartement; the sun does
not shine much, but we are together. Some day, who knows? we may be
able to return to our dear Paris. One must have courage." She stooped
and kissed Susan's upturned face, which was full of sympathy.
"If she knew how badly I've always behaved to Monsieur she wouldn't have
done that," thought Susan penitently.
"There now rests one great wish in Adolphe's heart," continued Delphine,
"and that is, to be able some day to reward Madame Jones for her
goodness. Strangers, and without money, she fed and cheered us, and it
is to her we owe our success. Never could either of us be so basely
ungrateful as to forget that if we are again blessed by prosperity.
Often has Adolphe, who is a fine English scholar, repeated to me the
lines of your poet, Shakespeare:--
"Freeze, freeze thou winter sky;
Thou dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot."
Susan had remained wide awake in spite of great fatigue during the whole
of Mademoiselle's story; but now, when she came to the poetry, which she
repeated with difficulty and very slowly, there seemed to be something
lulling in her voice. The room was warm too, and presently the sounds
in it got mixed up together. The crackling of the fire, the bubbling of
the saucepan, and Delphine's tones, joined in a sort of lullaby.
Susan's eyelids gently closed, and she was fast asleep. So fast that
the next thing she knew was that Buskin had somehow arrived and was
carrying her upstairs; that Monsieur was in attendance with a candle,
and that a cab was waiting at the door. But having noticed this, it was
quite easy to go to sleep again, and she scarcely awoke when they
arrived at Aunt Hannah's and she was put to bed.
So it was not till broad daylight the next morning that she began to
think over her adventures, and to remember all the wonderful things that
had happened the day before. And in particular all the details of
Delphine's story came back to her, and the earnest gratitude with which
she had talked of Mrs Jones' kindness. "`Strangers, and without money,
she fed and cheered us.' Now that is just exactly what Monsieur did for
me when I first saw him," thought Susan; "and all I've done in return is
to laugh at him and give him trouble. I haven't been grateful at all."
The more she considered her conduct the more ashamed she began to feel,
and she could not help wondering what Mademoiselle Delphine would think
of her if she knew. "At any rate," she resolved, "I won't do it any
more. I never will laugh at lesson-time, and I'll learn everything
quite perfectly and be as good as ever I can, whatever Sophia Jane likes
to say." Sophia Jane, that naughty, badly behaved child! After all, it
was her fault that Susan had done wrong, she went on to think, and it
was also her fault that she had lost herself yesterday, because she had
been so disagreeable about the Enemy and the basket. It was a comfort
to be able to shift the blame on Sophia Jane's shoulder, for Susan liked
to think well of herself, and she began to feel more cheerful and
satisfied as she dressed and went down-stairs. Here Nanna and
Margaretta were prepared with all manner of questions about Monsieur,
his house, and his sister, but Susan was quite determined to tell them
very little. She repeated gravely, "They were very kind, and I like
them very much;" and this was most unsatisfactory to her listeners, who
craved for the tiniest details of her adventure. Sophia Jane alone sat
mute, but sharply attentive to all that passed, hunching up her
shoulders and fixing her blue eyes on each speaker in turn. She was, as
usual, in disgrace Susan and, and had been forbidden to speak at meals;
but as soon as breakfast was over she made the best use of the hour
before lessons began, and examined her companion narrowly:
"Whatever makes you look so solemn?" she asked at last.
"I'm not going to laugh at Monsieur La Roche ever again," said Susan
solemnly. "I've made a good resolution."
"What for?" asked Sophia Jane.
"Because he's been very kind, and it's wrong to laugh at him," answered
Susan.
Sophia Jane made a face that Susan very much disliked, it was so full of
contempt.
"He hasn't been kind to me, and I don't care if it is wrong," she said.
"I shall do as I like."
"But I want you not to either," said Susan.
"I don't care a bit. Why should I?" asked Sophia Jane, who was
evidently in one of her most reckless moods.
Susan was silent. There was not much reason certainly that Sophia Jane
should wish to please her; then a bright idea came into her head.
"If you'll promise not to laugh at French lessons," she said, "I'll give
you a new head for your doll as soon as I've got enough money."
Sophia Jane considered this offer with her head on one side; then she
asked:
"What price?"
"Half-a-crown," answered Susan, "and that will buy the very best you can
get."
"Well," said Sophia Jane slowly, "I promise."
"But if you whisper, or make faces, or nudge me with your elbow you
won't have it," added Susan hastily.
"You didn't say all that at first," said Sophia Jane; "but I _will_
promise."
So the agreement was made, and moreover written down in Susan's best
printing hand, and signed by Sophia Jane. Even then Susan felt by no
means sure of the result, for it was so much more natural to her
companion to be naughty than good.
Thursday came, and Monsieur La Roche also at his usual hour; Susan put
on her most discreet behaviour, and kept anxious watch over Sophia Jane.
But there was no need for anxiety, her conduct was perfect, and she not
only preserved the strictest gravity, but also showed the most
marvellous quickness in learning her lessons. Though she might be a
naughty child, no one could accuse her of being a dull one; she grasped
the meaning of anything like lightning, and while Susan was steadily
bringing her mind to bear on a French verb, Sophia Jane knew it already,
and could repeat it without a mistake. She showed indeed such zeal and
attention throughout the lessons, that it had a sobering effect even
upon Nanna and Margaretta, who were so employed in wondering at her that
they did not giggle nearly so much as usual.
Monsieur himself was not less surprised at this sudden improvement in
his class, and above all in Sophia Jane, who had, without question, been
his worst and most backward pupil. When his lesson was finished he
beamed kindly at her and said, "It is _tr-res_ bien, mademoiselle. I am
much pleased with you to-day."
It was such a new thing for anyone to be much pleased with Sophia Jane
that it hardly seemed possible, and everyone stared at her. Aunt Hannah
turned round from her chair at the fireside to see who had deserved this
praise. Sophia Jane! It was an unheard-of thing. The child herself
was so unused to the sound of kindness and approval, that it startled
her as though she had received a blow. She reddened, gave all her
features a sudden twist, and blinked her eyes at Monsieur for an answer.
"Sit straight, Sophia Jane, and don't make faces," said Aunt Hannah, and
the well-known accents of blame at once restored her to her usual state.
The moment Monsieur was gone she was the old Sophia Jane again,
tiresome and disobedient as ever. And Susan, remembering the compact
about the half-crown, was not surprised at this, for, she thought to
herself, "she's not really doing it because she wants to be good, but
because she wants a new head for the doll." It was quite possible,
therefore, still to feel that she was much better than her companion,
and this was not unpleasant.
Meanwhile she was much looking forward to seeing Mademoiselle Delphine
again, for Aunt Hannah intended to pay her a visit soon to thank her for
her kindness, and she had promised to take both the little girls with
her. Grace, the doll, must also be fetched home, for Susan had been too
sleepy to remember her, and had left her behind. Monsieur's house was
found with some difficulty, but at length Sophia Jane's sharp eyes spied
a dusty card in a window with "Monsieur La Roche, Professor of French,"
written on it, and they knew that this must be the right one. Susan
wondered whether Mademoiselle would quickly open the door herself as she
had done before, but this time a very untidy maid-servant appeared with
smudges on her face. There were many other lodgers in the house beside
Monsieur and his sister, who had the cheapest rooms of all, an
underground one which Susan had thought to be the kitchen, and two tiny
attics in the roof. They found Mademoiselle waiting to receive them
with a yellow ribbon at her neck, and a manner full of gracious
affability. Gambetta sat on the hearth, and the room was perfectly neat
and clean, but by daylight; it wanted the air of snugness and comfort
which Susan remembered. There was a very tiny fire, and it all looked
bare and cold, for the window was so placed that the sunlight could not
possibly enter. Mademoiselle partly made up, however, for the
dreariness of her lodging by smiles and pleasant conversation. She was
delighted to see them all, and to renew her acquaintance with Susan,
chattering so fast that Sophia Jane had plenty of time to notice
everything, and presently fixed her eyes, full of admiration, on
Gambetta, who sat with rather a vexed look on his face by the small
fire.
Presently he rose, stretched himself, humped his back, and then jumped
up on his mistress' lap.
"Fi donc!" said she, settling her knees more comfortably for him.
"That is a fine cat," remarked Aunt Hannah; "a great pet, no doubt?"
"You say truly, Madame," replied Delphine gently rubbing Gambetta under
the chin; "but above all with my brother. I may say that Gambetta is
the pupil of his eye. How often have I made him reproaches because he
will leave the best of his potage, and pour it in the saucer for this
cat! And that in the days when there was not too much potage, look you,
for either of us. On his side the animal adores Adolphe. He knows his
step, he has his little pleasantries for him, and his caresses. When my
brother arrives at night tired, and perhaps a little dejected, it is
Gambetta who knows how to cheer him. And then, he reminds us of Paris,
he is the only thing of value we brought from there. He is an exile as
well as we, and has shared our fortunes."
"No wonder you are so fond of him," said Aunt Hannah; "but I see he has
no collar. Are you not afraid of losing such a valuable cat?"
"That is often in my mind," replied Mademoiselle. "I fear it may arrive
some day, for at times he makes long courses. The next time we have a
little money to spare we will buy him one, and cause the address to be
graved upon it."
Both Susan and Sophia Jane listened with much interest to all this, and
the latter was particularly impressed by it; she looked from Delphine's
expressive face to Gambetta's when the collar was mentioned, and seemed
about to ask a question, but checked herself suddenly. Grace being now
produced from a table drawer, it was found that Mademoiselle's clever
fingers had actually made for her a new bonnet, a most elegant one, of
drawn grey silk. While Susan was admiring it, Delphine turned to Sophia
Jane:
"And the leetle companion?" she said, "has she also a poupee?"
Sophia Jane hung her head, and looked rather ashamed. "Only one without
a head," she muttered.
"Ah! that is sad indeed," said Mademoiselle. "It is impossible to
fashion a bonnet for a lady without a head, is it not? But when you
have a new one, I will also make her a bonnet like this. I have yet
some more silk."
Susan could not help giving a glance full of meaning at her companion,
but Sophia Jane did not respond to it, except by a dark frown.
"When Mademoiselle La Roche is so kind, Sophia Jane," said Aunt Hannah,
"the least you can do is to thank her and look pleasant. You never see
Susan frown like that."
On the way home there was a great deal to be said about Mademoiselle
Delphine, and Susan was so delighted with Grace's new bonnet that she
could not repeat too often how kind it was of her to have made it.
"And aren't you glad she's going to make one for you too?" she asked.
Sophia Jane had been unusually silent and thoughtful since they had
started, and made absent replies to all Susan's remarks. She seemed to
be turning something over in her mind, and the question had to be
repeated before she took any notice. Then she only answered calmly:
"Oh, yes, of course," as if it were the very merest trifle, and she had
presents every day, which was by no means the case. Susan looked
curiously at her, there were often moments when she did not know what to
make of Sophia Jane. Then she said:
"Shall I ask Aunt Hannah to let us stop and look up at Miss Powter's
window?"
Miss Powter kept a toy-shop in the High Street, and only a few days ago
had shown in her window quite a collection of dolls' heads, both china
and wax.
"If you like," said Sophia Jane indifferently.
Susan ran up to Aunt Hannah, who was walking a little way in front, and
put her request, which being granted, the little girls were soon gazing
in at Mrs Powter's shop-front. The heads were still there, a long row
of them, some fair, some dark, some with blue eyes, some with black.
"Now, which should you choose?" asked Susan with much interest; "a wax
or a china one?"
"A wax one," said Sophia Jane; "because I could brush her hair."
"But you couldn't wash her," objected Susan; "and china wears best."
Sophia Jane did not seem disposed to linger long, though generally she
was never tired of Miss Powter's window. She did not enter into the
matter with nearly enough spirit to please Susan, who as they walked on
suggested:
"If I were you I should have that one--the last in the row, with fair
hair. She's rather like Grace, and you see, as their bonnets will be
alike, we might call them sisters."
"If I buy a head at all perhaps I may," was Sophia's puzzling remark.
"Well, but you're sure to," said Susan. "Next week I shall have the
half-crown, and we can go and choose it together. You mean to, don't
you?"
"Perhaps I do and perhaps I don't," answered Sophia Jane, and could not
be induced to say more on the subject.
Certainly she would win that half-crown easily, for her behaviour to
Monsieur La Roche was worthy of all praise. Susan even began to think
that she was overdoing it a little, for she was now beyond all the
others in the class. Earnest effort, and a naturally quick intelligence
joined to it, produced such good results that Monsieur had now a habit
of turning to Sophia Jane when he asked an unusually difficult question.
Could it be entirely for the sake of the half-crown that she made these
extraordinary exertions? Susan began to feel jealous of her companion's
progress and a little ill-used; for although she tried hard to please
Monsieur, it was quite evident that the pupil he was most proud of was
Sophia Jane. "If he knew," thought Susan to herself, "why she does it,
perhaps he wouldn't be so pleased. And I don't suppose she'll take so
much trouble when once she's got the money."
It was a very new thing for Sophia Jane to be more praised than herself;
and though Susan would not perhaps have acknowledged that she was sorry
to see her good behaviour, it yet made her feel uncomfortable when
Monsieur looked so very pleased with her. She had fully intended to be
his model pupil herself, an example to all the others, and it was
disappointing to give up that place to one whom she had considered so
far beneath her. Besides this, it was a little difficult when the time
came to part with the half-crown. It would only leave sixpence in her
purse--Maria's lucky sixpence with a hole in it--and that she did not
want to spend. It was comforting, however, to remember that her
birthday was near, when her mother would certainly send her some money
as a present. And she was really anxious for Sophia Jane to have a doll
to play with, and it would be nice to go and see Mademoiselle Delphine
again about the bonnet; and finally, a bargain was a bargain, and
decidedly the half-crown had been fairly earned. So, all these things
considered, she cheerfully counted out one shilling, two sixpences, and
six pennies, and went to look for Sophia Jane.
She was in the sitting-room alone, seated in Aunt Hannah's large
arm-chair with an open book in her lap which she was intently studying.
"Here's your money," said Susan, plunging at once into the business on
hand.
Sophia Jane neither answered or took the least notice; but as this was
often a tiresome way of hers Susan was not surprised, and only repeated
a little louder:
"Here's your money!"
Sophia Jane looked up from her book, which Susan now saw to be a French
grammar, and said, holding out her hand:
"Give it to me."
"You ought to say `Thank you,'" remarked Susan in the reproving voice
she often used to her companion.
Sophia Jane counted the coins carefully, going twice through the pennies
to be sure there were the right number. Then she said shortly:
"It's all right."
"Of course it's right!" cried Susan indignantly. But it was not of the
least use to be angry with Sophia Jane; she was now dropping the pieces
of money one by one into her pocket with a thoughtful air, and seemed
hardly to know that Susan was there. The latter waited a moment and
then said:
"Shall I ask Aunt Hannah if we may go to Miss Powter's this afternoon?"
"What for?" asked Sophia Jane.
"What for!" repeated Jane in extreme astonishment. "Why, of course, now
you've got the money, you'll go and buy the head."
Sophia Jane took up her grammar again and bent her eyes doggedly upon
it.
"I'm not going to buy a head," she answered.
This decided reply was so unexpected that for the moment Susan was
speechless; for on the whole Sophia Jane had seemed to look forward to
the purchase, and they had made many plans together about it, so that
she had come to think of it as a settled thing. It made her feel
injured and disappointed to be thrust out of the matter in this sudden
way, for if the head was not to be bought how would Sophia Jane spend
the money? She evidently had some secret plan of her own in which Susan
was not to share. With a rising colour in her face she said at last:
"I don't think that's fair."
"It's my money, and I shall do as I like with it," was Sophia Jane's
only reply.
"But I shouldn't have given it you," said Susan hotly, "unless you were
going to buy a head."
Sophia Jane chuckled. "Well, I've got it now," she said, "and I shall
keep it."
"What a naughty, selfish, disagreeable little girl she was!" thought
Susan as she stood looking angrily at her.
"What are you going to do with it?" she asked.
"That's a secret," said Sophia Jane, chinking the money gently in her
pocket.
"I believe," said Susan, now irritated beyond endurance, "that you mean
to spend it all on Billy Stokes' day."
Billy Stokes was a man who came round once a week selling sweetmeats,
and it was Sophia Jane's custom to spend her pennies in this way when
she had any.
"If you do," continued Susan, getting more cross every moment, "you'll
be dreadfully greedy, and most likely you'll make yourself ill."
Sophia Jane only smiled gently and settled herself more comfortably in
her chair.
"And I suppose you remember," said Susan, whose voice became louder and
more defiant with each sentence, "that if you don't get the head you
can't have the bonnet."
The last word was almost shrieked, for she had now quite lost her
temper, and at this moment Margaretta looked into the room. Now it was
always taken for granted by the household that in any dispute Sophia
Jane must be in the wrong; so now Margaretta came at once to this
conclusion, in spite of Susan's hot and angry looks.
"How can you be so naughty, Sophia Jane," she said, "as to quarrel with
a sweet-tempered child like Susan? You must have been very unkind and
tiresome to vex her so much."
Neither of the little girls spoke, for Susan was still feeling too
angry, and Sophia Jane took a scolding as a matter of course.
"If you don't say you're sorry," pursued Margaretta, "I sha'n't take you
out with me this afternoon. I don't wish to have a sulky little girl
with me. Susan shall go alone."
There was no word from Sophia Jane, or even any sign of having heard
this speech. At another time Susan would have said something in her
defence, for she knew this blame to be entirely unjust. But just now
she was so vexed with her that she kept silence, and allowed Margaretta
to go on without interruption.
"Very well," said the latter, "then you stay at home by yourself. Aunt
and Nanna are going to see Mrs Bevis, and Susan and I shall have a walk
together. Very likely we should call in at Buzzard's as we come back
and have some tarts."
Susan glanced at her companion's face to see how she took this last
remark. Buzzard's open tarts were things that Sophia Jane specially
liked. Was she vexed? No. One corner of her mouth was tucked in, in a
way which looked far more like secret satisfaction. It was very
annoying, but after all she could not prefer to be left alone in the
dull house that bright day, so most likely she was concealing her
disappointment.
Susan herself did not enjoy that walk so much as usual, though the band
was playing gay tunes, and the sun shone, and the sea twinkled merrily.
For one thing she felt that she had been unjust to Sophia Jane, and
allowed her to be punished for no fault; for, after all, it _was_ her
money, and she had a right to do as she liked with it. Only why should
she be so perverse and stupid as to have a will of her own, and not to
carry out Susan's wishes? What could she possibly be going to do with
that half-crown? What could it be that she wanted so much that she was
ready to give up all the nice games and plans they had thought of
together? As she walked soberly along by Margaretta's side Susan came
to the conclusion that it would be best to make no more inquiries about
it; she had noticed that Sophia Jane would seldom yield to persuasion
and never to force, but sometimes if you left her quite alone she would
do what you wished of her own accord. This once settled in her mind she
felt more cheerful, but the walk was dull with no one but Margaretta to
talk to, the open tarts at Buzzard's had lost their flavour, and she was
not at all sorry to get home.
To do Sophia Jane justice she was quite ready to meet Susan's advances
in a friendly spirit, and did not seem disposed to bear malice. The
little girls played together as usual, and Susan, true to her
resolution, made not the smallest reference to the half-crown, but this
silence made her think of it all the more. It was, indeed, seldom out
of her mind, and every day her curiosity grew more intense; morning,
noon, and night she wondered about that half-crown, and at last her head
was so full of it that she mixed it up with everything she did in
lessons or play-time. And at last, one day when she and Sophia Jane
were reading aloud to Aunt Hannah, a new idea, and she thought a very
good one, was suggested to her.
In the lesson there happened to be an account of a miser, who lived in a
wretched hovel, went without sufficient clothing, and almost starved
himself for the sake of hoarding money; everyone thought him poor, but
after his death it was found that he had lots of gold and silver coins
hidden away in the mattress of his bed.
"What makes people misers?" asked Susan, when she came to the end of
this history.
"Love of money, my dear," answered Aunt Hannah.
"Is every one who saves up money a miser?" continued Susan.
"No. Because they may be saving it for a wise and good purpose; but if
they hide it up as this man did, and only keep it for the pleasure of
looking at it, then they certainly would be called misers."
"Are there any now?" asked Susan, fixing her eyes on Sophia Jane.
"Oh, yes, I daresay there are, plenty," answered Aunt Hannah, who was
getting tired of the subject. "Now, get your geography books."
But during the rest of the lesson Susan's mind was very far away, and
she made all kinds of stupid mistakes, for what she was thinking of had
nothing to do with the map of England. It was something much more
interesting and important; for quite suddenly, while reading about the
misers, an idea relating to Sophia Jane and the half-crown had darted
into her head. She had hidden it away somewhere, and did not mean to
spend it at all. The manner in which she had chinked those coins in her
pocket and counted them over, and her secret and crafty behaviour since,
all pointed to this. The next question was, "_Where_ had she hidden
it?" What mysterious hole had she found unknown to anyone? Susan ran
over all the possible places in her mind, and was earnestly occupied in
this when Aunt Hannah suddenly asked her a question:
"Where is the town of Croydon?"
"In the attic," answered Susan hurriedly, and then flushed up and gave a
guilty look at Sophia Jane, who merely stared in amazement.
"My dear Susan," said Aunt Hannah, "you are strangely inattentive this
morning. I can't let you play in the attic if you think of your games
during lesson-time."
As the days passed, Susan, watching her companion narrowly, felt more
and more certain that her suspicions were correct. True, she never saw
her retire to the attic alone to count over and rejoice in her secret
hoard, which real misers were always known to do; but there was this to
be remarked: _she bought nothing of Billy Stokes_. When Susan saw her
look wistfully at the cocoa-nut rock, and twisted sticks of sugar-candy,
and remembered all those pennies, she asked:
"Which are you going to buy?"
"None of 'em," said Sophia Jane, turning away. And now Susan doubted no
longer. Sophia Jane was a miser!
Sunday came soon after this. It was a day the children never liked
much, because, for several reasons, it was dull. Aunt Hannah did not
allow them either to play at their usual games or to read their usual
books. Grace was put away, the attic was forbidden, and they had to be
very quiet; the only books considered "fit for Sunday," were _Line upon
Line_, _The Peep of Day_, _The Dairyman's Daughter_ and _The Pilgrim's
Progress_. Bits of this last were always interesting, and the more so
because it was a large old copy with big print and plenty of pictures
throughout. That of Saul raising Samuel had a never-ceasing attraction
for Susan, and Sophia Jane was fond of the part about Giant Despair and
his grievous crab-tree cudgel. In the morning they all went with Aunt
Hannah to chapel, which was only five minutes' walk from the house; the
prayers were long, and they could seldom understand the sermon, though
they had to listen to it because Aunt Hannah asked them questions about
it afterwards.
Mr Bevis, the minister, who was a great friend of hers, often came to
Belmont Cottage, and stayed to have tea. On these occasions it was
difficult to Susan to think that he really was the same man who wore a
long black gown on Sundays, and white bands under his chin, and often
hit the red cushion so hard that she had seen dust rise from it. His
voice was quite different, all mystery had left him, and he became just
a common grey-haired gentleman, eating muffins and asking for more sugar
in his tea. She was afraid sometimes that he would ask her some
questions about his sermons, or perhaps where some text came from out of
the Bible, but he never did so, and indeed took very little notice of
the children. On this Sunday they were surprised to find, when the time
came up for the sermon, that it was not Mr Bevis that was going to
preach. A much younger man mounted the steep stairs into the pulpit,
and gave out a text about the widow's mite, and Susan began to listen
attentively to the sermon which followed, for, strangely enough, it was
all about "giving." How exactly suited to Sophia Jane!
"To give," said the minister at the close of the sermon, "though it
leaves a man poor, yet makes him rich; but to keep and hoard up
treasure, though he be called wealthy, yet makes him exceeding poor.
But the thing given need not be money; it may only be a kind effort, a
forgiving word, a little trouble for some one, but if love go with it,
then it becomes great and worthy at once, for it is part of the giver's
very self. It is not what a man gives, but how he gives it, that
matters. Gold and silver coming from a full purse and a cold heart, is
a barren gift compared to the widow's mite, which was `all she had.'
"`Not what we give, but what we share,
For the gift without the giver is bare.'"
On the way home Aunt Hannah talked about the sermon a good deal with
Nanna and Margaretta, for it was rather an event to hear a stranger at
the chapel. She said that the preacher was "original," but that she did
not consider it a "Gospel" sermon, and preferred Mr Bevis; she doubted
also whether the lines quoted at the end were from a sacred writer. Now
these lines were just what Susan remembered best; they came into her
head again and again that afternoon while she was learning a hymn by
heart, and it was difficult not to mix the two up together. She was
also occupied with wondering whether Sophia Jane had attended to the
sermon, and would alter her mind about the half-crown. That was as
mysterious as ever, and Sophia Jane's pointed little face told nothing,
though Susan fancied that there was a softer look upon it now and then,
and an expression as of secret satisfaction.