"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. It _was_
a 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. It _really_ is 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 fete 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 fete
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 be _quite_ so 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 I
_certainly will_ explain 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're _sure_," 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 confessed
Is 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,
I _couldn't_!" said Susan to herself. "Anything else--any other
punishment I would bear, but _not_ that." 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. _Please_ don'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, "_do_ tell 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're_ all in
His hands."