Susan Part 16

It was such a steep and stony hill that Mademoiselle began to be seized with panics of terror in case the horses should slip, so that she often clung tightly to Adolphe and cried, "Ciel!" This enlivened the journey a good deal, and she joined in laughing at herself with much good-nature, though it was really with a sigh of relief that she exclaimed, "Nous voici!" when the omnibus stopped at the door of the inn. It stood about half-way down the road leading to the sh.o.r.e, high enough to have a broad view over the sea, which was now at low tide. In the distance you could see the shrimpers slowly pushing their nets before them, and nearer on the rocks below the bent forms of people gathering c.o.c.kles; the grey gulls wheeled about overhead and poised themselves on their broad wings, or rode triumphantly on the gentle rippling of the water, and far far away on the edge of everything the shadowy sails of ships glided slowly past like ghosts. To these last Monsieur turned his attention, and having unstrapped his telescope took up a commanding position on a rising mound in the garden, and proceeded to sweep the horizon. Not with much success at first, but after it had been pointed out to him that he was looking at the wrong end he got on better, and Mademoiselle and the children leaving him thus employed strolled down to the sh.o.r.e until the tea should be ready. When there it was astonishing and delightful to discover Mademoiselle's extreme ignorance of marine objects. She had lived nearly all her life in Paris, she told them, and since she had been at Ramsgate had been too busy to go further than the town. It was most interesting, therefore, to search for curiosities, explain their habits to her and tell her their names, and she never failed to express the utmost wonder and admiration as each fresh one appeared. Even when Susan suddenly placed a star-fish on her lap as she sat gazing over the sea, and requested her to feel how flabby it was, she came bravely through the trial, though she inwardly regarded it with disgust and fear. Then with garments held tightly round her, and feverishly grasping her parasol, she was persuaded to venture on a little journey over the slippery rocks.

Sophia Jane and Susan, on either hand, advised the safest places to tread on, watched each footstep carefully, and made encouraging remarks as though to a child. Finally, after many perils and narrow escapes, she was conducted with much applause safely back to the dry land, and up again to the inn garden.

Here they found Monsieur in a state of placid enjoyment expecting their return, and in a convenient arbour facing the sea the meal was ready prepared. Sophia Jane poured out the tea because it was her birthday, but not without difficulty, for the tea-pot was enormous, and her hands so small and weak, that she had to stand up and use her utmost strength.

No one offered to help, however, for they well knew that it would have been considered an insult. Unlike some entertainments much looked forward to, Sophia Jane's party was a complete success. There were no disappointments at Pegwell Bay. Everything was good, everyone was merry, the shrimps more than came up to everyone's expectation.

The meal was nearly finished, and it was drawing near the time for the omnibus to start back to Ramsgate, when Mademoiselle suddenly drew a letter from her pocket.

"Stupid animal that I am!" she exclaimed, "I have till this moment forgotten to give you this, Adolphe. It arrived after you left this morning. My head is turned, it appears, by going to fetes."

She smiled at the little girls as she handed the letter to her brother, and he put on his spectacles and opened it. Susan watched him. It was a thin foreign envelope, and the letter inside it was short, but it seemed to puzzle him a great deal. He held it out at arm's length, frowned at it, and gave it an impatient tap with one finger. Then he took off his gla.s.ses, rubbed them, put them on, and read it again, after which he rose suddenly, and leaning across the table, stretched the letter out to his sister, and said in a strange excited voice:

"Read Delphine--read, my sister."

Delphine was not long in doing so, one swift glance was enough, and next, to the children's surprise, she rushed from her place to Adolphe's side, threw her arms round his neck, kissed him a great many times, and burst into a torrent of tears. What could be the matter? What dreadful misfortune could have happened? Susan and Sophia Jane looked at each other in alarm. A moment before all had been happiness and gaiety, and now both Monsieur and his sister appeared to have lost all control over themselves, and were giving way to the most heartfelt distress. Some terrible news must have been contained in that letter. They stood at a little distance from the table, clasping each other's hands, uttering 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 pa.s.sed 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 pet.i.tes 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.

"a.s.suredly. 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 gla.s.ses 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 sh.e.l.ls 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 sh.e.l.ls 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.