Susan Part 17

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 up and down the parade with a telescope under his arm and said, "A boat yer honour!" to pa.s.sers-by.

The children had made these acquaintances in their daily walks, and were on friendly terms with them all; so that Susan was not satisfied till she had found each of them and gone through the same form of farewell.

"Good morning!" she said. "I've come to say good-bye, because I'm going home to-morrow."

None of them seemed so much surprised and interested to hear this as she had hoped. They took it with a calm cheerfulness, which was rather disappointing, for it seemed that her departure would not make much difference to anyone in Ramsgate. It was a little depressing. There were now only two more good-byes to be said, and they were to Monsieur and Mademoiselle De La Roche, who arrived in the afternoon and stayed some time receiving congratulations, and talking over the wonderful change in their fortunes with Aunt Hannah. Compared to this, Susan's going away seemed a very insignificant thing, and though they were both kind, and Mademoiselle invited her to stay some day with her in Paris, she did not feel that it made much impression on them; they soon began to talk again of their own affairs. Susan felt disappointed. She would have liked someone to be very sorry indeed that she was going away from Ramsgate, and, after the visitors had left, she looked round for Sophia Jane, with a lingering hope that she might be in a softer frame of mind.

She was not in the room, and Susan hesitated. Should she go and find her, and risk the rebuff which was nearly sure to come, or should she leave her alone? This would be the only chance. To-morrow, in the bustle and hurry of preparation, they would not be a moment alone. She stood considering, and then the desire for sympathy was too strong to be restrained, and she took her way slowly towards the attic. She felt no doubt that Sophia Jane was there, but on the threshold of the half-open door she stopped a minute to get courage, for she was very uncertain as to how she might be received. Perhaps her companion might be angry at being followed. Presently as she stood there she heard a little gasping noise. She listened attentively; it was like someone crying, and struggling to keep it from being heard. Could it be Sophia Jane, and was she really sorry? Much encouraged by the idea Susan hesitated no longer, but marched boldly in. There was Sophia Jane lying flat on the big black box, face downwards, her little frame shaken with stormy sobs, which she tried in vain to control. As Susan entered she raised her head for an instant, and then turned from her to the wall.

Susan perched herself on the end of the box and sat silent for a moment before she said gently:

"What's the matter?"

"Go away!" sobbed Sophia Jane. "I'm very poorly. My head aches."

"Let me put wet rags on it," said Susan eagerly. "I've done it often for Freddie. I'll fetch Aunt Hannah's eau de Cologne. It'll soon make it better."

Sophia Jane turned her head round from the wall and fixed two inflamed blue eyes upon her companion.

"I'm not crying," she said, "but I'm very poorly. The sun made my eyes water when we were out this afternoon, and my head aches."

"I'll soon do it good," said Susan.

She jumped off the box and ran down-stairs, quickly returning with some eau de Cologne mixed with water in a tumbler, and a clean pocket-handkerchief.

Sophia Jane was quieter now, and lay watching her preparations with some satisfaction, though her chest heaved now and then, and she blinked her red eyelids as though the light hurt them. When the cool bandage was put on her forehead she gave a sigh of comfort, and rested her head on Susan's lap as she sat behind her on the edge of the box.

"I'll tell you something," she said presently.

"I _was_ crying. I'm dreadfully, dreadfully sorry you're going away."

"I'm glad you're sorry," said Susan, "because I was afraid you didn't mind."

"Everyone's going away but me," went on Sophia Jane. "Monsieur and Mademoiselle and Gambetta and you. Everyone I like. There's no one left. I don't think I can bear it. What shall I do?"

A tear rolled from under the bandage.

"There'll be Aunt Hannah," said Susan.

"I only like her pretty well," said Sophia Jane. "I could easily do without her. I used not to like anyone at all; but now I do, they're all going away."

"Well," said Susan, casting about in her mind for some crumb of comfort, "I shall write to you when I get home, and tell you everything once every week, and you must write to me."

"You'll forget," said Sophia Jane in a miserable voice.

"I _never_ forget," answered Susan firmly. "And then there's another thing--I mean to ask Mother to ask you to come and stay with me.

Wouldn't that be fun? Just think of all the things we could do!"

"Do you think she would?" asked Sophia Jane.

She started up so suddenly to look at Susan that the bandage fell over one eye. A little quivering smile appeared round her mouth.

"I _think_ so," said Susan with caution, "if I wanted it very much."

"And _do_ you?"

"I'm _sure_ I do," replied Susan earnestly, and she ventured to kiss the cheek nearest her, wet with tears and eau de Cologne.

It had been Sophia Jane's custom on such occasions, either to rub off the kiss impatiently or to make a face expressing disgust. This time she did neither; she laid her head down again in Susan's lap and said quietly:

"I like you very much."

The words of affection she had wished for had come at last, and few though they were, Susan liked them better than any she had heard since she had been in Ramsgate. And, indeed, they were worth more than many caressing speeches from some people, for Sophia Jane never said more than she meant. Susan felt quite proud and satisfied, now that she knew Sophia Jane really liked her.

And so, on the morrow, when the time really came to say good-bye to Belmont Cottage and everyone in it, it was a comfort to think that perhaps she should soon see her companion again. It was, indeed, the only thing that kept up her spirits at all as she drove away with Nurse, and left the little group gathered round the gate. Aunt Hannah, Nanna, and Margaretta, even the stiff Buskin, had all come out to see the "last of Susan" and wave their farewells, but the person she was most sorry to leave was the once despised Sophia Jane.

Thus they parted; Susan to go back to the busy murmur of the London streets, Sophia Jane to remain within sound of the great sea. Would they meet again? Perhaps, at some future time, they would, but whether they did or not, they had taught each other certain lessons at Ramsgate which it is possible for us all to learn. Only we must open our eyes and take the trouble to study them, for though they lie close round about us we cannot always see them, because we are blinded by pride and vanity, and despise or lightly esteem the very people who could teach them. Then we miss them altogether; and that is a great pity, for they are the best things we can learn in life--Lessons of Self-sacrifice, Humility, and Love.

THE END.