Part 11 (1/2)

”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 pa.s.sed, 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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.”

CHAPTER SIX.

SOPHIA JANE POSTS A LETTER, AND SUSAN PAYS A VISIT.

Susan remained awake a long, long time that night listening with strained ears to the subdued noises in the house. She heard Dr Martin come and go away again, his boots creaking softly on each stair; she heard Aunt Hannah's voice, mysterious and low, wis.h.i.+ng him good-night, and after that the shutting of the door. Then a great stillness seemed to fall over everything, and she went to sleep at last.

When she next opened her eyes the darkness was over--here was bright daylight again, and Buskin drawing up her blind. The first words she heard were like part of a dream:

”She's had a beautiful sleep, and the fever's taken a turn.”

Susan rubbed her eyes to be quite sure she was awake, and that the good news was true.

”The doctor's been already this morning,” continued Buskin, coming up to the bedside, ”and he says she'll do now with care.”

Susan had a hundred questions to ask, and her joy and relief were so great that she wanted to pour it all out at once. But this morning Buskin was ”herself again,” her soft expression was gone; she was cold and stiff as usual, and would scarcely say more than ”yes” and ”no” to these eager inquiries. ”I shall hear all about it,” said Susan to herself, ”at breakfast-time;” and she dressed as quickly as she could and went down-stairs.

She was right, for no one mentioned any other subject throughout the meal. Sophia Jane had been neither liked or valued while she was strong and well, but her illness seemed to have drawn all hearts towards her.

And yet she was the same Sophia Jane!

”I never could have believed,” said Aunt Hannah with tears in her eyes, as she put down her tea-cup, ”that I should have grown so fond of that child!”