Susan by Amy Walton (websites to read books for free .txt) 📕

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.

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