Chapter Three.
Monsieur La Roche.
And this feeling grew stronger as the days went on, for Susan found that Sophia Jane was always in disgrace about something; she was so constantly having bad marks and losing farthings, that there seemed no chance at all that she would ever save enough money to buy a new head for the doll. This was partly her own fault, and partly because the whole household seemed to take for granted that she would behave badly and never do right; indeed there were days when, after she had been scolded and punished very often, a spirit of obstinacy entered her small frame, and her whole being was bent upon ill-behaviour and mischief.
Susan looked on in dismay, and counted up the farthings as one after the other they were recklessly forfeited by some fresh piece of naughtiness.
“You’ve lost two week’s money,” she whispered in Sophia Jane’s ear, hoping to check her; but its only result was to urge her to wilder acts, and the next minute she was detected in making a grimace at Margaretta, whom she specially disliked. Sophia Jane was certainly not a pleasant child, and it was not surprising that no one loved her.
“Look at Susan,” they said to her constantly, “how well Susan behaves! how upright Susan sits! how perfectly Susan says her lessons! how good Susan is!”—but Sophia Jane took no heed, it did not improve her a bit, but if possible made her worse to have this shining example held up for her to copy. As to Susan, she now heard her own praises so often that she began to think not only that Sophia Jane was very bad, but that she herself must be uncommonly good. At home it had always been taken as a matter of course that she would be quiet, obedient, and useful, and learn her lessons properly; it had never been considered anything remarkable. Here, however, she was continually called “clever,” and “good,” and “dear little thing,” when she did the most common things, so that she soon began to hold her head higher and to look down upon Sophia Jane with a very condescending air.
Meanwhile there was one thing she dreaded, and that was Monsieur La Roche’s French lesson in which she was to join; she had now been a week at Ramsgate, and the day was approaching. Whenever he was mentioned Margaretta had always some giggling joke to make, and Sophia Jane echoed them. They imitated the way in which he spoke English, and the way in which he bowed when he came into the room, and the way in which he smiled and rubbed his hands; everything he did appeared to be laughable, and though Susan had not found it so on the steamboat, she now began to think that they must be right. Even Maria, she remembered, had called him “a figure of fun.” How she hoped that he would not say anything about that journey! Her cheeks grew quite hot when she thought of how she had told him her name, and where she lived, and all sorts of confidential things. They would all laugh at her—it would be dreadful. Now, to laugh at Monsieur might be pleasant, but to be laughed at herself was, Susan felt, a very different matter.
So when the day came, and they were all sitting round the table with their books ready for the class, she bent her head down as the French master entered the room, in the faint hope that he would not notice her. But that was of no use. Monsieur had hardly made his bow and taken his seat before Aunt Hannah looked round from her arm-chair at the fireside.
“You have a new pupil to-day, Monsieur. My little niece, Miss Susan Ingram.”
His attention thus directed, Monsieur leaned forward, and a kindly smile of recognition brightened his face as he saw Susan.
“Ah! c’est vrai,” he said; “it is my leetle friend, Mees Susanne. We know ourselves already; is it not so?”
The dreaded moment had come, and it was even more uncomfortable than she had expected. Everyone was looking at her, and waiting for her to answer, and she saw a mischievous glitter in Sophia Jane’s eyes which were fixed on her like two blue beads.
Aunt Hannah said, “Indeed, how is that?” and Monsieur still leant towards her, stroking his short beard and wrinkling up his face with a pleased smile. But Susan said nothing. She hung down her head, her cheeks crimsoned, and she looked as guilty and ashamed as though she had done something wrong; a very different little girl to the one who had chatted with Monsieur on board the steamboat and shared his biscuit. She was shy, he thought, as the English miss very often was; and, though he did not understand the complaint, he was far too good-natured to lengthen her discomfort. “Nevare mind,” he said kindly, “we shall talk together later.” Turning to Aunt Hannah he explained as well as he could in English how he and Susan had met on the journey, his pupils listening open-mouthed meanwhile and giggling at his broken attempts to make his meaning clear. Then to Susan’s relief the lesson began, and she was no longer the object of everyone’s attention; but she was surprised to find how very little trouble they took to learn anything. Instead of this they seemed to try which could remember least and pronounce the words worst. When Nanna and Margaretta read aloud they made the same mistakes a dozen times in one page, pitched their voices in a high sing-song drawl, and stopped now and then to laugh in a smothered manner at some hidden joke. A little worried frown gathered on their patient master’s brow as this went on, but he never lost his temper or failed to make his corrections with courtesy. Susan at first, from force of habit, bent her attention on the page of French dialogue which she and Sophia Jane had to learn; but too soon the bad example round her had its effect. She began to return Sophia Jane’s nudges, to listen to her whispers, to look out of the window opposite, and to make no sort of effort to learn her lesson. True, when the time came to say it, she was a little ashamed of not knowing a word correctly, and was sorry when Monsieur returned the book with a sad shake of the head. But this feeling did not last; none of the others cared to please him, so why should she? He was only Monsieur La Roche, the French master, the “poor eggsile,” as Sophia Jane had called him. It did not matter. Encouraged by her companions Susan soon became as rude, as careless, and as troublesome as they were. If Monsieur had had any hope that she would prove a better pupil than the rest he was sadly mistaken. “Soyez sage, Mademoiselle,” he said to her pleadingly, but it was of no use. Susan had forgotten for the time how to behave wisely. And it was the same on every occasion: the French lesson was always a scene of impertinence and ill-behaviour. There were moments when Susan, seeing Monsieur look unusually tired and worn, had twinges of conscience and almost resolved to be good. But she had been naughty so long now that it was too late to turn back; they would laugh at her, and it would be quite impossible to be good all alone. Sophia Jane had only to rub her hands like Monsieur, and say in broken English: “Ah! it is my leetle friend, Miss Susanne,” to make Susan ashamed and give up all idea of changing her conduct.
Now a complaint to Aunt Hannah would have altered all this at once; but, unfortunately, Monsieur was far too good-natured to make one. Indeed, as she always sat in the room during the French class, he may have thought that she saw nothing wrong, and that these manners were usual in England. The fact was, however, that Aunt Hannah knew very little French, and concluded that as the girls were never troublesome at their lessons with her it was the same thing with Monsieur. If she chanced to hear the sound of a titter, it was at once checked when she glanced round at the offender, and she would have been surprised, indeed, if she had known of the sufferings the French master endured.
When she inquired about the progress made, his reply was always the same: “Assez bien,” which she considered quite satisfactory.
Time went on. Monsieur had given four lessons, Susan had written four letters to Mother and had been four times to chapel with Aunt Hannah. She had, therefore, now been four whole weeks at Ramsgate, and the days seemed to go by quickly, instead of creeping along as they did at first. And this was in a great measure owing to the companionship of Sophia Jane, for, though Aunt Hannah was kind and Nanna and Margaretta caressing, Susan’s life would have been dull without someone to invent games with her and play in the attic; and, although she thought herself far superior to Sophia Jane, she knew this very well. When she wrote to her mother she was able to say that she liked being at the sea-side very much, but she always added: “We have not been on the sands yet.” Now this was a thing she longed to do, for Sophia Jane had told her of so many delightful things to do and find there, that it seemed the most desirable place on earth; besides, she wanted very much to begin a collection of shells and sea-weed for Freddie. There was a card hanging in her bed-room, on which pink and green sea-weeds were arranged in a sort of bouquet, with some verses written underneath, each ending with the line: “Call us not weeds, we are flowers of the sea.” Susan thought that very beautiful, and determined to try and make one just like it for Mother. But the right day never seemed to come for the sands; it was always too cold, or too windy, or Nanna and Margaretta wanted to go somewhere else. Almost in despair, Susan made her usual request to Aunt Hannah one morning: “May we go on the sands?” It was a Saturday, a whole holiday, and the day was sunny and mild.
“On the sands, my dear?” said her Aunt. “I am too busy to go, but I daresay the girls will take you.”
But as usual, Nanna and Margaretta had widely different plans for spending their Saturday, and neither of them wished to go on the sands. Nanna had a hat to trim, and Margaretta was to visit some friends. Aunt Hannah saw Susan’s disappointment.
“Well,” she said, “we will manage it in this way. I will spare Buskin to go with you and Sophia Jane as far as the little cove near the pier; there she shall leave you to play for an hour and then fetch you again. You must both promise me, however, not to stray further away, not to get wet, not to lose sight of the pier, and to come back with Buskin directly you see her. Can I trust you?”
They both promised eagerly, much excited at the thought of such an expedition, and above all at the idea of being left alone for a whole hour. During the morning they watched the weather anxiously and made many plans.
“I shall take Grace,” said Susan, “and my little basket. What shall you take?”
Poor Sophia Jane had not many possessions to choose from.
“I shall take my skipping-rope,” she said.
Thus provided, they set forth at three o’clock with the grave Buskin in attendance. Susan jumped, and laughed, and chattered with pleasure, she was so glad to think that she was going on the sands at last, and Sophia Jane, though she never showed high spirits in the same manner, was in a cheerful and agreeable mood.
Soon they came to the little cove. The sea was as she had expressed it, very far out indeed, and had left the great black rocks wet and shining, all ready to be played on. Between them there were deep quiet pools, so clear that you could see down to the very bottom, and watch all sorts of cunning live things, which darted, or or lay motionless in them; shrimps, tiny pale crabs, pink star-fishes, and strange horny shells clinging so tightly to the rock that no small fingers could stir them. Some of the rocks were bare, and others covered with masses of dark sea-weed which made a popping noise when it was trodden on, like the sound of little pistols. Here and there were spaces of sand, so white and firm that it made you long to draw pictures on it, or at least to write your name there. Could there, altogether, be a better playground than this on a sunny day? Sophia Jane had been quite right; it was a lovely place!
It offered so many attractions, and was so new to Susan, that she did not know where to begin first, but stood still uttering exclamations of delight and wonder. Sophia Jane, however, had made the best of her time already. As soon as Buskin disappeared, she at once removed her shoes and stockings, and now stood bare-legged in the middle of a deepish pool poking out crabs from under a ledge of rock.
“You’d better begin to collect things,” she called out to Susan, “or you’ll waste all your time.”
Susan felt that this was true, but the difficulty now was what to put into the basket, and what to leave out; there were so many lovely things she wanted to keep, and yet it would not hold them all She wandered from rock to rock finding something fresh and curious every minute, and calling out to Sophia Jane to ask what it was. Sometimes she knew, sometimes she did not, but she always gave some sort of name to it which satisfied her companion. So the time went by, and Susan’s little basket had been full and empty over and over again, but she had at last firmly determined to keep the treasures that were now in it, and not to be tempted to change them for anything new; she sat down on a comfortable flat rock, and spread them all out beside her to examine them. At a short distance was the witch-like form of Sophia Jane, bent nearly double in her efforts to peer into the dwelling-place of some sea-creature amongst the rocky crevices; she was very successful in these sharp-eyed inquiries, a match even for the little scurrying crabs, whose only chance of escape was to bury themselves hurriedly deep in the wet sand. All at once she gave a short shriek of surprise and rapture which was evidently wrung from her by some startling discovery. Susan hastened to join her, tumbling over the slippery rocks, and leaving all her possessions behind. It was indeed a very strange and a very beautiful thing that Sophia had found sticking on to the ledge of a rock. Something like a jelly, something like a flower, with crimson petals which stirred faintly about as if moved by the wind.
“Oh, what is it?” said Susan in great excitement, “is it a sea-weed?”
“Of course not,” answered Sophia Jane. “I’ve found ’em before, often. It’s a ‘Seen Enemy.’”
“I’ve heard of a flower with a name something like that,” said Susan.
“That’s a ‘Wooden Enemy,’” replied Sophia Jane with scorn; “this isn’t a plant, it’s an animal.”
“Is it alive, then?” asked Susan.
“I should just think it is! It can eat like anything.”
“What does it eat?”
“Little tiny crabs and shrimps. Now, I’m going to drop a pebble into it, and you’ll see it will think it’s something to eat, and shut its mouth. Look!”
Susan thought it rather cruel to deceive the Enemy in this manner, but she could not help watching curiously to see what it would do, as Sophia Jane popped a little stone into the midst of its soft waving petals. It happened just as she had said. The Enemy tucked them all in, and suddenly became nothing but a mould of smooth red jelly.
The two little girls bent over this new discovery for some time with the keenest interest, but by and by there arose a dispute, for one wished to tear it from its resting-place and carry it home, and the other to leave it where it was. Sophia Jane declared that it was her Enemy because she had found it, and she should do as she liked, and Susan begged her with tears not to disturb it. When these were of no use she became angry, and called Sophia cruel and naughty; but for that Sophia Jane did not care one whit. She only repeated doggedly, “I shall take it home, and keep it in a basin of salt water.”
“Then it will die,” said Susan hotly, “and you’re very cruel and wicked.”
Sophia Jane did not answer. She was gazing fixedly over Susan’s shoulder at the spot where the basket and collection had been left.
“Ha! ha!” she suddenly exclaimed triumphantly, pointing to it.
Susan looked quickly round. Alas! while her back was turned the deceitful sea had crawled quietly up and taken possession of her treasures. The flat rock was covered by the waves, and the basket was bobbing lightly up and down on the water.
With a cry of vexation she scrambled over the rocks towards it; at least she would try and save the basket, though the other things were lost; it was one Mother had given her, and she was very fond of it. But no, she could not reach it. Sometimes the waves brought it back almost to her feet, but before she could seize it, it sailed merrily away further than ever. After many vain efforts she stood looking hopelessly at it much cast down and disappointed. Not only had she lost her collection, the labours of nearly an hour, but now even if she made another she had nothing to carry it home in. Sophia Jane, who had watched her failures with chuckles of delight, now came and stood by her with her skipping-rope in her hand.
“I can get it,” she said.
Susan looked round in surprise; this was kind of Sophia Jane after she had said so many cross things to her.
“If I get it,” she went on, tying a sort of noose at the end of the rope, “will you give it me for my own?”
Susan hesitated. She did not want to lose the basket, and yet it would be almost the same thing to give it to Sophia Jane. Meanwhile it came again nearly within reach of her outstretched fingers, just escaped them, and was borne away by the waves. Sophia Jane stood waiting her answer.
“You may have it,” said Susan, for she could not bear to see the basket lost for ever.
Then Sophia Jane watched her opportunity, cast the rope over it just at the right instant, caught it in the noose, and drew it safely on to the rock.
“Now it’s mine!” she cried exultingly, holding up her dripping prize, “and I shall take the enemy home in it.”
What an unpleasant little girl Sophia Jane was! Susan felt at that moment that she almost hated her; she was selfish, and mean, and cruel and unkind, and deserved all the scoldings she had from everyone. She could not bear to be near her just now; she would go as far from her as she possibly could. Leaving her, therefore, crouched on the rock near her prey, Susan turned her back upon her and started off by herself in another direction, and in doing this she also turned her back upon the pier. She was so injured in her mind, however, and so occupied with hard thoughts about Sophia Jane, that she could not notice this or anything else for some time. On she went, jumping from rock to rock with Grace tucked under one arm, pausing now and then to look at some strange and beautiful thing which lay in her path; how she wished for her basket, that she might pick some of them up! But at least she could take a few in her pocket, though it was inconveniently small. Soon it was heavy with damp stones, sea-weed, and shells, then she lifted the skirt of her frock in front and filled that, and all this while she was going further from Sophia Jane, further from the pier, further from the little cove, where they had promised to wait for Buskin. She never once looked back, however, for there were always lovely things still further in the distance that she must get. When she was close to these lovely things they sometimes turned out to be quite common and not worth picking up; but there was sure to be something more tempting just a little way beyond. So she went on and on, and would have gone much further but her progress was suddenly checked in a very disagreeable manner; for, springing too heedlessly on to a slippery rock, and overbalanced by her burden, she fell straightway into a large shallow pool of water. It was such a sudden shock that all her treasures were scattered far and wide, and poor Grace was thrown out of her arms to some distance where she lay flat on her face. Confused and startled, Susan’s first thought was that she should be drowned, and she cried out for help; but, having winked the water out of her eyes, she at once saw that it was quite a shallow pool, scrambled quickly out and stood on the rock. Then she looked down at herself with dismay; for, though there was not enough water to drown her, it had wetted her from top to toe, and she was a forlorn object indeed—her clothes hung to her dripping, her straw-hat floated in the pool, and she had cut her chin in falling against a sharp stone. The only thing to be done now was to get back to Sophia Jane as fast as possible, and she also remembered for the first time that Buskin must be waiting; so, shivering a good deal and feeling very wretched, she fished out her hat, picked up Grace who was the only dry piece of property she now possessed, and prepared to return. But lo! when she looked round, the whole place seemed to have changed! There was no Sophia Jane to be seen, no pier, nothing but high white cliffs, and rocks, and sea. Sophia Jane must be hiding, and Susan felt too miserable now to stand on her dignity, so she called her as loud as she could, several times.
No answer. No one to be seen. And where was the pier? How could that have gone away? Confused, and still giddy with her tumble, Susan hardly knew what she was doing, but her one idea was that she must find the pier, and if it was not in this direction it must be in the other. So she turned again, and went on the wrong way. Now, it was only hidden from her by the projecting cliffs which formed the little bay into which she had wandered, and at that very minute Buskin and Sophia Jane were not really far away. But they could not see or hear her, and now she was going further from them as quickly as she could.
Not very quickly, because it was so difficult to get on, with her wet clothes clinging so heavily; even her boots were full of water and made queer gurgling noises at every step, and her hair hung limp and draggled over her shoulders. Susan had never been so uncomfortable. The cut on her chin hurt a good deal too, for the salt water got into it and made it smart; when she drew her handkerchief out of her pocket, it was only a little damp rag, and no use at all; everything was salt watery except Grace, who was dry and clean, and had only suffered a dinge on her nose by her fall. Susan envied her neat appearance; she was a dignified little girl, and could not bear to look odd or ridiculous, so at first she hoped she should meet no one before she got to Buskin and Sophia Jane. The latter would certainly laugh at her; but, after all, the accident had been her fault, for if she had not been so ill-behaved about the Enemy and the basket, it would not have happened.
Stumbling on, with these things in her mind, she expected every moment to see the pier, but there were still only rocks and cliffs and sea. The waves came rolling in, each one a tiny bit further than the last, and one splashed suddenly so near her, that it covered her with spray. She started back to avoid it; but “after all,” she thought the next minute, “it couldn’t make me wetter than I am.” On, on, on, and now every step began to be more and more painful, for the sand was so wet that she had to walk on the rough stony beach close to the foot of the cliffs. Poor Susan! she felt very tired and desolate; her feet ached, and her arms ached, and her head ached, she would have been thankful to meet people now, even though they might laugh at her. Worst of all, the thought suddenly darted into her mind that she had lost the way; she stood still and looked vainly round for some familiar object, something to guide her—there was nothing. As far as she could see, it was all the same—tall white cliffs, yellow sand, and tossing waves. The only living creature besides herself was a beautiful grey and white bird with long wings which flew skimming about over the water, and sometimes dipped down into it. As Susan watched it, she remembered where she had seen birds of that kind before, and who had told her that they were called sea-gulls; the steamboat, and Monsieur La Roche’s kind voice came back to her. How good he had been, and how badly she had repaid him since; she had indeed been ungrateful and naughty to laugh at him. How thankful she would be to see him now, and to hear him say, “My leetle friend, Mees Susanne!” But there was no chance of that; Monsieur had helped her once in trouble, but he could not come down from the skies to her assistance, and there was no one in sight on land or sea. Suddenly she felt too tired and aching and miserable to struggle on any further, and sinking down on the hard beach like a little damp heap of clothes, she hugged Grace up to her breast and hid her face against her. She sat in this way for some minutes, hearing nothing but the breaking of the waves on the shore and the rattle of the pebbles, when suddenly another noise caught her ear—the regular tramp, tramp of a footstep crushing down on the hard loose stones. She looked up; was it a dream? Not three yards from her was the tall figure of the man she had been thinking of—the French master! Yes, it really was he! There were his threadbare greenish coat and his tightly-strapped trousers, there was his kind face with its high cheek-bones and short-pointed beard. Had he indeed come down from the skies? There seemed no other way, for Susan did not know till afterwards that there were some steps cut zigzag down the cliff just behind her. But wherever he had come from he was undoubtedly there, real flesh and blood, and she was no longer alone with the dreadful roaring sea. It was such a joyful relief that it gave her new strength; she forgot her bedraggled and woebegone state, and starting up began to try and explain how she had lost herself. Greatly to her own surprise, however, something suddenly choked in her throat, and she was obliged to burst into tears in the middle of her story.
Monsieur looked at the little sobbing figure with much compassion in his face and some dismay, then he touched her frock gently:
“Ciel! how you are wet!” he exclaimed; “and cold too, without doubt, my poor leetle friend.” He fingered the top button of his coat doubtfully, as though wishing to take it off and wrap her in it; but although it was a great-coat there was no other underneath it, and he changed his mind with a little shake of the head.
“Come, then,” he said, taking her small cold hand in his, “we will go home together. You are now quite safe, and soon we shall be there. Do not then cry any more.”
Susan did her best to stop her tears, and limped along the beach by his side, clinging tightly on to his hand; but she was tired and worn out, and her wet boots were so stiff and pressed so painfully upon her feet, that at last she stumbled and nearly fell. Monsieur looked down at her with concern.
“Ah!” he said, “the road is rough, and the feet are very small. Voyons! An idea comes to me! Instead of going to Madame your aunt, which is so far, we will go to the house of my sister; it is scarcely ten minutes from here. There I leave you, and go to assure Madame of your safety.”
If Susan had not been so worn out with fatigue she would have objected strongly to this plan of Monsieur’s, for his sister was a perfect stranger to her, and she would much rather have gone home to Aunt Hannah. But, feeling no strength or spirit left to resist anything, she nodded her head silently and suffered him to lift her gently in his arms and carry her up the steps cut in the cliff. How odd it all was! Confused thoughts passed quickly through her mind as she clung fast to the collar of the greenish coat. How kind Monsieur was! how many steps there were, and how very steep! how heavy she was for him to carry, and how he panted as he toiled slowly up! finally, how her dripping clothes pressed against his neatly-brushed garments and made discoloured patches on them. Would the steps never end? But at last, to her great relief, they were at the top, and Monsieur was once more striding along on level ground, uttering from time to time little sentences in broken English for her encouragement and comfort. They were now in a part of Ramsgate that she did not know at all, quite out of the town, and away from all the tall terraces that faced the sea. The houses were mean and poor, and the streets narrow; now and then came a dingy shop, and in almost every window there was a card with “Apartments” on it. At one of these Monsieur stopped and rang the bell. The door was opened at once, as if someone had been waiting to do so, and a brown-faced, black-eyed lady appeared, who talked very fast in French, and held up her hands at the sight of Monsieur’s damp burden. He answered in the same language, calling the lady Delphine, who, chattering all the time, led them down-stairs to a room where there was a good fire burning. Susan wondered to herself why Monsieur and his sister sat in the kitchen, for she saw pots and pans and dishes, all very bright and clean, at one end of the room. The floor was covered with oil-cloth; but by the fire, on which a saucepan hissed and bubbled gently, was spread a bright crimson rug, which made a little spot of comfort. On it there stood a small table neatly laid with preparations for a meal, and a pair of large-sized carpet slippers, carefully tilted so that they might catch the full warmth of the blaze. Sharing this place of honour a fluffy grey cat sat gravely blinking, with its tail curled round its toes. Opposite the table were a rocking-chair and a work-basket, and Susan noticed that someone had been darning a large brown sock.
While she looked at these things from the arm-chair where Monsieur had placed her on his entrance, she also watched the eager face of Delphine who had not ceased to exclaim, to ask questions, to clasp her hands, and otherwise to express great interest and surprise. But it was all in French, as were also Monsieur’s patient replies and explanations. Susan could not understand what they said, but she could make out a good deal by Delphine’s signs and gestures. It was easy to see that she wished to persuade her brother not to go out again, for when he took up his hat she tried to take it away, and pointed to the bubbling saucepan and warm slippers. Monsieur, however, cast a gently regretful glance at them, shook his head, and presently succeeded in freeing himself from her eager grasp; then, when his steps had ceased to sound upon the stairs, she shrugged her shoulders and said half aloud:
“Certainly it is my brother Adolphe, who has the temper of an angel, and the obstinacy of a pig!”