Chapter Two.
“Sophia Jane.”
Poor Maria was to go back to London the next morning, and she came into Susan’s room early to say good-bye, prepared for her journey in a very tearful state. It was not merely that she looked forward with anything but pleasure to another sea-voyage, but she had an affectionate nature, and, was fond of Susan, who on her side was sorry to think that she should not see Maria again. There were many parting messages to be conveyed to Mother, and Nurse, and Freddie. But at last it was really time to go, and Maria tore herself away with difficulty, hurriedly pressing into Susan’s hand a new sixpence with a hole in it. She was gone now, and had taken the last bit of home with her—Susan was for the first time in her life alone with strangers. As she dressed herself she looked forward with alarm to meeting them all at breakfast, for she could not even remember what they were like last night; they seemed all mixed up together like things in a dream.
At last she gathered courage to leave the room, made her way very slowly down-stairs, and opening the first door she came to on the ground floor peeped timidly in. There was no one there, but the table was laid for breakfast, and she went in and stood before the fire. It was a long room, very low, with faded furniture, and a French window opening into a small garden, where there were gooseberry bushes. At the end opposite the fireplace there were two steps leading up to a door, and Susan wondered what was on the other side of it. On the mantelpiece, and in a corner cupboard and on a side-table, there were quantities of blue china mugs and plates and dishes, which she thought were queer things to have for ornaments; there were also some funny little figures carved in ivory and wood—dear little stumpy elephants amongst them, which she liked very much. The only picture in the room she presently noticed, hung over the fireplace in an oval frame. It was a portrait of a gentleman with powdered hair and a pig-tail; his eyes were as blue as the cups and dishes; he was clean shaven, and wore a blue coat and a very large white shirt frill. As Susan was looking up at him the door at the end of the room opened, and a maid-servant came stepping down with a dish in her hand. Susan could now see that the door led straight into a kitchen, which she thought odd but rather interesting. Almost immediately Aunt Hannah, the two girls she had seen the night before, and a little girl of about her own age came in, and they all sat down to breakfast. In spite of great shyness, Susan was able to take many furtive glances at her companions, and was relieved to find that at any rate Aunt Hannah was not a bit like what Freddie had said. She was a tall, straight old lady with a high cap, black curls, and a velvet band across her forehead. She did not look either witch-like or cross, and Susan felt that she should not be afraid of her when she knew her better. She soon found that the names of the two “grown-up” girls, as she called them in her mind, were Nanna and Margaretta; Nanna was fair and freckled, and Margaretta very swarthy, with a quantity of black curls. They chattered and laughed incessantly, and tried to pet Susan and make her talk, but did not succeed very well. She thought she did not like either of them much, and wished they would leave her alone, for she was interested in watching the movements of the little girl and wondering who she was. She was a very thin little thing with high shoulders and skinny arms, dressed in a dingy-green plaid frock. Everything about her looked sharp—her chin was sharp, her elbows were sharp; the glances she cast at Susan over her bread and milk were sharp, and when she spoke her voice sounded sharp also. Her features were not ugly, but her expression was unchildlike and old. No one seemed to notice her much, but if Nanna or Margaretta said anything to her, it was not in the coaxing tones they used to Susan, but had a reproving sound.
After breakfast came prayers, in which Buskin the maid-servant joined, sitting a little apart at the end of the room with a severe look on her face. Then Aunt Hannah sat down in the arm-chair near the fire. “And now, my little Susan,” she said, “come here and talk to me.”
Susan stood submissively at her side, and answered all the questions put to her about Mother and Freddie and herself; but she did not do much of the talking, for she was shy, and everything seemed forlorn and strange to her. What a comfort Maria’s well-known face would have been! As it was, the only familiar object was her doll Grace, which she had brought down-stairs, and now held tightly clutched under one arm.
“And here,” said Mrs Enticknapp, when she had finished her inquiries; “here, you see is a nice little companion for you of your own age. She will learn lessons with you, and play with you, and I hope you will soon be good friends. Sophia Jane, come here.”
Sophia Jane came and stood on the other side of Aunt Hannah, rolled her arms tightly up in her pinafore, and stared without winking at Susan and her doll.
“To-day,” continued Mrs Enticknapp, “you shall not do any lessons, and while I am busy with Nanna and Margaretta you may amuse yourselves quietly. After dinner you shall all go out for a walk. If you crumple up your pinafore in that way, Sophia Jane,” she added, “you will have another bad mark.”
Sophia Jane unrolled her arms, and smoothed the pinafore down in front with her small bony hands; then she thrust out her pointed chin, and asked eagerly:
“May we go and play in the attic?”
Aunt Hannah hesitated. “If it’s not too cold for Susan, you may. If it is, you must come and play at some quiet game in here. But understand that you must make no noise while I am busy.”
“Come along,” said Sophia Jane. She caught hold of Susan’s hand and led her quickly out of the room and upstairs, casting rapid glances at her over her shoulder as they went. “Fond of dolls?” she inquired as they were climbing the second flight of stairs.
“I’m fond of this one,” answered Susan, clasping Grace a little closer.
“I had one once,” said Sophia Jane with a superior air; “but I haven’t got her now.”
“Where is she?” asked Susan.
“I killed her,” said Sophia Jane in a cold voice.
“Oh!” said Susan stopping still a moment; “what did you do that for?”
“I hated her,” replied Sophia Jane shortly; “she had such starin’ eyes.”
Susan gazed at the small murderess with awe. “How did you do it?” she asked at length in a lowered tone.
“Drove a nail right through her skull,” answered Sophia Jane, with a spiteful gleam in her blue eyes. “Here’s the attic!”
They had reached the top storey after a last short flight of stairs without any carpet. Here there were only two rooms, one for Buskin, the maid-servant, and the other unfurnished. Sophia Jane flung open the door of this last with an air of triumph. “We can do just as we like here,” she said; “and down-stairs we couldn’t talk above a whisper while they’re doing lessons.”
Susan entered wondering. Everything seemed very odd at Aunt Hannah’s; but somehow its strangeness made it rather interesting, it was such a contrast to home. There she had always played in well-furnished rooms with plenty of toys, and good fires in winter. The attic had no carpet and no fire, and the only things in it were one broken old chair, a poker, some rolls of dusty wall-paper, and some large black boxes. Its single attraction was its lone-ness; there was no one here who could say “don’t,” and no need for lowered voices and quietness. This Susan soon found to be a very delightful thing, for her life at home had been carried on as it were on tip-toe, for fear of disturbing Freddie, and she had always been taught that little girls should be never heard, and very seldom seen.
“If you like dolls,” continued Sophia Jane in an off-hand manner, “perhaps Nanna would lend you Black Dinah. She’s more good-natured than Margaretta.”
“I don’t want to ask her, thank you,” said Susan. “Why does she have a doll? she’s too old to play with it, isn’t she?”
“Oh, gracious me, yes, of course,” said Sophia Jane with a shrug. “They’re both quite grown-up. Nanna’s seventeen, and Margaretta’s eighteen. They only keep it as a cur’osity; all made of rags and covered with black silk, and dressed like a native. The nuns made it in the convent at Bahia.”
“What is Bahia?” asked Susan.
“It’s a place in America where they come from. They came over in a ship.”
“What for?”
“Why, to learn English, of course, you silly thing!—and French too—and all sorts of things. There’s a French master comes once a week to teach them. And they learn lessons with Aunt too. They’re doing them now.”
So this was the meaning of Bahia girls! Susan thought it over a little and then asked:
“Did you come over in the ship too?”
Sophia Jane paused in the midst of a fantastic dance she was performing, with the poker brandished in one hand.
“Of course not,” she said scornfully. “I’m English.”
“Who are you, then?” asked Susan. She felt that the question sounded rude, but it was a thing that she must know.
“I’m an orphan,” said Sophia Jane cheerfully, and she took an agile leap on to one of the old bores.
Susan gazed at her. She was not at all her idea of an orphan. In pictures they always wore black and looked sad, and at home there was a crossing-sweeper who said he was an orphan, and seemed to think it a hard thing, and that he was much to be pitied. Then another thought struck her: “If Aunt Hannah’s your aunt as well as mine, I suppose we’re cousins—ain’t we?” she asked.
“She isn’t,” said Sophia Jane, swinging her arms round and preparing to jump off the box. “We all call her Aunt. She likes it better. See if you can jump as far as I can.”
In these and other amusements the morning passed quickly away in a very different manner to anything Susan had known before. It was certainly better than playing alone, though the attic was bare and Sophia Jane’s speech and behaviour were sometimes strange and startling. Susan almost forgot her home-sickness for a while, and found a companion of her own age far more interesting than imaginary conversations with dolls. After they were both tired of jumping, in which exercise Sophia Jane’s spare form was by far the most successful, the headless body of the murdered doll was dragged out from behind a box and examined.
“She used to be a pretty doll,” said its owner, looking enviously at Grace.
“It’s a pity you killed her,” said Susan, “because we could play at so many more things if we had a doll each.”
“Well, she’s dead,” said Sophia Jane recklessly. “Where’s her head?” asked Susan; “perhaps we might mend it.”
“Broken all up into tiny little bits,” said the other.
Susan looked silently at the limp pink leather body stretched out on the floor, then she exclaimed suddenly:
“I tell you what!”
“What?” said Sophia Jane.
“We’ll get a new head for her at the shop. I know you can do it, because Maria once bought one for one of mine.”
“That’s all very well,” said Sophia Jane sharply; “but I haven’t got enough money. I’ve only got twopence-halfpenny left.”
“Oh, that wouldn’t do, of course,” said Susan. “You couldn’t get one large enough for the body under eighteenpence. When will you have some more?”
“Not till Saturday week, because I’ve lost all the next in bad marks.”
“What do you have bad marks for?” asked Susan.
“Lots of things: rumpling my pinafores, leaving the door open, standing on one side of my foot, making faces, not knowing my lessons—a farthing every time.”
Susan’s eyes opened wide.
“Why don’t you leave off doing them?” she asked.
“Oh, I don’t care to,” said Sophia Jane; pressing her lips tightly together. “I like to vex ’em sometimes. I’d rather do it than have the money.”
Susan’s round face grew more and more serious. She did not know what to make of Sophia Jane, who seemed a very naughty little girl and certainly did not deserve to be helped. She had thought of offering to give her something towards the doll’s head, but now she did not quite know whet to do.
“Well,” she said patronisingly, “if you want to buy the new head you’ll have to be good, you know; and then you’ll save your money.”
“Fiddle-di-dee!” was Sophia Jane’s rude reply, tauntingly. This might have led to a quarrel, for Susan, much shocked, was just preparing a reproachful speech, but fortunately the voice of Nanna was heard calling them down to dinner. During this both the little girls were silent and subdued, and were seldom spoken to, except that Sophia Jane was repeatedly corrected. It was wonderful how often she was told not to fidget, not to eat so fast, not to shrug her shoulders, not to make faces. As surely as anyone looked in her direction there was something wrong. It did not seem to make much impression on her, although her thin little face looked very sullen; and once when Nanna called Susan “darling” a dark frown gathered on her brow.
“Unless you can look more pleasant and aimiable, Sophia Jane,” said Aunt Hannah, observing this, “you will be left at home this afternoon.”
All this strengthened Susan’s opinion that Sophia Jane was a very naughty little girl. If it were not so they would not surely speak to her so sharply and reprove her so often. She hoped, nevertheless, that this last threat would not be carried out, for however naughty she might be she was a companion with whom conversation was possible, and a walk alone with Nanna and Margaretta would be dull. She was relieved, therefore, at three o’clock to find that Sophia Jane was ready to go too, dressed in a very unbecoming poke bonnet and black cape. They might be out one hour and a half, Aunt Hannah said, but there was a little delay at starting because each of the elder girls wished to go in a different direction. Nanna preferred the town, and Margaretta to walk on the parade, and it was some minutes before it was settled that they should go one way and return the other, dividing the time equally.
“Which way do you like best?” inquired Susan as she and Sophia Jane followed closely behind their companions.
“Neither of ’em,” answered she. “I like to go on the beach and pick up things, but they won’t ever do that except in summer when they bathe.”
Neither of the little girls cared much about the walk in the town; for though some of the shops looked interesting, these were not the ones near which Nanna and Margaretta lingered. They only stopped and looked in at the windows of bonnet shops or jewellers’ shops, and these were not attractive to Sophia Jane or Susan. But after a while they turned down a street where there were no shops at all, and at the end of it they came on to the parade and saw the sea. It was a wonderful sight to Susan, for she had been too tired to notice it much the day she had arrived, and now it burst upon her suddenly like something new. It was so beautiful and there was so much of it that it made her quite gasp for breath; the sun shining on it made a great glittering high-road stretching away in the distance till it joined the sky and was lost there; the waves came rolling, rolling, one after the other, up to the shore, curled over, and dashed themselves down so hard that they were broken up into hissing silver foam and tossed their spray high in the air. Everything seemed to be silver and gold and diamonds at the sea-side, it all sparkled, and twinkled, and shone so much. Susan’s eyes were dazzled and she put up her hand to shield them, for she was used to the shadow and gloom of the London streets.
“Oh,” she cried, “how I should like to go down on the sands!”
“Perhaps they’ll let us go some day,” said Sophia Jane. “It’s best to go on the rocks when the sea’s out.”
“Out!” said Susan in astonishment. “Does it ever go quite away?”
Sophia Jane was so amused at this innocent question that she was unable to answer for some moments. She giggled so much and so loud that Margaretta turned round and said angrily:
“Vulgar child! Be quiet and walk properly.”
Susan did not like to be laughed at. She walked along in silence, with hot cheeks, and determined that she would ask no more questions.
Sophia Jane continued to chuckle softly to herself for a little while and then said:
“There’s a low tide and a high tide, of course. When it’s low it’s ever so far out, and when it’s high it’s ever so far in.”
“Oh yes, I know, I remember now; I’ve learned that,” said Susan hastily, for she did not wish Sophia Jane to think her quite ignorant. “It has something to do with the moon.”
“The moon!” exclaimed Sophia Jane with utter disdain in her voice, “you’re muddling things up.”
“It has,” repeated Susan positively, “it’s in the geography book.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Sophia Jane.
“I wonder,” said Susan half to herself, with her eyes fixed on the sea, “what prevents it from running right over all the land.”
Sophia Jane shrugged her shoulders.
“That is a thing no one understands,” she said, “so it’s no use to bother about it.” Then with a sudden sharp glance to the left, “There goes Monsieur La Roche.”
Susan looked round and saw a tall thin figure just hurrying round a corner, but she had time to recognise it before it disappeared; it was the kind French gentleman.
“He’s the French master,” continued Sophia Jane; “such a silly old thing. We all laugh at him.”
“Why?” asked Susan.
“Oh, we can’t help it. He makes such funny bows and he smiles so, and says his words wrong. You’ll laugh at him too.”
Susan was silent. Somehow after this description she did not feel inclined to tell Sophia Jane of her meeting with Monsieur La Roche on the steamboat, and his kindness to her.
“I should think he did not like to be laughed at,” she said at last.
“Oh, what does it matter,” said Sophia Jane with much contempt, “he’s only a poor eggsile.”
“What does ‘eggsile’ mean?” asked Susan.
Sophia Jane hesitated; she did not know, but she would not confess ignorance.
“It means any person who isn’t English,” she said.
For the rest of the walk Susan thought a good deal about the French master. He had been kind to her when she needed a friend, and she had felt grateful to him, and hoped she should see him again; she had considered him a very pleasant gentleman. But now that Sophia Jane had spoken so slightingly of him, and called him a “silly old thing,” and turned him into a sort of joke, she began to feel differently. She was now rather sorry that she knew him, for she was afraid Sophia Jane would laugh at her too, and she disliked that more than anything in the world. It seemed easier now to join her in finding something ridiculous in the “eggsile” as she called him, than to remember his kindness and good-nature to herself and Maria. She hoped, therefore, that when he came to Belmont Cottage to give his lesson that he would have forgotten her, and would say nothing of the meeting on the steamboat. This first day at Ramsgate had been full of so many strange sights and new people that Susan had had no time to be home-sick, but when evening came she suddenly felt a great longing to see some one she knew—Mother or Nurse or Freddie, or even Maria. It seemed an immense while since she had parted from them all; and when she remembered that it was really only one day and one night, and how many days and nights must pass before she saw them again, she could hardly bear it without crying. They were all very kind to her here, but they were all strange. She did not care for Nanna’s and Margaretta’s frequent kisses and endearing names, it was impossible to be fond of them in a minute; as for Sophia Jane, though she was amusing to play with, there was no comfort at all in her. It was Aunt Hannah at length who saw her sitting dolefully in a corner, and tried to give her consolation She called her to come and sit near her, and talked so kindly that Susan forgot her troubles and became interested. Aunt Hannah told her shout Algiers, the place where Freddie was going, and how he would get there in a ship, and what he would see and do; and then, pointing to the funny little figures and china things, she said that they had been brought over the sea from countries a long way off.
When Susan ventured to ask who brought them, her aunt showed her the portrait of the gentleman with the pig-tail hanging over the mantle-piece.
“It was your great-grandfather who brought them,” she said, “Captain John Enticknapp. He made many long voyages to China and Japan, and the West Indies. Once he found out some islands where no one had ever been before, and they are called after his name.”
Susan thought this very wonderful and she gazed up at her aunt with such interest in her eyes that the old lady was pleased, and stroked her hair kindly.
“Some day, if you are a good child,” she said, “and try to make yourself happy here, I will tell you a story about Captain Enticknapp. A very interesting one, and quite true.”
“May Sophia Jane hear it too?” asked Susan.
Aunt Hannah’s manner changed.
“When Sophia Jane tries to please me, and correct her faults,” she said, “I shall be willing to give her pleasure, but not till then.”
Susan felt more and more certain that Sophia Jane was a very naughty little girl.