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.