Susan collected her property and went away. There were a good many things to carry, but she took one with her which weighed more heavily than all the rest put together—the knowledge that she had told a story.
And now, at last, her eyes were opened wide, and she could see clearly the tangled web she had been weaving for some time past. She could see that she had first despised Sophia Jane, and then been jealous of her; first been conceited and proud, and then mean and deceitful. Good Susan no longer, but far far worse than her poor little friend, whom she had always considered so naughty. Little by little the web had become more and more twisted and confused. Would it ever be straight again? She made no excuse for herself now. Her heart was so full of sorrow and repentance that she hardly knew how to bear it, and, creeping sorrowfully up into the attic, she cast herself down on the big black box and cried. She had thought herself so good since she had come to Ramsgate, they had all told her so, and yet how naughty she had been—naughtier and naughtier, until at last she had told a story. What should she do? An old rhyme of Maria’s came into her head as she lay there sobbing:
“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 passed, 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 scraps 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 rushing into the sitting-room where Susan was curled up in the window seat. She looked pale and frightened.
“Where’s Aunt Hannah?” she said.