Chapter Eight.
Shrimps and Good-Byes.
Six months had passed. Susan’s visit to Ramsgate was drawing to a close, for her mother had said in her last letter that she should soon be able to fix the day of her return. Six whole months! How long, how endless they had seemed to look forward to, but how very short they were to look back on. Susan could hardly believe they were really gone. She remembered well how desolate she had felt at first, how strange everything had been to her, and how she had longed to see a familiar face; but now, though of course it would be delightful to go home, there really were some things in Ramsgate she would be sorry to leave. One of these was the sea. It had almost frightened her at first, but now she had grown to love its changing face and voice, which were scarcely ever the same for two days together. For sometimes, sparkling with smiles, it would keep up a pleasant ripple of conversation, breaking now and again into laughter. At other times, darkly frowning, it would toss itself up and down in restless vexations, and hurl its waves on the shore with hoarse exclamations of anger. You could never be sure of it for long together, and in this it was strangely like the other thing which Susan felt she should miss—Sophia Jane. She and the sea were about equal in the uncertainty of their moods, for it must not be supposed that her nature was so changed by her illness that she became at once a good and agreeable little girl. This is not easy when one has become used for a long while to be tiresome and ill-tempered, for “habit,” as Mrs Winslow had said, is a “giant power.” The longer we have done wrong the more difficult it is to do right. And yet in some ways she was altered; she was not quite the same Sophia Jane who had said, “I like to vex ’em,” six months ago.
Grateful for past kindness she now made many small efforts to please Aunt Hannah, and would even sometimes check herself when most irritated by Nanna’s and Margaretta’s reproofs. Naughty or good, she had now become such a close companion to Susan that any pleasure or amusement unshared by her would have been blank and dull. Now Susan knew what it was to have a companion she did not like to think of the time when she should learn lessons alone, and play alone, and have no one to talk over things with and make plans. Troubles were lessened and joys doubled by being shared, and when she thought of life at home without Sophia Jane she felt quite sad. At such moments she wondered whether her friend would be sorry too when the time came for them to part, and whether she really cared at all about her. It was difficult to find out, for Sophia Jane was not given to express herself affectionately, or to use terms of endearment to anyone. She had never been accustomed to it. The two people to whom she showed most attachment were Monsieur La Roche and his sister, and even to these she was never what Mademoiselle called “expansive.” Remembering this, Susan felt it was quite possible that Sophia Jane would see her depart with an unmoved face and no word of regret, and sometimes this made her unhappy. She would have given a good deal for a word of fondness from her once despised companion, but all her efforts to extract it were useless.
“Shall you be dull after I go away?” she would ask, and Sophia Jane would answer shortly:
“You’re not going yet. What’s the good of talking about it?”
A day was now drawing near in which both the little girls were much interested—Sophia Jane’s birthday. Susan’s present, prepared with much caution and secrecy, was quite ready, and put away in a drawer till the time came. She had bought the wax head out of Miss Powter’s shop which Sophia Jane had admired long ago, and fixed it to the body of the old doll. Then little by little she had carefully made a complete set of clothing for it, after the pattern of those Grace wore, and Mademoiselle Delphine had added the promised grey silk bonnet to the costume. Altogether it made a substantial and handsome present, and Susan often went to look at it, and pictured to herself her companion’s surprise and pleasure. And besides this there was something else to look forward to, for Aunt Hannah had promised that on this same occasion the children should go to Pegwell Bay and have shrimps for tea.
The Pegwell Bay shrimps were already famous in those days, and were considered far superior to any caught elsewhere; but the place itself had not yet become noisy and crowded as was the case in after years. It was still a quiet and beautiful little bay with only one countrified inn standing close to the shore. In the garden of this there were green arbours, or boxes, with neat tables and chairs, where you might sit at your ease, look out over the sea, watch the vessels sailing in the distance, and eat the dusky-brown shrimps for which Pegwell Bay was well-known. To these were added small new loaves of a peculiar shape, fresh butter, and tea. Nothing else could be had, but this simple fare was all very good of its kind, and to Susan and Sophia Jane it was more attractive than the finest banquet. And its attractions were increased by the fact that Aunt Hannah had given Sophia Jane leave to ask whom she chose to join her birthday party.
“Whom shall you ask?” said Susan as soon as they were alone after this permission.