"MY AUNT ENTICKNAPP."
"So there ain't no idea, then, of takin' Miss Susan?"
"No, indeed! My mistress will have enough on her hands as it is, what
with the journey, and poor Master Freddie such a care an' all, an' so
helpless. I don't deny I've a sinkin' myself when I think of it; but if
it's to do the poor child good, I'm not the one to stand in his way."
"Where's she to stay, then, while you're all away?"
"With an aunt of Missis' at Ramsgate. An old lady by what I hear."
"Por little thing!"
Susan heard all this; for, though she was snugly curled up in her little
bed at the other end of the room, she was not asleep. Now and then she
opened her eyes drowsily and peeped from the bed-clothes, which nearly
covered her round face, at Nurse and Maria bending over their work by
the fire. There was only one candle on the table, and they poked their
heads so near the flame as they talked that she wondered the caps did
not catch light, particularly Maria's, which was very high and fussy in
front. Susan began to count the narrow escapes she had, but before she
had got far she became so interested in the conversation that she gave
it up.
Not that they said anything at all new to her, for it had been settled
long ago, and her mother often talked about it. Susan knew it all as
well as possible. How the doctor had said that Freddie, her elder
brother, who was always ill and weakly, must now be taken out of England
to a warm climate for the winter months. She had heard her mother say
what a long journey it would be, how much it would cost, how difficult
it was to leave London; and yet it was the only chance for Freddie, and
so it must be done. She knew that very soon they were to start, and
Nurse was to go too; but she herself was to be left behind, with an old
lady she had never seen, all the time they were gone.
But, although she knew all this she had not felt that it was a thing to
dread, or that she was much to be pitied; she had even looked forward to
it with a sort of pleased wonder about all the new things she should see
and do, for this old lady lived by the sea-side, and Susan had never
been there. She had seen it in pictures and read of it in story-books,
and her mother had told her of many pleasures she would find which were
not to be had anywhere else. When she thought of it, therefore, it was
of some unknown but very agreeable place where she would dig in the sand
and perhaps bathe in the sea, and pick up beautiful shells for Freddie
and herself.
To-night, however, for the first time, as she listened to Nurse and
Maria mumbling over their work in the half-light, she began to think of
it differently, and even to be a little alarmed; so that when Maria
said, "Por little thing!" with such a broad accent of pity, Susan felt
sorry too. She _was_ a poor little thing, no doubt, to be left behind;
and then there was another matter she had not thought of much--the old
lady. "My Aunt Enticknapp," her mother always called her; a difficult
and ugly name to begin with, and very hard to pronounce. Would she be
pleasant? or would she be cross and full of corners like her name?
Whatever she was, she was a perfect stranger, and Susan felt sure she
should not want to stay with her all the winter. It was certainly a
hard case, and the more she considered it the less she liked it. She
wondered if Nurse and Maria would say anything more, but soon the little
clock on the mantelpiece struck ten, they put away their work and went
down to supper. Then Susan fixed her round brown eyes on the glowing
fire. "Por little thing!" someone seemed to go on saying over and over
again, each time more slowly. At last it got very slow indeed: "Por--
little--" and while she waited for it to say "thing," she fell asleep.
But she remembered it all directly she woke the next morning, and made
up her mind that she must find out more about Aunt Enticknapp than she
had yet done. Amongst other things she must know her Christian name.
It would not be very easy, because just now everyone in the house, and
her mother above all, seemed to have so much to think of that they had
no time to answer questions properly. Susan had never been encouraged
to ask questions, and it would be more than usually difficult at
present, for there was a mysterious bustle going on all over the house,
and nothing was just as usual. She constantly found strange boxes and
packages in different rooms, with her mother and nurse in anxious
consultation over them, and she was allowed to go where she liked and do
as she liked, provided only that she did not get in the way or give
trouble; above all, she knew she must not ask many questions, or say
"why" often, for that worried people more than anything. The governess,
who came every day to teach Susan and Freddie, had given them her last
lesson yesterday, and said "good-bye;" she was not coming again, she
told them, for the whole winter. In this state of things the only
person in the house who seemed always good-tempered and ready to talk
was Maria, the nursery-maid--perhaps she had not so much on her mind.
It was not, however, at all satisfactory to make inquiries of Maria,
for, with the best will in the world, and an eager desire to please, she
was rather stupid, and could seldom give any answer worth having.
So Susan had little hope of learning much about Aunt Enticknapp, and yet
the more she thought of it the more she felt she must try to do so--even
if she had to ask her mother, which she was afraid to do, for Mother was
always so occupied and anxious about Freddie that Susan's wants and
wonders had to give way, or be kept to herself, and this she thought
quite natural because Freddie was ill.
After breakfast she took a doll, a small work-box, and a tattered book,
and settled herself quietly in her favourite corner; this was in
Freddie's room, between the back of his couch and the wall, and, though
rather dark, very snug and private, and not too retired for her to see
all that went on. From here she could watch her mother as she came in
and out, and judge when it would be best to speak to her. Not yet
evidently. Mother's face looked full of worry and business this
morning, and if she sat down for one minute a maid-servant would be sure
to appear with, "If you please, ma'am," and then she would have to go
away again. Susan sighed as she pushed her sticky needle in and out the
doll's frock she was making. Her mind was full of Aunt Enticknapp; if
she was Mother's aunt she must, of course, be very very old. Very old
ladies always looked cross, and were nearly always deaf. Ought she to
call her "aunt" when she spoke to her? What was her other name?
Perhaps Freddie could tell her that, at any rate! She stood up and
looked at him over the back of the sofa--there he was, reading as usual,
with a frown on his white forehead, and all his thick black hair pushed
up by his impatient hand. Freddie was ten, two years older than Susan;
he had never been able to run about and play like other boys, and her
earliest recollection of him was that he was always lying on his back,
and always reading. The books he liked best were those that had plenty
of fighting and hunting and hardships in them. He was reading now a
tale of the Coral Islands, and she knew quite well that he would not
like to be disturbed. He was not always good-tempered, but Mother had
told Susan that she ought to be patient with him because he was so often
in pain. She stood there with her doll under her arm staring
thoughtfully at him, and at last he turned a page.
"Freddie!" she said very quickly, so that he might not have time to get
interested again. "What do you think I ought to call her?"
Freddie turned his great black eyes upon her with a puzzled and rather
vexed look in them; it was a long way from the Coral Islands to Susan.
But she stood expecting an answer, and he said at last with an impatient
glance at the doll:
"Call her! Oh, call her what you like!"
Susan saw his mistake at once.
"Oh, I don't mean the doll!" she said in a great hurry. "I mean Aunt--
Aunt--Emptycap."
Freddie's attention was caught at last. He put the book down on his
knees.
"Aunt _who_?" he said with real interest in his voice.
Susan knew he was going to laugh at her, and this she never liked.
"You know who I mean," she said, "it's not _quite_ the name, but it
sounds like that. I want to know if I ought to call her `Aunt.'"
Freddie's eyes twinkled, though his face was quite grave:
"I should just take care of one thing if I were you," he said; "and that
is, not to say her name wrong."
"Why?" asked Susan.
"Because nothing makes old ladies so angry as that. Why, if you were to
walk in and say, `How do you do, Aunt Emptycap?' it might make her cross
all the time you stay."
"Might it really?" said Susan. She felt a little doubtful whether
Freddie was to be trusted, and yet he spoke as if he knew. It was
something, however, to have made him talk about it at all.
"She's got another name, I suppose," she continued; "something easier to
say. I shall call her that, and then she couldn't be angry."
"Oh, yes, she could," said Freddie quickly; "she would think that rude,
because she's Mother's aunt, you know, our _great_ aunt."
"Do you suppose she's very old?" asked Susan, putting the next question
that had filled her mind.
"Very," said Freddie; "and as for crossness!" He lifted up his eyes and
hands without finishing the sentence.
Susan felt discouraged, though she had a feeling that Freddie was
"making up." Still, what he said was so like what she thought of the
matter herself that it had a great effect upon her.
"If you like," continued Freddie graciously, "I'll tell you just what I
think she'll be like."
Susan nodded, though she inwardly dreaded the description.
"You know," began Freddie, opening his large eyes very wide, "that
picture of old Mother Holle in Grimm?"
Susan knew it very well, for it always made her uncomfortable to look at
it, and she thought of it sometimes at night.
"Aunt Enticknapp is something like that," he went on, speaking with
relish in a low tone, "only uglier. With a hookier nose, and bigger
eyebrows, and a hump on her back. She talks in a croaky sort of voice
like a frog, and she takes snuff, and carries a black stick with a
silver top."
Susan stared at her brother without speaking, and clutched her doll more
tightly to her chest; but though this terrible picture really alarmed
her, she had a proud spirit, and was not going to let him know it.
"You don't suppose I believe that," she said scornfully; "that's only
like a fairy old woman."
"You just wait," said Freddie solemnly, "till you get down there and see
her."
Just then Maria came into the room with her bonnet on. Miss Susan was
to go out with her, she said, and do some shopping for Nurse, and she
must come and be dressed at once. Susan collected her property and
marched out of the room, holding her head very high to show Freddie that
she did not care for what he had said; but, as soon as she was alone
with Maria, she thought of it with a very heavy mind.
Late in the afternoon of that same day she was sitting in the
drawing-room window seat threading beads, when Mother's great friend
came to pay a visit. Susan knew her very well. She was a lady who
lived near, and often went out with Mother when she had to choose a new
bonnet or do shopping. Her name was Mrs Millet; but Mother always
called her "dear" or "Emily." Susan did not like her much; so she
remained quietly in her corner, and hoped she would not be called out to
say "How do you do?" It was a snug corner almost hidden by the window
curtain, and Mother had perhaps forgotten she was in the room at all.
At any rate no notice was taken of her, and she went on happily with her
work, but presently something in the conversation caught her attention.
"So you really go on Tuesday, dear?" said Mrs Millet with a sigh.
"Yes," said Mrs Ingram; "it's a great undertaking."
"It is, _indeed_," agreed Mrs Millet in a deeply sympathetic tone.
Then, catching a glimpse of herself in a glass opposite, she patted her
bonnet-strings, looked more cheerful, and added, "And how about Susan?"
"She goes to Ramsgate on Monday to my Aunt Enticknapp."
"Ah," said Mrs Millet. "Quite satisfactory, I suppose?"
"Perfectly. I heard this morning. I feared she might not have room
because of those Bahia girls, you know."
"Exactly," replied Mrs Millet. "Quite _desirable_, I suppose?"
"Quite. Susan, you can go upstairs now. It's nearly tea-time. Clear
those things away, and shut the door softly."
Deeply disappointed, for she felt she had been on the very edge of
hearing something about Aunt Enticknapp, Susan slowly put her beads into
the box, and advanced to say good-bye to the visitor.
"_Good_-bye, darling," said Mrs Millet, kissing her caressingly. "Why,
you _are_ a lucky little girl to be going to the sea-side."
Her manner was always affectionate, but her voice never sounded kind to
Susan, and these words did not make half the impression of Maria's "Por
little thing."
That remark still lingered in Susan's mind, and as she climbed slowly
upstairs to the top of the house, she thought to herself that the only
chance now of speaking to Mother was when she came up to see her after
she was in bed. That was sometimes very late indeed, often when Susan
was fast asleep, and knew nothing about it.
"But to-night," she said to herself, "I _will_ keep awake. I'll pinch
myself directly I feel the least bit sleepy;" for the mystery
surrounding Aunt Enticknapp's house had deepened. Susan had now to
wonder what sort of things Bahia girls were, and why she kept them at
Ramsgate.
So, after Nurse and Maria had gone down-stairs she lay with her eyes
wide open, watching the glimmering light which the lamps outside cast on
the ceiling, and listening to the noise in the street below. Roll,
roll, rumble, rumble, it went on without a break, for the house was in
the midst of the great city of London. In the day-time she never
noticed this noise much, but at night when everything else was silent,
and everyone was going to sleep, it was strange to think that it still
went on and on like that. Did it never stop? Sometimes she had tried
to keep awake, so that she might find out, but she had never been able
to do it. She had always fallen asleep with that roll, roll, roll,
sounding in her ears. It must be getting very late now, surely Mother
must come soon! I'll count a hundred, said Susan to herself, and then I
shall hear her coming upstairs. But when she had done there was no
sound at all in the house; not even a door shutting. It was all quite
quiet.
"Can I have _been_ asleep without knowing it?" she thought in alarm, and
then--"can Mother have forgotten to come?" This last thought was so
painful that she sat up in bed, stretched out her arms towards the door,
and said out loud:
"Oh, _do_ come, Mother." There was no answer, and no sound except the
cinders falling in the grate, and the rumble of the wheels below. Susan
gave a little sob; she felt deserted, disappointed, and ill-used. If
_only_ Mother would come!
All sorts of fancies, too, began to make the dark corners of the room
dreadful, and chief amongst them loomed the form of Aunt Enticknapp just
as Freddie had pictured her that day. In another minute Susan felt she
should scream out with fear; but she must not do it, because it would
frighten Freddie, and make Mother so angry. What was that sudden gleam
on the wall? The fire or the lamps? Neither, because it jigged about
too much; it was the light of a candle, coming nearer and nearer, and
there was a step on the stairs at last. Almost directly someone gave
the half-open door a little push and came quickly into the room; it was
Mother in her pink dressing-gown which Susan always thought so
beautiful, and her fair hair all plaited up in one long tail for the
night. She came up to the bed, shading the flame of the candle with one
hand:
"What, awake?" she said, "and crying! Oh, naughty Susan! What's the
matter?"
Susan gulped down her tears. It was all right now that mother had not
forgotten to come.
"I thought you weren't coming," she said.
"Well, but here I am, you see. And now you must be a good little girl,
and go to sleep directly. Kiss me and lie down."
In another second Mother would be out of the room again Susan knew. She
put up her hand and took hold of the lace frilling round the neck of the
pink dressing-gown to keep her from going away.
"I've got something to ask you," she whispered eagerly.
"Well, what is it? Make haste, there's a good child, for I must go to
Freddie; he's very restless to-night."
Susan's head felt in a whirl. What should she ask first? She must do
it directly, or Mother would be gone. It all seemed confusion, and at
last she could only stammer out:
"What's her other name? Is she cross?"
"Whose? Oh, you little goose, you mean Aunt Enticknapp, I suppose. Her
name is Hannah. She's a very nice kind old lady, and she'll spoil you
dreadfully, I don't doubt. Now Susan," in a graver tone, "remember
you've promised not to give trouble, and if you're going to cry it will
trouble me very much. You must think of poor Freddie and not be silly
and selfish, but go away cheerfully on Monday. Will you?"
"Are you coming with me?" asked Susan, lifting her large eyes anxiously
to her mother's face.
"All the way to Ramsgate! No, indeed, I shouldn't have time. You know
we start ourselves the next day. Maria's going with you."
Susan's little chest heaved, and her fingers clung tightly to the lace
frilling; Mother gently unclasped them one by one.
"Lie down and I will tuck you up nicely. There now, a kiss.
Good-night, darling."
In another second the light of the candle, the pink dressing-gown, the
fair hair, had all vanished together, and Susan was alone again. After
all she had not been able to ask nearly all the questions she had
prepared, and she could not help crying softly to herself for a little
while before she went to sleep; for the noises in the street seemed to
be saying now over and over again:
"All the way to Ramsgate, all the way to Ramsgate. Maria's going with
you."
After this it was surprising how quickly the days went by and Monday
came. Susan had her own little preparations to make for leaving home,
and while Nurse was packing her clothes she brought her many odd-looking
parcels, and asked anxiously:
"Can you get this in?"
Some of them _were_ got in, but others had to be left behind--put away
in the nursery cupboard for the whole winter. It seemed to Susan just
the same thing as putting them away for ever. She chose, after careful
thought, among her family of dolls the one to be taken with her; not the
newest one, or the most smartly dressed, but one she had always been
fond of, because she secretly considered her rather like Mother,
especially when she plaited up her hair. It was a wax doll called
Grace, with very blue eyes and yellow curls. After Grace's wardrobe had
been looked through and packed up in a work-box, there was another very
important thing to be finished, and that was a parting present for
mother. As she was not to know of it, this had to be done in secret
corners, and hastily hidden whenever she came near, so it had taken a
good deal of time. It was a tiny pink silk pin-cushion in the shape of
a heart, which Maria had cut out and fixed for her, and when it was done
the letters "SI" were to be marked on it with pins, and it was to be put
on mother's dressing-table on Sunday-night. There was more than one
small speck of blood on it, where Susan had pricked her hot little
fingers in a too earnest effort to take very small stitches, which was a
pity; perhaps, however, as it was _pink_ silk they would not show much,
and mother would not notice. Monday came; every one in the house was in
a greater bustle than ever, and every minute there was a fresh question
to be asked about something--about the journey to-day, or the journey
to-morrow, and so many small details, that a wearied frown gathered on
Mr Ingram's forehead and remained there; added to these troubles
Freddie had one of his bad headaches, and would hardly let his mother
leave him for a moment. Susan had scarcely spoken to her that morning,
and now she stood in the nursery ready for her journey, clasping Grace
in one arm, and a warm little cloak in the other. It was almost time to
start, all her other farewells had been said, but she hesitated.
"Now, Miss Susan, my lamb," said Nurse kissing her again, "you've just
time to run down and say good-bye to Missis and Master Freddie, and then
you must be off."
She went down-stairs and softly into the room. It was darkened; Freddie
was lying on his couch with a wet bandage on his forehead, and there was
a strong smell of eau de Cologne. Mother stood near and changed the
bandage now and then for a fresh one; she looked round, and held up her
finger when she heard the door open.
"Ah, it's you dear," she said in a low voice; "be very quiet. Is it
time for you to go? Is the cab there? Where's Maria?"
Susan walked up to the sofa; she had promised not to cry, and her throat
felt so funny that she thought she had better not speak, so she did not
answer any of these questions.
"Good-bye, darling," said Mrs Ingram, stooping to kiss her. "Give my
love to Aunt Hannah, and remember that Maria has a note for her; and be
good and obedient. You may write to me once every week, and I shall
write to you when I can."
Susan clung silently to her mother's neck. If only she might have
cried! Freddie pushed up the handkerchief, and looked at her with his
dark heavy eyes.
"Good-bye, Susie," he murmured; "don't let old Emptycap bully you."
"And now," said her mother, "you must really go. Is Maria there? Kiss
Freddie."
She led Susan to the door where Maria waited; in the hall the cabman was
just shouldering the luggage.
"You know what I have told you, Maria. Take care of Miss Susan, and I
shall expect you home early to-morrow."
Susan looked back when she reached the foot of the stair, and Mother
smiled and nodded, waving her hand; then there was an impatient cry of
"Mother!" from Freddie's room, and she vanished.
When Susan was in the cab with only Maria and Grace to see, she cried,
and refused all comfort for some time; not only because she was going
away to strangers, but also because up to the last minute she had so
much hoped that Mother would say something about the pink pin-cushion.
On rattled the cab past all the shops that Susan knew so well, and
through the streets where she had often walked with Mother or Nurse.
The journey to Ramsgate was to be made by sea, and they were to be
driven to Saint Katharine's Docks to take the steamer which started from
there at ten o'clock. Susan had heard her mother's directions to Maria,
and knew exactly what they had to do; she felt indeed that she should
remember them better, for she was accustomed to hear Nurse say that
Maria had "no head." She had not therefore much respect for her, and
thought it likely that she would make mistakes and forget things; but
though this was the case, there was a great deal to be liked in Maria.
For one thing she was always good-natured, and such a very good
listener; really interested in all Susan's information and startled at
any wonderful story, for she was a country girl, and had not yet ceased
to be surprised at London life. Presently, therefore, as they got
further on, Susan felt bound to point out and explain any objects or
buildings of interest they passed. She dried her eyes, looked out of
the window, and drew her companion's attention by sudden digs of her
elbow, which at last became so frequent that Maria's head was constantly
on the move from one side to the other for fear she should miss
anything. Soon with a more violent nudge than usual Susan shouted in
her ear:
"Look, Maria! there's the Tower of London!"
"Mercy on us!" exclaimed Maria, gazing open-mouthed; "what a big place!"
"It's where they used to cut off people's heads, you know," continued
Susan excitedly; "and kept them in dungeons years and years. And where
they smothered the little princes with a pillow, and buried them under
the stairs."
"Lawk!" said Maria.
"And the queen keeps her crown there now in a glass case."
"Well, I wouldn't do that," said Maria; "not if _I_ was queen.
Whatever's the good of having a crown?"
What with the rattling of the cab, the noise in the street, and Susan's
own uncertainty on the subject, it was difficult to make Maria
understand this; so any further explanation was put off, and they both
looked silently out of the windows till they reached Saint Katharine's
Docks.
Here there was a good deal of bustle and confusion, and also a little
delay; for Maria, who had held the cabman's exact fare tightly grasped
in one hand all the way, dropped it in getting out of the cab. A brisk
young porter, however, came to their assistance: he picked up the money,
shouldered the luggage, and showed Maria where to take the tickets; then
he led them down some slippery steps and on board the steamboat, which
lay alongside the wharf ready to start. It was all new and confusing to
Susan, and it was not till she was settled on deck, wrapped in a warm
shawl with Grace in her arms, that she looked round her at what was
going on. There was so much to see that she could hardly open her eyes
wide enough to take it all in. First there was the captain standing on
his bridge with his rough blue pea-coat buttoned up to his chin, and a
gold band round his cap; his face was quite round, and quite red, except
in places where it was a sort of blue colour. His voice was very
hoarse, and Susan could not make out a word he said, though he shouted
out very loud now and then. Then there were the passengers, hurrying
across the narrow gangway, with all sorts of bags, and parcels, and
bundles of wraps, jostling each other in their eagerness to secure good
places, and over their heads meanwhile dark smoke came rushing out of
the tall black funnel, and there was a constant hissing noise. Then
Susan noticed a silent man standing behind a great wheel at one end of
the boat, and in front of this was written, "Please do not speak to the
man at the wheel." She thought this very strange--it was almost as
though the man at the wheel were in disgrace. As she was gazing at him
and thinking how dull he must be, shut out from all conversation, she
saw him turn the wheel backwards and forwards by some handles on which
his hands were resting: at the same moment the captain gave a gruff
roar, a great rope was hauled on board, and the steamer, which till now
had been curtseying gently up and down on the water, began to move
smoothly on her way.
Maria, who up to this time had not ceased to inquire if this was the
right boat for Ramsgate, settled herself at Susan's side when the start
was really made. The sun shone so brightly that it was warm and
pleasant on deck, and they found plenty to admire and point out to each
other as they went along. A journey by the steamboat was much nicer,
they agreed, than by the train. This agreeable state of things lasted
while they were on the river, but presently the steamer began to roll a
little, and to be tossed about by the waves of the open sea. Then Maria
became more and more silent, until quite suddenly, to Susan's alarm, she
rose, said hastily, "You stop here, Miss Susan," and dived down into the
cabin near which they were sitting. What could be the matter? Susan
looked helplessly round; she did not like to follow her, and yet it was
not at all pleasant to be left here alone amongst all these strangers;
she felt frightened and deserted. Next to her sat a tall thin man
reading a book. He was tightly buttoned up to the chin in a threadbare
great-coat greenish with age, and wore leather straps under his boots.
She had noticed this when he came on board, and thought he looked
different somehow from everyone else; now she lifted her eyes, and made
a side-way examination of his face. He was clean shaven except for a
short-pointed beard, and his greyish hair was very closely-cropped. His
eyes she could not see, for they were bent on the pages before him, but
presently raising them his glance fell on her, and he smiled
reassuringly. Susan had never been used to smile at strangers; so,
though she did not remove her gaze, it continued to be a very serious
one, and also rather distressed.
"The Bonne has mal de mer?" he asked, after they had looked at each
other for a minute in silence. Susan did not answer, and, indeed, did
not know what he meant. This was a Frenchman, she thought to herself,
and that was why he looked different to the other people.
"She is vot you call sea-seek," he repeated--"that is a bad thing--but
she will be soon better." It was a comfort to hear this, though Susan
could not imagine how he knew what was the matter with Maria.
"It arrives often," he remarked again, "to those who travel on the sea--
myself, I have also suffered from it."
He looked so very kind as he said this, that Susan was encouraged to
smile at him, and little by little to say a few words. After that they
quickly became friends, and he proved a very amusing companion; for,
putting down his book, he devoted himself to her entirely, and told her
many wonderful facts about the sea, and ships, and the sea-gulls flying
overhead. She listened to these with great attention, bent on storing
them up to tell Maria afterwards, and then became confidential in her
turn. She told him about her home in London, and Freddie's illness, and
the long journey he was going to begin to-morrow, and Monsieur appeared
to take the very deepest interest in it all. By degrees Susan almost
forgot poor Maria in the pleasure of this new and agreeable
acquaintance.
It was now between one and two o'clock, and Monsieur produced from under
the seat a long narrow black bag, and unlocked it In it Susan could not
help seeing there were a roll of manuscript, one or two books, a pair of
slippers, and a flat white paper parcel. This last being opened,
disclosed a hard round biscuit with seeds in it.
"Voyons!" he said gaily, "let us dine, ma petite demoiselle."
Now Susan was hungry, for it was past dinnertime, and she had
breakfasted early. She knew that Maria had brought sandwiches and buns
with her, but in her hasty retreat she had taken the bag, and had
evidently forgotten all about it. She looked hesitatingly at the
biscuit which her companion had broken in halves, and was now holding on
the paper in front of her. It was the French gentleman's only biscuit--
ought she to take it?
He guessed what was passing in her mind, and smiled kindly at her,
nodding his head.
"If you will eat with me I shall have better appetite," he said. "It is
perhaps a little dry--but after all, if one is hungry!--"
He shrugged his shoulders without finishing the sentence, and Susan took
the half-biscuit, finding when she began it that she was even hungrier
than she thought. She was still hungry when it was all gone, and she
felt sure the French gentleman could easily have eaten more. She would
have liked to offer him some of her sandwiches or a bun, but there was
still no sign of Maria.
So hour after hour went by, until, late in the afternoon, her companion
told her they were getting near Ramsgate.
"In one quarter of an hour we shall be at the pier. The journey will
then be over. The passage has been fine and tranquil."
But poor Maria had not found it so, for it was not until the steamer was
stopping that she appeared on deck looking very white, and staggering
about helplessly. It was fortunate, therefore, that Susan's new friend
was there, and that she herself could point out the luggage, for Maria
had now quite lost her head, and was of no use at all.
The French gentleman, however, was most active and kind in their
service, and did not leave them till they were safely in a cab with
their property. Even then Maria had forgotten the address, and it was
Susan who said:
"It is Belmont Cottage, Chatham Road."
"Ah!" exclaimed Susan's friend; "it is the house of Madame Enticknapp!
We shall then perhaps meet again, ma petite amie."
He put his feet quite close together and executed a graceful bow as the
cab drove away, with his hat pressed against his chest.
"What an old figure of fun!" was Maria's remark.
"I like him," said Susan. "He was very kind, and gave me half his
dinner."
Maria said no more, for she was still in a very depressed state from the
effects of the journey, and her head was "all of a swim," as she
expressed it. So Susan was left to her own thoughts; and as the cab
rattled along the road in front of the sea, she wondered anxiously which
of those tall houses with balconies was Mrs Enticknapp's. But
presently they turned up a side street, lost sight of the sea
altogether, and drove through a town, where the shops were being lighted
up, and came at last to a quiet road. The houses were not tall here
like those facing the sea, and were not built in terraces, but stood
each alone with its own name on its gate, and its own little garden in
front, bordered with tamarisk bushes. Susan felt sure that one of those
would be called Belmont Cottage, and she was right, for the cab stopped
at last, and she really had arrived at Aunt Enticknapp's house! It was
just like the others, except that it had an extra room built on at the
side; the roof was low, and the windows had small diamond-shaped panes
in them. Susan noticed, as they walked up the strip of garden to the
door, that the borders were edged with cockle shells and whelk shells,
which she thought very pretty but rather wasteful. She was, however,
now beginning to feel extremely tired, and hungry with the sea-air, and
the two together produced a dizziness which made it difficult to think
of anything else. She could not even feel frightened at the idea of
seeing Mrs Enticknapp and the Bahia girls, and they hardly seemed like
real people when she was actually in the room with them. She knew that
there was a tall old lady with black curls and a cap, who spoke to her
and kissed her, and two "grown-up" girls who came and knelt down in
front of her and unpinned her shawl, chattering all the time. She also
heard one of them say to the other: "Pretty?" and the answer, "No. She
only looks so after Sophia Jane."
Later on, after some supper, she became sleepier still and more giddy
and confused, so that she hardly knew that Maria was undressing her and
putting her to bed. When there, however, she roused herself
sufficiently to say:
"Maria, I can hear noises in the street here just like there are at
home."
Maria's answer was the last sound she heard that night: "Bless yer 'art,
Miss Susan, that ain't noises in the street. That's that botherin' sea
goin' on like that. Worse luck!"