Susan - Amy Walton (bearly read books .txt) 📗

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