Chapter One.

“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?”