Susan | Page 4

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