"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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sistance: 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 b.u.t.toned 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 hoa.r.s.e, and Susan could not make out a word he said, though he shouted out very loud now and then. Then there were the pa.s.sengers, 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 b.u.t.toned 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 rea.s.suringly. 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 ma.n.u.script, 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 pet.i.te 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 pa.s.sing in her mind, and smiled kindly at her, nodding his head.

"If you will eat with me I shall have better appet.i.te," 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 pa.s.sage 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 pet.i.te 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 c.o.c.kle sh.e.l.ls and whelk sh.e.l.ls, 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!"

CHAPTER TWO.

"SOPHIA JANE."

Poor Maria was to go back to London the next morning, and she came into Susan's room early to say good-bye, prepared for her journey in a very tearful state. It was not merely that she looked forward with anything but pleasure to another sea-voyage, but she had an affectionate nature, and, was fond of Susan, who on her side was sorry to think that she should not see Maria again. There were many parting messages to be conveyed to Mother, and Nurse, and Freddie. But at last it was really time to go, and Maria tore herself away with difficulty, hurriedly pressing into Susan's hand a new sixpence with a hole in it. She was gone now, and had taken the last bit of home with her--Susan was for the first time in her life alone with strangers. As she dressed herself she looked forward with alarm to meeting them all at breakfast, for she could not even remember what they were like last night; they seemed all mixed up together like things in a dream.

At last she gathered courage to leave the room, made her way very slowly down-stairs, and opening the first door she came to on the ground floor peeped timidly in. There was no one there, but the table was laid for breakfast, and she went in and stood before the fire. It was a long room, very low, with faded furniture, and a French window opening into a small garden, where there were gooseberry bushes. At the end opposite the fireplace there were two steps leading up to a door, and Susan wondered what was on the other side of it. On the mantelpiece, and in a corner cupboard and on a side-table, there were quant.i.ties of blue china mugs and plates and dishes, which she thought were queer things to have for ornaments; there were also some funny little figures carved in ivory and wood--dear little stumpy elephants amongst them, which she liked very much. The only picture in the room she presently noticed, hung over the fireplace in an oval frame. It was a portrait of a gentleman with powdered hair and a pig-tail; his eyes were as blue as the cups and dishes; he was clean shaven, and wore a blue coat and a very large white shirt frill. As Susan was looking up at him the door at the end of the room opened, and a maid-servant came stepping down with a dish in her hand. Susan could now see that the door led straight into a kitchen, which she thought odd but rather interesting. Almost immediately Aunt Hannah, the two girls she had seen the night before, and a little girl of about her own age came in, and they all sat down to breakfast. In spite of great shyness, Susan was able to take many furtive glances at her companions, and was relieved to find that at any rate Aunt Hannah was not a bit like what Freddie had said. She was a tall, straight old lady with a high cap, black curls, and a velvet band across her forehead. She did not look either witch-like or cross, and Susan felt that she should not be afraid of her when she knew her better. She soon found that the names of the two "grown-up" girls, as she called them in her mind, were Nanna and Margaretta; Nanna was fair and freckled, and Margaretta very swarthy, with a quant.i.ty of black curls. They chattered and laughed incessantly, and tried to pet Susan and make her talk, but did not succeed very well. She thought she did not like either of them much, and wished they would leave her alone, for she was interested in watching the movements of the little girl and wondering who she was.

She was a very thin little thing with high shoulders and skinny arms, dressed in a dingy-green plaid frock. Everything about her looked sharp--her chin was sharp, her elbows were sharp; the glances she cast at Susan over her bread and milk were sharp, and when she spoke her voice sounded sharp also. Her features were not ugly, but her expression was unchildlike and old. No one seemed to notice her much, but if Nanna or Margaretta said anything to her, it was not in the coaxing tones they used to Susan, but had a reproving sound.

After breakfast came prayers, in which Buskin the maid-servant joined, sitting a little apart at the end of the room with a severe look on her face. Then Aunt Hannah sat down in the arm-chair near the fire. "And now, my little Susan," she said, "come here and talk to me."

Susan stood submissively at her side, and answered all the questions put to her about Mother and Freddie and herself; but she did not do much of the talking, for she was shy, and everything seemed forlorn and strange to her. What a comfort Maria's well-known face would have been! As it was, the only familiar object was her doll Grace, which she had brought down-stairs, and now held tightly clutched under one arm.

"And here," said Mrs Enticknapp, when she had finished her inquiries; "here, you see is a nice little companion for you of your own age. She will learn lessons with you, and play with you, and I hope you will soon be good friends. Sophia Jane, come here."

Sophia Jane came and stood on the other side of Aunt Hannah, rolled her arms tightly up in her pinafore, and stared without winking at Susan and her doll.

"To-day," continued Mrs Enticknapp, "you shall not do any lessons, and while I am busy with Nanna and Margaretta you may amuse yourselves quietly. After dinner you shall all go out for a walk. If you crumple up your pinafore in that way, Sophia Jane," she added, "you will have another bad mark."

Sophia Jane unrolled her arms, and smoothed the pinafore down in front with her small bony hands; then she thrust out her pointed chin, and asked eagerly:

"May we go and play in the attic?"

Aunt Hannah hesitated. "If it's not too cold for Susan, you may. If it is, you must come and play at some quiet game in here. But understand that you must make no noise while I am busy."

"Come along," said Sophia Jane. She caught hold of Susan's hand and led her quickly out of the room and upstairs, casting rapid glances at her over her shoulder as they went. "Fond of dolls?" she inquired as they were climbing the second flight of stairs.

"I'm fond of _this_ one," answered Susan, clasping Grace a little closer.

"I had one once," said Sophia Jane with a superior air; "but I haven't got her now."

"Where is she?" asked Susan.