It is not pleasant to be a fish out of water. To be a cat in water is
not what any one would desire. To be in a temper is uncomfortable. And
no one can fully taste the joys of life if he is in a Little Lord
Fauntleroy suit. But by far the most uncomfortable thing to be in is
disgrace, sometimes amusingly called Coventry by the people who are not
in it.
We have all been there. It is a place where the heart sinks and aches,
where familiar faces are clouded and changed, where any remark that one
may tremblingly make is received with stony silence or with the
assurance that nobody wants to talk to such a naughty child. If you are
only in disgrace, and not in solitary confinement, you will creep about
a house that is like the one you have had such jolly times in, and yet
as unlike it as a bad dream is to a June morning. You will long to speak
to people, and be afraid to speak. You will wonder whether there is
anything you can do that will change things at all. You have said you
are sorry, and that has changed nothing. You will wonder whether you are
to stay for ever in this desolate place, outside all hope and love and
fun and happiness. And though it has happened before, and has always, in
the end, come to an end, you can never be quite sure that this time it
is not going to last for ever.
'It _is_ going to last for ever,' said Amabel, who was eight. 'What
shall I do? Oh whatever shall I do?'
What she _had_ done ought to have formed the subject of her
meditations. And she had done what had seemed to her all the time, and
in fact still seemed, a self-sacrificing and noble act. She was staying
with an aunt--measles or a new baby, or the painters in the house, I
forget which, the cause of her banishment. And the aunt, who was really
a great-aunt and quite old enough to know better, had been grumbling
about her head gardener to a lady who called in blue spectacles and a
beady bonnet with violet flowers in it.
'He hardly lets me have a plant for the table,' said the aunt, 'and that
border in front of the breakfast-room window--it's just bare earth--and
I expressly ordered chrysanthemums to be planted there. He thinks of
nothing but his greenhouse.'
The beady-violet-blue-glassed lady snorted, and said she didn't know
what we were coming to, and she would have just half a cup, please, with
not quite so much milk, thank you very much.
Now what would you have done? Minded your own business most likely, and
not got into trouble at all. Not so Amabel. Enthusiastically anxious to
do something which should make the great-aunt see what a thoughtful,
unselfish, little girl she really was (the aunt's opinion of her being
at present quite otherwise), she got up very early in the morning and
took the cutting-out scissors from the work-room table drawer and stole,
'like an errand of mercy,' she told herself, to the greenhouse where she
busily snipped off every single flower she could find. MacFarlane was at
his breakfast. Then with the points of the cutting-out scissors she made
nice deep little holes in the flower-bed where the chrysanthemums ought
to have been, and struck the flowers in--chrysanthemums, geraniums,
primulas, orchids, and carnations. It would be a lovely surprise for
Auntie.
Then the aunt came down to breakfast and saw the lovely surprise.
Amabel's world turned upside down and inside out suddenly and
surprisingly, and there she was, in Coventry, and not even the housemaid
would speak to her. Her great-uncle, whom she passed in the hall on her
way to her own room, did indeed, as he smoothed his hat, murmur, 'Sent
to Coventry, eh? Never mind, it'll soon be over,' and went off to the
City banging the front door behind him.
He meant well, but he did not understand.
Amabel understood, or she thought she did, and knew in her miserable
heart that she was sent to Coventry for the last time, and that this
time she would stay there.
'I don't care,' she said quite untruly. 'I'll never try to be kind to
any one again.' And that wasn't true either. She was to spend the whole
day alone in the best bedroom, the one with the four-post bed and the
red curtains and the large wardrobe with a looking-glass in it that you
could see yourself in to the very ends of your strap-shoes.
The first thing Amabel did was to look at herself in the glass. She was
still sniffing and sobbing, and her eyes were swimming in tears, another
one rolled down her nose as she looked--that was very interesting.
Another rolled down, and that was the last, because as soon as you get
interested in watching your tears they stop.
Next she looked out of the window, and saw the decorated flower-bed,
just as she had left it, very bright and beautiful.
'Well, it _does_ look nice,' she said. 'I don't care what they say.'
Then she looked round the room for something to read; there was nothing.
The old-fashioned best bedrooms never did have anything. Only on the
large dressing-table, on the left-hand side of the oval swing-glass,
was one book covered in red velvet, and on it, very twistily
embroidered in yellow silk and mixed up with misleading leaves and
squiggles were the letters, A.B.C.
'Perhaps it's a picture alphabet,' said Mabel, and was quite pleased,
though of course she was much too old to care for alphabets. Only when
one is very unhappy and very dull, anything is better than nothing. She
opened the book.
'Why, it's only a time-table!' she said. 'I suppose it's for people when
they want to go away, and Auntie puts it here in case they suddenly make
up their minds to go, and feel that they can't wait another minute. I
feel like that, only it's no good, and I expect other people do too.'
She had learned how to use the dictionary, and this seemed to go the
same way. She looked up the names of all the places she knew.--Brighton
where she had once spent a month, Rugby where her brother was at school,
and Home, which was Amberley--and she saw the times when the trains left
for these places, and wished she could go by those trains.
And once more she looked round the best bedroom which was her prison,
and thought of the Bastille, and wished she had a toad to tame, like the
poor Viscount, or a flower to watch growing, like Picciola, and she was
very sorry for herself, and very angry with her aunt, and very grieved
at the conduct of her parents--she had expected better things from
them--and now they had left her in this dreadful place where no one
loved her, and no one understood her.
There seemed to be no place for toads or flowers in the best room, it
was carpeted all over even in its least noticeable corners. It had
everything a best room ought to have--and everything was of dark shining
mahogany. The toilet-table had a set of red and gold glass things--a
tray, candlesticks, a ring-stand, many little pots with lids, and two
bottles with stoppers. When the stoppers were taken out they smelt very
strange, something like very old scent, and something like cold cream
also very old, and something like going to the dentist's.
I do not know whether the scent of those bottles had anything to do with
what happened. It certainly was a very extraordinary scent. Quite
different from any perfume that I smell nowadays, but I remember that
when I was a little girl I smelt it quite often. But then there are no
best rooms now such as there used to be. The best rooms now are gay with
chintz and mirrors, and there are always flowers and books, and little
tables to put your teacup on, and sofas, and armchairs. And they smell
of varnish and new furniture.
When Amabel had sniffed at both bottles and looked in all the pots,
which were quite clean and empty except for a pearl button and two pins
in one of them, she took up the A.B.C. again to look for Whitby, where
her godmother lived. And it was then that she saw the extraordinary name
'_Whereyouwantogoto._' This was odd--but the name of the station from
which it started was still more extraordinary, for it was not Euston or
Cannon Street or Marylebone.
The name of the station was '_Bigwardrobeinspareroom._' And below this
name, really quite unusual for a station, Amabel read in small letters:
'Single fares strictly forbidden. Return tickets No Class Nuppence.
Trains leave _Bigwardrobeinspareroom_ all the time.'