was all much nicer. I began to read a book I’d brought from home that
was called “_Vanity Fair_”; it is an interesting book, but rather
muddly, and the girl in it, Amelia, is a gump. That’s what Humphrey and
I call people who are silly like that. I’d read quite a lot by the time
the breakfast bell rang and I took it down to go on with afterwards.
Mrs. Charlton was sitting in an armchair at the head of the table, and
all the servants were there for prayers. They seemed to be all waiting
for me. Just as if this wasn’t bad enough, the minute I got in Mrs.
Charlton called out, “What is that book that you have got in your hand?”
Well, when I showed it to her she seemed quite cross. She said, “Has
your Mother given you permission to read this?” in the most severe way.
I said “Yes,” because Mother had never told us we mayn’t read anything.
Then I thought that as Mother hadn’t mentioned this particular book,
perhaps that wasn’t true, so I said “No.” Then I remembered Mother had
said once that we might always take magazines, and this was on that
shelf, so I said “Yes,” again. I said, “It’s got paper covers, you see.”
“Don’t prevaricate, child,” Mrs. Charlton said, “I’m sorry to see you
are not more straightforward.” She went and locked up my book, which I
did think a shame, and the prayers began. It was horrid her thinking
I told stories, and very silly, just when I was trying to be so
partic’larly truthful.
After breakfast we went for a walk in the village; and that wasn’t bad,
only another unpleasant thing happened first. I don’t think I said that
when I got up, I tied Mother’s penwiper round my neck with a bootlace,
because that made me feel nice. Well, when we were starting to go out
Mrs. Charlton suddenly said, “What is that untidy piece of black tape
showing above your dress?”
I pretended not to hear. I didn’t know what else to do, because of
course I couldn’t tell her about private things like that. She asked
me again, but I still didn’t say anything. Then she shook her head
and said, “Sullen, sullen,” to herself, though I was just going away
to take the penwiper off so as to please her. At least I didn’t take
it right off, I tied it round my waist instead, where the bootlace
couldn’t show, only it was very prickly. It wasn’t my fault keeping
Mrs. Charlton waiting either, for I had to quite undress to do it.
I forgot to say that it was a very nice penwiper, that I’d made for
Mother as a birthday present, when I was quite little. It had “Mother”
worked on it in beads, and the date and how old she was; at least
I’d made a mistake about the last and put seventy-eight. You see,
Father used to tell us that was Mother’s age for a joke, and we really
believed it. Of course I was only a little girl then.
The village wasn’t far away, and when we came back, I played in the
garden. There wasn’t much to do and so I climbed a tree. Almost
directly Mrs. Charlton came tearing out in a great fuss and said that
it was most dangerous and unladylike and that I was never to do such a
thing again. I felt very cross, because really it was a silly little
tree that a baby could climb, but I remembered what I promised Mother,
so I just walked about in a stupid, grown-up way and wondered if
lunch-time was ever coming.
In the afternoon it was worse, because it began to rain. Mrs. Charlton
and I sat in the drawing-room and did nothing. There was a Persian
cat, who you would think would have been some comfort, but he was the
stupidest cat I ever saw. He just slept the whole time. Mrs. Charlton
asked me then if I hadn’t got any needlework, so I went and fetched
the mat that I’m working for Cousin Sophy’s wedding present. (It will
be rather late, because Cousin Sophy went and got married about a year
ago, before I could get it done; I do think she needn’t have been in
such a hurry.) I sat there and sewed for ages and ages until I thought
my head would drop off; at last I found I’d forgotten to bring the
skein of the silk, and I couldn’t do any more. That was nice.
Tea came just then, real afternoon tea, with thin bread and butter and
two very nice little scone things on a separate plate and a little
jug of cream, that I’m partic’larly fond of. Well, I tried not to be
greedy, but I couldn’t help being rather pleased, when suddenly Mrs.
Charlton said, “Pussy is so fond of cream, I know you won’t mind his
having it,” and she crumbled up both the little scones and poured all
the cream over them, every drop. Then she asked me to put it down on
the floor in the corner.
After tea Mrs. Charlton asked me if I’d like to read a little, because
she said she’d look out a nice suitable book for me. I was very
pleased, even though I found it was a book with a shiny red cover and
green leaves on it, which sort generally aren’t interesting. It was
called “_How Little Susan Saved the Home_,” and it was all about poor
people.
It wasn’t a bad sort of book, though it was written rather as if you
had got no sense at all. It was about a little girl who used to wait
outside the public-house every night to come home with her father. I
don’t see that that was so horrid for her. When we were in London, the
Punch and Judy shows were almost always at public-house corners, and
once we saw a dear fat dog in a patchwork coat and the darlingest white
mice on his back, but Cousin Sophy would never let us stop. Of course
on wet nights it can’t have been such fun for Little Susan, but I dare
say they’d have let her wait inside, only she seemed to be too silly
to ask. In the middle of the book there was a very horrible bit, about
the father getting tipsy and kind of mad, but he got all right at the
end. It was in such big print I soon finished it, because I read very
quickly.
Mrs. Charlton had gone off to sleep, so I didn’t know what to do. I
looked at the bookcase, but it was locked, so I walked round the room,
and there in the back drawing-room, rather high up, was a shelf with
some old-looking books on it. I went up to Mrs. Charlton to ask her if
I might take one, but she was still asleep. Well, I didn’t really think
she’d mind, because they were so shabby, so I climbed up on a chair
and chose one called “_Peregrine Pickle_”; I thought from the name it
might be about a boy who got into scrapes. It was rather disappointing
inside, and the s’s were funny and difficult to read, but bits were
interesting. It was written in a nice way too, not sillily like
“_Little Susan_,” and there weren’t any horrid parts in it either.
Suddenly, as I was reading, the book was snatched out of my hand. Mrs.
Charlton was standing there looking furious. “How dare you take that
book, you wicked girl!” she said; “go to your room and pray for a
better nature.” I told her that I only took it because I’d finished the
one that she gave me, and I didn’t know what to do till she woke, but
she didn’t seem to believe me; it did seem curious and horrid.
I went upstairs as she told me, and it was so dull that I said the
multiplication table three times forwards and once backwards, and
before that I’d repeated nearly all the poetry I knew, besides trying
to reckon out how much the horse’s shoe would cost if you paid a
farthing for the first nail and doubled it for each one. Of course I
pretended I was in the Bastille all the time, but there weren’t any
rats or toads or anything nice, and I was quite glad even to see the
housemaid. It wasn’t the real housemaid either, because she was old,
and disagreeable; this was one I hadn’t seen before. She brought me
some bread and milk for my supper.
“I dare say you’re missing your little brothers and sisters,” she said.
I hadn’t thought of it before, but directly she said it, I knew that
that was why I was so miserable. I seemed suddenly to want Mother and
them all so dreadfully, that I could hardly help crying. Lizzie (the
servant told me that was her name, and that she was the hupandowngirl,
not the housemaid), well, she was most nice; she seemed the nicest
person in the house. She said she used to cry herself to sleep every
night when she first went out to service. She told me about her home
too, and that there were twelve of them, and that they used to sleep
four in one bed, and lovely things like that. She was just telling me
about her pigs, when the bell rang rather angrily.
“Lor, I must be off, the Missus will be in a fine taking,” Lizzie said,
and she ran away.
When Lizzie had gone, I was just going to be miserable, but suddenly
she rushed in again, and threw a lot of newspaper things on to the bed.
“I thought maybe they’d amuse you, but don’t let the Missus see ’em,”
she said, and she tore out, because the bell was ringing more crossly
than ever.
I certainly did know that I oughtn’t to read books when I’d been sent
upstairs in disgrace, and I’d better confess that at once. But then it
didn’t feel to me that I’d done anything to be punished for, and it did
seem so tempting. First I thought I’d just look at the pictures--for
there was one on each cover--of gentlemen shooting each other and
ladies in their dressing-gowns, with their hair down, and things like
that, all most exciting. So I began just to turn over the leaves to see
the names of the people in the pictures, but before I knew what I was
doing I was reading one story straight through. I truthfully forgot
then about it’s being naughty.
It was a very interesting story, all about lords and dukes; I had never
read one like it before. They were most funny people, and always
getting fond of quite strangers and wanting to fly with them. I was
just in the middle, when suddenly I heard the door open. Before I could
think, I’d pushed all the papers under the eiderdown. That was the part
Mother minded most when I told her, because it seemed mean. I’ve tried
to think since that I did it because Lizzie had asked me not to let any
one see the papers, but it wasn’t that really, at least not mostly.
Besides, what Mother said was that if I had put away the novelettes at
the beginning without looking at them, and then have given them back to
Lizzie at the first opportunity, that would have saved her getting into
trouble just the same, and I should not have been mean.
Well, I suppose when Mrs. Charlton came in I looked rather
uncomfortable; also there may have been a bit of one of the papers
sticking out. Anyway, the first thing she did was to lift up the
eiderdown. Then of course she saw them all. I felt awful.
No one said anything for what seemed a long time, and then Mrs.
Charlton made a horrid noise in her throat and began: “You are so
utterly deceitful,” she said, “that it is not of very much use to put
questions to you, but I should be glad if you would kindly inform me
where you procured this degrading form of literature.”
I didn’t answer. That wasn’t naughtiness, but because of Lizzie. Mrs.
Charlton asked me again, and she asked me other questions of the same
sort, but of course I couldn’t answer them either. She got angrier and
angrier. At last she said, “I shall send you home immediately. I cannot
have my household corrupted by your low tastes and deceitfulness.”
That was the first nice thing she had said since I had been there. Of
course I didn’t altogether like it, because it seemed horrid to be sent
home in disgrace; besides, my coming back would be a worry for them,
when Humph was so ill. But I was so happy at the idea of seeing Mother
again that I couldn’t really think of anything else. I could hardly
help jumping, I was so happy. I said, “Please, shall I put on my coat
and hat at once?”
I’m sure I said it most politely, but Mrs. Charlton replied “No” most
angrily. She said, “You may certainly rest assured that I do not wish
to keep you a moment longer than I am compelled, but I am afraid that
it would be impossible for me to arrange for your return to-night.”
Then she went away.
After she had gone I thought a lot. First of all I packed my box, so as
to be ready the first thing in the morning. Then I suddenly thought,
Why couldn’t I arrange my journey home all alone, so as not to bother
Mrs. Charlton? Then I could start off directly? I rushed to the window
to see if it had stopped raining, and it had.
When I began to plan it out it seemed to get easier and easier. It was
only three and a half miles to the station, and along the big road with
milestones and telegraph posts all the way. I knew, because, besides
driving up the day before, we’d gone along a bit of the road to the
village that morning. I’d got my return ticket to King’s Cross in my
purse, and once that I got there I’d just take a cab to Waterloo, and
then I could get home quite well. I know all about the trains from
there, you see, because I’ve been lots of times. I’d got plenty of
money, because there was the half-crown that Mother gave me before
I came away (I had sewed it into my clothes, of course, like people
do for travelling). Then I’d got a shilling and a farthing from my
pocket-money, and a sixpence with a hole in it; I knew that with all
that I could manage quite well. The only bother was about my box: I
couldn’t carry it, of course; it _was_ puzzling. I thought, though, I
might tell them at the station to call for it the next day, and let it
go by itself, like we sometimes do at home. I wrote the address on the
label in printing very neatly.
I thought then that I’d start off, though I did feel a little
uncomfortable as to whether Mother would mind. She certainly doesn’t
like me to go out alone, but sometimes I have been sent on a message.
Of course it was getting rather late, but I thought if I ran I could
get to Corby, where the station is, before it got quite dark. Besides,
I knew Mother wouldn’t wish me to stop when Mrs. Charlton didn’t want
me; I heard her say once herself that visitors should never outstay
their welcome. The chiefest thing, though, was that I felt I just
couldn’t go a whole night more without seeing Mother.
The worst part to think of was the going downstairs. My heart was
thumping dreadfully by the time I had got on my coat and hat. Oh, first
I pinned a little note on to the pincushion to say that I’d gone. It
was most useful that I’d read Lizzie’s book, because that is what Lady
Vera did before she flew with the Duke; I mightn’t ever have thought of
it by myself. I forgot to say that I’d tied up all the magazines in a
piece of brown paper and addressed them to “Miss Lizzie Hupandowngirl,
thankyou.” I had to put just that because I didn’t know her other name.
It was perfectly awful--the going down I mean. The stairs seemed to
creak just as if they were doing it on purpose. Every minute I thought
some one would come. No one did, though. I expect Mrs. Charlton was
having her late dinner; anyway, there was nobody about. I crept across
the hall and opened the front door. The squeak it made was dreadful. I
stood there for a minute feeling quite sick and funny, but still no one
came. So I went out and shut the door behind me as softly as I could.
Then I ran and ran.
Of course I couldn’t run all the way to Corby; I had to go slower
pretty soon. I kept running little bits now and then, but it seemed a
dreadfully long way. I was so afraid that some one Mrs. Charlton knew
would see me and perhaps send me back, but though the people I met
looked at me in rather a surprised way, they didn’t speak. I hid behind
the hedge, too, until they’d passed, when I heard them coming in time.
It was getting quite dark for the last part of the way, and the lamps
were all lit at Corby. I couldn’t remember the turning to the station,
but I asked a little boy. They speak so funnily up there that I didn’t
understand what he said, but he pointed out the way all right.
There was only one porter person at the station, and I was rather glad
of that. He seemed rather stupid, but when I’d asked him two or three
times, he said there was a train to King’s Cross at 8.52. That was very
lucky, because it was already a quarter past eight. The porter asked
me if I had got any luggage, but I said, “No, you are to fetch that
to-morrow.” I didn’t think until afterwards that I hadn’t told him the
address.
When the train came it was very full, because there had been an
excursion or something. I found one compartment that wasn’t quite so
full, and I got in. A gentleman said, “Come on, there’s room for a
little ’un,” and another said, “The more the merrier.” They certainly
were very merry, for they were singing songs the whole time, and
fighting, but all in fun. I didn’t know grown-up people played like
that.
There was a very fat lady sitting opposite me, and she began to talk.
She said suddenly in rather a strict way, “Where’s your Ma, my dear?”
and I said, “At home.”
After a minute or two she started again. She said, “Ain’t your Ma well?”
I said, “Yes, it’s Humph who is ill.” Then she asked me some more about
him, and I told her.
I thought she’d stopped, and I quite jumped when she said very crossly,
“I suppose your Pa won’t leave ’is smoke. Puff an’ pull the whole day
long, that’s the way with all these men. Pigs, I calls ’em!”
I didn’t exactly understand. I said, “Father doesn’t smoke the whole
day, but he is very fond of it. He likes to have his pipe if he can.”
I found out afterwards that she thought I meant that Father was in
a smoking compartment of the same train; I’m sure I don’t know why.
I’d got so sleepy, though, that I didn’t seem to be able to explain
anything or think properly at all.
There was a funny little thin man sitting next to the fat lady, who
looked as if he’d got there by mistake. He was like a white rabbit
with a cold in its head. Suddenly the fat lady said, “Jeremiah, change
places this minute with the young lady,” and he jumped up in quite a
frightened way. Then she said to me much more nicely, “You come an’
set ’ere, my dear, then you’ll be able to lean up aginst me an’ rest
yourself more comfortable like.”
I was so sleepy that I could hardly stand. It was most peculiar. So the
fat lady pulled me up and put my head on her lap, just as if I were a
baby; I didn’t seem to mind at all. I was rather ashamed when I thought
about it afterwards, but Mother says it didn’t matter, and that the fat
lady was most kind. I think so, too, though her lap was rather steep
to be very comfortable. All the same, I must have gone off to sleep
almost directly.
The next thing I remember was being lifted up. The fat lady and the
little white-rabbit gentleman were bustling about getting down their
things, and the train was stopping. “No, this ain’t King’s Cross, my
dear,” she said, “but we ain’t far off, so you jist pop on your ’at.
We gets out ’ere, but I suppose your Pa will come for you at the next
station. I’d like to give my fine gentleman a piece of my mind,” she
went on to the little rabbit man, “leaving that pore child in ’ere an’
never so much as taking the trouble to clap ’is eyes upon ’er the ’ole
blessed way.”
I was so astonished altogether, I could hardly speak. You see, for the
first minute or two I couldn’t remember where I was. So I just said,
“Thank you very much, thank you,” a good many times over. The fat lady
bent down and kissed me, and said, “There’s a good little girl.” And,
do you know, when her face was close, it looked for a minute like
Mother’s. It was most astonishing, because she was so red and funny.
I got quite awake getting my hat down from the rack, and almost
directly after we arrived at King’s Cross. There was a great rush and
bustle, and only one or two cabs, so it’s lucky the other excursion
people didn’t all want them; every one seemed to be walking. I thought
I’d better make haste, though, so I said to one cabman, “Are you
engaged?” and when he said “No,” I jumped in quickly.
Well, I expected that he’d start at once, but he didn’t. I waited a
minute or two, then I poked open the little hole, which is rather
difficult to do because it’s so high. I said, “Will you tell your horse
to go, please?”
He looked most astonished. He said, “You ain’t all alone?” I said
“Yes.” Then he was very cross. He said “Come, now, get out of this.” I
remembered then that I hadn’t told him where to go to, and I thought
that might be making him so disagreeable. I said, “I beg your pardon
for not telling you that I want to go to Waterloo Station, and I want
to start at once, please.”
The man seemed to get more surprised still. He said (I can’t help it,
it’s sounding dreadful, but it’s what he really did say)--he said,
“Well, I’m blessed!” Then he called out to a porter, but the porter was
too busy to hear him.
I didn’t know what to do because he didn’t seem to be even beginning to
start. Then I remembered that when we were at Cousin Sophy’s the cabman
wouldn’t drive us back from the pantomime because he said Chiswick was
too far. So I poked open the little hole again, and I said, “You are
on the rank plying for hire, and unless you start immediately I shall
summons you.” That was what Cousin Sophy said; Humph and I have often
acted it since, because the cabman was so angry and there was such an
exciting fuss.
This cabman wasn’t angry, though; he just seemed to get more and more
astonished. He began to laugh, and he said again, “Well, I’m blessed!”
Then he said, “You ain’t running away, are you, Missy?”
I said “No.” I think that was true, because it isn’t exactly running
away when you have been told that you are to go the next day in any
case. I said, “I am just travelling home to my Mother.”
That seemed to decide him more. He was going to start, when he thought
of something else to worry over. He called down, “But ’ow about my
fare, Missy?”
I had been rather troubled about that myself. I’d got the half-crown
for him, of course, and the ticket home from Waterloo is only
one-and-five-pence-halfpenny, so he could have another halfpenny out
of the sixpence with the hole in it, as well as my bright farthing.
But I wasn’t sure if even all that was enough. Cabs are so dreadfully
expensive, Mother always says; and Father says one oughtn’t to be
stingy. So I just explained it to the cabman. I said, “I’ve got
half-a-crown for you, and a halfpenny out of the sixpence with a hole
in it, and a bright farthing; and if you’ll drive me as far as you can
for that without me being stingy, I’ll walk the rest.” I knew there
couldn’t be very much further to go, anyway.
The cabman, though, was most nice. He said, “The ’alf-crown will do
nicely for me, Missy. You can keep the rest.” Then we really did drive
off.
I did like it in the cab, and the streets were all bright with the
lights. A clock we passed said it was ten minutes to twelve; wasn’t
that an astonishing time? When we got to Waterloo I jumped out and gave
the cabman his money. He said, “Shall you find the lady all right?” I
said “Yes.” I think he would have said more, only just at that minute
some one waved to him from the opposite side of the road.
There weren’t very many people in the station, but they all stared very
rudely, and some looked as if they were going to speak. So I hurried
on as fast as I could to the place where you get the tickets. I knew
there was a train in the middle of the night, you see, because Father
comes down by it sometimes after parties. The little window for buying
the tickets was open. (I can reach up to it quite easily on tiptoe;
Humphrey can’t, he’d have to take a footstool if he travelled alone.) I
said, “One half-third single to Farncombe.”
Well, the gentleman there looked as surprised as the cabman. He said
“What?” quite crossly. I thought it was because I hadn’t said “please,”
but he wasn’t a bit nicer when I did. Then some other people came
near, and that seemed to make the gentleman in the little hole less
surprised. He punched my ticket and gave it to me, and he said, “I
suppose your Mother has a season ticket?” I said, “No, Father has.” I
didn’t know why he asked, but I think now he thought that I belonged to
the people who were standing there. It was very silly of him, for the
lady wasn’t the least bit like Mother; she looked horrid.
I know the platform from which our trains mostly start, besides a good
many other people were going along as well. I heard one lady say, “Who
does that little girl belong to?” And the gentleman said, “Oh, to that
lot, I think.” It made me very cross that everybody should mistake the
horrid lady for Mother, but I didn’t like to explain. Somebody else,
too, asked me if I were lost, but I said, very hard, “No.”
It was so uncomfortable, people talking to me like this, that I got
into the first empty carriage that I saw. I got under the seat, too, so
that they’d be less likely to bother me with questions. It isn’t nice
when every one is so astonished and cross at you.