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  THE AUNT AND AMABEL

  It is not pleasant to be a fish out of water. To be a cat in water isnot what any one would desire. To be in a temper is uncomfortable. Andno one can fully taste the joys of life if he is in a Little LordFauntleroy suit. But by far the most uncomfortable thing to be in isdisgrace, sometimes amusingly called Coventry by the people who are notin 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 onemay tremblingly make is received with stony silence or with theassurance that nobody wants to talk to such a naughty child. If you areonly in disgrace, and not in solitary confinement, you will creep abouta house that is like the one you have had such jolly times in, and yetas unlike it as a bad dream is to a June morning. You will long to speakto people, and be afraid to speak. You will wonder whether there isanything you can do that will change things at all. You have said youare sorry, and that has changed nothing. You will wonder whether you areto stay for ever in this desolate place, outside all hope and love andfun and happiness. And though it has happened before, and has always, inthe end, come to an end, you can never be quite sure that this time itis not going to last for ever.

  'It _is_ going to last for ever,' said Amabel, who was eight. 'Whatshall I do? Oh whatever shall I do?'

  What she _had_ done ought to have formed the subject of hermeditations. And she had done what had seemed to her all the time, andin fact still seemed, a self-sacrificing and noble act. She was stayingwith an aunt--measles or a new baby, or the painters in the house, Iforget which, the cause of her banishment. And the aunt, who was reallya great-aunt and quite old enough to know better, had been grumblingabout her head gardener to a lady who called in blue spectacles and abeady bonnet with violet flowers in it.

  'He hardly lets me have a plant for the table,' said the aunt, 'and thatborder in front of the breakfast-room window--it's just bare earth--andI expressly ordered chrysanthemums to be planted there. He thinks ofnothing but his greenhouse.'

  The beady-violet-blue-glassed lady snorted, and said she didn't knowwhat we were coming to, and she would have just half a cup, please, withnot quite so much milk, thank you very much.

  Now what would you have done? Minded your own business most likely, andnot got into trouble at all. Not so Amabel. Enthusiastically anxious todo something which should make the great-aunt see what a thoughtful,unselfish, little girl she really was (the aunt's opinion of her beingat present quite otherwise), she got up very early in the morning andtook the cutting-out scissors from the work-room table drawer and stole,'like an errand of mercy,' she told herself, to the greenhouse where shebusily snipped off every single flower she could find. MacFarlane was athis breakfast. Then with the points of the cutting-out scissors she madenice deep little holes in the flower-bed where the chrysanthemums oughtto have been, and struck the flowers in--chrysanthemums, geraniums,primulas, orchids, and carnations. It would be a lovely surprise forAuntie.

  Then the aunt came down to breakfast and saw the lovely surprise.Amabel's world turned upside down and inside out suddenly andsurprisingly, and there she was, in Coventry, and not even the housemaidwould speak to her. Her great-uncle, whom she passed in the hall on herway to her own room, did indeed, as he smoothed his hat, murmur, 'Sentto Coventry, eh? Never mind, it'll soon be over,' and went off to theCity 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 miserableheart that she was sent to Coventry for the last time, and that thistime she would stay there.

  'I don't care,' she said quite untruly. 'I'll never try to be kind toany one again.' And that wasn't true either. She was to spend the wholeday alone in the best bedroom, the one with the four-post bed and thered curtains and the large wardrobe with a looking-glass in it that youcould 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 wasstill sniffing and sobbing, and her eyes were swimming in tears, anotherone rolled down her nose as she looked--that was very interesting.Another rolled down, and that was the last, because as soon as you getinterested 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 thelarge dressing-table, on the left-hand side of the oval swing-glass,was one book covered in red velvet, and on it, very twistilyembroidered in yellow silk and mixed up with misleading leaves andsquiggles 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 whenone is very unhappy and very dull, anything is better than nothing. Sheopened the book.

  'Why, it's only a time-table!' she said. 'I suppose it's for people whenthey want to go away, and Auntie puts it here in case they suddenly makeup their minds to go, and feel that they can't wait another minute. Ifeel 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 thesame way. She looked up the names of all the places she knew.--Brightonwhere 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 leftfor 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 thepoor Viscount, or a flower to watch growing, like Picciola, and she wasvery sorry for herself, and very angry with her aunt, and very grievedat the conduct of her parents--she had expected better things fromthem--and now they had left her in this dreadful place where no oneloved her, and no one understood her.

  There seemed to be no place for toads or flowers in the best room, itwas carpeted all over even in its least noticeable corners. It hadeverything a best room ought to have--and everything was of dark shiningmahogany. The toilet-table had a set of red and gold glass things--atray, candlesticks, a ring-stand, many little pots with lids, and twobottles with stoppers. When the stoppers were taken out they smelt verystrange, something like very old scent, and something like cold creamalso very old, and something like going to the dentist's.

  I do not know whether the scent of those bottles had anything to do withwhat happened. It certainly was a very extraordinary scent. Quitedifferent from any perfume that I smell nowadays, but I remember thatwhen I was a little girl I smelt it quite often. But then there are nobest rooms now such as there used to be. The best rooms now are gay withchintz and mirrors, and there are always flowers and books, and littletables to put your teacup on, and sofas, and armchairs. And they smellof 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 pinsin one of them, she took up the A.B.C. again to look for Whitby, whereher godmother lived. And it was then that she saw the extraordinary name'_Whereyouwantogoto._' This was odd--but the name of the station fromwhich it started was still more extraordinary, for it was not Euston orCannon Street or Marylebone.

  The name of the station was '_Bigwardrobeinspareroom._' And below thisname, 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.'

  And under that in still smaller letters--

  '_You had better go now._'

  What would you have done? Rubbed your eyes and thought you weredreaming? Well, if you had, nothing more would have happened. Nothingever does when you behave like that. Amabel was wiser. She went straightto the Big Wardro
be and turned its glass handle.

  'I expect it's only shelves and people's best hats,' she said. But sheonly said it. People often say what they don't mean, so that if thingsturn out as they don't expect, they can say 'I told you so,' but this ismost dishonest to one's self, and being dishonest to one's self isalmost worse than being dishonest to other people. Amabel would neverhave done it if she had been herself. But she was out of herself withanger and unhappiness.

  Of course it wasn't hats. It was, most amazingly, a crystal cave, veryoddly shaped like a railway station. It seemed to be lighted by stars,which is, of course, unusual in a booking office, and over the stationclock was a full moon. The clock had no figures, only _Now_ in shiningletters all round it, twelve times, and the _Nows_ touched, so the clockwas bound to be always right. How different from the clock you go toschool by!

  A porter in white satin hurried forward to take Amabel's luggage. Herluggage was the A.B.C. which she still held in her hand.

  'Lots of time, Miss,' he said, grinning in a most friendly way, 'I _am_glad you're going. You _will_ enjoy yourself! What a nice little girlyou are!'

  This was cheering. Amabel smiled.

  At the pigeon-hole that tickets come out of, another person, also inwhite satin, was ready with a mother-of-pearl ticket, round, like a cardcounter.

  'Here you are, Miss,' he said with the kindest smile, 'price nothing,and refreshments free all the way. It's a pleasure,' he added, 'to issuea ticket to a nice little lady like you.' The train was entirely ofcrystal, too, and the cushions were of white satin. There were littlebuttons such as you have for electric bells, and on them'_Whatyouwantoeat_,' '_Whatyouwantodrink_,' '_Whatyouwantoread_,' insilver letters.

  Amabel pressed all the buttons at once, and instantly felt obliged toblink. The blink over, she saw on the cushion by her side a silver traywith vanilla ice, boiled chicken and white sauce, almonds (blanched),peppermint creams, and mashed potatoes, and a long glass oflemonade--beside the tray was a book. It was Mrs. Ewing's _Bad-temperedFamily_, and it was bound in white vellum.

  There is nothing more luxurious than eating while you read--unless it bereading while you eat. Amabel did both: they are not the same thing, asyou will see if you think the matter over.

  And just as the last thrill of the last spoonful of ice died away, andthe last full stop of the _Bad-tempered Family_ met Amabel's eye, thetrain stopped, and hundreds of railway officials in white velvetshouted, '_Whereyouwantogoto!_ Get out!'

  A velvety porter, who was somehow like a silkworm as well as like awedding handkerchief sachet, opened the door.

  'Now!' he said, 'come on out, Miss Amabel, unless you want to go to_Whereyoudon'twantogoto_.'

  She hurried out, on to an ivory platform.

  'Not on the ivory, if you please,' said the porter, 'the white Axminstercarpet--it's laid down expressly for you.'

  Amabel walked along it and saw ahead of her a crowd, all in white.

  'What's all that?' she asked the friendly porter.

  'It's the Mayor, dear Miss Amabel,' he said, 'with your address.'

  'My address is The Old Cottage, Amberley,' she said, 'at least it usedto be'--and found herself face to face with the Mayor. He was very likeUncle George, but he bowed low to her, which was not Uncle George'shabit, and said:

  'Welcome, dear little Amabel. Please accept this admiring address fromthe Mayor and burgesses and apprentices and all the rest of it, ofWhereyouwantogoto.'

  The address was in silver letters, on white silk, and it said:

  'Welcome, dear Amabel. We know you meant to please your aunt. It wasvery clever of you to think of putting the greenhouse flowers in thebare flower-bed. You couldn't be expected to know that you ought to askleave before you touch other people's things.'

  'Oh, but,' said Amabel quite confused. 'I did....'

  But the band struck up, and drowned her words. The instruments of theband were all of silver, and the bandsmen's clothes of white leather.The tune they played was 'Cheero!'

  Then Amabel found that she was taking part in a procession, hand in handwith the Mayor, and the band playing like mad all the time. The Mayorwas dressed entirely in cloth of silver, and as they went along he keptsaying, close to her ear.

  'You have our sympathy, you have our sympathy,' till she felt quitegiddy.

  There was a flower show--all the flowers were white. There was aconcert--all the tunes were old ones. There was a play called _Putyourself in her place_. And there was a banquet, with Amabel in theplace of honour.

  They drank her health in white wine whey, and then through the CrystalHall of a thousand gleaming pillars, where thousands of guests, all inwhite, were met to do honour to Amabel, the shout went up--'Speech,speech!'

  I cannot explain to you what had been going on in Amabel's mind. Perhapsyou know. Whatever it was it began like a very tiny butterfly in a box,that could not keep quiet, but fluttered, and fluttered, and fluttered.And when the Mayor rose and said:

  'Dear Amabel, you whom we all love and understand; dear Amabel, you whowere so unjustly punished for trying to give pleasure to an unresponsiveaunt; poor, ill-used, ill-treated, innocent Amabel; blameless, sufferingAmabel, we await your words,' that fluttering, tiresome butterfly-thinginside her seemed suddenly to swell to the size and strength of afluttering albatross, and Amabel got up from her seat of honour on thethrone of ivory and silver and pearl, and said, choking a little, andextremely red about the ears--

  'Ladies and gentlemen, I don't want to make a speech, I just want tosay, "Thank you," and to say--to say--to say....'

  She stopped, and all the white crowd cheered.

  'To say,' she went on as the cheers died down, 'that I wasn't blameless,and innocent, and all those nice things. I ought to have thought. Andthey _were_ Auntie's flowers. But I did want to please her. It's all somixed. Oh, I wish Auntie was here!'

  And instantly Auntie _was_ there, very tall and quite nice-looking, in awhite velvet dress and an ermine cloak.

  'Speech,' cried the crowd. 'Speech from Auntie!'

  Auntie stood on the step of the throne beside Amabel, and said:

  'I think, perhaps, I was hasty. And I think Amabel meant to please me.But all the flowers that were meant for the winter ... well--I wasannoyed. I'm sorry.'

  'Oh, Auntie, so am I--so am I,' cried Amabel, and the two began to hugeach other on the ivory step, while the crowd cheered like mad, and theband struck up that well-known air, 'If you only understood!'

  'Oh, Auntie,' said Amabel among hugs, 'This is such a lovely place, comeand see everything, we may, mayn't we?' she asked the Mayor.

  'The place is yours,' he said, 'and now you can see many things thatyou couldn't see before. We are The People who Understand. And now youare one of Us. And your aunt is another.'

  I must not tell you all that they saw because these things are secretsonly known to The People who Understand, and perhaps you do not yetbelong to that happy nation. And if you do, you will know without mytelling you.

  And when it grew late, and the stars were drawn down, somehow, to hangamong the trees, Amabel fell asleep in her aunt's arms beside a whitefoaming fountain on a marble terrace, where white peacocks came todrink.

  * * * * *

  She awoke on the big bed in the spare room, but her aunt's arms werestill round her.

  'Amabel,' she was saying, 'Amabel!'

  'Oh, Auntie,' said Amabel sleepily, 'I am so sorry. It _was_ stupid ofme. And I did mean to please you.'

  'It _was_ stupid of you,' said the aunt, 'but I am sure you meant toplease me. Come down to supper.' And Amabel has a confused recollectionof her aunt's saying that she was sorry, adding, 'Poor little Amabel.'

  If the aunt really did say it, it was fine of her. And Amabel is quitesure that she did say it.

  * * * * *

  Amabel and her great-aunt are now the best of friends. But neither ofthem has ever spoken to the other of the beautiful city called'_Whereyouwant
ogoto._' Amabel is too shy to be the first to mention it,and no doubt the aunt has her own reasons for not broaching the subject.

  But of course they both know that they have been there together, and itis easy to get on with people when you and they alike belong to the_Peoplewhounderstand_.

  * * * * *

  If you look in the A.B.C. that your people have you will not find'_Whereyouwantogoto._' It is only in the red velvet bound copy thatAmabel found in her aunt's best bedroom.