Jeremy and Hamlet/Chapter 2

HESE Christmas holidays had begun badly. Jeremy’s mood was wrong from the very start. He had not wished it to be wrong. He had come determined to find everything right and beautiful. Now nothing was right and nothing was beautiful.

For one thing, there was nothing to do. It was not the custom nearly thirty years ago to invent games, occupations and employments for your young as it is to-day. Mrs. Cole, loving her children, had nevertheless enough to do to make the house go round, and Mr. Cole was busy in his study. The children would amuse themselves—who could doubt it—but at the same time there were so many things that they must not do that as the days passed they were more and more restricted and confined.

“Mary, what are you reading? … Oh, I wouldn’t read that quite yet, dear. A little later, perhaps.” Or, “Helen, you’re sitting in the sun. Go and get your hat.” Or, “Not on the carpet, dear. It will make your clothes so dusty. Why don’t you sit down and read a little?”

Before his departure schoolwards Jeremy had been accustomed to those inhibitions, and had taken them for granted as inevitable. Then in that other world he had discovered a new row of inhibitions as numerous and devastating as the first series, but quite different, covering in no kind of way the same ground. These new inhibitions were absolute, and the danger of disobeying them was far graver than in the earlier case. He fitted, then, his life into those and grew like a little plant, upwards and outwards, as that sinister gardener, school tradition, demanded. Then came the return to home, and behold those old early childish inhibitions were still in force! It was still “Don’t, Jeremy. You’ll tear your trousers.” Or, “No, not now, dear. Mother’s busy.” Or, “No, you can’t go into the tower now. Perhaps to-morrow.” Or, “Once is enough, Jeremy. Don’t be greedy.”

And, on the other side, there was nothing to do—Nothing to Do.

He could no longer play with Mary or Helen. Mary was too emotional, and Helen too conceited. And who wanted to play with girls, anyway? Barbara was rather fascinating, but was surrounded by defences of nurses, mothers and mysterious decrees. Hamlet was his only resource. Without him he would surely have fallen sick and died. But a dog is limited within doors. For Hamlet’s own sake Jeremy longed that they should be for ever in the open. Oh! why did they not live in the country? Why in this stupid and stuffy town?

But then, again, was it stupid and stuffy? Jeremy longed to investigate it more intimately, but was prevented at every turn. It might be an enchanting town. Certainly there were sounds and lights and colours that, now that he was older and knew what life was, suggested themselves as entrancing.

He simply was not allowed to discover for himself—hindered, inhibited everywhere.

Had only Uncle Samuel been here things would have been better. Uncle Samuel was queer and strange and said most disconcerting things, but he did understand Jeremy. As it was, no one understood him. To-day, had anyone seen a small thick-set boy with a stocky figure and a snub nose standing halfway down the stairs lost and desolate, there would be a thousand things to suggest. Then it was not the hour for the afternoon walk, or the hour was past. Children must not be in the way.

Matters were not improved by a little conversation that he had with Aunt Amy. She found him one morning standing before the dining-room window staring into Orange Street.

“Well, Jeremy”—she paused in the quick, rattle-rattle walk that she always had in the morning when she was helping her sister over household duties—“nothing to do?”

He neither answered nor turned round. “You should reply when spoken to.” Then, more softly, because there was something desolate in his attitude that she could not but feel, “Well, dear—tell me.”

He turned round, and as he looked at her she was conscious, as she had often been before, almost with terror, of the strange creatures that little boys were and how far from her understanding.

“I want to go out and buy a football,” he said.

“A football!” she repeated, as though he had said a gorilla.

“Yes,” he said impatiently. “The little ones are only ten and sixpence, and I’ve got that over from the pound Uncle Samuel gave me on my birthday—and father says I mustn’t go out.”

“Well, that settles it, then,” said Aunt Amy cheerfully.

“I don’t see why,” said Jeremy slowly. “He’s let me go out alone when I was ever so small before I went to school.”

“You can be sure he has his reasons,” said Aunt Amy. She suddenly sat down on one of the dining-room chairs and said, “Come here, Jeremy.”

He came to her reluctantly. She put him in front of her and laid her hands on his shoulders and stared at him. He wriggled uncomfortably, wishing to escape from her projecting tooth and her eyes that were here grey and there green. Herself meanwhile felt a sudden warmth of sentiment. She wanted to be kind to him; why, she knew not.

“You’re getting a big boy now, Jeremy.” She paused. “Yes,” said Jeremy.

“And you don’t want to be a sulky big boy, do you?”

“I’m not sulky,” said Jeremy.

“No, dear, I’m sure you’re not. But you’re not being quite the bright willing boy we’d like to see you. You know that we all love you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Jeremy.

“Well, then, you must repay our love and show us that you are happy and willing to do what your father and mother wish.”

Jeremy said nothing.

“You do love your father and mother, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Jeremy.

“Well, then,” said Aunt Amy triumphantly, as though she had been working out a problem in Euclid, “you must show it. No more sulking, dear; but be the bright little boy we all know you can be.”

She left Jeremy puzzled and confused. Was it true that he was sulky? He did love his father and mother, but deeply distrusted scenes of sentiment. Nevertheless, Christmas was approaching, and he felt warm towards all the world—even Aunt Amy. Often and often he went up to his bedroom, closed the door behind him, looked under his bed to make quite sure that no one was in the room, then very cautiously opened the lid of his play-box and peered inside. At the bottom of the box were a number of odd-shaped parcels; he picked them up one after another and stroked their paper, then laid them carefully in their places. He sighed as of a man who has accomplished a great and serious task. Many times a day he did this. He had himself unpacked his play-box on his return from school. No one in the house save only he had beheld those strange parcels.

Christmas approached nearer and nearer—now it was only four days before Christmas Eve. There was no snow, but frost and a cold, pale blue sky; the town was like a crystallized fruit, hard and glittering and sharply coloured.

The market was open during the whole of Christmas week, and there was the old woman under her umbrella and the fur-coated man with the wooden toys, and the fruit stalls with the holly and mistletoe, and the Punch and Judy under the town clock, where it had been for ever so many years, and the man with the coloured balloons, and the little dogs on wheels that you wound up in the back with a key and they jumped along the cobbles as natural as life.

The children were deeply absorbed over their presents. Mary looked at Jeremy so often from behind her spectacles in a mysterious and ominous way that at last he said:

“All right, Mary, you’ll know me next time.”

“I was wondering,” she said, with a convulsive choke in her throat, “whether you’ll like my present.”

“I expect I will,” he said, busy at the moment with the brushing of Hamlet.

“Because,” she went on, “there were two things, and I couldn’t make up my mind which, and I asked Helen, and she said the first one, because you might have a cold any time and it would be good in the snow; but we don’t have snow here much, so I thought the other would be better, because you do like pictures, don’t you, Jeremy, and sometimes the pictures are lovely—so I got that, and now I don’t know whether you’ll like it.”

Jeremy had no reply to make to this.

“Oh, now you’ve guessed what it is.”

“No, I haven’t,” said Jeremy quite truthfully.

“Oh, I’m so glad,” Mary sighed with relief. “Have you got all your presents?”

“Yes, all of them,” said Jeremy, drawing himself up and gazing with dreamy pride over Hamlet’s head.

“Shall I like mine?” asked Mary, her eyes glistening.

“Awfully,” said Jeremy. “You’ll like it,” he said slowly, “better than anything you’ve ever been given.”

“Better than the writing-case Uncle Samuel gave me?”

“Much better.”

“Oh, Jeremy!” She suddenly flung her arms round his neck and kissed him. Hamlet barked and escaped the brush and comb, then seized Mary’s hair ribbon, that had, as usual, fallen to the floor, and ran with it to a distant corner. Incidents followed that had nothing to do with presents.

Then when Christmas Day grew very near indeed, those parcels at the bottom of his play-box became an obsession. He went up a hundred times a day to look at them, to take them out and stroke them, to feel their knobs and protruding angles, to replace them, first in this way and then in that. Sometimes he laid them all out upon the bed, sometimes he spread them in a long line across the carpet. He brought up Hamlet and made him look at them. Hamlet sniffed each parcel, then wanted to tear the paper wrappings; finally, he lay on the carpet and rattled in his throat, wagging his tail and baring his teeth.

Christmas Eve arrived, a beautiful, clear, frosty day.

Jeremy came in from his morning walk, his cheeks crimson, looking very nautical in his blue reefer coat. He went straight up to his room, locked the door, and opened the play-box. The parcels were all there. He counted them, felt them, sighed a sigh of satisfaction and pride, then closed the play-box again.

He took off his coat and went downstairs. Helen, meeting him in the hall, cried:

“Oh, Jeremy, father wants to see you.”

“Where?”

“In the study.”

Jeremy paused. The word “study” had always a strangely disagreeable sound. Their father never wished to see any of them there unless for some very unpleasant purpose. He threw his mind back. What had he been doing? What sin had he within the last day or two committed? He could think of nothing. His parcels had kept him quiet. Both he and Hamlet had been very good.

Only Aunt Amy had spoken to him about sulking. But that had been over a week ago. No, he had been very good. There could be nothing. Nevertheless, he walked down the hall with slow and hesitating step. Hamlet wanted to come with him. He had to stop him. Hamlet sat down near the door and watched him enter with anxious eyes. He did not like Mr. Cole.

The study was a close, dark room lined with book-shelves, rows and rows of theological works all dusty and forlorn. In the middle of the left wall between the book-shelves hung a large photograph of the Forum, Rome, and on the similar space on the other wall a photograph of the Parthenon. Behind a large desk sat Mr. Cole, very thin, very black, very white. His small son stood on the other side of the desk and looked at him.

“Well, my boy, what is it?”

“Helen said you wanted me.” He shifted from one foot to the other and looked anxiously at the Forum.

“Did I? Ah, let me see. … What was it? Hum, ha. Ah, yes. Of course. It’s your journey-money. I should have asked you many days ago. I thought your mother had taken it. She had apparently forgotten.”

Journey-money? Of what was he talking? Journey-money?

“What journey-money, father?” Even as he spoke his voice faltered, because, although he still did not know in the least of what his father was speaking, danger hovered suddenly near him like a large black bird, the wings obliterating the dusty light. Mr. Cole, who had much to do, grew a little impatient.

“Yes, yes. The money that we sent to your master for your journey home. Your mother fancied, from what Mr. Thompson wrote to her, that she had not sent quite enough on earlier occasions, that the former sum had not been quite sufficient. This time we sent at least a pound more than the fare demanded.”

The bird came closer. Even now he did not understand, but his throat was dry and his heart was beating violently.

“The money that Mr. Thompson gave me the day before the end of term?”

“Yes, yes, my boy.”

“He gave me fifteen shillings and the ticket.”

“Well, let me have it.”

“I spent it.”

There was a pause. Mr. Cole stared at his son.

“What do you say?”

“I spent it, father.”

“What?”

“I spent it.”

Fright now was upon him—terror, panic. But behind the panic, like the resolution under torture not to betray one’s friend, was the resolve never, never to say upon what the money had been spent.

“What?”

“I haven’t got it, father. I thought it was for me.”

“You thought it was for you?”

“Yes. Mr. Thompson didn’t say anything about it—only that it was for the journey.”

“And did you spend it on the journey?”

There was no answer.

“Will you kindly tell me how, having already your ticket, you managed to spend one pound between your school and your home?”

He felt the tears rising, and desperately beat them back. How he hated those tears that came always, it seemed, when one least wished to cry.

“It wasn’t a pound.” One tear came, hesitated and fell. “It was—fifteen shillings.”

“Very well, then. Will you kindly explain to me how you spent fifteen shillings?”

No answer.

“Jeremy, how old are you?”

“Ten—and a—half.”

“Ten and a half. Very well. You have been a year and a half at school. You are quite old enough to understand. Do you know what you have done?”

Tears now were falling fast.

“You have stolen this money.”

No word.

“Do you know what they call someone who steals money?”

No answer.

“They call him a thief.”

Through convulsive sobs there came:

“I didn’t steal it.”

“Do not add lying to the rest.” Mr. Cole got up. “Come with me to your room.”

They walked into the hall. Hamlet was waiting, and sprang forward. At once he saw in the sobbing figure of his master trouble and disaster. His head fell, his tail crept between his legs. He slowly followed the procession, only looking at Mr. Cole’s black legs with longing. Upstairs they went, up through the tranquil and happy house. Barbara was being bathed; gurgling and applause and the splash of water came from the bathroom. They were in Jeremy’s room, the door closed—Hamlet on the other side.

Jeremy stood, the tears drying on his face, his sobs coming in convulsive spasms.

“I am determined to know what you have done with this money—on what you have spent it.”

There was no answer.

“It is of no use to be obstinate, Jeremy. Tell me—on what have you spent this money?”

He looked about him. There must be something in the room that would show him. Not many things here. The little case with some books, the pictures of “Napoleon on the Bellerophon” and “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” the white bed and wash-hand-stand, the chest of drawers. … Then his eye fell on the play-box. He went to it and opened it.

Jeremy gave a long, convulsive sigh. Then, between his sobs: “Father—please. I’ll get the money. I will really. I didn’t know it was wrong. Those are mine—they break, two of them. I’ll get the money. I will really. Please, father.”

A word here is needed in defence of Mr. Cole. A word is not in truth necessary. His action was inevitable. He truly loved his son, and because of that very love he was now shocked to the depth of his soul. His son was a thief. His son had lied and stolen. He was old enough to know what he was about. To himself, who had been brought up in a poverty that was martyrdom and an honesty that was fanatical, no sin could be worse than this save only the sins of the flesh. For more than two years now he had been troubled by Jeremy, seeing many signs in him of a nature very different from his own, signs of independence, rebellion and, as it seemed to him, hardness of heart and selfishness. Now the boy was a thief, deliberately spending money that did not belong to him in the hopes that his parents would forget. …

He bent over his play-box, saw the parcels so neatly laid out there, took one up in his hand. He looked back at his son.

“What is this, Jeremy?”

There was no answer.

“Did you get these things with the money?”

“Yes, father.” Then he said, “They’re presents for Christmas.”

“Presents!”

Mr. Cole took up first one parcel, then another, holding them up to the light. Then, very slowly, with that deliberation with which he did everything, he undid the parcels. Jeremy said nothing, only stood there, his face white and dirty where the tears had left marks, his legs apart, his fists clenched.

One after another they were laid bare and placed upon the bed; rather pitiful they looked. A white-backed hair brush, a coral necklace, a little brooch of silver-gilt, a pair of woollen gloves, a baby’s coral, a story book, a dog collar, two handkerchiefs, a work-box, a cheap copy in a cheap frame of “Dignity and Impudence,” a tea caddy. Obviously all the servants had been included in this—no one had been forgotten. Had not Mr. Cole been so wholly and so truly shocked by his son’s wickedness he must have been touched by the thought that had plainly gone to the buying of each gift. But imagination was not Mr. Cole’s strongest part.

Jeremy watched him. Suddenly he broke out:

“Father, don’t take them away. Let me give them to-morrow. You can punish me any way you like. You can beat me or take away my pocket money for ever or anything you like—but let me give them to-morrow. Please, father. Please, father.”

“That must be part of your punishment, my son,” Mr. Cole said very sorrowfully and finding it difficult to balance the things one upon another in his arms.

In another second of time, Jeremy was upon him, screaming, beating with his fists, scratching with his hands, crying:

“You shan’t take them! You shan’t take them! They’re mine! You’re wicked! You’re wicked! They’re my things! You shan’t take them!”

He was mad, wild, frantic. His hands were round his father’s thigh, his head beating against his father’s chest, his legs kicking against his father’s calves.

He screamed like something not human.

For a moment Mr. Cole was almost carried off his balance. The things that he was carrying—the hair brush, the necklace, the picture—went tumbling on the floor.

Then Jeremy was picked up and, still kicking and breathless, flung on to the bed.

Then the door closed and the boy was alone.

The first real agony of Jeremy’s young life followed. Two years before, just at this time, he had been in disgrace for telling a lie. His misery had been acute for an hour or two, and then, with the swift memory of eight years old, it had been forgotten and covered up. This was another business. When, after lying stunned for a long time, thoughts came to him, his first emotion was one of blind, mad rage—an emotion quite new to him, never felt before. Injustice! Injustice! That was a new word written on the pages of his life’s book, never again to be eradicated. There came before him at once, as though it were being presented to him by some new friend who was with him in the room for the first time, the picture of the afternoon when he had bought the presents. The group of boys who had gone into the little neighbouring town to buy things that they were “taking home,” his consciousness of the fifteen shillings as absolutely his own, his first thought that he would buy sweets with some of it and keep the rest for the holidays, then the sudden flash of inspiration, presents for everybody, Christmas presents for everybody; and with that the sudden flooding of his heart with love for home, for Polchester, for everyone, even Aunt Amy and the kitchenmaid, and then his delighted discovery in the general shop where they were, that there were so many different things to buy and so many so cheap.

The half-hour that he had and the wonderful excitement of taking back his parcels, himself packing them in his play-box—and it ends in this!

He hadn’t known that the money was not for him; he hadn’t thought for a moment that it was not!

He sat up on the bed and looked about the room and saw the things scattered about the floor—the brush, the necklace. The glass of the picture was broken. At the sight of that he suddenly began to cry again, kneeling on the bed, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes. He felt sick—his head was aching, his eyes were red hot—and he felt anger, furious, rebellious anger. He hated his father, hated him so that it made him sick to think of him. What would his father do to him? He didn’t care. He would like to be terribly punished, beaten to within an inch of his life, because then he could with more justice than ever devote his life to hating his father. He would hate him for ever, for ever and ever. And all this time he was crying in a snivelling sort of way, like a little animal whose limb is broken.

The house was utterly silent about him. No sound at all. Then he caught a thin, feeble scratching at the door. He climbed off the bed and went to it. Opening it cautiously, he peered out. Hamlet was there wagging his tail. He pulled him into the room, shut the door, dragging him on to the bed, folded him into himself, suffering himself to be licked from one ear to the other.

How terrible the time that followed! None of the Cole children could remember anything at all like it. Even Helen, who was nearly grown up now because she was at the Polchester High School and had won last term a prize for callisthenics, was impressed with the tragedy of it all. How awful that Christmas Day, never by any of them to be forgotten for the rest of their lives!

Jeremy came downstairs and there was a pretence of gaiety. Presents were distributed on Christmas evening. Turkey and plum pudding were eaten. A heavy cloud enveloped everyone.

The fanatic that then was in Mr. Cole began now to flower. For the first time his son appeared to him as a conscience developing individual; for the first time he really loved him; and for the first time he felt that there was a soul to be saved and that he must save it. For the first time also in their married lives a serious difference of opinion divided the father and mother. Mrs. Cole yearned over her boy who was now in some strange way escaping her. She was no psychologist, and indeed thirty years ago parents never conceived of analysing their children. She was only discovering, what every mother discovers, that a year’s absence had taken her boy away from her, had given him interests that she could not share, taught him ambitions, confided to him secrets, delivered him over to hero-worshippings that would never be hers. Not for ten years would he return to her. To be a mother you must have infinite patience.

Secretly she rebelled against her husband’s policy; outwardly she submitted to it.

During all the week following Christmas the Coles were a miserable family, and in the middle of them Jeremy moved, a figure of stone. They wished him to be an outcast; very well then, he would be an outcast. They thought him a criminal and not fit for their society; very well then, he would be apart and of himself. The presents were there, at the bottom of his play-box. His only definite punishment was that he should receive no pocket-money throughout the holidays—but he was a pariah—and a pariah he would be.

Once his mother talked to him, drawing him to her, putting her arms around him.

“Jeremy, dear, just go to father and say you’re sorry and then it will all be over.”

“I’m not sorry.”

“Well, if you’re not sorry about spending the money, because you didn’t know that you oughtn’t to, say you’re sorry because you kicked father.”

“I’m not sorry I kicked father.”

“But father loves you. He was only doing what he thought was right.”

“Father doesn’t love me or he would have known I didn’t steal the money.”

“But, Jeremy dear, father wants you to realize that you mustn’t spend other people’s money as though it were your own. You’re too young to understand now”

“I’m not too young to understand.”

Mrs. Cole sighed. This Jeremy was utterly strange to her, so old, so oddly different from the boy of a year ago, so hard and so hostile. She was very unhappy. And Jeremy, too, was unhappy—desperately unhappy. It was no fun being a rebel. Sometimes he was on the very edge of surrender, longing to go and submit to his father, fling his arms round his mother, listen to Mary’s silly stories, play and shout and sing and laugh as he used to do.

Something kept him back. It was as though he were in a nightmare, one of those nightmares when you can’t speak, a weight is on your chest, you move against your will.

He was so unhappy that he told Hamlet that he was going to run away to sea. He had serious thoughts of this.

Then suddenly Uncle Samuel returned from Paris.

It was a wet, windy evening. The rain was blowing in streaky gusts up Orange Street, sending the lamps inebriated, and whipping at windows as though it would never find outlet sufficient for its ill temper. Out of the storm came Uncle Samuel in a black cape and a floppy black hat, straight from that mysterious, unseen, unfathomed country, Paris. As usual, he was casual and careless enough in his greetings, kissed his sister quickly, nodded to his brother-in-law, grinned at the children, and was in a moment transported to that strange region at the back of the house where was his studio, that magical place into which none of the children had even entered. He did not that evening apparently notice Jeremy’s desolate figure.

On the following afternoon Jeremy, Hamlet at his heels, was hanging disconsolately about the passage when his uncle suddenly appeared.

“Hallo!” he said.

“Hallo!” said Jeremy.

Uncle Samuel was in his blue painting smock. Whereas the other members of the family were so well known to Jeremy that they were almost like the wallpaper or the piano, Uncle Samuel’s appearance was always new and exciting. With his chubby face, the grey hair that stood up rather thinly about his crimson pate, his fat stumpy body, ironical blue eyes and little, rather childish, mouth, he always seemed nearer to Jeremy than the others—younger, more excitable, more easily surprised. He had the look of an old baby, Jeremy sometimes thought. He looked at Jeremy consideringly.

“Got anything to do?”

“No.”

“Come on into the studio.”

“Oh, may I?”

“Well, I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t want you. … Yes, you may bring the dog.”

Jeremy’s excitement was intense. Once, long ago, his uncle had said that he might go into the studio, but he had never dared to venture. He walked carefully like Agag. The door was opened, a curtain pulled aside. A long, empty room with wide high windows overlooking meadow and hill, a low bookcase running the length of the room, a large sofa with cushions, two rugs, some pictures with their faces to the wall, some other pictures hanging, funny ones, a girl with a green face, a house all crooked, a cow (or was it a

Uncle Samuel went to the sofa and sat down. He called Jeremy over to him and pulled him in between his knees.

“Been having a row?” he said.

“Yes,” said Jeremy.

“Kicked your father?”

“Yes.”

“What was it all about?”

Jeremy told him. Uncle Samuel listened attentively, his eyes no longer ironical. He put his hand on Jeremy’s shoulder, and the boy, feeling the unexpected kindness, burst into tears. The misery of the last week overflowed from his heart.

“I didn’t—know. … I didn’t really—I wanted to give them the things—I wasn’t wicked.”

The man bent down and picked the boy up and held him tight. Then he talked to him.

“Look here, you’ve not got to mind this. You were wrong, too, you know. Your father was right from his way of seeing things. His way isn’t yours, that’s all. When you get older you’ll find people often don’t see things the way you do, won’t like the work you’re proudest of, simply won’t understand it. There are as many different opinions as can be in this old world, and you’ve simply got to face it. You’ve just got to be ready for anything—not to get angry and kick. Don’t let yourself be too sensitive. You’ll go up and you’ll go down, and when you’re up people will say you ought to be down, and when you’re down there’ll be a few kind souls will help you up again. Misunderstood! Why, bless my soul, you’ll be misunderstood a million times before you’re done. If you’ve got work you like, a friend you can trust and a strong stomach you’ll have enough to be thankful for.

“You won’t understand all I’m saying yet, but you soon will. You come along in here and be kind to your old uncle, who’s never had anything right all his life—largely through his own fault, mind you. There, there! Bless me, you’re as soppy as a shower of rain. Fond of your uncle?”

Jeremy hugged him.

“That’s right. Well, mind you keep it up. I can do with some. Will you say you’re sorry to your father?”

Jeremy nodded his head.

“That’s right. … Now listen. This studio is for you to be in when you like. Not your beastly sisters, mind you; but you—and your dog, if he’ll behave himself. …” Hamlet promised. Jeremy ceased to cry. He looked about him.

When they had come in the room had been in dusk. Now it was too dark to see. He felt for his uncle’s hand and held it. Nothing so wonderful as this had yet happened in his life. He did not know, however, how wonderful in reality that evening would afterwards seem to him. All his after life he would look back to it, the dark room, the dog quiet at their feet, the cool strength of his uncle’s hand, the strange, heating excitement, the happiness and security after the week of wild loneliness and dismay. It was in that half-hour that his real life began; it was then that, like Alice in her looking-glass, he stepped over the brook and entered into his inheritance.