During that morning he was a desperate creature,like something caged and tortured.Do happy middle-aged philosophers assure us that children are light-hearted and unfeeling animals?Let them realise something of the agony which Jeremy suffered that day.His whole world had gone.
He was wicked,an outcast;his word could never be trusted again;he would be pointed at,as the boy who had told a lie .And he would not meet **** Whittington.
The eternity of his punishment hung around his neck like an iron chain.Childhood's tragedies are terrible tragedies,because a child has no sense of time;a moment's dismay is eternal;a careless word from an elder is a lasting judgment;an instant's folly is a lifetime's mistake.
The day dragged its weary length along,and he scarcely moved from his corner by the fire.He did not attempt conversation with anyone.
Once or twice the Jampot tried to penetrate behind that little mask of anger and dismay.
"Come,now,things aren't so bad as all that.You be a good boy,and go and tell your father you're sorry."or "Well,then,Master Jeremy,there'll be another time,I dare say,you can go to the the-ayter."
But she found no response.If there was one thing that she hated,it was sulks.Here they were,sulks of the worst--and so,like many wiser than herself,she covered up with a word a situation that she did not understand,and left it at that.
The evening came on;the curtains were drawn.Tea arrived;still Jeremy sat there,not speaking,not raising his eyes,a condemned creature.Mary and Helen and Hamlet had had a wretched day.They all sympathised with him.
The girls went to dress.Seven o'clock struck.They were taken downstairs by Nurse,who had her evening out.Rose,the housemaid,would sit with Master Jeremy.
Doors closed,doors opened,voices echoed,carriage-wheels were heard.
Jeremy and Hamlet were left to themselves.
III
The last door had closed,and the sudden sense that everyone had gone and that he might behave now as he pleased,removed the armour in which all day he had encased himself.
He raised his head,looked about the deserted nursery,and then,with the sudden consciousness of that other lighted and busied place where Whittington was pursuing his adventures,he burst into tears.
He sobbed,his head down upon his arms,and his body squeezed together so that his knees were close to his nose and his hair in his boots.Hamlet restored him to himself.Instead of assisting his master's grief,as a sentimental dog would have done,by sighing or sniffing or howling,he yawned,stretched himself,and rolled on the carpet.He did not believe in giving way to feelings,and he was surprised,and perhaps disappointed,at Jeremy's lack of restraint.
Jeremy felt this,and in a little while sobs came very slowly,and at last were only little shudders,rather pleasant and healthy.He looked about him,rubbed his red nose with a hideously dirty handkerchief,and felt immensely sleepy.
No,he would not cry any more.Rose would shortly appear,and he did not intend to cry before housemaids.Nevertheless,his desolation was supreme.He was a liar.He had told lies before,but they had not been discovered,and so they were scarcely lies.Now,in some strange way,the publication of his lie had shown him what truly impossible things lies were.He had witnessed this effect upon the general public;he had not believed that he was so wicked.He did not even now feel really wicked,but he saw quite clearly that there was one world for liars and one for truthful men.He wanted,terribly badly,someone to tell him that he was still in the right world.
And then,on the other side,the thought that Mary and Helen were at this very moment witnessing the coloured history of **** Whittinglon,the history that he had pursued ceaselessly during all these days and nights--that picture of them all in the lighted theatre--once more nearly overcame him.But he pulled himself together.
He sniffed,left his dirty handkerchief,and went slowly and sorrowfully to drag out his toy village from its corner and see whether anything could be done with it.After all,he was going to school in September.His punishment could not be quite limitless.
Hamlet had just shown his approval of this manly conduct by strolling up and sniffing at the Noah family,who were,as usual,on their way to church,when the door suddenly opened,and in came Uncle Samuel.
Jeremy had forgotten his uncle,and now blinked up at him from the floor,where he was squatting,rather ashamed of his swollen eyes and red nose.
Uncle Samuel,however,had no time for details;he was apparently in a hurry.He did not wear his blue painting-smock,but was in a comparatively clean black suit,and on the back of his head was a squashy brown hat.
"Come on,"he said,"or we shall be too late."Jeremy choked."Too late?"he repeated.
"You're coming,aren't you--to the Pantomime?They sent me back for you."The room suddenly got on to its legs,like the food and the families during Alice's feast in the "Looking Glass,"and swung round,lurching from side to side,and causing the fire to run into the gas and the gas to fly out of the window.
"I--don't--understand,"Jeremy stammered.
"Well,if you don't understand in half a shake,"said Uncle Samuel,"you won't see any of the show at all.Go on.Wash your face.There are streaks of dirt all down it as though you were a painted Indian;stick on your cap and coat and boots and come along."Exactly as one moves in sleep so Jeremy now moved.He had once had a wonderful dream,in which he had been at a meal that included every thing that he had most loved--fish-cakes,sausages,ices,strawberry jam,sponge-cake,chocolates,and scrambled eggs--and he had been able to eat,and eat,and had never been satisfied,and had never felt sick--a lovely dream.
