I
Always in after years Jeremy remembered that party of Miss Maddison's,not because it had been there that he had won his first fight,but for the deeper reason that from that day his life received a new colour,woven into the texture of it;even now when he thinks of those hours that followed Miss Maddison's party he catches his breath and glances around him to see whether everything is safe.The children,on arriving home that evening,found that their father and mother had already returned from Drymouth.Jeremy,sleepy though he was,rushed to his mother,held her hand,explained his black eye,and then suddenly,in a way that he had,fell asleep,there as he was,and had to be carried up to bed.
When he awoke next morning his first thought was of his mother.He did not know why;she was so definitely part of the background of his daily life that he felt too sure of her continual and abiding presence to need deliberate thought of her.But this morning he wanted to get up quickly and find her.Perhaps her absence had made him feel more insecure,but there had also been something that night,something in her face,something in the touch of her hand.
And the other thing that he realised was that summer had truly come.
He knew at once that hot smell that pressed even through the closed window-panes of his room;the bars and squares of light on the floor when he jumped out of bed and stood upon them seemed to burn the soles of his feet,and the rays of light on the ceiling quivered as only summer sunlight can quiver.The two windows of his bedroom looked back behind Polchester over fields and hedges to a dim purple line of wood.A tiny stream ran through the first two fields,and this little river was shining now with a white hot light that had yet the breeze of the morning ruffling it.He ran to his window and opened it.Beyond the wall that bordered their house was a little brown path,and down this path,even as he watched,a company of cows were slowly wandering along.Already they were flapping their ears lazily in anticipation of the flies,and the boy who was driving them was whistling as one only whistles on a summer morning.
He could see the buttercups,too,in the nearest field;they seemed to have sprung to life in the space of a night.Someone was pulling the rope of a well somewhere and someone else was pouring water out upon some stone court.Even as he watched,a bee came blundering up to his window,hesitated for a moment,and then went whirring off again,and through all the sun and glitter and the sparkle of the little river there was a scent of pinks,and mignonette,and even,although it could not really be so,of the gorse.The sky was a pale white blue,so pale that it was scarcely any colour at all and a few puffs of clouds,dead white like the purest smoke,hovered in dancing procession,above the purple wood.The sun burnt upon his bare feet and his head and his hands.
This coming of summer meant so much more to him than merely the immediate joy of it--it meant Rafiel and Cow Farm and the Cove and green pools with crabs in them,and shrimping and paddling and riding home in the evening on haycarts,and drinking milk out of tin cans,and cows and small pigs,and peeling sticks and apples,and collecting shells,and fishermen's nets,and sandwiches,and saffron buns mixed with sand,and hot ginger beer,and one's ears peeling with the sun,and church on Sunday with the Rafiel sheep cropping the grass just outside the church door,and Dick Marriott,the fisherman,and slipping along over the green water,trailing one's fingers in the water,in his boat,and fishy smells by the sea-wall,and red masses of dog-fish on the pier,and the still cool feel of the farmhouse sheets just after getting into bed--all these things and a thousand more the coming of summer meant to Jeremy.
But this morning he did not feel his customary joy.Closing his window and dressing slowly,he wondered what was the matter.What could it be?It was not his eye--certainly it was a funny colour this morning and it hurt when you touched it,but he was proud of that.No,it was not his eye.And it was not the dog,who came into his room,after scratching on the door,and made his usual morning pretence of having come for any other purpose than to see his friend and master,first looking under the bed,then going up to the window pretending to gaze out of it (which he could not do),barking,then rolling on a square of sunlit carpet,and,after that,lying on his back,his legs out stiff,his ridiculous "Imperial"pointed and ironical,then suddenly turning,with a twist on his legs,rushing at last up to Jeremy,barking at him,laughing at him,licking him,and even biting his stockings--last of all seizing a bedroom slipper and rushing wildly into the schoolroom with it.
No,there was nothing the matter with Hamlet.Nor was there anything the matter with Miss Jones,free,happily,from her customary neuralgia,and delighted with the new number of the Church Times.
Nor was it the breakfast,which to-day included bacon and strawberry jam.Nor,finally,was it Mary or Helen,who,pleased with the summer weather (and Mary additionally pleased with the virtues of Lance as minutely recorded in the second volume of "The Pillars of the House"),were both in the most amiable of tempers.No,it must be something inside Jeremy himself.
He waited until the end of breakfast to ask his question:
"Can I go and see Mother,Miss Jones?"
Mary and Helen looked across at him inquisitively.
"What do you want to see your mother for now,Jeremy?You always see her at twelve o'clock."Miss Jones pushed her spectacles lower upon her nose and continued her reading.
"I want to."
"Well,you can't now."
"Why not?"
"Because I say not--that's enough."
But Jeremy was gentle to-day.He got off his chair,went round to Miss Jones's chair,and,looking up at her out of his bruised eye,said in the most touching voice:
"But,please,Miss Jones,I want to.I really do."Then she said what he had known all the time was coming:
