Jeremy | Page 6

cow and a tree on the top
(he had seen once in the kitchen the wooden shape with which the cook
made this handsome thing). There were also his own silver mug, given
him at his christening by Canon Trenchard, his godfather, and his silver
spoon, given him on the same occasion by Uncle Samuel.
All these things glittered and glowed in the firelight, and a kettle was
singing on the hob and Martha the canary was singing in her cage in the
window. (No one really knew whether the canary were a lady or a
gentleman, but the name had been Martha after a beloved housemaid,
now married to the gardener, and the sex had followed the name.)
There were also all the other familiar nursery things. The hole in the
Turkey carpet near the bookcase, the rocking-horse, very shiny where
you sit and very Christmas- tree-like as to its tail; the doll's house, now
deserted, because Helen was too old and Mary too clever; the pictures
of "Church on Christmas Morning" (everyone with their mouths very
wide open, singing a Christmas hymn, with holly), "Dignity and
Impudence," after Landseer, "The Shepherds and the Angels," and "The
Charge of the Light Brigade." So packed was the nursery with history
for Jeremy that it would have taken quite a week to relate it all. There
was the spot where he had bitten the Jampot's fingers, for which deed
he had afterwards been slippered by his father; there the corner where
they stood for punishment (he knew exactly how many ships with sails,
how many ridges of waves, and how many setting suns there were on
that especial piece of corner wallpaper--three ships, twelve ridges, two
and a half suns); there was the place where he had broken the ink bottle
over his shoes and the carpet, there by the window, where Mary had
read to him once when he had toothache, and he had not known
whether her reading or the toothache agonised him the more; and so on,
an endless sequence of sensational history.
His reminiscences were cut short by the appearance of Gladys with the
porridge. Gladys, who was only the between-maid, but was
nevertheless stout, breathless from her climb and the sentiment of the

occasion, produced from a deep pocket a dirty envelope, which she laid
upon the table.
"Many 'appy returns, Master Jeremy." Giggle . . . giggle. . . "Lord save
us if I 'aven't gone and forgotten they spunes," and she vanished. The
present-giving had begun.
He had an instant's struggle as to whether it were better to wait until all
the presents had accumulated, or whether he would take them
separately as they arrived. The dirty envelope lured him. He advanced
towards it and seized it. He could not read very easily the sprawling
writing on the cover, but he guessed that it said "From Gladys to
Master Jeremy." Within was a marvellous card, tied together with
glistening cord and shining with all the colours of the rainbow. It was
apparently a survival from last Christmas, as there was a church in
snow and a peal of bells; he was, nevertheless, very happy to have it.
After his introduction events moved swiftly. First Helen and Mary
appeared, their faces shining and solemn and mysterious--Helen self-
conscious and Mary staring through her spectacles like a profound owl.
Because Jeremy had known Mary ever since he could remember, he
was unaware that there was anything very peculiar about her. But in
truth she was a strange looking child. Very thin, she had a large head,
with big outstanding ears, spectacles, and yellow hair pulled back and
"stringy." Her large hands were always red, and her forehead was
freckled. She was as plain a child as you were ever likely to see, but
there was character in her mouth and eyes, and although she was only
seven years old, she could read quite difficult books (she was engaged
at this particular time upon "Ivanhoe"), and she was a genius at sums.
The passion of her life, as the family were all aware, was Jeremy, but it
was an unfortunate and uncomfortable passion. She bothered and
worried him, she was insanely jealous; she would sulk for days did he
ever seem to prefer Helen to herself. No one understood her; she was
considered a "difficult child," quite unlike any other member of the
family, except possibly Samuel, Mr. Cole's brother- in-law, who was an
unsuccessful painter and therefore "odd."

As Mary was at present only seven years of age it would be too much
to say that the family was afraid of her. Aunt Amy's attitude was: "Well,
after all, she's sure to be clever when she grows up, poor child;" and
although the parishioners of Mary's father always