Read Ebook: Jeremy and Hamlet A Chronicle of Certain Incidents in the Lives of a Boy a Dog and a Country Town by Walpole Hugh

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Ebook has 1437 lines and 71808 words, and 29 pages

Barbara's howls were now so terrible as to demand immediate attention from everyone. Hamlet had slipped from control and was barking at Aunt Amy, whom he delighted to annoy. Mrs. Cole said: "Now that's enough, children dear. I'm sure Jeremy's tired now." No one had heard Mary's verses; no one noticed the cocked hats; no one applauded the silver wands. The work of weeks was disregarded. No one thought of Mary at all. She crept away to her room at the top of the house, flung herself upon her bed and howled, biting the counterpane between her teeth.

But are not these home-comings always most disappointing affairs? For weeks Jeremy had been looking to this moment. On the frayed wallpaper just above his bed in the school dormitory he had made thick black marks with a pencil, every mark standing for a day. Hard and cynical during his school-day, a barbarian at war with barbarians, at nights, when the lights were out, when the dormitory story-teller's voice had died off into slumber, in those last few minutes before he too slept, he was sentimental, full of home-sick longings, painting to himself that very springing from the cab, his mother's kiss, Hamlet's bark, yes, and even the embraces of his sisters. On the morning of departure, after the excitement of farewells, the strange, almost romantic thrill of the empty schoolrooms, the race in the wagonette to the station, the cheeking of the station-master, the crowding into the railway carriage and leaning out of the carriage window, the screams of "Bags I the corner," the ensuing fights with Cox major, after all this gradual approach to known country, the gathering-in as though with an eager hand of remembered places and stations and roads, the half-hour stop at Drymouth , the crossing over into Glebeshire, then the beat of the heart, the tightening of the throat, as Polchester gradually approached--all this, yes and more, much more, than this, to end in that disappointment! Everyone looking the same as before, the hall the same, the pictures the same, father and mother and Aunt Amy the same, Mary and Helen the same only stupider! What did they dress up and make fools of themselves like that for? Mary always did the wrong thing, and now most certainly she would be crying in her bedroom because he had not said enough to her. . . .

In one way there had been too much of a reception, in another not enough. It was silly of them to make that noise, but on the other hand there should have been more questions. How had he done in football? He had played half-back twice for the school. He had told them that in three different letters, and yet they had asked no questions. And there was Bates who had stolen jam out of a fellow's tuck box. One of his letters had been full of that exciting incident, and yet they had asked no questions. It was true that they had had but little time for questions, nevertheless his father, at once after kissing him, had murmured something about his sermon--as though an old sermon mattered!

Of course he did not think all this out. He only sat on his bed kicking his legs, looking at the well-remembered furniture of his room, vaguely discontented and unhappy. What fun it had been that morning, ragging Miss Taylor, laughing at the guard of the train, saying good-bye to old Mumpsey Thompson who recently spoke to him as though he were a man, asking him whether his parents had decided upon the public school to which, in two years' time, he would be going--Eton, Harrow, Winchester, Craxton, Rugby, Crale and so on. Time to decide, time to decide!

One's public! The world widening and widening, growing ever more terribly exciting--and here Mary, sobbing in her room, and father with his sermons and the long evenings. At least no work--only a silly holiday task, a book called "The Talisman," or some rot. No work. His spirits revived a little. No work and lots of food, and Hamlet. . . .

Hamlet! He jumped off his bed. Why, he had never noticed the dog! He had forgotten. He rushed from the room.

When he was half-way down the stairs he caught the echo of a voice: "Tea, Jeremy. All ready in the schoolroom." But he did not pause. In the hall he saw the housemaid. "I say, where's Hamlet?" he cried.

"In the kitchen, I expect, Master Jeremy," she answered.

In the kitchen, she expected! Why should she expect it? Hamlet never used to be in the kitchen. His heart began to beat angrily. The kitchen? That was not the place for a dog like Hamlet. He stumbled down the dark stairs into the basement. Mrs. Hounslow was standing beside the kitchen table, her sleeves rolled up above her elbows; she was pounding and pounding. Jeremy cried, at once challenging:

"I say, where's my dog?"

"'E's lying there right in front of the fire, Master Jeremy--the poor little worm," she added.

"The poor little worm" was indeed stretched out gnawing at a bone.

"He oughtn't to be in front of the fire," said Jeremy. "It's bad for dogs. It gives them rheumatism."

She stopped her pounding. They had not met before, but it was one of those old hostilities born in the air, fostered by the crystal moon, roughened by the golden sun.

Jeremy stood, his legs apart, looking down upon his dog. He saw how fat he was, how deeply engrossed in his bone, how dribbling at the jaws.

"Hamlet!" he said. He repeated the name three times. At the third call the dog looked up, then went back to his bone. Mrs. Hounslow sniffed.

Meanwhile in Hamlet's soul something was stirring--memories, affections, sentiments. . . . He licked the bone again. It no longer tasted so sweet as before. He looked up at Mrs. Hounslow imploringly.

"But he oughtn't to love the kitchen!" Jeremy burst out indignantly. "He isn't a kitchen dog!"

She had, however, her dignity.

"That's as may be, Master Jeremy," she said. "But it's natural, both in dogs and humans, that they should go to them as cares for them best and takes trouble over them."

She went on with her pounding, breathing deeply.

Jeremy looked at her. He had hurt her feelings. He was sorry for that. After all, she had been kind to the dog--in her own way. She naturally could not understand the point of view that he must take.

"Thank you very much," he said huskily, "for having been so kind to Hamlet all this time. . . . He's going to live upstairs now--but it was very good of you to take so much trouble."

Hamlet was deep in his bone once more. When Jeremy put his hand on his collar he growled. That roused Jeremy's temper. He dragged the dog across the floor; Hamlet pushed out his legs, and behind his hair his eyes glared. The door closed on them both.

Upstairs in his own room he squatted on the floor and drew Hamlet in between his legs. Hamlet would not look at his master. He sulked as only dogs and beautiful women can.

"I know I've been away, and you must have thought I was never coming back, but I couldn't help that. I had to go to school, and I couldn't take you with me. And now I'm going to be home for weeks and weeks, and it will be awfully slow if you aren't with me. Nobody seems really excited about my coming back, and Uncle Samuel's away, and everything's rotten--so you must stay with me and go out with me for walks and everything."

Hamlet was staring down at the floor through his hair. His master was scratching his head in exactly the way that he used to do, in the way that no one else had ever done. Three, four, five scratches in the middle, then slowly towards the right ear, then slowly towards the left, then both ears pulled close together, then a piece of hair twisted into a peak, then all smoothed down again and softly stroked into tranquillity. Delicious! His soul quivered with sensuous ecstasy. Then his master's hands smelt as they had always done, hard and rough, with the skin suddenly soft between the fingers. Very good to lick! His tongue was half out. In another moment he would have rolled over on to his back, his legs stuck stiffly out, his eyes closed, waiting for his belly to be tickled. In another moment! But there was a knock on the door, and Mary appeared.

Mary's eyes were red behind her spectacles. She had the sad, resigned indignation of a Cassandra misunderstood.

"Jeremy, aren't you coming down to tea? We're half finished."

He rose to his feet. He knew that he must say something.

"I say, Mary," he stammered, "it was most awfully decent of you to make that poetry up. I did like it."

"Did you really?" she asked, gulping.

"Yes, I did."

"Would you like a copy of it?"

"Most awfully."

"I did make a copy of it. But I thought nobody cared--or wanted to hear. . . ." Fearful lest she should begin to cry again, he said hurriedly:

"Here's Hamlet. He's always been in the kitchen. He's not going to be any longer."

Hamlet followed him downstairs, but still with reluctant dignity. The moment of his surrender had been covered, and he did not know that he would now surrender after all. He would see. Meanwhile he smelt food, and where food was he must be.

Tea was in the schoolroom. Miss Jones, the governess, was away on her holiday, and Jeremy saw at once that the worst thing possible had occurred: his Aunt Amy, whom he did not love, was in charge of the tea-table. He had fantastic thoughts when he saw his aunt, thinking of her never as a human being, but as an animal, a bird, perhaps. A crow. A vulture. Something hooked and clawed. But to-day she was determined that she would be friendly.

"Sit down, Jeremy dear. You're very late, but on the first day we'll say nothing about it."

His mother should have been here. Where was his mother?

"Have you washed your hands? Mother has callers. . . . There is blackberry jam and also strawberry. Your welcome home, Jeremy."

He would have neither. He loved blackberry. Still more he loved strawberry. But he would have neither. Because Aunt Amy had asked him. His eye was on Hamlet, who was sulking by the door.

"I do hope, dear, that you're not going to have that dog with you everywhere again. All the time you were away he was in the kitchen. Very happy there, I believe."

Jeremy said nothing.

Aunt Amy, who was, I think, to be applauded for her efforts with a sulky boy, bravely persevered.

"Do tell us, dear, about this last time at school. We are all so eager to know. Was it cricket or football, dear, and how did your work go?"

He mumbled something, blushing to the eyes as he caught his sister Helen's ironical supercilious glance.

"I hope your master was pleased with you, dear."

He burst out: "I was whacked twice."

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