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imagine how anyone so young could be so cruel； so heartless； so
maliciously clever in his elaborate machinations。 She regarded him
with real horror； and on the occasions when she found him acting
kindly towards his sisters or a servant； or when she watched him
discoursing solemnly to Hamlet； she was helplessly puzzled； and
decided that these better manifestations were simply masks to hide
his devilish young heart。 She perceived meanwhile the inevitable
crisis slowly approaching； when she would be compelled to invite
Mrs。 Cole's support。 That would mean her dismissal and a hopeless
future。 There was no one to whom she might turn。 She had not a
relation； not a friendtoo late to make friends now。
She could see nothing in front of her at all。
The crisis did come； but not as she expected it。
There arrived a morning when the dark mist outside and badly made
porridge inside tempted the children to their very worst。 Miss Jones
had had a wakeful night struggling with neuralgia and her own
hesitating spirit。 The children had lost even their customary half…
humourous； half…contemptuous reserve。 They let themselves appear for
what they wereinfant savages discontented with food； weather and
education。
I will not detail the incidents of that morning。 The episodes that
were on other mornings games were today tortures。 There was the
Torture of Losing Things； the Torture of Not Hearing； the Torture of
Many Noises； the Torture of Sudden Alarm； the Torture of Outright
Defiance； the Torture of Expressed Contempt。 When twelve struck and
the children were free； Miss Jones was not far from a nervous panic
that can be called； without any exaggeration； incipient madness。 The
neuralgia tore at her brain； her own self…contempt tore at her
heart； her baffled impotence bewildered and blinded her。 She did not
leave the schoolroom with the children； but went to the broad
window…sill and sat there looking out into the dreary prospect。
Then； suddenly for no reason except general weakness and physical
and spiritual collapse she began to cry。
Jeremy was considered to have a cold； and was； therefore； not
permitted to accompany his mother and sisters on an exciting
shopping expedition； which would certainly lead as far as old
Poole's； the bookseller； and might even extend to Martins'； the
pastrycook； who made lemon biscuits next door to the Cathedral。 He
was； therefore； in a very bad temper indeed when he returned sulkily
to the schoolroom。 He stood for a moment there unaware that there
was anybody in the room； hesitating as to whether he should continue
〃A Flat Iron for a Farthing〃 or hunt up Hamlet。 Suddenly he heard
the sound of sobbing。 He turned and saw Miss Jones。
He would have fled had flight been in any way possible； but she had
looked up and seen him； and her sudden arrested sniff held them both
there as though by some third invisible power。 He saw that she was
crying； he saw her red nose； mottled cheeks； untidy hair。 It was the
most awful moment of his young life。 He had never seen a grown…up
person cry before； he had no idea that they ever did cry。 He had；
indeed； never realised that grown…up persons had any active
histories at all； any histories in the sense in which he and Mary
had them。 They were all a background； simply a background that blew
backwards and forwards like tapestry according to one's need of
them。 His torture of Miss Jones had been founded on no sort of
realisation of her as a human being； she had been a silly old woman；
of course； but just as the battered weather…beaten Aunt Sally in the
garden was a silly old woman。
Her crying horrified； terrified； and disgusted him。 It was all so
dreary； the horrible weather outside； the beginning of a cold in his
head； the schoolroom fire almost out； everyone's bad temper；
including his own； and this sudden horrible jumping…to…life of a
grown…up human being。 She； meanwhile； was too deeply involved now in
the waters of her affliction to care very deeply who saw her or what
anyone said to her。 She did feel dimly that she ought not to be
crying in front of a small boy of eight years old； and that it would
be better to hide herself in her bedroom； but she did not mindshe
COULD not mindher neuralgia was too bad。
〃It's the neuralgia in my head；〃 she said in a muffled confused
voice。 That he could understand。 He also had pains in his head。 He
drew closer to her； flinging a longing backward look at the door。
She went on in convulsed tones：
〃It's the painawake all night； and the lessons。 I can't make them
attend； they learn nothing。 They're not afraid of methey hate me。
I've never really known children before〃
He did not know what to say。 Had it been Mary or Helen the formula
would have been simple。 He moved his legs restlessly one against the
other。
Miss Jones went on：
〃And now； of course； I must go。 It's quite impossible for me to stay
when I manage so badly〃 She looked up and suddenly realised that
it was truly Jeremy。 〃You're only a little boy； but you know very
well that I can't manage you。 And then where am I to go to？ No one
will take me after I've been such a failure。〃
The colour stole into his cheeks。 He was immensely proud。 No grown…
up person had ever before spoken to him as though he was himself a
grown…up personalways laughing at him like Uncle Samuel； or
talking down to him like Aunt Amy； or despising him like Mr。
Jellybrand。 But Miss Jones appealed to him simply as one grown…up to
another。 Unfortunately he did not in the least know what to say。 The
only thing he could think of at the moment was： 〃You can have my
handkerchief； if you like。 It's pretty clean〃
But she went on： 〃If my brother had been alive he would have advised
me。 He was a splendid man。 He rowed in his college boat when he was
at Cambridge； but that； of course； was forty years ago。 He could
keep children in order。 I thought it would be so easy。 Perhaps if my
health had been better it wouldn't have been so hard。〃
〃Do your pains come often？〃 asked Jeremy。
〃Yes。 They're very bad。〃
〃I have them； too；〃 said Jeremy。 〃It's generally； I expect； because
I eat too muchat least； the Jampot used to say so。 They're in my
head sometimes； too。 And then I'm really sick。 Do you feel sick？〃
Miss Jones began to pull herself together。 She wiped her eyes and
patted her hair。
〃It's my neuralgia；〃 she said again。 〃It's from my eyes partly； I
expect。〃
〃It's better to be sick；〃 continued Jeremy； 〃if you can be〃
She flung him then a desperate look； as though she were really an
animal at bay。
〃You see； I can't go away；〃 she said。 〃I've nowhere to go to。 I've
no friends； nor relations； and no one will take me for their
children； if Mrs。 Cole says I can't keep order。〃
〃Then I suppose you'd go to the workhouse；〃 continued Jeremy；
pursuing her case with excited interest。 〃That's what the Jampot
always used to say； that one day she'd end in the workhouse； and
that's a horrible place； SHE said； where there was nothing but
porridge to eat； and sometimes they took all your clothes off and
scrubbed your back with that hard yellow soap they wash Hamlet
with。〃
His eyes grew wide with the horrible picture。