Through these
chambers, through these darkened corridors, along a passage, sometimes
dangerous, or at least of questionable repute, he must pass to find all
adventures that were _real_. The light--when he pierced far enough to
take the shutters down--was discovery. Tim did not actually think, much
less say, all this. He was aware of it, however. He felt it. The Other
Wing was inside himself as well as through the green baize doors. His
inner map of wonder included both of them. But now, for the first time in his life, he knew who lived there and
who the Ruler was. A shutter had fallen of its own accord; light poured
in; he made a guess, and Mother had confirmed it. Sleep and her Little
Ones, the host of dreams, were the daylight occupants. They stole out
when the darkness fell. All adventures in life began and ended by a
dream--discoverable by first passing through the Other Wing. 2

And, having settled this, his one desire now was to travel over the map
upon journeys of exploration and discovery. The map inside himself he
knew already, but the map of the Other Wing he had not seen. His mind
knew it, he had a clear mental picture of rooms and halls and passages,
but his feet had never trod the silent floors where dust and shadows
hid the flock of dreams by day. The mighty chambers where Sleep ruled
he longed to stand in, to see the Ruler face to face. He made up his
mind to get into the Other Wing. To accomplish this was difficult; but Tim was a determined youngster,
and he meant to try; he meant, also, to succeed. He deliberated. At
night he could not possibly manage it; in any case, the Ruler and her
host all left it after dark, to fly about the world; the Wing would
be empty, and the emptiness would frighten him. Therefore he must
make a daylight visit; and it was a daylight visit he decided on. He deliberated more. There were rules and risks involved: it meant
going out of bounds, the danger of being seen, the certainty of being
questioned by some idle and inquisitive grown-up: "Where in the world
have you been all this time"--and so forth. These things he thought out
carefully, and though he arrived at no solution, he felt satisfied that
it would be all right. That is, he recognised the risks. To be prepared
was half the battle, for nothing then could take him by surprise. The notion that he might slip in from the garden was soon abandoned;
the red bricks showed no openings; there was no door; from the
courtyard, also, entrance was impracticable; even on tiptoe he could
barely reach the broad window-sills of stone. When playing alone,
or walking with the French governess, he examined every outside
possibility. None offered. The shutters, supposing he could reach them,
were thick and solid. Meanwhile, when opportunity offered, he stood against the outside walls
and listened, his ear pressed against the tight red bricks; the towers
and gables of the Wing rose overhead; he heard the wind go whispering
along the eaves; he imagined tiptoe movements and a sound of wings
inside. Sleep and her Little Ones were busily preparing for their
journeys after dark; they hid, but they did not sleep; in this unused
Wing, vaster alone than any other country house he had ever seen,
Sleep taught and trained her flock of feathered Dreams. It was very
wonderful. They probably supplied the entire county. But more wonderful
still was the thought that the Ruler herself should take the trouble
to come to his particular room and personally watch over him all
night long. That was amazing. And it flashed across his imaginative,
inquiring mind: "Perhaps they take me with them! The moment I'm asleep! That's why she comes to see me!" Yet his chief preoccupation was, how Sleep got out. Through the green
baize doors, of course! By a process of elimination he arrived at a
conclusion: he, too, must enter through a green baize door and risk
detection. Of late, the lightning visits had ceased. The silent, darting figure
had not peeped in and vanished as it used to do. He fell asleep too
quickly now, almost before Jackman reached the hall, and long before
the fire began to die. Also, the dogs and birds upon the curtains
always matched the trees exactly, and he won the curtain game quite
easily; there was never a dog or bird too many; the curtain never
stirred. It had been thus ever since his talk with Mother and Father. And so he came to make a second discovery: His parents did not really
believe in his Figure. She kept away on that account. They doubted
her; she hid. Here was still another incentive to go and find her
out. He ached for her, she was so kind, she gave herself so much
trouble--just for his little self in the big and lonely bedroom. Yet
his parents spoke of her as though she were of no account. He longed
to see her, face to face, and tell her that _he_ believed in her and
loved her. For he was positive she would like to hear it. She cared. Though he had fallen asleep of late too quickly for him to see her
flash in at the door, he had known nicer dreams than ever in his life
before--travelling dreams. And it was she who sent them. More--he was
sure she took him out with her. One evening, in the dusk of a March day, his opportunity came; and only
just in time, for his brother Jack was expected home from school on the
morrow, and with Jack in the other bed, no Figure would ever care to
show itself. Also it was Easter, and after Easter, though Tim was not
aware of it at the time, he was to say good-bye finally to governesses
and become a day-boarder at a preparatory school for Wellington. The
opportunity offered itself so naturally, moreover, that Tim took it
without hesitation. It never occurred to him to question, much less to
refuse it. The thing was obviously meant to be. For he found himself
unexpectedly in front of a green baize door; and the green baize door
was--swinging! Somebody, therefore, had just passed through it. It had come about in this wise. Father, away in Scotland, at
Inglemuir, the shooting place, was expected back next morning; Mother
had driven over to the church upon some Easter business or other; and
the governess had been allowed her holiday at home in France. Tim,
therefore, had the run of the house, and in the hour between tea and
bed-time he made good use of it. Fully able to defy such second-rate
obstacles as nurses and butlers, he explored all manner of forbidden
places with ardent thoroughness, arriving finally in the sacred
precincts of his father's study. This wonderful room was the very
heart and centre of the whole big house; he had been birched here long
ago; here, too, his father had told him with a grave yet smiling face:
"You've got a new companion, Tim, a little sister; you must be very
kind to her." Also, it was the place where all the money was kept. What
he called "father's jolly smell" was strong in it--papers, tobacco,
books, flavoured by hunting crops and gunpowder.