Ivy Compton-Burnett: Two Worlds and Their Ways

“What is the good of writing that cannot be read? And why make the characters in Greek when you are writing in English?”

“I can read any writing as if it were print.”

“People are proud of such trivial things,” said Sir Roderick, interpreting the tone. “And the gift may have its danger.”

“You and I have no secrets from each other. Indeed I have none from anyone. Have you any secrets, Roderick?”

“No,” said the latter, after the pause of a man who, if he had secrets, would have them remain so.

“They think we are failing in our duty to our children. The curate at two about the charity sale. I wonder what makes me think of that.”

“The sight of an envelope prompted you to make a note on the back.”

“Well, remind me that the note is there. I shall be keeping the envelopes.”

“Why should I remember what you will not, when it is your affair, not mine?”

“I have a great many things on my mind.”

“And so have I. And their all going wrong does not make them any fewer,” said Sir Roderick, frowning over the problems of his estate, in which he could not command success.

Maria smiled over her own problems, in which she found she could.

“Well, how about these schools and the children?” she said, putting her pencil in the middle of an envelope, as though in observance of a correct course.

“I was never the better for education.”

“You might have been, if you had had more of it. I daresay that is what the schoolkeepers think. And you do not know what you would have been without it.”

“What I am now, as long as I had learned to read and write.”

“What more did you learn?” said Maria. “They feel the children should go further. And you need not say ‘and fare worse’, as there is no likelihood of it.”

“They want them in their schools for their own purposes. We want them in our home for ours. And as our stake is the larger, we have the right to decide.”

“We must use it fairly. And I doubt if you have it, Roderick. You gave up your rights during your first marriage, and such things do not come back. But we will leave the matter for the moment. It may all look different presently.”

“It will look the same to me. I never understand the effect of a different time on other people.”

“Good morning, Sir Roderick; good morning, Lady Shelley. I suppose I should put the names in the other order. I am always impressing on Sefton the doctrine of ‘ladies first’, and then I fail myself on the first opportunity. Well, I suppose few of us practise what we preach.”

“Good morning, Miss Petticoat,” said Sir Roderick, with a movement of rising, that he did not complete.

The newcomer looked at the table, as though uncertain of her claims to what it afforded.

“I understood we were to have breakfast down here, Lady Shelley.”

Maria gave a smile and gesture with her eyes down.

“Sit down, Miss Petticoat, sit down,” said Sir Roderick, with a note of putting someone at ease, who might not be so. “Sit down and give us your opinion on a matter that concerns you as much as ourselves. The question is arising again of the children’s leaving their home for school. Our connections cannot let it rest, and we are forced to the point of considering it. What help can you be to us?”

“Well, really, Sir Roderick, I had not thought of the matter. And perhaps I am hardly the person to be consulted. It might be thought to involve me too closely. Not that I should not despise myself, if I could not give an honest opinion. And I do see there is much to be said on both sides.”

“Come, Miss Petticoat, you will not leave us. You are one of ourselves. My wife could not make a list or go to a meeting without you. And the children will always be having holidays, or being ill or expelled. We had no thought of a parting. Maria is upset at the bare idea.”

“I have never had the idea, so that is not quite true,” said the latter, putting down the letters. “Will you have a hot roll, Miss Petticott? They ought to be finished today — that is why my husband and I are struggling with them.”

“Thank you, Lady Shelley; they make a nice change from toast. Not that that is not the best thing for every day. I say to the children, when they tire of it—” Miss Petticott broke off as Maria’s attention failed.

“My dear, Miss Petticoat has no coffee.”

Maria almost raised her eyes.

“My dear, Miss Petticoat has no coffee,” said her husband in the same tone, as though a first appeal hardly qualified for success.

“Do you know you always pronounce Miss Petticott’s name ‘Petticoat’?”

“I pronounce it as it is said. Of course I know the name. What does Miss Petticoat say herself?”

“Oh, do not worry about it, Sir Roderick. It has quite a nice, little, homely sound. I should quite miss my pet name,” said Miss Petticott, hurrying past these words. “Not that it is meant in that way, of course; that is only my way of putting it. But I should quite miss the variation in the name, as you pronounce it. And I believe the derivation is not very different. The name is derived—” Miss Petticott again broke off, finding that inattentiveness, which she had encountered in her pupils, was a family characteristic.

“I shall take matters into my own hands, Miss Petticoat. I am not going to let you be neglected for another moment.”

“Thank you, Sir Roderick. I do not know why I should be spoilt like this,” said Miss Petticott, taking a rather full view of conventional attention. “I cannot say why the children are so late. I cannot explain it.”

“They are puzzled by finding no breakfast in the schoolroom,” said Maria. “If you would ring the bell in the hall, it will suggest that we are downstairs. They do little thinking for themselves.”

“Allow me, allow me, Miss Petticoat,” said Sir Roderick, keeping his eyes averted from Miss Petticott’s progress to the door. “I do not know why our duties should devolve upon you.”

The latter returned with the brisk steps of relief of mind. She saw every reason why duties should fall to her share, or saw the one reason, that they gave her her foothold in the house. She was a buxom, cheerful woman of forty-six, with cheeks of unvarying red, hair turning grey, bright, full, brown eyes, and features of the shapeless kind that involves so many shapes. She had the fewest wishes of any person in the house, indeed, had one wish, that she would have enough money for her old age; and this was eased by the hope that, if she remained long enough with the Shelleys, they would provide it.

Voices sounded on the stairs and Maria raised her eyes.

“The children are talking to Aldom again. I do not know how to prevent it.”

“Neither do I, Lady Shelley, as you do not wish it to be forbidden.”

“I can hardly wish that. There is nothing against their talking to him. But they talk to nobody else. I suppose they do need more companionship.”

“I do my best for them, Lady Shelley.”

“You do too much, Miss Petticoat. Do not give them another thought,” said Sir Roderick. “The little ruffians prefer the servants’ company. It is more on their own ground. They are all equally uneducated. I mean, you have not had time to get them up to your level. We hope they may reach it in the end.”

A girl and boy entered and advanced to embrace their parents. They came to their father first, but he motioned them to pass him and give Maria the first greeting. They took no notice of Miss Petticott, an omission that neither she nor they nor anyone else observed. Sir Roderick’s face lit up with affection and pride, Maria’s with affection and pride and eager hope, Miss Petticott’s with reflected light.