Ivy Compton-Burnett - Two Worlds and Their Ways

“Clemence, Clemence, Clemence! Suppose we all copied her!” muttered Esther.

“Well, you might do worse, Esther. Do you not think you might, yourself?”

“I wish I were as clever as she is,” said Esther, in her rapid monotone.

“Well, the break-up party is in four days,” said Gwendolen.

“And is that a continuation of the subject, Gwendolen?” said another voice.

“No, Miss Firebrace. But I wanted a change of subject.”

“Then there was no reason why you should not have it. Break-up parties merit our interest as much as other things. They depend on people’s thought and effort. We do not ask you to be indifferent to them.”

“Will you have a new dress for the party, Clemence?” said Esther.

“No, I should not think so. There is not enough time, is there? Only four days.”

“What about the one you said you had at home — the one you left at home?” said Esther.

“Yes, Esther, your phrasing needed correction,” said Lesbia.

“Oh, I should think I must have grown out of that. It has been about for so long. And it is such a fussy thing. I would rather wear the old muslin that is upstairs. That is at any rate ordinary and simple.”

“There is time to get a ready-made one,” said Verity, as Lesbia withdrew into the background, keeping her eyes on Clemence, as though to receive light on her character. “And they are much better than they were.”

“Write now and catch the post,” said Gwendolen. “Miss Chancellor will give you permission. Say you forgot it in the stress of the examinations. There is sure to be something at home, to give the measurements.”

“May I write, Miss Chancellor?” said Clemence, yielding to the mood of recklessness induced by her position.

“Yes, certainly, Clemence. I see nothing against it.”

Clemence wrote to her mother and stated the case, unable to think of another pretext under scrutiny and on the spur of the moment. Gwendolen ran to the hall and returned with an air of relief.

“I was just in time. The box was being cleared.”

“I am glad, Gwendolen,” said Miss Chancellor, “and as much for you as for Clemence. I think you take the matter more seriously than she does.”

A pair of eyes at the door rested gently on Gwendolen.

“I wish I could command a new dress at a moment’s notice,” said Verity. “Mine has been brought up to date, with the result that it is a medley of dates. It is better not to give people time to think. Their thoughts run to contrivance, which is an indulgence for them and not for us.”

“Clemence may not have her request granted, Verity,” said Miss Chancellor. “I shall think she is fortunate, if she does. Such short notice involves both trouble and expense.”

The term moved to its end. The examination lists were read. Clemence was given the place second to Maud, that her marks warranted, without question or sign of doubt. The course was involved in the policy of silence, and she supposed that any unfairness or false impression was balanced by the exposure on the report, and did not see the scale as weighted on her own side. She sat through the applause in awareness of the thoughts about her, feeling her uneasiness a shadow of the real thing. She imagined prisoners awaiting their doom, with a sort of envy. Here was dignity of fate, simple, strong trouble instead of subtle and humbling.

An unfamiliar gleam of light pierced the darkness. A dress arrived from Maria, chosen indeed with haste, but with a care prompted by regard for its cost and its future usefulness. A letter hinted surprise and a sense of lavishness, and enjoined care of the garment. Clemence felt the irony of the pleasure cankered at the root, but gave herself to the moment. The form hailed the parcel, and proceeded to Miss Tuke to be present at the unpacking. Miss Chancellor followed, as though she hardly knew where her steps led her.

“Do you take an interest in clothes, Miss Chancellor?”

“I am quite interested in seeing Clemence’s dress, Verity. It is a signal instance of what can be done at a moment’s notice.”

“It is a charming dress, Clemence,” said Maud. “And I think it should be becoming.”

“I am jealous of it,” said Verity. “I wish we had not reminded Clemence to send for it.”

“Well, really, Verity, what a very odd line for a joke to take!”

“It is not a joke, Miss Chancellor. Our dresses will suffer by comparison.”

“I do not think you need trouble about a comparison that no one will make, Verity.”

“People ought to make it. They ought to put themselves in other people’s place,” said Gwendolen.

“It was really clever of Clemence’s mother to manage it in so short a time,” said Miss Chancellor, with a reference in her tone to her momentary glimpse of Maria.

“Have you a new dress for the party, Maud?” said Verity.

“Yes, I have one this year, Verity.”

“Then why did you not show it to us?”

“It did not strike me as a very interesting object. And I think I will hold to my own view of it.”

“One that is apparently unique in your present company, Maud,” said Miss Chancellor.

“Dear, dear, how proud I shall be of you all!” said Miss Tuke.

“What are you going to wear, Miss Tuke?” said Gwendolen.

“Oh, I shall have too much to do in supervising other people’s clothes, to worry about my own.”

Miss Chancellor looked towards the window with an easy expression.

“What are you — have you thought about your dress, Miss Chancellor?”

“Yes, I have thought, Verity. I gave quite proper attention to it at one moment, though I admit it has escaped my mind since. I shall be wearing a velvet dress with lace touches, that I think will meet the occasion.”

“The one you wore — the dress I think you wore at the spring concert?” said Esther.

“The very same, Esther. Not a stitch or a button altered. To my joy it was not held to be necessary. No thought, no trouble, no expense! It was a great relief.”

Clemence went through the evening with a sense of suffering a dead form of the pleasure that might have been hers. She marvelled that the girls assumed her enjoyment to be of the same order as their own. The lack of imagination staggered her and wrought in her a lasting change. Her growing sense of superiority would have startled the arbiters of her fate. The farewells and the actual departure followed with the same unreality. Miss Tuke kissed numbers of girls without sign of discrimination, and Miss Chancellor shook hands with her form, as though the prospect of travelling with them gave no cause for dispensing with the observance. The principals bade each pupil a cordial farewell, and Miss Laurence held Clemence’s hand for a moment longer than was usual, and looked into her face. Lesbia said an extra word to Clemence at the last, as though they might now resume their relationship.

“You and I are to be re-united in a week, Clemence. I shall meet you next in the capacity of a guest. It is quite a turn in our affairs.”

Clemence smiled in acceptance of the words, disguised the sinking of her heart, wondered if Lesbia would see the visit as imposing silence, or as affording scope for violation of it. She felt the impulse to put the question, to plead the code of host and guest, but found her courage fail. She did not care if Lesbia read her thought, almost hoped she did, that she might recall and act upon it. She followed her companions to the cab and the train with no sign of her inner tumult. They were to travel with Miss Chancellor to London, there to be met and conducted onwards. Clemence was the only one whose destination was earlier, and it seemed a part of the ruthless hastening of fate.

“You are fortunate to get home so quickly,” said Verity. “This is a dreary stage of the term.”