Ivy Compton-Burnett - Two Worlds and Their Ways

“I never travel late in the day in the autumn. I mistrust the evening air at the fall of the year.”

“I mistrust all air,” said Juliet. “It is what winds and draughts are made of. And it is always morning or evening or some kind of air. I do not know what air in itself would be like, but no doubt very bad. Lucius, shut the window; Mr. Dalziel will feel the air.”

“Thank you, sir. I am serious about such matters. I find it is the only thing to be,” said Mr. Dalziel, unaware that he had no further choice of feeling.

“My wife is serious too in her heart. As you know, she does not wear it on her sleeve.”

“I have gone into the matter of the textbooks, sir, if she will forgive our broaching such matters before her.”

“I thought textbooks were expurgated, when they were for boys,” said Juliet.

Mr. Dalziel turned his pale, broad, full-browed face towards her.

“And Lucius never intrudes into the sphere of the school, except in so far as his presence is a liberal education.”

“I endorse the last indeed. And surely ‘intrude’ is not the word in his case.”

“Watch him next time you see him doing it, and tell him what is the word.”

“Did you meet Miss James?” said Lucius.

“I am afraid I charged into her, sir. She was already about her duties. She is a saint on earth.”

“I used to want to meet one, before I knew her,” said Juliet. “Now, of course, the desire is fulfilled.”

“I mean it seriously, Mrs. Cassidy.”

“Then it was all the nicer of you to say it.”

“I am a great admirer of simple goodness.”

“I admire all goodness. I believe everyone does. And of course we like to say that kind hearts are more than coronets, as if we met both. But why is it better for being simple? I should admire complex goodness as much, though no one speaks about it. I suppose people know they are wicked, and they will not consent to be simple, and so they think the two cannot go together.”

“Everything is commoner in its simpler forms,” said Lucius.

Mr. Dalziel looked at him in some relief.

“I will go and unpack, if Miss James has not forestalled me. I sent my luggage in advance.”

“I saw her engaged on what appeared to be that very task.”

Mr. Dalziel lifted his shoulders in helpless resignation, and left the room.

“Would you like to see Mr. Bigwell, Mr. Cassidy?” said Miss James at the door. “He would prefer to know, before he disturbs you.”

“Yes, yes, we should like it,” said Lucius, glancing at his wife.

“Well, I wanted to be sure of my welcome, before I broke in upon the conjugal privacy,” said a deep, un-modulated voice, as a short, dark, simply rough-featured man entered the room and looked about with a critical, unimpressed air. “It must be such a dreary business starting the concern, that I did not want to force it on you before the time. Well, the respite is over, and we must make the best of the world where we find ourselves.”

“Did you not enter it of your own will?” said Lucius, as he shook hands.

“Well, those progressive universities put you into something useful, whether you will or not,” said Mr. Bigwell, who dealt with the fact that he had not been to Oxford or Cambridge, as well as he could, indeed was always dealing with it. “And the life may not be more circumscribed than any soft-handed life must be. In a way, the further you go up the scale, the further you go down.”

“Are you a pessimist, Mr. Bigwell?” said Juliet. “Perhaps we ought to stipulate for optimism, when we hold our interviews.”

“Well, there is scope for the quality in the routine of a private schoolmaster. I don’t take any other view. But I never see so much in life to throw up one’s bonnet about. Your term may be the one for me. And those of us who live below a certain point, as we all do here, have to adapt ourselves to a certain degree. There are points below, of course.”

“Yes, that is true,” said Lucius, resting his eyes on the speaker, as though the latter might have a right to speak of these. “I hope you had a holiday that pleased you?”

“Yes, thank you. That is how I should describe it. My idea of a good time is to follow my own bent, and not to do things because they are done, or because it is time one did them. I hope you can say the same.”

“We spent our time with relations,” said Juliet. “In the house of my former brother-in-law, where my father still has his home.”

“I hope you gave satisfaction,” said Mr. Bigwell, in the manner of a man with his own knowledge of life.

“I hope so too. At least I am not without hope.”

“Hope is not dead in your breast.”

“By the way, Bigwell,” said Lucius, “a nephew of ours is to take Eaton’s place this term. A man of your age, the elder son of the house where we were staying. I hope you will make him welcome.”

“We will not prejudice him against the life. But, situated as he is, I am at a loss to know why he has chosen it.”

“It is only for a while. And he is easily spared from home. His father is a vigorous man.”

“Yes, there would only be occupation for one,” said Mr. Bigwell, as he ran his eye over the situation.

“And his young half-brother is coming to the school as a boy.”

“You are using your family to bring in new blood,” said Mr. Bigwell, rising and drawing a pipe out of his pocket in preparation for leaving Juliet’s presence. “Well, I hope your nephew and I will bring out the best in each other.”

“What is the best in Mr. Bigwell?” said Juliet, as the door closed.

“He is a worthy fellow and has made a good fight.”

“I wish he had been more victorious. And it is quite a kind wish.”

“People who remain in the one place do not measure the advance of those who rise to another. If ‘rise’ is the word.”

“Of course it is the word. What word would Mr. Bigwell use?”

“He has gone further than I have.”

“But you have not gone anywhere. I would not have married a man who had conquered in the battle of life. I could not live with the scars of victory. May I ask an impossible question? Why would it have mattered, if Mr. Bigwell had stayed where he was?”

“It would have mattered to him. He did not like the place.”

“I wonder how he knew he did not. That was rather clever of him. But his effort has only been for himself. Why do we have to admire him so much?”

“I see no sign that you do so.”

“But I am ashamed of not admiring him. You are not, and you almost betrayed it. Is that a cab at the door?”

“Two cabs,” said Lucius, rising. “Oliver and Sefton in the first with their baggage. And Spode by himself in the second. Why did Spode not walk? His things came yesterday. What care he takes of himself!”

“It is odd how much that sounds to a person’s discredit. I think he is taking even more care of his umbrella. Does that matter as much? He and Oliver are not unlike. They look as if they might be fond of each other. Sefton looks as if no one had ever been fond of him. Why do new boys look like that, when more affection than ever before has been lavished on them? How do you know so much about people’s luggage, Lucius? No wonder your influence permeates the school, when you go and put it everywhere.”

“So a mile is too far for you to walk, Spode?” said Lucius.

“Walk, sir? From the station?”

“Yes. Was a mile too far? It is a fine day.”

Mr. Spode looked out of the window, as though he had not considered this.

“Does one walk from stations?” said Oliver. “Cabs are always there. And what is the good of them, if people walk?”

“Many people have luggage,” said Lucius, “Spode had the expense of sending his luggage in advance and of taking a cab.”