Ivy Compton-Burnett - Two Worlds and Their Ways

“It is easy to see you are not a mother.”

“Well, yes, I daresay it is.”

“Did you ever talk to your brother?”

“I think hardly ever.”

“Do not the masters ever speak to the boys?”

“I had not thought of it, but I hardly think they do. What could they say to them?”

“They could ask if they were well and happy.”

“Could they? Then no wonder they do not talk to them. They might find the words escaping their lips.”

“What was the good of being at the school with Sefton?”

“It was none. But it was no harm either. He was not despised for the relationship. I carried off the position, even when I played the hymns.”

“How do you know you did,” said Sir Roderick, “when you held no communication with the boys?”

“It came through to me, and my instinct is never wrong.”

“Why should you be so exceptional?” said Maria.

“Exceptional? No one’s instinct is ever wrong. Everyone will tell you about it.”

“Played the hymns?” said Mr. Firebrace. “Were there no waiting women?”

“Only to sing them. There were some for that. And they always sang the one I played.”

“What other should they sing?”

“They might have sung many in the course of the day.”

“You mean that they sang all day the one you played in the morning?”

“That is what I mean. And the one I played in the evening, they sang at night. I heard them, as they went up to bed.”

“Why did you not stop them?” said Maria.

“Because I felt faintly flattered by it.”

“Did Sefton sing?”

“No, but he moved his lips in time.”

“Poor little boy!”

“That would not have hurt him. He does it in church at home. And if it were hurtful, fewer people would do it.”

“I always do it,” said Sir Roderick.

“I shall not let the children go to church in the holidays,” said Maria. “They have enough of the sort of thing at school.”

“I like a woman’s inconsequence,” said Oliver. “But only because it is really something else.”

“You give me the impression that you could be more explicit, if you would.”

“I dislike a woman’s penetration. What credit is it to anyone to see what she is not meant to see, and not to scruple to reveal it? I cannot think why it is supposed to be any.”

“I expect your uncle can tell me more.”

“I daresay he can, and will do so. I dislike a man’s simplicity.”

“Are you free from it yourself?”

“Yes, quite free. I do not shrink from self-praise. It is so untrue that it is no recommendation.”

“Well, come along my boy,” said Mr. Firebrace, offering his arm to his grandson in his old way.

“Another group complete,” said Sir Roderick.

“Not a very natural one,” said Maria.

“As natural as any can be at a school. And depending on human affection. Not simply on the impulse of some people to live, and of others to shirk the duties of their lives.”

Sefton and Clemence ran to the schoolroom, uplifted by their reunion, living in the moment, trying to see an indefinite respite in the days ahead. Sefton ran into Adela’s arms; Miss Petticott left a scene in which she had no part; Aldom appeared at the moment of her doing so, his instinct for succeeding her unimpaired by disuse.

“Well, what did they want to change this for?” said Adela. “What is wrong with it, I should like to know.”

“It is well enough as far as it goes,” said Aldom. “It does not go far enough. That is what was thought.”

“No, it does not,” said Clemence, whirling round on one foot. “It goes such a little way, if only you knew.”

“Well, what have you learned, that you don’t say?” said Adela.

“A good many things,” said Clemence, pausing as the truth of her words came home.

“That sort of talk hasn’t much meaning. If there is anything to be told, people tell it.”

“Well, it may not mean a great deal,” said Clemence, standing with her eyes on space.

Aldom minced across the room, recalling his earlier mimicry.

“Oh, it is not like that,” said Clemence, again revolving. “You can’t know things without knowing them.”

“People don’t think there is anything funny in teaching in a school,” said Sefton. “And when you are there, there doesn’t seem to be.”

“Well, you miss one thing to gain another,” said Adela. “And why have things so much on the common line? What is there in being what you are, if you just have ordinary knowledge?”

“I don’t think the boys were different from me. I mean I don’t think they were poorer. We seem to be rather poor.”

“We don’t spend as much as other people,” said Clemence. “The girls have better clothes than I have.”

“Well, they may need them to compensate for having less background,” said Adela.

“They have not so much less. We are not different from other people.”

“Well, I am glad you sent for the right kind of dress. You were not called upon to go without it. And it was properly packed; I will say that.”

“Miss Tuke does that sort of thing. The matron.”

“Oh, and so I suppose you want no one but her now.”

“I do not want her at all. She was thrust upon me, or I was upon her.”

“There you see. That is her real mind,” said Adela, turning to Aldom.

“I don’t want the matron; I don’t want the mistresses; I don’t want the girls,” said Clemence, with a sense of unworthiness in disclaiming the world that had welcomed her and lamented her downfall. “And I don’t want the masters or the boys,” said Sefton.

“And I don’t think they want me. I should like not to remember any of it.”

“Oh, and after all the trouble and expense,” said Maria at the door, in a tone of reproach and joy. “Why, here are a girl and boy who like their home better than school, their mother and father better than masters and mistresses, and their own nurse better than the matrons. Well, their mother likes them in the same way, and would not change them. So Aldom has come to join in the welcome. I daresay you like him better than his counterpart too. But he will not have to impersonate teachers any longer. You know them at first-hand.”

“Five more days to Christmas!” said Sefton, with a note of excitement, that he would have given much to have real.

“And we shall be a large party this year,” said Maria. “Miss Firebrace and the Cassidys are coming to-morrow. I thought I should like to discuss you with them. And now I find I would rather not talk about them and their schools at all. I want to enjoy our home, and not think of your leaving it. I hope it will not spoil our Christmas.”

“It will not add to it,” said Clemence, with a faint hope of averting the danger. “It will bring in things that have nothing to do with home.”

“My poor child! How stupid I have been! You have had enough of them. And we ought to feel they have had enough of you. But you shall stay up there with Miss Petticott, and hardly see them. Miss Petticott, come and hear what your duty will be this Christmas. To protect these two little home-lovers from the school invaders. I promise to make it easy for you. That will be my expiation of the sin of asking them. But I do want to discuss the children’s abilities and prospects. I promise not to do it in their presence, but I am looking forward to it, and I daresay you are too.”

“Well, Lady Shelley, I have had my opinion about the children for too long, to need that of people who have only just known them. It can hardly be of much value to me. There is not much that I need to be told.”

“You may find your own opinion confirmed, and that has its own satisfaction.”