Ivy Compton-Burnett - Two Worlds and Their Ways

“It is much too unshakable to be strengthened by argument, or weakened by the lack of it. Indeed, opinion is the wrong word. It is a case of simple knowledge. And I am afraid poor Sir Roderick will be the chief sufferer from the invasion, if I am to use your word. He will not be able to take refuge in the schoolroom.”

“Their success means a great deal to him. Only he and I know how much. Well, Aldom and I will return to our sphere, and leave you to settle down in yours.”

The children could only pretend to do this, and used an apparent excitement to veil their restlessness. Miss Petticott found them docile and affectionate, as they established themselves in a favour that would withstand the shock to come. They seemed to be playing into each other’s hands, but had no chance of a private word. It was evening when they found themselves alone.

“What is a report, Clemence?” said Sefton, as he turned a page.

“A report? A paper that comes from a school and tells about a pupil in it. I think one is sent at the end of each term.”

“And will one come for us?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Of course it will. But it will make no difference, as the people themselves are coming.”

“It is a pity we went to schools kept by relations, or we might have watched for the reports and intercepted them. That is what boys call it. It is a thing they do sometimes.”

Clemence stared at her brother at this evidence of change in him.

“Is there anything bad on your report?”

“Yes. Yes, there is,” said Sefton, with a burst of tears. “Clemence, I have cheated all through the term, and it has been found out. And it will be on the report, and Mother will mind so much, and there will be such misery. And Father will mind about cheating as much as she will.”

“So have I cheated,” said Clemence, in a tone that seemed to her strange for the words she said. “I wonder why we have both done it. It seems to be such an unusual thing, or they say it is. It is such a strange coincidence. I wonder if we are different from other people?”

“Have you cheated, Clemence? Then it will not be so bad. It will be the same for us both. The coincidence is a happy one. Coincidences are often that. It will all seem so much more ordinary. And I don’t think it can be as bad as they say, if we both have done it.”

“What exactly did you do?” said his sister.

Sefton gave his account, and she gave her own, and they heard each other without question or judgment.

“It will make great trouble,” said Clemence. “We have dreadful things ahead, worse than we have ever had. We shall need great courage. We have thought such small things were bad. And the people from the schools will make it worse. No one but us would have to face that.”

“Yes, we shall need great courage,” said Sefton, almost with complacence. “But its being the same for us both will make a difference. Even the school people can’t prevent that.”

“It may not make it so much better. Why should Mother and Father like disgrace for both of us better than only for one? In a way it will be twice as bad. I wish we could run away or die. But we should starve if we ran away, and we don’t know any way to die. We are not like savages, who can die when they want to.”

“If we were, would you die?”

“Well, savages would never be in our place. It is only possible for civilised people. Miss Firebrace could not be a savage. Her way of making things worse, without seeming to want to, could not exist in one. I wonder if she knows what she is like, and what I really think of her. She seems only to think of what she thinks of me. But thoughts are possible in anyone.”

Lesbia was unconscious of this verdict on herself, as she entered the Shelleys’ house, followed in the usual way by her sister and her husband.

“Christmas, the season of childhood!” she said. “We have no excuse for coming, and so will make none. So Clemence and Sefton are not here to greet us. They are properly exercising their peculiar rights.”

“Christmas is the season of everyone,” said Sir Roderick, who almost adopted at this time the beliefs he did not hold at others. “We are all here to greet and serve each other. The children will be coming to do their part.”

“I have a sense of guilt at Christmas,” said Juliet. “We have nothing but pleasure that we have done nothing to deserve.”

“A good definition of it,” said her sister, speaking just audibly. “A sense of guilt is not out of place. And our having done nothing to deserve our benefits is also true.”

“I never have such a feeling,” said Oliver. “I am a helpless vessel tossed on the waves of life.”

“I always have it,” said his grandfather. “I am not entitled to my home or my bread.”

“We all give thanks for our daily bread,” said Sir Roderick.

“No wonder people dread Christmas,” said Oliver. “Ought we to make it so much worse for each other? This is the sort of thing that gives it its name.”

Maria took no part in the talk. She moved about her duties in a dreamlike way, and her manner had a zest and hint of suspense that were new to Lesbia and told their tale. The latter rendered the dues to convention, and then looked about her with a difference.

“Maria, I have an ordeal before me. I hesitate to ask you to make it easy for me, as I cannot do the same for you. Something of an ordeal it will be to me. Christmas, we have said, is the season of childhood, and the cloud over this Christmas must be the sadder for that. Your children have been a source of joy, and must be one of sorrow too.”

“What is the trouble?” said Sir Roderick.

“Must it come so soon?” said Oliver. “Must it come at all? Why talk of Christmas as the season of childhood, and then forget it?”

“Oliver, if only it need not come! If only the choice were ours!”

“We all have our ordinary, human choice,” said Juliet.

“What is it all about?” said Maria. “I have heard nothing.”

“No?” said Lesbia, in gentle question, pausing as if this shed a certain light. “No? I could wish that you had, Maria, and not only because it would save myself.”

“Give us the plain tale, Lesbia,” said Sir Roderick. “Tell it simply and openly, as anyone else would tell it. Tell us the truth, and the whole truth, but also tell us nothing but the truth. Do not spare us and do not indulge yourself.”

The twofold injunction did its work, and Lesbia did neither of these things. Silence succeeded her account and Lucius’s confirmation of it, and a summons to the children followed at once. The parents could brook no delay in hearing their version of the matter, and their support or denial of Lesbia’s. They hoped for a refutation of it, hoped it too much to face the frailty of the chance.

Lesbia raised her hand.

“Stay, Maria. Do you know the questions you will ask, the answers you expect? We must not plan answers to our questions. That is not our part. The part of the questioner is to accept the replies.”

“Could you really bear to hear them?” said Oliver.

“We can have neither questions nor answers until the people concerned are here,” said Sir Roderick.

“People concerned!” said Juliet. “It seems such a callous way to refer to the young.”

“They will have to face the tribunal of seven grown people. There is no help for it.”

“Of course there is,” said Oliver. “We can all do what we can. I withdraw from the tribunal, and so do Aunt Juliet and Grandpa.”

“I am not part of it,” said Maria. “I am simply their mother.”

“And I am their father. But certain things are binding on me as that. They must face their ordeal. They cannot have their chance without it.”