Ivy Compton-Burnett - Two Worlds and Their Ways

“What will it be?” said Maria, coming out of an abstraction. “The school fees without the extras, I suppose?”

Lesbia almost gave another laugh.

“We were talking of the other kind of cost, or we thought we were.”

“Well, you can answer my wife’s question,” said Sir Roderick, who seldom used this word of Maria with his first wife’s family. “It is a simple one.”

“So it is, Roderick. But I cannot answer it,” said Lesbia, with a tremble in her voice as of imperfect self-recovery. “I do not remember at the moment.”

“I do not see why we should not talk about fees, if they are taken.”

“There is no reason why we should not. And we will do so, if you will. Only, as I have forgotten them, I am a rather unsatisfactory informant.”

“You would remember them, if they were not rendered correctly.”

“Should I? Would that be a reliable spur to the memory?”

“Well, something would have to be, if you were not to suffer.”

“The discrepancy with the accounts would emerge when they were made up,” said Lesbia, in an almost absent tone.

“Well, after all, what has happened?” said Sir Roderick, as though speaking under a goad. “Two children copy to get to the top of the class. What else do they suppose is their business at school? To stay at the bottom?”

“I think they were conscious that there was another purpose.”

“It was the duty of the people in charge of them to see that they fulfilled it.”

“No, no, Roderick, we are not going to start the matter again upon another basis. We could not prevent what we did not conceive to be possible. And we should not do better to pursue a policy of suspicion. And now I will say my last word, disclaiming any inclination to have the last one. May your arrangement for your children meet with every success. May it prove all that you hope for them.”

“I wonder what they are doing now, poor children,” said Maria.

“We have said enough to them, my pretty,” said her husband.

Clemence and Sefton were sitting by the schoolroom fire in a silence they could not break. It seemed to press upon them as a cover for feelings that forbade words. Sefton was the first to struggle through it.

“Was that as bad as anything could be, Clemence? Or could there be anything worse? Father and Mother were kind. But did that make it any better?”

“Yes, of course it did. It is nonsense to say that that makes things worse. But I daresay it was worse than anything else will ever be.”

“Then we are prepared for life, aren’t we?” said Sefton, with wonder in his tone.

“No, we are shattered by it, before it comes.”

Sefton almost gave a laugh.

“Father and Mother still seem to love us. We did not really know them.”

“I expect they feel that about us,” said Clemence. “Indeed I could see they did. And I would rather bear anything than see Father think that.”

“It is strange that three places, that were really kind, should bring us to such misery. Because our home and both the schools are really gentle worlds.”

“I suppose the thing to say is that we brought it on ourselves. But don’t let us talk about it. We were new to everything, and did not know how to deal with it. That is all it was. The others were versed in things, and, of course, behaved accordingly. The people at school have not seen things as they are. I should not think they ever do. And Father and Mother had no one else to follow. I wonder they saw as much as they did.”

“They seemed to know a good deal, and without being told. Shall we ever be happy again, quite happy as we used to be?”

“It will take some time. But we shall get nearer to it. Though perhaps we were hardly as happy as we think now. It will be difficult to judge, now that we have known something else.”

“Will people ever speak about all this?”

“There will always be the risk. It will be the worst with Mother. Father will not do it, as he has said he will not. And we can deal with Miss Petticott. But we shall see the thoughts in people’s minds.”

“But we need not take any notice of them, if they are not spoken,” said Sefton. “We can forget them. And it was really for Mother that we did it.”

“We should not have done it, if it had not been for her. But that is not the same thing. She only wanted us to succeed in the real sense.”

“But she would have had no happiness at all, if we had not done it. And she had a good deal, before it was found out. So it was not quite wasted.”

“Of course it was. The pleasure was not as great as the trouble afterwards. We should have been content with what we could do.”

“But she would not have been content, Clemence. The real thing is that she wants us to be cleverer than we are.”

“Well, we all want other people to be better in some way. You see we want Mother to be. But pretence is no good. It cannot be kept up. If it could, perhaps it would be different.”

“Will Mother begin to want us to be clever again?”

“Perhaps she will in the end. For a time she will be on her guard.”

“It is strange that the people at the schools seemed to be kind about it, and yet let it be so bad.”

“I don’t think they were kind. No kind person would have told about it. They knew what that meant, or knew part of it. I could see they did. They were too stupid to know all of it, but stupidity is not kindness. I don’t think a really kind person would ever be stupid.”

“But people who teach in schools are supposed to be clever.”

“They are only clever along their own line. And they are not so very clever on that. You can tell that, when you learn with them; there is not really so much difference. They did not even try to see the real truth. They just did what made them feel superior and powerful, and left us to suffer what we might. And you could see them taking a kind of satisfaction in it, especially Miss Firebrace. She is much the worst.”

“I liked Miss James,” said Sefton. “Wasn’t there a matron at your school?”

“Miss Tuke. Yes, I liked her too. You could hardly be a matron unless you were nice. You are always doing things for other people, that don’t make you thought any more of, yourself.”

“It seems that the nicest people don’t have the important places. Perhaps the others know how to get them for themselves.”

“Well, my two, poor, tired little culprits!” said Maria’s voice.

Clemence gave a start, and suffered a reaction of feeling that overcame her.

“Be silent, Aldom. Do not dare to say another word. And don’t dare to do such a thing again. Don’t you know better than to listen at doors and repeat what you were not meant to hear? You are a dishonourable, ill-mannered young man. This is the very last time. Do you understand? I see you do; so we need have no more words. I have said mine, and I wish to hear none from you. I have heard enough.”

There was a pause.

“Well, she has come on,” said Adela.

“As far as she needs to,” said Aldom, examining his boot.

“Adela, you still like us?” said Sefton. “You will always feel the same?”

Clemence drew an audible breath and began to weep.

“There, there,” said Adela, putting her arms about them. “I don’t care what you did, if you don’t do it any more. Miss Petticott will see it doesn’t happen again. You want someone’s eye on you, of course. The mistake was your going away from home. And they have lost you by complaining about you, as is quite right. If they can’t manage their pupils, and look to the parents to do it, why take them from the parents at all? That is what I should like to know.”

“I think that is what Father thought,” said Clemence, in a steadier tone. “And I daresay it helped him to bring things to the pass.”