Ivy Compton-Burnett - Two Worlds and Their Ways

“And what do you know about what is better for her? Children do not need to get old before their time. And what does she want with common knowledge? She is not in the position of Miss Petticott. It would only reduce her level.”

A step sounded on the stairs, and a change took place in the atmosphere that was almost tangible.

“No, Miss Clemence, this is a different sort of wall. No damp could come in here,” said Aldom, in an instructive tone. “You see, the bricks are not just painted. They are covered with cement.”

“Do you understand now, Master Sefton?” said Adela, in an almost severe manner.

“Yes,” said Sefton, in a tone of just coming to this point.

“A lesson in building?” said Maria, smiling as she reached them. “But what about the other lessons that are waiting? And Miss Petticott waiting too! This is not the way to prepare for school.”

“Poor little things! To have that thrown at them, whatever they do or say!” said Adela, looking after them. “When I was their age, I was welcome under my father’s roof.”

“I don’t know that I was,” said Aldom. “My father did not do much for me.”

The children certainly had a feeling of hardly being this, as the day wore on, and the idea of exile sank into their minds. The feeling was heightened by the necessity of having meals where their presence seemed superfluous, if not unsuitable. Tea at an earlier than their usual hour enhanced the position, especially as Maria appeared reluctant to assume the duties involved. She stood in the hall with a list in her hand, and her mind distracted by something that eluded it.

“Is her ladyship coming to make the tea, Aldom?”

“I cannot say, Sir Roderick,” said Aldom, glancing through the door, and then applying a light to the lamp under the kettle, a duty that Maria saw as her own. “She is within sight and hearing.”

“And might be a thousand miles away.”

“Not as far as that,” said his wife, coming suddenly into the room, and at once going to the lamp to reverse the arrangements. “The kettle here and the lamp underneath it, Aldom. Not here and here, so that half the heat is wasted. I have explained that before.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“There would be nothing else except expenses and enough refreshments to prevent any feeling,” said Maria, letting go her pencil and holding out her hand for Aldom to restore it, and bringing her eyes to rest on Miss Petticott as the likely source of attention.

“I do not know who is to have that,” said Sir Roderick, “but we do not appear to be among them.”

“You do not have things always going on in your head.”

“And I do not wish to. A free mind makes an alert, attentive person.”

“Would you describe yourself as that?”

“I have done so.”

Maria took up the teapot and smiled at the faces round her.

“One, two, three, four, five, six cups to be filled before I reach my own! And though I may not be an attentive person, I happen to be a thirsty one. What would you all do without me?”

“We should fill the cups,” said her husband. “And what is to happen with us with you, I do not know.”

“Do not lose your sense of proportion. Tea is not such an important thing.”

“It is the need of all of us at the moment. Your own as well.”

“Pray, let me pour out the tea for you, Lady Shelley,” said Miss Petticott.

“No, I must not shirk the duties of my place.”

“That is the feeling of us all,” said Sir Roderick.

“Of course not, Lady Shelley. I did not mean to usurp those. Indeed, it would not be possible. I only thought I might save you trouble.”

Maria smiled and handed her her cup.

“Now, why should I come first, Lady Shelley? I refuse to drink my tea until you have had yours.”

Maria filled the other cups, supplied her own and sat in disregard of it, and incidentally in disregard of Miss Petticott. Sir Roderick drank with relief and without compunction, and looked towards the teapot.

“Some more tea, Roderick?”

“Thank you, my pretty.”

Miss Petticott indicated Maria’s cup.

“Some more tea, Miss Petticott?”

“Lady Shelley!” said the latter, still pointing.

Maria moved a hand towards her cup, but allowed it to waver and receive her stepson’s, and Miss Petticott sat back in her chair.

“Aldom,” said Maria, “what do you think we should want at this stage, being the number of people that we are?”

“Fresh tea, my lady?”

“Then might you not bring it to us?”

Aldom left the room.

“Now, Miss Petticott,” said Maria, when the tea was brought.

Miss Petticott handed her cup in simple resignation.

“You are incorrigible, Lady Shelley.”

“Now, my girl and boy. Now Roderick again and Oliver.”

“And now Lady Shelley,” said Miss Petticott. “We have earned it. Do not play us false.”

Maria drained her cup, replenished it and drained it again.

“Suppose I were to desert you all,” she said, looking over it. “What would you do?”

“Why do people say such things?” said Oliver. “At the moment we should be doing what we are now.”

“I cannot help imagining it sometimes,” said Maria, with a sigh for the picture evoked.

“We are not ungrateful, my pretty.”

“Why does Father call Mother that?” said Sefton.

“He got into the way of it when they were younger,” said Miss Petticott, in a low, explanatory tone. “And he has never given it up. There are often little habits like that between happily married people.”

“Then isn’t she pretty any longer?”

“That is not for me to say. No doubt she is pretty to him,” said Miss Petticott, looking nowhere in particular with distending eyes.

“Then you don’t think she is pretty?”

“She has not asked me what I think.”

“But the boy has,” said Mr. Firebrace, with enjoyment.

“I cannot answer him. He is old enough to know that.”

“What do you think yourself, Mother?” said Clemence.

“I am pleasant to look at. I was never any more.”

“Thank you, my dear,” said Sir Roderick, extending his cup.

“And now, Miss Petticott,” said Maria.

“No, thank you, Lady Shelley, no more,” said Miss Petticott, with a sense of retaliating for personal discomfiture.

“Come, change your mind, Miss Petticoat,” said Sir Roderick. “Do not leave me drinking alone.”

“Well, in that case, Sir Roderick.”

“I suppose the children are not going to school this time any more than at any other?” said Mr. Firebrace.

“This time seems to be different,” said Maria. “I suppose the day must come.”

“I used to suppose it until I perceived it was not the truth.”

“Do you want to be rid of them?”

“I have no feeling on the matter. The idea did not come from me. The question is whether you do.”

“It is whether it is best for them. Your daughters think it is.”

“I should pay them no heed. They have to gain their bread.”

“What do you think, Miss Petticott?” said Oliver.

“That does not bear on the matter either, Mr. Shelley, and so has no point in being thought, if I may express it as the children would. And I do agree that Sefton is a boy, and that Clemence is getting older.”

“Well, yes, so do I,” said Oliver.

“It may sound an obvious thing to say, but it has its own truth as obvious things so often have.”

“I should have thought it had only ordinary truth.”

“Well, truth of any kind should be enough for us, Mr. Shelley.”

“Oh, who has taken the last jam tart?” said Maria in rallying reproach.

Sefton restored the tart to the dish.

“But what can we do with it now that those grubby hands have been over it?”