Two Worlds and Their Ways Page 13

  “It was really clever of Clemence’s mother to manage it in so short a time,” said Miss Chancellor, with a reference in her tone to her momentary glimpse of Maria.

  “Have you a new dress for the party, Maud?” said Verity.

  “Yes, I have one this year, Verity.”

  “Then why did you not show it to us?”

  “It did not strike me as a very interesting object. And I think I will hold to my own view of it.”

  “One that is apparently unique in your present company, Maud,” said Miss Chancellor.

  “Dear, dear, how proud I shall be of you all!” said Miss Tuke.

  “What are you going to wear, Miss Tuke?” said Gwendolen.

  “Oh, I shall have too much to do in supervising other people’s clothes, to worry about my own.”

  Miss Chancellor looked towards the window with an easy expression.

  “What are you—have you thought about your dress, Miss Chancellor?”

  “Yes, I have thought, Verity. I gave quite proper attention to it at one moment, though I admit it has escaped my mind since. I shall be wearing a velvet dress with lace touches, that I think will meet the occasion.”

  “The one you wore—the dress I think you wore at the spring concert?” said Esther.

  “The very same, Esther. Not a stitch or a button altered. To my joy it was not held to be necessary. No thought, no trouble, no expense! It was a great relief.”

  Clemence went through the evening with a sense of suffering a dead form of the pleasure that might have been hers. She marvelled that the girls assumed her enjoyment to be of the same order as their own. The lack of imagination staggered her and wrought in her a lasting change. Her growing sense of superiority would have startled the arbiters of her fate. The farewells and the actual departure followed with the same unreality. Miss Tuke kissed numbers of girls without sign of discrimination, and Miss Chancellor shook hands with her form, as though the prospect of travelling with them gave no cause for dispensing with the observance. The principals bade each pupil a cordial farewell, and Miss Laurence held Clemence’s hand for a moment longer than was usual, and looked into her face. Lesbia said an extra word to Clemence at the last, as though they might now resume their relationship.

  “You and I are to be re-united in a week, Clemence. I shall meet you next in the capacity of a guest. It is quite a turn in our affairs.”

  Clemence smiled in acceptance of the words, disguised the sinking of her heart, wondered if Lesbia would see the visit as imposing silence, or as affording scope for violation of it. She felt the impulse to put the question, to plead the code of host and guest, but found her courage fail. She did not care if Lesbia read her thought, almost hoped she did, that she might recall and act upon it. She followed her companions to the cab and the train with no sign of her inner tumult. They were to travel with Miss Chancellor to London, there to be met and conducted onwards. Clemence was the only one whose destination was earlier, and it seemed a part of the ruthless hastening of fate.

  “You are fortunate to get home so quickly,” said Verity. “This is a dreary stage of the term.”

  “Why not call it the first stage of the holidays, Verity?” said Miss Chancellor.

  “I find it the best of all moments. Nothing over, and everything to come,” said Gwendolen, striking at the pain in Clemence’s heart.

  “School seems a long way off already. I have almost forgotten it.”

  “Well, really, Clemence, that is evidence of a very shallow heart,” said Miss Chancellor. “And when school so soon afforded you a niche of your own!”

  “It must be odd to have Miss Firebrace to stay,” said Esther. “What is she like in the house?”

  “Why should it be odd?” said Miss Chancellor. “I suppose Miss Firebrace may pay a visit like anyone else. And no doubt she is like herself, Esther, and so an entertaining guest. I expect Clemence will enjoy having her.”

  “I hope she will not broach awkward school affairs,” said Esther, breaking off as she realised where her words might lead.

  “I failed to see what school affairs have been awkward for Clemence, Esther. And I do not know why Miss Firebrace should take another view.”

  “I shall not see much of her,” said Clemence. “My brother and I will be together. We are not a great deal with guests. We are still looked upon as children.”

  “Won’t your being at school make a difference to that?” said Esther.

  “No, I don’t think so. School is not much regarded. And we like our old ways best.”

  “But you see your father and mother?”

  “Yes, we can go to them when we like. But Miss Petticott is with us in the schoolroom.”

  “I suppose it is a very large house.”

  “Well, it seems to be divided into parts. I suppose houses in the country are like that.”

  “We live humbly in London,” said Gwendolen.

  “I do not see anything humble in living in the greatest city in the world, Gwendolen.”

  “There are slums in great cities, Miss Chancellor.”

  “But you do not live in one, so I fail to see how that is on the point.”

  “We live in a watering-place,” said Verity, lifting her shoulders.

  “We live in a suburb,” said Esther, speaking as though she did not spare her bluntness in her own case.

  “Maud lives in the same place as I do, and we never meet,” said Verity, as if in mockery of the circumstances.

  “We move in a different milieu, Verity. My mother and I live in another part of the town. Those things count in a place of that kind, even if they do not count in themselves.”

  “As they do,” muttered Esther.

  “Where do you live, Miss Chancellor?”

  “Also in a suburb, Gwendolen. And very pleasant I find it, and very anxious I am to get there.”

  “Have you parents, Miss Chancellor?” said Verity, in a tone that recalled the one she sometimes used to Maud.

  “Yes, indeed I have, Verity. And they are eagerly awaiting me. I am going back to be a child at home again, as Clemence is.”

  “But you are not kept upstairs in a schoolroom?”

  “No, not quite that. I have enough of schoolrooms in the term. But I believe my father would think it was rather my proper place.”

  “Have you not had enough of them, Clemence?” said Verity.

  “No, not of my own schoolroom. I have had nothing of it for three months.”

  “But everything of it for years before,” said Esther.

  “It is a natural feeling, Clemence,” said Miss Chancellor. “You are fortunate to have a sanctum of your own. It is one of the things for which I envy you.”

  “Here is Clemence’s station!” said Esther. “The porter is looking out for her. I saw him recognise her as we passed. He is talking to a lady, and pointing her out. Is that someone who has come to meet you, Clemence? I think I once caught a glimpse of her at school.”

  “Yes, it is my mother. I am at home at last,” said Clemence, preparing to leave the train.

  “Well, really, Clemence, your journey has not been such a long one,” said Miss Chancellor, laughing, and helping with Clemence’s possessions. “I will just get out and see you into your mother’s hands.”

  “Miss Chancellor likes to make new acquaintances,” said Esther. “And may not have much opportunity in the house where she is a child again.”

  “I do not know why we should deduce so much from her seeing Clemence out of the train,” said Maud.

  “This is Miss Chancellor, Mother. I am in her form,” said Clemence, when she and Maria had embraced.

  Maria turned at once and grasped and retained Miss Chancellor’s hand.

  “Why, I find this a closer tie than many older ones. And Clemence’s father would feel with me. Perhaps Miss Fire-brace would let Clemence bring you here at some time, or let you bring her, in whichever way it is seen. I suppose we are all under discipline.”

  “I thi
nk we should have to bring each other, Lady Shelley. And in the spring it would be a delightful plan. The winter days are rather short. We were sorry not to see you at our party on Tuesday. We hoped you would be able to come.”

  “You will have to see us in our home, to know us. I should think we can see you anywhere. You are not a person who has to be in one spot, to be yourself.”

  “No, Lady Shelley. One advantage of my work is that it has taken me into different parts of the world we live in. It is one of the things I asked of life, and it has not been denied me.”

  Maria talked until the train moved on, and beyond this stage, calling out invitations and suggestions, as it gathered speed. The girls leaned from their seats and called their farewells.

  “Lady Shelley is very charming,” said Miss Chancellor, as she returned to her place.

  “I should hardly have thought that was her word,” said Esther.

  “And it is not, Esther. You are right. Cordial, genuine, with a quality of her own. That is a much better way of putting it.”

  “It was clever of Esther to suggest so much in a word,” said Gwendolen.

  “Or without one,” said Verity.

  “Lady Shelley suggested it, Verity. Esther simply saw something of what was there. And it comes out much more in actual contact with her, both what is there and what is not. And the one definitely outweighs the other. I quite feel we shall meet as friends another time, and that is good work for a passing encounter.”

  “The girls seem fond of you,” said Maria to her daughter, with a mingled pleasure and dubiousness, that drew Clemence back in a moment to her home world. “I am glad you are making friends. Is there anyone whom you especially like?”

  “No, not yet. There has hardly been time. But I have got to know all my form. There are only five of us, and we see a good deal of each other.”

  “They are all nice to you, are they?”

  “Yes, very nice,” said Clemence, realising for the first time how far this had been the case.

  “You are pale and thin, my little girl,” said Maria, putting her arm about her. “It is time you were back in your mother’s hands. Are you glad to be in them again?”

  Clemence felt an impulse to yield her mind as well as her body to this keeping. The flatness of this homecoming seemed to offer protection to the truth. But the very ordinariness broke her courage, and her load was the heavier as the impulse passed.

  Sir Roderick came on to the steps with joy in his face, to fold his daughter in his arms, and resume their relation without thought or question of the intervening time, or any idea that she had any thought of it. She yielded with a relief that was sapped at its roots by the impending doom. She served her parents’ pleasure and pride with the knowledge that her efforts would emerge as placing her in a false light. Maria saw something new in her, and spoke of it to Miss Petticott.

  “The change seems to have brought out the best in her. Or is it the pleasure of being at home again? We should like to think it is that.”

  “And I am going to think so, Lady Shelley. Especially as a still, small voice within me tells me that it is the truth.”

  “I met rather a nice governess—mistress I suppose she is called—at the station,” said Maria, as though Miss Petticott’s presence prompted the recollection. “I think she takes Clemence’s form. I hope she will come to see us at some time.”

  “Oh, I shall hear all about her, Lady Shelley. I shall not need to see her, to have a clear glimpse of her personality. Clemence is good at conjuring up characters for my benefit, and very entertaining I find it, especially when her little spice of mischief creeps in and leavens the whole.”

  “You will always be the first and the foundation of them, Miss Petticoat,” said Sir Roderick, giving the word that was needed.

  “I believe you think I am jealous, Sir Roderick. And, as you say, as you imply, it would hardly be possible without any cause.”

  “School is the wrong thing for Clemence. She looks the worse for it. It has done her no more good than I expected. I shall take her away. I shall talk to Lesbia about it.”

  “You will not do one thing, if you do the other,” said Maria.

  “No, it would not be the best preliminary step,” said Miss Petticott, not disputing that some step might be taken.

  “Then I shall think of another, or you shall do so for me. Between us we will outwit them,” said Sir Roderick, again not affecting to misunderstand.

  “It is surely not my business to outwit anyone. Sir Roderick.”

  “I might write a letter and say I will do what is best for my own child,” said Sir Roderick, his tone faltering over this extreme suggestion.

  “Clemence, would you like to go back to school or to settle down at home again?” said Maria, later. “If the question arose, that is to say.”

  Clemence looked at her mother with a flood of feeling surging into her face. Could connection with the school be broken before the report came? Might Lesbia be estranged and cancel her visit? Could the people who knew her secret pass in a moment from her life?

  “It is a change that would have to happen at once, or not at all.”

  “It could hardly come about in a moment. It would have to be considered and discussed. I wonder what Miss Fire-brace would say, and who would have the courage to ask her. Of course she will be here in a week.”

  Clemence’s heart sank once more, and rose again almost in exaltation at her solitary confronting of the extreme thing.

  “Oh, what did you think of the dress?” said Maria. “Was it what you wanted? You did not allow us much time.”

  “Yes, it was just the thing. We have to dress for that party, silly though it seems, when only a few people come. It is a kind of unwritten law that is never broken. I only found it out at the last.”

  “I thought you did not really want it. I should have had more pleasure in getting it, if I had thought you did. As it is, it was rather an expense, and will be very little good. Miss Petticott was afraid the muslin might fall short of their requirements.”

  “Oh, I have my own knowledge of the ways of schoolmistresses, Lady Shelley. They are not alive to the realities of life as we normal mortals are. They live in their imaginary world, and draw their pupils into it.”

  “I am going to draw one pupil out of it,” said Sir Roderick. “And I am sure I wish the world was imaginary.”

  Clemence received her parents’ fondness at night as a thing undeserved and destined to emerge as such. She slept from exhaustion, and the waking in ease and joy was succeeded by the fall of hope. Oliver and Sefton were to return that day, and their presence would end her respite. Sefton’s innocence would reproach and isolate her, when her hour came.

  Chapter IV

  “I Hope I am not disturbing you at your luncheon, Mrs. Cassidy.”

  “Thankyou, Miss James. It is so kind to cling to the hope.”

  “Please do not get up. I will sit down, if I am to keep you standing.”

  “I did not suggest it, because I thought you always stood.”

  “You see me at prayers, Mrs. Cassidy, and everyone stands then.”

  “Yes, of course; so reverent. I hope I look as other people do.”

  “You look yourself, Mrs. Cassidy.”

  “Yes, I was afraid of that.”

  “I thought you might like to approve the hymns for the first week of the term.”

  “I should like to, of course. I do like approving of things. It is disapproving of them that is disturbing. But is there anything about them to arouse approval? They make me feel uncomfortable and complacent and almost exalted, and that cannot be wholesome, and wholesomeness is important for boys.”

  “We have chosen our usual one for the first night. I do not know if you remember it.”

  “It will soon remind me of itself, and of many other things as well. Hymns do that more than anything, though it is supposed to be scents. And how independent of you to dare to be bound by custom! I knew we could rely on y
ou.”

  Miss James certainly looked as if people could do this, as she stood with her notebook in her hand. She was the matron of the school, and the only woman in it, and the second capacity seemed to transcend the first. Her dark hair was arranged so plainly that it seemed to need a more negative word; her features seemed to be impregnated with her expression; her clothes were so suitable that no one saw them, and her figure so thin that the same thing might be said.

  “It celebrates our coming together from our different homes to face the spell of work before us.”

  “But ought the boys to be reminded of those things? Ought we not to help them to shut their eyes to them?”

  “The thoughts must be in their minds.”

  “Of course, and so it is healthier to give voice to them. And hymns would lead to that.”

  “I sometimes have a tiny suspicion, Mrs. Cassidy, that you are not quite serious.”

  “And that is shocking about hymns. But I am quite.”

  “Perhaps you would like to suggest a hymn yourself.”

  “I believe that speech was made in a spirit of revenge; I mean I have a tiny suspicion of it. And I was to approve of the hymns, not suggest them, though if you approve of something, you may as well suggest it. Well, that hymn about the encircling gloom, and the night being dark and everyone far from home—that seems to cover the ground; and there is something about not asking to see the distant scene, that might be in place.”

  “Is it not a little too pointed?”

  “Of course it is, and your hymn has a merciful vagueness. You have the truer sympathy. And I was thinking it was myself. I am so ashamed.”

  “You are not fair to yourself, Mrs. Cassidy.”

  “I try to be. I think everyone does. And I hope I am sound at bottom. Being sound at the top would be more useful, but that seems too rare for us to hear of it.”

  “I believe we are to have two members of your family with us this term.”

  “I find it hard to believe. It seems so odd that our connections should trust us so far, after the glimpses they have had of us.”

  “And a good deal more than glimpses, I suppose.”

  “It was the glimpses I meant. And it seems that the plan must be to our advantage, and that has a flavour of discomfort.”