Two Worlds and Their Ways Page 14

  “The advantage will be on both sides,” said Miss James.

  “Will it? That is dreadful. I hoped it was tacitly assumed that we were to get nothing out of it.”

  “Things were arranged on the usual basis,” said Lucius.

  “No wonder it was all so tacit. Truth does drag one down. I do not think it can be best.”

  “We shall have to make a demand of your nephew as soon as he arrives in the house,” said Miss James. “We have no one to play the harmonium now that Mr. Eaton has left us.”

  “And he left for his own ends without any thought of the instrument? And he was very happy playing it. You could tell by the way he swayed. I used to think how nice it would be to abandon oneself.”

  “Did we let him go without thanking him for his kindness?” said Lucius.

  “We tried to induce him to stay,” said Juliet. “And when he refused, it did not occur to us to thank him. It did not seem to be due to him. We forgot it was due to ourselves.”

  “You are confusing the issue.”

  “So I am. We did confuse it.”

  “A vote of thanks was passed by the boys,” said Miss James. “I suggested that one of the masters should propose it, and I seconded it myself. I thought it was in place.”

  “We are indebted to you,” said Lucius.

  “And so is Mr. Eaton,” said Juliet, “and so will Oliver be when he goes. Because I am sure Miss James will second it for him too.”

  “If I am here then, Mrs. Cassidy.”

  “What a cruel thrust! Surely Mr. Eaton has not had an unsettling influence. I should have thought all the influence would come from you.”

  “It was merely the natural rejoinder, Mrs. Cassidy; it meant nothing. I have never been happier than I am here.”

  “I wish I could say a generous word. But my tongue is tied. It is that foolish sort of shyness.”

  “We all understand you, Mrs. Cassidy. And as for Mr. Cassidy, I never knew anyone speak with more economy and point.”

  “Lucius, thank Miss James, and tell her that Oliver will be glad to play the harmonium. I know he plays something at home that is not the piano, and those people always play everything. And we always render services when they are not simply expected of us.”

  “Will he bring his brother with him?” said Miss James.

  “Yes,” said Juliet. “He is thirty-eight.”

  “How is that on the point?” said Lucius.

  “He is past the age when he would be ashamed of the charge of a child.”

  “Surely always an odd thing to be ashamed of,” said Miss James.

  “But people are ashamed of the oddest things,” said Juliet, “though they are supposed only to be proud of them.”

  “It is a good thing I am not ashamed of that, Mrs. Cassidy. I have been in charge of as many as twenty children. But, of course, I am past thirty-eight,” said Miss James, flushing as she ended, as an odd thing she was ashamed of, was her age of forty-seven. “So no parents are coming. That is a good thing. I do not mean they are not always welcome, of course.”

  “Of course not,” said Juliet.

  “But we shall have enough of them for this occasion. Do you mean to hold to your rule that the new boys are to sleep by themselves?”

  “Well, it does make me proud to have made a rule, when it is a thing so useful in a school. Though modern people do say the boys should make them for themselves.”

  “They cannot know much about it,” said Miss James.

  “They would make the same ones,” said Lucius, “and be too hard in enforcing them.”

  “I never quite see the reason for a separate dormitory,” said Miss James.

  “It is to prevent brutality,” said Juliet.

  “The new boys do not meet that here.”

  “Might they not be asked the number of their sisters and their fathers’ Christian names? The rumours cannot be quite without foundation.”

  “That would not hurt them.”

  “I never know why it hurts them so much. But it seems to be recognised.”

  “They will never be anywhere at the right time. There will be no one to tell them anything.”

  “Cannot they read the notices on the walls? Or do they only write things on them? I suppose they mean those to be read, though one might hardly think so. I am sure you do not. It must all be part of the elusive charm of childhood.”

  “I think this school has a healthy tone, Mrs. Cassidy, though there are always a few things we cannot prevent. There is none of that furtive atmosphere that prevails in some schools, as if everyone had something to hide.”

  “That is not hidden from you. It is shocking that we do not protect our womanhood. It is so untrue that to the pure all things are pure. They are particularly impure, of course.”

  “Would you like to approve the other hymns, Mrs. Cassidy?”

  “I do approve of them. I see it is what must be.”

  “Well, I think I understand the needs of boys, and the way to meet them.”

  “And you are the matron in a boys’ school! So you are not a square peg in a round hole. And I should have thought you would be. I mean, you are not of the stuff that martyrs are made of.”

  “There is no need for that here, Mrs. Cassidy. And I feel I have found my sphere. I am always so sorry for people in a wrong place.”

  “So am I. I am in one myself. The school touches no responsive chords within me.”

  “But you have the wisdom to keep aloof. So no harm is done.”

  “I did not know I was quite such a failure. I believe I thought I shed my own influence in my own way. That is a kinder way of saying that I shed none, but it is much kinder.”

  “Oh, but you do, Mrs. Cassidy. You quite misunderstand me. The difference when you are away would hardly be believed. Something that permeates the school from top to bottom, is gone.”

  “I did misunderstand you. Thank you so much. Is my husband’s influence felt at all? We should not ask for compliments, but people who do not ask for them do not have any.”

  “Mrs. Cassidy, a word or a look from him does more than torrents of words from anyone else. We sometimes feel it is quite unfair that natural gifts should go so far, and make all our efforts seem superfluous. Though that is unworthy of us, of course.”

  “I should have thought everything was unworthy of you. It is so good of you to come down to our level.”

  “I never mind coming down to any extent. I think we never know where real importance lies, or what may constitute a real need. I do not call it coming down.”

  “I will never call it that again.”

  “I do not mean to give the impression that I am a lofty-minded person. I should almost feel I was praising myself, if such a thing were possible.”

  “I have heard that all things are possible, but I have never thought it was true. Is that a ring at the bell? Why do we put it like that, when we know it is?”

  “It is the first of the masters,” said Miss James, going to the window. “It is Mr. Dalziel. How tall and thin he looks!”

  “I daresay he does,” said Juliet. “He did, I know. How nice of him not to put off coming until the last moment! It is almost as if he were not ashamed of being willing to return.”

  “You are always the first of all, Miss James,” said Lucius.

  “My term begins earlier and ends later than anyone else’s, Mr. Cassidy,” said Miss James, going to the door with a glow on her face.

  “Miss James said that a word from you did more than a torrent of words from anyone else,” said Juliet. “And I saw it doing it.”

  “How do you do, Miss James?” said a deep, soft voice. “It is too bad of me to begin the term by almost knocking you down.”

  “It is dreadful what thoughts go through one’s mind,” said Juliet. “I almost thought how kind it was of the masters to be so nice to Miss James. I did not quite think it, of course.”

  “It was my fault, Mr. Dalziel. I saw the cab arrive, and ought to have gue
ssed you would come straight to the study. It is what we all do, of course.”

  “Yes, she ought to have guessed it,” said Juliet.

  “How do you do, sir? How do you do, Mrs. Cassidy? You see I have arrived betimes.”

  “We were saying it was kind of you to be willing to rejoin us,” said Lucius, anticipating his wife, but not disguising his debt to her.

  “I never travel late in the day in the autumn. I mistrust the evening air at the fall of the year.”

  “I mistrust all air,” said Juliet. “It is what winds and draughts are made of. And it is always morning or evening or some kind of air. I do not know what air in itself would be like, but no doubt very bad. Lucius, shut the window; Mr. Dalziel will feel the air.”

  “Thank you, sir. I am serious about such matters. I find it is the only thing to be,” said Mr. Dalziel, unaware that he had no further choice of feeling.

  “My wife is serious too in her heart. As you know, she does not wear it on her sleeve.”

  “I have gone into the matter of the textbooks, sir, if she will forgive our broaching such matters before her.”

  “I thought textbooks were expurgated, when they were for boys,” said Juliet.

  Mr. Dalziel turned his pale, broad, full-browed face towards her.

  “And Lucius never intrudes into the sphere of the school, except in so far as his presence is a liberal education.”

  “I endorse the last indeed. And surely ‘intrude’ is not the word in his case.”

  “Watch him next time you see him doing it, and tell him what is the word.”

  “Did you meet Miss James?” said Lucius.

  “I am afraid I charged into her, sir. She was already about her duties. She is a saint on earth.”

  “I used to want to meet one, before I knew her,” said Juliet. “Now, of course, the desire is fulfilled.”

  “I mean it seriously, Mrs. Cassidy.”

  “Then it was all the nicer of you to say it.”

  “I am a great admirer of simple goodness.”

  “I admire all goodness. I believe everyone does. And of course we like to say that kind hearts are more than coronets, as if we met both. But why is it better for being simple? I should admire complex goodness as much, though no one speaks about it. I suppose people know they are wicked, and they will not consent to be simple, and so they think the two cannot go together.”

  “Everything is commoner in its simpler forms,” said Lucius.

  Mr. Dalziel looked at him in some relief.

  “I will go and unpack, if Miss James has not forestalled me. I sent my luggage in advance.”

  “I saw her engaged on what appeared to be that very task.”

  Mr. Dalziel lifted his shoulders in helpless resignation, and left the room.

  “Would you like to see Mr. Bigwell, Mr. Cassidy?” said Miss James at the door. “He would prefer to know, before he disturbs you.”

  “Yes, yes, we should like it,” said Lucius, glancing at his wife.

  “Well, I wanted to be sure of my welcome, before I broke in upon the conjugal privacy,” said a deep, un-modulated voice, as a short, dark, simply rough-featured man entered the room and looked about with a critical, unimpressed air. “It must be such a dreary business starting the concern, that I did not want to force it on you before the time. Well, the respite is over, and we must make the best of the world where we find ourselves.”

  “Did you not enter it of your own will?” said Lucius, as he shook hands.

  “Well, those progressive universities put you into something useful, whether you will or not,” said Mr. Bigwell, who dealt with the fact that he had not been to Oxford or Cambridge, as well as he could, indeed was always dealing with it. “And the life may not be more circumscribed than any soft-handed life must be. In a way, the further you go up the scale, the further you go down.”

  “Are you a pessimist, Mr. Bigwell?” said Juliet. “Perhaps we ought to stipulate for optimism, when we hold our interviews.”

  “Well, there is scope for the quality in the routine of a private schoolmaster. I don’t take any other view. But I never see so much in life to throw up one’s bonnet about. Your term may be the one for me. And those of us who live below a certain point, as we all do here, have to adapt ourselves to a certain degree. There are points below, of course.”

  “Yes, that is true,” said Lucius, resting his eyes on the speaker, as though the latter might have a right to speak of these. “I hope you had a holiday that pleased you?”

  “Yes, thank you. That is how I should describe it. My idea of a good time is to follow my own bent, and not to do things because they are done, or because it is time one did them. I hope you can say the same.”

  “We spent our time with relations,” said Juliet. “In the house of my former brother-in-law, where my father still has his home.”

  “I hope you gave satisfaction,” said Mr. Bigwell, in the manner of a man with his own knowledge of life.

  “I hope so too. At least I am not without hope.”

  “Hope is not dead in your breast.”

  “By the way, Bigwell,” said Lucius, “a nephew of ours is to take Eaton’s place this term. A man of your age, the elder son of the house where we were staying. I hope you will make him welcome.”

  “We will not prejudice him against the life. But, situated as he is, I am at a loss to know why he has chosen it.”

  “It is only for a while. And he is easily spared from home. His father is a vigorous man.”

  “Yes, there would only be occupation for one,” said Mr. Bigwell, as he ran his eye over the situation.

  “And his young half-brother is coming to the school as a boy.”

  “You are using your family to bring in new blood,” said Mr. Bigwell, rising and drawing a pipe out of his pocket in preparation for leaving Juliet’s presence. “Well, I hope your nephew and I will bring out the best in each other.”

  “What is the best in Mr. Bigwell?” said Juliet, as the door closed.

  “He is a worthy fellow and has made a good fight.”

  “I wish he had been more victorious. And it is quite a kind wish.”

  “People who remain in the one place do not measure the advance of those who rise to another. If ‘rise’ is the word.”

  “Of course it is the word. What word would Mr. Bigwell use?”

  “He has gone further than I have.”

  “But you have not gone anywhere. I would not have married a man who had conquered in the battle of life. I could not live with the scars of victory. May I ask an impossible question? Why would it have mattered, if Mr. Bigwell had stayed where he was?”

  “It would have mattered to him. He did not like the place.”

  “I wonder how he knew he did not. That was rather clever of him. But his effort has only been for himself. Why do we have to admire him so much?”

  “I see no sign that you do so.”

  “But I am ashamed of not admiring him. You are not, and you almost betrayed it. Is that a cab at the door?”

  “Two cabs,” said Lucius, rising. “Oliver and Sefton in the first with their baggage. And Spode by himself in the second. Why did Spode not walk? His things came yesterday. What care he takes of himself!”

  “It is odd how much that sounds to a person’s discredit. I think he is taking even more care of his umbrella. Does that matter as much? He and Oliver are not unlike. They look as if they might be fond of each other. Sefton looks as if no one had ever been fond of him. Why do new boys look like that, when more affection than ever before has been lavished on them? How do you know so much about people’s luggage, Lucius? No wonder your influence permeates the school, when you go and put it everywhere.”

  “So a mile is too far for you to walk, Spode?” said Lucius.

  “Walk, sir? From the station?”

  “Yes. Was a mile too far? It is a fine day.”

  Mr. Spode looked out of the window, as though he had not considered this.

&
nbsp; “Does one walk from stations?” said Oliver. “Cabs are always there. And what is the good of them, if people walk?”

  “Many people have luggage,” said Lucius, “Spode had the expense of sending his luggage in advance and of taking a cab.”

  “If you call it expense,” said Mr. Spode.

  “What would you call it?”

  “Expense,” said Mr. Spode, a smile creeping over his face.

  “I was thriftier than you at your stage.”

  “I should hope so,” said Juliet, “or your talk would have no meaning.”

  “I took care of the pence. I hope Spode’s pounds take care of themselves.”

  “I take care of them,” said Mr. Spode, at once.

  “Pounds are made of pence,” said Lucius.

  “No,” said Oliver. “Nothing is made of two hundred and forty parts.”

  “Well, I see what you mean,” said Lucius.

  “Do you?” said Juliet. “How n ce to be able to talk like educated men!”

  “How is Miss James?” said Mr. Spode.

  “I think she is well,” said Lucius, with a faint note of surprise.

  “She looked exhausted at the end of last term. Not that she ever talks of herself.”

  “That is one excuse for my husband’s not knowing about her,” said Juliet.

  “I must hear more about Miss James,” said Oliver.

  “Well, pay attention,” said his aunt.

  “We are dependent on her,” said Mr. Spode.

  “For your creature comforts,” said Lucius. “Does your your work come anywhere in your lives?”

  “Mine hardly does,” said Mr. Spode. “I am too far above it.”

  “Why did you choose it?”

  “Because it was a blind alley. I was afraid of anything that led to further things. I shall only need it during my mother’s life.”

  “How old is—how is—is your mother well?”

  “Of course she is,” said Juliet. “Or Mr. Spode could not speak as if she would not always be.”

  “She is seventy. She was forty when I was born. I am her only child and the child of her old age.”

  “Well, I hope she will remain herself for a long time,” said Lucius.

  “She hunts,” said Mr. Spode, on a deeper note, “and her horse has an Irish strain.”