Two Worlds and Their Ways Page 2

  The parents laughed, Maria with an exultant note, and Clemence smiled and avoided their eyes. Miss Petticott saw their amusement and showed some herself.

  “I think they feel a real concern,” said Maria. “Indeed they show that they do. It is kind of them to take an interest in you.”

  “We don’t want them to take it,” said Sefton. “Wouldn’t they be paid, if we went to their schools? Then it would be a good thing for them as well as for us.”

  “We do not talk about that side of things,” said his mother.

  “If you talk about one side of a thing and not the other, you only talk about half of it,” said Clemence. “Would they be paid as much for us as for children that were not related?”

  “The same,” said her father. “You need have no doubt on that score.”

  “Might it be better to go to people who were nothing to do with us?”

  “You think that things would be less likely to be brought home, in more than one sense?”

  “Well, that is what you think.”

  “What could Miss Petticott do, if we went?” said Sefton.

  “How do you mean? Do?” said Maria.

  “She would do less, and that might be good for her,” said Sir Roderick.

  “She would not leave us, would she? I mean, she would be here when we came home?”

  “Now do you think we could spare her?” said Maria.

  “No. That is why I wanted to know.”

  “We should want her in the holidays,” said Clemence, feeling the need of one adult who made for ease.

  “And we want her all the time,” said Maria. “You are not the only people whom she is glad to help.”

  “They did not think they were,” said Sir Roderick. “They were afraid of her having the feeling in too wide a sense.”

  “Well, you go and tell Miss Petticott how much you feel for her, and how glad you are that you can still depend on her,” said Maria. “Come, that is not too much to do for someone who has done so much for you.”

  It was more than the children saw as within their power. Their code was rigid and immutable, and admitted of no breach. No word of sentiment, no gesture of affection escaped them. On the occasion of Miss Petticott’s holiday they had recourse to manifold ruses to avoid what threatened to be an annual embrace. She accepted a position whose nature forbade change, and on this occasion rose to it. She got up and brought a hand down on a shoulder of each.

  “Oh, we understand each other. We should not do any better for putting it all into words.”

  “But we ought to be able to express our feelings sometimes,” said Maria. “A reluctance to do so really comes from thinking of ourselves.”

  “It would be hard to put an end to everything of which that may be said, Lady Shelley.”

  “Is it all settled then?” said Sefton, looking at his mother.

  “No, no, my dear. We are only talking about it. But you are a boy, and Clemence is getting older. It seems that a change will have to come before long.”

  “You would not like always to be at home, would you?” said Sir Roderick.

  “Yes,” said Sefton, looking him in the eyes.

  “My little son!” said Maria.

  “Why isn’t it a good thing always to be at home?” said Clemence with equal innocence.

  “My little daughter!” said Maria.

  A manservant, who had followed the children into the room, winked at them from behind the table. He was a small, insignificant man about thirty, with a sallow, crooked face, small, supple features that seemed to vary their form, and an oddly boyish look that suggested it would never leave him. His eyes watched the doings at the table from lowered lids, while his ears were always alive. He was the companion of Clemence and Sefton to an extent known only to Miss Petticott, who observed silence on matters beyond her control. He accorded her the easy respect that he saw as her due, but did not disguise his knowledge of his power. Some of it he used, and some he might not have known he possessed, as his sense of his obligations was not less, that he would not have acknowledged it.

  “Where have you been, Aldom?” said Maria.

  “Well, my lady, the workmen may not be any the worse for an eye upon them.”

  “Did they do any better?” said her husband.

  “Well, Sir Roderick, they might have made more confusion than was the case.”

  “And did you help to make things right?”

  “The moment was hardly ripe, Sir Roderick, some things having to get worse before they are better.”

  “You might as well have been down here,” said Maria.

  “Yes, my lady, though the day’s routine may be none the worse for the exchange of a word,” said Aldom, with a momentary exposure of eyes as blue as his master’s.

  “Well, you can attend to your work now.”

  Aldom carried a dish from the room, and Maria waited for the door to close.

  “You should not exchange glances with Aldom, my dears. It is not a thing that is done by people who know how to behave. And to do it with a servant before your parents! Aldom himself would not think any more of you for it. And Miss Petticott must have been quite ashamed after the trouble she has taken with you. Do you think it is fair to her to do her so little credit?”

  “I am glad I did not see it, Lady Shelley,” said Miss Petticott, who was expert at avoiding such sights, and had not done much more than feel it. “I. should have been as ashamed as you say.”

  “Well, we will not think any more about it, except to be sure it will not happen again. Go on with your breakfast, my dears. Do not hurry because there has been a mistake, that will soon pass from our minds.”

  Aldom returned and felt Maria’s eyes, knew what had passed, and continued his duties with an air of being unconscious of it.

  “My boy, attend to Miss Petticoat,” said Sir Roderick to his son. “Keep your eye on her, and see she has what she needs. We shall think you do not look after her upstairs.”

  Sefton had seen the obligation as reversed, and passed Miss Petticott something in an unaccustomed manner, and found it received in a similar one.

  “My little son!” said Maria, leaning forward to take his hands and look into his face.

  Sir Roderick looked at Clemence, as though he might do the same to her, but went no further. Sefton remained with his eyes and smile fixed, until his mother released him and looked round the table.

  “How nice it would be, if this were our family! I forget how different my life is from other women’s.”

  “Why do you suddenly remember it?” said her husband. “You know I do not forget. It is not the least thing you have done for me.”

  “It has been a hard thing in my life,” said Maria, who found little difficulty in revealing herself. “And it is not like something that is over and behind. It goes through the past and future. What do you think of it, Miss Petticott?”

  “That it is so well done, Lady Shelley, that I did not know it went against the grain.”

  “I ought not to betray it. What is the good of undertaking a thing and then failing in it? And what a way to talk before the children! Not that there is anything that Clemence does not know.”

  “I knew you did not want Oliver and Grandpa here, when I was a child.”

  “And when was that?” said Sir Roderick, who had no aspirations for himself.

  Maria made a warning gesture, and the subjects of the discussion entered the room, two large, dark men with heavy, aquiline faces, dark, heavy-lidded eyes, thick, white, noticeable hands, and such a likeness between them, that the discrepancy in years might have been the only difference. It was not a negligible one, as the dividing years were forty-eight.

  Oliver Firebrace and his grandson, Oliver Shelley, were the former father-in-law and the elder son of Sir Roderick, the thorns in Maria’s flesh, and the half-brother and adopted grandfather of Clemence and Sefton. Sir Roderick had waited many years between his marriages, and his first wife’s father had so long made his ho
me in his house, that Maria, in the exaltation of her own romance, had suggested his retaining the place. He had accepted the offer and hardly modified his life; presumed on his knowledge of the past; given all his feeling to his grandson, and done no more for Maria’s children than accept their adoption of their brother’s name for him. Maria regretted her generosity, but enjoyed her husband’s appreciation of it. Sir Roderick had a pitying tenderness for such creatures as aged men and children and women, and shrank from breaking his tie and, as it seemed to him, his faith with his earlier mate. He had no beliefs remaining, but could not rid himself of a feeling that she could observe him from some vantage-ground and approve or condemn his course.

  Her son was the less to him, that he bore no deep resemblance to her. He was the less to Maria, that he bore none to his father, and had acquired a feeling that he meant rather little in his home. He was scarcely fifteen years younger than Maria, had dropped any filial mode of address, treated her as a friend, and on the whole found her such. She had a vein of humility that subdued her personal claims, and he had one of self-confidence that saved him from mistrust of himself. Maria had also a vein of justice, and though she regretted his existence and his grandfather’s, never questioned their right to it.

  Her life was dominated by her love for her children, and her desire for them to advance and impress their father rose to a passion and held its threat. Sir Roderick had no great feeling for personal success, but Maria had no suspicion that they did not see things through the same eyes. That her children should excel their brother in his sight was the ambition of her life and of her heart.

  “So my governesses have written again,” said Mr. Fire-brace, looking at her letters. “I remember those envelopes in Oliver’s youth. They wrote at the same time and never knew it. Laid their plans together and forgot to plan ahead. A pair of simple women. You had the best of the three, Roderick.”

  “I was never in any doubt of it.”

  “They are anxious for Clemence and Sefton to go to their schools,” said Maria, with a suggestion that the relations of the first wife had claims to make on the second.

  “Peddling their wares! You would think they would have more opinion of themselves, when they hold their heads so high.”

  “One of the letters is from Oliver’s uncle,” said Sefton.

  “An upright person and a worthy governess.”

  “He is a man and a schoolmaster, Grandpa.”

  “Well, that may be part of the truth.”

  “Miss Petticott is a governess.”

  “Good morning, Miss Petticott. I did not know you were here. It is your habit to be elsewhere. What does the boy mean by what he says of you?”

  “He means that Miss Petticott is like anyone else,” said Clemence. “And you seemed to think a governess was different.”

  “I was talking of the male of the species.”

  “The masculine of governess would be governor,” said Sefton.

  “There is no such thing, as Miss Petticott will tell you. Not that you do not show she has told you many things.”

  “I see what you mean, Mr. Firebrace. And you are right in a sense.”

  “Yes, yes. You are a sensible girl, my dear. And now what causes your pupils to mock at me?”

  “They are amused by your calling me a girl, Mr. Firebrace.”

  “And you are not to them. Well, no doubt you would have them remember it.”

  “You went to your uncle’s school, Oliver. I forgot that,” said Maria. “Of course that was in its early days. But what would you say of it?”

  “That I gave it nothing, and took what it had to give. I liked that, or I like looking back on it.”

  “Your uncle was a young man then,” said Sir Roderick, “though he did not seem so to you.”

  “I despised him for his youth.”

  “He was over thirty,” said Maria. “How do you feel about him now when he is sixty-two?”

  “I pity his age.”

  “The prime of life is short according to your view.”

  “According to anyone’s.”

  “Well, what did the school give you?” said Maria.

  “It taught me to trust no one and to expect nothing,” said her stepson, in his deep, smooth, rapid tones. “To keep everything from everyone, especially from my nearest friends. That familiarity breeds contempt, and ought to breed it. It is through familiarity that we get to know each other.”

  “I dislike that sort of easy cynicism.”

  “So do I, but because it is not easy. It is necessary, and necessity is the mother of invention. The hard mother of a sad and sorry thing.”

  “I wonder if you know what you mean. I certainly do not. Can you tell me plainly if you were happy at the school?”

  “I learned to suffer, and that is the basis of happiness. It teaches the difference, which is the deepest of all lessons.”

  “I cannot think how you can be your father’s son.”

  “I am my mother’s son, and the nephew of her sisters, and her father’s grandson. You see how I can be those.”

  “You are a family I do not understand. Do you understand them, Roderick?”

  “Well, we are used to each other. And probably no one fully understands anyone else.”

  “My father spoke there,” said Oliver. “I do sometimes hear his voice. It is partial understanding that carries danger. It suggests more than the truth.”

  “Which of your aunts do you like the better?” said Maria.

  “I should like to prefer Aunt Lesbia, because of her esteem for herself. Most of us despise ourselves because we have such good reason, and admire other people because they cannot be as bad as we are. To admire oneself is a great sign of quality. But I find that Aunt Juliet is more to me.”

  “Do you admire yourself?”

  “Be careful, Maria; I might dare to tell the truth.”

  “On which side?” said Sir Roderick.

  “On either side. There my father spoke again.”

  “I do not admire myself so much,” said Maria.

  “Do not dare too far,” said her stepson. “Beware of revealing what you do not admire. Other people might not admire it either.”

  “I do not see why they should.”

  “And neither would they. Be in no doubt about it.”

  “I am not in any doubt.”

  “You are in more than you know. Or have any right to be. We think our little failings have their own charm. And they have not. And they are great failings.”

  “I wish I knew whether to trust Sefton to your aunt and uncle.”

  “You cannot do that. You can put him into their charge.”

  “It does not seem a fair thing to do.”

  “It is not. The system is part of a great wrong.”

  “Are boys happier at home?”

  “Well, I would not say that.”

  “Were you happier here?”

  “Well, I had no mother. I was left to servants, and that is the best of all fates. I took everything from them and gave them nothing. It seems I have a habit of doing that.”

  “Were you happier after your mother died?”

  “I ceased to give anything, and that was a burden lifted. But I have never got over it. No one has taken her place.”

  “You mean that I have not.”

  “That is what I mean.”

  “You would like her to be here instead of me and my children?”

  “Well, I remember how I did like it.”

  “And you think your father would like it too?”

  “I had not thought about him. My thoughts run on myself. And most people cannot relive the years. Only gifted people with empty lives can do so.”

  “And that is how you would describe yourself?”

  “Well, you often talk of my empty hours. And my gifts are fluency, perception, music, an exotic charm.”

  “You mean that you think so?”

  “No. That is what you mean.”

  “Well, shoul
d not they help to fill the hours?”

  “They do fill them. They are only empty in a sense that does not count. Though I know that you count it. And now the little unspoken things are out between us. They might just as well not have been unspoken. And we shall have a better relationship, which is a pity, as we have had an easy one. I should hate things to go deeper between us.”

  “They are only out on your side.”

  “Maria, you sail under false colours. You are as dangerous as anyone else. Well, let that be our safeguard. Let those hidden things lie between us and keep us apart. It would be so awkward to come closer.”

  “The boy talks in his own way,” said Mr. Firebrace.

  “I never know what the two of you talk about upstairs,” said Maria.

  “If you did, the talk would not be upstairs,” said Clemence, causing her parents to exchange a smile, or causing her mother to turn one on her father.

  “We do not know either,” said Oliver. “If we did, we should not talk. We should tell each other of matters, which would be quite different.”

  “ ‘Sefton’ is a nice name, isn’t it?” said Maria, on a sudden note of content, induced by the sight of her son.

  “Is it a name?” said her husband. “I forget why we thought it was.”

  “It is the surname of my father.”

  “Had he no baptismal name to serve your purpose?” said Mr. Firebrace.

  “It was Peter, and I do not like names of disciples.”

  “That does put a dozen out of court.”

  “Don’t you like the name, ‘Sefton,’ Roderick?”

  “It has come to suggest the boy to me. It has settled into its place.”

  “Who gave me my name?” said Clemence.

  “I did,” said her mother. “I named you both. It is a common name in my family. Your father could only suggest the name of ‘Anne.’”

  “It was my mother’s name,” said Sir Roderick, as if he supported the suggestion. “ ‘Clemence’ has a flavour of your puritan background, or had before it took on its own meaning.”

  “Well, that is not a thing to be ashamed of.”

  “Father can hardly agree,” said Oliver. “Disadvantages do not count in the woman he makes his wife, but they remain disadvantages. How otherwise can he arrange for them not to count?”