Two Worlds and Their Ways Page 21

  “We are above the average in many ways,” said Clemence, with a pang for her mother’s baffled, disappointed face. “Miss Firebrace said we were. That is how it all began. We did do better than the others, and then we tried to keep it up more than we could.”

  “If only you had been content to be true to yourselves! How proud I should have been! Even now I can’t help being proud of what you did at first. But nothing counts but trustworthiness. Or nothing counts without it.”

  “Proud we cannot be, my pretty,” said Sir Roderick, bringing another pang to his daughter’s heart, and as he saw it, again tightening his hold. “We must be content without that. But there are better things that we can be. We can be loving and loyal enough for the feelings to hold through a test, and our children are not the people whom they should fail. We will let the dead past bury its dead, and go back to the old days and the old ways and the old happiness.” Sir Roderick glanced at his children, saw the admiration in their eyes, and felt that he and they were at one.

  “But is that making it too easy for them? Will it lead to their taking too light a view of it? Is it really indulging ourselves? God knows, I should like to make it easy. But is that where the danger lies?”

  “We need not avoid self-indulgence at their expense. And we need not fear it has been easy. There was the effort and suspense through the term, and at the end the shock and shame. And heavy guns were brought to bear on them. Account was not taken of their helplessness.”

  At these words the children gave their mother her answer. They broke into convulsive tears, and at the sound the group outside the room turned and vanished up the stairs. Lesbia alone held her ground, and in a moment moved towards the door.

  “Well, I will be guided by you, Roderick,” said Maria. “I suppose I often am, though I hardly realise it. I will leave the burdens on you and follow my own heart.”

  “You will not be wrong, my pretty. And so the trouble belongs to the past. We shall remember its cost, and the memory will do its work. We shall not talk of it again. It will be as if it had never been. And now I hear Lesbia coming, I can always recognise that noiseless step.”

  “Run up to the schoolroom, my dears,” said Maria, in her ordinary tones. “We do not want her to see you in tears. After all, you are in your own home and have a right to happiness there. And you have a right to your mother’s help in leaving a stumble behind. It is not the end of everything. Go up and settle back into the life that suits you, and lets you be what you are. It was breaking it that was the mistake; and the mistake was ours, not yours.”

  Sir Roderick looked at his wife in admiration of the qualities of motherhood. Lesbia passed the children with her eyes held from their faces, as though she divined their mother’s wish; and a spasm of annoyance crossed the latter’s face at her observance of it.

  “Well, the telegram is sent, and the way is clear,” said Lesbia, in an almost cordial tone, resuming her seat. “I shall be sorry not to see Clemence about the place. And I am sorry too, Roderick, for the pains and penalties of changing the plan. They must follow as the custom has it.”

  “Do you mean that we have to pay for next term, even though they do not return?”

  “Yes, that is what I mean,” said Lesbia, smiling. “And you make me feel I might have said it. Why not put a simple thing simply? The rule of a term’s notice cannot be broken. Of course Clemence can take the term with us, if you prefer it.”

  “That would be a mistake, when she is going to leave you.”

  “Yes, I think it would. Yes, it would be a mistake,” said Lesbia, her tone trailing away on a reflective note. “To return to variety in teaching and companionship, before resuming the routine of sameness. It would not be the right transition.”

  “And I suppose we owe a term’s fees to Lucius too?”

  “That is the position. But Lucius may be more corruptible. He may not observe the integrity of the law, as it exists between school and school. He may stoop to accepting the bribe of gratitude.”

  “I do not wish any favour done me.”

  “Then you owe him the fees. But I think in your place I should not object to it,” said Lesbia, giving her little laugh. “And I think I detected the inclination in you, pending the withdrawal of the word, favour. Is not that so, Roderick?”

  “The word, favour, was my own.”

  “A favour is what it would be,” said Lesbia, gravely. “By the way, what does Clemence think of the change of plan? Does she herself wish it? It is heedless of us to pass over the person most concerned.”

  “I think she is too sad and ashamed to raise her voice in the matter,” said Maria.

  “Poor Clemence! A concern for her will always remain with me, Maria, as it does for any of my pupils. The term behind us will be the term when Clemence was with us, or will be until further terms have superimposed their impression. Oh, and one more thing—it is the very last, and we may allow ourselves to be glad of it—how about the responsibility for Miss Petticott? It is a heavy one.”

  “She does not shrink from it,” said Sir Roderick. “The fact that the children came to grief when they left her, and had never done so before, is in its way an encouragement. It does not suggest that there is much wrong with her methods.”

  There was a pause.

  “Are you speaking seriously, Roderick?”

  “Yes. What is wrong with what I said?”

  “What is education but a preparation for life?”

  “A school is not life.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “A little artificial corner of it, designed to turn out people to pattern, who are already made to it. I do not claim that mine are average children.”

  Lesbia appeared to give way to genuine amusement.

  “Pride may go before a fall,” she said. “But it may also continue after it. Well, I daresay that is a happy thing. And it does not do to be too cast down by our falls and failures. They may not be much more than mistakes.”

  “And we learn by our mistakes,” said Sir Roderick. “So what would happen to us, if we did not make them?”

  “My pride has not survived this,” said Maria, wiping her eyes. “But now let us talk of something else. Wrong-doers are not the only people in the world.”

  “Well, if we all do wrong, I suppose they are,” said her husband.

  “These wrong-doers bore themselves well, considering how hard that was in their place,” said Lesbia. “Yes, they did, Maria. We recognise it. They would have been able to build on that foundation, the foundation laid by themselves. But they are to have the hard part and not its recompense. That in itself may be a lesson.”

  “The hard part has been enough,” said Sir Roderick. “They do not need anything more.”

  “No, it is not to be, Roderick,” said Lesbia.

  “I thought for the moment it was all going to start again.”

  “I do not think we, any of us, want that.”

  “Well, what news have you of yourselves and your affairs?”

  “This has been one of our affairs,” said Lesbia, simply. “And as for selves, I sometimes doubt whether I have one. It gets so merged in other people’s.”

  “They survive in most of us,” said Sir Roderick. “Mine has done so in me. Or enough to enable me to take my children into their home, and keep them there, whatever the cost.”

  “Well, we have counted that,” said Lesbia.

  “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.”

  “Oh, Roderick, Roderick, will anything serve your purpose?”

  Aldom’s voice, or rather Lesbia’s, was faint.

  “There isn’t so much you can tell them now,” said Adela. “They know it better than you do. And their kind of school is not yours. That is how it must strike them. They must wonder why you think you know about it. And you heard what Miss Clemence said. Well, it is a good thing the trouble came at once, as it had to come. And putting off would have made a harder reckoning.”

  “It did not exactly have to come,” said Clemence. “It was not that everything was bad. There was another side.”

  “Oh, was there? And what was that?”

  “Well, there were the girls. And Miss Tuke and Miss Chancellor were ni
ce. And so was Miss Marathon in a way.”

  “Well, all those Misses! And now only Miss Petticott. It shows how much good they were.”

  “And there was Miss Laurence as well. And, of course, Miss Firebrace. And several other mistresses. And some more came by the day.”

  “Well, to think what she has seen! And her looking just the same. Well, she can only see it once. She knows about it now.”

  “And there were eighty girls, and most of them were taller than I am. You should have seen them going downstairs in their party clothes! All the dresses were as good as mine. And we never had the same person to teach us for more than an hour. And no one taught more than one or two things. Everything was done by specialists. That is how it is in these days.”

  “Well, I must say it does Miss Petticott credit,” said Adela. “To take the place of all that. And no wonder you could not keep up with it!”

  “You are contradicting yourself,” said Clemence. “And I did keep up with a good ideal. And in some things I did better than the others did, only Mother wanted me to do too much. And there were nearly a hundred people at every meal. And the break-up party was a sight you would not believe, with all the girls and mistresses and guests.”

  “And what of Sefton’s school?” said Adela.

  “We had most of those things,” said Sefton, with startled eyes on his sister. “But I don’t think it was really the same. I should not like to go back to it.”

  “Of course it was different,” said Clemence. “Yours was a school for younger boys. I don’t suppose there was anything to learn, apart from books. Or, if there was, you did not see it. But there is not much that I don’t know now. I know such a lot of unexpected things. Things that are said and not thought, and things that are thought and not said. And there are so many of both. I should never have known, if I had stayed at home, or never have known that I knew. That is another thing you learn, to know what you know.”

  “Well, one term has been enough,” said Adela. “Or you might begin to know what you didn’t know.”

  Clemence was approaching this stage when Miss Petticott returned. She at once broke off, and Adela looked at her and gave a laugh. Aldom withdrew without furtiveness or haste. Sefton looked at Miss Petticott in mute appeal, seeking some ground beneath his feet.