Two Worlds and Their Ways (19 page)

“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.”

“Perhaps she will give up hunting soon,” said Juliet. “No, do not interrupt me, Lucius. I must say something to comfort Mr. Spode. After all, I am a woman.”

“Do not tell me she is wonderful,” said Mr. Spode. “It is not that to misuse power.”

“I see that her failings have endeared her to you,” said Oliver.

The two tall, heavy young men stood side by side, looking as if they would be alike, if Mr. Spode's hair had not been light, his complexion fair, and his eyes grey instead of dark. Sefton's eyes rested on them, as though he saw them as a pair.

“Will you take your brother to Miss James, Oliver?” said Lucius. “Spode will act as guide.”

Mr. Spode put his hand on Sefton's collar to direct his steps, and as they reached the passage turned to Oliver.

“I ask you—” he said, taking up his umbrella and breaking off to look at it with interest.

“Is anything amiss with your umbrella?”

“The boys,” said Mr. Spode, putting the umbrella under his arm with a look of relief. “They are what is amiss with many things. I ask you if it is proper for my mother to keep her income, and give me only an allowance, when we are equal human beings of mature age.”

“How does the money come to be hers?”

“Her father left it to her, because she was his daughter, and I was only his grandson. Such a shallow reason.”

“But hardly an unnatural one.”

“He should not have allowed it to influence him. Suppose we all did what was not unnatural! And he did not like my not hunting. He said I was afraid of the risk.”

“And were you not afraid?”

“I shrink from all danger. I have high imaginative power.
My mother does not see the pictures that rise before me. That is why I look so old for my age. My face carries its experience.”

“An accident might be instantaneous,” said Oliver.

“Sometimes horse and rider are entangled,” said Mr. Spode, losing hold of Sefton and opening the door of the common room. “Dalziel, Bigwell, Shelley! Know each other.”

“We have followed hard on each other's heels,” said Mr. Daiziel, rising to shake hands.

“Each name has two l's,” said Mr. Bigwell, as he shook hands without rising.

“And does that constitute a bond?” said Oliver.

“We can do with one, as the term goes on,” said Mr. Bigwell, on an almost retaliatory note.

“Surely we are not on each other's nerves already?”

“Nephew of the Head?” said Mr. Bigwell, turning his thumb in the direction of the study.

“Of his wife. She is my mother's sister, my Aunt Juliet.”

“You are giving up a leisured life at home, I understand?”

“Yes, I need a rest from it.”

Mr. Bigwell nodded several times, as though he could follow this.

“I did not know that masters were put through a catechism. I thought it was only the boys.”

“A certain foundation is necessary to an acquaintanceship. And sharing a common life involves as much as that.”

“I like to tell you all about myself. I only meant I did not know it was customary.”

“So you two knew each other?” said Mr. Bigwell, indicating Oliver and Mr. Spode.

“No,” said the latter.

“But you were walking arm-in-arm.”

“An affectionate impulse,” said Oliver. “It helped me a good deal. I only left my home this morning.”

“Parents?” said Mr. Bigwell.

“Two living. One dead,” said Oliver.

“Beyond the average,” said Mr. Bigwell, not permitting himself further enquiry.

Mr. Dalziel raised his eyes.

“Father, mother, and now stepmother,” said Oliver, looking at the latter.

“Stepmother any good?” said Mr. Bigwell.

“Yes, too much good. Now please tell me all about yourself.”

“Both parents living in the North. Member of a large family.”

Oliver nodded in Mr. Bigwell's manner, and Mr. Dalziel gave a gentle, almost guilty laugh.

“Religion?” said Mr. Spode to Oliver.

“None. Village church at home. Sometimes play the organ. Play the harmonium here.”

“None. Chapel at home. I am not ashamed of it,” said Mr. Bigwell.

“Surely you must be,” said Mr. Spode.

“I should not confess it, if I were.”

“People are always ashamed of things they confess. Otherwise they would be easy in keeping them to themselves. I confess I have not a penny in the world, apart from what my mother allows me. But I am ashamed.”

“Then why are you not quiet about it?”

“People might expect me to help them on their way,” said Mr. Spode.

“I have nothing but what I earn,” said Mr. Bigwell.

“Then you must be ashamed and glad to have got the confession over.”

“I think independence is a good thing, though it may be an arrogant attitude.”

“If it were arrogant, it would be very nice,” said Oliver. “But it is brave and sad, and makes other people ashamed for us. I am ceasing to be proud of depending on myself.”

“Have you a religion, Spode?” said Mr. Bigwell.

“I have tried many things in my search for support. But I have had no encouragement. My mother is a sceptic.”

“I am a Catholic,” said Mr. Dalziel.

“Believing?” said Oliver.

Mr. Dalziel turned his eyes towards him.

“Believing, as we see,” said Mr. Bigwell.

“I do not try to convert people.”

“Do you not think you ought?” said Oliver.

“I see what you mean. I fear I am but a feeble witness.”

“Confession,” said Mr. Spode, as if to himself. “Confession. Such an outlet.”

“Well, since you say so,” said Mr. Bigwell, with a laugh.

“Do people confess the truth?” said Oliver.

“People always ask that,” said Mr. Dalziel.

“It is my turn to be ashamed.”

“Why should you not be as other men?” said Mr. Bigwell.

“It is because there are no reasons, that I am ashamed.”

“What are your ideas for the future?” said Mr. Bigwell. “Inherit, I suppose?”

“If things can be kept together.”

Mr. Bigwell nodded once more.

“How did you gain universal understanding?” said Oliver.

“Well, I keep my eyes open, as I go through life. I may as well learn what I can, whether or no it is any good to me.”

“What are your ideas for your own future?”

“Stick to my work and get where I may. Nothing else for me. I suppose you expect me to be ashamed.”

“You must be. And all through no fault of your own. What are your ideas, Dalziel? This keeping nothing from each other is such a success.”

“I shall have enough to live on in the end. And I can't help being glad of it. My own efforts would not take me far.”

“You need not pretend to be ashamed,” said Mr. Spode.

“Well, I am glad I have no reason to wish my parents dead,” said Mr. Bigwell.

“Everyone wants the reasons,” said Oliver. “Of course we need not be influenced by them.”

“My mother's death will tear up the roots of my life,” said Mr. Spode.

“But it will give you other support for it,” said Oliver.

“There, that is what I meant,” said Mr. Bigwell. “Always that idea in your heads! I repeat that I am glad I have no reason to desire the death of those who gave me life.”

“Yes, yes, you do repeat it,” said Oliver, in a soothing manner.

“You do not really seem to like it much,” said Mr. Spode.

“I am glad I shall have enough to offer a woman one day,” said Mr. Dalziel.

“I would rather earn it,” said Mr. Bigwell. “But women—that takes us into another sphere.”

“Not those we can offer enough to,” said Oliver.

“Well, well,” said Mr. Bigwell, half-laughing, “a man's life is his own.”

“Surely not here,” said Oliver. “I do not want to go back to my old sense of isolation.”

“Well, a man is a man,” said Mr. Bigwell.

“That is rather sweeping,” said Oliver. “I am not.”

“Neither am I,” said Mr. Spode. “And I should not think Cassidy is.”

“Of course not,” said Oliver, “when he keeps a boys' school. And my meaning is simple, not sinister.”

“Well, Dalziel and I will keep our own counsel,” said Mr. Bigwell.

“I should be surprised if Bigwell were a man,” said Mr. Spode, in an absent tone.

“You can speak to me, and not of me, when I am here.”

“I found I could only speak of you.”

“So it is true,” said Oliver.

“What?” said Mr. Dalziel.

“The relation of masters in a school together.”

“I am not sure that I agree with Spode's conception of himself,” said Mr. Bigwell.

“I like you to speak of me, and not to me. I follow my mother's conception of me. I am an adult human being.”

“She is an unusual parent, if she conceives of you as that. My mother does not think of me as far on the road.”

“And she is right,” said Mr. Spode.

“Now what do you mean by that?”

“I mean what I say. That your mother is right.”

“Well, you would not have him say she is wrong, Big-well,” said Oliver. “A man does not speak against another man's mother. If he does, I believe he is not a man, and we hardly want any more of that.”

“I know what he meant,” said Mr. Bigwell. “And it is true that I started behind the rest of you, and have to go further.”

“I really did not know,” said Oliver. “And he was talking about what your mother meant. Do you think that was it? What are you holding in your hand, Spode? Some precious thing?”

“It is a jewel,” said Mr. Spode, in a deep tone. “My mother wants me to sell it for her.”

“She wishes to part with it, does she?” said Mr. Bigwell, on a faintly corrective note.

“She wishes me to do it for her. It embarrasses her to part with things. She fancies that people look at her as if she were in debt.”

“Well, as long as she is not.”

“But she is. That is her reason for the step. I do not think people often have any other.”

“What is the good of a single earring?”

“It could be made into something else. Ever since I can remember, that has been the case. But it is the kind of thing that is never done.”

“True,” said Mr. Bigwell.

“Is it true?” said Oliver. “I should not have known that either. I believe I have seen an earring like it.”

“You cannot have,” said Mr. Spode. “It is unique.”

“Unless you have seen its fellow,” said Mr. Bigwell. “It must be somewhere. Well, good luck to the barter. Is that someone at the door?”

“Is this Miss James's room?” said a boy's voice.

“No, but come in,” said Mr. Spode. “We will try to take her place.”

Four boys obeyed the word and looked about them.

“Is Miss James here?” said the same voice, as an open-eyed boy, with a large, round face and head, detached himself from the group.

“What would you think?” said Mr. Bigwell. “If you cannot believe your ears, you must use your eyes.”

“She is not here. There are only men.”

“True,” said Mr. Spode; “and you have just been torn from your mother and sisters. But do not despise the rougher sex. It is your own.”

“Where is she?”

“You must call me ‘sir'. You must do as the Romans do.”

“‘Do you know where she is, sir'?” prompted Mr. Dalziel, in even tones.

The boy repeated the words with a glance of humour at his companions.

“You are laughing at us,” said Mr. Spode. “But I shall not tell you that you will soon laugh on the other side of your face, because I could not say a vulgar thing. And I daresay it is not true.”

“She is in her own room along the passage,” said Mr. Dalziel. “She will solve your problems.”

“You detect in us no feminine grace?” said Mr. Bigwell.

“Hasn't he got it?” said the boy, indicating Mr. Dalziel.

There was some mirth.

“What is your name, my man?” said Mr. Bigwell, in a tone of giving the correct turn to the proceedings. “And how many summers have you seen?”

“Francis Bacon, sir. I am eleven.”

“Your namesake was the greatest, the wisest and the meanest of mankind,” said Mr. Spode. “Which of those do we expect you to be?”