Two Worlds and Their Ways (24 page)

The other masters were waiting in suspense, as the boys had done at another moment.

“Yes, we may turn our eyes to the holidays,” said Mr. Bigwell, as though continuing the talk. “For me, four weeks of home, with a family who see me as a worldly success. And a few days of visiting, of course.”

“Four weeks of visiting. I have no home,” said Mr. Dalziel.

“Sad,” said Mr. Spode.

“Four weeks at home with a family who see me as no success at all,” said Oliver. “And when my uncle comes to stay, some of the school as well.”

“Four weeks with my mother,” said Mr. Spode. “One with affection and familiar chat; one with less; one with none; one with other things. Sad.”

“I wonder that the Head wanted you, Shelley, when he was to have the further chance of unburdening himself,” said Mr. Bigwell. “But, of course, he wanted you both.”

“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Spode. “And Mrs. Cassidy was present.”

The four boys came along the passage, and Oliver addressed his brother through the open door.

“Ten o'clock on Thursday, and no doubt about it! I am not to be kept waiting.”

“No, and neither am I. That is a bargain,” said Sefton, in a distinct tone, glancing at his companions.

They paid him no attention. Their eyes were on Bacon, who was about to deliver his mind.

“Ought we to thank Miss James for all she has done for us this term?”

“Do people generally do it?” said Holland.

“It would be an awkward thing to do, if it is not done,” said Sturgeon.

“Perhaps we ought not to think of that,” said Bacon. “I don't think it can all have been included in her duties. And
it would not do to take extra things as a matter of course.”

“It might hurt her feelings,” said Holland. “She is the sort of person who would notice it.”

“And then we should suffer remorse,” said Sturgeon, just blinking his eyes.

“Who would dare to begin?” said Holland.

“We must draw lots,” said Bacon.

“No,” said Sturgeon. “Shelley is under a cloud, and Miss James may know about it. I am too awkward and undersized. Holland is too ordinary. Bacon is the one. Miss James will think more of anything that comes from him. And people must fulfil the duties of their place.”

Bacon turned his steps towards Miss James's door, his lips firm and his face pale, as he set himself to pay the price of that which was in him.

“Thank you very much for all you have done for us this term.”

“Thank you very much,” said Sturgeon and Sefton in one breath.

“Thank you very much, Miss James,” said Holland.

“Well, this is nice of you boys,” said Miss James, rising and coming to meet them. “I appreciate it very much. I shall not forget it. I shall think of it afterwards. And you will remember to knock at the door another time. And Holland remembered to say my name. Will you stay behind for a moment, Shelley?”

The last words just anticipated the closing of the door, and Sefton turned and faced her.

“Now, Shelley, I keep to my own sphere in the school. But a rumour has reached me, and I want to say one word to you, just as you wanted to say one to me. I am so sure that such a thing can never happen again, that you will rise above it, because you are above it in yourself, that I feel it must be as I say. Just because I feel so sure. Do you not agree with me?”

“Yes, Miss James,” said Sefton, not questioning Miss James's part in the matter.

“Then thank you once more for what you said. And goodbye and happy holidays.”

Sefton reached the passage, marvelling that a person on Miss James's scale should not see the irony of the last wish. He braced himself to meet the questions of the boys, with a sense that crowding trials almost lost their force. They did not cease their talk, and he had only to stand and hear it.

“I think it was a good thing to do,” said Bacon. “It may be a small thing, but small things have their importance. They may have more meaning than bigger ones. Trifles make perfection, and perfection is no trifle. And it is a good thing to end up the term in the right way.”

“It makes the average better,” said Sturgeon.

“Yes, now we can feel that our level for the term is quite good,” said Holland, while Sefton stood in silence, a person in a different place.

“My Little Son!” said Maria, standing on her steps. “So you are glad to see your mother.”

“We got out of the train first. The other boys had quite a long way to go. It is better to live near the school. The holidays begin sooner. Being in the train is not really holidays, is it?”

“He is just the same,” said Maria to her husband, confronted by no advance on the surface, and unable to see beneath. “We need not have thought he would change.”

“People don't change, do they?” said her son. “Everyone is always the person he is.”

“Out of the mouth of babes!” said Maria.

“How are you, my boy?” said Sir Roderick, shaking hands with his elder son, after his embrace of the younger.

“I am well, but I have changed.”

“Have you retired from your profession?” said Mr. Firebrace, with no sign of his joy in the reunion. “Has it done for you what you hoped?”

“No, but it has done other things.”

“You have gained your knowledge of life?”

“No, but I have gained knowledge of lives.”

“And that is not the same thing?”

“No, it is a deeper, more demanding thing. It is a change from the shallow to the deep. It seems to add less to the person who has it, and really adds more. It has made me a student of human nature instead of a man of the world. I don't think I shall ever be a man of the world again.”

“Were you ever one?” said Maria.

“I dare to answer the question. I still have my own kind of courage. Strange though it was in my useless, narrow life, that is what I was. It is a sheltered life that makes such
people. If you think, they always belong to the privileged class. And if you think again, Father is one.”

“Will you be a happier person for the experiment?”

“Not happier, but better. I shall see people's problems beneath the surface. And that is the last thing a man of the world does. He thinks that people do not have problems in their position.”

“Well, they do not,” said Sir Roderick, with a smile.

“Well, are not the brother and sister going to greet each other?” said Maria, passing to a point of interest.

Clemence and Sefton, who had done this at once in their own way, now did it in their mother's.

Miss Petticott came into the hall, and Sefton gave her an excited welcome, suffered the unavoidable salute and even returned it. Clemence looked on with feelings that she hardly defined. To her eyes there was a change in her brother. She seemed to see in him something that she knew in herself. He might almost be doing what she had done, might be laying the foundations for things that would need them.

“Well, the group is complete,” said Maria, allowing the three to withdraw in their established way. “I wonder what we did in separating them? I suppose we shall never know.”

“I have always known,” said her husband. “We did a heartless and harmful and needless thing. We can never undo it, but I hope to end it when I can.”

“Both the children are pale and thin. Did you see much of Sefton at school, Oliver?”

“No, I only caught a glimpse of his white face and wistful air from a distance.”

“Do you think he was homesick?”

“I expect he was only schoolsick. I think that is what homesickness generally is.”

“You are confusing your meaning. Anyone might be homesick, in your sense, when he was at home.”

“So he might,” said Oliver.

“Is that what you were yourself?” said Sir Roderick.

“What a sharp and pointed question, Father! I hope you are not becoming acute. I honestly do not know.”

“Did you get the impression that he was happy?” said Maria.

“No, I don't think so. But I did not get much impression.”

“Why did you not write and tell me?”

“He could have done so himself. It was not for me to come between mother and son, or to inform against an institution where I was a member of the staff. I was loyal to the school, and it seems that Sefton was too.”

“It is easy to see you are not a mother.”

“Well, yes, I daresay it is.”

“Did you ever talk to your brother?”

“I think hardly ever.”

“Do not the masters ever speak to the boys?”

“I had not thought of it, but I hardly think they do. What could they say to them?”

“They could ask if they were well and happy.”

“Could they? Then no wonder they do not talk to them. They might find the words escaping their lips.”

“What was the good of being at the school with Sefton?”

“It was none. But it was no harm either. He was not despised for the relationship. I carried off the position, even when I played the hymns.”

“How do you know you did,” said Sir Roderick, “when you held no communication with the boys?”

“It came through to me, and my instinct is never wrong.”

“Why should you be so exceptional?” said Maria.

“Exceptional? No one's instinct is ever wrong. Everyone will tell you about it.”

“Played the hymns?” said Mr. Firebrace. “Were there no waiting women?”

“Only to sing them. There were some for that. And they always sang the one I played.”

“What other should they sing?”

“They might have sung many in the course of the day.”

“You mean that they sang all day the one you played in the morning?”

“That is what I mean. And the one I played in the evening, they sang at night. I heard them, as they went up to bed.”

“Why did you not stop them?” said Maria.

“Because I felt faintly flattered by it.”

“Did Sefton sing?”

“No, but he moved his lips in time.”

“Poor little boy!”

“That would not have hurt him. He does it in church at home. And if it were hurtful, fewer people would do it.”

“I always do it,” said Sir Roderick.

“I shall not let the children go to church in the holidays,” said Maria. “They have enough of the sort of thing at school.”

“I like a woman's inconsequence,” said Oliver. “But only because it is really something else.”

“You give me the impression that you could be more explicit, if you would.”

“I dislike a woman's penetration. What credit is it to anyone to see what she is not meant to see, and not to scruple to reveal it? I cannot think why it is supposed to be any.”

“I expect your uncle can tell me more.”

“I daresay he can, and will do so. I dislike a man's simplicity.”

“Are you free from it yourself?”

“Yes, quite free. I do not shrink from self-praise. It is so untrue that it is no recommendation.”

“Well, come along my boy,” said Mr. Firebrace, offering his arm to his grandson in his old way.

“Another group complete,” said Sir Roderick.

“Not a very natural one,” said Maria.

“As natural as any can be at a school. And depending on
human affection. Not simply on the impulse of some people to live, and of others to shirk the duties of their lives.”

Sefton and Clemence ran to the schoolroom, uplifted by their reunion, living in the moment, trying to see an indefinite respite in the days ahead. Sefton ran into Adela's arms; Miss Petticott left a scene in which she had no part; Aldom appeared at the moment of her doing so, his instinct for succeeding her unimpaired by disuse.

“Well, what did they want to change this for?” said Adela. “What is wrong with it, I should like to know.”

“It is well enough as far as it goes,” said Aldom. “It does not go far enough. That is what was thought.”

“No, it does not,” said Clemence, whirling round on one foot. “It goes such a little way, if only you knew.”

“Well, what have you learned, that you don't say?” said Adela.

“A good many things,” said Clemence, pausing as the truth of her words came home.

“That sort of talk hasn't much meaning. If there is anything to be told, people tell it.”

“Well, it may not mean a great deal,” said Clemence, standing with her eyes on space.

Aldom minced across the room, recalling his earlier mimicry.

“Oh, it is not like that,” said Clemence, again revolving. “You can't know things without knowing them.”

“People don't think there is anything funny in teaching in a school,” said Sefton. “And when you are there, there doesn't seem to be.”

“Well, you miss one thing to gain another,” said Adela. “And why have things so much on the common line? What is there in being what you are, if you just have ordinary knowledge?”

“I don't think the boys were different from me. I mean I don't think they were poorer. We seem to be rather poor.”

“We don't spend as much as other people,” said
Clemence. “The girls have better clothes than I have.”

“Well, they may need them to compensate for having less background,” said Adela.

“They have not so much less. We are not different from other people.”

“Well, I am glad you sent for the right kind of dress. You were not called upon to go without it. And it was properly packed; I will say that.”

“Miss Tuke does that sort of thing. The matron.”

“Oh, and so I suppose you want no one but her now.”

“I do not want her at all. She was thrust upon me, or I was upon her.”

“There you see. That is her real mind,” said Adela, turning to Aldom.

“I don't want the matron; I don't want the mistresses; I don't want the girls,” said Clemence, with a sense of unworthiness in disclaiming the world that had welcomed her and lamented her downfall. “And I don't want the masters or the boys,” said Sefton.