Two Worlds and Their Ways (17 page)

“Here is Clemence's station!” said Esther. “The porter is looking out for her. I saw him recognise her as we passed. He is talking to a lady, and pointing her out. Is that someone who has come to meet you, Clemence? I think I once caught a glimpse of her at school.”

“Yes, it is my mother. I am at home at last,” said Clemence, preparing to leave the train.

“Well, really, Clemence, your journey has not been such a long one,” said Miss Chancellor, laughing, and helping with Clemence's possessions. “I will just get out and see you into your mother's hands.”

“Miss Chancellor likes to make new acquaintances,” said Esther. “And may not have much opportunity in the house where she is a child again.”

“I do not know why we should deduce so much from her seeing Clemence out of the train,” said Maud.

“This is Miss Chancellor, Mother. I am in her form,” said Clemence, when she and Maria had embraced.

Maria turned at once and grasped and retained Miss Chancellor's hand.

“Why, I find this a closer tie than many older ones. And Clemence's father would feel with me. Perhaps Miss Fire-brace would let Clemence bring you here at some time, or let you bring her, in whichever way it is seen. I suppose we are all under discipline.”

“I think we should have to bring each other, Lady Shelley. And in the spring it would be a delightful plan. The winter days are rather short. We were sorry not to see you at our party on Tuesday. We hoped you would be able to come.”

“You will have to see us in our home, to know us. I should think we can see you anywhere. You are not a person who has to be in one spot, to be yourself.”

“No, Lady Shelley. One advantage of my work is that it has taken me into different parts of the world we live in. It is one of the things I asked of life, and it has not been denied me.”

Maria talked until the train moved on, and beyond this stage, calling out invitations and suggestions, as it gathered speed. The girls leaned from their seats and called their farewells.

“Lady Shelley is very charming,” said Miss Chancellor, as she returned to her place.

“I should hardly have thought that was her word,” said Esther.

“And it is not, Esther. You are right. Cordial, genuine, with a quality of her own. That is a much better way of putting it.”

“It was clever of Esther to suggest so much in a word,” said Gwendolen.

“Or without one,” said Verity.

“Lady Shelley suggested it, Verity. Esther simply saw something of what was there. And it comes out much more in actual contact with her, both what is there and what is not. And the one definitely outweighs the other. I quite feel we shall meet as friends another time, and that is good work for a passing encounter.”

“The girls seem fond of you,” said Maria to her daughter, with a mingled pleasure and dubiousness, that drew Clemence back in a moment to her home world. “I am glad you are making friends. Is there anyone whom you especially like?”

“No, not yet. There has hardly been time. But I have got to know all my form. There are only five of us, and we see a good deal of each other.”

“They are all nice to you, are they?”

“Yes, very nice,” said Clemence, realising for the first time how far this had been the case.

“You are pale and thin, my little girl,” said Maria, putting her arm about her. “It is time you were back in your mother's hands. Are you glad to be in them again?”

Clemence felt an impulse to yield her mind as well as her body to this keeping. The flatness of this homecoming seemed to offer protection to the truth. But the very ordinariness broke her courage, and her load was the heavier as the impulse passed.

Sir Roderick came on to the steps with joy in his face, to fold his daughter in his arms, and resume their relation without thought or question of the intervening time, or any idea that she had any thought of it. She yielded with a relief that was sapped at its roots by the impending doom. She served her parents' pleasure and pride with the knowledge that her efforts would emerge as placing her in a false light. Maria saw something new in her, and spoke of it to Miss Petticott.

“The change seems to have brought out the best in her. Or is it the pleasure of being at home again? We should like to think it is that.”

“And I am going to think so, Lady Shelley. Especially as a still, small voice within me tells me that it is the truth.”

“I met rather a nice governess—mistress I suppose she is called—at the station,” said Maria, as though Miss Petticott's presence prompted the recollection. “I think she
takes Clemence's form. I hope she will come to see us at some time.”

“Oh, I shall hear all about her, Lady Shelley. I shall not need to see her, to have a clear glimpse of her personality. Clemence is good at conjuring up characters for my benefit, and very entertaining I find it, especially when her little spice of mischief creeps in and leavens the whole.”

“You will always be the first and the foundation of them, Miss Petticoat,” said Sir Roderick, giving the word that was needed.

“I believe you think I am jealous, Sir Roderick. And, as you say, as you imply, it would hardly be possible without any cause.”

“School is the wrong thing for Clemence. She looks the worse for it. It has done her no more good than I expected. I shall take her away. I shall talk to Lesbia about it.”

“You will not do one thing, if you do the other,” said Maria.

“No, it would not be the best preliminary step,” said Miss Petticott, not disputing that some step might be taken.

“Then I shall think of another, or you shall do so for me. Between us we will outwit them,” said Sir Roderick, again not affecting to misunderstand.

“It is surely not my business to outwit anyone. Sir Roderick.”

“I might write a letter and say I will do what is best for my own child,” said Sir Roderick, his tone faltering over this extreme suggestion.

“Clemence, would you like to go back to school or to settle down at home again?” said Maria, later. “If the question arose, that is to say.”

Clemence looked at her mother with a flood of feeling surging into her face. Could connection with the school be broken before the report came? Might Lesbia be estranged and cancel her visit? Could the people who knew her secret pass in a moment from her life?

“It is a change that would have to happen at once, or not at all.”

“It could hardly come about in a moment. It would have to be considered and discussed. I wonder what Miss Fire-brace would say, and who would have the courage to ask her. Of course she will be here in a week.”

Clemence's heart sank once more, and rose again almost in exaltation at her solitary confronting of the extreme thing.

“Oh, what did you think of the dress?” said Maria. “Was it what you wanted? You did not allow us much time.”

“Yes, it was just the thing. We have to dress for that party, silly though it seems, when only a few people come. It is a kind of unwritten law that is never broken. I only found it out at the last.”

“I thought you did not really want it. I should have had more pleasure in getting it, if I had thought you did. As it is, it was rather an expense, and will be very little good. Miss Petticott was afraid the muslin might fall short of their requirements.”

“Oh, I have my own knowledge of the ways of schoolmistresses, Lady Shelley. They are not alive to the realities of life as we normal mortals are. They live in their imaginary world, and draw their pupils into it.”

“I am going to draw one pupil out of it,” said Sir Roderick. “And I am sure I wish the world was imaginary.”

Clemence received her parents' fondness at night as a thing undeserved and destined to emerge as such. She slept from exhaustion, and the waking in ease and joy was succeeded by the fall of hope. Oliver and Sefton were to return that day, and their presence would end her respite. Sefton's innocence would reproach and isolate her, when her hour came.

“I Hope I am not disturbing you at your luncheon, Mrs. Cassidy.”

“Thankyou, Miss James. It is so kind to cling to the hope.”

“Please do not get up. I will sit down, if I am to keep you standing.”

“I did not suggest it, because I thought you always stood.”

“You see me at prayers, Mrs. Cassidy, and everyone stands then.”

“Yes, of course; so reverent. I hope I look as other people do.”

“You look yourself, Mrs. Cassidy.”

“Yes, I was afraid of that.”

“I thought you might like to approve the hymns for the first week of the term.”

“I should like to, of course. I do like approving of things. It is disapproving of them that is disturbing. But is there anything about them to arouse approval? They make me feel uncomfortable and complacent and almost exalted, and that cannot be wholesome, and wholesomeness is important for boys.”

“We have chosen our usual one for the first night. I do not know if you remember it.”

“It will soon remind me of itself, and of many other things as well. Hymns do that more than anything, though it is supposed to be scents. And how independent of you to dare to be bound by custom! I knew we could rely on you.”

Miss James certainly looked as if people could do this, as she stood with her notebook in her hand. She was the matron of the school, and the only woman in it, and the second capacity seemed to transcend the first. Her dark hair
was arranged so plainly that it seemed to need a more negative word; her features seemed to be impregnated with her expression; her clothes were so suitable that no one saw them, and her figure so thin that the same thing might be said.

“It celebrates our coming together from our different homes to face the spell of work before us.”

“But ought the boys to be reminded of those things? Ought we not to help them to shut their eyes to them?”

“The thoughts must be in their minds.”

“Of course, and so it is healthier to give voice to them. And hymns would lead to that.”

“I sometimes have a tiny suspicion, Mrs. Cassidy, that you are not quite serious.”

“And that is shocking about hymns. But I am quite.”

“Perhaps you would like to suggest a hymn yourself.”

“I believe that speech was made in a spirit of revenge; I mean I have a tiny suspicion of it. And I was to approve of the hymns, not suggest them, though if you approve of something, you may as well suggest it. Well, that hymn about the encircling gloom, and the night being dark and everyone far from home—that seems to cover the ground; and there is something about not asking to see the distant scene, that might be in place.”

“Is it not a little too pointed?”

“Of course it is, and your hymn has a merciful vagueness. You have the truer sympathy. And I was thinking it was myself. I am so ashamed.”

“You are not fair to yourself, Mrs. Cassidy.”

“I try to be. I think everyone does. And I hope I am sound at bottom. Being sound at the top would be more useful, but that seems too rare for us to hear of it.”

“I believe we are to have two members of your family with us this term.”

“I find it hard to believe. It seems so odd that our connections should trust us so far, after the glimpses they have had of us.”

“And a good deal more than glimpses, I suppose.”

“It was the glimpses I meant. And it seems that the plan must be to our advantage, and that has a flavour of discomfort.”

“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.”