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.
Chapter V
“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 si
mply 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.
“And I don’t think they want me. I should like not to remember any of it.”
“Oh, and after all the trouble and expense,” said Maria at the door, in a tone of reproach and joy. “Why, here are a girl and boy who like their home better than school, their mother and father better than masters and mistresses, and their own nurse better than the matrons. Well, their mother likes them in the same way, and would not change them. So Aldom has come to join in the welcome. I daresay you like him better than his counterpart too. But he will not have to impersonate teachers any longer. You know them at first-hand.”
“Five more days to Christmas!” said Sefton, with a note of excitement, that he would have given much to have real.
“And we shall be a large party this year,” said Maria. “Miss Firebrace and the Cassidys are coming to-morrow. I thought I should like to discuss you with them. And now I find I would rather not talk about them and their schools at all. I want to enjoy our home, and not think of your leaving it. I hope it will not spoil our Christmas.”
“It will not add to it,” said Clemence, with a faint hope of averting the danger. “It will bring in things that have nothing to do with home.”
“My poor child! How stupid I have been! You have had enough of them. And we ought to feel they have had enough of you. But you shall stay up there with Miss Petticott, and hardly see them. Miss Petticott, come and hear what your duty will be this Christmas. To protect these two little home-lovers from the school invaders. I promise to make it easy for you. That will be my expiation of the sin of asking them. But I do want to discuss the children’s abilities and prospects. I promise not to do it in their presence, but I am looking forward to it, and I daresay you are too.”
“Well, Lady Shelley, I have had my opinion about the children for too long, to need that of people who have only just known them. It can hardly be of much value to me. There is not much that I need to be told.”
“You may find your own opinion confirmed, and that has its own satisfaction.”
“It is much too unshakable to be strengthened by argument, or weakened by the lack of it. Indeed, opinion is the wrong word. It is a case of simple knowledge. And I am afraid poor Sir Roderick will be the chief sufferer from the invasion, if I am to use your word. He will not be able to take refuge in the schoolroom.”
“Their success means a great deal to him. Only he and I know how much. Well, Aldom and I will return to our sphere, and leave you to settle down in yours.”
The children could only pretend to do this, and used an apparent excitement to veil their restlessness. Miss Petticott found them docile and affectionate, as they established themselves in a favour that would withstand the shock to come. They seemed to be playing into each other’s hands, but had no chance of a private word. It was evening when they found themselves alone.
“What is a report, Clemence?” said Sefton, as he turned a page.
“A report? A paper that comes from a school and tells about a pupil in it. I think one is sent at the end of each term.”
“And will one come for us?”
“Yes, I suppose so. Of course it will. But it will make no difference, as the people themselves are coming.”
“It is a pity we went to schools kept by relations, or we might have watched for the reports and intercepted them. That is what boys call it. It is a thing they do sometimes.”
Clemence stared at her brother at this evidence of change in him.
“Is there anything bad on your report?”
“Yes. Yes, there is,” said Sefton, with a burst of tears. “Clemence, I have cheated all through the term, and it has been found out. And it will be on the report, and Mother will mind so much, and there will be such misery. And Father will mind about cheating as much as she will.”
“So have I cheated,” said Clemence, in a tone that seemed to her strange for the words she said. “I wonder why we have both done it. It seems to be such an unusual thing, or they say it is. It is such a strange coincidence. I wonder if we are different from other people?”
“Have you cheated, Clemence? Then it will not be so bad. It will be the same for us both. The coincidence is a happy one. Coincidences are often that. It will all seem so much more ordinary. And I don’t think it can be as bad as they say, if we both have done it.”
“What exactly did you do?” said his sister.
Sefton gave his account, and she gave her own, and they heard each other without question or judgment.
“It will make great trouble,” said Clemence. “We have dreadful things ahead, worse than we have ever had. We shall need great courage. We have thought such small things were bad. And the people from the schools will make it worse. No one but us would have to face that.”
“Yes, we shall need great courage,” said Sefton, almost with complacence. “But its being the same for us both will make a difference. Even the school people can’t prevent that.”
“It may not make it so much better. Why should Mother and Father like disgrace for both of us better than only for one? In a way it will be twice as bad. I wish we could run away or die. But we should starve if we ran away, and we don’t know any way to die. We are not like savages, who can die when they want to.”
“If we were, would you die?”
“Well, savages would never be in our place. It is only possible for civilised people. Miss Firebrace could not be a savage. Her way of making things worse, without seeming to want to, could not exist in one. I wonder if she knows what she is like, and what I really think of her. She seems only to think of what she thinks of me. But thoughts are possible in anyone.”
Lesbia was unconscious of this verdict on herself, as she entered the Shelleys’ house, followed in the usual way by her sister and her husband.
“Christmas, the season of childhood!” she said. “We have no excuse for coming, and so will make none. So Clemence and Sefton are not here to greet us. They are properly exercising their peculiar rights.”
“Christmas is the season of everyone,” said Sir Roderick, who almost adopted at this time the beliefs he did not hold at others. “We are all here to greet and serve each other. The children will be coming to do their part.”
“I have a sense of guilt at Christmas,” said Juliet. “We have nothing but pleasure that we have done nothing to deserve.”
“A good definition of it,” said her sister, speaking just audibly. “A sense of guilt is not out of place. And our having done nothing to deserve our benefits is also true.”
“I never have such a feeling,” said Oliver. “I am a helpless vessel tossed on the waves of life.”
“I always have it,” said his grandfather. “I am not entitled to my home or my bread.”
“We all give thanks for our daily bread,” said Sir Roderick.
“No wonder people dread Christmas,” said Oliver. “Ought we to make it so much worse for each other? This is the sort of thing that gives it its name.”
Maria took no part in the talk. She moved about her duties in a dreamlike way, and her manner had a zest and hint of suspense that were new to Lesbia and told their tale. The latter rendered the dues to convention, and then looked about her with a difference.
“Maria, I have an ordeal before me. I hesitate to ask you to make it easy for me, as I cannot do the same for you. Something of an ordeal it will be to me. Christmas, we have said, is the season of childhood, and the cloud over this Christmas must be the sadder for that. Your children have been a source of joy, and must be one of sorrow too.”
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