“That is true. That is one of the first of our problems,” said Lesbia, looking at the window. “I have even met cases in which I have actually advised that pupils should leave me. And people do not expect it, do not expect honest advice. I have found they do not. I do not know why they should not. To me there can be no reason.”
“I do like people to pay tribute to themselves,” said Oliver.
“Then you like your father to assume that our talk must refer to him?” said Lesbia, smiling.
“Yes, I do, but not so much. Anyone may think that people’s talk refers to him; everyone does think so. But not many people would refer to themselves as you did.”
“I hope a good many would in their hearts.”
“Yes, in their hearts. But I do not count that. Anyone might do anything there. And in their hearts they know better. They know they are imagining other people referring to them.”
“People say we should see ourselves as others see us,” said Juliet. “But it is better to tell them how to see us, and save the effort. Especially as they are looking forward to our making it.”
“Is this talk supposed to be clever?” said Maria.
“Why, yes, Maria, it is,” said her stepson. “Aunt Juliet is right. We must tell you how to see us.”
“Was your speech supposed to be polite, my pretty?” said Sir Roderick.
“I am so wearied by this quibbling with words that mean nothing, when there is a real problem hanging over us.”
“And what is that?”
“The children’s going to school,” said Maria, raising her eyes.
“Well, the term must begin sooner or later,” said Mr. Firebrace, “and bring its solution.”
“Then it will be their staying at home,” said Lesbia, in an amused tone, “as it will be too late to make the adjustments. But let us allow the subject a rest and come to it fresh later. Sleep on it, as they say,”
“Then you are not in form at the moment?” said her father. “Sleep would mean another day.”
“My children are going to school,” said Sir Roderick. “It is settled and the subject is closed. It tires and tries my wife, and that is enough.”
“So we must have another subject,” said Oliver. “How nice subjects are! I do appreciate them. And I did like to hear Father speaking like a man. I find there is so much pleasure in life.”
Sir Roderick rested his eyes on his son. He sometimes thought he was easily pleased, and had need to be, and almost felt he owed him gratitude.
“I hope you like to hear me speaking like a woman,” said Maria, “because I am going to do so. Could we manage without a subject and just talk of anything that comes into our heads?”
“Well, honestly, Maria, that is what we have been doing,” said Lesbia, raising her brows.
“You cannot be governesses for a generation and bear no signs,” said Mr. Firebrace. “We all carry our scars.”
“To be natural is known to be the rarest of all things,” said Oliver.
“We can be natural on different levels,” said Lesbia. “There may be no point where we meet.”
“I think our standard of naturalness is very high. And I agree that it is the greatest of all charms.”
“I think I am a natural person,” said Maria, in a tone that made no particular claim.
“So you are, my pretty. We should all bear witness to it,” said Sir Roderick.
“So we should,” said his son.
Chapter III
“Well, Maud—Esther—Verity—Gwendolen,” said Lesbia, taking the hands of her pupils in turn. “I hope your holiday has been a success and that the term will be so in its own way. They should supplement and support each other. This is Clemence Shelley, a new companion—a connection of mine, but we are to forget that during the term. The relationship is only a shadow, but a shadow is not always easy to elude. Can I leave her in your charge?”
“Yes, Miss Firebrace,” said the four girls, glancing at each other before they looked at the newcomer.
“Maud, you have the advantage in years and experience,” said Lesbia, uniting the hands of Maud and Clemence. “And—I think I may say it—the advantage in some other ways as well. Can I appoint you guardian-in-chief without misgiving? I have other claims on my time.”
Maud had a tall, thin figure, small, brown, honest eyes, average features that failed to result in average comeliness, and an air of following virtue, irrespective of current opinion.
“Yes, Miss Firebrace,” she said, in a tone that ranged Lesbia and herself on one side against the rest on the other.
The latter stood by without signs of competitive feeling or need to suppress them.
“Well, I will leave you to what is apparently silence. Thank you, Gwendolen,” said Lesbia, passing through the opened door and leaving her pupils to something that was different.
“Why did you come to a school kept by a relation?” said Esther, in a rapid monotone, tossing back a pale plait of hair from an oval face and speaking with a gleam in her opaque, blue eyes.
“There is no relationship, Esther. Did you not hear what Miss Firebrace said?” said Maud.
“I also heard her say there was one.”
“There is a sort of connection,” said Clemence. “No blood relationship.”
“Blood relationship!” said the third girl on a mocking note.
“It is quite an accepted phrase, Verity,” said Maud.
“Why talk about what does not exist?” said Esther.
“I am sure I do not know,” said Clemence. “It was quite unnecessary.”
“Why, is it anything to be ashamed of?” said Gwendolen, her round, happy face taking on a happier line.
“No, Miss Firebrace is simply the sister of my father’s first wife.”
“And are you any relation of his second?”
“Yes. I am her daughter.”
“And what about the relations of his third?” said Verity.
“They do not exist and neither does she. My mother is still alive.”
“There is no relationship at all. Miss Firebrace was right,” said Maud. “It is, as she said, the shadow of one.”
“She also said it was not easy to elude, and was also right,” said Verity, who had a noticeable face and head, long, fine hands, clothes too good for her age, and an air of being or feeling apart from the rest.
“Are you very clever, Clemence?” said Gwendolen, as if struck by something in Clemence’s replies.
“I daresay I am as clever as the rest of you.”
“Well, why did you come to a school kept by a relation, or by somebody who thinks she is one, and knows she is not?” said Esther, in one rapid breath.
“Well, we knew about the school. We had not heard of any other.”
“On that basis none of us could be educated,” said Gwendolen. “We have no relations who keep them. I wonder how people do hear of schools. I have no idea how we knew of this.”
“Naturally people would know more about a school kept by a connection,” said Maud. “And would be more likely to go to it. And Miss Firebrace said the matter was to be forgotten during the term.”
“Then why did she remember it? And why do you?” said Esther. “Why put it into our heads, just to give us the trouble of getting it out again?”
“You do not seem to be taking the trouble,” said Clemence, affording some amusement to Verity and Gwendolen.
“A spurious connection seems to make more confusion than a real one.”
“It makes no confusion, Esther,” said Maud, who had the school habit of using people’s names with courteous frequency and deliberation. “Indeed, I have never known a point emerge with greater clearness.”
“Is it anything to be ashamed of?” said Gwendolen, again. “I don’t see so much disgrace in keeping a school. Perhaps there isn’t any.”
“I should say there is no occupation that carries less disgrace, Gwendolen. Miss Firebrace merely meant that no difference was to be made.”
<
br /> “Does it make any other difference to come to a school kept by a relation, by a connection?” said Esther, in a tone at once blunt and innocent.
“I suppose not, if it is to be forgotten,” said Clemence.
“I meant any difference of any kind.”
“Does Miss Firebrace do you charity, or do you do her charity?” said Gwendolen, laughing at her own openness.
“Oh, I expect we do her charity,” said Clemence, finding the situation taken in hand by something outside herself, and surprised at her ease in it. “That is how it would be.”
“Have you been in the habit of doing her charity?”
“Oh, I don’t know. My father may have a certain sense of responsibility towards her,” said Clemence, uncertain where instinctive knowledge stopped and invention began.
“Clemence, be careful that you do not betray anyone’s confidence,” said Maud.
“Do your people do a lot of charity?” said Esther.
“Yes, a good deal, or I expect they do. That is how it would have to be. I know my father says it is a drain on the family resources,” said Clemence, trying to strike a happy mean in her suggestions.
“Why do they do so much charity?” said Gwendolen. “I don’t think my parents do. I believe we keep all we have, for ourselves.”
“We could hardly do that, as we are placed. I mean, we have to do what the family has always done. I don’t think we should have any choice.”
“‘That is how it would have to be,’” quoted Verity.
“Is your father the lord of the manor?” said Esther, with her eyes on something in her hand.
“Oh, I daresay he is. It is the sort of thing he would be amongst other things. But it would not make much difference. He is what would be called the squire, though it sounds an old-fashioned term.”
“An old-fashioned term!” said Verity.
“Well, it is the word for something that no other term gives, Verity,” said Maud.
“Who calls him that?” said Esther.
“The people in the village and about the place.”
“Do you choose your own clothes?” said Esther, throwing her eyes over Clemence and as rapidly withdrawing them.
“No. My mother chooses them. I have not troubled about such things yet. Or sometimes Miss Petticott does.”
“Who is Miss Petticott?”
“The governess. We call her the Petticoat.”
“To her face?” said Gwendolen.
“No, behind her back, but I think she knows.”
“Are you very rude people in your home?” said Gwendolen. “Ruder than we are here?”
“No, about the same,” said Clemence.
There was a sound of mirth.
“I suppose Miss Petty-something will leave now?”
“No, she will stay to help my mother and to be with us in the holidays.”
The girls exchanged glances, as though this shed a real light.
“What kind of things does your mother do?” said Esther.
“Esther, Clemence will think we are unable to put a remark except in the form of a question,” said Maud.
“Oh, there are notes to write, and lists to make, and messages to be taken, and all kinds of things to manage in the village.”
“Has your mother a high sense of duty?” said Gwendolen.
“Yes, I believe she has. She is always thinking of the welfare of everyone about her.”
“I suppose in her position she has to,” said Esther, with a glance at Verity.
“Yes, she would hardly have any alternative.”
“Who mends your clothes?” said Esther.
“Adela, the maid I share with my brother.”
“Your brother?” said more than one voice.
“Oh, he is only eleven. She is a sort of nurse.”
“And do your father and mother share a maid?” said Gwendolen.
“Gwendolen, I wonder if you realise the impression you are giving,” said Maud.
“No, I think my mother has one to herself,” said Clemence, finding the fiction spring to her lips of its own force.
“Are you not sure?”
“Well, I think a maid who does other things waits on her as well.”
“And does your father have another maid?” said Esther.
“Perhaps it is time,” said Verity, under her breath, “as he has had so many wives, and a maid is a sort of nurse.”
“No, Aldom looks after him in so far as he needs looking after. He does not want much done for him.”
“Who is Aldom?”
“He is called the butler, or calls himself that. He is all kinds of things. He is the only man we have in the house.”
“Isn’t your father a man?”
“Oh, you must know the use of the term, man, for manservant.”
“I do not wonder if Clemence is losing her patience,” said Maud.
“Was it your mother who was getting into a cab at the door just now?” said Esther. “Or did the governess come with you?”
“I expect that was the governess,” said Clemence, meeting the truth that one falsehood leads to another, as Maria’s appearance and the possession of a maid were incompatible.
“She looked like your mother. She was rather like you in the face. Her eyes were like yours.”
“Well, I don’t know who it was. They both came with me.”
“Then did not they both have to go?”
“Miss Petticott went early to the station to do some shopping on the way. But she may have come back to go with my mother. I said good-bye to them both in the drawing-room.”
“Did you cry?” said Gwendolen.
“Well, perhaps I did a little,” said Clemence, glad to be released from the effort of invention, though she had found it lighter than she could have hoped.
“Poor Clemence!” said four voices, though Esther’s was a little distraught.
“How old are you?” said Gwendolen. “I should think you are about fourteen.”
“I shall be fourteen in about two months, I think,” said Clemence, unused to the school custom of exact estimation of age.
There was some mirth.
“Are you not sure, Clemence?” said Maud, with a note of admonition.
“Yes, I suppose I am; I had not thought much about it. I shall be fourteen on November the twelfth.”
“What a dull sort of day for a birthday!” said Esther.
“Well, Clemence had not much choice in the matter,” said Maud.
“I had none that I remember,” said Clemence.
“You will be the youngest in the form,” said Gwendolen. “You sound as if you would be that. We are all fifteen except Maud, who is sixteen and a half. I was the youngest before you came; I was fifteen yesterday. You have ousted me from my place.”
“Have you a very good brain? I suppose you have,” said Esther, in a resigned tone.
“I don’t know why I should be different from the rest of you.”
“The relation of a headmistress would hardly be quite the same,” said Verity, her tone not disguising the ambiguity in her words.
“I fail to see why, Verity,” said Maud.
“I wish my head was as large as yours, if it would mean I had a better brain,” said Gwendolen. “But I should cover it with my hair.”
“Why do you have your hair like that?” said Esther.
“Clemence might ask us all that question, Esther,” said Maud.
“No, she might not. She is the only one who wears it in an odd way.”
“Oh, I don’t know; I had not thought about it,” said Clemence. “I do not do it myself. Does it matter how I have it? I suppose I shall have to manage it now.”
“The matron can do it for you, if you tell her how. I don’t see how she could know.”
“If Clemence understands the theory of the matter, she can soon put it into practice,” said Maud.
“Well, is that better?” said Clemence, pulling at her hair with both hands, as though in
the recklessness of indifference.
“You do look nice, Clemence,” said three voices, as all the girls but Maud linked arms and regarded the new comer.
“Let us go upstairs and see Miss Tuke unpack for her, and look at her clothes,” said Gwendolen, leading the line to the door.
“Come along, Clemence,” said Verity, stretching out an arm from its end. “Don’t stand and look like a person apart.”
“This is our usual way of progressing, Clemence,” said Maud, allowing herself to be attached to the line, as though having no wish to hold aloof from anything that was not wrong.
“Miss Tuke, Clemence Shelley refuses to walk upstairs with us,” said Gwendolen, entering the dormitory with her usual vigorous tread. “Do you like us to be treated with contempt?”
The matron was a pale, preoccupied woman, who seemed to defy description by having so little to be described, whose age could have been placed between thirty and fifty-eight. She was standing, in complete personal neatness but with a dishevelled air, in a room containing five beds and the corresponding pieces of furniture, and a medley of rods and curtains that seemed designed to undo the effect at a moment’s notice.
“Now what is this? No nonsense at this stage of the term,” she said, coming forward and kissing Clemence with an affection that had the merit of being spontaneous. “And what are you all doing upstairs at this hour?”
“We want to see you unpack Clemence’s clothes. We take a great interest in her, though she takes none in us. I am afraid she has a cold heart. But have you ever seen hair like hers, Miss Tuke?”
“Yes, it is very pretty; we must take care of it,” said Miss Tuke, almost looking at Clemence’s head.
“Is that her box?” said Verity, with a return to her faintly mocking tone.
“Now what do you think it would be? A very good old box it is. I wish things were made as well in these days. I expect it has many associations, hasn’t it, Clemence?”
“I don’t know. It just came from the boxroom. There are a lot of old things up there.”
“It must be more than a hundred years old,” said Maud.
“Then the associations are other people’s rather than Clemence’s,” said Gwendolen. “Perhaps her family had boxes before our families existed.”
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