Two Worlds and Their Ways (21 page)

“If we were made truly thankful, we might get on better,” said Sturgeon, with no thought of attending further than this to Miss James's injunction.

“They should have warned us that the school was for coarse feeders,” said Bacon. “Perhaps that is true of all schools. Only coarse feeders can be educated.”

“What is this, boys?” said Miss James, coming late to her place, with her habitual, hurried disregard of her own comfort. “What is this I hear about coarse feeders? It does not sound a polite way to talk. I hope you can all behave properly at table. Is no one going to pass anything to me?”

The boys, who had assumed that Miss James arranged matters for herself in arranging all things, handed plates with signs of discomposure.

“Miss James also feeds coarsely,” muttered Sturgeon.

“I beg your pardon, Sturgeon?” said Miss James, in a new tone.

“I said—I only said,” said Sturgeon, realising the interpretation put upon his words; “we were talking about the food, not about the people who ate it.”

“Oh, I see. That explains it. But I hope you were not finding fault with the food put before you. We eat what is provided for us, without discussion or criticism. Did you all remember your grace?” Her tone suggested that such an observance might have ensured subsequent propriety.

“No, Miss James,” said Bacon.

“Did you actually forget it?”

“No, Miss James,” said Holland, feeling that Sturgeon's allusion saved them from this.

“Then what was your reason for not saying it?”

“I don't know, Miss James.”

“Now I think I can tell you,” said Miss James, leaning back and surveying the faces turned towards her. “I think it was that you felt a little ashamed of saying it in front of everyone, of standing to your colours in public. And as that is not a feeling to be proud of, you will not yield to it another time. Are you going to leave that butter on your plate, Sturgeon? Is it not wholesome food?”

“Yes. No, Miss James. It is the fat on the top of the potted meat.”

“It is butter. The meat is potted in the house. Put it on a piece of bread and eat it.”

“No, Miss James. It is against my nature, and I must stand to my colours in public,” said Sturgeon, realising too late the various baseness involved in his speech.

Miss James rose, a flush mounting her cheek, and walked down the table towards the presiding master.

“I am about to suffer for my colours,” said Sturgeon, grinning at his companions.

“You have time to hide the butter and say you have eaten it,” said Bacon, not pretending to accept this lightness.

Sturgeon looked about him, but saw that the moment had passed. Miss James was returning with a gowned figure in her wake.

“Do you ask me to countenance direct disobedience, Mr. Spode?”

“No disobedience of any kind. It would be an improper requirement. In what way has obedience been withheld?”

“Sturgeon refuses to eat the wholesome butter on his plate.”

“Why did he take it, the boy called Sturgeon? He was called that a little while ago. So he is a wasteful and un-biddable boy. In my employers' house are many monsters.”

“I did not take it. It was on the potted meat. Sir,” said Sturgeon.

“And you took it upon yourself to separate them? Do not take matters upon yourself in future. You are not a person to judge. You are a person to be enjoined and
directed. You are the least of all persons. Do you grasp this truth about yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then render to Miss James the thing that is Miss James's, the submission of people such as you. Take bread, place the butter upon it, and carry it with you after the meal. Do not keep a lady waiting while you eat it. Grace is about to be said.” Mr. Spode took a step apart, stood for a space with bowed head, and withdrew without a glance behind.

Sturgeon spread the butter, with remorse welling up within him, and Miss James surveyed him with similar experience. There is a rule that no human being is perfect, and a tendency to hastiness saved Miss James from upsetting it.

“You see, Sturgeon, the view a master takes of your behaviour. Now all go up to the dormitory, and I will follow. There are still some things to be arranged.”

“I will eat the bread-and-butter for you,” said Holland on the stairs. “I don't mind it as much as you do. I thought the other things were worse.”

Sturgeon relinquished it with a shudder and wiped his hands. Miss James was aloof and preoccupied, her geniality destroyed by the recent passage and her compunction for it. She began to sort some clothes and to ask curt questions concerning them.

“I feel sick,” said Sturgeon, in an uncertain way. “I feel sick, Miss James.”

“Oh no, you do not,” said the latter, rapidly threading one thing through another. “Sick boys are not rude and obstinate. Use your handkerchief and stop choking like that.”

Sturgeon obeyed the first injunction, but the smell of butter on the handkerchief disposed of the second. The other boys surveyed him, rigid and silent, and it occurred to him to wonder if they would do anything to succour him, if his life were at stake, as possibly it was. Miss James dealt
with him with an efficiency and absence of fuss, that aroused his gratitude, and finally stood back and regarded him in her usual manner.

“Well, I am glad of this sickness, Sturgeon, if it does sound an odd thing to say. It proves you were not yourself when you behaved as you did. I should be sorry to think it was your real self that you showed me.”

“I am not glad of it,” said Holland.

“Sturgeon's real self has not everything to recommend it,” said Bacon.

“Now do not be foolish, boys. It might happen to you at any time. And you should never say anything to add to anyone's discomfort. Your first thought should be to lessen it.”

“We were not showing you our real selves, Miss James.”

“You should have said you were not well, Sturgeon; then I should not have told you to eat the butter.”

“Holland ate it for me. It was the smell of it on the handkerchief,” said Sturgeon, now beyond any stage but simple truth.

“Well, I am glad it was not wasted.”

“As it would have been, if Sturgeon had eaten it,” said Bacon.

“Now will you all get to bed? I want you off my mind before I go to the other boys. You are only four out of sixty. I cannot give you all my time.”

The boys, with an incredulous acceptance of the ordinary nature of their experience, prepared for the night, now finding every step an obstacle in the way of darkness and their different means of relief. These varied from tears to prayer, and rapidly ended in sleep.

The next morning the bell tolled—as they had agreed to describe the sound—and they rose with an unexpected feeling of being able to face the day. Bacon, forgetting the congestion of the new world, led the way downstairs with mimicry of Miss James.

“Whom are you imitating, Bacon?” said a voice in the rear.

“The—the housemaid at home, Miss James.”

“And do you think that is a kind thing to do?”

“Well, she cannot see me, Miss James.”

“And does that alter the essential quality of the action?”

“No. Yes. No, Miss James.”

“Do you think it is a manly thing to bring ridicule upon someone of a weaker sex than your own?” said Miss James, who was at frequent pains to impress the frailty of her nature upon those who owed her subservience.

“No, Miss James.”

“Someone too, who spends her life in working for your comfort,” said Miss James, with a quiver of feeling, or fellow-feeling, in her tone.

“No, Miss James,” said Bacon, with some feeling in his.

“Well, if I try to forget it this once, will you give me your word that you will not sink to that level again?”

“Yes, Miss James,” said Bacon, less affected by Miss James's self-betrayal than by fear that she might realise it, and hurrying into the breakfast-room.

“We are getting hemmed in by promises,” said Holland. “It is a good thing we have not promised not to eat and drink.”

“It might be a solution,” said Bacon, looking at the dishes.

“I am the hungriest. I have a right to be,” said Sturgeon, assuming that thoughts were on his late mishap, and surprised by the looks of question.

Letters were put on the table, and there was one at Sefton's place.

“You are a lucky boy. A letter already!” said Miss James, something in her tone suggesting disapproval of unsettling methods.

“It is from my mother,” said Sefton.

“From your mater?” said Holland, in a tone that was just a question.

“Yes,” said Sefton, tearing the envelope and surveying the round hand written by Maria for his aid.

“My little son—A word from your mother to help you through your first day. A happy day it may not be, but a brave and busy one it can, and I am sure will be, and the first step towards the success that means so much to Father and me. So you will forget yourself, and put your heart into your new life for our sakes.—Your loving Mother.”

Sefton sat with his eyes on the words. Forget himself he could not; put his heart into his life he could; succeed he must. He crumpled the letter and put it in his pocket, conscious of reluctance for it to be seen, conscious in a way new to him, that indifference to his progress in his parents would be more to his credit than anxiety for it. To go to expense for a son's education, and then be unconcerned for his benefit, was the ideal thing. He felt strange knowledge welling up within him, knowledge that did not come from outside; knowledge of the world of school, of the world itself; knowledge that the parallel between them was a shallow thing. He was surprised by his perception; felt it could not be common to his kind, and set him apart; saw his parents' ambitions fulfilled, and himself rendered fitting dues. The mood of exaltation was fostered by prayers, a ceremony new to him and coming with consequent force. A passage of scripture, chosen it seemed, at random, was read by Lucius; and a hymn chosen in another manner, by by Miss James, was rendered by all with simple feeling, and supported by Oliver with his eyes on the keyboard. Sefton's emotions were fed, and he entered the classroom in a mood of high resolve.

Arithmetic was the subject of the first hour, and the master of the art was Mr. Spode, who suffered from resentful surprise that new boys could not proceed from the point where the last ones left off.

“Have you been taught?” he said.

“Yes; yes, sir.”

“And have you learnt?” said Mr. Spode, as if it were not worth while to finish his sentences.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then work that sum. And if it is wrong, do not mind about it. Others will not.”

Sefton found the problem within his powers, looked up the answer and found it correct, and awaited and obtained approval.

“Try the next kind, and I shall begin to see what you are. I did not know what you might be. Do not look at the answers. They are to help me, not you. We both need them, and I am to have them. In future you will use a book without them.”

Sefton followed directions and again attained success, was put on to a further chapter and pursued his way. In the fourth he was less sure of himself, consulted the answer and worked at the question until the result tallied with it. Mr. Spode saw the erasures.

“You were less sure of your ground?”

“Yes, sir. I saw the mistake myself. I thought the sum was wrong, and looked for it.”

“Well, who else was there to see it? Now I am here to teach you, and I do not ask that the cup shall pass from me. Do another of the same kind, and take your time.”

Sefton did so, protected by glances at Mr. Spode, and by means of his last method again achieved success. Then he went further, and finding a problem beyond his powers, appended the answer at a distance from it, filled in the intervening space with attempts at working, and achieved a plausible effect and another triumph. One more problem dealt with in this way, and the lesson ended, and he put his work into his desk in relief and exultation. He was too young to see his danger and joined his companions without misgiving.

“Who taught you arithmetic at home?” said Holland.

“Miss Petticott, my governess, my sister's governess.”

“She must have kept your nose to the grindstone,” said Bacon.

“Women do that,” said Holland. “They are known to be harder than men.”

“I don't think they are,” said Sturgeon.

“Oh, your sickness is not the whole of life,” said Bacon.

“No, but it is a part of it,” said Sturgeon, betraying some feeling.

“There is not so much in early success,” said Bacon. “It may be a bad sign. But you need not look disturbed, Shelley. I daresay you will not have much of it.”

Sefton was silent, knowing he must have it, if he could.

“We have Latin after the break. We have it with Mr. Bigwell,” said Holland. “Bigwell wastes his time and ours with it.”

“He takes Greek too, for the boys who learn it,” said Bacon. “I shall have enough of Bigwell, and he of me.”

“I am not to learn Greek,” said Holland. “I am not supposed to be clever. Are you, Sturgeon?”

“Yes. So I am to learn Greek, to let people know about it.”

“Now what is this, boys?” said Miss James, appearing from no particular direction. “You do not want so much to eat in the middle of the morning. You have fetched enough from your boxes to last you all day. Anyone would think you had never had a meal before.”

The boys, who had seen their appetites as casting an aspersion on the school fare, were silent as the slur was transferred to their home provision.

“No wonder you do not enjoy your meals, if you overeat between them.”

The boys grinned at each other, Sefton feeling shame for the first time that day, and repaired before they needed, to Mr. Bigwell's class.