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“A scene from the village school?” said Maria. “What a life-like master!”

“Yes, my lady,” said Aldom, with a sheepishness that involved acting equal to any he had shown.

“And what put that into your heads?”

“They have heard some talk about school, my lady,” said Adela, in bustling explanation. “And that set their thoughts running on the line. And Aldom is something of a mimic and was a character when he was at school.”

Maria did not question the account, being unaware of the duration of this period.

“It was something of Master Sefton’s, my lady, that I was mending for him. And my memory having played me false, I have come up without it,” said Aldom, naturally looking rather distraught, as his memory was doing him even less service than he said.

“I think some people need a good deal of amusing,” said Maria, with her reproachful note, and no thought that in this case her children might hardly be provided for. “And I think we must all go about our duties. Aldom can bring the toy another time. It was kind of him to mend it, but he will be late in setting the dinner.”

“Not beyond what a little haste will obviate, my lady, it being possible to put out an effort even at the end of the day.”

“Where is Miss Petticott?” said Maria, seeming not to hear.

“She went to her room for something,” said Clemence, giving the impression of a transitory errand.

“And has found the something and brought it down with her, and here it is!” said Miss Petticott, holding up an atlas in the doorway, her ear having caught Maria’s step on the stairs. “And now a gap in our life can be filled, and a hiatus can disappear, and all those things can happen that I have been desiring for some time. I am a happy and contented woman.”

“Can you come downstairs and help me with these envelopes, Miss Petticott? I seem to have got behind. It is so difficult to keep up with everything.”

“Certainly, Lady Shelley. I am always glad of a little occupation at the end of the day, when the real work is done,” said Miss Petticott, holding her hands as if their idleness were a source of discomfort to her.

“I hope we give you enough time to yourself,” said Maria, feeling that the expression of the hope was a substitute for its fulfilment, and finding it so accepted. “Aldom in the schoolroom! I suppose we cannot do anything. I hope it does not often happen.”

“No, not too often, Lady Shelley. And only in the most casual way. Just a man’s line of interest or a piece of instruction that I cannot give. I am a woman and Sefton is a boy, and it is surprising how early the difference asserts itself.”

“Clemence is a girl; that is our problem,” said Maria, accepting a gulf between Miss Petticott and her son. “I suppose the change will have to come, though it breaks my heart.”

“Indeed, Lady Shelley, it almost breaks mine. I shall find myself living for the holidays, when my work will begin.”

“We shall find some for you at the other times. Never fear.”

“Then I will not, Lady Shelley. I will depend on you. I know you are a person to be trusted.”

Adela and the children confronted the fact that danger had approached and passed.

“Mother might have heard the drunken talk,” said Sefton, in an awed tone.

“Well, she did not; so we need not build up on that.”

“She might have asked what the toy was.”

“Well, she knew what no one else did, that it was a toy. She did not need to ask so much.”

“And Aldom could have told her, though we could not,” said Clemence. “And the Petticoat is a great support. When she cannot help things, she shuts her eyes to them. And she might do worse.”

“The Petticoat! So that is the latest.”

“We often called her that, when we were young.”

“Oh, did you? Then it is your proper nickname for her,” said Adela, in a serious tone.

“We even said it to her face,” said Sefton.

“Most children nickname the governess,” said Clemence.

“And I should like to know how much you know about most children.”

“What we hear and what we read, and what we know by the light of nature, and our own light.”

Adela’s silence did not challenge this account.

“Oh, is that the way we talk about Miss Petticott, who has been so kind to us?” said Maria’s voice. “Now suppose we tell her about all we feel for her.”

“Now that is enough,” said Adela. “There must be an end to cleverness when it is all of one kind.”

“Go on with the talk at the inn, Aldom,” said Sefton, who reacted swiftly from emotion that was past.

“Mother and the Petticoat will be closeted together for some time,” said Clemence.

“Yes, that is the newest thing,” said Adela, “and they are supposed to have done it all the time.”

“Well, so they have, off and on.”

“Clemence told you, Adela,” said Sefton.

“Poor old Petticoat!” said Clemence.

“So it has come to stay,” said Adela, “whether it was here before or not.”

“Are we expected to go down to dinner?” said Clemence.

“Hark at her! Expected to go! So they can’t do without them all of a sudden.”

“No, your supper will be brought up here,” said Aldom. “What is wrong with the room now?”

“Then go on with the scene, Aldom,” said Sefton. “There is time before Miss Petticott comes back.”

“The Petticoat, if you please,” said Adela. “Pray let us have it right, if we have it at all.”

The children resumed their survey of the scene, became involved in it, and finally relieved Aldom of two of the parts. Adela sat between them and the door in the combined capacity of sentinel and spectator. As the excitement waxed, precautions waned; Adela allowed one character to supersede the other; the open door did its work. Maria stood on the threshold with Miss Petticott behind, the latter’s relief that she had not been in charge, the only enviable feeling on the occasion.

“Well, what a commotion for two small people to make!” said Maria.

The children felt a shock they did not define. Was the protagonist to be passed over? Was their behaviour beyond the pale of words? Was he himself struck dumb, petrified, dissolved by shock? The last appeared to be the case; Aldom was no more; and advantage might be taken of it before the long grief supervened and held its course. And Adela’s voice was her own.

“They get excited, my lady. They were acting a scene. It is what they learn with Miss Petticott that puts it into their heads. I got quite lost in it, sitting and watching them.”

“They had the door wide open,” said Maria, taking this safeguard of guilt as a proof of innocence. “We heard the noise and could not think what it was. I suppose it is a sort of play. Go on from where you were, my dears; and if it is good enough, I will bring Father up to see it.”

The children cast about in their minds for words — of Aldom’s, of Shakespeare’s, of Miss Petticott’s — to meet the need; took a step towards Maria and uttered some sounds, and looked at Miss Petticott with their hearts in their faces.

“Oh, come, Lady Shelley, you do not know how sensitive we are about our artistic efforts. I am afraid self-conscious is the word, but that is no help, as we cannot get away from ourselves. We must accept the artistic temperament and take what it has to give us in its own good time. It is a tax on patience, but we do not make such demands on you in vain.”

“Well, I will be patient, though I do not think the noise I heard, quite bears out that view. Thank you for all your help, Miss Petticott. Good-night, my little shy actor and actress.”