Ivy Compton-Burnett: Mother and Son

“I do not think you would suit me,” said Miranda, answering something in the tone. “Our interpretation of companionship is different.”

“Have you ever had a companion before?”

“What makes you think I have not?”

“You seem to expect the impossible.”

“It is what in a sense I do expect, and feel I cannot face,” said Miranda, half to herself. “You will find some tea ready for you in the next room. And this will cover your outlay and give you something over for your time.”

“I do not ask anything but my bare expenses, Mrs. Hume.”

“But you are glad to have something,” said Miranda, handing her an envelope and waiting for her fingers to close on it. “We need not pretend that things are not as they are. I am not a person who does that.”

The truth of this caused another sound of mirth, and Miranda sent a rapid frown in its direction. “I hope you will soon find a suitable position. There are many in which you might be useful; that is, if you do not set your face against being so. The maid who gives you tea will tell you about your trains.”

Miranda offered her hand without raising her eyes, as though to save herself from seeing the effects of the interview. There was nothing about them to disturb her. Miss Burke went to the door with an air of having dealt as she could with another item on her list.

Someone was there before her. The middle-aged man stood ready to open it, and did so with a bowing movement and a faintly grieved expression. As he closed it, he drew himself up and turned to the room.

“A ship that passes in the night,” he said, in deep, almost emotional tones.

“Well, it was better for it to do so quickly. And you need not stand and look after it. It will come to anchor in time.”

“I trust we can rely on it, Mother. I trust that it is the view of the stranger within our gates. There is something troubling in the thought of a woman dealing with such difficulties alone. I admit that my thoughts are following the little, lonely figure, as it wends its way along the road to the station.”

“It is in the library at the moment. And it is neither lonely nor little. It is of ordinary size and Bates is with it. I heard her go in.”

“Your ears are sharper than mine, Mother; I heard nothing.”

“I am alive to all that happens in my house.”

“And the house is not blind to anything that befalls you, Mother,” said Rosebery, with deliberate mirth.

“Well, a house must have a head.”

“What a pity, when everyone has to live in a house!” said the girl to her brothers.

“And a sad place it would be without one, Mother,” said Rosebery at the same moment.

“What would it be like then?” said the younger boy.

“Someone would become the head,” said his sister. “It is a natural law.”

“It is time for your tea, Aunt Miranda,” said the elder boy. “Is Bates’s attention fully occupied?”

“You may ring the bell. No, not you, my son; it is for the boys to do it. They are not here to be looked at and waited on. We have no butler now. Someone has written for Wilson’s character. So he will not return.”

“What will you say of him?” said Alice.

“His time here constitutes a character. It is of no good to say anything.”

“Aunt Miranda’s tone has a baffled note,” said Francis.

“Have you engaged another?” said Adrian.

“No, I have not. A butler is not a necessity. You had better get those ideas out of your head.”

“Who will do his work?” said Alice.

“Bates. She is equal to it. And she can get another woman. Oh, Bates; I am not replacing Wilson; I am not fit for the change. I am giving you his place. It will mean a rise in wages. What do you say to it?”

“I might be willing to oblige you, ma’am,” Bates said.

“There is no question of that. The gain would be yours.”

“Well, if it is for your convenience, ma’am, I could give it a trial.”

“It is ‘yes’ or ‘no’,” said Miranda.

“Well, it may as well be in the affirmative, ma’am.”

“Is Miss Burke still with you?”

“She has not yet gone out into the dark, ma’am. Someone met his end on that road last week.”

“Yes, through a runaway horse. That would not happen again.”

“Many things can happen, ma’am. It is not always given to foresee them.”

“Well, she is used to looking after herself.”

“I would not go alone along that road at night.”

“Well, you are not so used to it. You are too well looked after here.”

“It is my lot to look after other people, ma’am. And I have not murmured.”

“You have very little to murmur about.”

“I implied that I was inured, ma’am.”

“How do you come home from your chapel on Sunday nights?” said Miranda, her tone not exalting this manner of worship.

“Someone comes forward, ma’am. There is no lack of what is due. Shall I tell the housemaid to bring the tea? The lady is still under our roof.”

“And so entitled to your attendance?”

“It is one of the unspoken words, ma’am.”

“But Aunt Miranda spoke it,” said Alice.

Miranda frowned at her niece and beckoned her husband from the window. He came across the room, a vigorous man of sixty-eight, with high, hard features, pallid face and hair and hands, and deep, narrow eyes that carried an easy cynicism. He looked with equality at his wife, with acceptance at his son, and with a guarded feeling at his orphan niece and nephews. The latter were like him and like each other, with darker hair and eyes than his, and a livelier aspect. They seemed to welcome his approach and to be easier for his presence.

Julius Hume’s eyes rested more seldom on his son. Rosebery’s large, heavy frame, full, heavy face and hands, rather elementary features and weak, emotional eyes aroused no pride in his father; and the latter’s instinctive feeling for him was tinged with discomfort and pity. Rosebery saw his father as a weightier being than himself, and accepted his dubious affection. He felt no jealousy of him, having no desire for his qualities.

“Why did you not want Miss Bark as a companion, Aunt Miranda?” said Francis.

“It is Miss Burke, as you know. And you know the answer to your question.”

“So he does,” said Alice. “That is why he wants to hear you give it.”

“She would strike the wrong note, and she would not be alive to our atmosphere. And she has the wrong sort of outlook. That is a thing I could not bear.”

“No one is perfect,” said Adrian.

“Now why feel you must say that? Should I think anyone was? What ground have I for thinking so?”

“It would not become us, Mother, to give any reasons,” said Rosebery, leaning forward with a smile.

“Would the right person wish to come,” said Julius. “What would be her object?”

“That she would want a life of ease in return for nominal services. The post of companion does not deserve its name. Fewer people would want it, if it did.”

“Just as many people would be obliged to have it. And you refused to guarantee that the services would be nominal.”

“I would rather give real services than nominal ones,” said Alice.

“No, you would not,” said her aunt. “You would do anything rather than that. Or you would be a more unusual person than you are.”

“Now why should people have this aversion to manual employment?” said Rosebery, looking round. “I have often asked myself the question, and been at a loss for the answer.”

“I will give it to you,” said his father. “It is because it is seen as requiring a lower intelligence, and because it does require it. And because it is dull and unrewarding in itself.”