Ivy Compton-Burnett - Mother and Son

“I don’t think he ever did know. It was a thing we could only know ourselves. If he has a wife, will he think less about us?”

“I am not sure,” said Francis. “Anyone else would.”

“I don’t want him to have one,” said Adrian, breaking into tears.

“Well, we should all prefer him to live entirely for us.”

“Now what is all this?” said Bates, entering the hall. “This is meant to be a pleasant occasion.”

“It is not one,” said Alice. “We are foreseeing Uncle’s happiness.”

“Changes must come, Miss Alice.”

“I believe that talk does harm. It seems to prepare the way for things. And you are always the same.”

“I am what I am, miss. Father remarked on it in his taciturn way. And it always won comment.”

“Uncle should emulate you,” said Francis. “I don’t know what your father would say to him.”

“It would be a mere compression of the lips, sir.”

“Will people laugh at Uncle for marrying when he is so old?” said Adrian.

“Well, it is better than crying about it,” said Bates.

“I think it is worse,” said Alice.

“Well, that contains a truth, miss.”

“And Uncle is not married yet.”

“That contains another.”

“Does Aunt Miranda know about it?” said Adrian.

“If she does, many a lady has done the same.”

“What would she think, if Rosebery married Miss Burke?”

“I was with the mistress for thirty-seven years, sir. And I could not say more without tears coming to my eyes.” Bates turned away, as this befell her without further utterance.

Rosebery had taken Miss Burke to the library, and remained with her.

“Miss Burke, a word of yours returns to me, that you envy women with a competence. The memory emboldens me to say a word of my own, that may take you aback. I ask you to allow me to place you among them. May I feel that you understand me?”

“Not unless you are offering to provide for me.”

“There is a way in which I may do that.”

“Then you are making me a proposal?”

“You do understand me. We may trust a woman’s instinct. May I take it as an augury of further understanding? Your selfless nature is known to me, and I am first among men to value such a nature in a woman. There could be no better foundation for married life.”

“There is nothing selfless in wanting a competence, and less in marrying somebody to get one.”

“You shall marry me and have one. You shall put anxiety behind. You shall be the mistress of your own home, take your stand with other wives. Other feeling will grow upon that foundation.”

“I suppose you would not marry me only for my sake?”

“It would be also for my own. My mother’s death left me desolate. It is another thing that I offer you, my own need. You may not rank it as the least.”

“Your mother would not have me as her companion. What would she say to my being yours?”

“And a companion on another level. It was not the time for her to foresee it. But when I accompanied you to the station, on the occasion that will stand out in both our lives, it crossed my mind that marriage would be your solution, and that you were better fitted for it than might appear. I do not know what thoughts you had of me.”

“I expect my thoughts were on myself.”

“It is small wonder. You were treading a rough and lonely course. As I saw you pass from my sight, frail and lion-hearted, I found myself wondering if our paths would cross again. And the wonder seems to have been a premonition. You were led to a house that was to bring you back to mine. Little did you think, when you spoke of us to Miss Wolsey, that you were laying the foundation of your own future.”

“It was meant to be that of hers. And I did not think very much of it. But things seem to have gone well.”

“Have they gone too well?” said Rosebery, bending towards her. “I think I need not feel I am stooping to gossip. I find feminine companionship in all its aspects congenial, and may be forgiven for making the most of it. It has occurred to me that Miss Wolsey’s eyes rested on my father with preference. How does it appear to the sharper feminine eye? Is it simply her concern for his widowed state?”

“It may have been that. It has grown into something more. And we must hope it will grow no further. Your father’s eyes have their own object.”

“I have seen it, Miss Burke. ‘Miss Burke!’ The name has become dear to me. I will use it yet for a while. I see how the wind lies. I see it with mingled feelings. I know not whether to feel shock or hope or sorrow.”

“Miss Wolsey must see it too, and must feel one of those things, and perhaps more than one.”

Rosebery tiptoed to the window, as if his footfall could be heard outside, and beckoned her towards him.

“They are coming in. And I discern an air of resolution. They are on the way to their confession. And we will hear it and make our own. We shall stand before judges who share our guilt.”

“Well, my boy, you have eyes and ears, and no doubt have used them. You have seen the way the wind lies.”

“Father, those have been my very words. They have actually passed my lips. And they may continue to serve us. Do you also observe the lie of the wind?”

“I do respect you, dear,” said Emma at once. “Marrying a bachelor, and at a possible age! It is so dignified to be conventional. I have always thought that.”

“We might have observed it,” said Julius. “At any other time we should have. So this is not the only house that is to have a mistress.”

“An humbler one is to have one, Father, and a mistress who will like it no less for being what it is. It will suit us both to tread the simpler way.”

“It is more and more dignified,” said Emma.

“Father, I read your mind; I read it as an open book. I know the question you would ask yourself. ‘What would my mother say to us?’ I will put it in my own way, and ask what she does say. And so well do I know her, that I can give the answer. Yes, I hear the little, cynical speech that would hold so much truth. ‘Change must come, and bring other change. It is another word for life. People cannot stay at a standstill because one journey is at an end.’”

“Well, she might say that,” said Julius. “You can do no more than say it for her. And it does no good to imagine her saying anything else. We can do nothing for her now.”

“It seems we ought to do something,” said Emma, “after what she has said.”

“Miss Greatheart, we can live our lives,” said Rosebery. “It is what she would ask of us.”

“It seems a safe demand,” said Julius, “though I doubt if she would have made it. She might have seen no need.”

The door opened and a start went through the group. A change came into the room. Hester and the children entered, smiling and conscious, carrying some clothes they used for charades.

“Now we have a surprise for you,” said Hester. “There is a play for you to see. Alice has written it, and Francis arranged it for us. We are the harmless, necessary actors, and you are the equally indispensable audience.”

“Miss Wolsey,” said Rosebery, moving forward, “we also have a play to present, a play that has its action in real life. It may interest you the more for that. You see us as we stand. It is thus that we shall take our parts on the stage of life.”

Hester looked swiftly from one pair to another.

“A modern farce is it? A mating in the approved mock way? Suitable because it is the opposite. Well, it will serve its purpose. We must see one play after the other, and judge between them. I am inclined to back the children’s.”

“Miss Wolsey, we will see your play indeed. It will make a celebration for us on this day of our lives. But I must bring my meaning home. As we stand before you, so we shall always stand. We claim your recognition of the truth. The reality must precede the mime.”