Ivy Compton-Burnett - Mother and Son

“You have entered on it. You can hardly turn back now.”

“Father, that trouble is not mine. The misgiving found its place in another heart. It shows it was based on truth. Another has come to a knowledge of herself, and sees her path as solitary, as I see mine lying as it has always lain.”

“Oh, Miss Burke has changed her mind? And you are doing your best with it? Well, your best is good. I find I cannot do as well. I am in a similar place, and can do nothing but appear in it.”

There was a pause.

“A word in this letter suggested it, Father. So our life is to be as it has been. And I shall come to a sense of peace.”

“Again you do better than I. I offer no account of my feelings.”

“Father,” said Rosebery, bending his head and using a light, soft tone, “is not acceptance among them? Do you not acknowledge to yourself that it is there?”

“You mean I feel the ease of doing nothing, making no change, putting no demand on anyone?”

“No demand on my cousins; that is your thought. And it must bring us to another. They have heard our words. Shall we face what must be an ordeal, as they are of the age they are? The longer it is left, the more there is to do and to be undone.”

“Well, let them hear us undo as much as we can.”

“Has anything happened?” said Alice.

“In the sense that nothing is going to happen,” said Julius. “We are all to remain as we are.”

“Do you mean you are not going to be married?”

“Yes, that is what I mean.”

“Have you — did they — did you all feel alike?”

“We are to say that we all did.”

“Then we can be glad about it,” said Adrian at once. “It will be as it was when Aunt Miranda was alive, except that she will not be here.”

“Well, curb your rejoicing in the exact situation,” muttered Francis.

“But she will be glad about it too.”

“Yes, I think we may use the simple words,” said Rosebery.

“So we can all be happy together. No one will be apart.”

“Of course there is a veil between,” said Rosebery, as though there might be too easy an approach.

“It must be useful to know about the other side of it,” said Francis.

“Or would it be awkward?” said his sister. “It would complicate things. There would be those people to consider as well as ourselves.”

“And people of a powerful nature. Only those seem to count.”

“It seems it would be better to think about this side, while we are here,” said Adrian.

“We do give a thought to it sometimes,” said his brother.

“Do you feel it a moment for talking amongst yourselves?” said Rosebery.

“Why should it not be?” said Julius. “We have said what we had to say. There is nothing more for them to hear.”

“Is there not something, Father? That the change finds us with consent in our hearts?”

“Well, it is no good to withhold our consent.”

“Will you be satisfied to go on as we are now?” said Alice.

“Yes, I shall see that I am.”

“Then I don’t see how we can help being happy about it.”

“Then in a way I shall share the happiness.”

“I hope we are not the reason of the change,” said Francis.

“You are the reason of other things.”

“Francis,” said Rosebery, “will you listen to another word?”

“Yes, a word becomes a thing of weight.”

“You remember when you learned you were to succeed to my inheritance?”

“That is hardly a word I should forget.”

“I have simply wondered if you had done so. There is nothing to suggest that you recall it.”

“I did not know I was to be different.”

“You were not. But have you not been so? Has not the loss of my mother put me in your mind at your mercy and your sister’s?”

“It may have done so. But we have not acted on it.”

“Then I am mistaken, and glad to be.”

“And there is some reason in my being Uncle’s heir.”

“Francis, is that a generous speech?”

“No, or I might not have made it.”

“Well, there has been little claim on your generosity,” said Rosebery, smiling.

“There has been some on yours,” said Julius, “and you have not been equal to it.”

“Father, I should never mention in my cousins’ hearing that that was not the word for them.”

“That is a thing you can never say again.”

“I shall not wish to. It was forced from me.”

“Mr. Pettigrew!” said Bates.

“Good-morning, Mr. Hume; and may I add a general good-morning? I have a message from Mrs. Pettigrew, that she sends her sincere congratulations to you and Mr. Rosebery, and her best wishes for your future.”

“Her message seems no less kind that it is not needed. We are making no change in our lives. Our venture was a late and brief one.”

“Indeed, Mr. Hume, I had no idea, or I should not have delivered the message. It hardly needs to be said. I assume the decision is sudden?”

“Yes, sudden and final. You will thank your wife and tell her.”

“I will do so indeed, and she will second my hope that the change will be for the best.”

“Our family will tire Mrs. Pettigrew out,” murmured Alice. “And we know her health is weak.”

“Would you have minded, if Mrs. Pettigrew had not married you?” said Adrian to the tutor.

“I should hardly have made my offer to her, if I had wished for that outcome,” said Mr. Pettigrew, smiling at Julius. “Now I will expect you to follow me upstairs.”

He went into the hall and encountered Bates, and came to a sudden pause.

“Good-morning,” he said, in a pleasant tone, that seemed to lead up to something further.

“Good-morning, sir.”

“So there is to be a change in the household, or rather the apprehended change is not to take place.”

“No, sir. Our change is in the past.”

“And I daresay it seems a sufficient share to you.”

“I referred to the loss of the mistress, sir.”

“You may be glad that her place is not to be filled.”

“It would not be so to me, sir. There would be the void.”

“I suppose you have only just heard this last piece of news.”

“Just now, sir, from the master’s own lips,” said Bates, with truth.

“A great deal goes on beneath the surface in a family.”

“Is that the case, sir?”

“There must be many things of which you do not speak.”

“Well, those are as you say, sir.”

“You must hear a good deal as an established member of the household.”

“I have my position, sir. The family news is not withheld.”

“This last piece will soon be abroad. But many things must be entrusted to your ears.”

“I do not deny it, sir. I said I had my place.”

“And everything is better for the daylight. It tends to grow in the dark.”

“I understood it was light that contributed to growth, sir,” said Bates.

Mr. Pettigrew went upstairs and awaited his pupils.

“Well, perhaps I may congratulate you all. You are to remain in the foreground of your uncle’s life, if I may so express it. I hope things have developed as he wished.”

“We did not ask,” said Adrian. “We forgot you would want to know.”

“I am glad indeed that you did not do so. It suggests you are outgrowing your childishness.”

“So you do not want to be told.”

“Told what, Adrian?” said Mr. Pettigrew, easily.

“How things happened with all of them.”

“Well, it is outside my sphere.”

“But it is not outside your sphere of interest.”

“Well, gratify me in any way you can,” said Mr. Pettigrew, sharpening a pencil.

“I don’t think Uncle would like it.”

“Then of course you must not think of it. Though your suggestions would be guesswork, and would not bear on the truth.”