Ivy Compton-Burnett - Mother and Son

“I think we really know,” said Alice.

“You mean you are satisfied with your guess. We are lenient towards our own creations.”

“I am not satisfied with it.”

“Well, it is probably erroneous,” said the tutor, opening a book. “And as we are not to judge of it, we will leave the subject.”

“Do you think Pettigrew will die of curiosity?” whispered Adrian.

“Well, save me from that fate,” said Mr. Pettigrew, smiling and turning the leaves.

“I don’t think Rosebery was troubled, even if he was surprised.”

“It is unlikely that Miss Burke took the initiative in the matter. There are many reasons against it.”

“And perhaps one reason for it,” said Alice.

“Would Rosebery have taken it?” said Adrian. “I thought the man was not allowed to. But I expect you take more interest in Uncle and Miss Greatheart.”

“It might be more within the range of my experience,” said Mr. Pettigrew, glancing at a back page.

“Would you like me to tell you about it?”

“I think it is unlikely that you are able to,” said Mr. Pettigrew, looking up with an open smile.

“Well, I know what I think.”

“That would not throw any light on the matter,” said Mr. Pettigrew with some sharpness.

“Pettigrew is his own worst enemy,” murmured Francis. “He will not accept the truth, even when it is so satisfying.”

“It is hard on Mrs. Pettigrew,” said Alice.

“Who is taking Mrs. Pettigrew’s name in vain?” said Mr. Pettigrew lightly, not raising his eyes.

“We thought she would like to know what happened,” said Adrian.

“The people concerned are only known to her through my chance allusions. It is hardly to an extent to arouse her curiosity.”

“So she is less curious than you are?”

“I was not aware that the quality was prominent in me. The necessity of limiting my interests to yours, when I am with you, may give you the impression.”

“I suppose your interests are always those of your pupils, as you don’t see anyone else.”

“I have my own friends, as is natural. But it is true that their affairs are not of the same unexpected kind,” said Mr. Pettigrew, goaded to this point.

“Would you have liked to marry Miss Burke yourself?”

“Really, Adrian, the question is beneath attention.”

“You seemed to take an interest in her.”

“When she was to become in effect a member of your family, I was disposed to do so. But that possibility has passed.”

“Would you rather marry Miss Greatheart?”

“If I am to answer such a question, it is true that there might be more affinity between us.”

“Do you mean that you would not marry a housekeeper?”

“Well, it is not perhaps a likely contingency.”

“What was Mrs. Pettigrew before you married her?”

“She had not had occasion to seek employment. As you know, it will not be the case with your sister.”

“I did not know it was the same.”

“You think the tutor’s family is on a pinnacle apart?” said Mr. Pettigrew, smiling and jotting something down.

Adrian was silent for a moment.

“Did you mind having to earn your living?”

“On the contrary, I realised it might develope gifts that would otherwise lie dormant.”

“What are the gifts?”

“Patience, perhaps, and tolerance of idle curiosity.”

“I don’t call those gifts.”

“It does not do to underrate them.”

“Then why does everyone do it?” said Alice.

“Oh, you are all in the stage when you think that genius and fame are the normal human lot. You will have to learn your mistake.”

“As Pettigrew did, when he realised his gifts,” murmured Francis.

“I did not give you a list of them, in case patience was not amongst yours,” said Mr. Pettigrew, in a complex tone.

“I hope it is among Mrs. Pettigrew’s, if she hears of the fortunes of our family.”

“I think, Francis, that that is a subject upon which you might learn to be silent.”

“I hope Pettigrew will follow his own suggestion,” said Francis, when the tutor had left them.

“I expect he has told everyone about Uncle and us,” said Adrian.

“Well, you set him the example and gave him the opportunity. You have no right to complain.”

“It is strange that Aunt Miranda did not know, until just before she died. It seems it was almost a pity to tell her then.”

“That might often be said of eleventh-hour confessions.”

“And said truly of them,” said Alice. “They are seldom of a pleasant kind, and it is hardly the time for unpleasantness.”

“Perhaps they hasten people’s death,” said Adrian.

“That is really not their usual object,” said Francis.

“This seems to have hastened Aunt Miranda’s.”

“You mean there are exceptions to every rule?”

“They are meant to do the opposite,” said Alice, “and make the most of the last moments. And in books they do make them go a long way.”

“It is strange that someone might have been in Aunt Miranda’s place,” said Adrian.

“It never seemed real,” said his sister. “I wonder how it seemed to them. Perhaps Uncle had had enough of reality and wanted something different. And perhaps he would have had it, if it had not been for us.”

“Aunt Miranda would be glad of our existence at last,” said Francis.

“I would rather Uncle was glad of it,” said Adrian. “It is a pity they can’t be glad of it together.”

The door opened and Rosebery entered, and came smilingly forward.

“Now in a sense we enter on a new chapter. The time of our uncertainty is past. I am at a stage between you and your uncle, and must do my best in it. Shall we try a game together? I have noticed that games play a part in your life.”

The occasion of which this was true, came into their minds.

“It is the others who play games,” said Adrian. “I would rather read.”

“It will do you no harm to take your part in one with them.”

“Our games are for two people. We haven’t any other kind.”

“You must have some cards. There is a game for four with those, that you should learn. I suppose you know how to deal.”

They did not, but Francis and Alice soon did, and Adrian’s incapacity was accepted.

“A game is like a lesson,” he said.

“While you are learning it,” said Rosebery. “It will not always be.”

“Is there anything wrong in not playing games?”

“It is unsocial to sit apart, and that is not a pleasant quality.”

“Games for four will not be any good to us,” said Adrian, realising his words too late.

Rosebery simply smiled.

“One person can take the place of two. I will explain that to you presently.”

He was as good as his word, and Adrian was confirmed in his view of games. When this one ended, the others were striving with mirth, and he with another emotion.

“Will Rosebery do things for us now, instead of for Aunt Miranda?” he whispered.

“What should we have thought of her death,” said Francis, “if we had known we were to take her place?”

“And what would she have thought?” said Alice.

“We will have many more games together,” said Rosebery, putting up the cards with this in view.

As he spoke, the door opened, and he saw the children’s faces light.

“Father,” he said, rising, “I have tried and I have failed. I have done my best, and it is not enough. I have striven to the end of my strength, and it does not avail. I have no place in this house, on the scene of my mother’s life and mine. So now there is something to be told. Do not fear; it is no great thing. I had a letter when my mother died; I did not tell you of it; you were having enough of me and my troubles, of another man and his sorry fate. The letter must have come from my father. It was a simple word, signed: ‘an old man whose thought must be on you’. I must go to him, Father. I care not who he is, what he is; he is the man who with my mother gave me life. And when he dies, I will order my own days. I will not fail you and return; I will not fail your children. They are with their father, as I shall be with mine. But this is no last farewell. We shall always meet. For your sake, for mine, for my mother’s, that must be. But for the moment it is a parting, if only of the ways. Father, goodbye; that is what you have been to me; we will not say something was wanting, though we know what we do.”