Ivy Compton-Burnett: Mother and Son

“They are silly children,” said Miranda. “I fear they must try your patience.”

“Our relation has been long enough to result in mutual understanding,” said Mr. Pettigrew, with truth.

Miranda went to the door, and Francis opened it for her, Mr. Pettigrew moving in his seat to allow him to do so, and keeping his eyes on his books until it closed.

“I did not mention, Adrian, that your standard is relatively lower than your brother and sister’s. I hope we may remedy the position and avoid the disclosure.”

“He is not on our level,” said Francis.

“Yes I am,” said his brother. “I am only different.”

“And that is what the difference consists in.”

“It is that in which the difference consists,” said Mr. Pettigrew. “We do not end a sentence with a preposition.”

“Great writers do not worry about that sort of thing,” said Alice.

“Well, when you join their ranks, you can follow their example. Until then we will observe the accepted usage.”

Mr. Pettigrew was a small, neat, middle-aged man, with careful, dark clothes and hair and beard, features that fulfilled their purpose, and small, blue, spectacled eyes, that tended to light with curiosity. As a thought occurred to him, they did so.

“You have had a visitor this afternoon. I saw your cousin accompanying a lady to the station. I should say to the village, but as the directions coincide, it occurred to me that the station might be their object.”

“Aunt Miranda wanted a companion,” said Francis. “But when she saw her, she changed her mind. And everyone but Rosebud thought the matter had ended.”

“Your cousin certainly followed his own course. I noticed he was showing the stranger the same degree of attention, as if their positions had been reversed.”

“Why should he show her any less?” said Alice.

“He saw no reason. That is why he merits the description.”

“Rosebud should have been a woman,” said Francis, “he takes so much interest in them. Or perhaps it is the last thing he should have been.”

“Do you like opening doors for women?” said Adrian to the tutor.

There was a pause before the latter spoke with a faint flush.

“I think, Adrian, that you and your brother might use the term, ‘sir’, in addressing me. There seems no reason to deviate from the usual custom.”

“Alice does not say it.”

“Convention does not require it, or indeed permit it, in her case. I was referring to you and Francis, as I made clear. Now what was your question?”

“I asked if you liked opening doors for women?” said Adrian, not using the suggested mode of address, as it seemed to him to have a menial significance.

“I hope I have the proper feelings on such occasions, those of a normal gentleman. I trust I do not let such opportunities pass. It would not be so, unless through absence of mind. I think that is a fair claim to make on my own behalf.”

“Rosebud opens the door for Aunt Miranda, as if it were the first time in his life,” said Francis.

“There are some feelings that never lose their freshness, if the possessors of them are fortunate. I cannot but realise whom you indicate by your abbreviation, and it is perhaps not inconsistent with your youthful view of your cousin. But we will proceed to our work, before we accuse ourselves of wasting time.”

The accusation was to come from another quarter. Miranda ordered tea for Mr. Pettigrew, in the belief that it would stimulate his efforts; and on this occasion, when Bates entered with the tray, her mistress followed her.

“Well, you hardly seem to have settled down to work.”

“We always make up any time we have missed, Mrs. Hume. I find that effort is easier to me, when I have had the tea you considerately provide. I can say I have never curtailed the appointed time.”

“Well, I suppose you have not. It would be natural to work the full time, and necessary for the children’s progress.”

“And that is great enough to preclude that manner of referring to them, though I may always be likely to return to it in my thoughts.”

“I hope it does not give you too low a standard for them. The boys must make their own way. We are anxious for them to get on.”

“On the contrary, Mrs. Hume, it gives me a standard higher in proportion to my feeling for them, which I may claim to have become almost paternal.”

“Is that the second of those two plain cakes?” said Miranda to Bates.

“Yes, ma’am. We finished the other — the other was finished when the lady had tea in the library.”

“You meant what you said at first, I think. One person could hardly have eaten what was left of that cake. And we never have the plain kind in the drawing room.”

The children recognised with amusement the standing of the provision for the tutor. His continuing to think of them in this way had some excuse.

“I am not proposing to attack the cake today, Mrs. Hume. Mrs. Pettigrew provides so many cakes for me, also of the plain variety, as that happens to be my preference, that I am inclined to confine myself to the bread-and-butter, as a viand of which one never tires.”

“You generally have some cake, I think,” said Miranda, whose claim that she saw into every corner of her house was open and just. “And I hope that you do, if you enjoy it, and that you will continue to do so. I am glad you like the kind our custom assigns to the schoolroom.”

“I have no doubt that I enjoy it, Mrs. Hume, if I happen to take a piece unawares, as I may when my thoughts are elsewhere. I believe it is possible to enjoy a thing without knowing it.”

“No, I hardly think it is,” said Miranda, handing him the cake. “Why not take a piece now, and enjoy it and know that you are doing so?”

Mr. Pettigrew took a piece without looking at it, and put it on his plate, as though he must put it somewhere. He watched Adrian attend his aunt to the door, with an air of superintendence, and then opened a book and made some comment upon it. When a break occurred, he looked up.

“So the stranger who was here this afternoon, is not to take your aunt’s post?”

“She was not offered it,” said Francis. “She did not find favour in her sight. But she did not betray any feeling.”

“Am I to understand that the interview took place in the general view?” said Mr. Pettigrew, dropping his eyes to veil his disapproval.

“Yes, Aunt Miranda did not trouble to go to another room.”

“I was making no suggestion regarding your aunt. But surely you young people could and should have withdrawn.”

“We were told to keep at a distance and appear to be occupied. And there was nothing to engage us but the scene. Uncle stayed by the window, and Rosebud was allowed to remain where he was. He would have had the best of it, if he had not been so affected by what happened.”

“I think I find myself in accord with your cousin. It is a great test of personal quality to face rebuff of that kind without self-betrayal. I think we should estimate it at its worth.”

“Pettigrew has had such rebuffs himself,” said Alice, more audibly than she knew.

“No, Miss Alice,” said Mr. Pettigrew, smiling indulgently, “my upward path has been on the whole smooth. I hope the same will be true of your brothers.”

“So he sees us as on his level,” murmured Francis.

“It is true that our circumstances have something in common. But, to be serious for a moment, I think we should view such a person as we are discussing, with all respect and sympathy.”

“I hardly think we do,” said Alice. “We admire success.”

“Well, we have all had a modicum of that,” said Mr. Pettigrew, smiling again. “But success does not impose the same demand, or so I have found from my modest experience of it.”