Mother and Son (18 page)

“Father,” said Rosebery, in a tone of deep concern, leaning forward, “would you like the portrait to be moved elsewhere? Are its suggestions disturbing to you? I would willingly attend to the matter.”

“No, no, I no longer see it. And I do not hear the speech. Leave it where it is.”

“There is something I have wanted to ask of you. It is my wish to bespeak a group of you and my cousins. That would have its own meaning for you, and find its place in your life. Do you give your sanction?”

“I should like a portrait of them. I will not be included myself.”

“Father, I would willingly have it done as a family group. You are not considering my feelings?”

“No, I dislike living with my successive stages, as I leave them.”

“It shall be done as you will, and by whom you will. And I shall feel the opportunity a privilege.”

“I shall look forward to having a photograph of it,” said Hester. “I think a good portrait often throws light on people. And I cannot have too much on these three interesting persons. I am always on the watch for it.”

She was about to be rewarded. There was a knock at the door and Mr. Pettigrew entered.

“Am I right in assuming you have finished your breakfast, Mr. Hume? I am glad to perceive it is the case. I have sought a word with you on my way to the schoolroom, where I am due early to-day. I need hardly say it concerns my pupils; and as it does so in a somewhat intimate aspect, you may prefer to exchange the word in private.”

“No, it can be said here. Miss Wolsey and my son had better hear it. It may be of help to them.”

“Then I am obliged to say,” said Mr. Pettigrew, his tone suggesting that his advice must appear justified, “that my pupils have lost their hold on themselves since their aunt's death. And it does not appear to be the result of the trouble. The suggestion is indeed rather of the opposite nature. There is a tendency to frivolity and indolence, and remonstrance is met by levity and veiled ridicule. The trouble began with Adrian, but has spread to the other two. I would have chosen to spare you, but knowing your concern for them, could not feel justified in doing so.”

“I am grateful for the truth. It helps me to do my best for them. I am all they have by way of a father.”

“And it helps me too,” said Hester. “I am all they have by way of a mother, and I need the help.”

Mr. Pettigrew gave her a glance and continued to Julius.

“The controlling influence has been withdrawn, and they appear to be yielding to the reaction. I have
nothing to say against a youthful rebound of spirits, but as liberty degenerates into license, it calls for restraint.”

“Will you send them to me and wait for them, or will you witness their discomfiture?”

“I will take the first course. I have no wish to enhance the occasion. And I have no doubt that a word in time will work in the way of the proverbial stitch.”

“Dear me, I feel so unhappy,” said Hester, as the speaker withdrew. “I cannot bear to see the young and helpless taken to task for being what they are. But I suppose it has to be.”

“And there is a touch here of something not quite helpless,” said Rosebery, gravely.

“It is simple guilt,” said Julius. “They feel they can yield to their impulses, and have done so at Pettigrew's expense.”

“I cannot but think that shock and disturbance have done their work,” said Hester. “He should surely allow for it.”

“He has done so. It is a part of his life. Complaints recoil on himself.”

“He might lack imagination.”

“Perception was what was needed, and that he does not lack. The faculty must be highly trained.”

“Oh, I hear the footsteps. I am in such a sorry state.”

“Would you like to go, Miss Wolsey?” said Rosebery, in a formal manner.

“No, I will stay at my post. I feel it is one of observation. I shall do better not to desert it.”

The children entered and stood in silence, avoiding anyone's eyes.

“Do you feel you have treated Mr. Pettigrew well or badly?” said Julius.

“Badly,” said Adrian, before he thought.

“Had he done any harm to you?”

“He did his duty by us,” said Alice. “And that seemed to us to be harm.”

“Well, there is one question answered. Did it appear to you an occasion to cast off normal restraint?”

“It was our only occasion,” said Francis. “We had never had one before.”

“Francis!” said Rosebery. “You do not refer to the feeling aroused in you by my mother's death?”

“It was not the only feeling. But it was there amongst others. And it was the easiest to gratify.”

“So that is your use for freedom,” said Julius. “You will bequeath a sense of it to other people.”

“Of course we must mend our ways,” said Alice.

“Then your case is settled. What do you feel, Adrian?”

“The same as Alice does.”

“And you, Francis?”

“I see I have behaved like a child.”

“You have behaved badly. It is not only children who do that.”

“I too must mend my ways.”

“Then the matter is ended. You may go and do as you say.”

“Oh, it was short and sharp,” said Hester. “I don't know if it was better or worse than I expected. I did
appreciate your method, Mr. Hume. No preaching and no malice; just respectful, equal dealing. But in a way the better method goes deeper. There were moments I did not know how to bear.”

“Father,” said Rosebery, “I say nothing of the callousness and ill will involved in the episode. But the attitude to our loss has astonished and grieved me.”

“Oh, the boy had to say something,” said Hester. “His words should not be remembered, And, if you will forgive me, callousness and ill will were not involved.”

“They will be regretted, Miss Wolsey, by one person, if by no other.”

“I could almost envy Mr. Pettigrew. He has the chance to know and help three such appealing people. To me late childhood stands first among the human stages.”

“I doubt if he would agree with you,” said Julius. “He has had opportunity to know it. It is the stage he meets.”

“No doubt it is different in different people. I was thinking of our representatives of it.”

“I fear they have emerged as typical.”

“I fear not, Father,” said Rosebery, in a sudden outbreak. “I fear they have emerged as heartless and ungrateful beyond the human level. And while I am on the subject of my mother, which is one I see I must learn to avoid, I must enter a protest against the cat's being always in the room, which is a known violation of her wish.”

There was some amusement at this transition.

“I will get rid of the beast,” said Rosebery, striding
towards it, with the intention to drive it before him, and the result that it reappeared at the other side of the room. “I will not countenance this infringement of my mother's rule.”

Hester moved to the door and opened it, and the cat ran through it, as though it had awaited the opportunity.

“I believe in following her wishes in small things as well as in great,” said Rosebery, breathing heavily as he sat down.

“The cat should not be here,” said Hester. “But he has done me a service. He has reminded me of the cat at my home, and of my hope to see you both there very soon. You did not come before, Mr. Hume.”

“Miss Wolsey,” said Rosebery, recovering himself, “it is a pleasant prospect, and one sanctified by memory. Father, I should be glad to share with you an experience I shared with my mother. It would seem to make a bond.”

“We will go by all means, when Miss Wolsey asks us.”

“And, Miss Wolsey,” said Rosebery, causing himself to smile, “if you would like to take our cat as a guest for yours, I will not say you nay.”

“Oh, Plautus would not have it. He keeps his house and garden for himself. I don't know what would happen to an interloper, or rather I fear to know.”

“I was not planning the mutual destruction of the two quadrupeds in question. I do not carry my prejudices so far.”

“Of which are you talking, your prejudices or your mother's?” said Julius.

“Of both, Father. And I find the one gives me insight into the other. Not that ‘prejudice' is a word I use in every connection.”

“My mind's eye is on the scene in the schoolroom,” said Hester. “I am glad I am not a witness of it. I hope Mr. Pettigrew is showing tact.”

“I hardly think the claim should be made on him,” said Rosebery.

“He should make it on himself.”

Mr. Pettigrew had actually done this, as he awaited his pupils.

“Well, Francis,” he said, with easy liveliness, “your Latin consists more of my emendations than of the authentic text. I should recommend another version.”

The pupils took their seats in a conscious manner, showing a tendency to exchange smiles.

“We will begin with arithmetic to settle our minds,” said Mr. Pettigrew, flushing at the implication. “It is not your favourite subject, Adrian.”

“I shan't ever have to do accounts now,” said the latter, his fears for his future being allayed.

“You will find them useful. No one should do without them.”

“Uncle does not keep them.”

“He may have reached the stage beyond them. I have no objection to your attaining that.”

“He says they are no good, except to simple people.”

“Well, the term may not be out of place in every relation. And I do not know why you have decided that accounts represent the extent of our aims.”

“Pettigrew is trying to atone for his complaint,” murmured Alice.

“It is true that he forgot himself,” said Francis. “He is properly trembling before us.”

“Who is trembling before you, Francis?” said Mr. Pettigrew easily, as though having caught the last words.

“Oh, someone we all know.”

“The position of three against one may account for it. There is little meaning in that sort of encounter.”

“What does he do when he has a whole class?” whispered Adrian. “It might be twenty to one.”

“On the contrary,” said Mr. Pettigrew, abandoning the feint of not hearing, “my classes work with me in goodwill and desire to improve. The assumption that teachers and pupils must be at variance is confined to yourselves, and you would do well to relinquish it. Otherwise I shall inform your uncle that I must confine myself to classes and discontinue private work.”

“He would not know the reason,” said Adrian.

“I should not leave him ignorant of it.”

“Wouldn't you be ashamed of not being able to control us?”

“I see I have found a method of doing so, and one that might place the shame on the other side.”

“Aunt Miranda would not like Uncle to be worried.”

Mr. Pettigrew did not smile.

“It rests with you to prevent it. And your brother and sister are setting you the example.”

This course was followed until the time was over. Mr. Pettigrew took his leave with neutral friendliness, and
went downstairs looking harassed and spent. The question of whether or no to complain was a recurring threat to his peace. And either seemed to involve threat to his livelihood.

“We must say that Pettigrew forgot himself again,” said Francis.

“Better not, until he is out of hearing,” said Alice.

“Perhaps a change has come over him,” said Adrian, “because Aunt Miranda is dead.”

“And yet he has no sympathy with us,” said Alice.

“The changes counteract each other,” said Francis. “What is the good of daring to harass him, if he dares to report it?”

“Shall we always have to try like that?” said Adrian.

“We can gradually deteriorate,” said his sister, “but never to the same extent.”

“We shall have to live down his complaint,” said Francis. “We have to meet Uncle and Rosebery; and not only have we violated human decency, but it was the form taken by our grief for Aunt Miranda.”

“Well, some peoples have celebrated death with rejoicing,” said Alice.

“But it is not the custom of this one.”

“How much does Uncle mind Aunt Miranda's dying?” said Adrian.

“Enough to restrain himself from open observances,” said his brother.

“Would Aunt Miranda mind what we have done?”

“Well, she could hardly be in sympathy with it.”

“Rosebery would not have done it. It seems strange
that he should be better than we are. I am glad I am not the eldest.”

“He means we shall have his blame as well as our own,” said Alice. “It is natural to be glad of that.”

“I don't think we are as bad as Francis thinks we are,” said Adrian.

“Perhaps we are sound at heart. That is said of people who are unusually unpleasant.”

“Why is it said of them?”

“Well, they are clearly sound nowhere else, and we cannot see the heart.”

“Will Uncle still like us?”

“He must have some reason of his own for doing so, as he has no ordinary one. He likes us through everything, as parents like their children.”

“It is funny to think that Rosebery is his child.”

“Yes, perhaps that is why he seems to insist on it.”

“Perhaps he is a changeling, and does not want it known.”

“That would explain a good deal,” said Francis.

“Who is a changeling?” said Julius, at the door.

“Cousin Rosebery,” said Adrian, uneasily.

“A changeling is surely a child.”

“Yes, at first, but he would grow up.”

“I thought he never did, but you may know more about it.”

“No doubt he does,” said Francis. “He is of the age, and he does need explanation.”

“What is the subject?” said Rosebery.

“Changelings,” said Julius. “Adrian is the character chosen. I came to get some books. Will you carry these
for me, my boy? Or have you some errand of your own?”