Mother and Son (5 page)

“You seem to feel nearer to them than to your son.”

“They are more of my nature. No father has had a son more unlike himself. I gave Rosebery up to you. Indeed I think you took him.”

“He was a man when the children came to us. You were never to him what you have been to them.”

“He was not the child I had thought of. And these children gave me back my boyhood. I was helpless in the matter. So were you; so were they.”

“And so was he,” said Miranda, her voice deepening.
“He has never had a father. Few sons would have forgiven it as he has.”

“And had I not things to forgive? Did he not take what was mine, my place in your heart and in your life? Few fathers would have yielded it as I have.”

“Your yielding it tells its tale. I had to give him what I could; or what would he have had? And he has given it back to me. He would not betray my trust. He would not do little wrong things behind my back; he would not do them any more than the great ones; and that is a rare thing.”

“I believe it is. And it is true that he would not do them.”

“He would not make me afraid to go about in my own house,” said Miranda, turning away as if no more could be said.

“I wish she did not overcome the fear,” said Francis.

“Oh, you do, do you, Francis?” said his aunt, opening the door. “Only you or your sister would have said that. I did not give you the shelter of my roof, to nourish a viper under it.” She ended on a suggestively hissing note and closed the door.

“People generally nourish vipers in a more intimate place,” said Francis, uneasily.

“Aunt Miranda has not done so,” said Alice. “And she would not make the claim.”

“What a day of embarrassments!” said her brother. “The companion rejected with insult; Rosebery betraying that his heart was wrung; Pettigrew disconcerted over the cake at tea; and now our own discomfiture.”

“So it is true that comedy and tragedy are mingled,” said Adrian.

“Really it is all tragedy,” said his sister. “Comedy is a wicked way of looking at it, when it is not our own.”

“Is that why people cannot laugh at themselves?” said Julius.

“This last trouble was our own,” said Adrian.

“Yes, and it was all tragedy,” said Alice. “What really good person could have a sense of humour? We see that Rosebery has none.”

“What happened about the cake at tea?” said Julius.

The children gave him their account of it, perhaps illustrating the theory that no good person could have a sense of humour; and in the midst of it Miranda returned, crossed the room without looking at them, took something from the sideboard and left them without a word.

“Yes, life is all tragedy,” said Francis. “It would be shocking to see its comic side.”

Julius followed his wife to the drawing-room, where the children's presence was not permitted at night. Rosebery got up from the seat opposite his mother's.

“No, this chair will do for me. You may keep your place.”

“I am not entitled to use those words of it, Father. I usurped it in your absence.”

“You look tired, Miranda. Things have been too much for you to-day.”

“Yes, I am tired. I am old and weak. And servants and children and tutors have done their work.”

“Will not a companion be something more on the list?”

“She will identify her interests with mine. That will be the purpose of her. And she will relieve you and the children of the brunt of me.”

“I am glad, Mother, that you do not include my name,” said Rosebery. “The brunt of you is not a thing I am concerned to avoid.”

“Your father does not say the same.”

“I do not say things that are suggested. They would have no meaning. And I recognise that Rosebery doe better than I.”

“Are you taking any further step towards the companion, Mother?”

“I am leaving the advertisement in the local paper.”

“That all may know your need,” said her husband.

“Yes, Mother, it does not redound to our credit,” said Rosebery, in a tone of expostulation. “I enter a definite protest against the scheme.”

“If the right person comes, I can take her. If the wrong, I am committed to nothing.”

“You can deal with her as you did with her predecessor,” said Julius.

“I am hardly disposed to be present at the scene,” said his son.

“You will allow the next applicant to dispense with your services?”

“I did not say that, Father. I could be at hand, in case she had need of them. I should do nothing for her by witnessing her cross-examination and possible discomfiture; and if I may say so, you could not either. I should venture to recommend your withdrawal.”

“I am inclined to take your advice. To-day I had no warning.”

“And will not on another day,” said his wife. “It is the last thing that would occur to me. What a fuss to make about nothing! What does the companion's reaction matter?”

“I feared that was your view, Mother,” said Rosebery, in a tone at once amused and grieved. “And I must admit I take the opposite one. It seems to me that the feelings of an unprotected woman matter as much as anything in life.”

“She would be used to being questioned and cutting an indifferent figure,” said Miranda, easily.

“I cannot think that is a thing to which any of us could get used.”

“Anyone would think I was an ogress, and the companion a martyr.”

“I think that might be a possible view of the position, Mother.”

“There is never much in the conventional views of these things. Some people are more fortunately placed in life than others. That is how it sums up.”

“Many things sum up in that way,” said Julius.

“And yet there is something to be said for existing conditions,” said Rosebery. “There must be hewers of wood and drawers of water. There, Mother, there is a definition for you of a companion. You did not give it to Miss Burke.”

“I think she almost did,” said Julius.

“I hope, Mother,” said Rosebery, with a note of distress, as if struck by a misgiving, “that you will not
use my words in your next interview. It would be playing me unfairly indeed. Not that you have not in a way a claim to them. Requiring someone to wash dishes may be said to involve her drawing water.” He leaned back in mirth.

“Good-Morning, Miss Greatheart,” said Miss Burke.

“Good-morning, dear,” said the former, with an affection that seemed to bear out her name, after a day's acquaintance, “How nice it is to have you here! And look at the breakfast you have made for us. How clever it is to cook and plan and be indispensable to everyone! It is no good to wish I were like you.”

Miss Burke hardly felt that it was, as she completed her work at the table. She did not look at the breakfast, as she had nothing to learn about it, but simply regarded Miss Greatheart in an amiable manner. This household bore no likeness to Mrs. Hume's.

“Shall I go upstairs and call Miss Wolsey?”

“No, dear, ring the bell and spare yourself the trouble,” said Miss Greatheart, in a tone that vibrated with concern. “And then sit down and help yourself. There is no need for you to have your breakfast cold, because I am so careless of such things. I believe I could live on a desert island and eat grain and be content.”

Miss Burke, who did not share the belief, and might not have cooked the breakfast if she had, rang the bell and came to the table, and Miss Greatheart followed her.

“Well, Plautus,” she said, “so you are full of wisdom. Full of great thoughts on everything. You would not deign to say good-morning to us. We are beneath your notice.”

Plautus walked smoothly to the fire and sat down and regarded it.

“No, he will not say good-morning to us, Hester,” said Miss Greatheart, as her friend appeared. “He will sit and enjoy his reflections and ignore you and me.”

Plautus turned his attention to a feather that stirred on the floor.

“He is a beautiful cat,” said Miss Burke, willing to take her part.

“So you do not care for cats, dear,” said Miss Greatheart, turning to her in swift understanding.

“I like to look at them,” said Miss Burke, uncertain what her words might imply.

“Oh, Plautus, what does she say?” said Miss Wolsey.

“I said I liked to look at him,” said Miss Burke, not meeting her eyes.

“Well, how could you not? Surely that goes without saying.”

Miss Burke was silent, as silence could serve to this extent.

“So she forgets your wisdom and wit, Plautus,” said Miss Greatheart, leaning towards the latter without gaining his eye.

“I do not see how a cat can have wit,” said Miss Burke, who was accustomed to hold her own, and found it the best policy.

“Oh, he has made several bright remarks to me this morning,” said Miss Wolsey. “He came into my room in quite a facetious spirit. I could hardly keep up with him.”

“Favouritism!” said Miss Greatheart, shaking her head. “He did not come into mine. He has given no proof that he recognises me this morning.”

“Why do you call him ‘Plautus'?” said Miss Burke, encouraged by this simple statement of truth.

“Oh, because he
is
Plautus,” said Miss Wolsey. “Because the essence of Plautus is in him. How could he be called anything else?”

“Who was Plautus in real life?”

“Who could he have been but the person to give this Plautus his name?”

“He was a Latin writer,” said Miss Greatheart, as Miss Burke left a second question unanswered. “I think he wrote plays; not very good ones.”

“Why did you call the cat after him?”

“Well, he has not written any good plays either,” said Miss Wolsey, holding out her hand to Plautus, who came and considered it, as if in the hope of some offering.

“You think we are a silly trio, don't you dear?” said Miss Greatheart.

Miss Burke took a moment to determine the third member of the group.

“You would not expect me to call Plautus silly?”

“Well, I think you have led us to expect it. How
you despise us all, and how we shall admire you for it! We look up to people who look down on us. It is hard to see how we could avoid it, though I think Plautus does.”

Emma Greatheart gave the impression that everything about her was moulded on a generous scale, and that she did not dispute it or wish it otherwise. Her large, curved frame, full, grey eyes, lofty, aquiline features and undisguised marks of sixty years contributed to the effect, and her flowing garments accorded with the air of amplitude. Her large, fine hands looked as if they might be capable, if their owner willed it, but as if she did not do so.

Hester Wolsey was eleven years younger and looked spare beside her, though above the average size. She had dark, solid features and a general aspect of handsomeness that had gained her the name. The emotions of her deep, eager eyes were under her control. Her clothes were as successful and costly as she could contrive.

“No, you are not hungry, Plautus. You need not show that wistful face.”

“He has not finished his saucer of milk,” said Miss Burke, who had supplied him in this manner when he crossed her path.

“He does not drink much milk,” said Hester, disturbing her ideas. “But he knows there is fish for breakfast; so he does, the wise, wise man.”

Plautus walked to the table and stood with his face raised towards it.

“So he heard what you said,” said Emma, in a generous tone.

Miss Burke hardly felt she could deny it.

“Yes, you heard it indeed,” said Hester, speaking with her eyes on the cat. “You do not let a word of mine escape you.”

“One has to be quite careful what one says,” said Emma, suggesting the scope of Plautus's attention.

Miss Burke, with an idea of establishing her position, offered Plautus a piece of fish.

“No, no, dear,” said Emma, leaning forward. “You will spoil his manners.”

Miss Burke looked up in question.

“His beautiful manners,” said Hester, bringing her no enlightenment. “Must not eat at meals.”

“When does he eat?” said Miss Burke.

“You did not know that Plautus had manners, did you dear?” said Emma, in sympathy. “You don't understand a cat's code.”

Miss Burke rose to remove the fish.

“Let me help you, dear,” said Emma, earnestly, leaning back in her chair.

Miss Burke carried the dish from the room, and Plautus, following the code referred to, unobtrusively followed her. Both ladies looked at her as she returned.

“Did you give him any fish?” said Hester.

“Yes, a great, big piece,” said Miss Burke, with a sense of catching the authentic note. “And he ate it all up; so he did, the understanding man.”

There was a pause that made her feel she had overreached.

“He will think you are making advances to him,” said Emma, in a neutral tone.

“He is not a cupboard lover,” said Hester. “He does not respond to bribes. Only real love for Plautus.”

“He will never get as fond of me as he is of you,” said Miss Burke, incautiously answering the thought behind the words.

“Plautus is fond of two people and no more. He does not dissipate his feeling. He will not welcome titbits from any hand but ours.”

Plautus returned to the room, paused for a moment by Miss Burke and proceeded to the fire.

“Ah, he is an actor,” said Hester. “He pretends he is like other cats, but he does not deceive us.”

“He deceived me,” said Miss Burke. “I do not see any difference.”

“Oh, naughty Plautus to deceive! Yes, you know you were doing it.”

“Well, Plautus, will you come with me to the kitchen? We shall soon understand each other, though you need more study than I thought.”

Plautus rose, looked earnestly at Miss Burke's tray, and again accompanied her.