The Project Gutenberg EBook of Materfamilias, by Ada Cambridge

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Materfamilias

Author: Ada Cambridge

Release Date: September 4, 2012 [EBook #40659]

Language: NU

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MATERFAMILIAS ***




Produced by Clare Graham, Laura McDonald at
http://www.girlebooks.com & Marc D'Hooghe at
http://www.freeliterature.org (Images graciously made
available by the Internet Archive.)





MATERFAMILIAS

BY

ADA CAMBRIDGE

AUTHOR OF

THE THREE MISS KINGS, A MARRIAGE CEREMONY,

MY GUARDIAN, NOT ALL IN VAIN, FIDELIS,

A LITTLE MINX, ETC.


NEW YORK

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

1898




CONTENTS.

   I.--THE BEGINNING OF IT ALL
   II.--IN THE EARLY DAYS
   III.--A PAGE OF LIFE
   IV.--THE BROKEN CIRCLE
   V.--A LITTLE MISUNDERSTANDING
   VI.--DEPOSED
   VII.--A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT
   VIII.--THE SILVER WEDDING
   IX.--GRANDMAMMA
   X.--VINDICATED



CHAPTER I.

THE BEGINNING OF IT ALL.


My father in England married a second time when I was about eighteen.
She was my governess.

Mother herself had engaged her, and I believe had asked, when dying,
that she would remain to take care of us; and I don't say that she was
not a good woman. She had been nearly five years in the house, and we
had the habit of looking to her for advice in all family concerns; and
certainly she took great pains with my education. But of course I was
not going to stand seeing her put in mother's place. I told father so.
I said to him, kindly, but firmly: "Father, you will have to choose
between us. There will not be room under this roof for both."

He chose her. Consequently I left my home, though they both tried hard
to prevent it, and to reconcile me to their new arrangements. I will say
that for them. In fact, my father, pleading legal rights, forbade me to
go, except for some temporary visiting. I went on the understanding that
I was to return in a couple of months or so. But I was resolved not to
return, and I never did. While staying with my uncle, a medical man, I
privately married his assistant--one (if I may say so) of a
miscellaneous assortment of admirers. I am afraid I encouraged him to
propose an elopement; I certainly hastened its accomplishment. Then
after all our plottings and stratagems, when at last I had the ring on
my finger, I wrote to inform father of what he and Miss Coleman had
driven me to. Poor old father! It was a tremendous blow to him. But I
don't know why he should have made such a fuss about it, seeing that he
had done the same--practically the same--himself.

It was a greater disaster to me than to him, or to anybody--even to my
husband, who almost from the first regarded me as a millstone about his
neck; for _he_ could go away and enjoy himself when he liked, forgetting
that I existed. Indeed, it was a horrible catastrophe. When my own
children are so anxious to get married while they are still but
children, and think it so cruel of me to thwart them, I wish I could
tell them what I went through at their age! But I don't mention it. I
promised Tom I never would.

At twenty I was teaching for a living--I, who had been so petted and
coddled, hardly allowed to do a hand's turn for myself! My husband was
travelling about the world as a ship's doctor. Father wanted me to come
home, but I was too proud for that. Besides, I would not go where I had
to hear Edward insulted. After all, he was my husband, and our
matrimonial troubles were entirely our own concern. Not from him,
either, would I accept anything after I was able to earn for myself. I
taught at a school for thirty pounds a year, and managed to make that
do. It was a wretched life.

I was barely of age when the news came that Edward had caught fever
somewhere and been left in a Melbourne hospital by his ship, which was
returning without him. At once I made up my mind that it was my duty as
a wife to go to him. He had no friends in Australia, and not much money;
it was pathetic to think of him alone and helpless amongst utter
strangers; and I thought that if I did this for him he would remember it
afterwards, and be kind to me, and help me to make our married life a
little more like other people's. In those days there was no cable across
the world, and mails but once a month; so that when I started I was
altogether in the dark as to what I was going to. The first news of his
illness--with no particulars, except that it was fever--was all I ever
had.

I would not ask my father for money. Indeed, he would have frustrated
my purpose altogether had he known of it in time. I went to my old
godmother, Aunt Kate, who was very rich and fond of me, and begged the
loan of fifty pounds, not telling her what I wanted it for. She gave the
money outright, with another fifty added to it; so that I had plenty to
cover the cost of a comfortable voyage. I determined, however, to save
on the voyage all I could, that I might have something in my pocket on
landing, when funds would be sorely needed. To which end I engaged my
berth in the humblest passenger-boat available--Tom's little Racer, of
ever-beloved memory. They told me at the office that she was better than
her name--faster than many that were twice her size. I was young and
silly enough to believe them, and also to forget that by the time I
reached Australia Edward's illness would have long been a thing of the
past, and he perhaps back in England or well on his way thither.

If the Racer was one of the smallest ships in the Australian trade, her
master, Thomas Braye, must have been one of the youngest captains. At
that time he was under thirty, though he did not look it, being a big
man, quiet and grave in manner, deeply sensible of his professional
responsibilities. I remember thinking him rather rough and decidedly
plain when I saw him first; but he was gentleness and gentlemanliness
incarnate, and I never afterwards thought of his appearance except to
note the physical inadequacy of other men beside him.

He has told me since that _his_ first feeling on seeing _me_ was one of
strong annoyance. Though a married woman and going out to my husband, I
was but a young girl in fact--far too young and far too pretty (though I
say it) to be travelling as I was, without an escort. It unfortunately
happened that I was the only lady in the saloon, and that the ship was
too small to have a stewardess. Three wives of artisans herded with
their husbands and children in the black hole they called the steerage,
and one of them was summoned aft as soon as we were in the river to keep
me company. But as the others were disagreeable about it, and she was a
coarse and dirty creature, I myself begged Captain Braye to send her
back again. Poor Tom! By the way, I did not call him Tom then, of
course; I did not even know his Christian name. He says he never
undertook a job so unwillingly as he did that job of taking care of me.
How absurd it seems--now!

We sailed in late autumn, in the twilight of the afternoon. I remember
the look of the Thames as we were towed down--the low, cold sky, the
slate-coloured mist, with mere shadows of shores and ships just looming
through it. Nothing could have been more dreary. And yet I enjoyed it.
The feeling that I was free of that horrible schoolroom, and that still
more horrible lodging-house, where I cooked meals over an etna on a
painted washstand, and ate them as I sat on a straw-stuffed bed--the
prospect of long rest from the squalid scramble that life had become,
from all-day work that had tired me to death--oh, no one can understand
what luxury that was! Besides, I had hopes of the future, based on
Edward's convalescence and reform, to buoy me up. And then I loved the
sea. People are born to love it, or not to love it; it is a thing
innate, like genius, never to be acquired, and never to be lost, under
any circumstances. When the Channel opened out, and the long swell began
to lift and roll, I knew that I was in my native element, though a
dweller inland from birth up to this moment. The feel of the buoyant
deck and of the pure salt wind was like wings to soul and body.

But I had to pay my footing first. It came upon me suddenly, in the
midst of my raptures, and I staggered below, and cast myself, dressed as
I was, upon my bunk. Never, never had I felt so utterly forsaken! When
ill before, with my little, trivial complaints, Miss Coleman had waited
on me hand and foot--everybody had coddled me; now I was overwhelmed in
unspeakable agonies, and nobody cared. It is true that--though I would
not have her--the steerage woman came in the middle of the night; and
once I roused from a merciful snatch of sleep to find my bracket lamp
alight where all had been darkness. These things indicated that some one
was concerned about me--Tom, of course--but I did not realize it then. I
was alone in my misery, alone in the wide world, of no consequence even
to my own husband; and I wished I was dead.

Early in the morning--it was a rough morning, and we were in a heavy,
wintry sea--the captain tapped at my door. I was too deadly ill even to
answer him; so he turned the handle and looked in. Seeing that I was
dressed, he advanced with a firm step, and, standing over me, said, in
the same voice with which he ordered the sailors to do things--

"Mrs. Filmer, you must come up on deck."

I merely shook my head. I was powerless to lift a finger.

"Oh, yes, you must. You will feel ever so much better in the air."

"I can't," I wailed, and closed my eyes. I believe the tears were
running down my face.

He stood for a minute in silence. I felt him looking at me. Then he
said, with a kindness in his voice that made me shake with sobs--

"I'll go and rig up a chair or something for you. Be ready for me when I
come back in ten minutes. If you can't walk, we will carry you."

He departed, and the steerage woman arrived, very sulky. I was obliged
to accept her help this time. Captain Braye, I felt, did not mean to be
defied, and it was a physical impossibility for me to make a toilet for
myself. When he returned he brought the steward with him, and, before I
knew it, he had whisked a big rug round and round me, and taken me up in
his arms. I weighed about seven stone, and he is the strongest man I
know. The steward carried my feet, but it was a mere pretense of
carrying; he was only there as a sort of chaperon, because Tom was so
absurdly particular. Up on the poop, with the ship violently rolling
and pitching, the man could not keep his own feet, and let mine go, and
we did not miss him. Tom bore me safely and easily, like a Blondin with
his pole, to where he had fixed a folding-chair for me--it was his own
chair, for I had not been able to afford one--and there he set me down,
in the midst of pillows and an opossum rug, with that sort of powerful
gentleness which is the manliest thing I know. All at once he made me
feel that I was in shelter and at rest. As long as I remained on that
ship I could cease fighting with the difficulties of my lot. He would
take care of me. There are women who don't want men to take care of
them--I am not one of those; I have no vocation for independence.

I found I could not sit in that chair, luxurious as it was. I think all
my worries and hard work and bad meals must have undermined me. Even
though Tom made me drink brandy and water, I could not hold myself up.

"Oh," I sighed wretchedly, "I feel so faint and swimmy, I _must_ lie
down!"

"So you shall," he answered, like a kind father, and he shouted to the
steward to bring up a mattress and pillows. In five minutes there was a
bed on the deck floor, and I was in it, swathed in fur and blankets,
like a chrysalis in its cocoon, more absolutely comfortable than I had
ever been in my life. I still felt ill and exhausted, and could not bear
the thought of food; but I breathed the sweet, cold, reviving air, and
yet was as warm as a toast, and no spray or rain could touch me. When he
had tucked me up to his satisfaction, placing his oilskins over all, he
took some rope and lashed me to the bars of the hen-coops behind me. And
there I lay all day, resting and dozing. No matter how the ship rolled,
it could not roll me out of my nest; being so secure, I felt the motion
to be soothing rather than the reverse. When not asleep, I gazed at the
pure sky and the gleaming tiers of sails, listened to the voices of the
wind and of the sea, and watched the stalwart figure of my dear
commander. At short intervals he would come over to ask if I was all
right; and at least once an hour he brought something with him--brandy
and water or strong broth--and fed me with it out of a spoon. Oh, Tom!
Tom! And I had almost forgotten what it was like to be tended and cared
for in that way.

In a day or two I was well enough to walk about the ship and occupy
myself, and he was more reserved with me again. But still I always knew
that he was keeping guard over my comings and goings, and I felt as safe
as possible. His officers and my fellow saloon-passengers--none of them
gentlemen like him--were too much interested in my movements after I
began to move, and his eye seemed always upon them. Now and then I was
embarrassed and annoyed, and at such moments he quietly stepped in to
relieve me, never making a fuss, but promptly putting people back into
their proper places. At the first hint of trouble of this sort he had a
spare cabin turned into a little sitting-room for me--my boudoir, he
called it--where I might always retire when I wanted privacy. I found it
a comfort at times, but still my sleeping-berth would have done almost
as well; for I never wanted any visitor but him, and he never asked to
come. When it was weather for it, I lived on the poop in his
folding-chair--always lashed ready for me--and that's where I preferred
to be. Even when not weather for it, I often begged to stay, for the
support of his company; and sometimes, but not always, he would allow me
to do so, making me fast with ropes, and surrounding me with a screen of
tarpaulin. For hours I would lie, like a cradled baby, and watch his
gallant figure and his alert eyes, and listen to his steady tramp, as he
went up and down. I had no fear of anything while he was there, and he
seemed always there. I learned afterwards how terribly he deprived
himself of rest and sleep because of his responsibility for the safety
of us all.

For the Racer was an ancient vessel of the tramp description, little
fitted to do battle with such storms as we encountered. Her old timbers
creaked and groaned, as if in their last agony, when buffeted by the
heavy seas; and the way she took in water at the pores, without actually
springing leaks, was dreadful. The clacking of the pumps and the gushing
of the inexhaustible stream seemed always in one's ears, and when waves
broke over her and drained down through a stove-in skylight, of course
it was far worse--even dangerous. She simply wallowed about like a log,
too heavy and lumbering to get out of the way of anything. I could not
bear to see Tom's stern and haggard face, to know the strain he was
enduring, and that I could do nothing to lighten it; but as for
_danger_--I never thought of such a thing! Not that I am at all a
courageous person, as a rule.

I believe we were somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Cape when the
most noteworthy of our experiences befell us. We were struggling with
the chronic "dirty" weather--absurd adjective for a thing so majestic
and inspiring!--and I was on deck, firmly tied to my chair, and my
chair to the mast, dry under oilskins, and only my face exposed to wind
and spray, which threatened to take the skin off. I could hardly see the
length of the ship through the spindrift of the gale, and the way it
shrieked in the rigging was like fiends let loose. Bee--a--utiful!

And Tom wanted to spoil all my pleasure by shutting me down in a nasty,
stuffy, smelly, pitch-dark cabin, where I couldn't breathe and shouldn't
know anything that went on, nor have a soul to speak to. However, I was
getting used to him by this time, and so, when he staggered up and
announced that he had come to take me below, because it was no longer
fit for me to be on deck, I told him flatly that I would not go.

"You must go," said he.

"I won't go," said I.

"The captain's commands must be obeyed, Mrs. Filmer."

"Not in this case, Captain."

"In every case, Madam."

"Not a bit of it," I persisted, laughing in his face, which was rather
grim, but yet not quite inflexible. "I am not one of your sailors, to be
ordered about. I shall do what I like. And this is exactly what I like."

He condescended to argue, and then of course I would not give in. He
said he must use force and carry me, but that was an obviously
impossible thing to do without my assistance, considering the angle of
the decks. When I saw him looking really worried, I condescended to
plead myself, and I suppose he could not resist that. He has told me
since that he never felt the same man after this act of weakness, but
I'm sure I cannot see where the weakness came in. With great difficulty,
and meanwhile flashing anxious glances hither and thither, he got more
rope and made fresh windings and tyings about me.

"You are a spoilt child," was all he said. He did not look happy, but I
was very pleased with the issue of our encounter. I felt that it had
strengthened my position somehow--taken away all my awe and fear of
him--and I would not have missed my subsequent experiences on deck that
day for anything.

They were really tremendous. No sooner had I been trussed up like an
Indian baby in preparation for contingencies--no sooner had Tom left me
to give his undivided attention to the ship--than the chronic gale
produced a spasmodic and special one which I am sure was a cyclone of
the first magnitude, though he would not give it that name in the book.
What he called nor'-nor'-east had been the direction of the storm we had
grown used to, but just before he asked me to go below it had shifted to
"nor'," and now it jumped all at once to "sou'-west," with effects upon
the sea and the poor ship that were truly startling. Those wall-sided
mountains of water, that were bad enough to get over when we knew which
way they were going, began a furious dance together, all jumbled up
anyhow; and the first treacherous monster created by the change of wind
crashed bodily inboard quite close to where I sat--"pooped" us, as Tom
expressed it--and, washing over me, simply swept all before it,
including the wheel and the two poor men steering, who were driven upon
rail and rigging with such force as to injure both of them. How my
lashings held as they did I cannot understand--or, rather, I can, of
course--when strong wood was being torn from iron fastenings; and how I
issued alive from that tremendous shower-bath is much more wonderful. It
must have been the packing round me that saved my bones from being
smashed like the boats and hen-coops. I heard Tom's shout of warning
just before I was overwhelmed, and when I emerged, and could expand my
breathless lungs, I answered him, with a strange and joyful lifting of
the heart, "All right! I'm safe! Don't mind me, Captain!"

If he had minded me at that moment we should have been lost together,
ship and all. She began to broach to, as they call it, and the
supplementary wheel had to be used at once to stop it, and just then our
lives hung upon a hair. The decks were filled to the brim, and I could
hear the deluge thudding down through the shattered skylight upon the
table set for dinner. And she rolled all but bottom upwards, the broken
rail going under and I dangling in air above it, and--and, in short, if
any one but Tom had been her captain she would never have been heard of
from that day. I am quite convinced of that. No man born could have
accomplished what he did--he says, "Nonsense," but I know what I am
talking about--although I was just as sure that _he_ would accomplish it
as I was that the sun would rise next morning. I calmly held on to my
supports, and waited and watched. Sometimes I clenched my teeth and shut
my eyes, while I prayed for his preservation in the perils he did not
seem to see. He called to me at short intervals, "Are you all right?"
and I called back, "All right!" And when the worst was over for the
moment, he scrambled to where I was, and fixed me up afresh. Never shall
I forget the look on his face and the ring in his voice when he spoke to
me. "Brave girl! Brave girl!" I think it was the happiest moment of my
life.

"But I don't understand it," he said to me, later, when there was time
to breathe and talk. "Why are you not frightened? When you were first on
board, crying because you were seasick----"

"I did _not_ cry because I was seasick," I indignantly interposed, "but
because I was lonely and miserable. You would have cried if you had been
in my place."

"I thought," he continued, heedless of the interruption, "that you were
a poor little baby creature, without an ounce of pluck in you. But
you've got the courage of a grenadier. How is it?"

"It is because I am with you," I answered promptly.

I don't know what feeling I allowed to get into my voice, but something
struck him. Motionless where he stood, he stared at the great waves
silently, for what seemed a long time; then abruptly walked forward to
give an order, and did not come back.

We were mostly silent when we were together after that. How hard I tried
to think of a common topic to discuss, and could not! So did he. But
while I had nothing to do but to think, he was terribly preoccupied with
the condition of the ship. She had recovered to a certain extent, and
was able to stagger on again, but she was a living wreck, all splintered
and patched, and the difficulty of keeping the water down was greater
than before. The pumps were always clanking, and the carpenter
hammering, and the sailmaker putting canvas plasters over weak places.
The whole ship's company were glum and weary, and the passengers--wet,
ill-fed, and wretched--complained loudly all the time, indifferent as to
how much they added to the poor captain's cares. He, though firm with
everybody, never lost his temper, or seemed to give way to the
depression that must at times have weighed him down. He was worthy to
command who could so command himself--worthy to be a sailor, which is
the noblest calling in the world. As for me--well, it was no credit to
me that I, of all on board, was satisfied to be there, and consequently
happy. I kept a serene and smiling face to cheer him. It was the least
that I could do.

And it did cheer him. To my unspeakable comfort I was assured of that,
though he did not say so. I could see it in his face, and hear it in his
voice, when now and then he came to sit beside me, evidently for rest
and peace.

"And so," he said, on one of these occasions, speaking in an
absent-minded way--"and so you are not nervous with me? Well, I hope I
shall be able to justify your trust."

"You will," I said calmly. "You could not help it."

"Heaven knows!" he ejaculated. "The glass is falling again, fast."

"Never mind the glass. It is always falling."

"I wouldn't, if I had any sort of proper ship under me. But this----she
isn't fit for women to sail in."

"If she is good enough for you," I remarked cheerfully, "she is good
enough for me."

"But she isn't. I don't ask for much--at my age--but I do want a ship of
some sort, not a sieve. Oh, dear! oh, dear!"--looking round him with a
restless sigh--"we shall be months getting to Melbourne at this rate."

"I don't care," I said, "if we are years."

He made no comment on this statement, which I blushed to perceive was a
mistake; and I hastened to remind him that Edward's illness must have
been over long ago. Then he began, in an abrupt manner, to ask me how I
thought the passengers were bearing the trial of short rations which he
had been compelled to lay upon them.

One day we were at great peace, because the weather was beautiful and
the water in the well diminished. A hammock of sailcloth had been made
for me, and slung in a nice place, and I lay there almost the whole day
through, swinging softly with the ship as she soared and dived over
mile-long billows or swayed in the deep beam swells with the airy
motion of a bird upon the wing. The Racer could feel like that at times,
even yet; and I was too happy for speech or thought--that is, in a sad
and pensive fashion. So, I know, was Tom, although he too had no words
and hardly a look for me as he paced to and fro. It was just the
consciousness that I was there--that he was there--permitted to rest
together for an interval from our battle with fate. Even the sight of
his substantial figure, never out of my mind's eye, while my other eyes
saw only the lifting and sinking of the gunwale against the gleaming,
silky sea--even the roar of his strong voice, occasionally using
"language" in a professional way--could not take away the sense as of an
enchanted world enveloping us, as if we were disembodied spirits in some
heavenly sphere. But I can't describe it. Perhaps the reader
understands.

The night was lovelier than the day--there was a moon shining--and one
literally _ached_ with the sweetness of it. Each of us was on the way
to bed, and somehow we could not resist the temptation to linger by the
rail a little. The ship was under command of the chief officer, and all
was well for the time. We were alone where we stood.

Speaking of the change of weather and his late responsibilities, he
said: "If I am ever so unfortunate as to lose the lives committed to me,
I shall just stand still and go down with the ship--when I have done
what I can do."

"If that should come," I returned, "please don't put me into a boat and
send me off without you. Let me stand still and go down too."

"Not if there's a chance for the boat," he said.

We had spoken in a light way, but deep thoughts welled up in us. "Oh," I
broke out--for I had not his self-control--"oh, it would be better than
anything that could happen to me now!"

All he said to that was "Hush--sh--sh!" but I could not check myself
immediately.

"I would rather die that way than live--as I must live when I no longer
have you to take care of me!" I wailed, reckless. "Oh, I wish I could! I
wish I could!"

And indeed I meant it. Even as we went down, I thought, he would keep
the sea monsters from terrifying and devouring me; he would take care of
me, regardless of himself--that was inevitable--until we were both dead.
The fear of death was nothing to the fear of life as it would present
itself at my journey's end. I had _no_ fear of death--with him.

He laid his broad, brown hand on mine that clutched the rail--a solemn
gesture--and he said, in a shaking voice, "My dear, it's well you remind
me that it's my business to take care of you. We have got our duty to
do, both of us. Come, it's getting late; it's bed time. We mustn't stay
here in the moonlight and let ourselves get foolish."

Still holding my hand, he led me downstairs. At the door of my cabin he
gave it a great strong squeeze, and then let it go without another
word. He did not kiss me. Oh, true heart! Death to him would have been
infinitely easier than the ordeal I made him suffer through those long
weeks. But he never allowed himself to be overcome.

It was not long after this that the dreaded moment came when land was
reported. Words cannot describe my terror of the impending change. It
was my only safe haven--my home--from which I was, as I thought, to be
cast out, and I simply dared not imagine what sort of life awaited me.

The crippled Racer anchored in Hobson's Bay at nightfall. Most of the
passengers went off in boats, and those who rowed to the ship returned
with them. Dressed in walking clothes, I sat in the little cabin that
had been my sitting-room, listening and shivering, trying (with the
example I had before me) to brace myself to meet things as a brave woman
should; but no one came for me. Only Tom. Rather late in the evening,
when all had gone except the steerage woman and her children, with whose
husband and father he had made some business arrangement, the captain
entered my private apartment alone for the first time. There was an
indescribable expression on his face, which had looked so fagged of
late. His eyes did not meet mine. His whole frame trembled like a
girl's.

"Oh, has he come?" I cried--I believe I almost shrieked.

"No," said he; "he hasn't come. You'd better go to bed now--go and sleep
if you can--and I'll tell you about it to-morrow."

"What is it?" I implored. "What has happened? What have you heard? Oh,
tell me now, for pity's sake!"

He sat down on the little bunk beside me, and took my hand between his
two hands; he did it as a father might do it, to support my weakness
under the shock coming.

"The fact is, Mrs. Filmer--the fact is, dear--I sent ashore for news. I
thought I'd better make some inquiries first. And--and--and----"

"I know--I know! He has left the country, and abandoned me again!"

"No, poor fellow! He died of that illness--six months ago."

At first I did not understand the meaning of the words. It was an event
that had never entered into my calculations, strange to say. But the
moment I realised the position--it is a dreadful, dreadful thing to
confess, but God knows I never meant any harm--my arms instinctively
went up to Tom's stooping shoulders and, hiding my face in his breast, I
nearly swooned with joy.




CHAPTER II.

IN THE EARLY DAYS.


I was not a girl, but a woman, when I married Tom. He, a man incapable
of grossness in any shape or form, was still a man, healthily natural,
of ripe experience in the ways of men. Whatever our faults in the
past--if they were faults--the result was to teach us what we could
never otherwise have learned, the meaning of wedlock in its last
perfection. Don't let any one run down second marriages to me! The way
to them must necessarily be painful and troubled, and one always desires
passionately to keep one's children out of it; but the end of the
journey, bringing together, open-eyed to all the conditions, educated to
discriminate and understand, two born mates like Tom and me--ah, well!
One mustn't say all one thinks about these matters--except, of course,
to him.

Talking of being open-eyed, I was so blind at one time as actually to
fancy that he was in no hurry to have me. When I gave him to
understand--hardly knowing what I did--that I should die or something
without him to take care of me, he said he asked nothing better than to
take care of me, God knew, but that how to do it for the best was what
bothered him. It did not bother me in the slightest degree. I depended
on him--only on him of all the world--and I told him so; and yet he
wanted, after _that_, to send me back to my father with some old woman
whom I had never seen, in another ship, while he took the Racer
home--which never would have got home, nor he either. And I a married
woman, independent in my own right, and over twenty-one! However, I
flatly refused to go, except with him, as I had come. He said he would
not trust my life to that rotten tub again, and I said--I forget what I
said; but I hurt his feelings by it; and then I cried bitterly, and
said I would go out and be a housemaid.

The deadlock was suddenly ended by the Racer being condemned by the
authorities of the port as unfit for sea again. When that happened we
both decided to stay in the new country, and, having him near me, I was
quite content to postpone matrimony until things became a little
settled. It was soon plain enough that he was not anxious to postpone
for the mere sake of doing so; he only wanted a clear understanding with
father first, as well as with his owners, and to give me time for second
thoughts, and for considering the advice of my family.

It took long for letters to come and go, and I began to be haunted in my
walks by a strange man, who--I suppose--admired me. Tom found this out
on the same day that he accepted an appointment as chief officer with a
Melbourne shipping company. I could not imagine what had happened when
he came to see me at my poor lodging with such a resolute face.

"Mary," he said, "who's that fellow hanging round outside? I've seen him
several times."

"Tom," I protested sincerely, "I don't know any more than you do. But he
is a rude man; he stares at me and follows me, and I can't get rid of
him. Of course, he sees that I am----" I was going to say "unprotected,"
and hastily substituted "alone," which was not much better.

"Well, now, look here--I've got a ship, Mary"--he did not pain me with
further explanations on that head; later I wept to think of his
subservient position in that ship--"and this means an income, dear. Not
much, but perhaps enough----"

"Does it mean that you are going away?" I cried, terrified.

"Not far. Only for a few days at a time. I start on Friday. This is
Monday."

He took my hands; he looked into my eyes; I knew him so well that I knew
just what he was going to say. The colour poured into my face, but I
made no mock-modest pretence of being shy or shocked.

As a preliminary, he questioned me as if I were on trial for my life.
"Answer me _quite_ truthfully, Mary"--he called me Mary before we were
married, but always Polly afterwards--"tell me, on your solemn word of
honour, do you love me--beyond all possible doubt--beyond all chance of
changing or tiring, after it's too late?"

I told him that I loved him beyond doubt, beyond words, beyond
everything, and should do so, I was absolutely convinced, to my life's
end. I further declared that he knew it as well as I did, and was simply
wasting breath.

"And you really and truly do wish to marry me, Mary?"

I attempted to laugh at his tragic gravity and his awkward choice of
words. I said I didn't unless he did, that I wouldn't inconvenience him
or force his inclination for the world. I asked him, plainly, whether he
thought that quite the way to put it.

"Yes," he said. "For I want to make sure that I--that
circumstances--are not taking advantage of you while you are young and
helpless. And yet how can I be sure?"

He took my face between his hands and gazed at it, as if he would look
down through my eyes to the bottom of my soul. I shut them after a
moment, and tears began to ooze between the lids at the thought that he
could doubt me. One trickled out and splashed upon his knee, and my
heart began to heave with the impulse to cry in earnest. Then he drew my
face--drew me into his arms, and we sat a little without speaking,
hearing our hearts thump.

"We'll chance it, shall we?" he whispered between short breaths. "Sooner
or later it must come to that, and better as soon as possible if I have
to leave you in Melbourne alone. You won't be so much alone if you
belong to me, even when I am away--will you, sweetheart?"

I merely sighed--that kind of long, full, vibrating sigh which means
that your feelings are too deep for words.

"I think I shall be able to answer to your father--I hope so," he
continued, rallying his constant self-control. "I think I am justified,
Mary. If not----"

But I would not let him go upon that tack. Justification was absolute,
in my view of the case. I know what the ill-natured reader will say--she
will say that I threw myself at his head, that I forced myself upon him,
that I did not give him a chance to get out of marrying me if he had
wanted to; but that is only because she knows nothing whatever about it.
I cannot explain. I simply state the fact that we had one mind between
us on the matter, and if she doesn't believe me I can't help it.

"This is Monday," Tom repeated, "and I sail on Friday. If we are going
to do it, Mary, I'd like it done before I leave. There's nothing to wait
for, if we don't wait for the letters, is there?"

I told him nothing--that I was in his hands; and he proposed that we
should walk out then and there to find some one to "splice" us, as he
appropriately termed it, because it would be so much easier to attend to
all the other business after we were man and wife than before.

Sailors have a terse way of acting as well as of speaking, and the
change that made life such a different thing for both of us actually
took place that very day as ever was. When the unknown admirer would
have followed young Mrs. Filmer in her evening walk--it was too hot to
go out earlier--there was no such person. Mrs. Braye was dining
delicately at a pleasant seaside hostelry, in the company of her lawful
protector, whose name alone was like a charm to keep his proud wife in
safety.

We gave ourselves until Wednesday morning. Then we worked all Wednesday
and Thursday, like two navvies, to settle ourselves in the small lodging
that we selected for our first home. We were as poor as poor could be
and had to proceed accordingly, but little I cared for that, or for
anything now that I had him. On Friday afternoon he sailed--a
subordinate on that trumpery intercolonial boat, after being captain and
lord of an English ship--and I cried all night, and counted the hours
all day till he returned, when I went quite daft with joy. Not that much
joy was allowed us, even now, seeing that the greater part of his short
sojourn in port had to be spent on board. But it was wonderful what
value we could cram into the precious minutes when we did get them.
Again we had the agony of parting, the weary interval of separation, the
renewed bliss of the return, continually intensified; and then the
letters came--the letters we had tried, so unsuccessfully, to wait for.
Father desired me to come home for a time--a foregone conclusion--and
Miss Coleman did the same in more impassioned sentences. I daresay it
was heartless, but I laughed and danced with delight to know that it was
all too late for advice of that sort. And, to counteract any possible
feeling of remorse, Aunt Kate wrote in the sweetest way, all fun and
jokes, practically approving and encouraging me in the course I had
taken. To a young woman so situated, she said, fathers were quite
useless and superfluous, and she advised me to please myself, as I had
always done--that was how she put it. Best of all, she sent me a draft
for £500, either to come home with or for a wedding present, as the case
might be. And this precious windfall enabled us to take a little private
house that we could make a proper home of.

       *       *       *       *       *

The worst of being on these small lines is the uncertainty about the
movements of your ship. In winter Tom would run one trip for months, or
suddenly stop in the middle for docking and repairs--a mere excuse for
laying up, I used to say, because trade was not paying expenses--in
which case he would have a holiday without salary, and the pleasure of
his companionship would be marred by anxieties about money. In summer
there were occasional special excursions, "round tours," that kept him
away for a month or six weeks at a time; and these were what I dreaded
most.

We had not yet had this long separation, but I knew--knew, but would not
admit--there was danger of it when we had been married a little less
than a year. It was our second Australian summer, and the time of all
times when I could not endure to part from him. I had now grown
accustomed to having him at home for a day and a couple of nights
weekly--happily he had a command again, such as it was, and could do as
he liked in port--and that was far, far too little, under the
circumstances.

He was sleeping late, and I, having prepared his breakfast, sat down by
an open window to read the morning paper until he should appear. As a
matter of course, I _always_ saw the name of our ship before I saw
anything else, even the Births, Marriages, and Deaths; she had her place
in a list of the company's vessels, with her sailing dates, in smallish
print, answering to her comparatively modest rank in life; my eye fell
on the exact spot by instinct in the moment of the page becoming
visible. I suppose it was the same instinct which to-day drew my first
glance to quite another column, where s.s. Bendigo stood in larger type.
My heart jumped and seemed to stop--"Christmas Holiday Excursion to West
Coast of New Zealand, if sufficient inducement offers." There it was!
And I felt I had all along expected it.

I got up to run to Tom with the news. On second thoughts I decided to
let him have his sleep out before dealing him a blow that would spoil
his rest for many a night to come, and tramped round and round the
breakfast-table, moaning and wringing my hands, asking cruel Fate why
Christmas should be chosen--_this_ Christmas of all times--and how I was
to get through without my husband to take care of me.

My husband looked most concerned when he saw what I was doing. "Hullo,
Polly, what's up?" was his greeting, as he faced me from the doorway;
and his bright home-look vanished like a lamp blown out.

I could not speak for the rush of tears. I held out the newspaper,
pointing to the fatal spot, and, when he took it, abandoned myself upon
his shoulder.

"Oh, Tom--Christmas! _Christmas_, Tom!"

He read in silence, with an arm round my waist. For a whole minute and
more we heard the clock ticking. Then he cleared his throat, and said
soothingly: "After all, it mayn't come to anything--at any rate, not
till afterwards. People don't care to be away from their homes at
Christmas. It's only an approximate date."

He was wrong. The postponements that invariably take place at other
times did not occur this time--as if on purpose. The hot weather set in
early, and it seemed that many people did desire to escape, not from it
only, but from the social responsibilities of the so-called festive
season. The Bendigo was a good boat, as everybody knew, and her captain
a great favourite with the travelling public. I don't wonder at it! So
that the passenger list filled rapidly, and every day brought us less
hope of a reprieve. Tom seemed a year older each time that he returned
from the regular voyage, bringing this information, and I know I nearly
drove him mad with my pale face and tear-sodden eyes. One day he told me
so.

"_What_ am I to do?" he groaned, staring strangely. "How can I leave you
like this? I can't, I can't! and yet, if I don't go, Polly--it is all
our living, my dear----"

Nothing ever frightened me so much. For _him_ to have that look of
agitation--my strong rock of protection and defence--he who had never
wondered what he was to do, but always knew and did it, while others
wondered--it was too shocking. I pulled myself together immediately.

"After all," I said, with a gulp and a smile, "the other poor seamen's
wives have to take their chance of this sort of thing, so why not I?"

"You," he replied, in his fond, stupid way, "are not like the others, my
pretty one."

He meant that I was far more choice and precious.

"Being pretty," I rejoined, "is no disadvantage that I know of, having
regard to the present circumstances. Now if I was delicate, then you
_might_ be anxious. Tommy, dear, I can't have you look like that! And
there's no reason in the world why I should not do as well as
possible--as well as everybody else does; indeed, I'm sure I shall. Of
course I shall miss you awfully--awfully"--my cheerful voice quavered in
spite of myself--"but there will be the proper people to look after me,
and--and--_think_ what it will be when you come back again!"

He had me in his arms now, with my face under his left ear.

"My brave girl!" he murmured. "My own brave girl!"

Just as when he called me that before, my heart rose elated. I
determined to deserve the title.

"Of course you must go," I said firmly; "it is our living, as you say.
No use having a family, and nothing to keep it on, is it? I suppose it
won't be _more_ than a month? A month is soon over. I can send you
telegrams. Don't you worry about me. I'm a wicked idiot to fret and
grumble; it is because you have spoiled me, love! I have got so used to
having you to take care of me----"

I choked, and burst into fresh tears.

However, I did manage to keep up very well until he went. Of course he
_had_ to go; we agreed about that. Not much of Aunt Kate's wedding
present was left by this time. We had our little home, all comfortable
and paid for, but his small salary comprised the whole of our current
income. It would never have done to jeopardise that.

But oh, it was cruel! It _was_ cruel! He says I shall never understand
the agony of his soul when he bade me good-bye, and I tell him he can't
possibly have suffered the thousandth part of what I suffered. We
clasped and kissed as if we never expected to see each other again. I
really don't think we did expect it. And yet I was quite well and
strong, and every possible thing had been done to safeguard me in his
absence. Poor as we were, he made the nurse, who charged three guineas a
week, come into the house before he left it, and engage to stay there
till his return; and he also installed a nice old lady, whose son he had
befriended, and who he thought would be a mother to me when the time of
trial came. So she was; but not even an own mother could have made up
for the want of him.

"God keep you safe for me," he prayed, as he held me to him, heart to
heart. "And you'll take care of yourself, my Polly. You won't fret, and
make yourself sick and weak--promise that you won't--for my sake!"

"I won't," I answered him, trying to comfort him; "I will be as good as
possible. We'll _both_ be well and strong--well and happy--to meet you
when you come home again. Tom! Tom! _do_ you realise what the next
home-coming will be? Let us look forward to that."

So I kept up to the last, to hearten him. The very last was the seeing
the ship go by at nightfall, on her way to sea. I lived where I lived on
purpose to have this view of her as she passed in and out. I watched for
her for an hour, and when she came it was too dark for me to see my
darling on the bridge through the strong glasses he had given me on
purpose that I might see him, and the flutter of his cabin towel against
the black funnel. Nor could he see me in the blue dusk of the shore,
with the evening afterglow behind it. But he sent a farewell toot across
the water, and I pulled the blind to the top of my window, and lit up my
room with every lamp and candle I could find. I knew he was looking, and
that he knew I knew it. We always signalled good-night in this way when
he passed out late.

So I kept up to the very last. But when I saw his mast-head light go
round the pier, like a bright star in the evening sky, and glide towards
the sea that was to keep him from me so long when I wanted him so
desperately, then I collapsed like a spent bubble, and all my courage
went out of me. I think I fainted there by the window, all of a heap
upon the floor.

At any rate, his back was hardly turned--he could scarcely have cleared
the Heads, we reckoned--when the catastrophe befell. I have often tried
to imagine what his feelings were when, at his first port of call, the
intelligence was conveyed to him that he had a son, and that mother and
child were doing well. He attempted to express them by letter, but he is
not literary. And he can't gush. All the same, I know--I know!

Did I say that the happiest moment of my life was when he called me a
brave girl? I was wrong. The happiest moment of my life--even though Tom
was away from me--was the moment when I heard the first cry of my own
child. Words cannot describe the effect on me of that little voice so
suddenly audible, as great an astonishment as if one had never expected
it; but every mother in the world will understand.

Oh, I am getting maudlin with these reminiscences! I can't help it.

He was a beautiful boy--my Harry--worthy to be his father's son. We
called him Harry because Henry was Tom's second name, and also that of
my own father, whom I wished to please; for, after all, he was a good
father to me, and I used to think that perhaps I had not been as good a
daughter to him as I might have been. This thought occurred to me when I
had a baby of my own, and wondered how I should feel if, when he was
grown up, he were to take his own wilful way as I had done. It does make
such a difference in one's point of view, with regard to all sorts of
things--having a baby of one's own. For instance, I knew that Miss
Coleman--Mrs. Marsh, I ought to say--had two, and when Aunt Kate told me
I was actually angry about it; it seemed to me that it was just another
impertinence on her part, and that the children were interlopers in my
old home. I could not bear to picture them sitting on father's knee, and
being carried in his arms, filling my place and consoling him for the
loss of me. But now I was quite glad that he had them, and I sympathised
with Miss Coleman. I wished she could come and nurse me now, as she used
to do; how much better we should understand each other! I resolved to
have baby's likeness taken as soon as possible to send home to her, and
to ask her to send me the photos of her little ones in return. I was
convinced, of course, that there would be no comparison between them.
Doubtless hers were nice children enough--father was a particularly
handsome man, in the prime of life--but my baby was really a marvel;
_everybody_ said so. His proportions were perfect, his skin as fine and
pure as could possibly be, his little face too lovely for words, and his
intelligence simply wonderful. Before he was a week old he knew me and
smiled at me. He had Tom's fair hair and straightforward blue eyes----

However, I suppose all this is silly. At any rate, the silly fashion is
to call it so.

It was dreadfully hot upstairs in that venetian-shuttered room, but
still I rallied quickly, and everything went well. The old lady was
indeed a mother to me, the nurse inflexibly conscientious, and my own
little maid like a faithful dog upon the doormat, constantly asking to
look at the baby and to be allowed to hold him. And yet--I know it was
ungrateful to them, but I could not help it--I never felt that I was
properly taken care of, because Tom was not behind them. I pined for
him--oh, _how_ I did pine for him!--happy as I was in every other
respect. While I was still weak, and inclined to be a little feverish, I
fell asleep and dreamed that the Bendigo had been wrecked, and that he
would never come home to see his child. I cannot describe how that dream
frightened me and haunted me--that, and the memory of our last parting,
when we seemed to have had so many forebodings.

"If I could only go to him!" was my constant thought, knowing that weary
weeks had still to pass before he could return to me, even if his voyage
prospered; and once I put it into words, "If we could only go to him,
Mrs. Parkinson, _what_ wouldn't I give!"

The old lady patted my shoulder soothingly, and assured me he would be
home in no time, if I would have but a grain of patience; while I had to
reflect that it was impossible to go a-travelling without money. I would
have "given anything" indeed, but I had nothing to give, though Tom had
amply provided for all my wants at home. Moreover, I could only have
left the house, while she was in it, over the dead body of my nurse. I
could manage the old lady, but not her; she was a rock of resolution
where her duty was concerned.

Suddenly a series of things happened. The old lady had a telegram
summoning her to the sick-bed of her son--the very son that Tom had been
so good to--and flew to him, distracted. Poor old lady! My mother's
heart bled for her. And next day my little maid upset a kettle of
boiling water over the nurse (providentially, when the baby was not in
her arms), and the poor thing had to go to a hospital to have the
scalds dressed. She sent a substitute at once, because it was found that
she was for a few days incapacitated for her work; but I was able to
manage without the substitute. I told her I was now perfectly well--as
in truth I was--and therefore did not require her services. And the day
after that, by the English mail, I had a letter from _dear_ Aunt Kate,
which, when I opened it, shed a bank draft upon the floor. She had heard
that I was going to have a baby, and sent fifty pounds to pay expenses.
A box of baby-clothes, she said, had been despatched by the same ship;
for she didn't suppose I had any money to buy them, or that, if I had, I
could get anything in "that outlandish country" fit for a poor child to
wear.

I went straight into town and cashed that draft, taking my son with
me--proud to carry him myself, though he nearly dragged my arms off. At
the same time I ascertained at the company's office that the Bendigo was
hourly expected to report herself from Sydney.

"We will go to Sydney," said I to my little companion, as we travelled
home again, rich and free. "We'll get Martha's mother to come and keep
house until we all return together--with _father_ to take care of us."

That same night I had a wire from him. He was safe at Sydney, all well;
and would I telegraph immediately to inform him how it was with me?
Would I also write fully and at once, so that he might get the letter
before he left?

"We will telegraph immediately, to set his dear mind at rest," I said to
the son, who smiled and guggled as if he perfectly understood--and I am
sure he did; "but we won't write fully and at once. We can get to him as
quickly as a letter, and he would rather have us than a million letters.
Oh, what a simply overwhelming surprise we shall give him!" I was so
full of this blissful prospect that I never thought how I might be
embarrassing him in his professional capacity.

There were no intercolonial railways then, and we could not have stood
the wear and tear of overland travel if there had been. Nor was there
any choice in the matter of sea transport. I was obliged to take the
mail steamer that brought me Aunt Kate's money, for it was the only
vessel going to Sydney that could get me there in time. I had to be very
smart to catch her, and just managed it, leaving my home at the mercy of
a plausible red-nosed charwoman who was all but a perfect stranger to
me.

Of course I was an idiot--I know that; but, as Tom says, you can't put
old heads on young shoulders, and don't want to; and there is no
occasion to remember things of that sort now. _He_ never blamed me for a
moment, and I am sure I cannot regret what I did, when I weigh the
pleasures of that expedition against what in the end we had to pay for
them. They were richly worth it.

The voyage, even without the nursemaid whom I did not feel justified in
adding to my other extravagances, not only did me no harm, but really
invigorated me. A new-made mother, I had been informed, was never
sea-sick, and my experience seemed to prove the fact; while as for baby,
in spite of his catching a little cold, which he might have caught at
home, the exquisite sea air must have been better for him than the
gutter smells of Melbourne. He was as good as gold, and the stewardess
was an angel, and we slept like tops all through our two nights on
board.

It was afternoon when we entered Sydney Harbour--that beautiful harbour
which I had never seen before, but had no eyes for now. All I cared to
look at was my beloved Bendigo, and there she was at her berth, and the
blue-peter was up! When I saw that, I felt quite faint. I ran round the
deck asking everybody when she was expected to leave, and all but those
who did not know said at five o'clock. It was now three. So that, with
other weather, I might have missed her! And Tom would have gone home to
find----Great heavens! But with the misadventures that we did have,
there is no need to count those we didn't. As it chanced, I was in
plenty of time.

It was nearly four before I could get off the mail boat, and it was
considerably past that hour when I hurried up the gangway of the
Bendigo, panting, and bathed in perspiration--for Sydney is a hot place
in January--looking everywhere for Tom. The second officer, who knew me,
uttered an exclamation as he ran to take my bag from the cabman; and the
way he looked at baby--then asleep, fortunately--was very funny.

"Oh, Mr. Jones," I cried, "is the captain on board?"

"No, Mrs. Braye; he's on shore," was the reply, accompanied with violent
blushes. "You must have missed him somehow. Are you--are you going back
with us?"

"Of course I am," I said, as calmly as I could. "But he does not know it
yet. I had some business in Sydney, and I thought I would give him a
surprise. Don't tell him, please; I will go up to his cabin on the
bridge and wait for him."

"He may be here any moment," said the young man. And, looking to right
and left in an embarrassed way, he asked if he should call the
stewardess.

"Not yet," I returned affably. "I will ring when I want her. He will
sleep for a long time. He's such a good baby--not the least little bit
of trouble." And then I turned back the lace handkerchief from the
placid face, and asked Mr. Jones what he thought of that for a month-old
child.

He said he was no judge, and behaved stupidly. So I left him, and went
up to the bridge, where Tom had a room composed of a bunk and a bay
window, entirely sacred to himself. I don't suppose a baby had ever been
in it, but the pillows and things I found there made a perfect cradle.
As I laid my little one down on his father's bed, I was afraid the
thumping of my heart would jog him awake, but it did not. He sank into
his nest without sound or movement, leaving me free to watch at the
window for Tom's coming.

It was past five o'clock before he came, and I knew when I saw him why
he was so late. He had been looking for his expected letter up to the
last moment, and had now abandoned hope. I also knew that somebody on
deck had betrayed my secret when I heard the change in his step as he
ran upstairs. Ah--ah! Before I could arrange any plan for my reception
of him I was in his arms. Before either of us could ask questions, we
had to overcome the first effects of an emotion which arrested breath as
well as speech. Never when we were lovers had we kissed each other as we
did now.

"But what--how--why--where?" the dear fellow stuttered, when we began to
collect our wits; and in the same bold and incoherent style I
simultaneously gave my explanation. Half a minute sufficed to dispose of
these necessary preliminaries. Then I led him into his own cabin, the
doorway of which I had been blocking up.

       *       *       *       *       *

"But what are we going to do with him?" Tom asked--a singular question,
I considered, but he was full of the business of the ship--I wondered
how he _could_ think about the ship at such a moment. "Hadn't you better
make a nursery of my cabin on deck? It's empty, and the stewardess'll
rig you up whatever you want."

"I will make a nursery of it," I replied, "when I want to bath and dress
him for the night. And, by the way, perhaps I had better do that now,
before we start." For our son had been wakened out of his sleep, in
order that his father should see how blue his eyes were.

"Yes, yes, do it now," urged Tom, in a coaxing way. It was sweet of him
not to cloud my perfect happiness by hinting at the scandalous breach of
etiquette it would be to let a baby appear on the bridge while he was
taking the ship out. For my part, I never thought of it.

He took me down to the deck, now crowded with people, who stared rudely
at us, and into the one cabin there, which was his own; and he called
the stewardess--a delightful woman, charmed to have the captain's baby
on board--and left us together, while he rushed off to speak with the
superintendent of the Sydney office, I suppose about my passage. Soon
afterwards we started, and until we were away at sea I was fully
occupied with Harry's toilet. Then came dinner, and Tom made me go in
with him, while the stewardess stayed with the child; and the short
evening was taken up with preparations for the night. It was arranged
that I should spend it in the nursery, of course, and I was strongly
advised to retire early.

But the cabin was hot, and the outside air was cool, and I simply could
not rest so far from Tom. The moonlight was lovely at about ten o'clock,
so bright that, stepping out on the now deserted deck to look for him, I
could plainly see his figure moving back and forth at the end of the
bridge, outlined against the sky. And I could not bear it. Slipping back
into my room to pick up my child and roll him in a shawl, I prepared to
storm the position with entreaties that I felt sure my husband was not
the husband to withstand.

He came plunging down the stairs just as I was about to ascend. I
stopped, and called to him.

"Tom, _do_ let me be with you!"

"I was on my way to you, Polly, to see if you were awake, and would like
to come up for a little talk. It's quiet now."

He put his arm round my waist, and turned to hoist me upward.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed, "Is that----"

"Of course it is. You wouldn't have me leave him behind, all alone by
himself?"

"But won't he catch his death of cold?"

"How can he, on a night like this? It will do him good. And I won't let
him cry, Tom."

"Give him to me. I'll carry him up."

"_Can_ you?"

He laughed, and took the little creature from me in a delightfully
paternal fashion, and without bungling at all. I had been half afraid
that he was going to turn out like so many men--like Mr. Jones, for
instance--but had no misgivings after that. Even when we encountered Mr.
Jones on duty, he was not ashamed to let his officer see him with an
infant in his arms. Certainly he was born to be a father, if anybody
ever was.

It was very stuffy in his little house, which had the funnel behind it;
so he put a chair for me outside, under the shelter of the screen, and I
sat there for some time. It was simply the _sweetest_ night! The sea is
never still, of course, however calm it may be, but its movements were
just as if it were breathing in its sleep. And the soft, wide shining of
the moon in that free and airy space--what a dream it was! At intervals
Tom came and dropped on the floor, so that he could lean against my knee
and get a hand down over his shoulder. The man at the wheel could see
us, but carefully avoided looking--as only a dear sailor would do. The
binnacle light was in his face, and I watched him, and saw that he never
turned his eyes our way. As for Prince Hal, he slept as if the sea were
his natural cradle. So it was.

Presently Tom went off the bridge, and when he returned a steward
accompanied him, carrying a mattress, blankets, and pillows, which he
made up into a comfortable bed beside me.

"How will that do?" my husband inquired, rubbing the back of a finger
against my cheek. "It isn't the first time I've made you a bed on
deck--eh, old girl?"

I was wearing a dressing-gown, and lay down in it, perfectly at ease. He
lowered the child into my arms, punched the pillows for our heads,
tucked us up, and kissed us.

"This is on condition that you sleep," he said.

"It is a waste of happiness to sleep," I sighed ecstatically. "I want to
lie awake to revel in it."

"If I see you lying awake an hour hence," he rejoined, pretending to be
stern, while his voice was so full of tenderness that he could scarcely
control it, "I shall send you back to your cabin, Polly."

So I did not let him see it. But for several hours, when he was not
looking, I watched his dear figure moving to and fro, and the sea, and
the stars, with the smoke from the funnel trailing over them, and
revelled in full consciousness of my utter bliss.

Even now--after all these years--I get a sort of lump in my throat when
I think of it.




CHAPTER III.

A PAGE OF LIFE.


Does love fly out of the window when poverty walks in at the door? No,
no--of course not! Only when love is an imitation love, selfish and
cowardly, as true love can never be. I am sure ours stayed with us
always, no matter how cramped and starved. We never felt a regret for
having married each other, even when the practical consequences were
most unpleasant--never, never, not for a single instant. And yet--and
yet--well, it is all over now. One need not make one's self gratuitously
uncomfortable by reviving memories of hardships long gone by, and never
likely to be repeated.

Another thing. _Is_ it fair that a sea-captain should have such
miserable wage for such magnificent work? He has no play-hours, like
other working men, no nights' rest, no evenings at home, no Saturday
holidays--no Sundays even--and no comfort of his wife and family. He is
exposed to weather that you would not turn a dog into, and to fatigue
only measured by the extent of human endurance; and accepts both without
a thought of protest. He has the most awful responsibilities continually
on his mind, as to which he is more inflexibly conscientious than any
landsman living; and he is broken and ruined if an accident happens that
he is but technically to blame for and did his utmost to prevent. Yet
all he gets in return is a paltry twenty pounds a month! At least, that
is what Tom got--with an English certificate and a record without a
flaw. It is because sailors are not money-grubbers, as landsmen are,
that the money-grubbers take advantage of them.

Tom used to bring his money home and give it all to me, and he almost
apologised for having to ask for a little now and then, to provide
himself with clothes and tobacco. Moreover, he never pried into my
spendings, though anxious that I should be strict and careful, and
pleased to be asked to advise me and to audit my small accounts. In this
he was the most gentlemanly husband I ever heard of. And of course I
strained every nerve to manage for the best, and prove myself worthy of
the confidence reposed in me. But I was not much of a housekeeper in
those days. At home Miss Coleman had attended to everything, even to the
buying of my frocks; for my father had never made me an allowance--which
I do think is so wrong of fathers! If you are not taught the value of
money when you are a girl, how are you to help muddling and blundering
when you are a married woman?--especially if you marry a poor man. I
thought at first that twenty pounds a month was riches. But even at the
first, and though we used enough of Aunt Kate's wedding present to cover
the cost of setting up a house, there seemed nothing left over at the
month's end, try as I would to be economical. When the second draft
came I had doctor's and nurse's fees like lead upon my mind; we did not
invest that hundred at all, and it melted like smoke. And then--before
Harry was fairly out of arms--Phyllis was born, and I was delicate for a
long time; without a second servant my nursery cares would have killed
me. I thought Aunt Kate would have sent me help again, but she did
not--perhaps because I had neglected to write to her, being always so
taken up with household cares. And I got into arrears with the
tradesmen, and into the way of paying them "something on account," as I
could spare the money and not as it was due; and this wrecked the
precise system that Tom had made such a point of, so that I kept things
from him rather than have him worried when he wanted rest. And it was
miserable to be struggling by myself, weighed down with sordid
anxieties, tossing awake at night to think and think what I could do,
never any nearer to a solution of the everlasting difficulty, but rather
further and further off. And I know I was very cross and fretful--how
could I help it?--and that my poor boy must often have found the home
that should have cheered him a depressing place. He seemed not to like
to sleep while I was muddling about, and used to look after the
children, or clean the knives and boots, when he should have been
recruiting in his bed for the next voyage. For I was again obliged to do
as I could with one poor maid-of-all-work, and I am afraid--I really am
a little afraid sometimes--that I have a tendency to be inconsiderate
when I have much to think of.

By the time that Bobby was born--we had then been five years
married--all the romance of youth seemed to have departed from us, dear
as we were to one another. Our talk when we met was of butchers and
bakers, rents and rates, the wants of the house and how they could be
met or otherwise; and we had to shout sometimes to make ourselves heard
above the noise of crying babies and the clack of the sewing-machine. It
was exactly like the everyday, commonplace, perfunctory, prosaic
married life that we saw all around us, and to the level of which we had
thought it impossible that _we_ should ever sink.

Tom says, no. On second thoughts I do too. The everyday marriage was not
dignified with those great moments of welcome and farewell, those tragic
hours of the night when the husband was fighting the wind and sea and
the wife listening to the rattle of the windows with her heart in her
mouth--such as, for the time being, uplifted us above all things tame
and petty. And what parents, jogging along in the groove of easy custom,
can realize the effect of trials such as some of those that our peculiar
circumstances imposed on us, in keeping the wine of life from growing
flat and stale. The same thing happened at Bobby's birth as at Harry's,
Tom was perforce away, and I might have died alone without his knowing
it. Three months later the little one took convulsions and was given up
by the doctor; and the father again was out of reach, and might have
come home to find his baby underground. Never shall I forget those
times of anguish and rapture--and many besides, which proved that
nothing in the world was of any consequence to speak of compared with
our value to one another.

But we forget so soon! And the little things have such power to swamp
the big ones. They are like the dust and sand of the desert, which cover
everything if not continually dredged away. And all those little debts
and privations and schemings and strugglings to make ends meet that
would not meet, were enough to choke one. Especially as Bobby cut his
teeth with more trouble than any baby I ever had, and as I, what with
one thing and another, grew quite disheartened and out of health, so
that I never knew what it was not to feel tired.

The ignoble sorrows of this period--which I hate to think of--seemed to
culminate on the morning of the day that I am going to tell of--at the
end of which they were so joyfully dispelled.

Bobby had cried incessantly through the night, so that I had only slept
in snatches, just enough to make me feel more heavy and yawny than if I
had not slept at all. I dragged myself dispiritedly out of bed, dying
for the cup of tea which did not appear till an hour after its time, and
was then brought to me rank and cold from standing, with no milk in it.

"I forgot to put the can out last night," was Maria's cheerful
explanation, "and I waited in hopes that the milkman would come back,
but he didn't. And, please'm, what shall I do about the children's
breakfast?"

"You mean to say you never left a drop over from yesterday, in case of
accidents?" I demanded, tears rushing into my eyes. "Oh, Ma-_ria!_"

It sounds a poor thing to cry about, but I appeal to mothers to say if I
was a fool. Bobby was a bottle baby, and we had all our milk from one
cow on his account; and he was ill, and the dairy at least a mile away.
Rarely had I trusted Maria to remember to put the can out for the
morning supply, delivered before she was up; I used to hang it on the
nail myself. But last night, having my hands so full, I had contented
myself with telling her twice over not to forget it. With this result!
At any moment the poor child might awake and cry for food, and a
spoonful of stale dregs was all I had for him.

There and then, with clenched teeth and a lump in my throat, and boots
on my feet that had mere rags of soles to them, I set off with the
milk-can to that distant dairy. It was a thick morning, and presently
rained in torrents. When I arrived, drenched to the skin, I was told
that all the milk was with the cart, and I had to wait half an hour
until the proprietress could be persuaded to give me a little. She was
unsympathetic and disobliging--I suppose because I had not paid her
husband for three months. On my return home Bobby, in Maria's arms, was
shrieking himself into another fit of convulsions; and the other
children, catching their deaths of cold in their nightgowns, were
paddling about on flagstones and oilcloth, fighting and squalling, and
trying to light the dining-room fire. They imagined they were helping,
but had spilled coals all over the carpet and used the crumb-brush to
spread the black dust afterwards; and the wonder is that they didn't
burn the house down.

It was not quite just perhaps--poor little things, they _were_ trying
their best--but the first thing I did was to box the ears of both of
them and send them back to bed. I don't think I ever saw them, as
babies, take so small a punishment so greatly to heart. They snuffled
and sulked for hours--wouldn't even show an interest in the apricot jam
and boiled rice that I gave them for their breakfast and imagined would
be a treat to them--and were more vexatious and tiresome than words can
say.

"I wish father was home," Harry kept muttering, in that moody way of
his; it is the thing he always said when he wanted to be particularly
aggravating. "Phyllis, I wish father was here, don't you?"

"Oh," I cried, "you don't wish it more than I do! If father were here,
he'd pretty soon make you behave yourselves. _He_ wouldn't let you drive
your mother distracted when she's already got so much to worry her, with
poor little brother sick and all." Tears were in my eyes, as they must
have seen, but the heartless little brats were not in the least
affected.

And father's absence was an extra anxiety, for he was hours and hours
behind his time. The papers reported fogs along the coast, and I thought
of shipwrecks as the day wore on, and began to feel that it would be
quite consistent with the drift of things if I were to get news
presently that the Bendigo had gone down. I knew how he dreaded fogs,
which made a good navigator as helpless as a bad one, and wondered if it
implied an instinctive presentiment that a fog was to be his ruin! I
remembered his telling me that if ever he was so unfortunate as to lose
his ship, he should cast himself away along with her; and the appalling
idea filled me not with anguish only, but with a sort of indignation
against him.

"And he with a young family depending on him!" I cried in my heart--as
if he had already done it--"and a wife who would die if he went from
her!"

I was in that state of mind and health that when, early in the
afternoon, I heard him come stumbling in, my solicitude for him suddenly
passed, and only the bitter sense of grievance remained. The grocer had
been calling in person, insolent about his account, which indeed had
been growing to awful dimensions; and I was fairly sick of the whole
thing. It was not my poor old fellow's fault, for he gave me his money
as fast as he got it, but somehow I felt as if it was. And when he
dumped down on the sofa beside me to look at Bobby, I began at
once--without even kissing him--to pour out all my woes.

I was reckless with misery and headache, and did not care what I said. I
told him things I had been scrupulously keeping from him for
months--things which I imagined would harrow him frightfully, much to my
sorrow when it would be too late. And he--even _he_--seemed callous! He
mumbled a soothing word or two, and fell silent. I asked him for advice
and sympathy, and he never answered me.

Looking at him, I saw that his eyes were shut, his head dropped, his
great frame reeling as he sat, trying to prop himself with his broad
hands on his broad, outspread knees.

"Tom," I cried in despair, "you're not listening to a word I'm saying!"

He jerked himself up.

"I beg your pardon, Polly. The fact is, I'm dead-beat, my dear. It has
been foggy, you know, and I haven't dared to turn in these two nights."

It seemed as if _everything_ was determined to go wrong. I could see
that his eyelids were swollen and gummy, and that he was half stupefied
with fatigue.

"What a shame it is!" I passionately complained. "What wretches those
owners are--sitting at home in their armchairs, wallowing in luxury,
while they make you slave like this--and give you next to nothing for
it!"

"It's no fault of theirs," said he. "They can't help the weather. And
when I've had a few hours' sleep I shall be as right as ninepence. Then
we'll talk things over, pet, and I'll see what can be done."

I rose, with my sick child in my arms, and he stumbled after me into our
bedroom. For the first time it was not ready for him. I had been so
distracted with my numerous worries that I had forgotten to make the bed
and put away the litter left from all our morning toilets; the place was
a perfect pigsty for him to go into. And he coming so tired from the
sea--looking to his home for what little comfort his hard life afforded
him! When I saw the state of things, I burst into tears. With an
extremely grubby handkerchief he wiped them away, and kissed me and
comforted me.

"What the deuce does it matter?" quoth he. "Why, bless your heart, I
could sleep on the top of a gatepost. Just toss the things on
anyhow--here, don't you bother--I'll do it."

He was contented with anything, but I felt shamed and heart-broken to
have failed him in a matter of this kind--the more so because he _was_
so unselfish and unexacting, so unlike ordinary husbands who think wives
are made for no other purpose than to keep them always comfortable. In
ten minutes he was snoring deeply, and I was trying not to drop tears
into the little stew I was cooking for his tea.

"At least he shall have a nice tea," I determined, "though goodness
knows how I am going to pay for it."

Poor baby was easier, and asleep in his cradle; the two others had gone
to play with a neighbour's children. So the house was at peace for a
time, and that was a relief. It was also an opportunity for
thinking--for all one's cares to obtrude themselves upon the mind--and
the smallest molehills looked mountains under the shadow of my physical
weariness.

Having arranged the tea-table and made up the fire, I sat down for a
moment, with idle hands in my lap; and I was just coming to the sad
conclusion that life wasn't worth living--wicked woman that I was!--when
I heard the evening postman. Expecting nothing, except miserable little
bills with "account rendered" on them, I trailed dejectedly to the
street door. Opening it, a long-leaved book was thrust under my nose,
and I was requested to sign for a registered letter.

"Ah-h-h!" I breathed deeply, while flying for a pen. "It is that
ever-blessed Aunt Kate--I know it is! She seems to divine the exact
moment by instinct."

I scribbled my name, received the letter, saw my father's handwriting,
and turned into the house, much sobered. For father, who was a bad
correspondent--like me--had intimated more than once that he was finding
it as much as he could do to make ends meet, with his rapidly
increasing family.

I sat down by the fire, opened the much-sealed envelope, and looked for
the more or less precious enclosure. I expected a present of five pounds
or so, and I found a draft for a hundred. The colour poured into my
face, strength and vigour into my body, joy and gladness into my soul,
as I held the document to the light and stared at it, to make sure my
eyes had not deceived me. Oh, what a pathetic thing it is that the
goodness of life should so depend upon a little money! Even while I
thought that hundred pounds was all, I was intoxicated with the prospect
before me--bills paid, children able to have change of air, Tom and I
relieved from a thousand heartaches and anxieties which, though they
could not sour him, yet spoiled the comfort of our home because they
sapped my strength and temper.

I ran to wake him and tell him how all was changed in the twinkling of
an eye; but when I saw him so heavily asleep, my duty as a sailor's
wife restrained me. Nothing short of the house burning over his head
would have justified me in disturbing him. I went back to my
rocking-chair to read my father's letter.

Well, here was another shock--two or three shocks, each sharper than the
last. My beloved aunt was dead. She had had an uncertain heart for
several years, and it had failed her suddenly, as is the way of such.
She went to church on a Sunday night, returned in good spirits and
apparently good health, ate a hearty supper, retired to her room as
usual, and was found dead in her bed next morning when her maid took in
her tea. This sad news sufficed me for some minutes. Seen through a
curtain of thick tears, the words ran into each other, and I could not
read further. Dear, dear Aunt Kate! She was an odd, quick-tempered old
lady, cantankerous at times; but how warm-hearted, how just and
generous, how good to me, even when I did not care to please her! When
one is a wife, and especially when one is a mother, all other
relationships lose their binding power; but still I could not help
crying for a little while over the loss of Aunt Kate. And I can honestly
say that I did not think of her money until after I had wiped my eyes
and resumed reading. When I turned over a leaf and saw the word, I
remembered the importance of her will to all her relatives. I said to
myself, "After all, the hundred pounds does come from her. It is her
legacy to me." And I was sordid enough to feel a pang of disappointment
because--being her last bequest--it was so small.

"We buried her yesterday," wrote father, "and the will was read after
the funeral, and has proved a great and painful surprise to us. She has
left the bulk of her money to a man I never even heard of, an engineer
in India. Uncle John says his father was an admirer of hers when she was
a girl, but she never mentioned the name--Keating--to me, and I can't
understand the thing at all. She was always eccentric, and some of us
think we might contest the will with a fair chance of success. However,
my lawyer advises to the contrary, and my wife also; so I, for one,
shall let it go.

"She has not altogether forgotten her own family. There are a number of
small legacies, including £2,000 for myself, which will come in very
usefully just now, though not a tithe of what I expected. I have also
some plate and furniture. You, my dear girl, are the best off of us all.
Besides jewellery and odds and ends, she has left you the interest of
£10,000 (in Government securities) for life, your children after you.
This will give you an income of £300 a year--small, but absolutely
safe--and relieve my mind of many anxieties on your behalf." He went on
to tell me about powers of attorney and other legal matters that I did
not understand and thought unworthy of notice at such a moment. He also
explained that lawyers were a dilatory race, and that he was advancing
£100 to tide me over the interval that must elapse before affairs were
settled.

Again I went into my room and looked at Tom. How _could_ he sleep in a
house so charged with wild excitement! I regret to say it was that, and
not grief, which made my heart throb so that I wonder he did not feel
the bedstead shaking, and the very floor and walls. I ached with
suppressed exclamations; I tingled with an intolerable restlessness, as
if bitten by a thousand fleas. And still he lay like a log, drawing his
breath deeply and slowly, with soft, comfortable grunts; and still, in
an agony of self-control, I refrained from touching him. Baby woke up,
moist and smiling. His tooth was through; he seemed to know that it was
his business to get well at once. It is not only misfortunes that never
come singly; good luck is a thing that seldom rains but it pours. Harry
and Phyllis came home, took their tea peaceably, and went to bed like
lambs. I sent Maria, with half a sovereign, to a savoury cook-shop where
they sold fowls and hams and all sorts of nice things ready for table,
and she brought back a supper fit for a prince.

"It is all right, Maria," I assured her, in my short-breathed, vibrating
voice, seeing her wonder at my extravagance. "I am rich now. I can
afford the captain something better than a twice-cooked stew. Spend it
all, Maria, on the best things you can get. And you shall have your
wages to-morrow, and a present of a new frock."

When all was ready--the glazed chicken, the juicy slices of pink ham,
the wedge of rich Stilton, the bottle of English ale--I returned again
to my unconscious spouse. It was ten o'clock, and he had been sleeping
with all his might for seven hours. Surely that was enough! Especially
as he still had the whole night before him. I stroked his hair--I kissed
his forehead--I kissed his shut eyes. He can resist everything but that;
when I kiss his eyes he is obliged to stir and murmur and want kisses
for his lips. He stirred now, and turned up his dear old face.

"Pol----"

"Yes, darling, it's me. Are you awake?"

He sighed luxuriously.

"Tommy, _are_ you awake?"

"Wha's th' time?"

"It's _awfully_ late. Come, you won't sleep to-night if you don't get up
now."

"Oh, sha'n't I? I could sleep for a week if I had the chance. Ah-hi-ow!"
He yawned like a drowsy lion. "I'd sooner have twenty gales than one
fog, Polly."

"I know you would. But never mind about gales and fogs and trivial
things of that kind. I've something far, far more important to talk to
you about--something that will make your very hair stand on end with
astonishment. Only I want to be quite sure first that you are awake
enough to take it in."

He called his faculties together in a moment as if I had been the
look-out man reporting breakers, and was all alive and alert to deal
summarily with the situation, whatever it might be. And I rushed upon my
story, showed him the letter and the draft, and poured out a jumbled
catalogue of all the things we could now do that wanted doing--beginning
with a leaking kettle and ending with his professional appointment,
which I had decided must be resigned forthwith.

"And we will live together always and always, like other husbands and
wives, only that we shall be a thousand times happier," I concluded, as
I led him in to his supper, hanging on his arm.

"No more fogs and gales, to wear you out and perhaps drown you in the
end, but your bed every night, and your armchair by the fire, your home
and family, and me--_me_----"

"Little woman! But you mustn't forget, pet, that I'm not thirty-eight
till next birthday. A man can't give up work and sink into armchairs at
that age."

"Of course he can't. We can find some nice post ashore. There are plenty
of things, if you look for them."

"Not for sailor men, who know nothing but their trade."

"Oh, heaps--any amount of heaps! And you can take your time, of course.
No need to hurry for a year or two. You want a long holiday. You have
never had one yet. And _I_ want _you_. What's the use of money, if we
can't enjoy it together? We have not had so much as one whole month to
ourselves since we were married."

"Well, a sailor's wife must accept the conditions, you know."

"Yes, when necessary. But it is not necessary now that we are people of
independent means."

"Three hundred a year isn't three thousand. And we've got to educate the
kids, and put by for them."

"No need to put by for them when they are to have my money after I am
dead."

"For myself, then. You wouldn't like to die and leave me to sell matches
in the streets?"

"Oh, Tom, don't talk about dying--now that it's so sweet to be alive!"

"My dear, you began it. I vote we don't talk any more at all, but eat
our supper and go to bed. Here, sit down by me, and let us gorge. I
have had nothing since morning, and this table excites me to frenzy."

We cut off the breast of the chicken for the children and a leg for
Maria, and demolished the rest. We drank the beer between us, out of one
tumbler; we devoured half of a crusty loaf, and cheese sufficient for a
dozen nightmares; and I never felt so well in my life as I did after it.
Tom said the same.

But sleep was far away--even from him. We had to arrange our programme
for the morning--the fetching of Nurse Barber to take care of baby, the
business at the bank, the settlings of pressing accounts, the beginnings
of our innumerable shoppings; and whenever a silence fell that I knew I
should not break, something forced me to turn over in bed with a violent
fling and make loud ejaculations.

"Oh, dear, kind, sweet Aunt Kate! To think that I am so pleased at
having her money that I cannot cry because she is dead! Oh, Tom, Tom! To
think that we never need owe a penny again--never, never, as long as we
live!"

This was merely the effect of shock. We sobered down next day. And it
was wonderful how soon we grew accustomed to having an independent
income, and to feeling that it would not go half as far as it should.
Long and long had we spent the hundred pounds before the first
instalment of the annuity was paid over; we thought it was never coming,
and when it came it melted like snow in sunshine. One has no idea what
it costs to furnish even a small house comfortably until one begins to
do it, and a few doctor's bills play havoc with all one's calculations.
And my husband could not stay at home with me--rather, he would not. I
am sure there were dozens of situations that he might have had for the
asking--a man so universally beloved and respected--but he would not
ask. He was fit for the sea, he said, but would be a useless lubber
ashore--a fish out of water, a stranded hulk, and things of that sort.
The fact was he _preferred_ the sea--in which he differed from most
sailors--and hated streets and clubs and landsmen's pursuits. He said he
should choke if he were shut up in them, and I said, with tears, that he
cared more for the sea than he did for his wife and children. Of course
he declared it was not so, and his feelings were hurt; but he admitted
the strong affection. I was his mate as he described it, his nearest and
dearest--I and the children; but the sea was his comrade, to whom he had
grown accustomed--his foster mother, who had nursed him so long that she
had made him feel like a part of her. A foster mother is not much of a
rival to a wife so loved as I am, but, oh, how jealous of her I was!

However, I don't believe that his affection for the sea had anything to
do with it. I doubt very much whether that affection was as genuine as
it appeared. My conviction is that he was in terror of the possible
indignity of having to live upon my money. Such utter nonsense!--when
wife and husband are absolutely one, as we were.




CHAPTER IV.

THE BROKEN CIRCLE.

I had my heart's desire at last--with the usual calamitous result. Of
course it came when I least expected it, and in the paltriest kind of
way--merely because a workman, whom I had engaged to put a new stove
into the children's play-room, chose to leave his job unfinished until
over Sunday, instead of clearing it off on Saturday morning, as he
easily might have done. There was no school on Saturday, and it was a
wet, cold day, when even the boys had to be kept indoors; so there was
nothing for it but to turn them and Phyllis into the dining-room--my
nice dining-room, which had lately had a new carpet--while I took the
drawing-room for myself and Lily, to keep her out of harm's way. She was
not very well--nor was I; and I confess that I was in a cross mood. I
had all my four children with me then, safe under my wing, and did not
know how well off I was!

During the morning they were fairly good, preparing their lessons most
of the time; but after dinner they were at a loss for amusement, tired
of the house, restless and mischievous--very wearing to a mother whose
nerves were out of tune. Even Lily became fractious. I gave her a doll
and some picture-books and my work-basket to play with, but she fiddled
with them, and fidgeted, and would not settle to anything. She kept
listening to the noises from the dining-room--the boys paid no heed to
my repeated calls to them to be quiet--and uttering monotonous whinings
to be allowed to go there.

"Mother, do let me go and play with the others."

"No, Lily; little girls must not romp about with rough boys."

"Phyllis is a little girl, and she's romping with them."

"Phyllis hasn't a bad cold, as you have."

"My cold is quite better now, mother."

"No, it isn't. It is only a little better. And we mustn't let it get
worse again by running into draughts."

"There are no draughts in the dining-room, mother. It's all shut up. I
can put the flannel round my neck, mother."

Oh, I could have smacked her! But of course I didn't, poor little ailing
mite--barely three years old; besides, my attention was constantly
distracted by the boys, who, when not rushing into and out of the hall,
yelling and slamming doors as if they wanted to bring the house down,
were scuffling and thumping within the dining-room in a way to make me
tremble for my good furniture. I went to them once or twice to read the
riot act, and each time they left off what they were doing the moment
they heard me, sat mumchance while I scolded them, almost laughing in my
face, and went on worse than ever directly my back was turned. Boys will
be boys, Tom used to tell me, in his easy-going way, but I don't believe
in letting boys defy their mother with impunity. And when presently I
heard the yapping of a dog in addition to their own shouts and cries, I
was at the end of my patience with them, determined to assert myself
effectually once for all.

Rushing into the dining-room, before they had time to hear me coming,
this is what I saw. The window open--cakes of mud all over the new
carpet--Bobby's dog, streaming with rain, on the nice tablecloth,
barking at Phyllis's cat planted on a silk sofa cushion, which she was
tearing and ravelling in her frantic claws--the children standing round,
Phyllis holding her cat, Bobby his dog, and Harry inciting the impotent
animals to fly at one another, all three consumed with laughter, as if
it were the greatest fun in the world.

The first thing I did was to dash at Waif, knocking him out of Bobby's
hands and off the table--and I shall never forgive myself for that as
long as I live. It was a shabby mongrel terrier which Bobby had picked
up in the street one day on his way from school, and been allowed to
cure of starvation and a lame leg and keep for his own particular pet;
and the mutual devotion of the pair was a joke of the family. Waif was
now fat and strong, though as ugly as before, but when he scrambled up
from the fall I had given him he limped a little on the leg that had
been broken; and Bobby snatched him into his arms again, and turned upon
me with blazing eyes--Bobby, who had never given me impudence in the
whole course of his life.

"Hit me, mother," said he, "if you like, but don't hit him--for nothing
at all."

"You call that nothing?" I cried, and pointed to the pretty terra-cotta
cloth--one mass of smears and muddy footmarks. Ah, my precious boy! What
would a thousand terra-cotta tablecloths matter now?

He seemed quite surprised to discover that a dog brought in from the
rain and a garden that was a perfect swamp could be wet and dirty, and
stared open-mouthed at the damage done. I marched him to the window and
made him drop Waif out, tossed the scratching kitten after him, shut
down the sash and locked it, and then turned to Harry. For Harry was
the eldest, the ringleader, the one who ought to have known better and
who set the example for the rest.

"You do this on purpose to vex me," I cried vehemently, "and because you
know I am ill to-day, and that father is away!" I did not quite mean
that, but one cannot help saying rather more than one means in such
moments of acute exasperation.

"Do what?" returned Harry, looking as surprised as Bobby had done. "I'm
not doing anything. And you never told us you were ill."

"I have a raging headache," I said--and so I had as the result of the
long day's worry. "And I have been telling you the whole afternoon to be
quiet, and the more I tell you, the more you disobey me. Look at that
beautiful new carpet--ruined for ever! Look at that lovely
cushion--simply scratched to pieces! And a great, big boy like you, who
ought to be a comfort to his mother----"

But there is no need to repeat all I said to him; indeed, I cannot
remember it; but my blood was up, and I know I scolded him severely. And
he answered me back, as he alone of all the children dared to do, which
of course made things worse; for if there is one thing I cannot stand it
is impertinence. He was just telling me that, if I chose to regard him
as a ruffian and a cad, he could not help it, when we heard a distant
door open--the way a door opens to the hand of the master of the house.

"There!" I exclaimed passionately. "There's your father! We'll see what
_he_ says to the way you treat me when his back is turned."

Tom came in, with that bright look he always wears when he sees us after
an absence. How could I have had the heart to extinguish it, and to make
his children quake at sight of his dear face, instead of flying to
welcome him, as was the rule on his return! But a mother's authority
_must_ be upheld. I said so to Tom, and he said I was perfectly right,
and that it was his business to see it done. He bade me explain what
was the matter, and I did so, softening things a little--more and more
as I went on--since, after all, it was nothing so very dreadful. Perhaps
I had been a little hasty and hard; I thought so when I saw how Tom was
taking it. He had that inexorable look of the commander confronted with
mutiny--as if really I were accusing the poor boys of murder at the
least. And when I saw how they stood before him--Bob downcast and
tearful, and Harry with his head up, teeth and hands clenched, too proud
to quail--oh, I would have given anything to save them! But it was too
late.

"I am sure they didn't mean it," I protested, laying my hand on Harry's
shoulder, which felt as rigid as iron under it. "We can overlook it this
time, father, dear."

"The one thing I will never overlook," he replied, "is misconduct
towards you when I leave you unprotected. If they don't know the first
rudiments of manliness--at their age--I must try to teach them."

"But _that_ is not the way to teach them!" I cried--almost shrieked--as
he signed to them to pass out of the room before him. "Oh, Tom, don't!
don't! It is all my fault!"

Harry turned and looked at me with an ice-cold smile, as if his face
were galvanised, and said calmly, "It is all right, mother. It is
_quite_ right." And then the three of them left me, Tom himself sternly
keeping me back when I tried to follow; and presently, with my head
buried in the torn pillow and my hands over my ears, I heard an agonised
wail from poor little Bob. Not from Harry, of course; he would be cut to
pieces before he would deign to cry out. Oh, what _brutes_ men are! I
hated Tom--though he was Tom--with a hatred that was perfectly murderous
while it lasted.

We had our tea together alone--a thing that had never happened before,
on his first evening, since we had had a child old enough to sit up at
table. I had sent the little girls to bed--Phyllis for punishment, Lily
for her throat, and because I felt I could not stand her chatter--and
he had sent the boys. There were the usual first-night
delicacies--sweetbreads, wild ducks, honey in the combs--and for once
they were uneaten and unnoticed. All my preparations for his home-coming
were thrown away. He was glum and silent, evidently as upset as I was,
with no appetite for anything. As for me, I felt as if a crumb of bread
would choke me. And I would not speak to him--I could not--with that
shriek of Bobby's in my ears.

"I suppose," he said, in a heavy voice--"I suppose I'd better resign my
billet and come home, Polly. They're getting pretty old now for you to
struggle with them single-handed. It's not fair to you, my dear."

I treated this remark as if I had not heard it, and he soon rose from
his seat and left the room. He went into his little smoking den, shut
the door behind him, and locked it.

When I thought him safely out of the way I stole off to see and comfort
my poor boys. They shared the same room, their beds standing side by
side, with a chair between them. When I crept in they were talking in a
low voice together; as soon as they heard me they fell silent and
pretended to be asleep. A smell of moist dog and an otherwise
unaccountable protuberance implied the presence of a third culprit--and
a flat contravention of one of the strict rules of the house--but I took
no notice, although terrified lest Bobby's shirt and sheets should be
dampened, and sickened by the thought of the fleas that would infest
him. Oh, how thankful I am now that I took no notice, and did not snatch
his bit of comfort from his arms!

I sat down on the chair and leaned over Harry, smoothed his hair from
his brow, and kissed him. I might as well have kissed the bed-post. He
is a peculiar boy--a little hard-natured and perverse--and he can never
bear anybody to pity him. I was not surprised that he repulsed me,
though I felt dreadfully hurt. My beloved Bobby--my angel, whom I never
rightly appreciated until I had lost him--he was quite different. He
kissed me back again, and whimpered when I talked to him, and told me
he had never meant to be as naughty as father thought. Bless him! I knew
he never did. I told him so. But even then he was just a little reserved
with me, as if he could not quite forgive me for what I had brought upon
him--which was bitter enough at the time, but an agony to think of
afterwards, as it is to this day. So I went away to my room and cried in
the dark, utterly miserable. And I thought to myself, "If this is how
they feel towards me, how will they regard their father, who has treated
them so brutally? Why, they will never have an atom of affection for him
again!"

But when I went back to them, hoping for a warmer welcome, and anxious
about their poor empty stomachs, there was Tom, sitting on the chair
between their beds, chatting to them, and they to him, as if nothing had
occurred--aye, although Waif had been deposed and banished. Another
chair had been dragged up, and a tray stood on it--a tray piled with
food, duck and sweetbread, cold beef and tongue, all mixed
together--which he was serving out in lavish helpings, with plenty of
bread-and-butter. Harry, leaning on his elbow, rested his head on his
father's arm; Bob, crouched at his knees on the floor, looked up at him
with his dear merry eyes, that bore no malice--not even a reproach. They
did not see me at the door, where I stood a minute to watch them,
suffocated by the sense of being shut out.

I did not think it was quite right of Tom. But I did not say so. When he
called to me to come in and be apologised to--the boys did it
handsomely, but still rather perfunctorily, I fancied--I was glad to let
bygones be bygones, and to feel we were a united family once more.

And I thought the incident ended there. Nothing more was said about it
while Tom remained at home, and he went away as usual, giving me--even
me--not the faintest indication of what was in his mind. So that I was
completely dumfoundered when, on his next return, he said, in a
tremulous tone of voice and with quite a tragic air generally:

"Well, Polly, I've done it."

"_What?_" I cried, guessing his meaning in an instant, for I remembered
his remark at tea that night when we were all so unhappy. "You _don't_
mean to say you have thrown up your command--thrown away
everything--just _now_, when we want so badly to increase our income and
not to lessen it--without a word of warning?"

"No warning?" quoth he. "Why, haven't you been at me every day for the
last dozen years to do it? And quite right too. It's bad for boys to
grow up without a father to look after them, and their welfare is of
more importance than anything else."

"You say that, and at the same time take away all chance of their having
a decent education and a fair start in the world! How am I to keep them
at the Grammar School, and have a governess for the girls, and support
the house and all, on my poor three hundred a year?"

I should not have said it, and could have cut my tongue out before the
words were half uttered, but somehow the first news of the shock that we
were to lose half our income, on which we already found it no easy
matter to make ends meet, was overwhelming. And we were so accustomed to
speak freely whatever was in our minds that I never anticipated he would
take a chance remark so ill. I suppose his interview with the owners had
agitated him; as I heard afterwards, the whole office had expressed
regrets at his leaving the service, and said all kinds of nice and
flattering things about him; otherwise I am sure he would not have given
way as he did. He just turned from me, put his arms on the mantelpiece,
and, dropping his head down, gave a sob under his breath. My own good
husband! That ever I should have been the cause--however innocently--of
bringing a tear to his dear eyes, a moment's pang to his faithful heart!

Of course he forgave me at once--he always does; and in a few minutes we
were talking things over in peace and comfort, while I sat on his
knee--for the children were in school, happily.

"As for income, Polly, you don't suppose I am going to live on you?" he
said--and a very unkind thing it was to say, as I told him. "You don't
imagine I intend to sit at home and twiddle my thumbs, while you take
the whole burden on your little shoulders--do you?"

"I don't see why you shouldn't," I replied. "At any rate for a long
while to come. I'm sure if any one ever earned the right to a thorough
rest, you have. And, oh, Tom, no burden can be a burden with you here to
help me!"

"Thanks, old girl. That's good hearing."

"As if you wanted to be told that! And by and by, when you have had a
nice long spell, there are sure to be posts offered to you about the
ports----"

"No, Polly; don't delude yourself with that idea. There are no posts for
a sailor who leaves sea--that is, one or two, perhaps, and a hundred
fellows wanting them. I should be no good at office work, among the
smart hands, and the life would kill me. No, I've a better notion than
that--it's been in my mind a long time, and I've been talking it over
with experts, men who thoroughly understand the matter----"

"And not with me!" I interposed reproachfully.

"Well, I didn't see the use of disturbing your mind until one could do
something. But now the time has come." He was quite bright and excited.
"Look here, Polly--listen, dear, till I have explained fully--my idea is
to take a little farm place on the outskirts of Melbourne----"

"A farm!" I broke in. "Are _you_ one of those who think that farming
comes by instinct and doesn't have to be learned like other trades?"

"I don't mean that kind of farm, but just a few acres of good land--more
on the edge of the country than in it, you understand--near enough for
the boys to get to the Grammar School by train or on ponies--and breed
pigs----"

"Oh, pigs!" I echoed, sniffing.

"Well, if you objected to pigs, there's poultry. With a few incubators
we could rear fowls enough to supply all Melbourne. Or bees. There's a
great trade to be done in honey if you know how to set about it. Bees
feed themselves, and flowers cost nothing--I particularly want us to
live among plenty of flowers--and I could make the boxes myself. But
pigs are the thing, Polly. I've gone into the question thoroughly, and
there's no doubt about it. You see, we should be able to keep
cows--think how splendid to give the children fresh milk from our own
dairy, as much as they can drink!--and we could send the rest to a
factory and get the buttermilk back for the pigs. And vegetables--of
course we'd have a big garden--and they'd eat all the surplus that would
otherwise go to waste, and the fallen fruit, and the refuse from the
kitchen; so that really the cost of feed would be next to nothing. The
pork would be first-class on such a diet, given the right breed to
begin with, and what Melbourne markets couldn't absorb we might ship
frozen to England."

And so on.

Well, it was a fascinating picture, and his enthusiasm was contagious.
I, too, thought it would be lovely to live amongst cows and flowers, and
at the same time be making a fortune out of our Arcadian surroundings.
So I went in for the little farm, and all the three classes of
profitable stock--pigs, fowls, bees--in short, everything. What would
have happened to us if Tom had not made a few unexpected thousands by
the purest accident, I don't know. He did a little deal in mining
shares, under the direction of a strangely disinterested friend who was
expert at that business, and so saved us all from ruin. I may add that
it was his sole exploit of the kind. I would not let him gamble any
more--beyond putting an annual pound or two in Tattersall's
Sweeps--because, although he thought he had been very smart, he was as
ignorant as a confiding infant of the ways of money dealers, and never
could have experienced such another stroke of luck. He was easily
persuaded to let well alone, as always to defer to and see the
reasonableness of any wish of mine.

It was before we had fairly plunged into our messes and muddles--in the
very beginning, when the _couleur de rose_ was over all--when the
dilapidations of our country cottage were all repaired, and everything
in the most beautiful order--when the fields were rich with spring grass
and the scent of wattle-blossom, and the sleek cows had calved, and the
hens were clucking about with thriving families of chicks--when the bee
boxes were still a-making, and the two first pigs only in their smart
new sty--when the children, released from the schoolroom, were
scampering everywhere with their father, who was more of a child than
any of them, and growing fat and rosy on the sweet air and the pure
milk--when we were telling one another all day that we never were so
happy and so well off--it was then that the calamity of our lives
befell us.

A small creek touched the borders of the two paddocks that we called our
farm, and, like all creeks, was fringed with wild vegetation, bushes and
trees that interposed a romantic screen between its little bed and the
world of prosaic agriculture. It so happened that the children--like
many thousands of native Australians, far older than they--had never
seen the bush. When they had wanted change of air Tom had taken them to
sea; and as he had never had holidays himself, and I had never cared to
go away from home without him, we were nearly in the same case. That
strip of scrub was true bush, as far as it went, and we were delighted
in it.

We were too busy just then to go thither in daytime, and would not allow
the children to ramble there alone, for fear of snakes--although it was
much too early and too cool for them; besides which, there were
none--but we would take the fascinating walk about sundown in a family
party, and sometimes have our tea there, returning after dark with
strange treasures of leaf and insect, clear pebbles that we made sure
were topazes in the rough, and stones with mica specks in them that we
thought were gold. And once we went there in moonlight--the full moon of
our first October--when it was mild and balmy, and we could easily
imagine ourselves in forests primeval untrodden by a human foot except
our own! How well I remember it--as if it were yesterday!--the enormous
look of the trees in that beautiful, deceptive light, and how we stood
in an ecstatic group under one of them to look up at an oppossum sitting
in the fork of a dead branch.

Many people think that oppossums, like snakes and laughing jackasses,
are common objects of the country in all its parts; but that is not the
case nowadays with any of the three, and none of our family had beheld
the dear little furry animal, except dead in a museum or torpid in the
Zoölogical Gardens, while it had been one of the great ambitions of our
lives to do so. And here he was, alive, alert, and unmistakable, his
ears sticking up and his bushy tail hanging down, sitting against the
moon, as I had seen roosting pheasants in the woods at home, looking
down at us with the intense interest that an oppossum is able to take in
things at that hour. The excitement was tremendous. The boys literally
danced round and round the tree, and Waif was beside himself; he made
frantic leaps upward, turning somersaults in the rebound, wildly tore at
the bark of the tree and the earth at its roots, and filled the quiet
night with his impassioned yaps and squeaks. He also, to the best of our
belief, had never seen an oppossum before; yet he was as keen as a
foxhound after a fox to get at and destroy it.

The little animal did not seem to mind. It sat still and gazed at us, as
is the way of an oppossum, even when you have no camp-fire or lantern to
mesmerise and paralyse it; we could almost fancy that we saw its fixed
eyes, large and liquid, in the light of the moon. And suddenly Bobby
ejaculated, from the depths of his heart, "Oh--_oh_--if _only_ I'd got
my gun!"

We took no notice--never heeded the warning given us--but only laughed
to hear the little chap talking of his gun as if he were an old
sportsman. It was a small single barrel, presented to him on his going
to the country by his godfather, Captain Briggs (much to my dismay at
the time, and the natural chagrin of the elder brother, who should have
been the first to possess one), and Tom had given the child but two
lessons in the use of it--shooting bottles from the top of the paddock
fence.

Being without a gun, the boys flung aloft such missiles as came to hand,
and, when a stick of wood touched the branch it sat on, the 'possum ran
along it to a place where it was lost in leaves. Then we bethought
ourselves of the late hour, called off Waif, and went home to bed--to
bed, and to sleep as tranquil and unforeboding as the sleep of other
nights.

The next day was exceptionally full of business. Recreation was not
thought of. It was nine o'clock when we left off work--Tom and I.

Lily was long in bed, but the other children had no proper hour for
retiring at this unsettled time. I went to the sitting-room to look for
them, and found only Phyllis there. The lamp was not lit, nor the blinds
drawn. I noticed that the moon was up, and by its light saw her crouched
at one of the windows, pressing her face against the glass. I asked her
what she was doing there, and she did not hear me; on my repeating the
question, she sprang up with such a start of fright that I at once
divined mischief somewhere.

"Where is Harry?" I cried sharply. Somehow it was always Harry, my
handsome first-born, that I expected things to happen to.

Phyllis stammered and shuffled, and then said that Harry had gone to
look for Bobby.

"And where is Bobby?"

She seemed still more reluctant to reply, but suddenly exclaimed, with
an air of joyful relief, "Oh, there he is! There he is! There's Waif--he
can't be far off!"

She followed me to the verandah, whither I went to meet and reproach my
poor little fellow for having strayed without leave, and there was no
boy visible--only the dear, ugly, faithful dog for whose sake all dogs
are beloved and sacred for ever and ever. Waif ran to my feet, pawed
them and my skirts, squirmed and jumped, yelped and whined, all the time
looking up at me with eyes that were full of desire and
supplication--trying to tell me something that at first I could not
understand. I took a few steps into the garden, and he scampered down a
pathway to the gate; seeing I did not follow so far, he ran back, seized
a bit of my frock in his teeth, and tried to drag me with him.

"What does he want?" I called to Tom, as he sauntered towards me, pipe
in mouth. "Tom, Tom, _what_ does it mean?"

"Where's Bob?" was his instant question.

"Harry has gone after him--Harry is with him--Harry will bring him
home," piped Phyllis, trembling like a leaf. Then she burst into tears.
"Oh, mother--oh, father--I heard the gun such a long, long time ago!"

The gun! Who would have dreamed of _that?_--locked up in a wardrobe, as
we supposed, and forbidden to be so much as looked at except under
parental supervision. At the word our hearts jumped, and seemed to stop
beating.

"He wanted to shoot the oppossum and cure the skin for a present to you
on your birthday, mother. And he wanted it to be a secret--for a
surprise to you."

Waif whined and ran, and we ran after him--Tom in silence, I wailing
under my breath, already in despair and heart broken. I can see the
devoted creature now, pattering steadily over the moonlit paddocks
towards the creek and the trees, stopping every now and then to make
sure that we were coming; and see him tracking through the scrub with
his nose to the ground, and hear his little uneasy whimper when for a
moment he could not perceive us.

Once we stopped at the sound of a distant whistle, and I shrieked with
joy.

"No," said Tom gently. "That's Harry calling him."

And we came to the place where we had seen the oppossum the night
before. The moonbeams trickled through the branches from which it had
looked down upon our happy, united family, and just where we had stood
together there was a dark something on the ground. Waif ran up to it and
licked it----

       *       *       *       *       *

I can't write any more.




CHAPTER V.

A LITTLE MISUNDERSTANDING.


It was years, literally, before I got over it. Indeed, I have never got
over it--never shall, while I have any power to remember things.
Death--we all know, more or less, what it means to the living whom it
has robbed. To lose a child--the mothers know, at any rate! It is no use
talking about it. Besides, there are no words to talk with that can
possibly explain.

I often hear the remark that my husband has the most patient temper in
the world, and I realise its truth when I think of that dreadful
time--how I must have wearied and discouraged him, and how he never once
reproached me for it, even by a glum look. He knew I could not help it.
For one thing, I was ill--physically ill, with the doctor coming to see
me. He ordered me tonics, stimulants, a complete change of scene, and so
on, but no doctor's prescriptions were any good for my complaint.
Winding a watch with a broken mainspring won't make it go. Tonics gave
me headaches--tonics accompanied by constant tears and
sleeplessness--and, hideous as the house was, with an empty place
staring at me from every point to which I could turn my eyes, I knew it
would be worse elsewhere. I clung to my own bed, my own privacy, my home
where I could do as I liked and shut out the foolish would-be
sympathisers and their futile condolences; and I could not bear to leave
the other children. Once you have lost a child, you never again feel any
confidence that the rest are safe; you seem to _know_ they are going to
die if they but catch a cold or scratch a finger, and that they will
have no chance at all if you let them out of your sight. Besides, there
were things to see to--the poultry, for instance, which was under my
charge--if only I could have seen to them! I tried, but sorrow made me
stupid; and when the incubator was found stone-cold, and again
overheated, and on one occasion burnt to ashes with dozens of poor
chicks inside, and when dozens more were drowned in a storm for want of
timely shelter--all fine, thriving birds, when, you couldn't get a
decent turkey in Melbourne for under a pound--I suppose it was my fault.
But Tom always said, "Never mind--don't you worry yourself, Polly," and
his first thought was to get me a glass of wine. He was like an old
nurse in the way he cosseted and coddled me. When I was more ill than
usual, he thought nothing of sitting up all night by my bedside, and
making little messes for me in the kitchen with his own hands. He never
even said, as I have heard men say at the first starting of tears--not
after they have been flowing, like mine, for weeks and weeks--"Why don't
you make an effort to control yourself? You know perfectly well that
crying only makes you worse and does nobody any good"--as if a poor
mother cried from choice and perversity and the pleasure of doing it,
when her heart was broken! He knew my heart was broken. He understood.
No one else understood. They all thought I could control myself if I
liked. Some of them said so, and told one another, I am sure, though I
did not hear them, that it was the calm and composed ones who felt the
most. That is the theory of books and cold-hearted people; I don't
believe in it for a moment. Whenever I see a woman bearing up, as they
call it, without showing ravages in some way or other, I know what
supports her--not more courage, but a harder nature than mine. A man is
different. Tom mourned for our little son with all his heart, though he
did not show it; and he did not show it because he is so unselfish. He
thought of me before himself, and would not add a straw to my burden.
Never was a tenderer husband in this world! I believe those women
thought him foolish and weak-minded to indulge me as he did, but that
was envy, naturally; they did not know, poor things, what it was to have
such a staff to lean on.

However, one day, when I was showing him how thin I had grown, taking up
handfuls of "slack" in a bodice that had been once tight for me, he
began to look--not impatient or aggrieved, but determined--as he used to
look on board ship when the law was in his own hands.

"Polly," he said, "this has gone on long enough. I'm not going to stand
by and see you die by inches before my eyes. Something must be done. I
shall take you to sea."

"To sea!" I exclaimed. "We can't leave the children. We can't leave the
farm. We can't afford----"

"I don't care," he broke in. "I'm not going to lose you, if I can help
it, for anybody or anything. You're just ready to fall into a rapid
decline, or to catch some fatal epidemic or other, and I can't have it,
Polly; it must be put a stop to before it is too late. The sea's the
thing. The sea's what you want. Come to that, it's what I want myself;
I've got quite flabby from being away from it so long. It would brace us
up, both of us, and nothing else will. You pack a few clothes, pet, and
I'll go into Melbourne and look up a nice boat. Don't you bother your
head about the farm or the children or anything--I'll see that they're
left all safe."

He was so firm about it that I had to give in. The sea, of course, was
not like any other change of air and change of scene--it did seem to
promise refreshment and renovation, peace even greater than that of my
home, where I still suffered from the mistaken kindness of neighbours
coming to expostulate with and to cheer me. Besides, when Tom said he
had got flabby for want of it, I noticed that he was not looking well.
There could be no doubt about the proposed trip being beneficial to
him--I must have urged him to take it for his own health's sake--and I
could not be left without him. So I mustered a little energy to begin
preparations while he went to town; for though I had begged for time to
think the matter over, he would not hear of delay. I never knew him so
resolute, even with a crew.

At night he brought back a brighter face than had been seen in our house
for many a long day. I was sitting up for him, and even I had stirrings
in my heavy heart of a reviving interest in life. All day I had been
thinking of our old voyage in the Racer--remembering the beautiful parts
of it, forgetting all the rest.

"Well, Polly," said he; "did you wonder what was keeping me so late? The
old man"--he meant the head of his old firm--"insisted on my dining with
him, and I couldn't well refuse. Talked about everything as frank and
free as if I'd been his brother--all the business of the old shop--and
said they'd give a hundred pounds to have me back again. By Jove, if it
wasn't for you and the children--no, no, I don't mean that; we're
happiest as we are--or will be when you are well and heartened up a bit.
What do you think, Polly? I'm to take the old Bendigo her next trip.
Watson hasn't had a spell for years, and there's a new baby at his
place; I saw Watson first--he put me up to it--but the old man was
ready to do anything I liked to ask him. 'Certainly,' says he; 'by all
means, and whenever you choose. And bring the missus, of course--only
too proud to have her company on any ship she fancies.' You know he
always thought a deal of you, Polly; I declare he was quite affectionate
in his inquiries after you--never thought he could be so kind and jolly.
I could have got free passages for both of us easy enough, but it's
pleasanter to work for them; and I don't think, somehow, that I could
feel at home in the old Bendigo anywhere but on the bridge."

"And I should not like to see you anywhere else," I said; "not if we
paid full fares twice over. And how nice not to have to pay, when the
farm is keeping us so short! How nice an arrangement altogether! I can
be upstairs with you--the old man would wish me to do whatever I
liked--and have more liberty than would be possible if another was in
command, and so can you. It's a charming plan! And the Bendigo,
too--our own old Bendigo! Oh, Tom, do you remember _that night!_"

It was some years since he had left the boat on board of which he had
been introduced to his eldest son; but whenever we recalled the time
that he was captain of her our first thoughts pictured the moonlit
bridge and the baby; at any rate mine did. And in my terribly deepened
sense of the significance of motherhood nothing could have suited me
better than to go back to the dear place where my mother-life began, for
it did not properly begin until Tom shared it with me. I would sooner
have chosen the Bendigo to have a trip in--if I had the choice--than the
finest yacht or liner going.

So we went to bed almost happy. And two days later, having been quite
brisk in the interval, safeguarding our home and children as completely
as it could be done, we walked down the familiar wharf, amongst the
bales and cases, to where the steamer lay, feeling exhilarated by the
thought of our coming holiday, as if old times were back again. It was
on the verge of winter now and an exquisite afternoon. Even the filthy
Yarra looked silky and shimmering in the mild sunlight, tinted rose and
mauve by the city smoke; and the vile smells were kept down by the clean
sharpness of the air, so that I did not notice them. We were to sail at
five, but went on board early so that Tom could gather the reins into
his hand and have all shipshape before passengers arrived.

How pleasant it was to see the way they welcomed him! Mr. Jones was
first officer now (and had babies of his own), and some of the old faces
were amongst the crew. The head steward was the same, and the head
engineer, and the black cook who made pastry so well; and they all
smiled from ear to ear at the sight of their old master, making it quite
evident to me that they had found poor Watson, as they would have found
any one else, an indifferent substitute for him. Above all, there was
the "old man," as he was irreverently styled--the important chief
owner--in person, down on purpose to receive me, with a bouquet for me
in his hand. Dear, kind old man! He was something like Captain Saunders
in his extreme admiration and respect for "pretty Mrs. Braye," as I was
told they called me, and nothing could have been friendlier than his few
words of sympathy for my trouble and his real anxiety to make me
comfortable on board. One might have imagined I was an owner myself by
the fuss they all made over me. It always gratified me--on Tom's
account--that I was never put on a level with the other captains' wives.

I had the deck cabin again, and we went there for afternoon tea. The
steward brought cakes and tarts and all sorts of unusual things, to do
honour to the special occasion; and I put my flowers in water, wearing a
few of them, and it was all very nice and cheerful. I felt better
already, although we had not stirred from the wharf, and although a New
Zealand boat close by us was turning in the stream, stirring up the dead
cats and things with her propeller, and making a stench so powerful that
it was like pepper to the nose.

Then, as five o'clock drew near, the "old man" went to look after
business about the ship, and Tom to put on his uniform. How splendid he
looked in it! Almost the only regret I had for his leaving the sea was
that he could no longer wear the clothes which so well became him. Talk
about the fascination of a red coat! I never could see anything in it.
But a sailor in his peaked cap and brass buttons is the finest figure in
the world.

I was just going to meet him and tell him how nice he looked, when one
of the lady passengers who had been coming on board, and whom I had been
manoeuvring to avoid, cut across my bows, so to speak, and rushed at him
like a whirlwind. I really thought the woman was going to throw her arms
round his neck.

"Oh, Captain Braye!" she exclaimed loudly, "how too, too charming to see
you here again. Have you come back to the Bendigo for good? Oh, how I
hope you have! Do you know, I was going to Sydney by the mail, and was
actually on my way to the P.&O. office, when somebody told me you were
taking Captain Watson's place. I said at once, 'Then no mail steamers
for me, thank you. No other captain for me if I can get Captain Braye.'
And so here I am. I managed to get packed up in a day and a half."

I could see that Tom looked quite confused. We had both hoped so much
that the people would all be strangers who would leave us alone, and he
guessed the annoyance I should feel at the threatened curtailment of our
independence by this forward person. But there was no need for him to
inveigle her out of earshot, and there stand and talk to her for ever so
long, as if there were secrets between them not for me to overhear. I
know what she wanted--I heard her ask for it--whether she could have the
deck cabin as before! A very few seconds should have sufficed to answer
_that_ question. She was a stylish person in her way, and her clothes
were good, and the servants paid court to her; I asked one of them who
she was, and he said the "lady" of a merchant of some standing in
Melbourne--just the class of passenger we were most anxious to be
without. When their confabulation was at an end Tom brought her to the
bench where I was sitting and introduced her to me.

"My wife, Mrs. Harris--Mrs. Harris, dear--who has sailed with me
before."

"Often," said Mrs. Harris, extending a bejewelled hand. "We are very old
friends, the captain and I."

"Indeed?" I said, bowing. He had never mentioned her name to me. But, as
he explained when I told him so, he couldn't be expected to remember the
names of the thousands of strangers he carried in the course of the
year. I reminded him that she considered herself not a stranger, but a
friend; and he said, with a laugh, "Oh, they all do that."

I confess I did not take to Mrs. Harris. I should not have liked any one
coming in our way as she did, when we wanted to be free and peaceful,
but she was particularly repugnant to me. She gushed too much; she
talked too familiarly of Tom--to me also, not discriminating between
one captain's wife and another; and she accosted the servants and
officers as they passed quite as if the ship belonged to her. However, I
stood it as long as she chose to sit there, making herself pleasant, as
she doubtless supposed. As soon as it occurred to her to go and look at
her cabin I seized my hood and cloak, and went to seek sanctuary on the
bridge with Tom. It was nearly six o'clock, and he was just casting off.

"Oh, Polly," he said, turning to me with a slightly worried air, "you
wouldn't mind staying on deck till we get down the river a bit, would
you, pet? It don't look professional, you know, for ladies to show up
here. And Mrs. Harris might----"

I interrupted him in what he was going to say, because anything to do
with Mrs. Harris had nothing whatever to do with the case.

"Passengers," said I, "are one thing--the captain's wife is
another--_quite_ another--and especially when the old man has asked me,
as a sort of favour to himself, to make myself at home, as he calls it.
Is he on the wharf, by the way? I should like to wave a hand to him. It
would please him awfully. Thank Heaven, we are not subject to Mrs.
Harris, nor to anybody else, on board this, ship. That's the beauty of
it."

"I feel in a sense subject to Watson," said Tom, "and he's a punctilious
sort of chap. I don't care to seem to make too free with his
command--for it's his, not mine. And there are heaps of people about
besides the old man. You really would oblige me very much, Polly----"

"Oh, of course, dear!"

I saw his point of view, and at once effaced myself. I went into the
little bridge house, just behind the wheel--he was satisfied with
that--where I could see him close to me through the bow window, and
speak to him when I chose. He lit the candle lamp at the head of the
bunk, so that I could lie there and read; but I did not want to read. I
preferred to stand by the window, which held all there was of table--the
top of drawers and lockers--on which I spread my arms, propping my face
in hollowed palms, and to look out upon the river with the sunset upon
it, and the fading daylight, and the starry lights ashore. To call that
city-skirting stream romantic is to provoke the derision of those who
know it best, but it _was_ romantic that night--to me. Anything can be
romantic under certain circumstances, in certain states of atmosphere
and mind.

We were alone together. The dinner-bell rang downstairs, but Tom never
left the bridge till he was out of the river, and I did not need to ask
him to let me share his meal. The steward brought us up a tray, and we
stood in the warm little cabin--the table was not made to sit at--and
ate roast chicken and apple pie, like travellers at a railway buffet,
Tom stepping out and back between hasty mouthfuls to see that all was
right. He was intensely business-like, and as happy as a boy at his old
work. We both had the young feeling that comes to holiday-makers who
don't have a holiday very often. I could not help it.

Then--when we steamed out between the river lights into the bay--how we
sniffed the first breath of the salt sea! And what memories it brought
to us!--to me, at least, who had been so long away from it. The
passengers were at dinner still, and it was falling dark, and there were
no spectators save the man at the wheel, who was nothing but a voice, an
echo of the quiet word of command, most pleasant to hear; I was free to
roam the bridge from end to end, hanging to my husband's supporting
arm--to bathe myself in air that was literally new life to both of us.
Cold and clean and briny to the lips--oh, what is there to equal it in
the way of medicine for soul and body? What sort of insensate creatures
can they be who do not love the sea?

Hobson's Bay was ruffled with a south wind--belted round with twinkling
lights that grew thicker and brighter every moment, a gleaming ring of
stars set in the otherwise invisible shores, in a dusk as soft as
velvet. Somewhere amongst them, doubtless, was the lighted window that
had once been mine, where I used to stand half a dozen lamps and candles
in a bunch, to show Tom that I was watching for him when he used to pass
out after nightfall. Our eyes turned in that direction simultaneously.

"When we are old folks, Polly," said he, with an arm round my shoulder,
"when the kids are all grown up and out in the world, and you and I
settle down alone again, as we did at the beginning, I should like us to
have a little place somewhere where we could see blue water and the
ships going by."

"Yes," I said at once, feeling exactly as he did--that though the farm
and our country home were well enough under present circumstances, they
would not be our choice when we had only ourselves to think of--that the
sea was the sea, in short, and had reclaimed our allegiance--"yes, that
is what we will do. We will end our married life where we began it--with
this beautiful sound in our ears!"

We had turned the breakwater at Williamstown, and were meeting the wind
and tide of the outer bay, which was a little ocean this fresh night.
The sharp bows of the Bendigo, and her threshing screw astern, made that
noise of racing waves and running foam which was thrilling me like music
and champagne together, so that I had no words to describe the
sensation. My hair was blown hard back from my forehead and out of the
control of hairpins; my face felt as if smacked by an open hand, and I
had to screw up my eyes and pinch my lips together to stand the blow; I
felt the keen blast pierce to my skin through all the invalid wrappings
that I was swathed in--and it was lovely! Tom thought I should catch
cold, but I knew better, though I was glad to be tied into his 'possum
rug, with an oilskin overall to take the flying spray; and I insisted on
staying out with him till nearly midnight--till we had passed the
furious Rip and were battling with the real swell of the real ocean,
which tossed the steamer like a cork without making me seasick. It was
squally and galey and dark as a wolf's mouth--neither moon nor
stars--only the lighthouse lights which were all we needed, and the
white streaks in the black sea which were the long rollers coming to
meet us. And I felt as safe as--there is nothing that can give a notion
of how safe I felt. My husband took care of me as he used to do on the
Racer, only fifty thousand times more carefully, because he was my
husband. Ah, how sweet it was! With all our sorrows, how happy we were!
And might have remained so if we had not been interfered with.

But that wretched woman spoiled it all. I had forgotten her altogether
during the evening, when dinner and darkness and the rough weather kept
her from us; I forgot her in the night, which I spent in my deck cabin
so as to leave Tom his bunk on the bridge for such snatches of sleep as
he had a mind for; the deck as well as the cabin was my own--his and
mine, for he still came down at intervals to look at me through the open
door and assure himself that I was all right--and the common herd were
under it. But when I emerged in the morning, just as the breakfast-bell
was ringing, the first thing I saw was Mrs. Harris coming down the
stairs which had "no admittance" plainly affixed to them, and Tom in
attendance on her as if she were the Queen. She descended backwards,
feeling each step with her glittering pointed shoe, slower than any
tortoise, and he guided her with one hand and held her skirts down with
the other, out of the wind. It was a windy morning, but sunshiny and
beautiful, and I had intended to enjoy my first meal in the air and in
privacy with my husband, as I had done the last.

I suppose I looked my surprise, for they both seemed to colour up when
they perceived me standing and watching them. In one breath they bade me
a loud good morning, and made unnecessary announcements about the
weather.

"You have been on the bridge?" I questioned, with my eyes fixed on the
brass plate which proclaimed the bridge sacred.

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Harris gaily. "It's the nicest place I know to be
on, especially at this time of day. Many an early visit have I paid the
captain up there, haven't I, Captain?"

I lifted eyebrows at Tom, but he would not look.

"Got an appetite for breakfast, Polly?" he shouted, taking my arm. "Come
along, and let's see if you don't do your doctor credit."

"I am not going to the saloon," I returned quietly, disengaging myself;
"I am going to have my breakfast on the bridge with you."

"But I'm not going to breakfast there. I'm off duty, and we may as well
be comfortable when we can."

Then he congratulated us both on being such good sailors as to be able
to go to breakfast the first morning, and, not to make a fuss, I let him
take me down into the saloon, and seat me at the public table by his
side, _vis-à-vis_ with Mrs. Harris. He spoke to other passengers,
shaking hands with some, and introducing me to one or two. A rather
nice man talked to me throughout the meal, while Mrs. Harris monopolised
Tom entirely.

This was not what I had come to sea for, and so, as soon as I had
finished, I slipped away, ran up to the bridge, got out a little chair,
and prepared for a quiet morning with my husband, where no one had the
right to disturb us. In fact, I was fully resolved to defend that
bridge, if need were, against unauthorized intruders. Mrs. Harris might
have done what she liked with it and him in those old times that she was
for ever flinging in my face. She would not do it now.

Scarcely had I opened my workbag and threaded my needle when up she came
as bold as brass, with a yellow-back under her arm. It was too much. I
felt that, if I were to make any stand at all, it must be now or never,
or I should be altogether trodden under foot. So I looked at her with an
air of calm inquiry, and said, "Oh! Mrs. Harris--do you want anything?"

"No, thanks," she replied in an off-hand tone. "The steward is bringing
up my chair."

"Bringing it _up?--here?_"

"Certainly. Why not?"

"Only that--perhaps you don't know--nobody is allowed on the bridge. The
notice is stuck up against the stairs."

"Then why are you here?" she retorted, bristling.

"I am the captain's wife."

"I presume the captain's wife is as much a passenger as the rest of us,"
she argued, with an offensive laugh. "I presume the captain can do what
he likes with his own bridge, at any rate. If _he_ gives one the freedom
of the city, one certainly has it, beyond question; and I have always
been accustomed to sit here when travelling with him. Thank you,
steward--in this corner, please."

She took possession of her chair.

"If one person has the freedom of the city," I said, trying to keep my
voice from shaking, "all should have it. He has no business to make
distinctions where all are equal."

"All are not equal," she cried, reddening. And I remembered that she was
a considerable person in her own eyes. But I said firmly, "Pardon me.
All who pay the same fares are on the same footing--or should be. And
there is not room here for everybody."

"The captain," said she, "can entertain his friends as he chooses, and I
am one of his oldest friends, besides being related to his owners. And
as for his having no business to do this or that--oh, my dear Mrs.
Braye, do allow the poor man to know his own business best--I assure you
he knows it perfectly, nobody better--and let him be master, at any
rate, on his ship, whatever he may be in his home."

She laughed again, as she settled herself and opened her book. I was
simply speechless with indignation. But, even had I been able to speak,
I was not one to bandy words with that sort of person. I just rolled up
my work, quietly rose, and went downstairs to my cabin on deck.

"Why do you go away?" she asked, as I passed her. "Isn't the bridge big
enough for us both?"

"No," I replied. And that was my last word to her.

Going down the stairs, I met Tom coming up. He said, "Hullo, Polly,
where are you off to?" I looked at him steadily--that's all. And his
face clouded over. He passed on, leaving me alone.

But they were not long together. Five minutes later I heard her voice
suddenly through the open port of my cabin--that horrible deck cabin,
where I was surrounded and pressed upon by talking, boot-clumping
passengers, who just could not spy in upon me because I had door shut
and window curtain down. Doubtless she did it on purpose. She must have
known where I was, seeing that I was not on the bridge or sitting out on
deck. She was speaking to some man of her acquaintance.

"It is always a mistake," she said, "for captains to have their wives on
board. I wonder the owners allow it. It spoils the comfort of the other
passengers--who, after all, are the chief persons to be considered--and
demoralises the poor fellows to such an extent that they are not like
the same men. Look at Captain Braye, whom I've known for ages--the
dearest old boy you can imagine when he's let alone--it's pitiful to see
him henpecked and cowed, and afraid to call his soul his own, shaking in
his very shoes before that vixen of a woman!" Her companion said
something that I could not hear--I believe it was my pleasant neighbour
at breakfast whom she was trying to set against me--and then she put on
the crowning touch. "It is always the fate of those exceptionally nice
men," said she, "to marry women who don't know how to appreciate them."

I wondered for a moment if I could have heard aright. It was hard to
believe in such consummate insolence--such a wild, malignant, perversion
of facts. To talk of _Tom_ as a henpecked husband! To dub _me_, of all
people in the world, a vixen!! To say that I--_I_--did not appreciate
him!!! The thing was too utterly ludicrous to be taken seriously, and
yet it made me so angry that I could hardly contain myself. It made me
feel that it would have been a pleasure to rush out upon her and tear
her hair from her head, just like the real vixens do. I felt that my
husband, who was also the commander of the ship, ought to have spared me
this gross indignity, which could not have occurred if he had respected
his position, and kept himself to himself.

Knowing that she was not with him now, I went back to the bridge. But
alas and alas! The bridge, that had been a little paradise, was a place
despoiled. Though the serpent had gone out of it, she had been there and
poisoned everything. Tom was not the same to me. All the pleasure of our
trip was at an end. I had a wretched day, and at night a gale came on,
and I was seasick for the first time. He did not know it, and I would
not send for him. Oh, it was horrible! It was tragical! It was
heart-breaking! I can't talk about it any more.

       *       *       *       *       *

People came to meet her at Sydney, but she could not leave without a
ceremonious good-bye to her dear captain. She was calling for him
everywhere while he was busy making fast, and when she got him she shook
hands two or three times over, standing apart with him as at first,
regardless of me. Goodness knows I did not want to intrude, yet it was
impossible to help noticing the fuss she made. I heard her say--I am
quite _sure_ I heard her--that she was coming back with us; meaning, of
course, with him. She explained that she had but a day's business to do
in Sydney, and would then be able to return by the "dear old Bendigo"--I
distinctly caught those three words, in her high-pitched voice. And I
thought to myself that this would really be more than I could
stand--more than I could in reason be expected to stand. In fact, I was
so enraged that I was strongly tempted to put it to my husband that he
must make his choice between her and me. However, on second thoughts, I
perceived that it would be more dignified to say nothing, but to let my
acts speak for me. We had never been accustomed to bicker between
ourselves, he and I, and to a certain extent he was not responsible for
the situation. Any one not suffering from madness or an infectious
disease had the right to travel in the ship; he could not help it. But
if he could not turn the otherwise objectionable person off, he could
keep him or her in the passengers' proper place. My grievance with him
was that he did not keep that woman in her place.

Being quite determined not to have another voyage with her, and not
wishing to say nasty things to him about it, I was glad when an old
acquaintance, paying us a call on board, asked me to stay awhile with
her, for the further benefit of my health, representing that the time
covered by the sea trip was all too short to recruit in.

"Thank you very much," I answered, on the spur of the moment. "I really
think I will. I was never in Sydney but once, and then I had no chance
to see the beauties of the place, of which I have heard so much; and I
daresay it would do me good to have a longer change."

I was aware of Tom's utter, silent astonishment, but I would not look at
him; I left him to read the riddle for himself. When he spoke it was to
quietly fall in with the proposal, adding suggestions that would have
made it difficult for me to draw back if I had wanted to do so. He was
so ready to leave me, indeed, that I fancied he _wanted_ to get rid of
me--of course he did not, but any one would have thought so--and
naturally that made me bitter. I spoke but little to him afterwards, and
he was certainly cold to me---he seemed to divine my suspicions and to
resent them--and I did not go to see him off; I could not. In short, our
holiday was entirely and irreparably ruined.

I believe I cried nearly the whole time that I was in Sydney. It did
seem hard, in my state of health and under the sad circumstances, to be
stranded amongst strangers, who did not understand my sorrows, nor my
habits of life, and gave me none of the little pettings and coddlings
that I needed and was accustomed to; and the thought of that woman going
home with Tom, having the deck cabin, sitting on the bridge with him of
nights, making free with the whole ship, usurping my place and
privileges, drove me simply frantic--until one day I met her in the
street, and found she had not gone with him after all.

Shaken all to pieces with the awful overland journey, more dead than
alive, I reached home a day or two after him, and discovered him calmly
digging the garden, as if he had forgotten my very existence. When he
saw me he smiled in an odd, constrained way, and said, as though it
didn't matter one way or the other: "Well, Polly? Had about enough of
it?"

Angry as I was with him, I could not maintain any dignity at all--I was
too spent and weary. I broke down completely, and he took me into the
tool-shed to comfort me--took me into his arms, where I had simply ached
to be ever since I had left them, driven out by that detestable little
scheming, mischief-making snake-in-the-grass.

"Oh," I sobbed, when I could find words and strength to utter them, "how
_could_ you leave me behind? How _could_ you abandon me like that, when
I was so ill and unhappy?"

"Because," said he, "you wanted to be left. You distinctly asked and
were determined to be left. As for abandoning--it's I that was
abandoned, it seems to me."

"You _knew_ I did not want to be left," I urged--for of course he knew.
"You must have seen that I only did it because I was vexed."

"And what were you vexed about?" he inquired. "I must be too dense and
stupid for anything, but I'll be shot if I can understand you this time,
Polly."

I told him that he was dense and stupid indeed, or he would not need to
ask the question. But when I told him, further, what it was that had
vexed me, he said that in some ways, when it came to denseness and
stupidity, he was not a patch on me.

Of course it was not his fault in the very least. It was all hers.

       *       *       *       *       *

P.S.--I have forgiven her now. Poor thing, it was only a manner with
her; she meant no harm. I did not see it then--no one could have seen
it, and I do not blame myself for being imposed on by appearances that
would have deceived a very angel, which I confess I am not, though the
least suspicious and uncharitable of women--but I became convinced of it
afterwards.

It was when my Harry was made _dux_ of his school, a year later than he
would have been but for the favouritism of a master, who deliberately
miscalculated examination marks. Harry, by the way, will not allow that
this was the case, but that is his modesty and his feeling for the
honour of the school; he does not know as much about it as I do. I was
told on the best authority that he ought to have had the position, being
far and away (as I well knew) the cleverest boy, and that a certain
master had a "set" or "down" on him because he had caricatured the
wretch on the blackboard. It was another sixth-form fellow who said he
felt sure the figures must be wrong when he heard the result.

However, there was no mistake about it this time. I, at any rate, was
sure of it, when I dressed for the Speech Day function, although the
names in the prize list were supposed to be unknown beforehand. Besides,
I had only to look at his face, calmly elated, the eyes twinkling with
suppressed excitement, to see that he had the secret--to be assured that
his merits were to meet their just reward at last. But there were some
mothers who allowed their mother's partiality to run away with them. I
heard of two who, up to the last moment, fully expected _their_ sons to
come out top. And Mrs. Harris was one of these.

There was some justification for hope on her part, because young Harris
was really a very industrious, plodding fellow, and had always given a
good account of himself. He had not half Harry's brains, of course, but
he had great application and perseverance, and the moral of the hare
and tortoise fable is often exemplified in these cases. Especially when
the hare is such an all-round genius as my boy, a prize-taker for
goal-kicking, the mile handicap and the long jump, as well as for work
in class. Several times I had heard Harry say, with quite a serious air,
that the only one he was afraid of was Harris, and they stuck very close
together through the examinations, as far as the figures were known. So
when she crushed into the seat in front of me, gorgeously dressed and
beaming, nodding to right and left, I saw how it was. She was prepared
for any amount of envious notice and congratulation, quite thinking she
was going to outshine me. I smiled--I could not help it. But I was glad
afterwards that she had not seen me smile.

I was also glad that Tom had not been able to accompany us this time,
though grieved for the cause--an accident to his foot while
tree-chopping. Our proximity to the maker of so much trouble in the
past, as to which we were still sore and reticent, might have rendered
the situation uncomfortable and altered its development altogether.
Harry had escorted me and his eldest sister--she a perfect dream, though
I say it, in pink cambric and a white muslin hat--and had now left us to
go and sit with his comrades at the back of the hall, whence a deafening
noise arose continuously, most exhilarating to hear. Dear lads! I
screwed my head round to look and laugh at their delightful antics, and
the figure of my fine boy leading all the revelry, until Phyllis's face
showed her sense of the indecorum of the proceeding. Children are so
dreadfully proper where their parents are concerned, and I am always
forgetting that I have to sit up and look dignified if I would have
their approval and respect.

When the hall was crowded so that not another creature could squeeze
into it, a fresh demonstration heralded the entrance of the headmaster,
hooded and gowned, escorting the distinguished visitors, chief of whom
was the Exalted Personage who had consented to distribute the prizes.
They packed the daïs, round the book-piled table; the boys yelled and
thumped the floor with their boot-heels, sung a Latin hymn with all
their might, subsided with difficulty, and allowed the formal
proceedings to begin. I sat in a perfect simmer of joyous excitement and
expectation, fully equal to theirs, and I noticed that Mrs. Harris's
face was flushed and that she kept smiling to herself in a vague way,
restless and fidgety. Poor thing! Her boy was an only son, like mine,
and she was one of those many love-blind mothers who mistake their geese
for swans. I saw quite plainly that she had no suspicion of the truth,
and was sorry for her. Some one ought to have given her a hint.

The headmaster read his annual report--every paragraph punctuated with
vociferous cheers from the back benches--and the Exalted Personage made
a speech, unnecessarily diffuse. Then there was a shuffling and
whispering and readjustment of the blocks of books on the table, the
E.P. advanced to the front of the daïs, the H.M. lined up beside him
with his list, and after a few little preliminaries (the awarding of a
couple of scholarships) the great moment arrived. Although I had known
so certainly what would happen, when it did happen I literally jumped
from my seat.

"_Dux_ of School--_Henry Thomas Beauchamp Braye._"

My heart seemed to leap into my throat, I clasped my hands, I suppose I
made some exclamation unconsciously, for Phyllis plucked at my sleeve
and whispered "Hush-sh!" quite fiercely. The child was not grown-up
then, but still thought herself competent to teach me how to behave in
public. She sat herself like any stock or stone, an image of propriety,
as if it was a matter of no concern to her at all that her brother was
set on the highest pinnacle of honour that a schoolboy could reach.

He came striding up the hall like a young prince, with none of that shy
awkwardness which made the other boys look so clumsy, and his mates
cheered him to the echo as he mounted the platform to receive his load
of prize-books and the congratulations of all the great folks. I never
saw anything prettier than his quiet bows, his modest and yet dignified
bearing, and his kind way with the fellows who crowded up to shake hands
with him when he came down amongst them again, helping him to carry his
trophies and making a regular royal progress of his return to his seat.
I noticed young Harris amongst the first of these, and thought to myself
that a defeated rival who could behave so nicely to the successful one
must have the essential spirit of a gentleman in him. And I found it was
so when I came to know him.

A little later, when the lesser prizes were being disposed of, and the
interest of the proceedings was not so all-absorbing--as I just sat in
placid ecstasy, thinking of nothing but my own happiness--a movement in
front of me brought his poor mother to my mind. She had ceased to
fidget, and I had forgotten to notice her. Now she rose slowly, in a
fumbling sort of way, remarking to a lady near her that the heat of the
hall was insufferable and was making her faint. It was very hot, and
she looked faint, with all the colour gone from her cheeks and her lips
twitching and trembling; but, oh, _I_ knew what the trouble was! Poor,
stricken soul! She felt just as I should have felt had I been in her
place--just as I had felt a year ago when told that that pig-faced
Middleton boy had ousted Harry--and my heart bled for her. Of course she
pretended not to see me as she passed out--I should have done the same
had our positions been reversed--and must have almost wanted to murder
me, indeed; but--well, mothers have a fellow-feeling at these times,
under all the feelings common to humanity at large. I could not resist
the impulse that came to me. She had no sooner disappeared through the
nearest door, seeking the fresh air for her faintness, than I, defiant
of my daughter's dumb protests, got up and went out after her.

She was leaning against the grey wall, holding her handkerchief to her
eyes. When she heard me she turned and glared, like a strange cat that
you have penned into a corner. The next moment we were in each other's
arms, and she was sobbing on my neck with the abandonment of a child.

And we have been the greatest friends ever since.




CHAPTER VI.

DEPOSED.


The little sound that is as common as silence--a familiar step, a
murmured word, an opening door--one hears it a thousand times with
contented indifference, as one hears the singing of the tea-kettle. But
one day it falls on the heart as well as on the ear, like the stroke of
a swift sword. It seems exactly the same, but one knows at once that it
is not the same. In the twentieth part of a second one recognises the
voice of a dire calamity--especially if one is a mother, and has heard
it before.

Tom came into the house by way of the kitchen, and I heard him say to
Jane, in quite a quiet tone, "Where's Mrs. Braye?" That was all. I
sprang from my chair, wild with terror, dropping my needlework to the
floor. For I knew--I knew--I didn't want to be told--that something had
happened to Harry. My boy! my boy! I had been scolding him, only an hour
ago, for making love to Lily's governess--a minx, whom I had just
requested to find another situation--and he had slammed the door almost
in my face on leaving me. I had been longing for Tom to come in, that I
might tell him all about it, and have a little cry on his shoulder, and
my dignity and authority in the house supported; but now that he was
here my tongue was paralysed. And I had no grievance, but an
immeasurable remorse.

"Don't be frightened," said my husband, trembling, in a would-be
off-hand voice, "it's nothing very serious--just a bad shaking--I told
him that new mare of his wasn't to be trusted, and there was a nasty
stone just where she threw him. He's stunned a bit, that's all--no bones
broken. I have sent for the doctor. Now look here, Polly----"

He opened his arms across the doorway, but I broke through them
furiously. Did he remember the night when little Bobby shot himself,
trying to get an opossum skin for his mother's birthday? I was not kept
back then. We ran together, hand in hand, to meet our common woe, and I
was first at the spot, and it was on my breast that he lay to breathe
his last. Why not now, when a worse thing had befallen me? No, I don't
mean that; nothing could be worse--except that every year your child is
with you adds innumerable fresh strands to the rope of woven
heart-strings already binding you to him, and thus makes more to bleed
and ache when the wrench comes. And Harry was
twenty-three--twenty-three, and over six feet, and the handsomest young
fellow in the whole country! I flew full speed to find him, and see what
they were doing to him. It was my mother's right, which a dozen fathers
should not deprive me of.

At the garden gate I met the procession coming in. They carried him
carefully on a mattress, over saplings roped together. A little rabble
of people followed, one of them leading the fiend that had done the
mischief, a vicious, half-broken, buck-jumping brute that had worried us
for a long time, although Harry always trusted his own fine horsemanship
to get the better of her tantrums. And rightly, too. If he had not been
in a bad temper, poor darling, and doubtless running risks for the
perverse satisfaction of doing so, because of the mood he was in,
nothing in the shape of a horse could have thrown him. He was
notoriously the best rider of the day--at any rate, of our
neighbourhood.

I slammed the gate to shut out everybody, and the bearers lowered his
litter, and I bent over him. He did not know me. When I leaned down to
listen if he breathed, I saw a little bubble of blood oozing from his
mouth; then I knew that he was more than stunned--that it was worse even
than broken bones. I left off crying, and became quite calm. I had to.

We were sliding him from the mattress to his bed when Dr. Juke arrived,
and he made us stop and let him do it; for, though my poor lad seemed
unconscious, he panted and grunted in a way that showed we were hurting
him, with all our care. The doctor felt and lifted his limbs, and said
they were all right, and then undressed him as he lay; I got my large
cutting-out scissors, and we hacked his good clothes to pieces--but that
didn't matter--until we left him only his shirt and woollen singlet, and
even those we cut. And just as we were finishing making him comfortable,
as we hoped, he came to and looked at us. My precious boy! His breathing
was short and fluttery, and he seemed too full of pain to speak, except
in gasps.

"Oh, my side! my side!"

He wailed like a child--a sound to drive a mother mad.

Dr. Juke said, "Ah, I thought so." And, having made a little
examination, he reported a fracture of the ribs, with some injury to the
lung. He whispered something to Tom, and then told me I had better send
for a trained nurse, and said it would be as well to get a good surgeon
from town also, so as to be on the safe side.

I was willing enough to send for a dozen surgeons--though I had perfect
faith in Juke, who was a clever young man, newly out from home and up to
date, an enthusiast in his profession--but I could not bear the thought
of a professional nurse. I knew those women--how they take possession of
your nearest and dearest, and treat even an old mother as if she were a
mere outsider and an utter ignoramus. I protested that I could do all
that was necessary--that no one could possibly take the care of him that
I should. Was it likely?

"But he will probably want nursing all day and all night for weeks,"
said Dr. Juke. "You could not do that unaided. You would break down, and
then where would he be?"

"I will telegraph for my daughter," I rejoined. Phyllis was away at the
time, visiting.

"Miss Braye is too young and inexperienced," he objected, with the airs
of a grandfather. "It would not be fair to her. She is better where she
is, out of all the trouble. However, there is no need to decide
immediately. We'll see the night through first. All we can do for the
present is to make him as easy as possible and watch symptoms. The
_most_ important thing is not to meddle with him."

This seemed a hard saying, and at first I could not credit it. It was
terrible to see nothing done, when he evidently suffered so--more and
more as the first shock passed and the dreadful fever rose and rose; but
while the lung was letting blood and air into the cavity of the chest,
which could not be reached to stop the leak, handling of any sort only
aggravated the mischief. The doctor explained this to me when I was
impatient, and I had to own that he was probably right. He asked me to
see about drinks and nourishment, and when I left the room to do so I
had a mind to seize the opportunity for a few frantic tears in private,
impelled by the pent-up anguish I could not otherwise relieve.

But outside the door--Harry's door--I came upon Miss Blount. The little
fool was crying herself--as if it were any concern of hers!--and looked
a perfect sight with her swelled nose and sodden cheeks. Somehow I
couldn't stand it, on the top of all the rest--I just took her by the
arm and marched her back to the schoolroom. I hope I was not rough or
unkind--I really don't think I was--but to see her you would have
thought she was a ridiculous little martyr being led to the stake. I
said to her--quite quietly, without making any fuss--"My dear, while you
remain in this house--until the notice I have been compelled by our
contract to give you has expired--oblige me by keeping in your proper
place and confining your attention to your proper business."

Just as if I had not spoken--and I am sure she never heard a word--she
turned on me at the schoolroom door and clutched at my dress. With both
hands she held on to me, so that I really could not get away from her.

"Oh, tell me, tell me," she cried, with a lackadaisical whine, as if we
were playing melodrama at a cheap theatre, "_What_ does the doctor say?
Is he, oh, _is_ he going to die?"

I replied--cuttingly, I am afraid--that the doctor seemed perfectly
well. There was no sign of dying, that I could see, about him.

Then she said "Harry!" Yes, to my very face! As if she had a right to
call my son by his christian name. I was greatly exasperated; any mother
would have been--especially after what had happened.

I answered, "_Mr_. Harry _is_ going to die--_thanks to you_, Miss
Blount."

I truly believed that he was, and I honestly thought that it was her
doing; because if she had not misconducted herself, and tempted him to
do so, I should not have had to scold him, and he would not have gone
out in a rage, to ride a young horse recklessly. Still, it has occurred
to me since that perhaps I was not quite just to her, poor thing.

Oh, what a night that was! Temperature 103 degrees, and a short,
agonising cough catching the hurt side, which he was obliged to lie on,
because the other lung had to do the work of both. We padded him with
the softest pillows in the house, and tried ice, and
sedatives--everything we could think of; but we could not soothe the
struggling chest, which was the only way to stop the inward bleeding.
And he kept up a sort of grinding moan, like a long "u" in French--worse
than shrieks. It was too, too cruel! I wonder my hair did not turn
white.

Next day we got the surgeon from town; the day after, the nurse. But I
came to an understanding with her before she set foot in Harry's room. I
bade her remember that he was my son, and that a mother could not
consent to be superseded. She asked if she were to be allowed to carry
out the doctor's orders, and when I said "Yes, of course," she seemed
satisfied. She was a good creature. After all, I don't know what we
should have done without her. There is a limit to one's strength, and
though Phyllis was a great help outside the sick-room, we did not think
it right--Dr. Juke did not think it right--to let her be much in it.

She came home as soon as she heard what had happened, in spite of his
advice. I went downstairs one day, and found her sitting in the deserted
drawing-room, with her hat on, talking to him; I thought he had gone an
hour ago, but he had seen her arriving, and stayed to break things to
her and give her all the particulars, before she met the rest of us. He
was somewhat inclined to be officious, though he meant well.

I exclaimed in astonishment at the sight of her.

"It was no good, mother; I had to come," said she, rising quickly and
taking out her hat-pins. "And I did not warn you, for fear you should
prevent me. Don't scold me--Dr. Juke doesn't. I want to help, and he
says I can be a lot of use."

"Invaluable," said Juke, in a young man's gushing manner. "It was only
for your own sake, Miss Phyllis, that I wished you out of it."

She is not Miss Phyllis, by the way, but Miss Braye.

"I mean to be everybody's right hand," she continued, trying to cheer
me. "We are not going to let you kill yourself any more, mother dear.
And we are not going to let Harry die, either--are we, Dr. Juke?"

"No, no," replied the doctor, with an exaggerated air of reassuring me,
as if pacifying a timid child. "We'll pull him through amongst us. The
sight of your face"--it was not my face he meant--"will be the best
medicine he can have. Only, remember, you must not talk to him."

"I know--I know. You will find that I shall be discretion itself."

She was quite gay. I could see that she did not yet realise the
situation, poor child, whatever Juke had told her about it. But when I
took her upstairs, and showed her the changed face in the sick-room, she
was shocked enough. She and her brother were devoted to each other. They
used to go to their little parties and entertainments together, and
everybody used to remark upon their looks and say what a handsome pair
they made. He thought--that is, he used to think, before other girls
spoiled him--that there was no one like his sister Phyllis, and she
thought the same of him. Nevertheless, when I told her of his conduct
with Miss Blount, she was quite indignant. She said she would never have
believed it of him. At the same time she was firmly convinced, as I was,
that Miss Blount had done the love-making and led him on. What a comfort
it was to have my dear girl to talk to and confide in! She was not only
a lovely young creature--though I say it--but had the sense of an old
woman. Lily was quite different. But then Lily was a child--barely
seventeen--and she had an absurd infatuation for her governess, such as
you often see in a raw schoolgirl. It was a stupid mistake on my part to
engage a person of twenty-two to teach her--I saw it now; and I think it
a still greater mistake to confer University degrees on such young
women. You seem to expect them to be above the imbecilities of ordinary
girls, and they are not a bit.

Well, we shut them up together in a separate part of the house, giving
them their meals in the schoolroom. We did not want Lily to be losing
the education we were paying so much for, and Tom and I just took our
food as we could get it. We had no heart to sit down to table. Sometimes
he slept for a little, and sometimes I, but one or the other of us was
always on guard; while Phyllis prepared the iced milk and soda, and
waited on the nurse and doctor. Certainly the doctor was most devoted;
he could not have done more for his patient if he had been his own
brother.

I am sure it was the opinion of his medical colleague that Harry could
never pull through. He said, in so many words, that the case was as
grave as possible, owing chiefly, as I understood, to the accumulation
of fluid in the chest, which could not be mechanically dealt with.
Nevertheless, the dear boy rallied a little, and then a little more--the
fever keeping down in the daytime, and not running quite so high at
night--until it really seemed that we might begin to hope. He was such a
splendid young fellow, and had such a magnificent constitution! But for
that I am convinced he could not have survived an hour. One afternoon he
was sleeping so comfortably that they all insisted on my going out for
some fresh air. Tom took me for a walk round the garden, and we planned
what we would do for our beloved one when he got well--how we would go
for a little travel to amuse and cheer him, to recruit his strength and
distract his mind from nonsense.

When I returned, I found that he had awakened from his sleep, calm and
refreshed; that he had asked to see his sister Lily, and--that that fool
of a nurse had allowed it! Oh, I could have shaken her! As it was, I
gave her a talking to that she sulked over for a week. Lily, she said,
had only remained with him ten minutes--as if one minute wouldn't have
been enough to undo all our work! _Idiot!_ And to call herself a trained
nurse, too!

As soon as I approached his bed I saw the difference. Not only had he
been doing so well, he had been so nice to me, so loving and gentle, as
if feeling that all was right between us. Now he was flushed--I knew his
temperature had gone up again--and he looked at me as if I were his
enemy instead of his mother.

"Is it true," he said, "that you have given Miss Blount notice?"

I did not know what to say. Seeing the absolute necessity for keeping
him quiet, I tried to put the question aside. But he would have an
answer.

"Dearest," I pleaded, "I am doing for the best. And you will be the
first to acknowledge it when you are yourself again. It is for her
sake," I added, though I'm sure I don't know why I said that.

He continued to look at me as if I were a graven image, insensible to
the tears that filled my eyes. And he looked _so_ handsome--even in this
wreck of health--a fit husband for a queen.

"Mother," he said, in a stern way, "if you do a thing so unjust as that
I will never forgive you."

Ah, Harry! Harry! And after all I had done for him--slaving night and
day! After all the love and care, the heart's blood, that I had lavished
on him for nearly twenty-four years!

"Unjust!" I repeated, cut to the quick. "My boy, I may have my faults--I
daresay I have--nobody is perfect in this world; but my worst enemy
cannot lay it to my charge that I have ever committed an injustice."

He smiled, but it was a hard smile. And the nurse came up, as bold as
you please, to tell me I must be silent, as I was exciting him. _I_
exciting him! It was then I gave her that talking to.

Well, he had been getting on as satisfactorily as possible up to this
point. But now, of course, he went back. His temperature was 104 degrees
in the night, and he complained of pains and uneasiness, and turned
against his nourishment, light and liquid as it was. When he did get a
snatch of sleep, his breathing was as restless as possible. Sometimes it
went fast, and sometimes it seemed to stop, and then he would suddenly
give a deep snore, and a jump that hurt his side and roused him. After
which he would lie still a little while, staring at the wall. His eyes
were full of fever, and presently he began to talk, and we could not
make out what he was saying, except that little huzzy's name--Emily. He
kept saying "Emily"--no, "Emmie"--as if he thought she was in the same
room. Once I fancied he called me, and when I went to him he put up his
poor hands--already so thin and bleached!--and I thought he wanted to be
forgiven and be friends with his mother again. But, just as I was
dropping on my knees beside him to take him into my arms, he said, "Kiss
me, Emmie." And, oh, in such a voice! It made me feel--but I can't
describe how it made me feel.

And next day he had a shivering fit, and the day after another, with
more fever than ever when they had passed off--a thirst like fire, and
pain in breathing, and delirium, and everything that was bad and
hopeless. Dr. Juke said it meant blood-poisoning, and that he had
expected it from the first; but I did not believe it. For was he not
doing beautifully up to the moment when Lily was allowed to see him and
upset him with her tales? This time we sent for two doctors from
Melbourne, and they and Juke were closeted together for an hour after
making their examination; and, when they came out at last, they said
they were agreed that our boy was in so desperate a state that nothing
short of a miracle could save him.

I called the girls into my room to break it to them, and we sat on the
sofa at the foot of my bed and had our cry together. I was completely
broken down. So was poor Lily. She sobbed so violently that I was afraid
Harry would hear her. Phyllis was more composed--she always was--and
refused to despair as long as life was in him. She professed contempt
for the great doctors, and pinned her faith to Juke. Juke had told her
that miracles, in his profession, were constantly happening, and that
for his part he did not mean to give up the fight until all was over.

"I believe, mother," said my brave girl, "that he will succeed, after
all, in spite of those old fogies. He knows a lot more than they do, and
he says there's no calculating the power of youth and a sound
constitution in these cases. He says----"

But I was too wretched to listen to her. They were not old fogies to
me--those two experienced men--and a young doctor is but a young doctor,
however clever; I found it impossible to hope at this juncture. Lily was
kneeling by me with her arms round my waist, quite hysterical with
grief; and for the moment I felt that she was more in sympathy with me
than her sister. I realised my mistake when the child suddenly sprang to
her feet, hitting my chin with her head as she did so, and declared that
she must go to "poor Miss Blount."

"Lily," I cried, as she was flinging out of the room in her impetuous
fashion, "what are strangers at such a time as this?"

"Nothing," said Lily, in a brazen way--she would never have spoken to
her mother in that tone if she had not been encouraged; "but Miss Blount
is not a stranger. She loves Harry, and Harry loves her, and she's
broken-hearted, and she's ill, and she's nearly out of her mind, and
nobody ever says a kind word to her! Even now that he's dying, and they
can't have each other, you treat her as if she were dirt. Poor, poor
Emily! Let me go to her! Now that Harry's dying, she's got nobody--not a
soul in this house--but me!"

Well, indeed! Who'd be a mother, if she could foresee what would come of
it? To have this blow, on the top of all the rest, and at _such_ a
moment! I felt quite stunned. At first I could only stare at her--I
could not speak; then I said, "Go, go!" and pointed to the door. For I
could bear no more.

As soon as she was gone, I turned to my faithful Phyllis, put my head on
her shoulder, and sobbed like a baby.

"Oh, Phyllis," I cried, "never you get married, my dear! Never you have
children, to suffer through them as I suffer!"

She was wiser than I, however. She said she didn't think it was
altogether the children's fault.

I admitted it at once. "You are quite right," I said, "and I was wrong.
It is not the children's fault. It's the fault of that hateful creature,
who has set them both against me. First Harry, then Lily--the very one
she was hired to teach her duty to! Fancy a governess, calling herself a
governess, and a B.A. to boot, corrupting an innocent young girl, a mere
child, with all the details of a clandestine love intrigue! What infamy!
What treachery!" I was beside myself when I thought of it. Any mother
would have been.

But Phyllis was not a mother, and she was but lukewarm in this matter
upon which I felt so strongly. Indeed, I was half inclined to fear that
she, too, had become infected by the evil influence amongst us, until I
found that it was Dr. Juke who had been putting ideas into her head.
Dr. Juke was undoubtedly very clever, and we were enormously indebted to
him; still, I have always felt that he was too fond of giving his
opinion upon things that were altogether outside his province. It
appeared he had been telling Phyllis that it was very bad for Harry to
have any trouble on his mind, and that it was absolutely necessary, if
we would give him his full chances of recovery, to remove any that we
knew of which could be removed.

"After all," said Phyllis, in a tone that showed how he had talked her
over, "she's a ladylike person enough, and certainly a clever one."

"Clever, indeed," I retorted, "to have caught a man like him! And
looking all the while as demure and innocent as a nun--as if butter
wouldn't melt in her mouth! Oh, Phyllis, it would blight his career for
ever."

"Perhaps not," she rejoined tolerantly--for she was too young to know;
"but even so, I would rather have him blight his career than die."

"You speak," I cried--"you actually speak as if _I_ wanted him to die!"

Here Tom came in, and when she saw her father she got up to leave us
together. I was glad indeed to have him to myself for a few minutes. We,
at any rate, understood each other. He has his faults, dear fellow, and
I often get impatient with him; but he loves me--he thinks the world of
me--he doesn't question my judgment and criticise my conduct, as the
children do. I was going to tell him about Lily, and about what Juke had
said to Phyllis; but when he took me into his great, strong, kind arms,
I was too overcome to utter a word. I could do nothing but weep. Nor
could he. We thought how we had toiled and slaved to make our precious
boy the man he was--how we had nursed him through his baby illnesses,
and pinched ourselves to send him to public school and University, and
been so proud of his beauty and his talents and his achievements, and
looked forward with such joy to the name he would make in the world;
and how we were to lose him after all, just as we were looking for the
reward of our love and labours--and in this truly awful way!

Tom said it was quite certain now that he would die. Blood-poisoning had
set in; there were swellings in some muscles of his body to prove it--a
fatal symptom, as every one knew. It only needed to spread to an
internal organ, and the machine would stop at once.

"And the sooner it's over, the better," groaned Tom, "and the poor
chap's sufferings at an end. Ah, Polly, old girl, little we thought of
this when he was born, and we were as vain as two peacocks over him! Do
you remember how you brought him up to Sydney, because you couldn't wait
till I got home--and we had him on the bridge at night when the
passengers were a-bed below----"

"Oh, don't!" I wailed in agony. Remember it! Did I not remember it? And
a hundred thousand heart-breaking things.

But we had to compose ourselves as best we could, and go back to our
dreadful duties; he to see that the doctors had a proper lunch before
they left, I to renew my watch in the sick-room--to see the last, as I
supposed, of my dying boy.

On my way I came upon Jane hurrying along the passage with a basin of
hot broth. Harry was not allowed animal food, so I stopped her to ask
what she was doing with it.

"Taking it to Miss Blount," she replied; and I fancied she did not speak
quite so respectfully as usual. "That poor young lady hardly touches her
meals, and it do go to my heart to see her look so ill. I thought
perhaps a drop of good soup'd tempt her."

Now I did not want to get the character--which I am the last person to
deserve--of being a hard woman. I am not one of those low creatures that
one reads of in novels who don't know how to treat a governess properly.
To me Miss Blount was as much a lady as I was myself, and I had always
made a point of considering her in anything. Besides, it was not the
time for animosities. All was changed in view of Harry's approaching
death. She could not injure him any more. So I took the little tray
from Jane, and said to her, "Go back to your kitchen, and attend to the
doctors' lunch. I will take the broth to Miss Blount, and find out what
is the matter with her."

The girl was in her bedroom. When she saw me she jumped up, as scared as
if I had been an ogress come to eat her; but when I first opened the
door she was kneeling against her bed, as if saying her prayers.
Certainly, she did look ill. She had had a very nice complexion--no
doubt poor Harry had noticed it--and her eyes were good; but now her
skin was like tallow, and her eyes all dark and washed out, and they had
a curious empty expression in them that I did not like at all. I put the
tray on the drawers and went up to her, and laid my hand on her
shoulder. "My dear," I said, as kindly as I could speak, "I have brought
you a little nourishing broth, that I think will do you good. And you
must take it at once, while it is hot, to please me."

She did not so much as say thank you, but just stood and stared in a
dazed, fixed way, like a deaf mute. So, naturally, I did not feel
inclined to bother myself further about her, and I turned to go. As soon
as I did that, however, she spoke to me, calling my name. Her voice had
a sort of lost sound in it, as if she were talking in her sleep.

"Mrs. Braye," she said, "there's something I have been wanting to say to
you."

"What is it?" I inquired.

"If Mr. Harry gets well, I will not marry him--to blight his career. I
never would have injured him, and I never will. I would die sooner."

Well, it seemed rather late to think of that. Still, it showed a nice
spirit, and I liked the way she spoke of him. She really was a lady, in
her way, and--poor thing!--she did look the picture of misery. I am a
tender-hearted woman, and I could not but feel a pang of pity for her.

"Ah, my dear," I said, "there's no question of marrying or not now! He
is going fast, and nothing matters any more."

Then I kissed her--I kissed her affectionately--and bade her lie down,
and not trouble about Lily's lessons; and I told her that whenever there
was a change in Harry's condition I would let her know.

The change came a few days later--not suddenly, but creeping inch by
inch; and it was not the change we had all anticipated. My splendid boy!
Just as he had struggled and triumphed at football and cricket, so his
magnificent strength fought with and overcame the poison in his blood
before it could deposit itself in vital organs. It was marvellous. The
very doctors, accustomed to miracles, could not believe their senses
when they counted his pulse and looked at the little thermometer, and
felt the places where the sore lumps had been. For weeks, I may say, we
seemed to hold our breath in the maddening suspense, tantalised and
intoxicated with a hope we dared not call a certainty; but at last we
knew that life had conquered death, and that I was not called upon to
undergo _this_ agony of motherhood a second time. Of course he was
weaker than a new-born baby--a mere shadow of himself; but he was saved.
When they told me, I fell on my knees, just where I stood, and cried in
my wild rapture and thankfulness, "Oh, God! God! What can I do--what
uttermost service or sacrifice can I offer--for all Thy goodness to me?"

They looked at me in an odd way. They all looked at me, even my boy with
his hollow eyes. And Tom said, "Come here, Polly, I want to speak to
you;" and took me into our room, and laid his hand on my shoulders. He
stood six feet in his socks, and weighed sixteen stone, but he trembled
like a child.

"Old girl," he said, "you'll have to let him have her."

"Oh," I replied, "if he wants the moon, give it to him! I don't care."

It was a figurative way of expressing my mood of joy--my longing to
compensate him utterly for what he had gone through; and I don't think I
ought to have been taken so literally. But, before the words were well
out of my mouth, Tom made off to Harry's room, and there and then
informed him that "mother had given her consent."

And he did not tell me he was going to catch me up in this way. When
next I went to my boy's bedside, and he murmured, "Good old mummy!" and
remarked, with that deep thrill in his voice, that it was worth while
getting well, I thought he meant that it was worth while getting well to
see us all so happy.

"Ay," I said, from my heart, "if you hadn't got well, it's little that
would have been worth while to _me_ any more."

"Poor old mummy!" he ejaculated. And then, turning serious eyes upon my
face, "You will never regret it. I can answer for that."

"You need not waste breath to tell me what I know better than I know
anything," I responded, smiling.

"I mean," he said, still seriously, "about _her._"

Then I understood why he had said it was worth while to get well. She
was of more consequence to him than all his own people put together.

"Her?" I queried, smoothing his hair--not letting him guess the pang I
felt.

"Miss Blount. Father says you have been so good to us--that you have
given us leave--that it's all right now. Look here, mother, if you only
knew her----"

I stopped him, for he was getting agitated.

"If your heart is set on it, darling--by and by, I mean, when you are
quite well, and have thoroughly considered the matter--don't imagine _I_
shall be the one to disappoint you and make you unhappy. I never have
been a cruel mother, have I? And as for knowing Miss Blount, if I don't
know her, having her constantly in the house with me, who should? Don't
worry yourself about Miss Blounts or anything else till you are
stronger, dearest. Put everything out of your head--think of nothing
whatever--except getting well. And when you are quite well--then we'll
see."

"I can't put her out of my head. I want to see her, mother."

"So you shall, dear--as soon as you are fit to see people. I will ask
the doctor about it."

"Juke wouldn't object; he'd be glad. Oh, mother----!"

The nurse came up, and said she thought he had talked enough. I thought
so too. His thin cheek was flushed, and his lip trembled; he was
inclined to excite himself, and had not strength to spare for that just
yet. I gave him his nourishment, turned his pillow, and whispered to him
that, if he would sleep for a few hours, then he should have his wish.

"Honour bright?" he whispered back.

"Don't insult me," I retorted. "When did you ever know me to break a
promise?"

"To-day, mother?"

"To-day--if Dr. Juke approves. Of course we must have doctor's express
permission."

"All right. Give me a squirt of morphia, nurse."

"No, Master Harry. No more morphia, my dear--except maybe a time or two
at night, when you _can't_ do without it."

"I can't do without it now," he said. "I've got to sleep before I can
see her, and I can't sleep, of myself, until I do see her."

"There," I exclaimed, flinging out a hand. "What did I say? I _knew_
what the effect would be."

The woman--who, I found, was actually privy to the whole affair--Tom's
doing, no doubt--began to give her opinion, as is the way of those
nurses. "If you'll take my advice," said she, "you'll let him see her
now, and sleep afterwards. It'll tire him less than fretting for her."

"And if you will be so good as to mind your own business," I replied,
quietly but firmly, "I shall be infinitely obliged to you."

I had not been out of the room five minutes before Tom came to seek me,
looking quite hoity-toity, as if he thought himself aboard ship again,
with sailors.

"Now then, Polly," he said, "I'm not going to have any more nonsense
about this. The boy is too weak to be worried. I am going to fetch
Emily."

"Since when," I asked, "has it been your habit to call her Emily?"

He stared, and looked confused. "I suppose," he said, "I've caught it
from Harry."

"Talking with him so much about her, when it was so necessary to keep
him calm? And to that nurse woman, behind my back--as if the private
concerns of our family were any concern of servants! Tom, I didn't think
_you_ would ever be disloyal to me."

"I don't think I ever have been, Polly. What's more, I don't think you
would ever imagine such a thing in cool blood. Come, you are not going
to spoil this happy day for us all, are you? The boy has been given back
to us by a miracle----"

That was enough. I flung myself into his arms.

"Forgive me! Forgive me!" I cried. "I know it is wicked of me. But you
don't _know_ how I feel it, Tom!"

"Yes, I do, pet; I know exactly."

"No one but a mother _can_ know. I used to be everything to him once,
and now he is only glad to get well because of her!"

"Well, it's natural. We----"

"No, we didn't. We had no mothers. But never mind--I won't be selfish. I
will go and fetch her at once."

"Would you rather I went?"

"_Certainly_ not! Do you suppose I want them to go on thinking that you
are their only friend, and I their implacable enemy? _I_ want to make
him happy as much as ever you can do."

"That's right, old girl. If you're going to do a kind thing, do it the
kindest way you know. They'll be just fit to worship you, both of 'em."

I did not ask to be worshipped, but I did want my boy to love his mother
a little. I ran to him, brushing the nurse aside.

"Dearest," I whispered, "I am going to bring Emily. She shall sit with
you as long and as often as you like. She shall be your wife, if you
want her. I will make a daughter of her--for your sake."

I took the kiss I had so richly earned, and hurried to the schoolroom.
There sat Miss Blount, still faded and tearful, but beaming with the joy
that filled the house, like the sun through rain. She and Lily had been
crying and rejoicing together, congratulating one another. I waved the
child aside, and, taking her governess by the hand, with a "Come, dear,"
which I could see explained everything in a moment, led her into Harry's
room.

After all, she was a lady, and a B.A. He might have done worse. But when
I saw the look he turned to her when she ran like a deer to his
arms--poor sticks of arms!--and how he held her, and crooned over
her--oh, it was like a dagger in my breast!

Tom took me away, and tried to comfort me. He reminded me that we did
the same ourselves when we were young, and that we still had each
other.

"You've still got me, Polly. _I_ sha'n't desert you."

Yes, yes; of course I still had him. But----

Well, a _man_ can't understand.




CHAPTER VII.

A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT.


A boy who is not yet twenty-four, and who has nothing beyond his salary
as a clerk in a shipping office, and whose young lady is a pauper, can
get engaged if he likes; but he cannot get married. I pointed this out
to Harry as soon as he was well enough to be reasoned with. I said to
him, "You know, my dearest, that there's nothing in the world I would
not do to make you happy, but it would not be making you happy to let
you think for a moment of such madness." It appeared, from Tom's
account, that the child had been thinking of it--doubtless at Emily's
instigation. "I might as well encourage you to cut your throat. Far
better, indeed."

"Better?" he echoed, lifting his eyebrows, and smiling in that queer way
of his.

"Better!" I insisted firmly. "You little know what it means--that
rushing into irrevocable matrimony without counting the cost--without
knowing what it entails--without experience or means----"

"Mother," he interrupted, still smiling--a little impudently, though I
don't think he meant to be rude--"you were not any more experienced than
we are, and not any older or richer, were you?"

I replied with dignity that my case was nowise in point. He wanted to
know why it was not. I said, because I--unlike him--had been practically
homeless at the time. And he cried, "_Were_ you? I never heard of that!"
and stared at me in such a way that I blushed hotly, though old enough
to know better. He was an obstinate fellow, and he corresponded with his
grandfather and young uncles and aunts in England, and had a heap of
their autographed photos in his room. I thought I had better turn him
over to his father.

Tom was walking in the garden with Emily, who had managed to get around
him in that innocent-seeming way of hers--well, I must not be
uncharitable; I daresay it _was_ innocent, and I could almost have
fancied that they did not care about being interrupted. Only, of course,
that's nonsense.

"My dear," I said, in a sprightly voice, "your young man seems to find
his mother a bore these days, and it's only natural. I have been trying
to cheer him, and he responds by yawning in my face. Pray do go and
exercise your spells, which are so much more potent, and leave me my old
man, who is still my own."

Was there any harm in a little light chaff of this kind? One would
surely think not. But Tom, standing and looking after her as she slipped
away, blushing in her ready, _ingénue_ fashion--so unlike a B.A.--said,
quite gravely----

"That's a dear little soul, Polly! And I wouldn't speak to her in just
that sort of a way, if I were you. It hurts her."

"It hurts _me_," I returned, "when _you_ speak in that sort of a way.
It is most unjust. Can't you take a joke? You know perfectly well that I
treat her with the utmost kindness and consideration--that I have
accepted her unreservedly, for my boy's sake."

"Well, well," said he, "I know you don't mean it. Your bark's worse than
your bite, old girl. Come and look at the new pigs."

He drew my hand under his arm and patted it. We had had so many little
tiffs lately--things we never dreamt of till Miss Blount came!--that I
was determined not to quarrel now. It should never be said that _I_ was
to blame for making a happy home unhappy. I swallowed my vexation and
went to see the pigs--thirteen little black Berkshires, all as lively as
they could be, on which he gloated whole-heartedly for the moment, as if
they were more than wife or children. In his expansive ardour he offered
me one of them to make a festive dish of for Sunday.

"Let us have a little feast, Polly, for the young folks. Harry is able
to sit up to table now, and we have done nothing to celebrate the
engagement yet. Sucking-pig and one of the fat turkeys, and ask Juke to
join us. Eh?"

"My dear," I replied, "I am perfectly willing to celebrate the
engagement in any way you like--yes, we'll have a nice dinner, and ask
Dr. Juke--I am sure we owe him every attention that we can possibly pay
him; but what I want to warn you against is letting them suppose that
there is to be any celebration of the marriage--with our consent."

Tom stared as if he did not understand.

"You mean, not immediately?" he questioned. "Of course not."

"I mean, not for _years_," I solemnly urged. "Tom, you must back me up
in this. The boy is but a boy, with his way to make in the world. Before
we allow him to saddle himself with a wife who will probably be quite
useless--those University women always are--and the responsibilities of
a family, he _must_ be in a position to afford it."

"Yes," said Tom, in a tepid way. "But you and I, Polly----"

"Oh, never mind about you and me," I broke in; "that is altogether
different"--for of course it was. "You were a man of twice his age."

"Which would make him about fourteen," said my husband, trying to be
funny.

As for me, I saw nothing to laugh at. I cannot imagine a more serious
position as between parent and child. "At his time of life," I said,
"four years are equal to ten at any other stage. Let him have those four
years--let him begin where his father did--and I shall be quite
satisfied."

"Well, you see, my dear, it hardly rests with us, does it?"

Tom stirred up the mother sow with his walking-stick, and sniggered in a
most feeble-minded fashion.

"How? Why not?" I demanded. "Do you mean to say you have not the power
to influence him? Do you think that Harry, if properly advised, would
persist in taking his own way in spite of us? I refuse to believe that
any son of _mine_ could do such a thing."

Again Tom laughed, looking at me as if he saw some great joke somewhere.
I asked him what it was, and he said, "Oh, never mind--nothing." But I
knew. He was thinking of my own elopement, to which I was driven by my
father's second marriage--an incident that had no bearing whatever upon
the present case. It exasperated me to see him so flippant about a
matter of really grave importance, but I determined not to let him draw
me into a dispute.

"Four years," I said mildly, "would give them time to know each other
and their own minds. It would be a test, to prove them. If at the end of
four years they were still faithful, I should feel assured that all was
well. But of course they would get tired of each other long before that,
and so he would be spared a terrible fate, and all the trouble would be
at an end."

We had left the pigsty and were pacing the paths of the kitchen garden,
surveying the depredations of the irrepressible slug.

"The rain seems to wash the soot away as fast as I put it on," sighed
Tom. "I'll get a bag of lime, and try what that'll do. Well, Polly, for
my part, I should be very sorry to think them likely to get tired of
each other. And I don't believe it, either. I don't think she's that
sort of a girl somehow."

"How like a man!" I ejaculated. "Just because she's got a pretty face!"

"No, not because she's got a pretty face--though it is a pretty
face--but because she's good as well as pretty. She's a right down good
girl, my dear, believe me--just the sort of daughter-in-law I'd have
chosen for myself, if I had had the choosing. I told Harry so. You
should have seen how pleased he was!"

"No doubt. But I don't see how you can know whether she's good or not.
_You_ are not always with her, as we are."

"Oh, I see her at times. We have little talks occasionally. A man can
soon tell." He put his arm round my waist as we paced along. "I haven't
been married to you for all these years without knowing a good woman
from a bad one, Polly."

It was intended for a compliment, but somehow I could not smile at it.
In fact, I shed a tear instead. And when he saw it, and stooped to kiss
it away, my feelings overcame me. I threw my arms round his neck and
begged him not to let fascinating daughters-in-law draw away his heart
from his old wife. I daresay it was silly, but I could not help it. Of
course he chuckled as if I had said something very funny. And his only
reply was "_Baby!_"--in italics. So like a man, who never can see a
meaning that is not right on the top of a word.

However, I promised to be nice to Emily--nicer, rather, for, as I told
him, I had always been nice to her--and he said he would take an early
opportunity to have a serious talk with Harry.

"But let the poor chap alone till he gets his strength again," he
pleaded--as if I were a perfect tyrant, bent on making the boy
miserable; "let the poor children enjoy their love-making for the little
while that Emily remains here. She has been telling me that she's got a
fine appointment in a school--joint principal--and that she's going to
work in a fortnight--to work and save for their little home, till Harry
is ready for her."

"_What?_" I exclaimed. "She never told me that."

"She will, of course, when you give her the chance," said Tom, with an
air of apology.

"She ought to have told me, she ought to have confided in me, first of
all," I urged, much hurt, as I had every right to be; "I can't
understand why she did not. You seem," I concluded passionately--"you
all seem to be having secrets behind my back, and shutting me out of
everything, as if I were everybody's enemy. It is always so!"

"It is never so," replied Tom, laying his arm round my shoulder. "You
are never outside, old girl, except when you won't come in."

That was what they always said when they wanted to defend themselves.

But here we dropped the painful subject, and discussed the details of
our proposed festival.

"Only Juke?" I inquired, counting on my fingers. "That makes seven in
all--an awkward number."

"No matter for a family party," said Tom. "We are not going in for style
this time. The boy in his armchair and pillows will take the room of
two."

"Still, we may as well make it an even eight," I urged. "Otherwise the
table will look lopsided, and one or other of the girls will have nobody
to talk to."

"They will be quite satisfied to have their brother to look at. No, no,
Polly, don't let us make a company affair of it, for goodness' sake.
Harry wouldn't like it, or be fit for it either."

"And isn't Juke company?"

"By Heavens, no! We owe it to that young fellow that our only son isn't
in his grave--yes, Polly, I am convinced of it--and my house is his, and
all that's in it. Besides, he'll be here professionally--to see that
Harry doesn't overeat himself. Oh, Juke is quite another pair of
shoes."

I certainly did not see it. He had served us well, no doubt, and we had
paid him well; each side had done its part in a generous and
conscientious spirit. I considered he had no more claim on us now than
the thousands of passengers Tom had carried when he was a sea captain
had on him. I am sure no doctor in the world can match a ship's
commander of the most common type for self-denying devotion to the cause
of duty. But, seeing Tom so inclined to be cross and unreasonable, I
thought it better to say no more. We returned to the sty to select the
piglet that was to be killed, and in my own mind I selected the guest
who should make the table symmetrical. I knew that Harry would only
rejoice to see another friend, and it was due to Phyllis to provide her
as well as the others with a companion. It was also an opportunity which
I did not feel it right to miss for serving her interests in other ways.

I am not one of those vulgar match-makers who are the laughing-stock of
the young men, and properly so--quite the contrary, indeed: no one can
accuse _me_ of scheming to get my daughters married. Still, they must be
married some day--or should be, in the order of nature--and surely to
goodness a mother is permitted to safeguard, to some extent, a
thoughtless and ignorant girl against the greatest of all the perils
that her inexperience of life can expose her to. Not for the world would
I force her inclination in any way, but there is a difference between
doing that and letting her make a fool of herself with the first casual
puppy in coat and trousers that crosses her path. The duty of parents is
to protect their adolescent children from themselves, as it were, in
this incalculably important matter; that is to say, to keep their path
clear of acquaintanceships from which undesirable complications might
result, while encouraging innocent friendships that may develop with
impunity. Otherwise, what's the use of being parents at all? Your
children might as well be orphans, and better. I neglected this duty,
certainly, when I allowed Harry and Emily Blount to have access to each
other; but then a son is not like a daughter--you can't be always
overlooking him--and that affair was a lesson to me. I determined to be
more vigilant in Phyllis's case.

Phyllis is not like other girls. I think I may say, without a particle
of vanity, that she is the very prettiest in Australia, at the least.
There may be greater beauties at home--I don't know, it is so long since
I was there; but if there be, I should like to see them. Her features
are not classical, of course, and that dear little piquant suggestion of
a cast in the left eye is a peculiarity, though it is not a defect, any
more than are the freckles she gets in summer: these trifles of detail
merely go to make the _tout-ensemble_ what it is--so charming that she
has but to enter a room to eclipse every other woman in it. This being
so, I was naturally anxious that she should marry, when she did marry,
into her proper sphere, and not be thrown away upon a man unworthy of
her. And I only took the most simple and necessary precaution for her
safety when I limited my invitations to young fellows whom I could
trust--like Spencer Gale.

Tom says I never had a good word for Spencer Gale until he made his
fortune in Broken Hills. It amuses Tom to make these reckless
statements, and it doesn't hurt me in the least. I _always_ liked the
boy, but any fair-minded person must have acknowledged that his change
of circumstances had improved him--brushed him up, and brightened him in
every way. It was not his wealth that induced me to throw him into my
daughter's company, but his sterling personal qualities. A better son
never walked, excepting my own dear Harry--that alone was enough for me;
a good son never fails to make a good husband, as everybody knows.

His sister was a friend and neighbour of mine, and I knew that he was
staying with her. At one time all the family had lived here, Mr. Gale
having Tom's fancy for amateur farming and market-gardening in his
leisure hours. Spencer and Harry, both being clerks in Melbourne
offices, used to go into town together of a morning; that was how we
came to know them. But when Spencer had some shares given him which went
to a ridiculous price directly afterwards, and when his money, by all
sorts of lucky chances, bred money at such a rate that he was worth
(they said) a quarter of a million in a twelvemonth, then they all left
this out-of-the-way suburb for a big place in Toorak--all except Mary
Gale, who married a poor clergyman before the boom. Mary's husband, Mr.
Welshman, was the incumbent of our parish, and her good brother was not
at all too grand to pay her visits at intervals, besides helping her to
educate the children. Which proved conclusively that prosperity had not
spoiled him.

I walked to the parsonage on Friday afternoon, hoping to find him there;
but he was out, and I only saw Mrs. Welshman. I used to like Mary
Welshman in the old days, but she has become quite spoiled since people
began to make a fuss of her family on Spencer's account. It is always
the case--I have noticed it repeatedly; when sudden wealth comes to
those who have not been accustomed to it, it is the girls whose heads
are turned. I asked for Spencer, and mentioned that we wished him to
dine with us, and you would have thought I was seeking an audience with
a king from his lord chamberlain.

"Oh, I don't know, I'm sure," she said, with her absurd airs of
importance. "He is so much in request everywhere. He is certain to have
a dozen engagements. I don't think you have the remotest chance of
getting him, Mrs. Braye, on such short notice."

The fact was that she did not want me to get him. She had the fixed
delusion--all the Gales had--that there wasn't a mother or daughter in
the country who was not plotting to catch him for matrimonial purposes;
and she let me see very plainly her suspicion of my motives and her fear
of Phyllis's power.

"To-night," she exclaimed, in a tone of triumph--"to-night he is dining
at the Melbourne Club, to meet the Governor." Poor thing! It was amusing
to see how proud she was of it--evidently bursting to proclaim the news
to all and sundry.

"Very well," I said, smiling, "I will just drop a note to him at the
club."

And then I turned the conversation upon parish matters, as the best way
of taking the conceit out of her. For I don't believe in clergymen's
wives setting themselves up to patronise their lady parishioners, on
whose favour and subscriptions (to put it coarsely) their husbands'
livelihood depends.

On my way home I was fortunate enough to encounter Spencer Gale himself.
He was looking very well and handsome, riding a magnificent horse, which
curveted and pranced all over the road when he checked its gallop in
obedience to my uplifted hand. I felt a thrill of maternal pride as I
gazed at him--of maternal anxiety also.

"My boy," I cried, "do pray be careful! Remember what happened to poor
Harry from this sort of rashness, and what a valuable life it is that
you are risking!"

"Oh, it's all right, Mrs. Braye," he responded, in his nice, cheerful
way. "It is only oats and high spirits. How's Harry? Getting along like
a house afire, Mary tells me. I'm awfully glad."

Dear fellow! His kindness touched me to the heart. I suppose he was
afraid to dismount from that obstreperous beast, lest he should lose
control of it, and I am sure he could not help the way it tried to
trample on me with its hind legs when I came near enough to talk.

I told him how beautifully Harry was doing, and how he was to have his
first dinner with us on Sunday, and how delighted he would be to see an
old friend on such an occasion--and so on. Spencer seemed not to
understand me for a moment, owing to the clatter of the horse, for he
said he could not come because he was going to dine with the Governor at
the Melbourne Club.

"But that is to-night," I called. "And we want you for the day after
to-morrow--Sunday. Just a simple family meal at half-past one--pot-luck,
you know."

He did not answer for some minutes--thinking over his engagements,
doubtless; then he asked whether _all_ of us were at home. Aha! I knew
what that meant, though of course I pretended I didn't. I said that no
member of the family would be so heartless as to absent herself from
such a festival as Harry's first dinner; that, on the contrary, his
sister was more devoted to him, and far more indispensable both to him
and to the house than a dozen hospital nurses. I described in a few
words what Phyllis had been to us during our time of trouble, and he
smiled with pleasure. And of course he consented to accept the casual
invitation for her sake, pretending reluctance just to save appearances.
It was arranged that he would be at his sister's on Sunday, and walk
back with us after morning service.

I told Tom in the evening, when he was sitting in the garden with his
pipe, in a good temper. You would have supposed I was announcing some
dreadful domestic calamity.

"Whatever for?" he grumbled, with a most injured air. "I thought we
were to be a comfortable family party, just ourselves, and no fuss at
all."

"There will be no fuss," I said, "unless you make it. He is just coming
in a friendly, informal manner, to fill the vacant place. If you will
have Dr. Juke, there must be another man to balance the table."

"But why that man? You know Harry can't bear him since he's got so
uppish about his money and his swell friends. Why not have somebody of
our own class?--though I think it perfectly unnecessary to have anybody
under the circumstances."

"Our own class!" I indignantly exclaimed. "I hope you don't insult your
children, not to speak of me, by implying that they are not good enough
for Gales to associate with?"

"They are," said Tom; "they are--and a lot too good for one Gale to
associate with. But he don't think so, Polly."

"If he did not, would he do it?" was my unanswerable retort. But it is
useless trying to argue with a prejudiced man who is determined not to
see reason. And I felt it wise to leave him before he could draw me into
a dispute.

Harry, however, was equally exasperating. He said, "Oh, then I shall
make it Monday, if you don't mind. Better a dinner of herbs on
washing-day in peace and comfort than a stalled ox on Sunday with
Spencer Gale to spoil one's appetite and digestion for it." But Emily
rebuked him on my behalf. She had but to look at him to make him do what
she wished, and I suppose she thought it good policy to propitiate the
future mother-in-law.

Phyllis, whom I had expected to please--for whose sake I had gone to all
this trouble--was simply insolent. Alas! it is the tendency of girls in
these days. Respect for parents, trust in their judgment and deference
to their wishes, all the modest, dutiful ways that were the rule when I
was young, seem quite to have gone out of fashion. You would have
thought that she was the mother and I the daughter if you had heard how
she spoke to me, and seen the superior air with which she stood over me
to signify her royal displeasure.

"Oh, well, you have just gone and spoilt the whole thing--that's all."

I could have cried with mortification. But then, what's the use? It is
only what wives and mothers must expect when they try to do their best
for their families.

I had another struggle with her on Sunday morning. She refused to
accompany us to church. She said she was not going to offer herself to
Spencer Gale as a companion for a half-hour's walk--that he was quite
conceited enough without that; if other girls chose to run after him and
spoil him, she didn't. As if _I_ would ask her to run after any man! And
as if Emily or I could not have walked home with our guest! But I
learned a little later what all this prudishness amounted to. When we
came back from church--Emily, Lily, Spencer, and I--we found an empty
drawing-room, Harry and Tom in armchairs on the verandah, and Phyllis
away in the kitchen garden gathering strawberries for dessert with Dr.
Juke! And I discovered that that young man had interpreted an invitation
to lunch at half-past one as meaning that he should arrive punctually at
twelve. Tom pretended that he had called professionally at that hour,
and been persuaded to put his buggy up in our stables and remain.

"And I suppose you persuaded him?" I said, trying--because Spencer was
standing by me--to keep what I felt out of my voice.

"Well, my dear," replied the fatuous man, "the truth is, he didn't want
much pressing."

There are times when I feel that I could shake Tom, he is so
wooden-headed and silly--though so dear.

However, Phyllis, when I called her in, greeted Spencer Gale with proper
cordiality; and the whole family behaved better than I had expected they
would. They seemed to lay themselves out to be pleasant all round, and
to make Harry's first day downstairs a happy one. It was a delightful
early-summer day--he could not have had a better--and our pretty home
was looking its prettiest, for we had had nice rains that year. Phyllis
had decorated the table beautifully with roses, and Jane had surpassed
herself in cooking the dinner. The pig was done to a turn--I never
tasted anything so delicious--and the turkey was a picture. We had our
own green peas and asparagus and young potatoes, and our own cream
whipped in the meringues and coffee jelly--in short, it was as good a
dinner as any millionaire could wish for, and in the end everything
seemed to go as I had intended it should.

Harry was no trouble at all. I purposely put him at his father's end of
the table, with Emily between him and Juke, to pacify him; and, with his
young lady at his side and Spencer as far off as possible, the dear boy
was as gay and good-tempered as could be, quite the life of the party.
Spencer sat between me and Phyllis, and she really seemed to devote
herself to him. I was surprised to see how little fear she evidently had
of appearing to throw herself at his head, like the other girls; she
chattered and joked to him--the prettiest colour and animation in her
face--and hardly glanced at Juke opposite, who, for his part, confined
his attentions to his neighbours, Miss Blount and me, and was
particularly unobtrusive and quiet.

As for Spencer Gale, he was most interesting in his descriptions of what
he had seen and done during his recent European travels; it was quite an
education to listen to him. I was particularly pleased that he was so
ready to talk on this subject, because I hate to have the children grow
up narrow-minded and provincial, ignorant of the world outside their
colony. It has been the dream of my life to take them home and give them
advantages, and I have never been able to realise it. I could not help
thinking, as that young man discoursed of Paris and Venice and all the
rest of it, what a delightful honeymoon his bride might have! And so she
did, as it turned out, no great while afterwards.

Harry yawned and fidgeted, for sitting long in one position tired him;
so Tom and Juke carried him to a cane lounge on the verandah before the
rest of us had had dessert. I was annoyed with Phyllis for running out
to get pillows, which were already there, and for not returning when she
had made her brother comfortable. Emily had the grace to remain at
table, and of course Lily stayed also. She is a most intelligent child,
voracious for information of all sorts; and she plied our guest with so
many questions, and amused him so much by her interest in his
adventures, that she made him forget the strawberries on his plate and
how time was going--forgetting herself that the poor servants were
wanting to clear away so that they might get out for their Sunday walk.

At last he finished, and I led the way to the verandah, where I expected
to find the others. But only Harry and his father were there, the boy
looking rather fagged and inclined to doze, and Tom--who has no
manners--placidly sucking at his pipe.

"Why, where is Phyllis?" I inquired.

"Kitchen," said Harry promptly, opening his eyes.

"And the doctor?"

"Gone off to a patient."

"Then," said I, "come and let me show you my roses, Mr. Gale;" and I
took his arm. I thought it a good opportunity to have a little quiet
talk with him on my own account. Afterwards I remembered that my husband
and son watched us rather anxiously as we sauntered off into the garden,
but I did not notice it at the time. It never crossed my mind that they
could deliberately conspire to deceive me.

I had had the garden tidied, and, in the first flush of the summer
bloom, it looked really beautiful--although I say it. I would not have
been ashamed to show it to the Queen herself. And our rustic cottage,
that we had continually been adding to and improving ever since it came,
a mere shanty, into our hands, was a study for a painter, with the
yellow banksia in perfection, quite hiding the framework of the
verandah. I halted my companion on the front lawn, at the prettiest
point of view.

"A humble little place," I remarked; "but I think I may say for it,
without undue vanity, that it looks like the home of gentlefolks."

He followed my gaze, and fixed his eyes upon the particular window which
I informed him belonged to Phyllis's room.

"What's she doing?" he inquired bluntly. He could not conceal his
impatience for her return.

I told him that, in the case of so variously useful a person, it was
impossible to say. I had no doubt she was attending to housekeeping
matters, which she never neglected for her own amusement. Then I threw
out a feeler or two, to test him--to learn, if possible, something of
his tastes and character; it was necessary, for her sake, to do so. And
I was delighted to find that he shared my opinion of the colonial girl
as a type, and agreed with me that the term "unprotected female" should
in these days be altered to "unprotected male," seeing that it was the
women who did all the courting, and the men who were exposed to masked
batteries, as it were, at every turn.

"A fellow's never safe till he's married," said the poor boy, doubtless
speaking from painful experience. "And not then."

"That depends," said I. "There are people--I know plenty--who, having
married dolls like those we have been speaking of, find themselves far
indeed from being safe; but choose a good, modest, clever, loving girl,
who has been well brought up--one devoted to her home and unspoiled by a
vulgar society--and it is quite another pair of shoes, as my husband
would say. By the way, ask _him_ what he thinks of marriage for young
men."

"I don't know that I want to ask anybody anything," he returned, a
little irritably--for Phyllis was still invisible--"except to leave me
alone to do as I like. I don't believe in having wives selected for me,
Mrs. Braye; I'm always telling my mother and sisters that, and they
won't pay the least attention. I think a fellow might be allowed to
please himself, especially a fellow in my position."

"Certainly," I said, with all the emphasis I could command. "_Most_
certainly. That is my own view exactly. I have always said that, in
respect of my own children, I would never force or thwart them in any
way. I chose the one I loved, regardless of wealth or poverty, and they
shall do the same. More than that," I added gaily, "I am going to be the
most charming mother-in-law that ever was! I shall quite redeem the
character. I will never attempt to interfere with my children's
households--never be _de trop_--never--oh! Why, there she is!"

We were turning into a quiet path between tall shrubs--the fatal place
where, as I was told, Harry had been entrapped--and I suddenly saw the
gleam of a white dress in a little bower at the end of it. At the same
moment I saw--so did Spencer Gale--a thing that petrified us both. I was
struck speechless, but his emotion forced him to hysteric laughter.

"I'm afraid," said he, recovering himself, "that we are _de trop_ this
time, at any rate."

"Not at all," I retorted, also rallying my self-command. "Not at all. We
don't have anything of that sort in this family."

But the facts were too palpable; it was useless pretending to ignore
them. Phyllis jumped out of the arbour, like an alarmed bird out of its
nest, and came strolling towards us, affecting a nonchalant air, but
with a face the colour of beetroot with confusion; and that unspeakable
doctor, who had caused her so to forget herself, strutted at her side,
twirling the tip of his moustache and endeavouring to appear as if he
had not been kissing her, but looking all the time the very image of
detected guilt.

It is not necessary to state that Spencer Gale left immediately, and
never darkened our doors again. When, a little later, I had it out with
Phyllis, she declared, with a toss of the head, that she wouldn't have
taken him if there had been no other marriageable man living--that there
was only one husband for her, whom she intended to have whether we
liked it or not, even if she were forced to wait for him till she was an
old woman. I have often regretted that I did not control myself better,
but she, who had no excuse for violence, behaved like a perfect lunatic.
She went so far as to say she would never forgive me for the insults I
had heaped upon one--meaning Edmund Juke--who had no equal in the
universe, and who had saved her brother's life. Of course she did not
mean it--and I did not mean it--and we forgave each other long ago; but
I never hear the name of Spencer Gale without the memory of that
interview coming back to me, like a bitter taste in the mouth.

He married about the same time as she did--a significant circumstance!
They say that he lost his boom money when the boom burst, and that he
drinks rather badly, and makes domestic scandals of various kinds. If he
does, it is no more than one might have expected, considering the
provocation. It is all very well for my family to repeat these tales to
his discredit, and then point to Edmund Juke in Collins Street gradually
climbing to the top of his profession; they think this is sufficient to
prove that they were always Solomons of wisdom, and I a fool of the
first magnitude. It does not occur to them that if some things had been
different, all things would have been different. The one man would never
have fallen into low habits if he had had Phyllis for his wife, and the
other would never have risen so high if he had not had her. That is how
I look at it. And as for material prosperity, no one could have foreseen
how things were going to turn out, and luck is like the rain that falls
on the just and on the unjust--it comes to the people who don't deserve
it quite as often as to those who do.

For my part, I pay no heed to malicious gossip. There are always envious
persons ready and anxious to pull down those who are placed above them;
if they cannot find a legitimate pretext, they invent one. I see for
myself that he still lives in his beautiful Kew house, that his wife
still leads the fashion at every important social function and drives
the finest turn-out in Melbourne; that does not look as if they were so
very poor. And if one _could_ forgive infidelities in a married man, it
would be in the case of one tied to a painted creature who evidently
cares for nothing but display and admiration--to have her photograph
flaunted in the public streets, and herself surrounded by a crowd of
so-called smart people, flattering her vanity for the sake of her
husband's position. He may have a handsome establishment, but he cannot
have a _home._ So who can wonder if he seeks comfort elsewhere, and
flies to the bottle to drown his grief? It would have been very, very
different if my beautiful Phyllis had been at the head of affairs.

However, if she is satisfied, it is not for me to say a word.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE SILVER WEDDING.


Emily went to her school in Melbourne, and I had to get another
governess for Lily. She was a horrid woman. I stood her for one quarter,
and then packed her off; and we had to pay her for six months, because
she threatened to sue us for breach of contract. The next that I
procured was a clever person enough, and not wanting in good manners,
but she ordered the servants about as if the house belonged to her, and
of course they resented it. So did I. Emily's gentle unobtrusiveness had
spoiled us for ways of that sort. Moreover, Miss Scott was terribly
severe upon Lily; the child was always in tears over lessons that were
too hard for her. I did not believe in overstraining a growing girl, and
ventured to remonstrate now and then on her behalf; but Miss Scott was
quite above taking advice from her elders and betters--as good as asked
me to mind my own business, or, at any rate, to allow her to know hers.
So I thought it best to make a change.

And then I was deceived by false representations into engaging a widow
lady, who had seen better days. She was recommended to me as an
experienced teacher, having held situations in high families before her
marriage; and I naturally supposed that one who had been a mother
herself would be a safer guide for a young girl than one who had not.
But words cannot describe what a wretch that woman was. There is
something about widows--I don't know what it is--something that seems
almost improper--especially those that are by way of being young and
pretty, like Mrs. Underwood, though she was all forty, if she was a day,
in spite of her baby airs and graces and her butter-yellow hair. She had
the audacity to try and flirt with Tom, under cover of her pathetic
stories of her lost husband and children, and those better days that
were a pure invention; and he was too idiotically stupid--that is, too
innocent and simple-minded--to see what was so glaringly transparent to
everybody else. He used to think her an ill-used woman and pity her, and
think me hard and unfeeling because I didn't. Oh, never will I have a
widow about my house again! She entirely destroyed our domestic peace.
Things came to such a pass, indeed, that Tom even threatened--seriously,
and not in a joke--to get out his captain's certificate and return to
sea, because his home, that had always been so happy, had become
unbearable.

She went at last, and then I felt that I had had enough of governesses.
Determined that I would never undergo such misery again, and at the same
time strongly objecting to boarding-schools for girls, there was nothing
for it but to superintend Lily's general studies myself, and take her
into town for special lessons. I did not like the job, and found her
very tiresome and disheartening; she seemed to mope, all alone, and
would not interest herself in anything. A girl in these days is never
satisfied with her mother for a companion, and after a time, when the
Jukes were settled in their Melbourne house, I was glad to let her go on
long visits to her sister. There she found plenty to occupy and amuse
her, while I sat solitary at home, working for them both.

For I had no children left when she was away. The difficulty of the
governess was not the only trouble that resulted from Emily's desertion
of me. Harry also forsook the nest. He said it was inconvenient to live
so far from his office, though he had never thought of that while she
was with us, and that it would be better for business reasons to have a
lodging in town. I did not attempt to thwart him. And so, as soon as he
was strong enough to return to regular work--so valued was he by the
shipping firm which employed him that they had kept his situation open
during his illness--he took himself and a new bicycle to a stuffy
Melbourne suburb, where he would be in the way of meeting his beloved
frequently at the houses of her friends.

I wanted to settle in Melbourne too, to be near them all. But our little
place was our own--a valuable property, yet unsaleable in these bad
times--and Tom said we could not afford it. Besides, I knew he would be
miserable cooped up in streets, and lost without his pigs and vegetable
garden.

Thus we felt ourselves stranded on the shore while our young ones put to
sea--deserted in our old age--which, after all, is the common fate. Only
we were not in our old age, either of us. I have not a grey hair in my
head, even now, and have more than once been taken for Phyllis's elder
sister. On the day that she was married, when I wore pale heliotrope
relieved with white, I overheard old Captain Saunders--and a man of
eighty ought to be a judge--say to Mr. Welshman, "She's a pretty girl,
but her mother can beat her." And I should like to see the man of forty
who is the equal of what my husband was at fifty-five--or is at his
"present-day" age, which comes to little more. Tom is stout certainly,
but only in a dignified and commanding fashion; he can out-do Harry in
feats of strength, and his fine, bronzed face, with those keen blue eyes
in it, has a power of manliness that kings might envy. For the matter of
that, kings are not nearly so much of kings as he was accustomed to
being on board his ships. I know the lady passengers made themselves
ridiculous by the way they scrambled for his notice and a seat beside
him at the saloon table.

To people like Mrs. Underwood, though she was really my contemporary, I
may seem very _passée_--no doubt I do--and a perfect granny to the
children, who regard youth and beauty as solely the prerogatives of
bread-and-butter misses in their teens; but--as Captain Saunders's
remark indicated--I am not too old to charm where I want to charm. No,
indeed; nor ever shall be--to one person, at all events. When Tom and I
woke up on our silver wedding morning and kissed each other, did we not
know what love meant as much and more than we had ever done, without
needing Juke and Phyllis, and Harry and his Emily to teach us? I should
think so, indeed! It seems to me that it _requires_ the fulness of many
years, fatherhood and motherhood in all stages and phases, innumerable
steps of painful experience climbed together, to bring us to the perfect
comprehension of love--the best love--that love in the lore of which
those children, who think themselves so knowing, are mere beginners,
with the alphabet to learn.

And this, by the way--it has just this moment occurred to me--is the
kernel of the woman question, which seems so vastly complicated. Why, it
is as simple as it can possibly be. The whole thing is in a nutshell.
Those advocates and defenders of this and that, arguing so passionately
and inconclusively at such interminable length--how silly they are! You
have one set of people raving for female suffrage and equal rights and
liberties with tyrant man; you have another set of people storming at
them for thus ignoring the intentions of Nature, the interests of the
house and family. The intentions of Nature, indeed! The house and
family! When millions of poor women are old maids who haven't chosen to
be so!--who, of course, _could_ not choose to be so, unless
physiologically defective in some way or another. Poor, poor things!
They don't want equal rights with man, but equal rights with the lower
animals. As they don't know what they miss, they may be forgiven for the
way they speak of it in their books and speeches; but if they had it--if
all had it who by nature are entitled to it--there would be no more
woman question. I am quite convinced of that. Nature's intentions would
then really be fulfilled, and the other troubles of the case, all
secondary and contingent, would vanish. Of course they would. Man is not
a tyrant, bless him! The child is the only tyrant--the legitimate power
that keeps woman in her place.

But, oh, how much that child does cost us! We give all freely, and would
give a thousand times more if we had it to give, for it is the most
precious of human privileges--the thing we really live for, though it is
inconvenient to admit it; but we pay with heart's blood, from the
beginning to the end. We pay so much and so constantly that it often
seems to me that the poor childless ones, undeveloped and inexperienced,
who cannot know the great joys of life, are also exempt from all sorrow
that is worthy of the name.

Baby-rearing, absorbingly interesting though it be, is really a terrible
business; and the fewer the babies the worse it is. You hardly know what
it means to have a night's rest for dread of the ever-recurring
epidemics that so fatally ravage the nurseries of this country. Day and
night you have the shadow of the clinical thermometer, your sword of
Damocles, hanging over you, and are afraid to breathe lest you should
bring it down. Then, when this hair-whitening strain begins to slacken a
little and you think you are going to have an easy time, the children
that are now able to take care of themselves utterly refuse to do so.
Your girl goes wet-footed with a light heart, and you never see a
telegraph messenger coming to the house without expecting to hear that
your boy at school has broken his arm at football or his neck
bird's-nesting. They follow their mischievous devices, and you can't
help it; you can only cluck and fuss like a futile hen running round the
pond in which her brood of ducklings is splashing. That's worse than
baby-rearing, because you can at least do what you like with a baby.

And then, when you pride yourself on having successfully got through the
long struggle, and you tell yourself that now they are going to be a
help and a comfort to you at last, off they go to the first stranger who
beckons to them, and think no more about you than of an old nurse who
has served her purpose--probably turning round to point out the errors
you have committed, and to show you how much better you would have done
if you had taken their advice. And that is worst of all.

No trouble that I had had with mine, while they were with me, equalled
the trouble of being without them, especially on the silver wedding
morning, when I had, as it were, the field of my married life before me;
when I felt that a golden harvest was my due, and beheld a ravaged
garden with all its flowers plucked. It was my own fault that no letters
of congratulation came by the first post; I had purposely refrained from
reminding the children of the approaching anniversary, just to see if
they would remember it, and they had been too full of their own concerns
to give it a thought. Afterwards they scolded me for not telling them,
and were very repentant. I had no present either--that is, not on the
day. Tom had given me a silver _entrée_ dish, and I had given him a
silver-mounted claret-jug; but we had made our purchases a week too
soon, and had been unable to keep the matter secret from each other. It
was a wet morning, and I, being the first downstairs, was greeted with
the smell of burnt porridge in the kitchen. I thought it too bad of Jane
to let such a thing happen on such an occasion, and a hardship that
rain should be running like tears down the breakfast-room window panes
when I so particularly wanted to be cheered. It was April, the month of
broken weather, and leaves were falling thickly on the beds and paths
outside. I surveyed the dripping prospect, and noted how impossible it
was to keep the weeds down, with the summer-warmed earth so moist; and I
turned back into the room to see a late-lit fire fading on the hearth,
and the children's empty chairs against the wall.

Well, I sat down behind the two lonely tea-cups and bowed my head on the
table, on the point of tears--feeling that I too was a denuded autumn
tree, an outworn woman who had had her day. And then, before I could get
out my handkerchief, Tom came in.

He kicked two logs together, and the dying fire sprang to life; he
opened a window, and the freshest and sweetest morning air poured in,
sprinkled with a gentle shower and hinting at coming sunshine.

"What a lovely day we've got, eh, Polly? What a beautiful rain! This'll
bring the grass on, and make the land splendid for ploughing, hey?
What's the matter, old girl? Missing the children? Oh, well, they're
happy; we've nothing to fret about on their account--nor on our own
either--and that's more than most people can say on their silver wedding
morning. Porridge spoilt? Oh, that's no matter--we have something better
than porridge. Here, Jane! Jane! Bring in the you know what, if you've
got 'em ready."

Jane came in, smiling, with the new _entrée_ dish in her hands. Tom
watched it with gleeful eyes, and assisted to place it on the table. It
was his little surprise for me--mushrooms, to which I am extravagantly
partial--the first of the season. He had gone to Melbourne the day
before to buy them, and it was her absorption in the task of cooking
them delicately which had caused Jane to neglect the porridge--Tom's
first course at every breakfast.

"There" said he, as he lifted the shining lid. He was as pleased as a
boy with his plot and its _dénouement._

"Oh, you _precious!_" I responded; and the gratitude he expected brought
tears to my eyes. "No one _ever_ had such a husband as mine!"

He beamed complacently, and sat down beside me, inconveniently close.
With his arm round my waist, he helped me to pour out the coffee, and
spilled it on the cloth; he fed me with the best of the mushrooms and
morsels of beef steak, and wiped gravy from my lips with his own napkin.
He seemed to feel that I needed some extra comfort to make up for the
children's absence, though he said repeatedly that it was only fitting
we should have our wedding-day, whether gold, silver, or pewter, to
ourselves.

"As for you," he said, "I declare you don't look a day older than when I
married you, Polly. Oh, well, a little fuller in the figure, perhaps;
but that's an improvement. Old Saunders is quite right--you can beat
the young girls still."

I told him he could beat the young men in the making of pretty speeches,
and I pretended not to believe his flatteries; but I knew that he meant
every word he said, being the sincerest of men. And my spirits rose by
leaps and bounds, until I felt even younger than I looked, and like a
real bride once more, just as if those strenuous intermediate years had
dropped out of the calendar. The barometer was rising too. Before we had
finished our mushrooms the rain had all passed off, and the sun was
shining on a clean and fragrant earth. Everything outside glittered and
shimmered. It was a thoroughly bridal morning, after all.

"And now, what shall we do?" my husband inquired, having lit his pipe
and taken a rapid glance over the newspaper. "We must do something to
celebrate the day. What shall it be?"

"It doesn't much matter what, so long as we do it together," was my
reply. "But I think I should like to go out somewhere, shouldn't you?
It is going to be the perfection of weather."

"Oh, we'll go out, of course. We'll have a day's sight-seeing, and our
lunch in town. Let's see"--we studied the "Amusements" column, as we had
so often seen the children do--"there's the Cyclorama; we have never
seen the Cyclorama yet, and I'm told it's splendid."

"And it is years since we were at the Picture Gallery," I remarked.
"There must be dozens of pictures there that we have never seen."

"We might go to the Zoölogical Gardens. If there was one thing more than
another that I was fond of as a boy it was a wild beast show. They feed
them at four o'clock."

"Yes, and the seals at the Aquarium too. I remember seeing the seals fed
at Exhibition time. It was most interesting."

"And they've got Deeming at the Waxworks, Harry says----"

"Oh, Tom--waxworks! However, I don't see why we shouldn't go to
waxworks if we feel inclined. We are free agents. There is nobody to
criticise us now."

I began to feel that it was really almost a relief to be without the
children, just for once in a way. Children are so dreadfully severe and
proper in their views of what fathers and mothers ought to do.

"Well, go and get your things on," said my husband, "while I have a look
round outside."

He dashed off to see that pigs and fowls were fed, and the boy started
on his day's work; and I ran into the kitchen to tell Jane not to cook
anything, and upstairs to change my dress and put on my best bonnet. In
our haste to make the most of our holiday, we frisked about like young
dogs let off the chain. It did not matter how undignified it looked,
since there was nobody to laugh at us.

Before ten o'clock we were off, and before eleven we were in Melbourne,
sliding up Collins Street on a tram dummy, on our way to the Cyclorama.
The Picture Gallery had been set down as a first item of the
programme--it opened at ten, and one had the place to one's self during
the forenoon--but afterwards we put it at the bottom of the list, and
finally struck it out altogether. Our feeling was that we could do
pictures at any time--pictures were things young people would thoroughly
approve of as an amusement for parents--but that we could not always do
exactly as we liked. So we went to the Cyclorama first, and were so
intensely interested that we stayed there nearly an hour. We had read of
the battle of Waterloo in our school books, but never realised it in the
least; now we were like eye-witnesses of the fight, and the whole thing
was clear to us. A soldier amongst the spectators pointed out a number
of mistakes in the arrangements of troops and guns, but we did not
understand them, and did not want to; indeed, we would not listen to
him. We moved round and round in our dark watch-tower to the quiet
places, and gazed over the far-stretching fields with more delight than
our first peep-show at an English fair had given us. The illusion of
distance was so complete that it corrected all crudities of detail, and
we simply lost ourselves in the romance of the past and our own
imaginations.

"Never saw anything so wonderful in my life," said Tom, as at last we
tore ourselves away. "I seem to smell that chateau burning, and to hear
those poor chaps groaning with their wounds. I'm glad we went, aren't
you, Polly?"

I truthfully replied that I was very glad indeed, and we emerged into
the street, and he hailed a passing tram. Again we took our places on
the dummy, that we might see and feel as much of the bright day as
possible. Melbourne was still gay and busy, in spite of gloomy
commercial forecasts, and the weather was all that a perfect autumn
morning could make it. The sun shone now with an evident intention to
continue doing so till bed-time, and we basked in it on the dummy seat
like two cats.

"What shall we do next?" asked Tom, consulting his watch. "It is not
near lunch-time yet. We must get an appetite for the sort of meal I mean
to have to-day."

Before we could make up our minds what to do next, the tram had carried
us into Burke Street, and lo! there was the temple of the waxworks
staring us in the face. Tom signalled the conductor, and we jumped off,
hand in hand, and without a word made our way to the door of the show
which we had heard even young children speak of as beneath
contempt--only fit for bloodthirsty schoolboys of the lower orders and
louts from the country who knew no better.

Well, we were from the country; and, whatever the artistic shortcomings
of this exhibition, it had the charm of novelty at any rate. Neither of
us had been to waxworks since we were taken as infants to Madame
Tussaud's. This was a far cry from Madame Tussaud's, but I must confess
that it amused us very well for half an hour. The effigies were full of
humour, and the instruments of torture in the chamber of horrors very
real and creepy. Also there were some relics of old colonial days that
were decidedly interesting. In short, we did not feel that we had wasted
time and two shillings when we had gone through the place, though we
pretended to have done so, laughing at each other, saying, "How silly we
are!"

"Well, let's be silly," said Tom, at last. "There's no law against that,
that I know of."

"None whatever," I gaily responded. "There's nobody to----"

"Hush!" he exclaimed, interrupting what I was going to say with a sharp
snatch at my arm. We were just leaving the waxworks, and he pulled me
back within the door.

"What's the matter?" I cried, bewildered by his sudden action and tone
of alarm.

"Come back--come back!" he whispered excitedly. "For Heaven's sake,
don't let her see us!"

"Who? who?"

He pointed to the street, and I had a momentary glimpse of our daughter
Phyllis going by in her husband's buggy. Edmund, in his tall town hat,
which glittered in the sun, was driving her himself; she sat beside him
under her parasol, calm, matronly, dignified, a model of all propriety.
How would she have looked if she had seen her mother coming out of the
waxworks? It was quite a shock to think of it.

"She has been shopping," said Tom casually, "and Ted's been out after
patients, and has picked her up, sending the groom home. It isn't every
Collins Street doctor who'd let his wife be seen with him in the
professional vehicle. Ted's a good fellow and a first-rate husband. We
have a lot to be thankful for, Polly."

"We have," I assented, drawing a long breath of relief. For the moment I
was most thankful that my dear girl, whom I had so yearned for, was out
of sight. The coast was clear, and we sallied forth once more in pursuit
of our own devices. Being still not quite as hungry as Tom desired, we
strolled around the block and looked in at the shop windows--the
florists, the milliners, the photographers.

"Do you remember," said Tom, as we gazed upon a galaxy of Melbourne
beauties smiling down upon the street, "how we had our likenesses taken
in our wedding clothes?"

"And, oh, such clothes!" I interjected. "A flounced skirt over a
crinoline, a spoon bonnet----"

"It was the image of you, my dear, and I wouldn't part with that picture
for the world. I say, let's go and be done now. I'd like a memento of
this day, to look at when the golden wedding comes. Just as you are, in
that nice tailor tweed--in your prime, Polly."

I told him it was nonsense, but he would have it. The people said they
would be ready for us at 2.30, and when we had had an immense lunch, and
were both looking red and puffy after it, we were photographed together,
like any pair of cheap trippers--I sitting in an attitude, with my head
screwed round, he standing over me, with a hand on my shoulder. The
result may now be seen in a handsome frame on his smoking-room
mantelpiece; He thinks it beautiful.

After the operation we had a cup of tea in the nearest restaurant, and
by that time it was too late to think of the Zoölogical Gardens, which
closed at five, and required a whole day to reveal all their treasures.
But we thought we might be in time to see the seals fed, and so took
tram again for the Exhibition building. As we entered the Aquarium
through the green gloom of the Fernery, we heard the creatures barking,
and saw the keeper walking towards the tanks with his basket of fish. We
were in good time, and there was no great crowd to-day, so that we could
stand close to the iron bars and see all the tricks of the man and the
beasts, which were unspeakably funny. I don't know when I have laughed
so much as I laughed that afternoon. And Tom was just as much amused as
I was.

But when the last fish had been thrown and caught, and we sat down on a
bench to rest for a minute, he fell suddenly silent, and I thought he
appeared a little tired.

"I know what it is," I said, looking at him. "You are just dying for a
pipe."

"No," he answered; "at least, not particularly. But I'll tell you what I
do seem to long for, Polly, and that's a sight of blue water. Looking at
those creatures diving and splashing somehow reminds me of it. I haven't
seen the sea for months."

"Oh, you poor boy!" I exclaimed, jumping up. "Why didn't you say so at
first--at the beginning of the day? I never once thought of it. Of
course we ought to have been beside the sea on our silver
wedding-day--the sea that married us in the beginning--or else on it.
Let us get down to Swanston Street at once, and take a St. Kilda tram.
There is time to reach the pier before the sun goes down, and we can
stay there till dark, and dine at the Esplanade. It will be a nice long
ride, and you can have your pipe on the dummy as we go."

"All right," he said, with renewed alacrity. "Mind you, Polly, I
couldn't have enjoyed the day more than I have done, so far as it has
gone; but a sniff of brine to top up with will just make it perfect."

So we had our sniff of brine. It took three-quarters of an hour to get
it, but the drive was delightful in the fresh evening air; the rain had
laid the dust of that dustiest of Melbourne roads, and C-spring
barouches are not easier to travel in than the cable tramcars on it. Tom
had the comfort of his pipe, allowable on the dummy; and the scent of
his good tobacco, which the breeze carried from me, was a scent I loved
for its associations' sake. When we got to St. Kilda the sun was low; no
effect of atmosphere and sea water could have been more lovely. It was
only bay water, to be sure, but it was salt, and it sufficed. We called
in at the hotel to order our dinner, and walked down and out to the end
of the pier, and sat there silently until the ruddy full moon rose. At
night, when all was white and shining, we returned there and sat for an
hour more, hand in hand.

"What it must be," said Tom, soliloquising, "outside!"

"Ah-h!" I sighed deeply. The same thought had been in both our minds all
through the silence which he had broken with his remark. If he had not
made it, I should have done so. In imagination we were "outside"
together, as in our youth; the scent of sea in the brisk air had acted
on us like the familiar touch of a mesmerist on a subject long
surrendered to his power; the nostalgia of the seafarer, the
sea-lover--which is a thing no other person can understand--had taken
hold of us; it was as if some long silent mother-voice called to us
across the bay, "Come home, come home!"

Near us, sheltered in the angle of the pier, a bunch of sail boats
tugged gently at their ropes; the flopping, squelching sound made by the
run of the tide between and under them was sweet in our ears, like an
old song. A little way off some yachts of the local club lay each at its
own moorings, a hull and a bare pole, ink-black on the shining water.
Tom was no yachtsman, of course; he even had a contempt for the modern
egg-shell craft, all sail and spar, in which the young men out of the
shops and offices raced for cups on summer Saturdays; they were as
children's toys in his estimation. But a boat is a boat, and, feeling as
I did, and thinking of the remark he had made in the Aquarium, and how I
had unaccountably forgotten what we ought to have done on our silver
wedding-day, I said--

"Why shouldn't we have a silver honeymoon, and spend it at sea?"

Though he did not answer at once, and though his face was turned from me
towards an incoming steamer, a distant streak of shadow sprinkled with
lights, that he was trying to identify, I knew that he jumped straight
at the suggestion with all his heart.

"Hm-m," he mused; "ha-hm-m. That's not a bad idea of yours, Polly. I
daresay it might be done, if you think you'd like it. We have no
children to tie us at home--Harry would keep an eye on the pigs and
things--it would do us all the good in the world--by Jove, yes!" He sat
erect and alert. "Why, the very thought of it makes me feel twenty years
younger. I don't see why we shouldn't have a silver honeymoon while we
are about it. But what sort of a trip do you fancy? Portland and
Warrnambool? Tasmania? New Zealand? I'm afraid Europe is a bit too large
an order."

"Nothing of that sort at all," I urged; "but something that we can do
all by ourselves, without being interfered with." I pointed to the boats
near us. "A yachting cruise to some of the places I have never seen, if
you could find a strong, homely sort of yacht, with bulwarks and a cabin
in it. Perhaps a hired man or two--yes, that would even give us greater
freedom--if there was a place for them to sleep in away from us."

I enlarged upon my idea, while he listened and nodded, proposing
amendments here and there; then he jumped up in his resolute way,
lifting me with him.

"Let us get home and to bed," said he, "and I'll be up first thing in
the morning to see about it. We must save this weather and the moon--the
honeymoon, Polly."

We bustled back to town. And whom should we meet in the tram but an old
brother salt, who knew exactly what we wanted and where it was to be
had--a stout, yawl-rigged craft with something beside lead keel under
water, not too smart to look at, but able to travel, and warranted safe
"outside" as no ordinary pleasure yacht could be. One day sufficed to
stock this vessel with our requirements, and on the morning of the next
we set sail, with one quiet man for crew, and a minute dinghy behind us,
bound for no port in particular, and to no programme--determined to be
free for once, if we never were again. The children thought us quite
silly, naturally. I believe Harry felt it something of a hardship to
have to give up Emily's society occasionally for the sake of the pigs,
and I am sure, though I did not hear them, that Phyllis and Lily made
remarks on their poor dear mother's erratic fancies, and the way poor
father gave in to them. Phyllis took the opportunity of my absence to
"settle up the house," as she called it--meaning my house, and that
matters there had fallen into a sad state since she had ceased to
superintend them.

But we were emancipated now. We were out of school. I was able to
wear--what they had considered inappropriate for years--a hat to keep
off the hot sea sunshine, which burns old faces as badly as young ones;
and I could fish, and paddle barefoot, and sing, and talk nonsense to
Tom to my heart's content, with no sense of appearing ridiculous or
undignified to anybody. The crew was an old Bendigo hand, about the age
of my father, devoted to us both; and Tom was like a boy again, with the
tiller in his hand. What ages it was since he had steered a sailing
boat, of any sort or size! Yet even I could tell the difference in a
moment, as soon as he took the helm. Not only did he make the yawl do
exactly what he wanted, but he seemed to know exactly what _she_ wanted
as well. It was the same sort of sympathy as that between a perfect
rider and a horse that thoroughly understands and trusts him. Some
people--good seamen in everything else--can never steer like that,
although they may have been a lifetime at it. It is an instinct, like
good riding, inherited and not acquired. Tom's people had been sailors
since the Battle of the Nile.

How he _did_ love it, to be sure! And _what_ a holiday that was! We had
our little discomforts of various kinds, and I was seasick for a night
and seedy all the day afterwards; but these trifles were of no account
in the sum of our vast enjoyment, and cannot even be remembered now.
Looking back on that cruise--that last cruise--perhaps the very last in
life--it is one idyllic dream, simply. I find it hard to believe that it
could have happened in such a prosaic world.

I daresay that much of the fairyland feeling was due to weather. There
is no weather on earth like Australian weather for making holiday
in--that is, when it is good. What fell to us on this memorable occasion
was as good as good could be--fine and fresh by day, calm and beautiful
by night, with various effects of moonlight, each sweeter than the rest.
The beginnings of the days were the best of them, perhaps. We went to
bed betimes--in that not too spacious chamber of ours between the big
and the little masts--and so were ready to see the sunrise, to bathe
ourselves in the clean, sharp, early morning air, to set about clearing
up the cabin, airing the mattresses on deck, frying the eggs and bacon
or newly caught fish, and cooking the coffee over the spirit stove,
before the land people were astir, every vein in our bodies thrilling to
the salt breeze, tingling with health, and our appetites keen as razors.
Later, we would visit the shore for provisions, for newspapers, for a
hotel meal, to send inquiring telegrams to our family and await replies,
to amuse ourselves with a ramble in the bush or through the bay
watering-places whose summer season had ebbed away from them. Later
still, I lay prone on deck, snoozing over a novel, while Tom and the
crew sailed the boat, and smoked, and talked shop in contented growls, a
couple of sentences at a time. Then tea, and washing up, and the fishing
lines got out; and the sweet twilight that, when it became darkness, was
too cold to sit in; and the lamp lit in the little
cabin--yawns--bed--the stirless sleep of nerves at peace and digestion
in perfect order.

It was almost the same "outside" as in--not a cat's-paw squall molested
us. There was sea enough for good sea-sailing, but not enough to wet me
or my little house below--not till we got to Warrnambool, where, being
weather-bound for a day or two, we had the joy of seeing great breakers
again. They thundered on the rocky shore like cannons going off; they
flung foam over the breakwater; they would not let the Flinders come in.
We sat on a brown boulder a whole morning and a whole afternoon to look
at and listen to them, as one would listen to some archangel of a
Paderewski.

Ah me, how happy we were! The second honeymoon, like the second
wedding-day, was miles better than the first. We married for love, if
two people ever did, not having fifty pounds between us, but my old
bridegroom was a truer lover than my young one. He said the same of his
old bride. We were like travellers that have climbed to a noble
mountain-top and sit down to rest and survey the arduous road by which
they came--all rosy in the bloom of sunset--and the poor things still
struggling up, not seeing what they head for. I never had such a rest in
my life before, and we had never, in all our twenty-five years of dear
companionship, been at such perfect peace together. There was only one
little cloud, and that passed in a moment. Tom said--it was a mere
thoughtless jest, for he did not mean to be unkind--that our divine
tranquillity was due to there being no person near for me to be jealous
of. I ought to have laughed at such an obviously absurd remark, but I am
dreadfully sensitive to anything like injustice, and was foolish enough
to feel hurt that he could say such a thing, even in fun. _I_ jealous!
I may have my faults--nobody is perfect in this world--but at least I
cannot be justly accused of condescending to petty ones of that sort.




CHAPTER IX.

GRANDMAMMA.


"Good-morning, Grandmamma!"

I was in my kitchen after breakfast, seeing about the dinner--calmly
slicing French beans, because it was Monday morning and Jane was helping
the washwoman--when I was suddenly accosted in this extraordinary way.
With a jump that might have caused me to cut my fingers, I turned my
head, and there in the doorway stood my son-in-law, Edmund Juke, panting
from his bicycle, and grinning idiotically, as if he had said something
very funny. By what he had said, and by the expression of his face, and
by seeing him miles away from his consulting-room at that hour of the
day, I knew, of course, what had happened. My heart was in my mouth.

"What--what--you don't say--not really?" I gasped, scattering the beans,
cut and uncut, together about the floor as I sprang to meet him. "Why,
it isn't nearly time yet!"

"Oh yes, it is," said he. "Everything is all right. The finest boy you
ever saw, and she doing as well as possible. I would not let any one but
myself bring you the good news, Mater dear"--and here he kissed me, more
affectionately than usual--"ill as I could spare the time. I knew you'd
be easier in your mind, too----"

"But I am _not_ easy in my mind," I broke in, excessively concerned
about my child, and beginning to see that I had not been fairly treated
in the matter. "I am quite sure it is premature, whatever you may say.
Phyllis distinctly gave me to understand that it was a month off, at
least. Otherwise should I be here?"

"It is an easy thing to make mistakes about, as you know. I can assure
you there is nothing wrong in any way. You must allow a medical
man--two medical men, for Errington attended her--to be the judge of
that," said he, with the airs a young doctor gives himself when he has
begun to make a name.

I was indeed thankful to hear him say so, but still I could not quite
understand it. I wondered if it were possible--but no, it could not be!
The cruel suspicion having entered my mind, however, I felt obliged to
speak of it.

"I am not to suppose, am I, that Phyllis _wished_ to deceive her own
mother--and on such a point?"

Edmund at once replied, stormily, that I was certainly not to suppose
any such preposterous thing; but he protested over much, I thought, and
grew red in the face as he did so. I thought it not improbable that _he_
had suggested my being put off the scent--he, who seemed to have known
just when the baby was to be expected; afterwards I was sure of it. My
own dear girl would have been incapable of such an idea.

I asked Edmund the hour at which the event had taken place. He said at a
little before three that morning. It was now between nine and ten--as I
pointed out. He said they had all been glad of a little sleep after
their excitement, and that he had come as soon as he could get away. He
had also ridden at racing pace, averaging I don't know how many miles an
hour. No, the buggy would not have been quicker, even with a pair, and
he had wanted his wheel for refreshment and exercise. Of course he could
not take me back on it, but there was no hurry about that. He had left
Phyllis sleeping as soundly as a top, and the longer she was undisturbed
the better.

"Certainly," I said, with rigid face and shaking heart. "And it is right
that I should be there to see that she is undisturbed. I ought to have
been there _hours_ ago, Edmund, and I can't _think_ why you did not send
for me--her own mother--the very _first_ person who should have been
informed."

He began to make all sorts of lame excuses.

"You see, Mater dear, the telegraph offices are not open on Sundays."

"Was it Sunday? So long ago as yesterday? And where were the buggy and
the bicycle--not to speak of the trains?"

"The buggy and the bicycle were there, but I had to send the groom
hunting for Errington, and of course I could not leave her myself. There
was not a soul to take a message to you, Mater dear. Besides, there was
no earthly use in giving you an upset for nothing. We soon saw that
everything was going on beautifully--otherwise, of _course_, you would
have been fetched at once--and so we thought you might as well be spared
all the worry--you would have worried frightfully, you know--and that we
would give you a pleasant surprise when it was all over. And now you
don't seem half grateful to us for being so thoughtful about you."

He laughed at this poor joke. I could not laugh. My heart was too full.

"Poor, poor, _poor_ girl!" I passionately exclaimed. "To face that trial
for the first time--terrified to death, naturally----"

"Oh dear, no," he interposed, in his flippant way. "I am proud to inform
you that Phyllis conducted herself like a perfect lady. She was as calm
as possible."

"How can you tell how calm she was?" I thundered at him. "You know
nothing about it, though you are a doctor. _I_ know--I know what she had
to go through! And no one near her to help her with a word of comfort,
except a hired person--one of your precious hospital nurses that are
mere iron-nerved machines--women who might as well be men for all the
feelings they've got!"

"But she had--she had," cried Edmund, hastily. "She had my mother near
her--one of the kindest old souls that ever breathed."

"_What?_"

I stared at him, petrified with astonishment and indignation. _His_
mother assisting at the confinement of _my_ daughter! And _I_ shut out!
I could not believe it for the moment--that they would deliberately put
such an insult upon me.

Edmund said it was not done deliberately, but was a pure accident. "It
just happened," he said, "that she chanced to be in the house yesterday.
She came in after morning church, as she often does, and seeing that
something was up----"

"What--as early as yesterday morning!" I burst out, thoroughly and
justifiably angry now, and not caring to hide it. "You mean to say
Phyllis was taken ill in the _morning_, Edmund, and you did not let me
know? Oh, this is too much!"

Of course he hastened to excuse himself--with what I feel sure, though I
am sorry to say it, was a barefaced lie. He declared she was not taken
ill in the morning--not until quite late in the day--but that she was a
little restless and nervous, and his mother had stayed to cheer her.

"Mother is such a bright, calm-minded, capable old body," he said--as if
I were a dull, hysterical fool--"and she has had such swarms upon
swarms of children, and such oceans of sick-nursing, and Phyllis is so
fond of her, and as you were not get-at-able, Mater dear----"

Oh, it was sickening! I hadn't patience to listen to him, with his
"Mater dears" and his hypocritical pretences. I saw clearly that it had
been what Harry would call a put-up thing; he had preferred old Mrs.
Juke--a woman of no education, with a figure like a sack of flour tied
round the middle--to me. I suppose his friends had been twitting him
about the tyrannical mother-in-law, in the vulgar conventional way; or
he had been afraid that I would dispute his authority and orders in the
sick-room; or perhaps, to do him justice--he had thought nothing of an
affair which was in his daily experience, although it was his own wife
concerned. In any case, I was sure that Phyllis had not been to blame.
However fond she might be of Mrs. Juke--and probably she feigned
affection to some extent, for her husband's sake --it was her own
mother she would long for at such a time. And her mother she should
have, or I'd know the reason why.

"It is not my fault that I was un-get-at-able yesterday," I said to
Edmund, quietly but firmly. "At any rate I am get-at-able now. I see you
are in a fidget to be after your patients--go, my dear, and tell her I
will be with her in an hour or two. Oh, I daresay there _is_ no
hurry--from your point of view; I am of a different opinion. I am a
woman--_and_ a mother; I understand these things. You don't--and never
could--not if you were fifty times a doctor."

"All right," he returned cheerfully, or with assumed cheerfulness. "I am
sure she will be delighted to see you. Only we shall have to keep her
very quiet for the next few days--not let her talk and argue and excite
herself, you know----"

I laughed--I could not help it--and waved him off. I told him to get
himself some beer, or whatever he fancied, and not to suppose that he
could teach me mother's duties at my time of life. And in a few minutes
he went flying back to town, and I sought my dear husband, where he was
busy digging in the vegetable garden, and flung myself weeping into his
grubby arms.

Tom, too, was quite overcome. Not nearly so surprised as I expected him
to be, but tremulous in his agitation, and almost speechless at first.
For a tough old sailor as he is, he has the softest heart I know.

"My little girl!" he murmured huskily, and cleared his throat again and
again. "And it was only the other day that she was a baby herself. Makes
us feel very ancient, don't it?"

"_No_," I returned emphatically. "I don't feel ancient in the _very_
least. And you, my dear, are in your prime. It is simply an absurdity
that we should be grandparents."

"Well, it does seem rather ridiculous in your case," he rejoined--my
sweet old fellow!--"with your brown hair and bright eyes and figure
straight as a dart. But I----"

"But you," I insisted, "are just as handsome as ever you were--worth a
dozen priggish little whipper-snappers like Edmund Juke."

"Oh! What has Edmund Juke been doing?"

"He let her be ill yesterday--_all_ yesterday--and never sent for me to
be with her!" I sobbed, feeling sure of sympathy here, if nowhere else.
"Did you ever know of a mother being treated so before?"

But Tom--even Tom--was unsympathetic and disappointing. He did not
exclaim and protest on my behalf--did not seem to see how unnatural it
was, and what a slight had been put upon me--but just patted my shoulder
and stroked my hair, as if I were a mere fretful child.

"If you ask me," he said, when I pressed him to speak his mind, "I must
say that I think they showed their sense, Polly. And it's a great relief
to me, my dear, on your account. You are so highly strung, pet, that you
can't stand things like other people. You'd have been worse than
Phyllis. Whereas a placid old Gamp like Mother Juke----"

"_Tom!_" I broke in sharply. "_Who_ told you that Mother Juke was
there?"

"Nobody," said he, with a disconcerted look. "I only thought it likely
that she might be. Was she not?"

"She was. But I want to know why you concluded that she was, when I had
not mentioned the fact?"

"I didn't conclude it. I only knew that she was keeping an eye on the
child, being so experienced, and living so handy."

"How did you know?"

"Ted told me--in a casual way--a good bit ago--I forget exactly
when----"

"Tom----"

But Tom pulled out his watch hastily, plainly anxious to avoid the
corner he felt himself being pushed into.

"Look here, Polly, if you want to catch that train, and have to pack
your bag before you start, there's not a minute to lose. Now that she
knows you know, she'll be looking out for you--wanting to show her baby
to her mother, bless her little heart! And a fine boy too. I'm glad the
first is a boy--though I'm sure I don't know why I should be, for the
girls are far and away the best, to my thinking--girls that grow up to
be good and pretty women, treasures to the lucky men who get them--like
you."

Silly fellow! But he means it all. There are no empty pretences about
Tom. To him there is one perfect being in the world, and that's his
wife. It comforted me to feel that I was appreciated in one quarter,
whatever I might be in others, and the mention of the baby made me
forget everything but my longing to have him in my arms.

"I will go at once," I said, "and you must come too, dearest. You must
support me against the Juke faction. You must see that your child's
mother has her rights."

"Oh, rights be blowed!" he replied, rather rudely. "There's nobody will
dream of disputing them. You don't know what a humble-minded, unselfish,
dear old soul that mother of Ted's is; she wouldn't deny the rights of
a sucking-pig--let alone an important person like you."

"Your mind is always running on pigs," I laughed. "And I am sure that
old creature is just like a great sow fattened up for the Agricultural
Show. She grunts as she walks--if you can call it walking--and you
almost want bullocks to get her out of an armchair when she has once
sunk into it."

"Well, that isn't her fault," Tom commented, grave as a judge.

"Of course it isn't," I acquiesced. "She is getting into years now."

"So are we all."

"Yes. But she is fifteen years older than I am, if she's a day."

"Fifteen years'll fly over _us_ before we know it, Polly. And then _you_
won't like to be crowed over, I'll bet."

"Who's crowing? I merely state a fact. She is."

"Then all the more reason why you should be grateful to her."

"Grateful to her for usurping my rights----"

"Nonsense!"

He had one of his short moods on him, when it is better not to argue
with him. Besides, there was no time for argument. He led the way to the
house, pulling down his shirt-sleeves. He said he would have a wash and
put on his coat and take me to Phyllis's house, and see the baby if
allowed to do so; but he would not promise to stay more than a few
minutes. He did not want, he said, to put them about, when already they
had so much to attend to. Talk of humble-mindedness! His
humble-mindedness makes me want to shake him sometimes. Off the sea he
seemed to forget that he was a commander--a character that Nature
intended him to maintain, wherever he was. One had but to look at him to
see that.

I had to make so many preparations for his comfort and for the proper
safeguarding of Lily in my absence, which I supposed likely to run into
a week or two, that it was noon before I could be ready to set forth.
So I yielded to Tom's suggestion that we should have our usual one
o'clock dinner before starting, and drive ourselves to town in the
afternoon. He wanted to take in the buggy for stores. He could see me
"comfortably settled," he said, and do his necessary business at the
same time.

Alas! How little we anticipated the circumstances of the return journey!
No one could have been happier than I, as I sat beside him behind our
fast-trotting Parson--we called him Parson because of his peculiar
rusty-black colour and a white mark on his chest--talking of the
grandchild we were going to see, and all the family affairs involved in
his arrival. It never crossed our minds for a moment that he was
bringing, not peace, but a sword.

In our excess of considerateness we drove to livery stables, and there
put up our trap; then we walked quietly to Phyllis's house, and Tom
slunk away somewhere, like a rat into a hole, as soon as we were
admitted. His anxiety to be "out of the road" was really undignified.
Of course I made straight for my daughter's room.

The large dining-room was full of waiting patients; I counted three
women and a child as I passed up the hall. Whatever Edmund's faults, he
is one of the cleverest and most sought after doctors in Melbourne. I
have heard Mary Welshman and others boasting about Fitzherbert, and
Groom, and Sewell, and the rest, but not one of them is to be named in
the same day with my son-in-law. Phyllis was obliged to use a little
room on the first floor for meals, on account of the lower part of the
house being so overrun; and the poor parlourmaid spent her entire time
in answering the door.

Creeping upstairs, with my noiseless, sick-room step, I met old Mother
Juke, as Tom calls her, lumping down, with the gait of a rheumatic
elephant. She seemed to shake the very street. How my poor child could
stand such a woman about her, at such a time, I could not imagine; it
would have driven me into a fever. Of course she is kind and
well-meaning enough--she can't help her age and her physical
infirmities--I know that. And it is quite true that she has been a great
nurse in her day. But her day is past.

"Good-morning, Mrs. Juke," I said pleasantly, as we met and paused on a
little landing at the turn of the stairs, "you are here early."

Scarcely had I opened my mouth when the mountain fell on me, as it were;
the old thing put her huge arms about my neck and kissed me. I have
always objected to being slobbered over by comparative strangers, and I
did not return the kiss; nevertheless I treated her with the courtesy
that I felt due to my son-in-law's mother.

"And so," I said, smiling, "you have all been conspiring together to
steal a march on me! You have been jumping my claim, as the miners
say--defrauding a poor woman of her natural rights."

"Nothing of the sort, my dear," she replied, in her fat voice--and if
there is one thing that I dislike more than another is to be
"my-deared" in this promiscuous fashion. "You were best out of it, with
your feeling heart. It would only have upset you, my dear, and that
would have upset her; and then Ted would have been in a way, and Captain
Braye would have blamed us. I am sure _he_ is grateful, if nobody else
is."

"He is nothing of the sort," I cried, flaming. "My husband is perfectly
astounded at the way I have been shut out. He never heard of such a
thing as a mother being set aside at such a time."

She was at a loss for an answer to this, so fell back upon praises of
the baby and of Phyllis's satisfactory condition. There was nothing, she
said, that could give me the faintest cause for uneasiness, nor had been
from the first--nor would be, provided she were kept quiet and free from
all excitement. And we ought to be humbly thankful that this was so--to
feel nothing but joy that she had done so excellently, and that the
child was so strong and beautiful.

"That is all very well," I remarked. "But that is not the point. What I
want to know is--and I intend to have an answer--whose doing it was that
I was not sent for yesterday morning?--that I was kept in utter
ignorance of the most important event that has ever occurred in my
family--when, for all you people did to prevent it, my daughter might
have died without my seeing her again!"

We were now in the little first-floor sitting-room, just off the stairs.
It was between three and four, and the luncheon things were not cleared
away. Indeed the house seemed completely disorganised, having no one to
look after it. Old Mrs. Juke, who did not seem to notice this, stood
just within the door, puffing like a porpoise, and trying to look
dignified, which was quite impossible.

"I am very sorry you take it in this way," she said, in a hoity-toity
tone. "We may have made a mistake, but, if we did, we made it with the
best intentions. All we thought of was to save you useless pain. We
knew your nervous, anxious temperament, and how keenly you feel anything
affecting your children; and so we decided----"

"It was not a matter for you to decide," I broke in, with natural
asperity. "I am neither a baby nor an idiot. I have at least as much
sense as any one in this house--I should be sorry for myself, indeed, if
I had not--and I prefer to attend to my own business, if it's all the
same to you. Whether I should be here, or whether I should not, was for
_me_ to say--for me and for my daughter. She, I am very certain, had no
part in shutting me out; and she ought to have been considered, if I was
not."

"It was she," said Mrs. Juke, "who wished it most. Her one desire was to
spare you."

"I don't believe it."

"I am sorry if you don't believe it." The old thing shook like
blancmange in hot weather. "I can only say that it is perfectly true."

"I will ask her if it is true--that she wished to have strangers with
her in place of her own mother."

I started to cross the landing to Phyllis's room, and my teeth were set,
and my heart was thumping with an emotion that I could scarcely
control--but I need not say I did control it. Mrs. Juke hung on to me to
stop me, pleading that Phyllis and the baby were fast asleep together,
and must not be disturbed; and I asked her how she, who had been a
mother fifteen times, could insult a mother by supposing that she would
be less careful of a sick child than anybody else. If I had gone in
alone I am sure she would not have heard me--Tom says that I walk about
the house as if shod with feathers--but Mrs. Juke would come too, and
there was no hushing that solid tread. I saw my darling start up from
the pillow, frightened out of her sleep by the noise, and the flush come
into her cheeks. And Mrs. Juke cried "There!" reproachfully, as if it
had been my fault.

At the same moment another stranger came out of Edmund's dressing-room,
and turned upon me like a perfect fury.

"I must ask you, madam, to be so good as to be quiet," she said. "The
doctor's orders are----"

But I did not wait to be told by her what the doctor's orders were; I
simply took her by the shoulders, ran her back into the dressing-room,
and locked the door upon her. If Edmund's mother liked to be rude to me,
she could, but I was not going to take impudence from a hospital nurse.
I cannot understand the passion young doctors have for those conceited,
overbearing women. This creature was not even married. What, I wonder,
would _my_ mother have thought of a single woman attending a lady in her
confinement? I call it scandalous.

When I had got rid of her, I requested Mrs. Juke to retire also, which
she did. I apologised to her if I had said anything that seemed
discourteous in the heat of the moment, for there was a watery look
about her eyes as if she were feeling rather hurt; and I said to her in
a gentle way, that, if she would only for one instant imagine herself in
my place, she could not help admitting that I was more than justified. I
suggested that it would be a kindness to us if she would see what the
servants were about, judging from appearances, they were entirely
neglecting their duties. I mentioned the state of the lunch-table, and
Phyllis broke in to explain that Ted had begun work so late that he had
not yet found time to come up for anything to eat.

"Never you mind," I said to her, soothing her. "_You_ are not to trouble
your little head about these matters. I am here, darling, and you can
rest from all housekeeping worries now."

And so at last I had my treasure to myself. She was very fluttery, and
cried a little--which I did not wonder at--but soon composed herself,
and proudly displayed the little one cuddled to her dear breast under
the bedclothes. He was a lovely baby (and at this time of writing is the
most beautiful boy you ever saw--the image of me, Tom says); and I
felt, when I took him into my arms, as if my own happy young mother-days
had come over again.

"Now, Phyllis dear," I said to her, as I laid him back into his nest, "I
don't want to bother or disturb you in the slightest degree, but I _do_
want to know whether it was your wish, as Mrs. Juke declares it was----"

However, before I could get the question out, or she could answer, the
door opened; and there stood the nurse, looking at me with her nasty,
hard eyes, as if I were some venomous reptile; and Errington was behind
her. She had actually been to fetch him--he lived almost next door--in
her rage with me for having had the firmness to keep her in her place.
He was one of these modern young doctors who swear by the new ways, and
of course he believed her tales and took her part against me.

"Mrs. Braye," he began, trying to be very professional and superior, "I
must beg of you to leave my patient's room. The nurse has my orders not
to allow her to talk or to be agitated in any way. I do not wish her to
see people at present."

"I will take care," I answered, with dignity, "that she does not see
people."

"Excuse me--she is seeing people now."

"I suppose you are not aware," I said, very quietly, "that I am your
patient's mother? It seems to be taken for granted in this house that
such a person does not exist."

"I am aware of it," he was good enough to admit; "I recognise the fact,
Mrs. Braye, and sympathise with your feelings, believe me. But, if you
will allow me to say so, you are so excitable--you have such a quick,
nervous temperament----"

"And who has dared to discuss my temperament with you?" I demanded
furiously--for this was the last straw--an utter stranger, a boy young
enough to have been my son! "Where is Dr. Juke? I will ask _him_ to
explain. Mrs. Juke"--she was lurking in the passage outside--"will you
be kind enough to send Edmund to me? After all, he is the medical
authority here."

Edmund came hurrying up, and I never saw a man look so much like a
whipped dog. He had not the courage of a mouse in the presence of his
colleague. He spread out his hands with a helpless air--said we were all
under Errington's orders, and that he no longer had a say in
anything--in short, left me undefended to be a laughing-stock to those
people.

I flew downstairs to find Tom, whom I had left in a little office behind
the consulting-room, waiting until I summoned him to see the baby. I
knew what he would think of the way I was being treated, and how he
would vindicate and uphold me. But here I was again frustrated. The
aroma of his strong tobacco was in the air; the ashes from his pipe were
still hot in the tray; but he had vanished. Rushing back into the hall,
I collided with that pert little parlourmaid who answers the door. She
had come to tell me, she said, with an ill-disguised smirk, that Captain
Braye had gone to do some business in the town and would return in the
course of an hour or two. She must have seen that something was the
matter, but she was just as callous as the rest of them.

I said "Very well," as cheerfully as I could, and sought the only refuge
I knew of--the drawing-room on the first floor. It was dark with drawn
blinds and the tree ferns on the balcony, but not so dark that I could
not see the thick dust on everything; and there were flowers in the
vases that literally stank with decay and the bad water their stalks
were rotting in. Feeling sure that I was safe in this deserted and
neglected place, I closed the door behind me, sank upon a sofa, took out
my pocket-handkerchief, and had a good cry. Any mother, hurt to the
heart as I had been, would have done the same.

And while I was in the middle of it I heard a gentle creak, and the
rustle of a soft gown, and a step like velvet on the carpet--Edmund
would have a Brussels carpet, instead of the polished boards and rugs
that I advised. Looking up, alarmed and ashamed, whom should I see but
dear little Emily Blount, with her kind, sweet face, full of the love
and sympathy that I was so much in need of. I had always known that she
was one in a thousand, but never had I felt so thankful that my Harry
had made so wise a choice. She had stolen away from her school to hear
how Phyllis was, and, instead of pushing in where she was not wanted,
had crept like a mouse to the empty drawing-room, to wait there until
she could intercept somebody going up or down the stairs. What an
example of good feeling, of good manners, of good breeding and good
taste! I held out my arms to her, and she ran to them, and kissed and
hugged me, crying out to know what was the matter, in the utmost
concern.

Well, I told her what was the matter--I told her everything; I had to
relieve my overcharged feelings in some way, and, Tom being absent, I
could not have found a truer sympathiser. Words cannot express the
comfort it was to me to know that she would be my real daughter some
day.

"Emmie," I said to her, as she sat beside me with her arm round my
waist, "promise me that, when _you_ have a baby, you will send for me to
be with you--and send for me _in time._"

She blushed perfectly scarlet--which was silly of her, being a B.A., and
of course not like the ordinary ignorant bread-and-butter miss--but she
laid her little face into my neck in the most tender, confiding way.

"It is what I should wish," she whispered, "if only my own dear mother
would not think----"

"Your own mother," I broke in, "has only had you, and I have had four
children. I know much more of those matters than she does, and _you_
know from experience, having been in the house all through Harry's
illness, what a good nurse I am." I had seen Mrs. Blount once or
twice--a sharp little fidgety woman, who would get dreadfully on the
nerves of an invalid who was at all sensitive. "Besides," I added, "own
mothers as a rule are a mistake on these occasions. They are
over-anxious, and the personal interest is too strong."

"Oh, I think so--I do think so," she said, agreeing with me at once. "It
is too hard upon them both, unless they are cold-hearted creatures. And
I would much, much rather have you, dearest Mrs. Braye, if I am ever so
happy--so fortunate----"

"As you will be," I broke in, warmly embracing her. "I am going to talk
to Harry about that little house which he has fallen in love with. I
don't believe in young people wasting the best years of their lives in
waiting for each other."

We had a nice talk, and I told her how well Phyllis was doing--wonderful
as it was, when one considered the mismanagement that prevailed--and
described the beauty of the baby. Emily said she was satisfied, having
such a report on my authority, and stole away as she had come, with no
noise or fuss. I wanted her to stay with me until Tom returned, but she
pleaded her duties, and I am not the one to dissuade in such a case.
When she was gone I sat alone for a few minutes, calmed and braced,
thinking what I should do; then I heard a step, and Edmund came in.

"Oh, _here_ you are!" he exclaimed, with forced hilarity. "I've been
hunting for you everywhere. Look here, Mater dear, I'm so awfully
sorry----"

But I was prepared for these counterfeit apologies, which had no sorrow
in them. I cut him short by inquiring mildly whether Captain Braye was
in the house.

"Not yet--he's not back yet--he will be soon. But look here, Mrs. Braye,
honestly, I wouldn't have had it happen for a thousand pounds."

"Then may I ask you, Edmund, kindly to have my portmanteau sent to the
stables? I will join my husband there."

"No, no," he urged, in a great fluster. "You are not going to leave us.
We sha'n't let you. Your portmanteau is gone to the spare room. You will
stay with Phyllis and the baby, and my mother will go. She is putting
her things on now."

"Then go and stop her _instantly_," I cried. "What! Do you suppose I
want her to be slighted and humiliated because I am? Do you want to set
it about everywhere that I turned your mother out of her own son's
house? I have no place here, Edmund--I had forgotten it for the moment,
but I shall not forget it again; she has. Go at once and tell her that,
if she doesn't stay, Phyllis will have no one."

"And why can't you both stay?" he demanded foolishly.

"My dear boy," I laughed, "if you think that possible, after what I have
just experienced, you must have a very queer opinion of me. I am not
proud, nor prone to take offence, but one must draw the line somewhere.
Two perfect strangers have turned me out of my daughter's room and
insulted me before my daughter's face, apparently with your approval. I
wonder what the captain will think when he hears of it? It will rather
astonish him, I fancy. Even if I consented to expose myself to further
treatment of the kind, I am quite sure he would not. But I am not the
person to force myself where I am not wanted, Edmund; you ought to know
that by this time."

And yet I pined to stay. And when he pleaded that they had all done for
the best, according to their lights, and tried to persuade me that the
entire household, including Phyllis, was overwhelmed with grief because
I was offended, I wondered whether I could, with any justice to myself
and Tom, pocket the indignities that I had received. I said to my
son-in-law--

"Let us understand each other. When you ask me to remain, do you
contemplate keeping on that nurse who was so insolent to me?"

"Oh," said he, "I don't think she meant to be insolent. She's a
first-class nurse. Very strict ideas about duty, but that's a fault on
the right side, isn't it? Errington got her for us, and as he's
attending Phyllis----"

"He would still go on attending Phyllis, I suppose?"

"Oh, I suppose so. Why not?"

"No reason why not, of course, if you wish it. Only you can hardly blame
me if I prefer not to meet either of them again. Good-bye, Edmund. I
have a little shopping to do. And I hope," I burst out, breaking from
him and running down the stairs, "I hope that when your children grow
up, they won't cast you off in your old age as mine have done."




CHAPTER X.

VINDICATED.


Naturally, I did not see much of the Juke household after the affair of
the baby's birth. There is nothing so sad, and so disgraceful to the
parties concerned, as discord in families; but this was no vulgar
quarrel, although several officious busybodies regarded it as such. I
merely took the very broad hint that my son-in-law and his mother had
given me, to the effect that Phyllis by her marriage had passed into
their possession and no more belonged to me. Moreover, one must have
_some_ self-respect, as I represented to Tom, who either could not or
would not recognise the facts of the case, remaining stupidly impervious
to arguments that would have convinced a child; and a proper sense of
dignity is an element of good breeding which I have inherited with my
blood--fortunately or otherwise, as the case may be.

But I was just as anxious, and even more so, to be assured that all was
well. _My_ feelings towards my own kith and kin can know no change.
Therefore I sent Tom to Melbourne every morning to make inquiries.
Perhaps he would have gone in any case, for his own satisfaction, but he
was not the messenger I should have chosen had there been a choice.
Unfortunately, he was the only one available. Without, I am sure,
meaning to be disloyal to me, he would stay there half the day, smoke
with Edmund, lunch with Mrs. Juke, pay Phyllis visits in her room, and
generally allow himself to be cajoled into forgetting the actual state
of things--making me cheap as well as himself, and putting me into a
most false and ignominious position. And then he would come back laden
with "best loves" and "when was I coming to see them again?" and "Baby
was wondering what he had done to be deserted by his dear grandmamma,"
and rubbish of that sort, which any one but he must have seen was
simply insulting under the circumstances, and which sometimes drove me
wild. His weak amiability, in season and out of season, and his habit of
taking everybody to be as goodnatured as himself, made him incapable of
perceiving that a gross outrage had been committed, for which formal
apologies were due. I argued the matter with him for hours at a time,
and had my labour for my pains; he would never positively admit that I
was right, simply because he could not understand the point of view. The
silence that gives consent was the most I got, and I was not satisfied
with that--from him. And so we fell out rather frequently--we, who had
never had a disagreement in our lives--and I was very unhappy.

Nevertheless, I was not going to set foot in Edmund Juke's house until
proper reparation had been made. It was not for a woman of my years and
standing to bow down to a boy and girl and an ignorant old person, who,
I believe, began life in a baker's shop, or some such place. An apology
I intended to have before I would receive them back to favour.

And they did not apologise. It seems to me a petty sort of thing not to
frankly own it when one is in the wrong, but very few people are
large-minded enough to apprehend the difference between false pride and
true. As a rule, they think it derogatory to dignity--a "come-down" so
to speak--to confess to being human and therefore liable to error;
whereas you cannot have a better proof of moral superiority. Edmund and
Phyllis were no exceptions to this rule. They would do anything short of
the one thing they should have done. When the time came for the baby to
be baptized, they wrote a joint letter, couched in extravagantly
affectionate terms, asking me to be his godmother. It was the dearest
wish of their hearts, they would have me believe; and yet--not a word of
regret for what they had made me suffer!

I saw through it at once. They were merely throwing a sop to Cerberus,
as it were, expecting that the little compliment would pacify
me--treating me as a cross child to be appeased with lollipops. Tom was
angry when I expressed my views; he said--what I am sure he was very
sorry for afterwards--that I was "the most perverse woman that ever
walked;" and it really seemed at one time as if this miserable affair
was destined to wreck the happiness of a marriage which for more than a
quarter of a century had been the most perfect in the world. I had never
imagined it possible that _my_ husband could be morose and rude--and to
me, of all people!

I answered the letter the same day. I said I was much obliged to Edmund
and Phyllis for their kind invitation, but I considered I was too old to
stand sponsor to the baby, who should have some one likely to be of use
to him through life. I did not suggest Mrs. Juke as a substitute; I did
not even mention her, nor refer to my grievances; I wrote temperately
and courteously, though not gushingly, and I fully expected that my note
would bring forth another, urging me to reconsider the matter, and
assuring me that I was not too old for anything--as of course I am not.
Instead of this, they affected to be huffy, made no rejoinder, and took
no further notice of me. So my feelings can be imagined when Lily calmly
informed me that _she_ was to be the baby's godmother. I was keeping the
child closely at home, engaged with her studies; I had put a stop to the
Melbourne visits, because I do not believe in town life for a girl so
young, and it was just as easy and very little more expensive to have
her masters come out to give her lessons; therefore I could not imagine
how she had been, as Harry would have said, "got at."

"Oh, are you?" I ejaculated, dissembling my surprise, "and, pray, who
says so?"

"Father," she replied. "Ted spoke to father, and he said I might. And
they want father to be godfather--Mr. Stephen Juke and either father or
Harry--and Harry says his conscience is against something or other in
the baptismal service--and so is Emily's--and that's why they chose me.
And oh, mother, I must! I MUST!"

She said it as if it were "I will," and with that mulish look which I
knew of old, and which meant that she would fight to the death to get
her own way, no matter whose feelings might be trampled on. I did not
stay to argue with her, but flew down the garden to find Tom. He was
pitchforking clean straw into the pigsties, and when he saw me, stood
and leaned on the fork handle with an exaggerated air of resignation.
"Well, and what's the matter now?" was expressed in his face and
attitude, though he did not speak.

"Tom," I demanded, as I paused before him--I will not deny that I was
boiling over "Tom, are you going to be godfather to the Jukes' baby?"

"I don't know, Polly," he said evasively. "Nothing is settled yet."

"If you do," I declared with passion, "I will never speak to you again."

Of _course_ I did not mean that, but he took it as if I had said
something horrible. Never did I expect to see my husband look at me as
he looked then, or to hear him speak to me in a tone so cold and cruel,
or call me names as if he were a common costermonger instead of the
gentleman I had always found him.

"Polly," he said, "because you are behaving like a maniac, am I to do so
too?--to turn against my daughter for nothing at all--my dear, good
child, who never grieved me in her life--and at this time of all times,
when her little heart is full----"

I could bear no more. I burst into tears. I believe the boy was digging
potatoes not twenty yards away, but I did not care; in the middle of
Collins Street I must have done the same. To be misunderstood by the
whole world was a trifle indeed, but to be misunderstood by _him_ an
insupportable calamity.

It was but for a moment, after all. No sooner did he see my tears than
he flung away his fork, hurried me behind a shed, and took me into his
arms to comfort me, as he had always done. All piggy as he was, I threw
mine around his neck, forgiving him everything for the sake of his
constant love.

"There, there," he crooned, "don't cry, pet. What a baby it is, after
all! You know as well as I do that you are just cutting off your nose to
spite your face--now don't you, sweetheart?"

"Oh, Tom," I wailed, "if you would _only_ understand!"

"Well, I do," he assured me, ruffling my hair with his grubby paw. "I
know all about it, little woman. And I'm ready to do anything in the
world to please you. I always am."

"Then you won't stand godfather to that child--without me?"

"Suppose we both stand together? We've done everything together so far."

"I can't. I have refused."

"Then write and say you have changed your mind."

"It's too late. And they don't want me to change it, Tom--they don't
indeed; they only asked me out of politeness; they did not press me the
least little bit. I am sure they were delighted when I declined. They
had calculated upon it."

"Pooh! That's your imagination."

"It is _not_. What, are you going to accuse me of not speaking the
truth?"

"No, no, my dear; but sometimes--well, never mind; we are all liable to
make mistakes. And when I think of the letter they wrote, asking
you--and I'm sure they meant it----"

"They could not have meant it, because when I only half declined--I left
it open to them to ask again--they would not take the hint. Oh, they
don't want me for anything now, and I would die sooner than ever force
myself on them again!"

Tom inquired, in a grave tone, what I had said in my letter--what reason
I had given for declining, or half-declining, in the first instance; and
I told him.

"And, dear," I urged, "if I am too old--and they accepted that as a
valid excuse--what are you?"

"Hm-m," he mused. "I never thought of that. Harry's the man--not me--if
there's anything in being godfather beyond the name. Only Harry jibs at
saying 'I will' and 'all this I steadfastly believe'--as if it were for
a young donkey like him to criticise the Prayer Book that's been good
enough for generations of us. That boy's head is full of maggots. So's
Emily's."

"I beg," said I, "that you will not say a word against Emily, nor Harry
either. They are perfectly right. I think their loyalty beautiful."

"To whom?" asked Tom.

"To me," I said. "Was it likely they would stand sponsors to the baby
over my head? No, they love me too well to countenance anything that
would humiliate me. And Tom, my dear, I think it downright tyranny to
keep those two dear children hanging on as they are doing, wasting their
best years. You forget that I was barely twenty when you married me."

"Barely twenty-two," he corrected.

"And Emily is twenty-three. You might remember what it was to _us_ to
get each other and our little home--how _we_ should have felt if cruel
fathers had kept us out of it!"

"Well, I never thought to hear myself called a cruel father," laughed
Tom, taking everything literally, as usual. "And as for Hal and
Emily--why, you yourself----"

"I did nothing of the sort," I broke in--for I knew what he was going to
say--"and I have always advocated early marriages, because our own was
so successful. Now, Tom, when we have settled the affair of the
christening--but we must do that first----"

"And how's it to be done?" he sighed, heavily. "Good God! I've been
true-blue Church and State all my life, but I'm hanged if I don't wish
there were no such things as christenings!"

I am sure I heartily agreed with him.

And after all he had his wish, as far as our baby was concerned. That
christening was postponed indefinitely. I heard that Edmund had said,
with a man's obtuseness to the logic of the case, that it was better the
child should remain a technical sinner than that all its relations
should become real ones. I was greatly surprised at the decision, but if
they chose to make the poor infant suffer for their faults, it was no
concern of mine. Mary Welshman and her husband wanted to make out that
it was--this, however, was merely a bit of revenge for some strictures I
had passed upon that disreputable brother of hers--and they took upon
themselves to such an extent that I resigned my sitting in the church
and stopped all my subscriptions. Welshman said that if baby died
unbaptized and unregenerate, his eternal damnation would lie at my
door--or something to that effect. I was not going to sit under a
clergyman who presumed to behave to me in that way.

And so, thanks to all this meddling and muddling, the miserable affair
ended in a complete estrangement between my daughter and me. She never
came out to see us, as she had been used to do, and of course I did not
go to see her without being asked. I would not let Lily go either, to
have her taught to be disrespectful to her mother; and the child--too
young to know what was for her good--tried me sorely with her rebellious
spirit. She was worse than rebellious--she was disobedient and
deceitful; I found that she met her sister secretly when my back was
turned, and that she knew when little Eddie cut his first tooth, and
when he was short-coated, though I did not. Tom was mopey and grumpy,
almost sulky sometimes--so changed that I hardly knew him for my
sunny-tempered mate; he seemed all at once to be turning into an old
man. And I, though I tried to fight against it, had a perpetual ache in
my heart, and was tempted sometimes to wish that I was dead, so that I
might be loved once more.

What I should have done without Emily I don't know. Tom gave me
permission to make certain arrangements which would enable her and Harry
to marry and settle, and the excitement and occupation which this
entailed just kept me, I think, from going out of my mind with
melancholy. As it was near the midwinter vacation, I insisted on the
dear girl giving up her school at the end of term; and we fixed a day in
August for the wedding, so as to have the cream of springtime for the
honeymoon. Emily's father--a perfect gentleman---was a cripple, earning
but a small income by law-writing at home, and their house in Richmond
was cramped and close; for health's sake I made her spend part of the
holidays with me, and really it was like the happy old times over again
to see her sweet, bright face about the house. Her companionship was
most beneficial to Lily, too; the child recovered all her amiability,
and was as good as gold. Tom quite brightened up, laughing and joking,
like his old self; and we had Harry rushing out upon his bicycle
directly his office closed, and staying to sleep night after night, so
as to get long evenings with his betrothed. I never saw a pair of lovers
behave with better taste. Instead of hiding themselves in an empty room
for hours, they would play a rubber of whist with the old folks, and
Emily would sing our favourite songs to us, and duets with Lily; and
Harry was like a big boy again with his "Mummie" and his "Mater" and his
many pranks. It was delicious to wake in the night and think of him back
in the family nest--to picture him as he had looked when I went in to
tuck him up, turning his handsome head to kiss his mother. It was a good
time altogether--except for the one thing; _that_ spoiled all--for me,
at any rate, if not for the others.

Every day, and nearly all day long, Emily and I busied ourselves
preparing the new house. The dears had wished to live in our
neighbourhood, like the devoted children that they were, and had fallen
in love with a sweet little villa of half a dozen rooms, in a neat,
small garden, which was the ideal home for a bride and bridegroom of
large refinement and small means. It was a Boom property going cheap,
and Tom and I stretched a point to buy it outright and make them a
present of it; so that I could look forward to having my dear
daughter-in-law near me for many years to come. Such proximity might
have been inconvenient in the case of another person, but I had no fear
of the old prejudice against mothers-in-law operating here.

The drawing-room, furnished entirely to my own design, was a picture. We
had the floor stained and rugs spread about; as Emily said, that was one
of the charms of living out of streets, which, however well-watered,
continually covered your things with dust, as if the house had pores to
take it in by. In town, if you want polished surfaces, you must simply
live with a duster in your hand. Then we papered the walls yellow and
painted the woodwork cream; and we made delightful chintz curtains and
covers for inexpensive furniture, and got a handy carpenter to carry out
our ideas for overmantel and bookcases, and used I don't know how many
tins of Aspinall. Without going into further particulars, I may say that
it was the prettiest little home that can be imagined when all was done.
Emily was only too pleased to leave everything to my taste and judgment,
and I cannot remember ever having a job that I enjoyed more thoroughly.

Then she had to go back to her mother to get her clothes ready. And,
because I could not do without her altogether, I often joined her in
town and had an hour's shopping or sewing with her. I accompanied her,
of course, when she went to choose the wedding-gown--a walking costume
of cloth and silk that would be useful to her afterwards--and on the
following day I kept an appointment we had made to interview a
dressmaker.

For the first time, she was not waiting for me. Her mother met me
instead--a nice, superior sort of woman, quite different from Mrs.
Juke--but a little inclined to be offhand, even with me. I also detected
in her manner a trace of that jealous spirit which above all things I
abhor, especially in mothers, whose natural instinct it is to sacrifice
and efface themselves for their children's good.

"Emily is out," she said. "You can't have her. You'll have to do as I
mostly have to do--attend to your business alone."

"But it is her business I am going to attend to--not my own," I said;
"and I cannot possibly do it without her. It is entirely for her
pleasure and convenience that I have come in to-day, Mrs. Blount, and
she faithfully promised to be ready for me at three."

"Well, you see, sickness is not like anything else--it's got to come
first. It's not an hour since she was sent for, and there was no way of
getting a message to you. She told me to give you her love, and say how
sorry she was."

"Will she be long, do you think?"

"I couldn't say; but she took her nightgown with her."

"Oh! Then I may as well go home at once. And when she wants me again,
she can send me word." I was inclined to be annoyed with Emily for
running me about for nothing, but--providentially--it occurred to me to
inquire what her errand was.

"It's the child," said Mrs. Blount, "that's not very well."

"What child?"

"The little Juke baby. He has only a cold, his mother thinks, but, as
the doctor is away just now, she's nervous about him. So she sent for
Emily."

"For _Emily!_" My heart swelled. I cannot describe the feeling that came
over me. Mrs. Blount stared at me in an odd way, and I have no doubt had
cause to do so; I must have stared at her like a daft creature. Neither
of us spoke another word. I just turned and ran out of the house, ran
all the way to the tram road, ran after a tram that had already passed
the end of the street, and in a quarter of an hour was jumping from the
dummy of another opposite my darling daughter's door. No doubt my fellow
travellers smiled to see a matron of my years conducting herself in that
manner, but I cast dignity to the winds. A new maid who did not know me
answered my sharp pull at the house bell, and told me Mrs. Juke was not
at home to visitors.

"How is the baby?" I gasped out, trembling in every limb.

"We have just sent for Dr. Errington," she replied. And then I rushed
past her and upstairs to Phyllis's room.

As soon as I opened the door, and heard the sound in the air, I
recognised croup. It reminded me of times, in years gone by, when I had
wakened in the night and wondered for a moment what the extraordinary
noise was that pulsed through the house like the snoring of a wild
animal, and then leaped from my bed in agony as if a sword had gone
through me. I could see my own child's face, swollen and dark with
threatened suffocation, looking to her mother for help with those
beseeching eyes: just in the same way they looked at me now, only now
the mother-anguish was wringing _her_ poor heart. She was walking up and
down the floor distractedly, with the baby in her arms--he had grown a
huge fellow, and weighed her down; and Emily was wildly turning the
leaves of a great medical book of Edmund's, blind with tears. Dear,
loving, futile creatures! It was more than I could bear to see them, and
to hear my Phyllis cry, "Mother! Mother! Oh, mother, tell us what to
do!"

In one moment my cloak was on the floor and the babe was in my arms. He
struggled to cry, but could not get the sound out--only the brazen crow,
and harsh, strangled breath, which, I was informed, were symptoms of a
crisis which had only just appeared, attacking him in his sleep--and
Phyllis, when she had given him to me, clasped and unclasped her hands,
wrung them, and moaned as if some one were killing her.

"Ipecacuanha wine!" I shouted. "Run Emily! Run over to the chemist's and
get it fresh--it must be fresh--and don't lose an instant! Hot water,
Phyllis, and a sponge! And tell them to get a bath ready!"

They scurried away, and Emily, hatless and panting, was back from the
chemist's on the other side of the street before I had finished
loosening the infant's clothes; and he nearly choked himself with the
first spoonful of the stuff, which nevertheless I was obliged to make
him swallow.

"He can't! He can't!" Phyllis moaned, tears that she forgot to wipe away
running down her poor face like rain down a window-pane. "Oh, he's
choking! He's going into convulsions! He's dying! Oh, Ted, Ted! Oh, my
precious angel! Oh, what shall I do!"

I calmly gave him another spoonful of the ipecacuanha wine, for I knew
what I knew--that in ten minutes all this grief would subside with the
sufferings of the poor child--and almost immediately the expected
results occurred. It was an agitating moment for her, still imagining
convulsions and the throes of dissolution, and an anxious one for me,
because this was a much younger victim to croup than any I had had to
deal with; but when the paroxysm passed it was evident to everybody--and
the servants also were standing round--that his distress was already
soothed and the tension of the attack relieved. I put him gently into
the warm bath, heating it gradually till he might almost have been
scalded without knowing it, fomenting the little throat with a soft
sponge; and when I took him out and rolled him in a warm blanket, he
sank at once to sleep in my arms, and the crisis and the danger were
over.

Then in dashed Dr. Errington, desperately alarmed because he was so
late, and full of suspicious questions. Phyllis took him aside and
explained everything, and, although it was hard to convince him that the
right thing had been done, eventually he was convinced, and owned it.

"I congratulate you, Mrs. Braye, on your presence of mind," he said
handsomely. "It it not at all unlikely, from what Mrs. Juke tells me,
that the prompt measures you took averted a serious attack."

"Thank you, doctor," I replied with a modest smile. "I am glad to prove
to you that I am of some use in a sick-room."

He looked a little embarrassed--as well he might--and Emily flushed up.
It was her habit to blush at anything and nothing, like a half-grown
school girl. But Phyllis spoke out bravely.

"Mother has just saved his life, Dr. Errington--that's all. If she had
not come at the moment she did, he must have choked to death. None of us
knew what to do to relieve him, but she knew at once." Then, as she
kneeled beside me where I sat on the nursing chair by the fire, she
dropped her poor, pretty, tired head upon my shoulder, and said, in the
most natural way in the world: "Father is right--there's no nurse in the
world like her."

I have had many happy moments in my life, first and last, but I do think
that was one of the happiest.

We sat by the fire until dusk--we three and the sleeping child. He had
gone off in my arms, and I would not permit him to be moved or touched.
As long as the light lasted I watched his sweet face, and the blessed
dew of perspiration on his still open lips and where the matted curls
stuck to his nobly-shaped brow; never had I seen such a splendid boy of
his age--except my own. I made Phyllis put up her feet on a lounge
opposite, and every now and then I met her wistful eyes looking at me
as if she were a child herself again. Yet I saw a great change in
her--the great change that motherhood makes in every woman--enhancing
her charm in every way. Emily sat on the stool between us. Once or twice
she attempted to go--and I wished she would--but Phyllis would not let
her. However, though not one of us yet, she would be soon, and in our
murmured talk together I instructed them both in some of the things of
which, in spite of a doctor being the husband of one of them, they were
alike ignorant.

"Remember," I said, "never to be without a four-ounce bottle of
ipecacuanha wine, hermetically sealed when fresh, and kept where you can
readily lay your hand upon it. And when you find your child breathing in
that loud, hoarse way, or beginning that barking cough, give a
teaspoonful at once--at _once_--and another every five minutes until
relieved. Now don't forget that, either of you. You thought it only a
bad cold, Phyllis dear, but I could have told you differently if you
had sent for me. When he gets another attack----"

"Oh, do you think he will have another?" she gasped, springing up on her
sofa with that unnecessary, uncontrollable agitation which I understood
so well.

I told her I expected it, but that there was no need to be alarmed,
since she now knew how to recognise and deal with the complaint, which,
even if constitutional with him, he would grow out of in a few years. I
suggested causes to be guarded against--stomach troubles, the notorious
insalubrity of Melbourne streets, and so on--and reassured her as much
as I could.

"Pray Heaven," she sighed, with tears in her eyes, "that I may never see
him like this again! Oh, I can't bear to think of it!" She shuddered
visibly. "He would have been dead now--now, at this very moment--and Ted
would have come home to find we were childless--if it had not been for
you, mother."

"I think it very likely," I said, looking at the darling as I gently
swayed him to and fro on the low rocking-chair. "But he won't die now."

"And he wasn't christened!" she ejaculated.

"_That_ didn't matter," Emily put in, with her inevitable blush. "You
don't believe in that old fetish of baptismal regeneration, surely,
Phyllis? You don't think the poor little soul would have been plunged
into fire and brimstone because a man did not make incantations over
it?"

I rebuked Emily. As I had before remarked to Tom, she had all sorts of
maggots in her head. It was the B.A., the advanced woman, coming out in
her, and I did not like to see it, my own family having been brought up
so differently. I observed with relief, that Phyllis took no notice of
her flippant questions. She looked at me--knowing that I should
understand--and said she felt as if it would be a comfort to her somehow
to have him baptized. I suggested that it would be nice to have it done
in the cathedral as soon as he was well enough; and just after that he
awoke, we gave him his medicine, and Emily went home.

When I had dressed the child for his cot and made him comfortable I took
up my own cloak and bonnet. But Phyllis looked so aghast at the
proceeding, and implored me with such evident sincerity not to leave
her, and particularly not to leave the baby, that I consented to stay at
any rate until Edmund returned--although, as I represented to her, her
father would be thinking I had been run over in the street.

When she heard her husband's step in the hall she made an excuse to run
down to speak to him about the boy, and they came back together, and
straightway embraced me with all their four arms at once. Edmund, who
has always had the manners of a prince, spoke in the nicest way about my
goodness to them.

"And now you won't leave us any more, Mater dear--now you see how badly
we manage things without you to help us? I have sent a message to the
captain--I've asked him to come by the next train--and your room is
getting ready. You _will_ stay--for our sakes--won't you?"

I wept on Edmund's shoulder, like a complete idiot. And of course I
stayed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Shall I ever forget that springtime! The garden was a garden of Eden
with flowers and birds--the bulbs in bloom, bushes of carmine japonica,
great clouds of white almond and pink peach blossom overhead, and the
scent of daphne and violets at every turn. As for the house, it was a
little paradise on earth, which a house can never be, to my thinking,
without a baby in it. To see that dear child crawling all over it, with
Phyllis flying after him--to hear him chirping to his grandfather, who
seemed to forget there were such things as pigs and fowls to see to--oh,
it was too blissful for words! I easily persuaded Edmund that Collins
Street was a place for women and children to live in when they must and
get out of when they could, and he knew when he confided his treasures
to me that they could not be in safer hands. He told me so, and I am
happy to say the event justified his faith. Every time that he came
over--which was almost daily, though often he had not half an hour to
stay--he found them rosier and plumper, turning the scale at a trifle
more.

As I kept them for the summer--in the middle of which we all went to
Lorne for a month--they were with me at the time of Harry's marriage in
the spring. Edmund came down that morning to fetch his wife and Lily to
the wedding, bringing a carriage for them and Tom. Of course they wanted
me to go--everybody wanted it--Tom almost flatly declined to stir a step
without me; but I said, no, I would keep house and take care of the
precious grandson. After the way I had been deprived of him in the past,
it was beautiful to think of having him for a whole day to myself. And,
as I said to Tom, it was all an old woman was fit for.

"Oh, I like that!" he laughed, throwing an arm round my waist. "You know
very well you've only got to put your smart gown on and walk away from
the lot of 'em--bride and bridesmaids and all."

Old goose! But I am sure when he was dressed, and the lilies of the
valley stuck in his buttonhole, he could walk away from any young
bridegroom in the matter of looks--aye, even his own handsome son. They
all kissed me fondly before leaving the house--my pretty girls, and
Edmund, who was as dear as they--and I stood at the gate to see them go
with the pleasant knowledge that I should be more conspicuous by my
absence than any one by their presence at the wedding party, except the
bride herself.

In the afternoon, when Eddie was asleep and I was beginning to feel
rather tired of my own company, I had a visit from kind old Mrs. Juke.
She too had married her sons and daughters, so she could sympathise with
me. We had a comfortable tea together, and lots of talk, comparing
notes, as mothers love to do; and then we amused ourselves with our
grandchild, like two infants with a doll. She was of Tom's opinion that
he was the image of me, and she was in raptures at the improvement in
him since I had "saved his life"--as she persisted in calling the mere
giving of a simple emetic. Strange to say, with all the children she had
had, she could not remember a case of croup amongst them, and she did
not know the sovereign virtue of fresh ipecacuanha wine. Later in the
afternoon we walked to the new house, wheeling the perambulator in turn;
and I showed her everything, and she thought all perfect--as it was. She
was wonderfully agile for a rather stout woman, making nothing of the
long tramp; and her intelligent appreciation of artistic things
surprised me. I had long discovered the fact that she was excellently
educated. Her father had had large flour mills and been wealthy in his
day, and his daughters had all had advantages--far more than I had had
myself, in fact. Poor Mrs. Blount, on the contrary, had never mixed with
cultured people, as her accent indicated.

"Well," said Ted's mother, in Ted's own nice way, when our inspection of
the little house was ended, "Emily Blount ought to be a happy girl."

"And she is," I replied. "About as happy as a young bride ever was in
this world--except myself."

"And me," said Mrs. Juke.

"And you."

I was glad and proud to believe that it was so.

But since then I have wondered sometimes whether Emily appreciates her
extraordinary luck as she ought to do. Now and then it comes across me
that she takes it a little too much as a matter of course.

It is very nice--very nice indeed--to have her living so near me, but I
must say she is not quite so docile as she was before her marriage.
Being a University woman, she naturally knows nothing in the world about
housekeeping, and it was only in kindness to her and out of
consideration for Harry's purse that I advised her now and then on
domestic matters. I thought to be sure she would be grateful for hints
from one of such large experience, but it was evidently otherwise,
since as a rule she did not take them. I told her that three pounds of
butter a week for three people was preposterous, and that light crust
made of clarified beef dripping was infinitely nicer as well as more
wholesome than the rich puff paste they put to everything; but she went
on taking the three pounds just the same. Though I gave her a sausage
machine and endless recipes for doing up cold scraps, I used to see good
pieces of meat thrown away continually; and a girl they had, who lit the
morning fire with kerosene, and who told my Jane that she "couldn't
stand the old lady at no price," broke crockery every time she touched
it, and yet they persisted in keeping her. As I said to Harry, if they
got into these extravagant ways when there were but two of them, how
would it be presently when there was a family to support? But your son
is never the same son after he has taken a wife, and Harry did not like
to be appealed to. The other day he said, "Please don't interfere with
her"--quite as if he were speaking to some meddlesome outsider. _I_
interfere! The notion was too absurd. I reminded him how I had held
aloof from the Jukes when they were young beginners, as proving as I was
not the sort of person to force myself where I was not wanted, even upon
my own children. But he and Emily are not like my beloved Edmund and
Phyllis, who think there is no one in the world like "Mater dear."


THE END.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Materfamilias, by Ada Cambridge

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MATERFAMILIAS ***

***** This file should be named 40659-8.txt or 40659-8.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
        http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/6/5/40659/

Produced by Clare Graham, Laura McDonald at
http://www.girlebooks.com & Marc D'Hooghe at
http://www.freeliterature.org (Images graciously made
available by the Internet Archive.)


Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.

Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.



*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at
  www.gutenberg.org/license.


Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works

1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B.  "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark.  It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.  See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.

1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.

1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
     address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
     License.  You must require such a user to return or
     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
     Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
     of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.

1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.


Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org


Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at 809
North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887.  Email
contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the
Foundation's web site and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

For additional contact information:
     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
     Chief Executive and Director
     gbnewby@pglaf.org

Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
To donate, please visit:  www.gutenberg.org/donate


Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone.  For forty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

     www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.