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 ofTomas a henpecked husband! To dubme, 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 quitesureI 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 hewantedto 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, "howcouldyou leave me behind? Howcouldyou 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."
"YouknewI 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 madeduxof 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 expectedtheirsons 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.
"Duxof 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,Iknew 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.
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. Themostimportant 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, "Whatdoes the doctor say? Is he, oh,ishe 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. Harryisgoing 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 lookedsohandsome—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.Iexciting 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 atsucha 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 ifIwanted 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 undergothisagony 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 tomeany 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, "abouther."
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 imagineIshall 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 youcan'tdo 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? Iknewwhat 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 thinkyouwould 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'tknowhow I feel it, Tom!"
"Yes, I do, pet; I know exactly."
"No one but a mothercanknow. 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?"
"Certainlynot! Do you suppose I want them to go on thinking that you are their only friend, and I their implacable enemy?Iwant 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.Isha'n't desert you."
Yes, yes; of course I still had him. But——
Well, amancan't understand.
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, "Wereyou? 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 itwasinnocent, 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,ingénuefashion—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 hurtsme," I returned, "whenyouspeak 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 thatIwas 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 foryears," 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, hemustbe 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 ofminecould 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.Youare 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 accusemeof 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 thetout-ensemblewhat 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. Ialwaysliked 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 whetherallof 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.