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."