Materfamilias

by Ada Cambridge

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

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

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

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

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

I answered, "Mr. Harry is going to die—thanks to you, Miss Blount."

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

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

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

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