Materfamilias

by Ada Cambridge

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——"