"If you do," I declared with passion, "I will never speak to you again."
Of course I did not mean that, but he took it as if I had said something horrible. Never did I expect to see my husband look at me as he looked then, or to hear him speak to me in a tone so cold and cruel, or call me names as if he were a common costermonger instead of the gentleman I had always found him.
"Polly," he said, "because you are behaving like a maniac, am I to do so too?—to turn against my daughter for nothing at all—my dear, good child, who never grieved me in her life—and at this time of all times, when her little heart is full——"
I could bear no more. I burst into tears. I believe the boy was digging potatoes not twenty yards away, but I did not care; in the middle of Collins Street I must have done the same. To be misunderstood by the whole world was a trifle indeed, but to be misunderstood by him an insupportable calamity.
It was but for a moment, after all. No sooner did he see my tears than he flung away his fork, hurried me behind a shed, and took me into his arms to comfort me, as he had always done. All piggy as he was, I threw mine around his neck, forgiving him everything for the sake of his constant love.
"There, there," he crooned, "don't cry, pet. What a baby it is, after all! You know as well as I do that you are just cutting off your nose to spite your face—now don't you, sweetheart?"
"Oh, Tom," I wailed, "if you would only understand!"
"Well, I do," he assured me, ruffling my hair with his grubby paw. "I know all about it, little woman. And I'm ready to do anything in the world to please you. I always am."
"Then you won't stand godfather to that child—without me?"
"Suppose we both stand together? We've done everything together so far."