At first it is rather nice, having a fire lit in your bedroom, ordering tea to be brought up, beginning a new novel, drawing the blinds, and lighting a little silver lamp. Cook says that she can manage Master Tommy splendidly until nurse comes back. It is a pity Maggie has to count the laundry to-day, but it can’t be helped.
The bed is soft and warm; the hot-bottle is almost as good as a visit to the Riviera; you turn the pages of your novel.
A piercing shriek rends the air—and another—and another—hot and damp with terror, your heart galloping like a fire engine, you are in the nursery—no time for a dressing-gown. It is impossible to say which is making the most noise, the baby or the cook. “Yeow, yeow, yeow, yeow,—hush, hush—yeow, yeow, yeow—there, there, there: there’s a pretty boy—upsy-daisy! peek-a-boo! yeow, yeow——” “Exactly what I told that vile doctor would happen,” you mutter, stopping your ears. “Don’t rock him like that!” you bawl. “Beg pardon, m’m?” inquires cook, with a smile and cocking one ear at you while the baby’s head swings now to the lamp above his head, now down to the ground, missing the coal-scuttle by a hair’s breadth. “Beg pardon, m’m? I’m sorry he’s disturbed you. Upsy-daisy! We’ve been getting on capitally.”
Struggling between politeness and gratitude, fear of offending the cook (it is the great dread that hangs over us all), and the murderous instinct of the parent whose young has been annoyed, you take your offspring on your knee and offer him your humble apologies, while cook runs off “just a moment to see to the kettle.”
Ten minutes elapse. You are getting very cold in your little cambric nightgown. The baby is inclined to be exacting, like one who brings a petition for heavy damages for a small injury. He is rather jumpy in the nerves, and inclined to be suspicious and contradictory.
“Why don’t you want me to break that cup?” is the kind of question that he asks, “Why don’t you? Why”—increasing to a wail—“why don’t you? Will you tell me why you don’t want that cup broken——” “Oh hang!” you say, “because I don’t. What on earth is cook doing?” You are hot now instead of cold. “Do play with your soldiers, Tommy.” “Why do you look like that?” says Tommy, beginning to cry. “What’s that on your cheek?” he demands suddenly, fingering your pet mole with a sticky finger. It is now twenty minutes since cook left the room. You ring the bell violently.
“Why do you ring the bell?” asks Tommy, now weeping unrestrainedly. “I don’t want you to ring the bell—I want my tea—I want Nanny—I don’t want medicine—I don’t want you to ring the bell—my tooth is sore—I want Nanny——”
Cook comes rushing up. “Sorry to have kept you, m’m,” she says, “but I had to chop a few sticks for the kettle; the fire had gone that low. Now, master, come to me and we’ll ride-a-cock-horse.”