Materfamilias Part 2

"And you really and truly do wish to marry me, Mary?"

I attempted to laugh at his tragic gravity and his awkward choice of words. I said I didn't unless he did, that I wouldn't inconvenience him or force his inclination for the world. I asked him, plainly, whether he thought that quite the way to put it.

"Yes," he said. "For I want to make sure that I--that circ.u.mstances--are not taking advantage of you while you are young and helpless. And yet how can I be sure?"

He took my face between his hands and gazed at it, as if he would look down through my eyes to the bottom of my soul. I shut them after a moment, and tears began to ooze between the lids at the thought that he could doubt me. One trickled out and splashed upon his knee, and my heart began to heave with the impulse to cry in earnest. Then he drew my face--drew me into his arms, and we sat a little without speaking, hearing our hearts thump.

"We'll chance it, shall we?" he whispered between short breaths. "Sooner or later it must come to that, and better as soon as possible if I have to leave you in Melbourne alone. You won't be so much alone if you belong to me, even when I am away--will you, sweetheart?"

I merely sighed--that kind of long, full, vibrating sigh which means that your feelings are too deep for words.

"I think I shall be able to answer to your father--I hope so," he continued, rallying his constant self-control. "I think I am justified, Mary. If not----"

But I would not let him go upon that tack. Justification was absolute, in my view of the case. I know what the ill-natured reader will say--she will say that I threw myself at his head, that I forced myself upon him, that I did not give him a chance to get out of marrying me if he had wanted to; but that is only because she knows nothing whatever about it.

I cannot explain. I simply state the fact that we had one mind between us on the matter, and if she doesn't believe me I can't help it.

"This is Monday," Tom repeated, "and I sail on Friday. If we are going to do it, Mary, I'd like it done before I leave. There's nothing to wait for, if we don't wait for the letters, is there?"

I told him nothing--that I was in his hands; and he proposed that we should walk out then and there to find some one to "splice" us, as he appropriately termed it, because it would be so much easier to attend to all the other business after we were man and wife than before.

Sailors have a terse way of acting as well as of speaking, and the change that made life such a different thing for both of us actually took place that very day as ever was. When the unknown admirer would have followed young Mrs. Filmer in her evening walk--it was too hot to go out earlier--there was no such person. Mrs. Braye was dining delicately at a pleasant seaside hostelry, in the company of her lawful protector, whose name alone was like a charm to keep his proud wife in safety.

We gave ourselves until Wednesday morning. Then we worked all Wednesday and Thursday, like two navvies, to settle ourselves in the small lodging that we selected for our first home. We were as poor as poor could be and had to proceed accordingly, but little I cared for that, or for anything now that I had him. On Friday afternoon he sailed--a subordinate on that trumpery intercolonial boat, after being captain and lord of an English s.h.i.+p--and I cried all night, and counted the hours all day till he returned, when I went quite daft with joy. Not that much joy was allowed us, even now, seeing that the greater part of his short sojourn in port had to be spent on board. But it was wonderful what value we could cram into the precious minutes when we did get them.

Again we had the agony of parting, the weary interval of separation, the renewed bliss of the return, continually intensified; and then the letters came--the letters we had tried, so unsuccessfully, to wait for.

Father desired me to come home for a time--a foregone conclusion--and Miss Coleman did the same in more impa.s.sioned sentences. I daresay it was heartless, but I laughed and danced with delight to know that it was all too late for advice of that sort. And, to counteract any possible feeling of remorse, Aunt Kate wrote in the sweetest way, all fun and jokes, practically approving and encouraging me in the course I had taken. To a young woman so situated, she said, fathers were quite useless and superfluous, and she advised me to please myself, as I had always done--that was how she put it. Best of all, she sent me a draft for 500, either to come home with or for a wedding present, as the case might be. And this precious windfall enabled us to take a little private house that we could make a proper home of.

The worst of being on these small lines is the uncertainty about the movements of your s.h.i.+p. In winter Tom would run one trip for months, or suddenly stop in the middle for docking and repairs--a mere excuse for laying up, I used to say, because trade was not paying expenses--in which case he would have a holiday without salary, and the pleasure of his companions.h.i.+p would be marred by anxieties about money. In summer there were occasional special excursions, "round tours," that kept him away for a month or six weeks at a time; and these were what I dreaded most.

We had not yet had this long separation, but I knew--knew, but would not admit--there was danger of it when we had been married a little less than a year. It was our second Australian summer, and the time of all times when I could not endure to part from him. I had now grown accustomed to having him at home for a day and a couple of nights weekly--happily he had a command again, such as it was, and could do as he liked in port--and that was far, far too little, under the circ.u.mstances.

He was sleeping late, and I, having prepared his breakfast, sat down by an open window to read the morning paper until he should appear. As a matter of course, I _always_ saw the name of our s.h.i.+p before I saw anything else, even the Births, Marriages, and Deaths; she had her place in a list of the company's vessels, with her sailing dates, in smallish print, answering to her comparatively modest rank in life; my eye fell on the exact spot by instinct in the moment of the page becoming visible. I suppose it was the same instinct which to-day drew my first glance to quite another column, where s.s. Bendigo stood in larger type.

My heart jumped and seemed to stop--"Christmas Holiday Excursion to West Coast of New Zealand, if sufficient inducement offers." There it was!

And I felt I had all along expected it.

I got up to run to Tom with the news. On second thoughts I decided to let him have his sleep out before dealing him a blow that would spoil his rest for many a night to come, and tramped round and round the breakfast-table, moaning and wringing my hands, asking cruel Fate why Christmas should be chosen--_this_ Christmas of all times--and how I was to get through without my husband to take care of me.

My husband looked most concerned when he saw what I was doing. "Hullo, Polly, what's up?" was his greeting, as he faced me from the doorway; and his bright home-look vanished like a lamp blown out.

I could not speak for the rush of tears. I held out the newspaper, pointing to the fatal spot, and, when he took it, abandoned myself upon his shoulder.

"Oh, Tom--Christmas! _Christmas_, Tom!"

He read in silence, with an arm round my waist. For a whole minute and more we heard the clock ticking. Then he cleared his throat, and said soothingly: "After all, it mayn't come to anything--at any rate, not till afterwards. People don't care to be away from their homes at Christmas. It's only an approximate date."

He was wrong. The postponements that invariably take place at other times did not occur this time--as if on purpose. The hot weather set in early, and it seemed that many people did desire to escape, not from it only, but from the social responsibilities of the so-called festive season. The Bendigo was a good boat, as everybody knew, and her captain a great favourite with the travelling public. I don't wonder at it! So that the pa.s.senger list filled rapidly, and every day brought us less hope of a reprieve. Tom seemed a year older each time that he returned from the regular voyage, bringing this information, and I know I nearly drove him mad with my pale face and tear-sodden eyes. One day he told me so.

"_What_ am I to do?" he groaned, staring strangely. "How can I leave you like this? I can't, I can't! and yet, if I don't go, Polly--it is all our living, my dear----"

Nothing ever frightened me so much. For _him_ to have that look of agitation--my strong rock of protection and defence--he who had never wondered what he was to do, but always knew and did it, while others wondered--it was too shocking. I pulled myself together immediately.

"After all," I said, with a gulp and a smile, "the other poor seamen's wives have to take their chance of this sort of thing, so why not I?"

"You," he replied, in his fond, stupid way, "are not like the others, my pretty one."

He meant that I was far more choice and precious.

"Being pretty," I rejoined, "is no disadvantage that I know of, having regard to the present circ.u.mstances. Now if I was delicate, then you _might_ be anxious. Tommy, dear, I can't have you look like that! And there's no reason in the world why I should not do as well as possible--as well as everybody else does; indeed, I'm sure I shall. Of course I shall miss you awfully--awfully"--my cheerful voice quavered in spite of myself--"but there will be the proper people to look after me, and--and--_think_ what it will be when you come back again!"

He had me in his arms now, with my face under his left ear.

"My brave girl!" he murmured. "My own brave girl!"

Just as when he called me that before, my heart rose elated. I determined to deserve the t.i.tle.

"Of course you must go," I said firmly; "it is our living, as you say.

No use having a family, and nothing to keep it on, is it? I suppose it won't be _more_ than a month? A month is soon over. I can send you telegrams. Don't you worry about me. I'm a wicked idiot to fret and grumble; it is because you have spoiled me, love! I have got so used to having you to take care of me----"

I choked, and burst into fresh tears.

However, I did manage to keep up very well until he went. Of course he _had_ to go; we agreed about that. Not much of Aunt Kate's wedding present was left by this time. We had our little home, all comfortable and paid for, but his small salary comprised the whole of our current income. It would never have done to jeopardise that.

But oh, it was cruel! It _was_ cruel! He says I shall never understand the agony of his soul when he bade me good-bye, and I tell him he can't possibly have suffered the thousandth part of what I suffered. We clasped and kissed as if we never expected to see each other again. I really don't think we did expect it. And yet I was quite well and strong, and every possible thing had been done to safeguard me in his absence. Poor as we were, he made the nurse, who charged three guineas a week, come into the house before he left it, and engage to stay there till his return; and he also installed a nice old lady, whose son he had befriended, and who he thought would be a mother to me when the time of trial came. So she was; but not even an own mother could have made up for the want of him.

"G.o.d keep you safe for me," he prayed, as he held me to him, heart to heart. "And you'll take care of yourself, my Polly. You won't fret, and make yourself sick and weak--promise that you won't--for my sake!"

"I won't," I answered him, trying to comfort him; "I will be as good as possible. We'll _both_ be well and strong--well and happy--to meet you when you come home again. Tom! Tom! _do_ you realise what the next home-coming will be? Let us look forward to that."

So I kept up to the last, to hearten him. The very last was the seeing the s.h.i.+p go by at nightfall, on her way to sea. I lived where I lived on purpose to have this view of her as she pa.s.sed in and out. I watched for her for an hour, and when she came it was too dark for me to see my darling on the bridge through the strong gla.s.ses he had given me on purpose that I might see him, and the flutter of his cabin towel against the black funnel. Nor could he see me in the blue dusk of the sh.o.r.e, with the evening afterglow behind it. But he sent a farewell toot across the water, and I pulled the blind to the top of my window, and lit up my room with every lamp and candle I could find. I knew he was looking, and that he knew I knew it. We always signalled good-night in this way when he pa.s.sed out late.

So I kept up to the very last. But when I saw his mast-head light go round the pier, like a bright star in the evening sky, and glide towards the sea that was to keep him from me so long when I wanted him so desperately, then I collapsed like a spent bubble, and all my courage went out of me. I think I fainted there by the window, all of a heap upon the floor.

At any rate, his back was hardly turned--he could scarcely have cleared the Heads, we reckoned--when the catastrophe befell. I have often tried to imagine what his feelings were when, at his first port of call, the intelligence was conveyed to him that he had a son, and that mother and child were doing well. He attempted to express them by letter, but he is not literary. And he can't gush. All the same, I know--I know!

Did I say that the happiest moment of my life was when he called me a brave girl? I was wrong. The happiest moment of my life--even though Tom was away from me--was the moment when I heard the first cry of my own child. Words cannot describe the effect on me of that little voice so suddenly audible, as great an astonishment as if one had never expected it; but every mother in the world will understand.

Oh, I am getting maudlin with these reminiscences! I can't help it.

He was a beautiful boy--my Harry--worthy to be his father's son. We called him Harry because Henry was Tom's second name, and also that of my own father, whom I wished to please; for, after all, he was a good father to me, and I used to think that perhaps I had not been as good a daughter to him as I might have been. This thought occurred to me when I had a baby of my own, and wondered how I should feel if, when he was grown up, he were to take his own wilful way as I had done. It does make such a difference in one's point of view, with regard to all sorts of things--having a baby of one's own. For instance, I knew that Miss Coleman--Mrs. Marsh, I ought to say--had two, and when Aunt Kate told me I was actually angry about it; it seemed to me that it was just another impertinence on her part, and that the children were interlopers in my old home. I could not bear to picture them sitting on father's knee, and being carried in his arms, filling my place and consoling him for the loss of me. But now I was quite glad that he had them, and I sympathised with Miss Coleman. I wished she could come and nurse me now, as she used to do; how much better we should understand each other! I resolved to have baby's likeness taken as soon as possible to send home to her, and to ask her to send me the photos of her little ones in return. I was convinced, of course, that there would be no comparison between them.

Doubtless hers were nice children enough--father was a particularly handsome man, in the prime of life--but my baby was really a marvel; _everybody_ said so. His proportions were perfect, his skin as fine and pure as could possibly be, his little face too lovely for words, and his intelligence simply wonderful. Before he was a week old he knew me and smiled at me. He had Tom's fair hair and straightforward blue eyes----

However, I suppose all this is silly. At any rate, the silly fas.h.i.+on is to call it so.

It was dreadfully hot upstairs in that venetian-shuttered room, but still I rallied quickly, and everything went well. The old lady was indeed a mother to me, the nurse inflexibly conscientious, and my own little maid like a faithful dog upon the doormat, constantly asking to look at the baby and to be allowed to hold him. And yet--I know it was ungrateful to them, but I could not help it--I never felt that I was properly taken care of, because Tom was not behind them. I pined for him--oh, _how_ I did pine for him!--happy as I was in every other respect. While I was still weak, and inclined to be a little feverish, I fell asleep and dreamed that the Bendigo had been wrecked, and that he would never come home to see his child. I cannot describe how that dream frightened me and haunted me--that, and the memory of our last parting, when we seemed to have had so many forebodings.

"If I could only go to him!" was my constant thought, knowing that weary weeks had still to pa.s.s before he could return to me, even if his voyage prospered; and once I put it into words, "If we could only go to him, Mrs. Parkinson, _what_ wouldn't I give!"

The old lady patted my shoulder soothingly, and a.s.sured me he would be home in no time, if I would have but a grain of patience; while I had to reflect that it was impossible to go a-travelling without money. I would have "given anything" indeed, but I had nothing to give, though Tom had amply provided for all my wants at home. Moreover, I could only have left the house, while she was in it, over the dead body of my nurse. I could manage the old lady, but not her; she was a rock of resolution where her duty was concerned.