"She will, of course, when you give her the chance," said Tom, with an air of apology.

"She ought to have told me, she ought to have confided in me, first of all," I urged, much hurt, as I had every right to be; "I can't understand why she did not. You seem," I concluded pa.s.sionately--"you all seem to be having secrets behind my back, and shutting me out of everything, as if I were everybody's enemy. It is always so!"

"It is never so," replied Tom, laying his arm round my shoulder. "You are never outside, old girl, except when you won't come in."

That was what they always said when they wanted to defend themselves.

But here we dropped the painful subject, and discussed the details of our proposed festival.

"Only Juke?" I inquired, counting on my fingers. "That makes seven in all--an awkward number."

"No matter for a family party," said Tom. "We are not going in for style this time. The boy in his armchair and pillows will take the room of two."

"Still, we may as well make it an even eight," I urged. "Otherwise the table will look lopsided, and one or other of the girls will have n.o.body to talk to."

"They will be quite satisfied to have their brother to look at. No, no, Polly, don't let us make a company affair of it, for goodness' sake.

Harry wouldn't like it, or be fit for it either."

"And isn't Juke company?"

"By Heavens, no! We owe it to that young fellow that our only son isn't in his grave--yes, Polly, I am convinced of it--and my house is his, and all that's in it. Besides, he'll be here professionally--to see that Harry doesn't overeat himself. Oh, Juke is quite another pair of shoes."

I certainly did not see it. He had served us well, no doubt, and we had paid him well; each side had done its part in a generous and conscientious spirit. I considered he had no more claim on us now than the thousands of pa.s.sengers Tom had carried when he was a sea captain had on him. I am sure no doctor in the world can match a ship's commander of the most common type for self-denying devotion to the cause of duty. But, seeing Tom so inclined to be cross and unreasonable, I thought it better to say no more. We returned to the sty to select the piglet that was to be killed, and in my own mind I selected the guest who should make the table symmetrical. I knew that Harry would only rejoice to see another friend, and it was due to Phyllis to provide her as well as the others with a companion. It was also an opportunity which I did not feel it right to miss for serving her interests in other ways.

I am not one of those vulgar match-makers who are the laughing-stock of the young men, and properly so--quite the contrary, indeed: no one can accuse _me_ of scheming to get my daughters married. Still, they must be married some day--or should be, in the order of nature--and surely to goodness a mother is permitted to safeguard, to some extent, a thoughtless and ignorant girl against the greatest of all the perils that her inexperience of life can expose her to. Not for the world would I force her inclination in any way, but there is a difference between doing that and letting her make a fool of herself with the first casual puppy in coat and trousers that crosses her path. The duty of parents is to protect their adolescent children from themselves, as it were, in this incalculably important matter; that is to say, to keep their path clear of acquaintanceships from which undesirable complications might result, while encouraging innocent friendships that may develop with impunity. Otherwise, what's the use of being parents at all? Your children might as well be orphans, and better. I neglected this duty, certainly, when I allowed Harry and Emily Blount to have access to each other; but then a son is not like a daughter--you can't be always overlooking him--and that affair was a lesson to me. I determined to be more vigilant in Phyllis's case.

Phyllis is not like other girls. I think I may say, without a particle of vanity, that she is the very prettiest in Australia, at the least.

There may be greater beauties at home--I don't know, it is so long since I was there; but if there be, I should like to see them. Her features are not cla.s.sical, of course, and that dear little piquant suggestion of a cast in the left eye is a peculiarity, though it is not a defect, any more than are the freckles she gets in summer: these trifles of detail merely go to make the _tout-ensemble_ what it is--so charming that she has but to enter a room to eclipse every other woman in it. This being so, I was naturally anxious that she should marry, when she did marry, into her proper sphere, and not be thrown away upon a man unworthy of her. And I only took the most simple and necessary precaution for her safety when I limited my invitations to young fellows whom I could trust--like Spencer Gale.

Tom says I never had a good word for Spencer Gale until he made his fortune in Broken Hills. It amuses Tom to make these reckless statements, and it doesn't hurt me in the least. I _always_ liked the boy, but any fair-minded person must have acknowledged that his change of circ.u.mstances had improved him--brushed him up, and brightened him in every way. It was not his wealth that induced me to throw him into my daughter's company, but his sterling personal qualities. A better son never walked, excepting my own dear Harry--that alone was enough for me; a good son never fails to make a good husband, as everybody knows.

His sister was a friend and neighbour of mine, and I knew that he was staying with her. At one time all the family had lived here, Mr. Gale having Tom's fancy for amateur farming and market-gardening in his leisure hours. Spencer and Harry, both being clerks in Melbourne offices, used to go into town together of a morning; that was how we came to know them. But when Spencer had some shares given him which went to a ridiculous price directly afterwards, and when his money, by all sorts of lucky chances, bred money at such a rate that he was worth (they said) a quarter of a million in a twelvemonth, then they all left this out-of-the-way suburb for a big place in Toorak--all except Mary Gale, who married a poor clergyman before the boom. Mary's husband, Mr.

Welshman, was the inc.u.mbent of our parish, and her good brother was not at all too grand to pay her visits at intervals, besides helping her to educate the children. Which proved conclusively that prosperity had not spoiled him.

I walked to the parsonage on Friday afternoon, hoping to find him there; but he was out, and I only saw Mrs. Welshman. I used to like Mary Welshman in the old days, but she has become quite spoiled since people began to make a fuss of her family on Spencer's account. It is always the case--I have noticed it repeatedly; when sudden wealth comes to those who have not been accustomed to it, it is the girls whose heads are turned. I asked for Spencer, and mentioned that we wished him to dine with us, and you would have thought I was seeking an audience with a king from his lord chamberlain.

"Oh, I don't know, I'm sure," she said, with her absurd airs of importance. "He is so much in request everywhere. He is certain to have a dozen engagements. I don't think you have the remotest chance of getting him, Mrs. Braye, on such short notice."

The fact was that she did not want me to get him. She had the fixed delusion--all the Gales had--that there wasn't a mother or daughter in the country who was not plotting to catch him for matrimonial purposes; and she let me see very plainly her suspicion of my motives and her fear of Phyllis's power.

"To-night," she exclaimed, in a tone of triumph--"to-night he is dining at the Melbourne Club, to meet the Governor." Poor thing! It was amusing to see how proud she was of it--evidently bursting to proclaim the news to all and sundry.

"Very well," I said, smiling, "I will just drop a note to him at the club."

And then I turned the conversation upon parish matters, as the best way of taking the conceit out of her. For I don't believe in clergymen's wives setting themselves up to patronise their lady parishioners, on whose favour and subscriptions (to put it coa.r.s.ely) their husbands'

livelihood depends.

On my way home I was fortunate enough to encounter Spencer Gale himself.

He was looking very well and handsome, riding a magnificent horse, which curveted and pranced all over the road when he checked its gallop in obedience to my uplifted hand. I felt a thrill of maternal pride as I gazed at him--of maternal anxiety also.

"My boy," I cried, "do pray be careful! Remember what happened to poor Harry from this sort of rashness, and what a valuable life it is that you are risking!"

"Oh, it's all right, Mrs. Braye," he responded, in his nice, cheerful way. "It is only oats and high spirits. How's Harry? Getting along like a house afire, Mary tells me. I'm awfully glad."

Dear fellow! His kindness touched me to the heart. I suppose he was afraid to dismount from that obstreperous beast, lest he should lose control of it, and I am sure he could not help the way it tried to trample on me with its hind legs when I came near enough to talk.

I told him how beautifully Harry was doing, and how he was to have his first dinner with us on Sunday, and how delighted he would be to see an old friend on such an occasion--and so on. Spencer seemed not to understand me for a moment, owing to the clatter of the horse, for he said he could not come because he was going to dine with the Governor at the Melbourne Club.

"But that is to-night," I called. "And we want you for the day after to-morrow--Sunday. Just a simple family meal at half-past one--pot-luck, you know."

He did not answer for some minutes--thinking over his engagements, doubtless; then he asked whether _all_ of us were at home. Aha! I knew what that meant, though of course I pretended I didn't. I said that no member of the family would be so heartless as to absent herself from such a festival as Harry's first dinner; that, on the contrary, his sister was more devoted to him, and far more indispensable both to him and to the house than a dozen hospital nurses. I described in a few words what Phyllis had been to us during our time of trouble, and he smiled with pleasure. And of course he consented to accept the casual invitation for her sake, pretending reluctance just to save appearances.

It was arranged that he would be at his sister's on Sunday, and walk back with us after morning service.

I told Tom in the evening, when he was sitting in the garden with his pipe, in a good temper. You would have supposed I was announcing some dreadful domestic calamity.

"Whatever for?" he grumbled, with a most injured air. "I thought we were to be a comfortable family party, just ourselves, and no fuss at all."

"There will be no fuss," I said, "unless you make it. He is just coming in a friendly, informal manner, to fill the vacant place. If you will have Dr. Juke, there must be another man to balance the table."

"But why that man? You know Harry can't bear him since he's got so uppish about his money and his swell friends. Why not have somebody of our own cla.s.s?--though I think it perfectly unnecessary to have anybody under the circ.u.mstances."

"Our own cla.s.s!" I indignantly exclaimed. "I hope you don't insult your children, not to speak of me, by implying that they are not good enough for Gales to a.s.sociate with?"

"They are," said Tom; "they are--and a lot too good for one Gale to a.s.sociate with. But he don't think so, Polly."

"If he did not, would he do it?" was my unanswerable retort. But it is useless trying to argue with a prejudiced man who is determined not to see reason. And I felt it wise to leave him before he could draw me into a dispute.

Harry, however, was equally exasperating. He said, "Oh, then I shall make it Monday, if you don't mind. Better a dinner of herbs on washing-day in peace and comfort than a stalled ox on Sunday with Spencer Gale to spoil one's appet.i.te and digestion for it." But Emily rebuked him on my behalf. She had but to look at him to make him do what she wished, and I suppose she thought it good policy to propitiate the future mother-in-law.

Phyllis, whom I had expected to please--for whose sake I had gone to all this trouble--was simply insolent. Alas! it is the tendency of girls in these days. Respect for parents, trust in their judgment and deference to their wishes, all the modest, dutiful ways that were the rule when I was young, seem quite to have gone out of fashion. You would have thought that she was the mother and I the daughter if you had heard how she spoke to me, and seen the superior air with which she stood over me to signify her royal displeasure.

"Oh, well, you have just gone and spoilt the whole thing--that's all."

I could have cried with mortification. But then, what's the use? It is only what wives and mothers must expect when they try to do their best for their families.

I had another struggle with her on Sunday morning. She refused to accompany us to church. She said she was not going to offer herself to Spencer Gale as a companion for a half-hour's walk--that he was quite conceited enough without that; if other girls chose to run after him and spoil him, she didn't. As if _I_ would ask her to run after any man! And as if Emily or I could not have walked home with our guest! But I learned a little later what all this prudishness amounted to. When we came back from church--Emily, Lily, Spencer, and I--we found an empty drawing-room, Harry and Tom in armchairs on the verandah, and Phyllis away in the kitchen garden gathering strawberries for dessert with Dr.

Juke! And I discovered that that young man had interpreted an invitation to lunch at half-past one as meaning that he should arrive punctually at twelve. Tom pretended that he had called professionally at that hour, and been persuaded to put his buggy up in our stables and remain.

"And I suppose you persuaded him?" I said, trying--because Spencer was standing by me--to keep what I felt out of my voice.

"Well, my dear," replied the fatuous man, "the truth is, he didn't want much pressing."

There are times when I feel that I could shake Tom, he is so wooden-headed and silly--though so dear.

However, Phyllis, when I called her in, greeted Spencer Gale with proper cordiality; and the whole family behaved better than I had expected they would. They seemed to lay themselves out to be pleasant all round, and to make Harry's first day downstairs a happy one. It was a delightful early-summer day--he could not have had a better--and our pretty home was looking its prettiest, for we had had nice rains that year. Phyllis had decorated the table beautifully with roses, and Jane had surpa.s.sed herself in cooking the dinner. The pig was done to a turn--I never tasted anything so delicious--and the turkey was a picture. We had our own green peas and asparagus and young potatoes, and our own cream whipped in the meringues and coffee jelly--in short, it was as good a dinner as any millionaire could wish for, and in the end everything seemed to go as I had intended it should.

Harry was no trouble at all. I purposely put him at his father's end of the table, with Emily between him and Juke, to pacify him; and, with his young lady at his side and Spencer as far off as possible, the dear boy was as gay and good-tempered as could be, quite the life of the party.

Spencer sat between me and Phyllis, and she really seemed to devote herself to him. I was surprised to see how little fear she evidently had of appearing to throw herself at his head, like the other girls; she chattered and joked to him--the prettiest colour and animation in her face--and hardly glanced at Juke opposite, who, for his part, confined his attentions to his neighbours, Miss Blount and me, and was particularly un.o.btrusive and quiet.