"I am very sorry you take it in this way," she said, in a hoity-toity tone. "We may have made a mistake, but, if we did, we made it with the best intentions. All we thought of was to save you useless pain. We knew your nervous, anxious temperament, and how keenly you feel anything affecting your children; and so we decided----"

"It was not a matter for you to decide," I broke in, with natural asperity. "I am neither a baby nor an idiot. I have at least as much sense as any one in this house--I should be sorry for myself, indeed, if I had not--and I prefer to attend to my own business, if it's all the same to you. Whether I should be here, or whether I should not, was for _me_ to say--for me and for my daughter. She, I am very certain, had no part in shutting me out; and she ought to have been considered, if I was not."

"It was she," said Mrs. Juke, "who wished it most. Her one desire was to spare you."

"I don't believe it."

"I am sorry if you don't believe it." The old thing shook like blancmange in hot weather. "I can only say that it is perfectly true."

"I will ask her if it is true--that she wished to have strangers with her in place of her own mother."

I started to cross the landing to Phyllis's room, and my teeth were set, and my heart was thumping with an emotion that I could scarcely control--but I need not say I did control it. Mrs. Juke hung on to me to stop me, pleading that Phyllis and the baby were fast asleep together, and must not be disturbed; and I asked her how she, who had been a mother fifteen times, could insult a mother by supposing that she would be less careful of a sick child than anybody else. If I had gone in alone I am sure she would not have heard me--Tom says that I walk about the house as if shod with feathers--but Mrs. Juke would come too, and there was no hushing that solid tread. I saw my darling start up from the pillow, frightened out of her sleep by the noise, and the flush come into her cheeks. And Mrs. Juke cried "There!" reproachfully, as if it had been my fault.

At the same moment another stranger came out of Edmund's dressing-room, and turned upon me like a perfect fury.

"I must ask you, madam, to be so good as to be quiet," she said. "The doctor's orders are----"

But I did not wait to be told by her what the doctor's orders were; I simply took her by the shoulders, ran her back into the dressing-room, and locked the door upon her. If Edmund's mother liked to be rude to me, she could, but I was not going to take impudence from a hospital nurse.

I cannot understand the pa.s.sion young doctors have for those conceited, overbearing women. This creature was not even married. What, I wonder, would _my_ mother have thought of a single woman attending a lady in her confinement? I call it scandalous.

When I had got rid of her, I requested Mrs. Juke to retire also, which she did. I apologised to her if I had said anything that seemed discourteous in the heat of the moment, for there was a watery look about her eyes as if she were feeling rather hurt; and I said to her in a gentle way, that, if she would only for one instant imagine herself in my place, she could not help admitting that I was more than justified. I suggested that it would be a kindness to us if she would see what the servants were about, judging from appearances, they were entirely neglecting their duties. I mentioned the state of the lunch-table, and Phyllis broke in to explain that Ted had begun work so late that he had not yet found time to come up for anything to eat.

"Never you mind," I said to her, soothing her. "_You_ are not to trouble your little head about these matters. I am here, darling, and you can rest from all housekeeping worries now."

And so at last I had my treasure to myself. She was very fluttery, and cried a little--which I did not wonder at--but soon composed herself, and proudly displayed the little one cuddled to her dear breast under the bedclothes. He was a lovely baby (and at this time of writing is the most beautiful boy you ever saw--the image of me, Tom says); and I felt, when I took him into my arms, as if my own happy young mother-days had come over again.

"Now, Phyllis dear," I said to her, as I laid him back into his nest, "I don't want to bother or disturb you in the slightest degree, but I _do_ want to know whether it was your wish, as Mrs. Juke declares it was----"

However, before I could get the question out, or she could answer, the door opened; and there stood the nurse, looking at me with her nasty, hard eyes, as if I were some venomous reptile; and Errington was behind her. She had actually been to fetch him--he lived almost next door--in her rage with me for having had the firmness to keep her in her place.

He was one of these modern young doctors who swear by the new ways, and of course he believed her tales and took her part against me.

"Mrs. Braye," he began, trying to be very professional and superior, "I must beg of you to leave my patient's room. The nurse has my orders not to allow her to talk or to be agitated in any way. I do not wish her to see people at present."

"I will take care," I answered, with dignity, "that she does not see people."

"Excuse me--she is seeing people now."

"I suppose you are not aware," I said, very quietly, "that I am your patient's mother? It seems to be taken for granted in this house that such a person does not exist."

"I am aware of it," he was good enough to admit; "I recognise the fact, Mrs. Braye, and sympathise with your feelings, believe me. But, if you will allow me to say so, you are so excitable--you have such a quick, nervous temperament----"

"And who has dared to discuss my temperament with you?" I demanded furiously--for this was the last straw--an utter stranger, a boy young enough to have been my son! "Where is Dr. Juke? I will ask _him_ to explain. Mrs. Juke"--she was lurking in the pa.s.sage outside--"will you be kind enough to send Edmund to me? After all, he is the medical authority here."

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-b.u.t.ter 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----"

"As you will be," I broke in, warmly embracing her. "I am going to talk to Harry about that little house which he has fallen in love with. I don't believe in young people wasting the best years of their lives in waiting for each other."

We had a nice talk, and I told her how well Phyllis was doing--wonderful as it was, when one considered the mismanagement that prevailed--and described the beauty of the baby. Emily said she was satisfied, having such a report on my authority, and stole away as she had come, with no noise or fuss. I wanted her to stay with me until Tom returned, but she pleaded her duties, and I am not the one to dissuade in such a case.

When she was gone I sat alone for a few minutes, calmed and braced, thinking what I should do; then I heard a step, and Edmund came in.

"Oh, _here_ you are!" he exclaimed, with forced hilarity. "I've been hunting for you everywhere. Look here, Mater dear, I'm so awfully sorry----"

But I was prepared for these counterfeit apologies, which had no sorrow in them. I cut him short by inquiring mildly whether Captain Braye was in the house.

"Not yet--he's not back yet--he will be soon. But look here, Mrs. Braye, honestly, I wouldn't have had it happen for a thousand pounds."

"Then may I ask you, Edmund, kindly to have my portmanteau sent to the stables? I will join my husband there."

"No, no," he urged, in a great fl.u.s.ter. "You are not going to leave us.

We sha'n't let you. Your portmanteau is gone to the spare room. You will stay with Phyllis and the baby, and my mother will go. She is putting her things on now."

"Then go and stop her _instantly_," I cried. "What! Do you suppose I want her to be slighted and humiliated because I am? Do you want to set it about everywhere that I turned your mother out of her own son's house? I have no place here, Edmund--I had forgotten it for the moment, but I shall not forget it again; she has. Go at once and tell her that, if she doesn't stay, Phyllis will have no one."

"And why can't you both stay?" he demanded foolishly.

"My dear boy," I laughed, "if you think that possible, after what I have just experienced, you must have a very queer opinion of me. I am not proud, nor p.r.o.ne to take offence, but one must draw the line somewhere.

Two perfect strangers have turned me out of my daughter's room and insulted me before my daughter's face, apparently with your approval. I wonder what the captain will think when he hears of it? It will rather astonish him, I fancy. Even if I consented to expose myself to further treatment of the kind, I am quite sure he would not. But I am not the person to force myself where I am not wanted, Edmund; you ought to know that by this time."

And yet I pined to stay. And when he pleaded that they had all done for the best, according to their lights, and tried to persuade me that the entire household, including Phyllis, was overwhelmed with grief because I was offended, I wondered whether I could, with any justice to myself and Tom, pocket the indignities that I had received. I said to my son-in-law--

"Let us understand each other. When you ask me to remain, do you contemplate keeping on that nurse who was so insolent to me?"

"Oh," said he, "I don't think she meant to be insolent. She's a first-cla.s.s nurse. Very strict ideas about duty, but that's a fault on the right side, isn't it? Errington got her for us, and as he's attending Phyllis----"

"He would still go on attending Phyllis, I suppose?"

"Oh, I suppose so. Why not?"

"No reason why not, of course, if you wish it. Only you can hardly blame me if I prefer not to meet either of them again. Good-bye, Edmund. I have a little shopping to do. And I hope," I burst out, breaking from him and running down the stairs, "I hope that when your children grow up, they won't cast you off in your old age as mine have done."