Materfamilias Part 7

The gun! Who would have dreamed of _that?_--locked up in a wardrobe, as we supposed, and forbidden to be so much as looked at except under parental supervision. At the word our hearts jumped, and seemed to stop beating.

"He wanted to shoot the oppossum and cure the skin for a present to you on your birthday, mother. And he wanted it to be a secret--for a surprise to you."

Waif whined and ran, and we ran after him--Tom in silence, I wailing under my breath, already in despair and heart broken. I can see the devoted creature now, pattering steadily over the moonlit paddocks towards the creek and the trees, stopping every now and then to make sure that we were coming; and see him tracking through the scrub with his nose to the ground, and hear his little uneasy whimper when for a moment he could not perceive us.

Once we stopped at the sound of a distant whistle, and I shrieked with joy.

"No," said Tom gently. "That's Harry calling him."

And we came to the place where we had seen the oppossum the night before. The moonbeams trickled through the branches from which it had looked down upon our happy, united family, and just where we had stood together there was a dark something on the ground. Waif ran up to it and licked it----

I can't write any more.

CHAPTER V.

A LITTLE MISUNDERSTANDING.

It was years, literally, before I got over it. Indeed, I have never got over it--never shall, while I have any power to remember things.

Death--we all know, more or less, what it means to the living whom it has robbed. To lose a child--the mothers know, at any rate! It is no use talking about it. Besides, there are no words to talk with that can possibly explain.

I often hear the remark that my husband has the most patient temper in the world, and I realise its truth when I think of that dreadful time--how I must have wearied and discouraged him, and how he never once reproached me for it, even by a glum look. He knew I could not help it.

For one thing, I was ill--physically ill, with the doctor coming to see me. He ordered me tonics, stimulants, a complete change of scene, and so on, but no doctor's prescriptions were any good for my complaint.

Winding a watch with a broken mainspring won't make it go. Tonics gave me headaches--tonics accompanied by constant tears and sleeplessness--and, hideous as the house was, with an empty place staring at me from every point to which I could turn my eyes, I knew it would be worse elsewhere. I clung to my own bed, my own privacy, my home where I could do as I liked and shut out the foolish would-be sympathisers and their futile condolences; and I could not bear to leave the other children. Once you have lost a child, you never again feel any confidence that the rest are safe; you seem to _know_ they are going to die if they but catch a cold or scratch a finger, and that they will have no chance at all if you let them out of your sight. Besides, there were things to see to--the poultry, for instance, which was under my charge--if only I could have seen to them! I tried, but sorrow made me stupid; and when the incubator was found stone-cold, and again overheated, and on one occasion burnt to ashes with dozens of poor chicks inside, and when dozens more were drowned in a storm for want of timely shelter--all fine, thriving birds, when, you couldn't get a decent turkey in Melbourne for under a pound--I suppose it was my fault.

But Tom always said, "Never mind--don't you worry yourself, Polly," and his first thought was to get me a gla.s.s of wine. He was like an old nurse in the way he cosseted and coddled me. When I was more ill than usual, he thought nothing of sitting up all night by my bedside, and making little messes for me in the kitchen with his own hands. He never even said, as I have heard men say at the first starting of tears--not after they have been flowing, like mine, for weeks and weeks--"Why don't you make an effort to control yourself? You know perfectly well that crying only makes you worse and does n.o.body any good"--as if a poor mother cried from choice and perversity and the pleasure of doing it, when her heart was broken! He knew my heart was broken. He understood.

No one else understood. They all thought I could control myself if I liked. Some of them said so, and told one another, I am sure, though I did not hear them, that it was the calm and composed ones who felt the most. That is the theory of books and cold-hearted people; I don't believe in it for a moment. Whenever I see a woman bearing up, as they call it, without showing ravages in some way or other, I know what supports her--not more courage, but a harder nature than mine. A man is different. Tom mourned for our little son with all his heart, though he did not show it; and he did not show it because he is so unselfish. He thought of me before himself, and would not add a straw to my burden.

Never was a tenderer husband in this world! I believe those women thought him foolish and weak-minded to indulge me as he did, but that was envy, naturally; they did not know, poor things, what it was to have such a staff to lean on.

However, one day, when I was showing him how thin I had grown, taking up handfuls of "slack" in a bodice that had been once tight for me, he began to look--not impatient or aggrieved, but determined--as he used to look on board ship when the law was in his own hands.

"Polly," he said, "this has gone on long enough. I'm not going to stand by and see you die by inches before my eyes. Something must be done. I shall take you to sea."

"To sea!" I exclaimed. "We can't leave the children. We can't leave the farm. We can't afford----"

"I don't care," he broke in. "I'm not going to lose you, if I can help it, for anybody or anything. You're just ready to fall into a rapid decline, or to catch some fatal epidemic or other, and I can't have it, Polly; it must be put a stop to before it is too late. The sea's the thing. The sea's what you want. Come to that, it's what I want myself; I've got quite flabby from being away from it so long. It would brace us up, both of us, and nothing else will. You pack a few clothes, pet, and I'll go into Melbourne and look up a nice boat. Don't you bother your head about the farm or the children or anything--I'll see that they're left all safe."

He was so firm about it that I had to give in. The sea, of course, was not like any other change of air and change of scene--it did seem to promise refreshment and renovation, peace even greater than that of my home, where I still suffered from the mistaken kindness of neighbours coming to expostulate with and to cheer me. Besides, when Tom said he had got flabby for want of it, I noticed that he was not looking well.

There could be no doubt about the proposed trip being beneficial to him--I must have urged him to take it for his own health's sake--and I could not be left without him. So I mustered a little energy to begin preparations while he went to town; for though I had begged for time to think the matter over, he would not hear of delay. I never knew him so resolute, even with a crew.

At night he brought back a brighter face than had been seen in our house for many a long day. I was sitting up for him, and even I had stirrings in my heavy heart of a reviving interest in life. All day I had been thinking of our old voyage in the Racer--remembering the beautiful parts of it, forgetting all the rest.

"Well, Polly," said he; "did you wonder what was keeping me so late? The old man"--he meant the head of his old firm--"insisted on my dining with him, and I couldn't well refuse. Talked about everything as frank and free as if I'd been his brother--all the business of the old shop--and said they'd give a hundred pounds to have me back again. By Jove, if it wasn't for you and the children--no, no, I don't mean that; we're happiest as we are--or will be when you are well and heartened up a bit.

What do you think, Polly? I'm to take the old Bendigo her next trip.

Watson hasn't had a spell for years, and there's a new baby at his place; I saw Watson first--he put me up to it--but the old man was ready to do anything I liked to ask him. 'Certainly,' says he; 'by all means, and whenever you choose. And bring the missus, of course--only too proud to have her company on any ship she fancies.' You know he always thought a deal of you, Polly; I declare he was quite affectionate in his inquiries after you--never thought he could be so kind and jolly.

I could have got free pa.s.sages for both of us easy enough, but it's pleasanter to work for them; and I don't think, somehow, that I could feel at home in the old Bendigo anywhere but on the bridge."

"And I should not like to see you anywhere else," I said; "not if we paid full fares twice over. And how nice not to have to pay, when the farm is keeping us so short! How nice an arrangement altogether! I can be upstairs with you--the old man would wish me to do whatever I liked--and have more liberty than would be possible if another was in command, and so can you. It's a charming plan! And the Bendigo, too--our own old Bendigo! Oh, Tom, do you remember _that night!_"

It was some years since he had left the boat on board of which he had been introduced to his eldest son; but whenever we recalled the time that he was captain of her our first thoughts pictured the moonlit bridge and the baby; at any rate mine did. And in my terribly deepened sense of the significance of motherhood nothing could have suited me better than to go back to the dear place where my mother-life began, for it did not properly begin until Tom shared it with me. I would sooner have chosen the Bendigo to have a trip in--if I had the choice--than the finest yacht or liner going.

So we went to bed almost happy. And two days later, having been quite brisk in the interval, safeguarding our home and children as completely as it could be done, we walked down the familiar wharf, amongst the bales and cases, to where the steamer lay, feeling exhilarated by the thought of our coming holiday, as if old times were back again. It was on the verge of winter now and an exquisite afternoon. Even the filthy Yarra looked silky and shimmering in the mild sunlight, tinted rose and mauve by the city smoke; and the vile smells were kept down by the clean sharpness of the air, so that I did not notice them. We were to sail at five, but went on board early so that Tom could gather the reins into his hand and have all shipshape before pa.s.sengers arrived.

How pleasant it was to see the way they welcomed him! Mr. Jones was first officer now (and had babies of his own), and some of the old faces were amongst the crew. The head steward was the same, and the head engineer, and the black cook who made pastry so well; and they all smiled from ear to ear at the sight of their old master, making it quite evident to me that they had found poor Watson, as they would have found any one else, an indifferent subst.i.tute for him. Above all, there was the "old man," as he was irreverently styled--the important chief owner--in person, down on purpose to receive me, with a bouquet for me in his hand. Dear, kind old man! He was something like Captain Saunders in his extreme admiration and respect for "pretty Mrs. Braye," as I was told they called me, and nothing could have been friendlier than his few words of sympathy for my trouble and his real anxiety to make me comfortable on board. One might have imagined I was an owner myself by the fuss they all made over me. It always gratified me--on Tom's account--that I was never put on a level with the other captains' wives.

I had the deck cabin again, and we went there for afternoon tea. The steward brought cakes and tarts and all sorts of unusual things, to do honour to the special occasion; and I put my flowers in water, wearing a few of them, and it was all very nice and cheerful. I felt better already, although we had not stirred from the wharf, and although a New Zealand boat close by us was turning in the stream, stirring up the dead cats and things with her propeller, and making a stench so powerful that it was like pepper to the nose.

Then, as five o'clock drew near, the "old man" went to look after business about the ship, and Tom to put on his uniform. How splendid he looked in it! Almost the only regret I had for his leaving the sea was that he could no longer wear the clothes which so well became him. Talk about the fascination of a red coat! I never could see anything in it.

But a sailor in his peaked cap and bra.s.s b.u.t.tons is the finest figure in the world.

I was just going to meet him and tell him how nice he looked, when one of the lady pa.s.sengers who had been coming on board, and whom I had been manoeuvring to avoid, cut across my bows, so to speak, and rushed at him like a whirlwind. I really thought the woman was going to throw her arms round his neck.

"Oh, Captain Braye!" she exclaimed loudly, "how too, too charming to see you here again. Have you come back to the Bendigo for good? Oh, how I hope you have! Do you know, I was going to Sydney by the mail, and was actually on my way to the P.&O. office, when somebody told me you were taking Captain Watson's place. I said at once, 'Then no mail steamers for me, thank you. No other captain for me if I can get Captain Braye.'

And so here I am. I managed to get packed up in a day and a half."

I could see that Tom looked quite confused. We had both hoped so much that the people would all be strangers who would leave us alone, and he guessed the annoyance I should feel at the threatened curtailment of our independence by this forward person. But there was no need for him to inveigle her out of earshot, and there stand and talk to her for ever so long, as if there were secrets between them not for me to overhear. I know what she wanted--I heard her ask for it--whether she could have the deck cabin as before! A very few seconds should have sufficed to answer _that_ question. She was a stylish person in her way, and her clothes were good, and the servants paid court to her; I asked one of them who she was, and he said the "lady" of a merchant of some standing in Melbourne--just the cla.s.s of pa.s.senger we were most anxious to be without. When their confabulation was at an end Tom brought her to the bench where I was sitting and introduced her to me.

"My wife, Mrs. Harris--Mrs. Harris, dear--who has sailed with me before."

"Often," said Mrs. Harris, extending a bejewelled hand. "We are very old friends, the captain and I."

"Indeed?" I said, bowing. He had never mentioned her name to me. But, as he explained when I told him so, he couldn't be expected to remember the names of the thousands of strangers he carried in the course of the year. I reminded him that she considered herself not a stranger, but a friend; and he said, with a laugh, "Oh, they all do that."

I confess I did not take to Mrs. Harris. I should not have liked any one coming in our way as she did, when we wanted to be free and peaceful, but she was particularly repugnant to me. She gushed too much; she talked too familiarly of Tom--to me also, not discriminating between one captain's wife and another; and she accosted the servants and officers as they pa.s.sed quite as if the ship belonged to her. However, I stood it as long as she chose to sit there, making herself pleasant, as she doubtless supposed. As soon as it occurred to her to go and look at her cabin I seized my hood and cloak, and went to seek sanctuary on the bridge with Tom. It was nearly six o'clock, and he was just casting off.

"Oh, Polly," he said, turning to me with a slightly worried air, "you wouldn't mind staying on deck till we get down the river a bit, would you, pet? It don't look professional, you know, for ladies to show up here. And Mrs. Harris might----"

I interrupted him in what he was going to say, because anything to do with Mrs. Harris had nothing whatever to do with the case.

"Pa.s.sengers," said I, "are one thing--the captain's wife is another--_quite_ another--and especially when the old man has asked me, as a sort of favour to himself, to make myself at home, as he calls it.

Is he on the wharf, by the way? I should like to wave a hand to him. It would please him awfully. Thank Heaven, we are not subject to Mrs.

Harris, nor to anybody else, on board this, ship. That's the beauty of it."

"I feel in a sense subject to Watson," said Tom, "and he's a punctilious sort of chap. I don't care to seem to make too free with his command--for it's his, not mine. And there are heaps of people about besides the old man. You really would oblige me very much, Polly----"

"Oh, of course, dear!"

I saw his point of view, and at once effaced myself. I went into the little bridge house, just behind the wheel--he was satisfied with that--where I could see him close to me through the bow window, and speak to him when I chose. He lit the candle lamp at the head of the bunk, so that I could lie there and read; but I did not want to read. I preferred to stand by the window, which held all there was of table--the top of drawers and lockers--on which I spread my arms, propping my face in hollowed palms, and to look out upon the river with the sunset upon it, and the fading daylight, and the starry lights ash.o.r.e. To call that city-skirting stream romantic is to provoke the derision of those who know it best, but it _was_ romantic that night--to me. Anything can be romantic under certain circ.u.mstances, in certain states of atmosphere and mind.

We were alone together. The dinner-bell rang downstairs, but Tom never left the bridge till he was out of the river, and I did not need to ask him to let me share his meal. The steward brought us up a tray, and we stood in the warm little cabin--the table was not made to sit at--and ate roast chicken and apple pie, like travellers at a railway buffet, Tom stepping out and back between hasty mouthfuls to see that all was right. He was intensely business-like, and as happy as a boy at his old work. We both had the young feeling that comes to holiday-makers who don't have a holiday very often. I could not help it.

Then--when we steamed out between the river lights into the bay--how we sniffed the first breath of the salt sea! And what memories it brought to us!--to me, at least, who had been so long away from it. The pa.s.sengers were at dinner still, and it was falling dark, and there were no spectators save the man at the wheel, who was nothing but a voice, an echo of the quiet word of command, most pleasant to hear; I was free to roam the bridge from end to end, hanging to my husband's supporting arm--to bathe myself in air that was literally new life to both of us.

Cold and clean and briny to the lips--oh, what is there to equal it in the way of medicine for soul and body? What sort of insensate creatures can they be who do not love the sea?