CHAPTER VII.

A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT.

A boy who is not yet twenty-four, and who has nothing beyond his salary as a clerk in a shipping office, and whose young lady is a pauper, can get engaged if he likes; but he cannot get married. I pointed this out to Harry as soon as he was well enough to be reasoned with. I said to him, "You know, my dearest, that there's nothing in the world I would not do to make you happy, but it would not be making you happy to let you think for a moment of such madness." It appeared, from Tom's account, that the child had been thinking of it--doubtless at Emily's instigation. "I might as well encourage you to cut your throat. Far better, indeed."

"Better?" he echoed, lifting his eyebrows, and smiling in that queer way of his.

"Better!" I insisted firmly. "You little know what it means--that rushing into irrevocable matrimony without counting the cost--without knowing what it entails--without experience or means----"

"Mother," he interrupted, still smiling--a little impudently, though I don't think he meant to be rude--"you were not any more experienced than we are, and not any older or richer, were you?"

I replied with dignity that my case was nowise in point. He wanted to know why it was not. I said, because I--unlike him--had been practically homeless at the time. And he cried, "_Were_ you? I never heard of that!" and stared at me in such a way that I blushed hotly, though old enough to know better. He was an obstinate fellow, and he corresponded with his grandfather and young uncles and aunts in England, and had a heap of their autographed photos in his room. I thought I had better turn him over to his father.

Tom was walking in the garden with Emily, who had managed to get around him in that innocent-seeming way of hers--well, I must not be uncharitable; I daresay it _was_ innocent, and I could almost have fancied that they did not care about being interrupted. Only, of course, that's nonsense.

"My dear," I said, in a sprightly voice, "your young man seems to find his mother a bore these days, and it's only natural. I have been trying to cheer him, and he responds by yawning in my face. Pray do go and exercise your spells, which are so much more potent, and leave me my old man, who is still my own."

Was there any harm in a little light chaff of this kind? One would surely think not. But Tom, standing and looking after her as she slipped away, blushing in her ready, _ingénue_ fashion--so unlike a B.A.--said, quite gravely----

"That's a dear little soul, Polly! And I wouldn't speak to her in just that sort of a way, if I were you. It hurts her."

"It hurts _me_," I returned, "when _you_ speak in that sort of a way. It is most unjust. Can't you take a joke? You know perfectly well that I treat her with the utmost kindness and consideration--that I have accepted her unreservedly, for my boy's sake."

"Well, well," said he, "I know you don't mean it. Your bark's worse than your bite, old girl. Come and look at the new pigs."

He drew my hand under his arm and patted it. We had had so many little tiffs lately--things we never dreamt of till Miss Blount came!--that I was determined not to quarrel now. It should never be said that _I_ was to blame for making a happy home unhappy. I swallowed my vexation and went to see the pigs--thirteen little black Berkshires, all as lively as they could be, on which he gloated whole-heartedly for the moment, as if they were more than wife or children. In his expansive ardour he offered me one of them to make a festive dish of for Sunday.

"Let us have a little feast, Polly, for the young folks. Harry is able to sit up to table now, and we have done nothing to celebrate the engagement yet. Sucking-pig and one of the fat turkeys, and ask Juke to join us. Eh?"

"My dear," I replied, "I am perfectly willing to celebrate the engagement in any way you like--yes, we'll have a nice dinner, and ask Dr. Juke--I am sure we owe him every attention that we can possibly pay him; but what I want to warn you against is letting them suppose that there is to be any celebration of the marriage--with our consent."

Tom stared as if he did not understand.

"You mean, not immediately?" he questioned. "Of course not."

"I mean, not for _years_," I solemnly urged. "Tom, you must back me up in this. The boy is but a boy, with his way to make in the world. Before we allow him to saddle himself with a wife who will probably be quite useless--those University women always are--and the responsibilities of a family, he _must_ be in a position to afford it."

"Yes," said Tom, in a tepid way. "But you and I, Polly----"

"Oh, never mind about you and me," I broke in; "that is altogether different"--for of course it was. "You were a man of twice his age."

"Which would make him about fourteen," said my husband, trying to be funny.

As for me, I saw nothing to laugh at. I cannot imagine a more serious position as between parent and child. "At his time of life," I said, "four years are equal to ten at any other stage. Let him have those four years--let him begin where his father did--and I shall be quite satisfied."

"Well, you see, my dear, it hardly rests with us, does it?"

Tom stirred up the mother sow with his walking-stick, and sniggered in a most feeble-minded fashion.

"How? Why not?" I demanded. "Do you mean to say you have not the power to influence him? Do you think that Harry, if properly advised, would persist in taking his own way in spite of us? I refuse to believe that any son of _mine_ could do such a thing."

Again Tom laughed, looking at me as if he saw some great joke somewhere. I asked him what it was, and he said, "Oh, never mind--nothing." But I knew. He was thinking of my own elopement, to which I was driven by my father's second marriage--an incident that had no bearing whatever upon the present case. It exasperated me to see him so flippant about a matter of really grave importance, but I determined not to let him draw me into a dispute.

"Four years," I said mildly, "would give them time to know each other and their own minds. It would be a test, to prove them. If at the end of four years they were still faithful, I should feel assured that all was well. But of course they would get tired of each other long before that, and so he would be spared a terrible fate, and all the trouble would be at an end."

We had left the pigsty and were pacing the paths of the kitchen garden, surveying the depredations of the irrepressible slug.

"The rain seems to wash the soot away as fast as I put it on," sighed Tom. "I'll get a bag of lime, and try what that'll do. Well, Polly, for my part, I should be very sorry to think them likely to get tired of each other. And I don't believe it, either. I don't think she's that sort of a girl somehow."

"How like a man!" I ejaculated. "Just because she's got a pretty face!"

"No, not because she's got a pretty face--though it is a pretty face--but because she's good as well as pretty. She's a right down good girl, my dear, believe me--just the sort of daughter-in-law I'd have chosen for myself, if I had had the choosing. I told Harry so. You should have seen how pleased he was!"

"No doubt. But I don't see how you can know whether she's good or not. _You_ are not always with her, as we are."

"Oh, I see her at times. We have little talks occasionally. A man can soon tell." He put his arm round my waist as we paced along. "I haven't been married to you for all these years without knowing a good woman from a bad one, Polly."

It was intended for a compliment, but somehow I could not smile at it. In fact, I shed a tear instead. And when he saw it, and stooped to kiss it away, my feelings overcame me. I threw my arms round his neck and begged him not to let fascinating daughters-in-law draw away his heart from his old wife. I daresay it was silly, but I could not help it. Of course he chuckled as if I had said something very funny. And his only reply was "_Baby!_"--in italics. So like a man, who never can see a meaning that is not right on the top of a word.

However, I promised to be nice to Emily--nicer, rather, for, as I told him, I had always been nice to her--and he said he would take an early opportunity to have a serious talk with Harry.

"But let the poor chap alone till he gets his strength again," he pleaded--as if I were a perfect tyrant, bent on making the boy miserable; "let the poor children enjoy their love-making for the little while that Emily remains here. She has been telling me that she's got a fine appointment in a school--joint principal--and that she's going to work in a fortnight--to work and save for their little home, till Harry is ready for her."

"_What?_" I exclaimed. "She never told me that."

"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 passionately--"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 nobody 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 passengers 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 classical, 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 circumstances 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 incumbent 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 coarsely) 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 class?--though I think it perfectly unnecessary to have anybody under the circumstances."

"Our own class!" 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 associate with?"

"They are," said Tom; "they are--and a lot too good for one Gale to associate 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 appetite 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 surpassed 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 unobtrusive and quiet.

As for Spencer Gale, he was most interesting in his descriptions of what he had seen and done during his recent European travels; it was quite an education to listen to him. I was particularly pleased that he was so ready to talk on this subject, because I hate to have the children grow up narrow-minded and provincial, ignorant of the world outside their colony. It has been the dream of my life to take them home and give them advantages, and I have never been able to realise it. I could not help thinking, as that young man discoursed of Paris and Venice and all the rest of it, what a delightful honeymoon his bride might have! And so she did, as it turned out, no great while afterwards.

Harry yawned and fidgeted, for sitting long in one position tired him; so Tom and Juke carried him to a cane lounge on the verandah before the rest of us had had dessert. I was annoyed with Phyllis for running out to get pillows, which were already there, and for not returning when she had made her brother comfortable. Emily had the grace to remain at table, and of course Lily stayed also. She is a most intelligent child, voracious for information of all sorts; and she plied our guest with so many questions, and amused him so much by her interest in his adventures, that she made him forget the strawberries on his plate and how time was going--forgetting herself that the poor servants were wanting to clear away so that they might get out for their Sunday walk.

At last he finished, and I led the way to the verandah, where I expected to find the others. But only Harry and his father were there, the boy looking rather fagged and inclined to doze, and Tom--who has no manners--placidly sucking at his pipe.

"Why, where is Phyllis?" I inquired.

"Kitchen," said Harry promptly, opening his eyes.

"And the doctor?"

"Gone off to a patient."

"Then," said I, "come and let me show you my roses, Mr. Gale;" and I took his arm. I thought it a good opportunity to have a little quiet talk with him on my own account. Afterwards I remembered that my husband and son watched us rather anxiously as we sauntered off into the garden, but I did not notice it at the time. It never crossed my mind that they could deliberately conspire to deceive me.

I had had the garden tidied, and, in the first flush of the summer bloom, it looked really beautiful--although I say it. I would not have been ashamed to show it to the Queen herself. And our rustic cottage, that we had continually been adding to and improving ever since it came, a mere shanty, into our hands, was a study for a painter, with the yellow banksia in perfection, quite hiding the framework of the verandah. I halted my companion on the front lawn, at the prettiest point of view.

"A humble little place," I remarked; "but I think I may say for it, without undue vanity, that it looks like the home of gentlefolks."

He followed my gaze, and fixed his eyes upon the particular window which I informed him belonged to Phyllis's room.

"What's she doing?" he inquired bluntly. He could not conceal his impatience for her return.

I told him that, in the case of so variously useful a person, it was impossible to say. I had no doubt she was attending to housekeeping matters, which she never neglected for her own amusement. Then I threw out a feeler or two, to test him--to learn, if possible, something of his tastes and character; it was necessary, for her sake, to do so. And I was delighted to find that he shared my opinion of the colonial girl as a type, and agreed with me that the term "unprotected female" should in these days be altered to "unprotected male," seeing that it was the women who did all the courting, and the men who were exposed to masked batteries, as it were, at every turn.

"A fellow's never safe till he's married," said the poor boy, doubtless speaking from painful experience. "And not then."

"That depends," said I. "There are people--I know plenty--who, having married dolls like those we have been speaking of, find themselves far indeed from being safe; but choose a good, modest, clever, loving girl, who has been well brought up--one devoted to her home and unspoiled by a vulgar society--and it is quite another pair of shoes, as my husband would say. By the way, ask _him_ what he thinks of marriage for young men."

"I don't know that I want to ask anybody anything," he returned, a little irritably--for Phyllis was still invisible--"except to leave me alone to do as I like. I don't believe in having wives selected for me, Mrs. Braye; I'm always telling my mother and sisters that, and they won't pay the least attention. I think a fellow might be allowed to please himself, especially a fellow in my position."

"Certainly," I said, with all the emphasis I could command. "_Most_ certainly. That is my own view exactly. I have always said that, in respect of my own children, I would never force or thwart them in any way. I chose the one I loved, regardless of wealth or poverty, and they shall do the same. More than that," I added gaily, "I am going to be the most charming mother-in-law that ever was! I shall quite redeem the character. I will never attempt to interfere with my children's households--never be _de trop_--never--oh! Why, there she is!"

We were turning into a quiet path between tall shrubs--the fatal place where, as I was told, Harry had been entrapped--and I suddenly saw the gleam of a white dress in a little bower at the end of it. At the same moment I saw--so did Spencer Gale--a thing that petrified us both. I was struck speechless, but his emotion forced him to hysteric laughter.

"I'm afraid," said he, recovering himself, "that we are _de trop_ this time, at any rate."

"Not at all," I retorted, also rallying my self-command. "Not at all. We don't have anything of that sort in this family."

But the facts were too palpable; it was useless pretending to ignore them. Phyllis jumped out of the arbour, like an alarmed bird out of its nest, and came strolling towards us, affecting a nonchalant air, but with a face the colour of beetroot with confusion; and that unspeakable doctor, who had caused her so to forget herself, strutted at her side, twirling the tip of his moustache and endeavouring to appear as if he had not been kissing her, but looking all the time the very image of detected guilt.

It is not necessary to state that Spencer Gale left immediately, and never darkened our doors again. When, a little later, I had it out with Phyllis, she declared, with a toss of the head, that she wouldn't have taken him if there had been no other marriageable man living--that there was only one husband for her, whom she intended to have whether we liked it or not, even if she were forced to wait for him till she was an old woman. I have often regretted that I did not control myself better, but she, who had no excuse for violence, behaved like a perfect lunatic. She went so far as to say she would never forgive me for the insults I had heaped upon one--meaning Edmund Juke--who had no equal in the universe, and who had saved her brother's life. Of course she did not mean it--and I did not mean it--and we forgave each other long ago; but I never hear the name of Spencer Gale without the memory of that interview coming back to me, like a bitter taste in the mouth.

He married about the same time as she did--a significant circumstance! They say that he lost his boom money when the boom burst, and that he drinks rather badly, and makes domestic scandals of various kinds. If he does, it is no more than one might have expected, considering the provocation. It is all very well for my family to repeat these tales to his discredit, and then point to Edmund Juke in Collins Street gradually climbing to the top of his profession; they think this is sufficient to prove that they were always Solomons of wisdom, and I a fool of the first magnitude. It does not occur to them that if some things had been different, all things would have been different. The one man would never have fallen into low habits if he had had Phyllis for his wife, and the other would never have risen so high if he had not had her. That is how I look at it. And as for material prosperity, no one could have foreseen how things were going to turn out, and luck is like the rain that falls on the just and on the unjust--it comes to the people who don't deserve it quite as often as to those who do.

For my part, I pay no heed to malicious gossip. There are always envious persons ready and anxious to pull down those who are placed above them; if they cannot find a legitimate pretext, they invent one. I see for myself that he still lives in his beautiful Kew house, that his wife still leads the fashion at every important social function and drives the finest turn-out in Melbourne; that does not look as if they were so very poor. And if one _could_ forgive infidelities in a married man, it would be in the case of one tied to a painted creature who evidently cares for nothing but display and admiration--to have her photograph flaunted in the public streets, and herself surrounded by a crowd of so-called smart people, flattering her vanity for the sake of her husband's position. He may have a handsome establishment, but he cannot have a _home._ So who can wonder if he seeks comfort elsewhere, and flies to the bottle to drown his grief? It would have been very, very different if my beautiful Phyllis had been at the head of affairs.

However, if she is satisfied, it is not for me to say a word.