She refused to put so much as a piece of
thread into a needle in anticipation of her confinement and would have
been absolutely unprepared, if her neighbours had not been better
judges of her condition than she was, and got things ready without
telling her anything about it. Perhaps she feared Nemesis, though
assuredly she knew not who or what Nemesis was; perhaps she feared the
doctor had made a mistake and she should be laughed at; from
whatever cause, however, her refusal to recognise the obvious arose,
she certainly refused to recognise it, until one snowy night in
January the doctor was sent for with all urgent speed across the rough
country roads. When he arrived he found two patients, not one, in need
of his assistance, for a boy had been born who was in due time
christened George, in honour of his then reigning majesty.
To the best of my belief George Pontifex got the greater part of his
nature from this obstinate old lady, his mother- a mother who though
she loved no one else in the world except her husband (and him only
after a fashion) was most tenderly attached to the unexpected child of
her old age; nevertheless she showed it little.
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