“Oh! no, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Because people misdoubted my lady’s being married at all, sir. You see, it did look odd her being here without any one to speak for her, as it were.”
“It was a miserable pity,” he said passionately. “But it is no use talking about it now, Phœbe.”
“No, sir,” answered the faithful girl, beginning to whimper; “only it has been a sad trial for me, who knew that my mistress merited the attention and respect she did not get. But come what may, she is a deal too handsome ever to have the women on her side.”
“I’ll take care they are civil to her, anyhow,” replied Sir Lawrence, with a very determined air, as he nodded kindly to Phœbe, and then went to his wife.
He had not the heart to wake her just yet, she slept so peacefully; and yet, when the fire blazed up for a moment, and he could see her face plainly, he thought it looked pale and worn.
As for the child—he was glad and proud to have a son, but it was very difficult to think of him when his mother was by. He took just one peep at the face crushed against Lady Gwendolyn’s bosom, and then he sat down on the couch at his wife’s side, and gradually insinuated his arm round her waist.
As she did not rouse he grew bolder, and presently her head was resting on his shoulder, as naturally as if there had been no break in their tender union. To listen to her soft breathing was happiness enough for awhile, but at last he began to weary for the sound of her voice—the touch of her sweet lips.
“Only that if I wake her, the child will wake, too, and then he’ll cry, as a matter of course,” thought Sir Lawrence, whose experience of babies so far had not prejudiced him in their favor. “I suppose I must wait.”