"You love me! a wretch like me, Kate? 'Tis impossible. I cannot be so happy!"
"Child," said Mrs. Gaunt, "love is not reason; love is not common sense. 'Tis a passion; like your jealousy, poor fool. I love you, as a mother loves her child, all the more for all you have made me suffer. I might not say as much if I thought we should be long together. But something tells me I shall die this time: I never felt so before. I want you to bury me at Hernshaw. After all, I spent more happy years there than most wives ever know. I see you are very sorry for what you have done. How could I die and leave thee in doubt of my forgiveness, and my love? Kiss me, poor jealous fool; for I do forgive thee, and love thee with all my sorrowful heart," And even with the words she bowed herself and sank quietly into his arms, and he kissed her and cried bitterly over her: bitterly. But she was comparatively calm. For she said to herself, "the end is at hand."
Griffith, instead of pooh-poohing his wife's forebodings, set himself to baffle them.
He used his wealth freely; and, besides the county doctor, had two very eminent practitioners from London, one of whom was a grey-headed man, the other singularly young for the fame he had obtained. But then he was a genuine enthusiast in his art.
[CHAPTER XV]
Griffith, white as a ghost, and unable to shake off the forebodings Catherine had communicated to him, walked incessantly up and down the room; and at his earnest request, one or other of the four doctors in attendance was constantly coming to him with information.
The case proceeded favorably, and to Griffith's surprise and joy, a healthy boy was born about two o'clock in the morning. The mother was reported rather feverish, but nothing to cause alarm.
Griffith threw himself on two chairs and fell fast asleep.
Towards morning lie found himself shaken, and there was Ashley, the young doctor, standing beside him with a very grave face. Griffith started up, and cried, "What is wrong, in God's name?"