Paul tried to close the discussion with a little impatience at her attempt to press the matter. “Every Irish boy drinks more or less, you little goose. That’s nothing! Of course it’s too bad to have you see a drunken man, but it’s nothing so tragic. If he didn’t drink here, he would somewhere else. The only thing we have to complain about that I can see, is having the cook’s followers drunk—but Ellen’s such a miracle of competence we must overlook that. As for the rest of Mrs. O’Hern’s dirty stories, they’re spite work evidently.” As Lydia looked up at him, her face still anxious and drawn, he ended finally, “Good gracious, Lydia, don’t you suppose I know—that my experience of the world has taught me more about human nature than you know? You act to me as though you trusted your washwoman’s view of things more than your husband’s. And now what you want to do, anyhow, is to get some rest. You hop into bed, little rabbit, and go to sleep. Don’t wait for me; I’ve got a lot of figuring to do.”
When he went to bed, a couple of hours later, Lydia was lying quietly with closed eyes, and he did not disturb her; but afterward he woke out of a sound sleep and sat up with a sense that something was wrong. He listened. There was not a sound in the room or in the house. Apparently Lydia was not wakened by his startled movement. She lay in a profound immobility.
But something about her very motionlessness struck a chill to his heart. Women in her condition sometimes had seizures in the night, he had heard. With a shaking hand, he struck a match and leaned over her. He gave a loud, shocked exclamation to see that her eyes were open, steady and fixed, like wide, dark pools. He threw the match away, and took her in his arms with a fond murmur of endearments. “Why, poor little girl! Do you lie awake and worry about what’s to come?”
Lydia drew a painful breath. “Yes,” she said; “I worry a great deal about what’s to come.”
He kissed her gently, ardently, gently again. “You mustn’t do that, darling! You’re all right! Melton said there wasn’t one chance in a thousand of anything but just the most temporary illness, without any complications. It won’t be so bad—it’ll be soon over, and think what it means to us—dearest—dearest—dearest!”
Lydia lay quiet in his arms. She had been still so long that he thought her asleep, when she said, in a whisper: “I hope it won’t be a girl!”
CHAPTER XIX
LYDIA’S NEW MOTTO