Eustace said a few nice things to Rose, and something about new-born infants being no novelties to me, and left us.
“I suppose she’s perfect!” I said.
“Poor little pet, she’s so warm and dependent,” said her mother.
“A nice doctor?” I asked.
“Quite,” she said, “and the kindest nurse possible.”
“Then you’re happy,” I said, but I knew that she wasn’t.
The unwanted children—are they not tragic figures? And their name is legion. Every doctor can give you a list!
I don’t say that this minute Rose was exactly unwanted. Rose—my Rose—was incapable of coldness to anything young and soft and helpless, least of all a baby; and Eustace, I could see, liked being a father. But the Rose who had given birth to that little boy, and Rose the mother of this little girl, were worlds asunder. This Rose was affectionate, thoughtful, dutiful, protective; that other had been transfigured by maternal ecstasy and pride.
Eustace and I lunched alone, and I did my best to penetrate his armour, but in vain. How did he think of his wife? What kind of need of her had he? Was he disappointed or was all going as he had expected and wished? Why on earth had she found him attractive and how had he lost his hold on her? A hint of the possible reason of his own attitude was offered when, to my question, Didn’t he find himself a little at sea domestically when Rose was upstairs like this? he replied, No. It seemed that the direction of the household was his hobby. He arranged the meals in advance, scrutinized and paid the books, interviewed the servants. He had done this as a bachelor and liked to know how his money was being spent.
“With all my worldly goods I thee endow”—the words came back to me as he talked.