Then he sat down in the chair which Esther rose from. He began to cough again, and Esther saw the drops of sweat standing large on his forehead.
It was now her turn to speak. She stood upright—a tall, slim woman—a woman who had gone through a change so great as almost to amount to a new birth—while Wyndham had been telling his story.
"Now," she said, "I am happy. I praise God for His mercies, for it is given to me to comfort you."
Wyndham raised his head; he was too exhausted to ask her what she meant, except with his eyes.
"Your wife is well, and from this day forth you shall hear news of her, fresh news, once a week. Every Sunday you shall hear."
"Esther, don't torture me. Are you telling me truth?"
"I am telling you the solemn truth. Would I lie to a man like you? Mr. Wyndham, do you know, has anyone ever told you that you have a child?"
"Nobody. Is this the case? My God, a child!"
"Yes, sir, a little boy; he is called after you. He is three years old. You'd like to see him, maybe?"
"Good heavens, Esther, this is like new wine to me. I have a son of my own—Valentine's son!"