"I hope my poor girl will do the same, if it's a good thing for her," replied Tom, in more cheerful accents.
"Let her eat and drink just what she likes, Tom. I won't have her contradicted in any thing."
At length, the day arrived which was to decide the fate of Tom Pynsent. The moment Anna Maria complained of feeling ill and restless, her husband fled to the kennel, and insisted upon some one bringing him intelligence every ten minutes of his wife's health. Polly Mudge was deputed to relieve guard with Christobelle; and for nearly thirteen hours they were employed as carrier-pigeons, to announce bulletins from Mrs. Pynsent to the kennel, where Tom pertinaciously resolved to remain. It was the only spot where his mind could receive amusement, or which had power to distract his attention from the idea that his wife would not survive her confinement. He took no nourishment. He continued constantly employed with his men in examining the dogs, and suggesting improvements for their convenience.
At length, as the shades of evening began to fall, Mrs. Pynsent approached the kennel, waving her pocket-handkerchief: it caught her son's eye as he was preparing to give "Rattler" and "Beauty" a dose of salt. He bounded over the wall, and gazed earnestly upon his mother's face. She waved her handkerchief again in triumph, and gave a powerful cheer. Tom caught up the note, and it was re-echoed by the huntsmen, till their voices rose far and wide upon the air. Anna Maria had given birth to a son. Mrs. Pynsent embraced her son in ecstatic delight, and the tears ran down her cheeks.
"If it isn't as fine a boy as ever blessed my sight! Go and change that coat, my blessed Tom, and you shall see them both; but don't go smelling of the kennel, my pretty one!"
Tom Pynsent's heart swelled with a husband's and a father's best emotions, when he contemplated his wife and child. It seemed as though his Anna Maria had passed through death, and was raised again to his eyes and heart. He gazed silently upon them for some time in astonishment—he gazed upon the infant, as it lay by her side, who had suffered so much to give it life. He turned to his mother, who watched the workings of his countenance with delight, and, seizing her hands, he exclaimed,
"If John Spottiswoode and myself don't drink like fiddlers to-night, for this day's work!"
All was joy and congratulation at Hatton. Mr. Pynsent, in spite of gouty pains, insisted upon being carried to the door of his daughter's apartment, that he might enjoy the satisfaction of hearing his grandson cry. Mrs. Pynsent would not hear of it.
"Be quiet, Bobby, and nurse your crutch. To-morrow you shall all see our little, squalling puppy."
Tom Pynsent did not drink like a fiddler with John Spottiswoode. He remained the whole evening in Anna Maria's dressing-room, listening greedily to the movements of her attendants—to the tone of her voice—and to the cry of the newly-arrived object of his affections. There he received refreshment, and he only left his station to retire at a late hour to his own room.