"Poor Denise," he said. "It was that she wanted to tell. Oh! poor old Denise—after all these years. The letter's dated Florence; she says to write to England as they're moving about. Poor old Denise!" he went on, and looked into the fire. "Perhaps she was only a fool. But the mother of my child," said Sir Cyril, simply, "is my wife for evermore."
His man, one he had had for years, was making a stew with skill.
"Reynolds," he shot out, "Reynolds! We trek for the coast to-morrow. Her ladyship wants me, Reynolds. There's an heir coming."
Reynolds gave polite congratulation.
"Comin' just in time," muttered the valet to the stew. "Just in time, milady."
Denise had no thought of how her husband's big nature would be moved. How, with old tender thoughts crowding back on him, he sat in the shadows and made plans, plans which included her, Denise, his wife. He'd take her on that yachting trip she'd hankered for; she'd want a change in the spring; they'd have a new honeymoon off her pet coast of Italy. But could they leave the child? The mystery of birth comes freshly to each man who calls himself Father for the first time. The child—He'd be in the old nurseries at White Friars, behind the wooden bars. He'd be a sturdy boy, strong, bright-eyed, no puling weakling, but a true Blakeney, clean-limbed and big. Soon he'd come toddling out in the gardens, a little creature wondering at big life; a mite who had to be taught the names of simple things. And later still he would ride and shoot and fish and swim, and learn that the Blakeneys were men of clean lives, and that he must follow the tracks of his fathers. Honour first, the house motto was carved over the old mantelshelf in the hall, where Cyril had been shown it as a boy.
Honour first! And when he re-read his letter, the letter which changed his life from loneliness to sudden hope of happiness, Denise was coming out of the little house in the Italian town, puckering her forehead lest she had forgotten anything to make her scheme perfect.
"If we catch that weekly boat we could get to England by February, Reynolds."
"Yes, Sir Cyril; just about the second or first week of February."
"I can cable from the coast. Tell her ladyship to meet me."