“I had forgotten,” she said, “what we arranged as we rode up. I must go and tell her still.”
Anthony looked at her steadily a moment.
“God keep you,” he said.
She kissed him and took her riding-cloak, drew the hood over her head, and went out into the dark.
It was with the keenest relief that, half an hour later, Anthony heard her footstep again in the red-tiled hall outside. The servants were gone upstairs by now, and the house was quiet. She came in, and sat by him again and took his hand.
“Thank God I went,” she said. “I have left her so happy.”
“Tell me all,” said Anthony.
“I went through the garden,” said Isabel, “but came round to the front of the house so that they might not think I came from here. When the servant came to the door—he was a stranger, and a Protestant no doubt—I said at once that I brought news of Mr. Maxwell from Rye; and he took me straight in and asked me to come in while he fetched her woman. Then her woman came out and took me upstairs, up into Lady Maxwell’s old room; and there she was lying in bed under the great canopy. Oh, Anthony, she is so pretty! her golden hair was lying out all over the pillow, and her face is so sweet. She cried out when I came in, and lifted herself on her elbow; so I just said at once, ‘He is safe and well’; and then she went off into sobs and laughter; so that I had to go and soothe her—her woman was so foolish and helpless; and very soon she was quiet: and then she called me her darling, and she kissed me again and again; and told the woman to go and leave us together; and then she lifted the sheet; and showed me the face of a little child. Oh Anthony; Hubert’s child and hers, the second, born on Tuesday—only think of that. ‘Mercy, I was going to call her,’ she said, ‘if I had not heard by to-morrow, but now I shall call her Victory.’”
Anthony looked quickly at his sister, with a faint smile in his eyes.