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I fancied it, too a feeble one. Mrs. Something is wrong. . . . As she goes to listen at the door, it opens, and the man-midwife enters. His face is grave. Mrs. Strongtharm and Miss Quiney ask him together, under their breath Well? He answers: It is well. We have saved her life, I trust. And the child? A boy. It lived less than a minute. . . . Yet a shapely child. . . .
Miss Quiney's arms did not suddenly go out to Ruth. Ruth noted it. She was just: she understood. In the end Miss Quiney stretched forth her arms; but at first she seemed to shrivel and grow very small in her chair. Nor can her first comment be called adequate, "Dear sir oh, but excuse me! this is so sudden!"
Champagne? . . . Miss Quiney is drinking champagne, I see, though her neighbours have deserted it for red wine. Sir Oliver, by the way, grows lazy in pushing the decanters. . . . Shall I signal to him?" "On no account. Champagne, if you please . . . though I had rather you kept it in readiness." "I am sorry, Miss Josselin, but there you ask of me the one thing impossible.
At the same time he felt curious to see her, curious to learn if these many months of seclusion had fulfilled the Collector's wager that Ruth Josselin would grow to be the loveliest woman in America. At Manasseh's announcement he faced about, and, with a gasp, clutched at the back of his chair. In the doorway stood little Miss Quiney.
Look at Ruth now christened in sorrow an' married, after all, to the richest in the land! Oh, hush! hush! A low moan comes from the next room. The women sit silent, their faces white in the dawn that now comes stealing in at the window, conquering the candle-light by little and little. Mrs. Strongtharm. I thought I heard a child's cry. . . . They cry at once. Miss Quiney. Ah?
"I take the compliment." "And she deserves it," added Miss Quiney. "What? You don't tell me you manage it all yourself? . . . This palace of a house!" "Already you are making it feel less empty to me. Yes, alone I do it; but if you wish to praise me, you should see my accounts. They are my real pride. But no, they are too holy to be shown!"
Miss Quiney. My poor Ruth. Mrs. Strongtharm. Eh? The first, o' course. . . . But a long labour's often the best. Miss Quiney. There has not been a sound for hours. Mrs. Strongtharm. She's brave. They say, too, that a man-child, if he's a real strong one, will wait for daybreak; but that's old women's notions, I shouldn't wonder. Miss Quiney. A man-child? You think it will be? Mrs. Strongtharm.
He knew well enough how fast and far gossip travelled in New England; and doubted not at all that his adventure at Port Nassau had within a few days been whispered and canvassed throughout Boston. His own grooms, no doubt, had talked. But he could take a scornful amusement in baffling speculation while he made up his own mind. In one particular only he had been prompt in propitiating Miss Quiney.
"Does my lord truly suppose me so dull of wit? or will he fence with my question instead of answering it?" "The truth is, then," he confessed, "that before she saw you I thought fit to tell Miss Quiney what you had suffered " "She has known it from the first? I wondered sometimes. But oh, the dear deceit of her!"
"Oh, Tatty!" But Ruth, too, had to pause for a moment to admire. When she turned, Miss Quiney, forgetting her own injunction, had stolen in haste from the room. The girl's eyes moistened. For a moment she saw herself reflected from the glass in a blur.
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