When Ruth's travail came on her the three were gathered by candle-light in Sir Oliver's dressing-room. Beyond the door, attended by her maid and a man-midwife, Ruth shut her teeth upon her throes. So the prologue opens.

PROLOGUE.

_Mrs. Josselin sits in an armchair, regarding the pattern of the carpet with a silly air of self-importance; Mrs. Strongtharm in a chair opposite. By the window Miss Quiney, pulling at her knuckles, stares out through the dark panes. A clock strikes_.

_Miss Quiney (with a nervous start)_. Four o'clock . . .

nine hours. . . .

_Mrs. Strongtharm._ More. The pains took her soon after six. . . .

When her bell rang I looked at the clock. I remember.

_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_. (She exchanges a glance with Mrs. Josselin, who has looked up suddenly and nods.) Certain.

_Mrs. Josselin_. Certain, certain! I wonder, now, what they'll call him! After Sir Oliver, perhaps. Her own father's name was Michael.

In my own family--that's the Poc.o.c.k's--the men were mostly Williams and Georges. Called after the Kings of England.

_Mrs. Strongtharm (yawns)_. Oliver Cromwell was as good as any king, and better. Leastways my mar says so. For my part, I don't bother my head wi' these old matters.

_Miss Quiney (tentatively)_. Do you know, I was half hoping it would be a girl, just like my darling. _(To herself)_ G.o.d forgive me, when I think--

_Mrs. Strongtharm (interrupting the thought)_. _She_ won't be hoping for a girl. You don't understand these things, beggin' your pardon, ma'am.

_Miss Quiney (meekly)_. No.

_Mrs. Josselin_. You don't neither of you understand. How should you?

_Mrs. Strongtharm (stung)_. I understand as well as a fool, I should hope! _(She turns to Miss Quiney.)_ 'Twas a nat'ral wish in ye, ma'am, that such a piece o' loveliness should bear just such another.

But wait a while; they're young and there's time. . . . My lady wants a boy first, like every true woman that loves her lord.

There's pride an' wonder in it. All her life belike she's felt herself weak an' shivered to think of battles, and now, lo an'

behold, she's the very gates o' strength with an army marchin' forth to conquer the world. Ha'n't ye never caught your breath an' felt the tears swellin' when ye saw a regiment swing up the street?

_Miss Quiney_. Ah! . . . Is it like that?

_Mrs. Strongtharm_. It's like all that, an' more. . . . An' though I've wet my pillow afore now with envy of it, I thank the Lord for givin' a barren woman the knowledge.

_A pause_.

_Mrs. Josselin (with a silly laugh)_. What wonderful patterns they make in the carpets nowadays! Look at this one, now--runnin' in and out so that the eye can't hardly follow it; and all for my lord's dressing-room! Cost a hundred pound, I shouldn't wonder.

_Mrs. Strongtharm_. T'cht!

_Mrs. Josselin_. He must be amazing fond of her. Fancy, my Ruth!

. . . It's a pity he's not home, to take the child.

_Mrs. Strongtharm_. Men at these times are best out o' the way.

_Mrs. Josselin_. When my first was born, Michael--that's my husband--stayed home from sea o' purpose to take it. My first was a girl. No, not Ruth; Ruth was born after my man died, and I had her christened Ruth because some one told me it stood for "sorrow."

I had three before Ruth--a girl an' two boys, an' buried them all.

_Miss Quiney (listening)_. Hush!

_Mrs. Josselin (not hearing, immersed in her own mental flow)_.

If you call a child by a sorrowful name it's apt to ward off the ill-luck. Look at Ruth now--christened in sorrow an' married, after all, to the richest in the land!

_Miss Quiney (in desperation)_. 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 fancied it, too--a feeble one.

_Mrs. Strongtharm (rising after a long pause)_. 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 clasps her hands. Shall she, within her breast, thank G.o.d? She cannot. She hears the voice saying_,--

A very shapely child. . . . But the labour was difficult. There was some pressure on the brain, some lesion.

They would have denied Ruth sight of the poor little body, but she stretched out her arms for it and insisted. Then as she held it, flesh of her flesh, to her breast and felt it cold, she--she, whose courage had bred wonder in them, even awe--she who had smiled between her pangs, murmuring pretty thanks--wailed low, and, burying her face, lay still.

Chapter VI.

CHILDLESS MOTHER.