The Man | Page 6

Norman of Normanstand had remained a bachelor until close
on middle age, when the fact took hold of him that there was no
immediate heir to his great estate. Whereupon, with his wonted
decision, he set about looking for a wife.
He had been a close friend of his next neighbour, Squire Rowly, ever
since their college days. They had, of course, been often in each other's
houses, and Rowly's young sister--almost a generation younger than
himself, and the sole fruit of his father's second marriage--had been like
a little sister to him too. She had, in the twenty years which had elapsed,
grown to be a sweet and beautiful young woman. In all the past years,
with the constant opportunity which friendship gave of close
companionship, the feeling never altered. Squire Norman would have
been surprised had he been asked to describe Margaret Rowly and
found himself compelled to present the picture of a woman, not a child.

Now, however, when his thoughts went womanward and wifeward, he
awoke to the fact that Margaret came within the category of those he
sought. His usual decision ran its course. Semi-brotherly feeling gave
place to a stronger and perhaps more selfish feeling. Before he even
knew it, he was head over ears in love with his pretty neighbour.
Norman was a fine man, stalwart and handsome; his forty years sat so
lightly on him that his age never seemed to come into question in a
woman's mind. Margaret had always liked him and trusted him; he was
the big brother who had no duty in the way of scolding to do. His
presence had always been a gladness; and the sex of the girl, first
unconsciously then consciously, answered to the man's overtures, and
her consent was soon obtained.
When in the fulness of time it was known that an heir was expected,
Squire Norman took for granted that the child would be a boy, and held
the idea so tenaciously that his wife, who loved him deeply, gave up
warning and remonstrance after she had once tried to caution him
against too fond a hope. She saw how bitterly he would be disappointed
in case it should prove to be a girl. He was, however, so fixed on the
point that she determined to say no more. After all, it might be a boy;
the chances were equal. The Squire would not listen to any one else at
all; so as the time went on his idea was more firmly fixed than ever. His
arrangements were made on the base that he would have a son. The
name was of course decided. Stephen had been the name of all the
Squires of Normanstand for ages--as far back as the records went; and
Stephen the new heir of course would be.
Like all middle-aged men with young wives he was supremely anxious
as the time drew near. In his anxiety for his wife his belief in the son
became passive rather than active. Indeed, the idea of a son was so
deeply fixed in his mind that it was not disturbed even by his anxiety
for the young wife he idolised.
When instead of a son a daughter was born, the Doctor and the nurse,
who knew his views on the subject, held back from the mother for a
little the knowledge of the sex. Dame Norman was so weak that the
Doctor feared lest anxiety as to how her husband would bear the

disappointment, might militate against her. Therefore the Doctor sought
the Squire in his study, and went resolutely at his task.
'Well, Squire, I congratulate you on the birth of your child!' Norman
was of course struck with the use of the word 'child'; but the cause of
his anxiety was manifested by his first question:
'How is she, Doctor? Is she safe?' The child was after all of secondary
importance! The Doctor breathed more freely; the question had
lightened his task. There was, therefore, more assurance in his voice as
he answered:
'She is safely through the worst of her trouble, but I am greatly anxious
yet. She is very weak. I fear anything that might upset her.'
The Squire's voice came quick and strong:
'There must be no upset! And now tell me about my son?' He spoke the
last word half with pride, half bashfully.
'Your son is a daughter!' There was silence for so long that the Doctor
began to be anxious. Squire Norman sat quite still; his right hand
resting on the writing-table before him became clenched so hard that
the knuckles looked white and the veins red. After a long slow breath
he spoke:
'She, my daughter, is well?' The Doctor answered with cheerful
alacrity:
'Splendid!--I never saw a finer child in my life.