“He is not dead?” she said, with a rush of tears.  “Ah, you need not tell me; I see it.  Robert!  Robert!”

“It has been a happy death, Maude, and he is better off.  He was quite ready to go.  I wish we were as ready!”

Lord Hartledon took out the letter and read the chief portion of it to her.  One little part he dexterously omitted, describing the cause of death—­disease of the heart.

“But I thought he was getting so much better.  What has killed him in this sudden manner?”

“Well, there was no great hope from the first.  I confess I have entertained none.  Mr. Hillary, you know, warned us it might end either way.”

“Was it decline?” she asked, her tears falling.

“He has been declining gradually, no doubt.”

“Oh, Percival!  Why did you not tell me at once?  It seems so cruel to have had all that entertainment yesterday!  This is why you did not wish us to dance!”

“And if I had told you, and stopped the entertainment, allowing the poor little fellow to be christened in gloom and sorrow, you would have been the first to reproach me; you might have said it augured ill-luck for the child.”

“Well, perhaps I should; yes, I am sure I should.  You have acted rightly, after all, Val.”  And it was a candid admission, considering what she had been previously saying.  He bent towards her with a smile, his voice quite unsteady with its earnestness.

“You see now with what motive I kept the letter from you.  Maude! cannot this be an earnest that you should trust me for the rest?  In all I do, as Heaven is my witness, I place your comfort first and foremost.”

“Don’t be angry with me,” she cried, softening at the words.

He laid his hand on his wife’s bent head, thinking how far he was from anger.  Anger?  He would have died for her then, at that moment, if it might have saved her from the sin and shame that she must share with him.

“Have you told mamma, Percival?”

“Not yet.  It would not have been kept from you long had she known it.  She is not up yet, I think.”

“Who has written?”

“The doctor who attended him.”

“You’ll let me read the letter?”

“I have written to desire that full particulars may be sent to you:  you shall read that one.”

The tacit refusal did not strike her.  She only supposed the future letter would be more explanatory.  He was always anxious for her; and he had written off on the Friday night to ask for a letter giving fuller particulars, whilst avoiding mention of the cause of death.

Thus harmony for the hour was restored between them; and Lord Hartledon stood the dowager’s loud reproaches with equanimity.  In possession of the news of that darling angel’s death ever since Friday night, and to have bottled it up within him till Sunday!  She wondered what he thought of himself!

After all, Val had not quite “bottled it up.”  He had made it known to his brother-in-law, Lord Kirton, and also to Mr. Carr.  Both had agreed that nothing had better be said until the christening-day was over.