Chapter I--Stephen

by Bram Stoker

　　Stephen Norman of Normanstand had remained a bachelor until close onmiddle age, when the fact took hold of him that there was noimmediate heir to his great estate. Whereupon, with his wonteddecision, he set about looking for a wife.He had been a close friend of his next neighbour, Squire Rowly, eversince their college days. They had, of course, been often in eachother's houses, and Rowly's young sister--almost a generation youngerthan himself, and the sole fruit of his father's second marriage--hadbeen like a little sister to him too. She had, in the twenty yearswhich had elapsed, grown to be a sweet and beautiful young woman. Inall the past years, with the constant opportunity which friendshipgave of close companionship, the feeling never altered. SquireNorman would have been surprised had he been asked to describeMargaret Rowly and found himself compelled to present the picture ofa woman, not a child.Now, however, when his thoughts went womanward and wifeward, he awoketo the fact that Margaret came within the category of those hesought. His usual decision ran its course. Semi-brotherly feelinggave place to a stronger and perhaps more selfish feeling. Before heeven knew it, he was head over ears in love with his prettyneighbour.Norman was a fine man, stalwart and handsome; his forty years sat solightly on him that his age never seemed to come into question in awoman's mind. Margaret had always liked him and trusted him; he wasthe big brother who had no duty in the way of scolding to do. Hispresence had always been a gladness; and the sex of the girl, firstunconsciously then consciously, answered to the man's overtures, andher 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, andheld the idea so tenaciously that his wife, who loved him deeply,gave up warning and remonstrance after she had once tried to cautionhim against too fond a hope. She saw how bitterly he would bedisappointed 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 notlisten to any one else at all; so as the time went on his idea wasmore firmly fixed than ever. His arrangements were made on the basethat he would have a son. The name was of course decided. Stephenhad been the name of all the Squires of Normanstand for ages--as farback as the records went; and Stephen the new heir of course wouldbe.Like all middle-aged men with young wives he was supremely anxious asthe time drew near. In his anxiety for his wife his belief in theson became passive rather than active. Indeed, the idea of a son wasso deeply fixed in his mind that it was not disturbed even by hisanxiety 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 alittle the knowledge of the sex. Dame Norman was so weak that theDoctor feared lest anxiety as to how her husband would bear thedisappointment, might militate against her. Therefore the Doctorsought 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 thecause of his anxiety was manifested by his first question:'How is she, Doctor? Is she safe?' The child was after all ofsecondary importance! The Doctor breathed more freely; the questionhad lightened his task. There was, therefore, more assurance in hisvoice as he answered:'She is safely through the worst of her trouble, but I am greatlyanxious yet. She is very weak. I fear anything that might upsether.'The Squire's voice came quick and strong:'There must be no upset! And now tell me about my son?' He spokethe last word half with pride, half bashfully.'Your son is a daughter!' There was silence for so long that theDoctor began to be anxious. Squire Norman sat quite still; his righthand resting on the writing-table before him became clenched so hardthat the knuckles looked white and the veins red. After a long slowbreath he spoke:'She, my daughter, is well?' The Doctor answered with cheerfulalacrity:'Splendid!--I never saw a finer child in my life. She will be acomfort and an honour to you!' The Squire spoke again:'What does her mother think? I suppose she's very proud of her?''She does not know yet that it is a girl. I thought it better not tolet her know till I had told you.''Why?''Because--because--Norman, old friend, you know why! Because you hadset your heart on a son; and I know how it would grieve that sweetyoung wife and mother to feel your disappointment. I want your lipsto be the first to tell her; so that on may assure her of yourhappiness in that a daughter has been born to you.'The Squire put out his great hand and laid it on the other'sshoulder. There was almost a break in his voice as he said:'Thank you, my old friend, my true friend, for your thought. Whenmay I see her?''By right, not yet. But, as knowing your views, she may fret herselftill she knows, I think you had better come at once.'All Norman's love and strength combined for his task. As he leantover and kissed his young wife there was real fervour in his voice ashe said:'Where is my dear daughter that you may place her in my arms?' Foran instant there came a chill to the mother's heart that her hopeshad been so far disappointed; but then came the reaction of her joythat her husband, her baby's father, was pleased. There was aheavenly dawn of red on her pale face as she drew her husband's headdown and kissed him.'Oh, my dear,' she said, 'I am so happy that you are pleased!' Thenurse took the mother's hand gently and held it to the baby as shelaid it in the father's arms.He held the mother's hand as he kissed the baby's brow.The Doctor touched him gently on the arm and beckoned him away. Hewent with careful footsteps, looking behind as he went.After dinner he talked with the Doctor on various matters; butpresently he asked:'I suppose, Doctor, it is no sort of rule that the first childregulates the sex of a family?''No, of course not. Otherwise how should we see boys and girls mixedin one family, as is nearly always the case. But, my friend,' hewent on, 'you must not build hopes so far away. I have to tell youthat your wife is far from strong. Even now she is not so well as Icould wish, and there yet may be change.' The Squire leapedimpetuously to his feet as he spoke quickly:'Then why are we waiting here? Can nothing be done? Let us have thebest help, the best advice in the world.' The Doctor raised hishand.'Nothing can be done as yet. I have only fear.''Then let us be ready in case your fears should be justified! Whoare the best men in London to help in such a case?' The Doctormentioned two names; and within a few minutes a mounted messenger wasgalloping to Norcester, the nearest telegraph centre. The messengerwas to arrange for a special train if necessary. Shortly afterwardsthe Doctor went again to see his patient. After a long absence hecame back, pale and agitated. Norman felt his heart sink when he sawhim; a groan broke from him as the Doctor spoke:'She is much worse! I am in great fear that she may pass away beforethe morning!' The Squire's strong voice was clouded, with a hoarseveil as he asked:'May I see her?''Not yet; at present she is sleeping. She may wake strengthened; inwhich case you may see her. But if not--''If not?'--the voice was not like his own.'Then I shall send for you at once!' The Doctor returned to hisvigil. The Squire, left alone, sank on his knees, his face in hishands; his great shoulders shook with the intensity of his grief.An hour or more passed before he heard hurried steps. He sprang tothe door:'Well?''You had better come now.''Is she better?''Alas! no. I fear her minutes are numbered. School yourself, mydear old friend! God will help you in this bitter hour. All you cando now is to make her last moments happy.''I know! I know!' he answered in a voice so calm that his companionwondered.When they came into the room Margaret was dozing. When her eyesopened and she found her husband beside her bed there spread over herface a glad look; which, alas! soon changed to one of pain. Shemotioned to him to bend down. He knelt and put his head beside heron the pillow; his arms went tenderly round her as though by his irondevotion and strength he would shield her from all harm. Her voicecame very low and in broken gasps; she was summoning all her strengththat she might speak:'My dear, dear husband, I am so sad at leaving you! You have made meso happy, and I love you so! Forgive me, dear, for the pain I knowyou will suffer when I am gone! And oh, Stephen, I know you willcherish our little one--yours and mine--when I am gone. She willhave no mother; you will have to be father and mother too.''I will hold her in my very heart's core, my darling, as I hold you!'He could hardly speak from emotion. She went on:'And oh, my dear, you will not grieve that she is not a son to carryon your name?' And then a sudden light came into her eyes; and therewas exultation in her weak voice as she said:'She is to be our only one; let her be indeed our son! Call her thename we both love!' For answer he rose and laid his hand very, verytenderly on the babe as he said:'This dear one, my sweet wife, who will carry your soul in herbreast, will be my son; the only son I shall ever have. All my lifelong I shall, please Almighty God, so love her--our little Stephen--as you and I love each other!'She laid her hand on his so that it touched at once her husband andher child. Then she raised the other weak arm, and placed it roundhis neck, and their lips met. Her soul went out in this last kiss.