“Well, Leonor?”
“A beautiful boy.”
“That is good. And … his mother?”
“Well too, Highness. She is tired, but I doubt not she would sleep better after a glimpse of you.”
How different this was from that other childbirth four years ago! He should have understood then; he should have been prepared.
As he entered the apartment, the women about the bed fell back. He did not look at them. His eyes went at once to the woman in the bed. She was very beautiful, although the signs of her ordeal were still upon her. He took her hand and kissed it.
“My dearest, I am relieved that it is over.”
“And pleased with the result, my Prince?”
“Pleased indeed. Another boy.”
Leonor was at his elbow. “A
“A beautiful boy,” repeated Philip, allowing himself to smile.
Isabel smiled. He wished then that he was not the Prince of the Asturias, that he might marry her and live with her, see her each day, laugh with her more than he could now permit himself to do, discuss all the domestic problems as humble people did.
Leonor tiptoed out and left them together.
When she had gone, he said: “And you, my love? That is what matters most.”
“I am well, Philip, and I feel strong and happy now that I have seen you. It was good of you to come.”
“If only …” he began; he stopped and shrugged his shoulders. It was wrong even to wish that his destiny had not been thrust upon him. She smiled, understanding him as she always understood him. He remembered afresh how in the days of his great grief, when he was cold and aloof, she had known how to comfort him … she alone.
“We have been very happy for three years,” she reminded him. “We shall be happy for many more.”
“No matter what happens,” he agreed, “I shall always love you.”
He meant that if ever he had to make a marriage for state reasons she must not think he had ceased to love her even if it should be necessary for them to give up their life together. He would remember her always as the rock to which he had clung when his grief on the death of Maria Manoela had threatened to submerge him; she was the woman, a little older than himself, to whom he could in their privacy be something of the man he might have been if he had been allowed to grow naturally, if he had not been bound by rigid, iron casings which had forced him to grow in a certain mold.
“I am glad the child is a boy,” she said. “You will see his brother before you go?”
“I will,” said Philip. “And I should go now, my dearest—though I have no wish to do so—for I see that you are tired and should be resting. I but came to assure myself that you had come safely through. Now … to rest.”
He smoothed the coverlet with the tenderness of a mother; he was like a devoted yet restrained husband, Isabel thought. He had been thus, even in the early days of their relationship. He had amused her then with his solemnity, and the more solemn he became, the more tender she felt toward him, for oddly enough, in her opinion, it made him seem younger than others of his age.
He insisted that she close her eyes before he went out of the room. He stood by the door watching her. The experience of being alone in a room without attendants never failed to stimulate him; and in this room he had known some of the happiest moments of his life because during them he had imagined himself to be an ordinary husband and father.
He went briskly out into the corridor, where Leonor was waiting for him.
“She sleeps, Highness?”
“I have commanded her to rest.”
“Your Highness is pleased, I see. Then come to the nursery and see the little one’s brother.”
Leonor walked with him to the nursery, where a beautiful boy of not quite three was sprawling on cushions, Moorish fashion, on the floor playing with colored balls. His nurse bowed and retired when she saw the Prince.
“Papa!” cried the boy and rising and running to Philip, he clasped him about the knees. Philip stood still until the door closed on the nurse; then he picked up the boy.
“And how is my son Garcia today?”
The boy put his hands on Philip’s lips and Philip wanted to hold him against him and kiss the smooth brown cheek. He glanced at Leonor before gratifying this wish.
“Hello, Papa,” said the boy. “Garcia is well.”
“And pleased to see me, eh?”
The boy smiled, while his chubby hand went to the jewel at Philip’s throat.
“You like that, eh, my little one?”
The boy nodded and tried to pull it off.
“Methinks you are more pleased with that jewel than with your Papa.”
“Nay, nay,” said Leonor. “He loves best to see his Papa. Do you not, Garcia?”
