‘Only once, before he was an hour old. He was asleep when I came away; and, as Arthur says, it is a serious thing to disturb him, he cries so much.’
‘A little low melancholy wailing,’ she said, with a half sob. But Mrs. Nesbit would not leave her at peace any longer, and her voice came beyond the screen of John’s figure:—
‘Lady Martindale, my dear, have you done with those books! They ought to be returned.’
‘Which, dear aunt?’ And Lady Martindale started up as if she had been caught off duty, and, with a manifest effort, brought her wandering thoughts back again, to say which were read and which were unread.
John did not venture to revert to a subject that affected his mother so strongly; but he made another attempt upon his sister, when he could speak to her apart. ‘Arthur has been wondering not to hear from you.’
‘Every one has been writing,’ she answered, coldly.
‘He wants some relief from his constant attendance,’ continued John; ‘I was afraid at first it would be too much for him, sitting up three nights consecutively, and even now he has not at all recovered his looks.’
‘Is he looking ill?’ said Theodora.
‘He has gone through a great deal, and when she tries to make him go out, he only goes down to smoke. You would do a great deal of good if you were there.’
Theodora would not reply. For Arthur to ask her to come and be godmother was the very thing she wished; but she would not offer at John’s bidding, especially when Arthur was more than ever devoted to his wife; so she made no sign; and John repented of having said so much, thinking that, in such a humour, the farther she was from them the better.