Lord Cheriton was Theodore’s fellow-sponsor, and Lady Jane was godmother, an office which filled the dear soul with rapture. She held her grandchild throughout the service, except when she delivered him gingerly to the priest, who, at one stage of the ceremony, carried the new-made Christian half-way up the aisle, and, as it were, flaunted him in the face of the scanty congregation.
Juanita stood like a statue while these rites were being celebrated, and in her pale set face there was none of the tender interest which a mother might be expected to show upon such an occasion. There was a deep pathos in that marble face and those black garments in an hour which has generally something of a festal aspect. Strangers thought her cold, a proud, hard young woman, thinking more of her own importance, perhaps, than of her baby; yet could they have read beneath the surface they would have pitied the girl-widow in her desolation on this day which should have been blessed to her. She could but think of him who was not there; of the father who had been fated never to look upon his son’s face; of the son who was to grow from infancy to manhood without the knowledge of a father’s love.
Theodore watched that pale and lovely face, full of sympathy, but not without wonder. How would this new tie affect her? Would it soften all that was hard and vindictive in her mind—would it be strong enough to bring about resignation to the will of Heaven—a patient waiting upon Providence, instead of that feverish eagerness to exact a life for a life?
They two were alone together for only a few minutes after luncheon, strolling along the broad gravel walk in front of the dining-room windows, in the afternoon sunshine, while Lord Cheriton and Mr. Grenville lingered over coffee and cigars, and Lady Jane and her daughter made a domestic group with children and nurses under a gigantic Japanese umbrella. Short as that tête-à-tête was it convinced Theodore that the child had not brought oblivion of the father’s fate.
“You have heard nothing more—made no new discovery, I suppose?” Juanita said, nervously.
“Nothing. Indeed, Juanita, I fear I have no talent as an amateur detective. I am not likely to succeed where Mr. Churton failed. It was easy enough for me to complete the record of the Strangways—to set your suspicions at rest with regard to them. That was plain sailing. But it seems to me I shall never go any further.”
“I’m afraid you will not,” she said, wearily; “and yet I had such hope in your cleverness—your determination to help me. As a lawyer you would know how to set about it. The London detective has many cases—his mind travels from one to another. He has no leisure to think deeply about anything—but you who have had so much leisure of late—you would, I know, be glad to help me.”
“Glad! Good God, Juanita, you must know that I would cut off my hand to give you ease or comfort—respite even from a passing trouble. And if you are really set upon this thing—if your peace is really dependent upon the discovery of your husband’s murderer——”
“It is, it is, Theodore. I cannot know rest or comfort while his death remains unpunished. I cannot lie down in peace at night while I know that the wretch who killed him is walking about, rejoicing in his wickedness, glad to have destroyed that blameless life, laughing at our feeble love which can let our dead go unavenged.”
“If cudgelling these poor brains of mine could bring me any nearer to the truth, Juanita,” Theodore said, with a troubled sigh, “I should have helped you better; but so far I can see no ray of light in the thick darkness. I do not think any efforts of ours will solve the mystery. Only some accident, some inconceivable imprudence on the part of the murderer can put us on his track.”