The little visitors’ nurseries were near the infant Sir Godfrey’s rooms, and it was a delight to find the baby taking pleasure in his youthful cousins’ society, and revelling in their noise. His own young lungs revealed their power and scope as they had never done before, and led the infant orchestra. Juanita spent hours in this noisy society, sitting on the floor to be crawled over by her son—who was just beginning to discover the possibility of independent locomotion—and to have her hair pulled affectionately by the younger Grenvilles, who found her the most accommodating playfellow. She insisted that the children should dine at the family luncheon table, much to the gratification of their mother and grandmother, and to the exasperation of Mrs. Morningside, who, having left her own children with their conscientious governess and nurses, in the North of England, did not see why her midday meal should be made intolerable by the boisterous egotism of her nephews and nieces.
This was the condition of things at Christmas when Theodore reappeared at the Priory, having come to Dorchester for his holidays, after three months’ earnest work. He had been reading with a man of some distinction at the Chancery Bar, and he had been writing for one of the Law Journals. He was struck by the change in his cousin. She looked younger, brighter, and happier than she had ever looked since her husband’s death. No one could accuse her of having forgotten him, of having grown indifferent to his memory, for at the least allusion which recalled his image her expression clouded, and her eyes grew sad. But there could be no doubt that the dawn of a happier existence was beginning to disperse the darkness of her night of grief. The influence of her child had done much; the solution of the mystery of her husband’s death had done more to relieve her mind of its burden. She was no longer tortured by wonder; her thoughts were no longer forced to travel perpetually along the same groove. She knew the worst, and pity for her father prompted her to try to forget the wretch who had blighted her young life.
She received Theodore with all her old kindness, with that easy cordiality which was of all indications the most hopeless for the man who loved her. She took him to the nurseries, where Christmas fires blazed merrily, and Christmas gifts strewed the carpet, a plethora of toys, a litter of foil paper and gold and silver fringe, and tissue-paper cocked hats and Pierrot caps, from the wreck of cracker bonbons. The children were masters of the situation in this Christmas week.
“It is their season,” said Juanita tenderly. “I don’t think we can ever do too much to make our children happy at this time, remembering that He who made the season sacred was once a little child.” She took her baby up in her arms as she spoke, and pressed the little face lovingly against her own.
“Why does Mr. Ramsay never come to see me?” she asked with a sudden lightness of tone. “He used to be so fond of baby.”
“He is working hard at the hospital.”
“And is he not to have any holiday with you?”
“I fear not.”
Her manner in making the inquiry, light as it was, told him so much; and he noticed how she bent her face over the child’s flaxen head as she talked of Ramsay.
“Why does he work so hard?” she asked, after a silence.