Jenny came to the door. She gave a cry. Mammy came
hurrying through the hall; then Mother Clayton, flinging her arms upward
in dumb delight. Then Dorothy, lovely in her young motherhood, carrying
our boy, the tears running down her cheeks. She could not speak. She
could only rub her cheek against mine, press her lips to mine, hold our
little boy's laughing and uncomprehending lips to mine. We cried. We
uttered broken words.
I entered. The door closed behind me. I was home. All was well. I sat
down. All looked at me. Jenny and Mammy loitered in the room. I wanted
to speak. But what had I to say? Nothing! Such happiness at being home!
So we sat until I broke the silence by asking: "When was the baby born?"
Mother Clayton replied: "He is five weeks old to-morrow." Then we all
laughed. We had broken this heavy silence with such simple words. And
after that, many words, much laughter; and later a wonderful meal
prepared by the delighted hands of Mammy and Jenny.
CHAPTER XXXVI
But what of Douglas? During the war I had been entirely out of touch
with him. What was he doing? What had he accomplished? What was now
stirring in his restless imagination? They all had news for me about him
and of varied import, according to their attitude.
For one thing he had married while I was in the war.
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