XIX

At last Mrs. Marsden went to see her daughter, and in the next few

months she paid many visits.

Enid had written, asking her to come as soon as possible, and giving her

a reason why she must not refuse this invitation. Enid had just

discovered that she was going to have a baby. The happy event was not

expected until the spring; but Enid said she longed to see her mother

without an hour's avoidable delay.

Mrs. Marsden telegraphed her reply. She would come out to-morrow,

Thursday--early closing day--directly after luncheon.

In the old days she would have driven in one of Mr. Young's luxurious

landaus; but now she travelled by train, in a second class carriage, and

walked the mile and a half from Haggart's Road station to the Kenions'

converted farmhouse. The day was bright and fine; and the air felt quite

mild, although there had been a sharp frost overnight.

She had hoped that Enid might feel up to walking, and perhaps meet her

at the station--or somewhere on the road, if the station was too far.

But she saw no friendly face on the straight road, along which she

plodded with resolute vigour.

Two road-menders near a quaint little stone church directed her to the

house. It was situated on sufficiently high ground, at the end of an

accommodation lane; and, as she passed through the gate and walked up

the little carriage drive, she thought it all looked very nice and

comfortable. The house itself seemed old and rather humble--less

attractive than she had anticipated; but the large outbuildings gave

the place a certain air of importance and gentility. She caught a

glimpse of the capacious stableyard, saw a groom crossing it, and heard

voices from an invisible saddle-room--Mr. Kenion's voice, as she

believed among the rest. The thick-growing ivy on the walls was pretty,

but it would have been the better for cutting; and the garden, on this

side of the house, appeared to be sadly neglected.

The front door stood open; and while she waited for somebody to answer

the bell, she had an opportunity of glancing at the decorations of the

hall. They had all been paid for by her purse, so she was fairly

entitled to look at them critically if she pleased. She liked the

appearance of the painted ceiling-beams, the panelled dado, the modern

basket grate with the blue and white tiles; but she did not so much like

the sporting prints, the heads and tails of foxes, the hats and coats

lying so untidily on all the chairs, the immense number of whips and

sticks, and the ugly glass case that held horses' bits and men's spurs

and stirrups. _That_ was a decoration more suitable to Mr. Kenion's

harness room than to Mrs. Kenion's hall. She could hear the servants

talking somewhere quite near; and yet they could not hear the bell,

although she had rung it loudly enough three times.

Presently, as if by chance, a maid showed herself.

"Not at home," said the maid briskly.

Mrs. Marsden gave her name, and explained that the mistress of the house

would certainly be at home to her.

"Very good, ma'am," said the maid, doubtfully. "Step this way, and I'll

tell her. She's upstairs, lying down, I think."

Then Mrs. Marsden was shown into what she supposed to be the

drawing-room, and left waiting there. There was something rather

chilling and disappointing in the whole manner of her reception at the

home that she had provided for Enid and her husband.

She was allowed plenty of time to examine more ceiling beams and blue

tiles, to admire photographs in silver frames, or to read the sporting

newspapers and magazines that littered every table. The room was

pretty--but dreadfully untidy. She walked over to one of the windows,

and looked out. There had been no greater attempt at gardening on this

side of the house than on the other: the few shrubs were overgrown; the

gravel paths had almost disappeared under moss and weeds.

Beyond iron railings she saw the grass fields that Enid had said were

like a park. As a park they were completely disfigured by some ugly

buildings with corrugated iron roofs--really hideous erections, which

she guessed to be horseboxes. In each meadow there was an artificially

made jump for the horses; and, looking farther away, she saw that these

sham obstacles together with the natural banks and hedges formed a

miniature steeplechase course.

With a sigh she turned from the windows. Indoors and out of doors there

was too much evidence of the husband's amusements, and not enough

evidence of the wife's tastes and occupations. The whole place was

altogether too much like a bachelor's home to please Enid's mother.

Suddenly the door opened, and Kenion slouched in. He had his hands in

the pockets of his riding breeches; and he looked gloomy, worried,

anything but glad to see the visitor. It was the first time that they

had met since the wedding, and it proved rather an unfortunate meeting.

"How do you do--Mr. Charles?"

"Oh, you've come after all. You got the news, I suppose?"

"Yes, indeed I have."

"Beastly unlucky, isn't it?"

"What's that?"

"But I _am_ unlucky."

"_Unlucky_, Mr. Kenion!" Mrs. Marsden had flushed; and her face plainly

expressed the anger and contempt that she felt.

"No one can say I'm to blame," Kenion went on gloomily and grumblingly.

"I'd have given fifty pounds to prevent its happening. It wasn't _my_

fault. I knew she was as clever as a cat. I thought she _couldn't_ make

a mistake."

"Mr. Kenion," said Mrs. Marsden hotly, "if you aren't ashamed to speak

like this, I am ashamed to listen to you."

"Eh--what?"

"Where is Enid?" And she moved towards the door. "I think your attitude

is unmanly--mean--and _despicable_; and I wish--yes, I wish Enid's child

was going to have a better father."

"Eh--what?"

"If you had a spark of proper feeling, you'd rejoice, you'd thank God

that this--this great blessing was coming to her."

Kenion suddenly bent his thin back, and became completely doubled up

with a fit of cackling laughter.

"It's too comic," he spluttered. "Best thing I ever heard--Ought to be

sent to _Punch_!"

"If you are joking, Mr. Kenion, I'm sorry for your ideas of fun."

"No. No--don't be angry. You'll laugh when you see the joke. Of course

you"--and again his own laughter interrupted him--"you--you were talking

about Enid's baby.... Well, _I_ was talking about Mrs. Bulford's mare."

Then he explained the disaster that had befallen them. A very valuable

animal, the property of a friend, had been placed in his charge to train

it for a point-to-point race; and this morning it had broken its back

over one of the artificial jumps.

"And we were all so upset--Enid has been crying about it--that I sent

you a telegram, telling you what had happened, and asking you not to

come out to-day. But you never got it really?"

"No, it must have arrived after I started."

"Well, I'm glad you've come--for you have given me a good laugh. Though

Heaven knows"--and he became gloomy again--"it isn't a laughing matter.

I wonder I was able to laugh."

Then Enid came into the room. There were red rims round her eyes, and

her nose seemed swollen; evidently she had shed many tears.

"Mother dear, isn't this dreadful?"

"Yes, dear."

"I'm so sorry for poor Charles."

"So am I, dear," said Mrs. Marsden. "But we must be glad that he himself

escaped without injury."

"Oh, I wasn't riding her," said Charles.

"No," said Enid. "Tom was riding her--and he has broken his collar

bone."

"Yes," said Charles, plunging his hands deep in his pockets and hunching

his shoulders. "That's another bit of luck. My second-horseman laid up,

just when I most wanted him."

"It was the frost in the ground," said Enid sadly. "All the frost seemed

to be gone;" and she turned to her husband. "Charlie, it wasn't your

fault. Mrs. Bulford _can't_ blame you."

"No, I don't believe she will. She's a stunner--but Bulford may kick up

a fuss."

"Oh, how can he? He knew that the mare had to be trained."

Mrs. Marsden made this first visit a very short one. The host and

hostess were too much perturbed and agitated to entertain visitors.

Next time she came out, Enid was less preoccupied with her husband's

affairs, and able to talk freely of her own hopes. She clung to her

mother affectionately, and once again was the new Enid who had knelt by

the sofa and sobbed her gratitude for past kindness.

Each kept up the pretence of being satisfied and contented in her

married life. Enid never had a bad word to say of Charles; and Mrs.

Marsden spoke of Richard with as yet unabated courage. In fact there was

probably no one with whom she was so very careful to maintain a decorous

appearance of connubial happiness as with the daughter who, by the light

of her own experience, would most surely detect the imposture.

But behind the dual reticences there was an ever increasing sympathy.

The hard facts which neither would admit were drawing them nearer and

nearer together. So that it seemed sometimes that on all subjects except

the two forbidden subjects they were now absolutely of the same mind.

When Enid noticed the careworn, harassed look in her mother's face, she

used at once to think, "That brute has committed some fresh villainy

during the week."

But what she said was something after this style: "Mother dear, I'm

afraid you have been working too hard"; or "Mother dear, you ought to

have had a fly from the station. I am afraid the walk has fatigued you."

And when Mrs. Marsden saw Enid's worried, nervous manner, the traces of

more tears about the pretty grey eyes, she thought, "This selfish beast

has been tormenting her again. I suppose he does everything short of

beating her; and perhaps he'll do that before very long."

But she merely said, "Enid, my dear, I hope you have had no more bother

about the horses. You mustn't let Charles' worries set you

fretting--especially _now_."

The indications of Mr. Kenion's selfishness were so painfully plain that

little penetration was required to understand the discomfort that they

caused. No wife, however loyal, could feel any peace or comfort with

such a self-centred, insensible, shallow-pated companion.

Whenever he appeared he made Mrs. Marsden supremely uncomfortable. When

indoors he was always restless. He wandered aimlessly about the house,

coming in and out of rooms, fidgetting and bothering about

trifles--behaving generally like the spoilt and rather vicious child who

on wet days renders existence intolerable to all the grown-up people

compelled to remain under the same roof with him.

"Hullo! More tea!" And he would come lounging after the maid who was

bringing in the tea-things. "It seems as if you are having tea from

morning to night. What? I tell Enid she drinks a lot too much tea--and

it only makes her jumpy and peevish."

He himself drank very little tea; and Mrs. Marsden gathered that not the

least of Enid's anxieties was occasioned by his intemperance. But this

was a summer trouble. In the hunting season men who regularly ride hard

can also regularly drink hard without apparently hurting themselves.

Once when Mrs. Marsden was about to set out for her lonely tramp to the

station, Enid with some very pretty words asked her for a photograph.

"There's not one of you in all the house, mother--and I want one now

badly.... If it is to be a girl, I want her to be like you--in all

things, mother--and not like me."

Mrs. Marsden was more deeply touched by this request than she cared to

show. She kissed Enid smilingly, patted her hand, and promised to send

out a portrait.

There was one in the drawing-room at home, which no doubt Mr. Marsden

could spare.

Then, while putting on her gloves and talking cheerfully, she glanced at

Enid's collection of photographs in the silver frames.

"Who is that lady, Enid?"

"Oh, that's Mamie Bulford."

Several of the frames contained pictures of this important personage,

who appeared to be a hard-visaged but rather handsome woman of thirty or

thirty-five. She was enormously rich, Enid said, and madly keen about

hunting; and she and her husband lived at a beautiful place called

Widmore Towers, two miles the other side of Linkfield village. This year

Charlie was acting as her pilot in the hunting field; and four horses

were kept at the Towers solely for the pilot's use.

"Charlie," said Enid, "is such a magnificent pilot--for anyone who means

going. And Mamie _will_ be there, or thereabouts, don't you know, all

the time."

"Does not Mr. Bulford go out hunting?"

"Major Bulford! Yes, but he's crocked--stiff leg--so he hunts on

wheels--follows in a dog-cart. That's rather fun, you know. You see a

lot of sport that way."

"Yes, dear, I remember you said you were going to do that, yourself."

And Mrs. Marsden asked about the pony-cart that was to have been

procured for Enid.

But the pony-cart had become impossible--and Enid vaguely hinted at hard

times, difficulty of finding spare cash for expenses that were not

urgently necessary, and so on. Besides, it was a perambulator and not a

pony carriage that Mr. Kenion must now buy.

The baby--a girl--was born early in April.

Mrs. Marsden tried but failed to get a fly at Haggart's Road station,

and almost ran for the mile and a half that still separated her from her

daughter.

Everything was all right; mother and child were doing well; it was the

finest and most beautiful infant that had ever been seen. The

grandmother, eagerly scanning its tiny features, was gratified by

recognizing the mother's grey eyes and what might be taken for the first

immature sketch of her long nose. She was, if possible, more pleased by

her inability to trace the faintest resemblance to the father.

When in a few days she came again, it was to find Enid radiantly happy

and picking up strength delightfully. And at this visit Mrs. Marsden's

heart was made to overflow by the things that Enid said to her.

Amongst the things was the emphatic statement that the child should be

called Jane, and that her grandmother should also be her godmother.

Mr. Kenion accepted his blessing phlegmatically.

"Pity it isn't a boy," he said to Mrs. Marsden.

Enid said he hid his delight. It was a pose. He was really revelling in

the joy of being a father.

But he had not yet bought the perambulator. He asked his mother-in-law's

advice--because, as he said, she was "up in that sort of thing." Did

people hire perambulators, or buy them right out? Could one get a decent

perambulator in Mallingbridge, or would one have to go fagging up to

London?

Mrs. Marsden bought the perambulator, and sent it with her love in the

carrier's cart; and Mr. Kenion told Enid that he hoped her mother

hadn't given much for it, because it didn't look worth much.

Once, before the christening, Enid slightly attacked those diplomatic

barriers of reserve that had been established by tacit consent between

her and her mother.

She nervously and timidly asked if Mr. Marsden would mind not coming to

the little feast.

But Mrs. Marsden was on the defensive in a moment. Even at this

auspicious and sentimental time she could not permit any breach in her

barrier. She said that her husband was generally considered very good

company, and he would have no wish to go where he was not wanted.

"It is only," said Enid, "because I should be afraid of Charles and him

not getting on well together--and I do so want everything to go off

happily. You know, he wrote Charles a very indignant letter about the

County Club."

"He felt rather sore on that subject, dear--and so did I."

"Really, mother, Charles did all he could; but they made him withdraw

the candidature. Of course it's absurd--but they are so severe with

regard to retail trade."

"Well, be all that as it may," said Mrs. Marsden, "you need not disturb

your mind about Richard. He could not have come in any case. I told him

the date--and he is not free on that day."

But for Mr. Charles, it might have been a satisfactory christening.

He was a most uncomfortable host; continually getting up from the

luncheon table, walking about the room, worrying the maid-servants; and

wounding Enid by his facetiously disparaging remarks about the food.

"Our meals are always rather a picnic," he told the guests; "so you must

look out for yourselves.... I say, how am I supposed to carve this?

What? A pudding! What's the good of dabbing a lot of sweets in front of

people, before they've had any meat? Enid, isn't there any fish? I

thought you said there was curried sole;" and he got up, and rambled

away to the sideboard.

"Charles," said Enid plaintively, "this is the curry--here."

"What? Then fire ahead with it.... But where's Harriet disappeared to?"

"She is fetching the cutlets--and the other things. Do sit down."

"Oh, Harriet, here you are.... Where the dickens have you hidden the

wine? This seems to be a very _dry_ party;" and he gave his stupid

cackling laugh just behind Mrs. Marsden's back. "Oh, here we are. Now

then, ladies and gentlemen, hock, claret, whisky and soda? Name your

tipple. And please excuse short-comings."

But in truth there were no short-comings. Poor Enid had tried so hard to

have everything really nice--the best glass and china, pretty flowers,

and dainty appetising food, sufficient for twenty people and good enough

for princes. And she looked so charming at the head of the table--her

face rounder and plumper than it used to be, her figure fuller, her

complexion delicately glowing, her eyes shining softly,--the young

mother, in what should have been the hour of her undimmed glory. Mrs.

Marsden, as she listened to the cackling fool behind her chair and saw

the shadow of pain take the brightness from Enid's face, bridled and

grew warm.

"Whisky and soda, Mrs. B?... Father, put a name to it."

Mrs. Bulford--a hardy brunette, richly attired, and undoubtedly

handsome, but older than she looked in her photographs--was to be the

other godmother. She and the host were evidently on excellent terms,

understanding each other's form of humour, possessing little secret

jokes of their own--so that every time Charles cackled she had a

suffocating laugh ready. The hostess called her "Mamie," and even "Mamie

dear"; but Mrs. Marsden surmised that Enid did not really like her, and

had not wanted her for a godmother.

Old Mr. Kenion--the vicar of Chapel Norton--was white-haired, thin, and

fragile; and Mrs. Marsden thought he seemed to be a good, weak,

over-burdened man. His manner was mild, courteous, kindly. Mrs. Kenion

was shabbily pretentious, with faded airs of fashion and dull echoes of

distinguished voices. They had brought one of their daughters with

them--a spinster of uncertain age in a tailor-made gown and a masculine

collar. The curate of the small stone church made up the party.

But old Mr. Kenion would read the christening service, and not this

local clergyman.

"Yes," he said, mildly beaming across the table at Mrs. Marsden, "I am

to have the privilege to hold my grandchild at the font."

And then presently, when the servant had poured out some hock for him,

he addressed Mrs. Marsden again.

"May I advert to a practice that has fallen into disuse, and drink a

glass of wine with you?... To our better acquaintance, Mrs. Marsden;"

and he bowed in quite a pleasant old-world style.

"Bravo, governor," said Charles. "Fill, and fill again. Nothing like

toasts to keep the bottle moving."

"Yes, I'm sure," said the vicar's wife, with patronising urbanity; "so

very pleased to make your acquaintance--at _last_, don't you know. We

only _saw_ one another at the wedding." And while Charles and Mrs.

Bulford took alternate parts in the telling of an anecdote, she

continued to talk to Mrs. Marsden. "Of course I have known you in your

_public_ capacity for years. My girls and I have always been devoted to

Thompson's. 'Get it at Thompson's'--that's what they always said." She

was honestly trying to be agreeable. Indeed she particularly wished to

please. "All my girls said it. Is it not so, Emily?... She does not

hear. She is too much amused by her brother's story.... But that was

always the cry. 'Get it at Thompson's!' And I'm sure we never failed at

Thompson's."

"Oh, shut up, Pontius," said Mrs. Bulford, loudly. "You're spoiling the

point. Let me go on by myself."

"Yes, that's what you often say--but you're glad to have me ahead of you

when you think there's wire about."

"Will you be quiet, Pontius?"

And Mrs. Bulford was allowed to finish the anecdote in her own way. Then

she suffocated, and Charles cackled; but no one else, not even Mrs.

Kenion, could see the point of the little tale.

The local curate, a shy, pink-complexioned young man, had scarcely

talked at all; but now he was endeavouring to make a little polite

conversation with Enid. He said he hoped the church would be found quite

warm; he had given orders that the hot-water apparatus should be set

working in good time; and he thought they were, moreover, fortunate to

have such genial bright weather. Sometimes April days proved

treacherously cold. Then he inquired if the godfather was to be present

at the ceremony.

"No," said Charles, answering for his wife. "I am to be

proctor--proxy--what d'ye call it?--for Jack Gascoigne, a pal of

mine.... You must teach me the business, Mrs. B."

"All right, Pontius," said Mrs. Bulford gaily. "Copy me."

"You will not come to the church in that costume," said old Kenion, with

sudden gravity.

"Why not? Ain't I smart enough? These are a new pair of breeches."

"Of course you must change your clothes, Pontius," said Mrs. Bulford. "I

wouldn't be seen in church with you like that."

Then old Kenion asked a question which Mrs. Marsden would herself have

wished to ask.

"Why do you call my son Pontius?"

"You'd better not ask her to tell you, father. She has been very badly

brought up--and she'll shock you."

But Mrs. Bulford insisted upon telling the old vicar.

"I call him Pontius because he is my _pilot_.... Don't you see? Pontius

Pilot!... There, I _have_ shocked him;" and she gave her suffocating

laugh and Charles began to cackle.

His father looked distressed and confused; the curate, with the pink of

his complexion greatly intensified, examined the design on a dessert

plate; Mrs. Marsden frowned and bit her lip; old Mrs. Kenion opened a

voluble discourse on the virtues of fresh air for young children.

"I hope, Enid, that you will bring up the little one as a hardy plant.

Windows wide--floods of air! I beg of you not to coddle her. I never

would allow any of my children to be coddled...."

Charles sat dilatorily drinking port after luncheon; and, while he

changed his clothes, everybody was kept waiting with the baby at the

church.

That is to say, everybody except Mrs. Bulford. She stayed at the house,

having promised to hustle Charles along as quickly as possible. But a

shower of rain detained them; and it seemed an immense time before they

finally appeared on the church path, walking arm in arm, under one

umbrella.

When the service was over, and a group had assembled round the

perambulator at the church gate, and all were offering congratulations

to the proud mother, old Mrs. Kenion gently drew Mrs. Marsden aside and

spoke to her in urgent entreaty.

"Now that they've given you a dear little granddaughter, you _will_ do

something for them, won't you?"

"But I think," said Mrs. Marsden, rather grimly, "that I _have_ done

something for them."

"Yes, but you'll do a little _more_ now, won't you?"

"I fear that your son must not rely on me for further aid."

"Oh, _do_," said Mrs. Kenion earnestly. "Poor Charles would not care to

ask you himself. So I determined to take my courage in both hands, and

speak to you with absolute candour. It _is_ such a tight fit for

him--and _now_, with nurses and all the rest of it! We would come to the

rescue so gladly, if we could--but, alas, how can we? You do know that

we would, don't you, dear Mrs. Marsden?... No, please, not a definite

answer now. Only think about it. Your kind heart will plead for them

more eloquently than any words of mine."...

Mrs. Marsden had given the nurse a sovereign. She hurried back to the

church, and tipped the clerk and the pew-owner. Then she trudged off to

the railway station; and went home, like Sisyphus or the Danaides, to

take up her apparently impossible task.