XXIV

Early in the new year Marsden had a serious illness. He caught a chill

on a suburban racecourse, came home to shiver and groan and curse, and

two days afterwards was down with double pneumonia.

He kept the hospital nurses, his wife, and the doctor busy for three

weeks; and throughout this time there was no point at which it could be

said that he was not in imminent danger of death.

Then the shop assistants heard, with properly concealed feelings of

exultation, that a devoted wife, a clever doctor, and two skilled nurses

had saved the governor's life. The governor had pulled through. Dr.

Eldridge, as the shop understood, was able to make the gratifying

pronouncement that the patient possessed a naturally magnificent frame

and constitution, which had been but partially weakened or impaired by

carelessness and imprudence. They need not entertain any further fear.

The dear governor will last for a splendidly long time yet.

But his convalescence was slow; and after the recovery of normal health

he passed swiftly into a third phase. He showed no inclination to rush

about; his mental indolence had become so great that the mere notion of

a train-journey fatigued him; he did his betting locally, and spent his

days with the red-haired barmaid in the Dolphin bar.

At the Dolphin Hotel he had slid down a descending scale of importance

which emblematized, with a strange accurateness, his descent in the town

of Mallingbridge and in the world generally. Once he used to come

swaggering into the noble coffee room, and be flattered by the landlord

and fawned on by the manager while he gave his orders for sumptuous

luncheons and dinners a la carte, with champagne of the choicest brands,

and the oldest and costliest of liqueurs. After that, a period arrived

when the restaurant and a table-d'hote repast, washed down with any

cheap but strong wine, were good enough for him. Then he was seen only

in the billiard room; or in the small grill-room, where he would sit

drinking for hours while relays of commercial travellers and minor

tradesmen bolted their chops and steaks. Now he had descended to what

was called the saloon bar; and here, since he had lost his club, he made

himself quite at ease, and was listened to with some semblance of

respect by the shabby frequenters, and always smiled upon by the

barmaid--who was an old, and of late a very intimate friend. He could

not drop any lower at the Dolphin, unless he went out to the stable yard

and sat with ostlers and fly-drivers in the taproom beneath the arch.

At mid-day there were eatables of a light sort on the saloon counter;

but, rejecting such scratchy fare, Mr. Marsden regularly came home for

his solid luncheon. After lunching heavily he went back to the saloon,

stayed there through the tea hour, and returned to St. Saviour's Court

for dinner. He was regular in his attendance at meals, but except for

meal-time the house never saw him. In fact he was settling down into

stereotyped habits. When dinner was over he retired again--to take his

grog in the saloon, to help the barmaid close the saloon, and to escort

her thence to her modest little dwelling-house.

Mrs. Marsden knew all about this barmaid, with her fascinating smiles

and her Venetian red hair--and indeed about her dwelling-house also. It

was common knowledge that a few years ago she had been a parlourmaid in

Adelaide Crescent; had somehow got into trouble; and somehow getting

out of it, had risen to the surface as a saloon siren, and proved

herself attractive to more persons than one. As to her place of

residence, an illuminating letter had reached Marsden & Thompson and

been duly opened behind the glass--"re No. 16 New Bridge Road. We beg to

remind you that your firm have guaranteed Miss Ingram's rent, and the

same being now nearly a quarter in arrear, we beg, etc., etc...."

Then it was to Number Sixteen that Mr. Marsden walked every evening, wet

or fine. No one knew when he returned home again. But he was always

ready for his late breakfast in his own bed.

Thanks to the regularity of these habits, Enid could now come and see

her mother without risk of encountering her stepfather. That cruel

threat of his had been often repeated, but never converted into an

explicit order; he disapproved of Mrs. Kenion's visits, and if they were

brought to his notice he would certainly prohibit them. But now the

house was safe ground between luncheon and dinner; and there were few

Thursday afternoons on which Enid did not come with her child to share

Mrs. Marsden's weekly half holiday.

Little Jane was old enough to do without the constant vigilance of a

nurse; and almost old enough, it sometimes seemed, to understand that

she was her mother's only joy and consolation.

"You must always be a good little girl," Mrs. Marsden used to say, "and

make mummy happy, and very proud of you."

And the child, looking at granny with such wise eyes, said she was

always good, and never disturbed mummy in her room, or asked to be read

to when mummy was crying. Really, as she said this sort of thing, she

seemed to comprehend as clearly as her grandmother that there was

misery, deepening misery, in the ivy-clad farmhouse.

"Mummy mustn't cry," said Mrs. Marsden tenderly. "Mummy must remember

that while she has you, she has everything.... Enid, don't give way."

For mummy was there and then beginning to do just what she mustn't do.

"Mother, I can't help it;" and Enid wiped her eyes. "I'm not brave like

you. And I feel now and then that I can't go on with it."

Enid's barrier had fallen; she, too, abandoned the defence of an

impossible position. Often she showed a disposition to plunge into open

confidence, and tell the long tale of her trials and sorrows; but Mrs.

Marsden did not encourage a confidential outbreak, indeed checked all

tendencies in this direction.

She used to take the child on her lap; and, after a little fondling and

whispering, Jane always fell asleep. Then, with the small flaxen head

nestled against her bosom, she talked quietly to her daughter,

endeavouring to put forward cheerful optimistic views, and providing the

philosophic generalities from which in troublous hours one should derive

stimulation and support.

"She's tired from the journey. How pretty she is growing, Enid. She will

be extraordinarily pretty when she is grown-up. She will be exactly what

you were."

"No one ever thought me pretty, except you, mother."

"Nonsense, dear. Everyone admired you. You were enormously admired."

"Then there was something wanting," said Enid bitterly. "I hadn't the

charms that have lasting power."

But Mrs. Marsden would not allow the conversation to take an awkward

turn.

"And Jane looks so well," she went on cheerfully. "Such limbs--and such

a _weight_! She is a glorious child. She does you credit, dear. You have

every reason to be proud of her--and you will be prouder and prouder, in

the time to come."

"I hope so--I pray so. I shall have nothing else to be proud of."

Once or twice, while the child was sleeping, Enid glided from obvious

hints to a bald statement, in spite of all Mrs. Marsden's endeavours to

restrain her.

"Mother, my life is insupportable;" and tears began to flow. "Mother

dear, can't you help me?"

"My darling, how can I? I have told you of my difficulties--but you

don't dream, you would never guess what they are."

"It isn't money now," sobbed Enid. "I'd never again ask you for

money--and money, if you had thousands to give, would do me no good....

Oh, I'm so wretched--so utterly wretched."

"My dearest girl," and Mrs. Marsden, in the agitation caused by this

statement, moved uneasily and woke the little girl. "You tear me to

pieces when you ask me to help you. My own Enid, I can't help you. I

can't help you now. You must be brave, and carry your burdens by

yourself.... You say I am brave. Then be like me. I'm in the midst of

perils and fears--my hands are tied; yet I go on fighting. I swear to

you I am fighting hard. I've not given up hope. No, no. Don't think that

I'm not wanting to help you--longing to help you--_meaning_ to help you,

when the chance comes."

Jane had extricated herself from the arms that held her; and, sliding to

the floor, she went to her mother's side. The energy of granny's voice

frightened her.

"I'll do my best," said Enid. "I'll try to bear things submissively, as

you do."

"And don't lose hope in the future," said Mrs. Marsden, dropping her

voice, and summoning every cheerful generality she could remember. "Be

patient. Wait--and clouds will pass. You are young--with more than half

your life before you. You have your sweet child. Go on hoping for happy

days. The clouds will pass. The sun will shine again."

But before any gleam of sunshine appeared, the sombre clouds that

lowered over Enid's head burst into a heavy storm.

One morning Mrs. Marsden was engaged with Mears on what had become a

painful duty. They were stock-taking in the silk department; and, as the

empty shelves sadly confronted them, Mears looked at her with dull eyes,

opened and shut his mouth, but could not speak. He thought of what this

particular department had once been, and of his own delight in

especially fostering and tending it; of how it had improved under his

care; of how he and Mr. Ridgway had built up quite a respectable little

wholesale trade, as adjunct to the ordinary retail business, supplying

the smaller shops and steadily extending the connection. When he thought

of these things, it was no wonder that he could not speak.

"Never mind, Mr. Mears," said Mrs. Marsden, in a whisper. Intuitively

she knew what was passing in his mind. "It's no good looking backwards.

We must look ahead."

"Yes, no doubt," said Mears blankly.

"I see what you mean. But we'll get an order through--before very long.

Meanwhile, you must do some more of your clever dressing."

And it was just then--before Mr. Mears could promise to dress the empty

shelves--that the house servant appeared, and told her mistress of the

unexpected arrival of Mrs. Kenion.

It was not a Thursday; and Enid came only on Thursdays, and never before

luncheon. Mrs. Marsden knew at once that something remarkable had

occurred.

"Is Miss Jane with her?"

"Yes, ma'am. They're waiting for you upstairs in the drawing-room."

Mrs. Marsden hurried up to the first floor, and rushed through the door

of communication.

"Enid, my dearest child."

"Oh, mother, mother! It's all over."

Enid was in a pitiable state of distress; the red circles round her eyes

were absolutely disfiguring; she wrung her hands, and contorted her

whole body.

"Enid dear--tell me. Don't keep me in suspense."

"He has gone--went to London this morning."

"Who went? Charles? Do you mean Charles?"

"Yes--and I don't believe he will ever come back to me."

"Wait a moment, my love," said Mrs. Marsden. "Jane shall have a treat.

Jane, you shall come and play in the pantry. Won't that be nice?"

And she took her grandchild by the hand, and led her from the room.

Outside in the passage she smiled at the little girl, patted her cheek,

stooped to hug and kiss her. Then she gave her over to the charge of the

housemaid--an elderly woman with an ugly face and an austere manner--and

walked briskly back to the dining-room.

"Eliza will amuse Jane," she said cheerfully. "Eliza is kind, although

she seems so forbidding.... And now, my dear, you can tell me all about

this news--this great news--this _astonishing_ news of yours."

Enid told her tale confusedly. She was too much distressed to record

events in their logical sequence. She worked backwards and forwards,

breaking the thread with ejaculations, laments, and sad reflections,

mixing yesterday with days that belonged to last year and the year

before last year. But Mrs. Marsden soon grasped the import of the tale.

Mr. Kenion was the lover as well as the pilot of that rich hunting lady.

Enid had suspected the truth for a long time, had been certain of the

truth and suffered under the certainty for another long time--all that,

however, belonged to the past days and was quite unimportant. Yesterday

was the important day.

Yesterday there had been a lawn meet--whether at Widmore Towers or

somewhere else, Mrs. Marsden did not gather. Mrs. Bulford's horse was

there; but as yet Mrs. Bulford had not shown herself. Charles was there,

dismounted for the moment, walking about among the gentlemen in front of

the house, taking nips of cherry brandy and nibbling biscuits offered by

the footmen with the trays. All was jollity and animation--promise of

fine sport; dull sky, gentle westerly breeze, dew-sprinkled earth;

kindly nature seemed to proclaim a good scenting day.

And somebody, who has proved a very dull-nosed hound, is on the scent at

last. Here comes stiff-legged Major Bulford, armed with a hunting crop

although he only hunts on wheels, hobbling over the lawn among the

gentlemen.

Hullo! What's up? Look! Bulford is wanging into Charlie, calling him

names as he slashes him across the face with stick and thong, using a

fist now,--hobbling after Charlie when Charlie has had enough, trying

with his uninjured leg to kick behind Charlie's back,--and tumbling at

full length on the damp grass.

Mr. Kenion took his bleeding face home to be patched; and early this

morning he had gone to London--where Mrs. Bulford was waiting for him.

"And, mother, he as good as said that I should never see him again. He

confessed that he and Mamie had been very imprudent--and Major Bulford

has discovered everything."

"But, my darling, why do you cry? Why aren't you rejoicing--singing your

song of joy?"

"Mother!"

"All this is splendid good news--not bad news."

"Mother, don't say it."

"But I do say it. I say, Thank God--if this is going to give my girl

release from her slavery." Mrs. Marsden had spoken in a tone of

exaltation; but now her brows contracted, and her voice became grave.

"Enid, we mustn't run on so fast. To me it seems almost too good to be

true."

"To me it seems dreadful."

"Yes, at the moment. But later, you will know it is emancipation,

_life_. Only, let us keep calm. This man--Bulford--may not intend to

divorce her."

"Oh, he _will_."

"You think he will wish to cast her off?"

"Yes. Charlie as good as said so."

"But tell me this--You say they are very rich. Which of them has the

money--the husband or the wife?"

"Oh, it is all Mrs. Bulford's--her very own."

"Ah! The man may not divorce her--but if he does, there is one thing of

which you can be absolutely certain. Kenion will stick to her, and give

you your freedom."

It was nearly one o'clock. Mrs. Marsden, glancing at the mantlepiece,

started. Her husband would soon return for his substantial mid-day meal.

"Enid dear, I must take you and Jane out to lunch. I know you won't care

to meet Richard. Come! I shan't be a minute putting on my bonnet;" and

she hurried from the room. "Eliza! If Mr. Marsden asks for me, tell him

I shall not be in to luncheon.... That is all that you need say."

To avoid the chance of being seen by her husband in High Street, she led

Enid and the little girl up the court instead of down it, round the

church-yard, and through devious ways to Gordon's, the confectioner's.

Here, at a small table in the back room, she gave them a comfortable and

sufficient repast--chicken for Enid, and nice soup and milk pudding for

Jane. She herself was unable to eat: excitement had banished all

appetite. She cut up toast for the soup, carved the chicken, dusted the

pudding with sugar; and smilingly watched over her guests.

But every now and then she frowned, and became lost in deep thought.

Once, after a frowning pause, she leaned across the table and clutched

Enid's arm.

"Enid," she whispered, with intense anxiety, "is this Bulford really an

upright honourable man who will do the right thing, and cast her off; or

is he a mean-spirited cur who will support his disgrace for the sake of

the cash?"

They remained at the confectioner's until Mrs. Marsden could feel no

doubt that her husband was now safe in his saloon; and then she took

them back to the house.

She sent Mears a message to say that he and the shop must do without her

this afternoon, and she sat for a couple of quiet hours hearing the

remainder of Enid's grievous tale. Plainly it did Enid good to talk

about her troubles; the longer she talked the calmer she grew; and while

stage by stage she traced the history of her unhappy married life, Mrs.

Marsden thought very often of her own experiences.

Jane, contented and replete, had fallen asleep upon granny's lap; and

Mrs. Marsden softly rocked her to and fro, to make the sleep sweeter and

easier.

Unhappy Enid! She recited all her pains and pangs and torments. She had

loved the man, had thought him a fine gentleman, and had found him a

cruel beast. She had dreamed and awakened. She had tried to reconstitute

the dream, to shut her eyes to realities, and live in the dream that she

knew to be unreal. But he would not let her. She had forgiven misdeeds,

and even forgotten them; he had hurt her again and again and again; and

each time she had healed her wounds, and presented herself to him whole

and loyal once more.

While Mrs. Marsden listened, she was thinking, "Yes, that is the

keynote, the apology, and the explanation. Love dies so slowly."

Now Enid had come to the end of her tale.

"Mother," she was saying, "I know I shall never see him any more;" and,

saying it, she began to cry again. "He spoke to me so kindly when he was

going from me.... And I looked at his poor face, all striped with the

sticking-plaster, and I thought of what he had been to me. It all came

back to me in a rush--the old feelings, mother,--and I begged him not to

go. And I asked him at least to kiss me--and he did it--and I knew that

he was sorry."

Very quietly and carefully Mrs. Marsden got up, and placed the sleeping

child on her mother's lap.

"Enid, take what is left to you. Put your arms round her, and hold her

against your heart. Hold her safe, and hold her close--for you are

holding all the world."

Then, in great agitation, she walked up and down the room; and when she

stopped, and stood by Enid's chair, her eyes were streaming.

"Never mind, my darling." An extraordinary exaltation sounded in her

voice; and, as she struggled to moderate its tone, there came a queer

vibration and huskiness. It seemed that but for dread of waking the

little girl, she would have shouted her words. "Never mind. You have

your child. Think of that. Nothing else matters. _I_ have suffered;

_you_ have suffered--never mind. Perhaps we women were intended to

suffer--and we have to bear some things so cruel that they must be borne

in silence. If we spoke of them, they might kill. But it is all nothing

compared with _this_;" and she stooped to kiss Enid's forehead, and very

gently and softly stroked the child's hair. "You and I have both made

our link in the wonderful chain of life. We have given what God gave us.

We carried the torch, and it has not been struck out of our hands and

extinguished.... We will rear your child; and I shall see you in her;

and she will grow tall and strong; and she will love--you most--the

mother,--but me too, when she understands that you came to her from

me.... And the sun shall shine again, and you shall be happy again--for

God is kind, and God is _just_.... And then there will be no more

tears--and a touch of your child's lips will destroy the memory of

tears."