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.

---