"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 d.i.c.kens 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 gla.s.s 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 G.o.dmother. 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 G.o.dmother.
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 gla.s.s 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 G.o.dfather 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 a.s.sembled 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.