Part 38 (2/2)

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 G.o.dmother.

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 f.a.gging 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.”

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