Part 39 (1/2)

”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 s.h.i.+ning 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 fas.h.i.+on 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?”