Part 39 (2/2)

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.

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