Part 48 (1/2)

”You must always be a good little girl,” Mrs. Marsden used to say, ”and make mummy happy, and very proud of you.”

And the child, looking at granny with such wise eyes, said she was always good, and never disturbed mummy in her room, or asked to be read to when mummy was crying. Really, as she said this sort of thing, she seemed to comprehend as clearly as her grandmother that there was misery, deepening misery, in the ivy-clad farmhouse.

”Mummy mustn't cry,” said Mrs. Marsden tenderly. ”Mummy must remember that while she has you, she has everything.... Enid, don't give way.”

For mummy was there and then beginning to do just what she mustn't do.

”Mother, I can't help it;” and Enid wiped her eyes. ”I'm not brave like you. And I feel now and then that I can't go on with it.”

Enid's barrier had fallen; she, too, abandoned the defence of an impossible position. Often she showed a disposition to plunge into open confidence, and tell the long tale of her trials and sorrows; but Mrs.

Marsden did not encourage a confidential outbreak, indeed checked all tendencies in this direction.

She used to take the child on her lap; and, after a little fondling and whispering, Jane always fell asleep. Then, with the small flaxen head nestled against her bosom, she talked quietly to her daughter, endeavouring to put forward cheerful optimistic views, and providing the philosophic generalities from which in troublous hours one should derive stimulation and support.

”She's tired from the journey. How pretty she is growing, Enid. She will be extraordinarily pretty when she is grown-up. She will be exactly what you were.”

”No one ever thought me pretty, except you, mother.”

”Nonsense, dear. Everyone admired you. You were enormously admired.”

”Then there was something wanting,” said Enid bitterly. ”I hadn't the charms that have lasting power.”

But Mrs. Marsden would not allow the conversation to take an awkward turn.

”And Jane looks so well,” she went on cheerfully. ”Such limbs--and such a _weight_! She is a glorious child. She does you credit, dear. You have every reason to be proud of her--and you will be prouder and prouder, in the time to come.”

”I hope so--I pray so. I shall have nothing else to be proud of.”

Once or twice, while the child was sleeping, Enid glided from obvious hints to a bald statement, in spite of all Mrs. Marsden's endeavours to restrain her.

”Mother, my life is insupportable;” and tears began to flow. ”Mother dear, can't you help me?”

”My darling, how can I? I have told you of my difficulties--but you don't dream, you would never guess what they are.”

”It isn't money now,” sobbed Enid. ”I'd never again ask you for money--and money, if you had thousands to give, would do me no good....

Oh, I'm so wretched--so utterly wretched.”

”My dearest girl,” and Mrs. Marsden, in the agitation caused by this statement, moved uneasily and woke the little girl. ”You tear me to pieces when you ask me to help you. My own Enid, I can't help you. I can't help you now. You must be brave, and carry your burdens by yourself.... You say I am brave. Then be like me. I'm in the midst of perils and fears--my hands are tied; yet I go on fighting. I swear to you I am fighting hard. I've not given up hope. No, no. Don't think that I'm not wanting to help you--longing to help you--_meaning_ to help you, when the chance comes.”

Jane had extricated herself from the arms that held her; and, sliding to the floor, she went to her mother's side. The energy of granny's voice frightened her.

”I'll do my best,” said Enid. ”I'll try to bear things submissively, as you do.”

”And don't lose hope in the future,” said Mrs. Marsden, dropping her voice, and summoning every cheerful generality she could remember. ”Be patient. Wait--and clouds will pa.s.s. You are young--with more than half your life before you. You have your sweet child. Go on hoping for happy days. The clouds will pa.s.s. The sun will s.h.i.+ne again.”

But before any gleam of suns.h.i.+ne appeared, the sombre clouds that lowered over Enid's head burst into a heavy storm.

One morning Mrs. Marsden was engaged with Mears on what had become a painful duty. They were stock-taking in the silk department; and, as the empty shelves sadly confronted them, Mears looked at her with dull eyes, opened and shut his mouth, but could not speak. He thought of what this particular department had once been, and of his own delight in especially fostering and tending it; of how it had improved under his care; of how he and Mr. Ridgway had built up quite a respectable little wholesale trade, as adjunct to the ordinary retail business, supplying the smaller shops and steadily extending the connection. When he thought of these things, it was no wonder that he could not speak.

”Never mind, Mr. Mears,” said Mrs. Marsden, in a whisper. Intuitively she knew what was pa.s.sing in his mind. ”It's no good looking backwards.