"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 shine again."

But before any gleam of sunshine 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.

We must look ahead."

"Yes, no doubt," said Mears blankly.

"I see what you mean. But we'll get an order through--before very long.

Meanwhile, you must do some more of your clever dressing."

And it was just then--before Mr. Mears could promise to dress the empty shelves--that the house servant appeared, and told her mistress of the unexpected arrival of Mrs. Kenion.

It was not a Thursday; and Enid came only on Thursdays, and never before luncheon. Mrs. Marsden knew at once that something remarkable had occurred.

"Is Miss Jane with her?"

"Yes, ma'am. They're waiting for you upstairs in the drawing-room."

Mrs. Marsden hurried up to the first floor, and rushed through the door of communication.

"Enid, my dearest child."

"Oh, mother, mother! It's all over."

Enid was in a pitiable state of distress; the red circles round her eyes were absolutely disfiguring; she wrung her hands, and contorted her whole body.

"Enid dear--tell me. Don't keep me in suspense."

"He has gone--went to London this morning."

"Who went? Charles? Do you mean Charles?"

"Yes--and I don't believe he will ever come back to me."

"Wait a moment, my love," said Mrs. Marsden. "Jane shall have a treat.

Jane, you shall come and play in the pantry. Won't that be nice?"

And she took her grandchild by the hand, and led her from the room.

Outside in the pa.s.sage she smiled at the little girl, patted her cheek, stooped to hug and kiss her. Then she gave her over to the charge of the housemaid--an elderly woman with an ugly face and an austere manner--and walked briskly back to the dining-room.

"Eliza will amuse Jane," she said cheerfully. "Eliza is kind, although she seems so forbidding.... And now, my dear, you can tell me all about this news--this great news--this _astonishing_ news of yours."

Enid told her tale confusedly. She was too much distressed to record events in their logical sequence. She worked backwards and forwards, breaking the thread with e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns, laments, and sad reflections, mixing yesterday with days that belonged to last year and the year before last year. But Mrs. Marsden soon grasped the import of the tale.

Mr. Kenion was the lover as well as the pilot of that rich hunting lady.

Enid had suspected the truth for a long time, had been certain of the truth and suffered under the certainty for another long time--all that, however, belonged to the past days and was quite unimportant. Yesterday was the important day.

Yesterday there had been a lawn meet--whether at Widmore Towers or somewhere else, Mrs. Marsden did not gather. Mrs. Bulford's horse was there; but as yet Mrs. Bulford had not shown herself. Charles was there, dismounted for the moment, walking about among the gentlemen in front of the house, taking nips of cherry brandy and nibbling biscuits offered by the footmen with the trays. All was jollity and animation--promise of fine sport; dull sky, gentle westerly breeze, dew-sprinkled earth; kindly nature seemed to proclaim a good scenting day.

And somebody, who has proved a very dull-nosed hound, is on the scent at last. Here comes stiff-legged Major Bulford, armed with a hunting crop although he only hunts on wheels, hobbling over the lawn among the gentlemen.