“Meggie’s not used to hand kissing,” said her grandmother. “She’s a simple country girl.”
“Then this will seem more natural.” And he kissed Meg’s round cheek.
Meg drew back, repelled by the touch of his face against hers, and to cover this Augusta exclaimed: —
“We must see the others! Mary and her children. And where is Renny?”
“He’s never about when he’s wanted,” said Philip. “I don’t know what he does with himself. Ah, here come Mary and the babe!”
She hesitated, tall and fair in the doorway, her child in her arms. He clutched her neck in his small embrace, his pink cheek pressed against hers.
Augusta kissed Mary all the more warmly because she knew that Adeline disliked her. She cooed to the infant on a deep, enticing note. He grasped a handful of the jet that trimmed the front of her dress.
“He is the image of Philip!” she declared.
“He is far more like his grandfather,” said Adeline. “He’s got my husband’s very look and his flat back. Did you ever see such a back on a twenty-months child? Turn him around, Molly, so they can see his back.”
Mary turned him around and all eyes were fixed on the plump back and downy head. Malahide Court was forgotten.
Augusta asked — “Where is Eden?” The little boy was a favourite with her.
A shadow of annoyance crossed Mary’s face. “I can’t imagine. He was dressed and had promised to wait for me on the landing, but he disappeared. I dare say he is off somewhere with Renny.”
“Drat the boy!” said his grandmother. “Why doesn’t he come? Wait till you see him, Malahide! You’ll say you’ve never seen such a Court. Red hair and all.”
Malahide Court poked at the baby with a long forefinger. “The perfect age!” he said. “The perambulator age; the carried-in-arms age; the nipple, diaper, and talcum age! Why did I ever live to outgrow it!”
They were staring at him, trying to picture him as a baby, when Renny, with Eden clinging to his hand, came into the room. The two were greeted by reprimands from the family, with the exception of their grandmother, who raised her voice above the others. “Come now, Renny, and show yourself to my Cousin Malahide. There’s a fine lad, Malahide. You must see him on a horse. He’ll make you think of my father, old Renny Court.”
The two shook hands, eying each other, the one without enthusiasm, the other with astonishment, dislike, and a touch of hilarity.
Eden looked into the strange face bent above him with an intent, rather unchildlike stare, then he raised his eyes to his mother’s and smiled.
“A very unusual smile,” said Cousin Malahide, still holding the little hand. “There’s a shadow of pain in it which shows that he already is conscious that true mirth does not exist.”
“No wonder he looks pained,” muttered Renny to Meg. “This fellow is making me sick. Do you mean to say we’ve got to have him about for weeks?”
“Even months,” answered Meg. “Isn’t he awful? His clothes — his waist! I believe he wears corsets! Look at Father’s face!”
Philip’s face was indeed a study as his eyes followed the figure of Cousin Malahide, who had left the group and was moving about the room examining the Chippendale pieces with the intentness of a connoisseur.
Later, when the one o’clock lunch was announced, and Adeline led the way leaning on Malahide’s arm, followed by Aunt Augusta with Eden by the hand, and Mary with Sir Edwin, Renny elongated his body, drew back his diaphragm to nothingness, assumed a sneering simper, and offered his arm to Meg. She, producing as well as she could on her round girlish face the arch grin of the old lady, clung to it and urged him toward the laden table. The three brothers, bringing up the rear, observed the caricature with tolerance, even with malicious amusement. Philip said: —
“I pity that gentleman if those two young rascals choose to make his life miserable. Lord, what a waist he has! Do you suppose he can put a solid meal out of sight?”
But Cousin Malahide, though his eyebrows all but disappeared when he saw the meal before him, displayed an unexpectedly good appetite. He vied with Adeline in second helpings, praised the sherry, and after a few glasses became so amusing that they wondered if, after all, they might not find him good company.
V
The Visitor
In the days that followed, the newcomer made himself thoroughly at home. He explored the house, from the basement kitchen, and what was rather pretentiously called “the wine cellar,” to the attic. He was never embarrassed, no matter where he was discovered, always proffering some glib explanation of his curiosity and drifting unabashed into further investigations.
He devoted at least two hours each day to gossip with his old kinswoman, raking up for her pleasure one scandalous happening after another, recalling almost forgotten members of her family to her mind with whatever was most disgraceful in their lives. He went to see her before she was up in the morning, when she still wore her befrilled nightdress, and sat by her bed, and flattered her and fed her parrot with toast.
He showed too that he could ride a horse, his incredibly long thin figure seeming to become a part of the spirited mare Renny had hoped would throw him.
To Adeline this unexpected visit, this revival of interest in her past, gave a renewed strength and vivacity. She had been feeling the weight of her eighty-odd years, moving slower, talking less, eating more often and less at a time, becoming slovenly at table. The fact that she could not properly chew her food was depressing to her. She would cast a gloomy look about the table at her descendants crunching the crisp rind of the roast pork and mutter: “All very well for you! But am I to live on potatoes and gravy?”
“The apple sauce is very nice, Mamma,” Philip would say, pressing his sister’s foot under the table and, as he had expected, sending his mother into a rage.
“Apple sauce! Apple sauce! D’ye think I can live on such slop? D’ye think I can keep my strength on pap? D’ye think I want to sit by and watch my children and my grandchildren gorge themselves while I starve! I that have carried great lumps of children in my body and eaten plenty for the two of us!”
“Perhaps you ate more than you needed, Granny,” suggested Meg.
“Ate — ate — ate —” mimicked old Adeline. “What a way to pronounce a decent word! I say et and my family says et!”
“I was taught to pronounce it ate at school, Granny.”
“Then unlearn it! I won’t have any silly finicking ways of speech in this house! Et it was and et it is, and I wish to God I could do it!”
She stared mournfully at the pork.
“Well,” said Philip, “as I have been saying for some time, what you need is two good sets of artificial teeth. Then you could chew in comfort.”
“Quite true,” agreed Sir Edwin. “Very true indeed.”
The old lady eyed her son-in-law disparagingly. “Yours don’t seem to do you much good. You mumble your food like a rabbit.”
“They have a way now,” said Malahide, “of sticking some sort of needle in the gum which deadens the pain. I had four out that way and it didn’t hurt at all.”
His kinswoman peered into his face.
“I don’t see any lacking,” she observed.
“They were my wisdom teeth,” he grinned. “That is why I came out here.”
Adeline struck the table with the handle of her fork.
“I’ll