'Runnymede' (so the Mumfords' house was named) stood on its own
little plot of ground in one of the tree-shadowed roads which
persuade the inhabitants of Sutton that they live in the country. It
was of red brick, and double-fronted, with a porch of wood and
stucco; bay windows on one side of the entrance, and flat on the
other, made a contrast pleasing to the suburban eye. The little
front garden had a close fence of unpainted lath, a characteristic
of the neighbourhood. At the back of the house lay a long, narrow
lawn, bordered with flower-beds, and shaded at the far end by a fine
horse-chestnut.
Emmeline talked much of the delightful proximity of the Downs; one
would have imagined her taking long walks over the breezy uplands to
Banstead or Epsom, or yet further afield The fact was, she saw no
more of the country than if she had lived at Brixton. Her windows
looked only upon the surrounding houses and their garden foliage.
Occasionally she walked along the asphalte pavement of the Brighton
Road--a nursemaids' promenade--as far as the stone which marks
twelve miles from Westminster Bridge. Here, indeed, she breathed the
air of the hills, but villas on either hand obstructed the view, and
brought London much nearer than the measured distance. Like her
friends and neighbours, Emmeline enjoyed Sutton because it was a
most respectable little portion of the great town, set in a purer
atmosphere. The country would have depressed her.
In this respect Miss Derrick proved a congenial companion. Louise
made no pretence of rural inclinations, but had a great liking for
tree-shadowed asphalte, for the results of elaborate horticulture,
for the repose and the quiet of villadom.
'I should like to have a house just like this,' she declared, on her
first evening at "Runnymede," talking with her host and hostess out
in the garden. 'It's quite big enough, unless, of course, you have a
very large family, which must be rather a bore.' She laughed
ingenuously. 'And one gets to town so easily. What do you pay for
your season-ticket, Mr. Mumford? Oh, well! that isn't much. I almost
think I shall get one.'
'Do you wish to go up very often, then?' asked Emmeline, reflecting
on her new responsibilities.
'Oh! not every day, of course. But a season-ticket saves the bother
each time, and you have a sort of feeling, you know, that you can be
in town whenever you like.'
It had not hitherto been the Mumfords' wont to dress for dinner, but
this evening they did so, and obviously to Miss Derrick's
gratification. She herself appeared in a dress which altogether
outshone that of her hostess. Afterwards, in private, she drew
Emmeline's attention to this garb, and frankly asked her opinion of
it.
'Very nice indeed,' murmured the married lady, with a good-natured
smile. 'Perhaps a little--'
'There, I know what you're going to say. You think it's too showy.
Now I want you to tell me just what you think about
everything--everything. I shan't be offended. I'm not so silly. You
know I've come here to learn all sorts of things. To-morrow you
shall go over all my dresses with me, and those you don't like I'll
get rid of. I've never had anyone to tell me what's nice and what
isn't. I want to be--oh, well, you know what I mean.'
'But, my dear,' said Emmeline, 'there's something I don't quite
understand. You say I'm to speak plainly, and so I will. How is it
that you haven't made friends long ago with the sort of people you
wish to know? It isn't as if you were in poor circumstances.'
'How _could_ I make friends with nice people when I was ashamed to
have them at home? The best I know are quite poor--girls I went to
school with. They're much better educated than I am, but they make
their own living, and so I can't see very much of them, and I'm not
sure they want to see much of _me_. I wish I knew what people think
of me; they call me vulgar, I believe--the kind I'm speaking of.
Now, do tell me, Mrs. Mumford, _am_ I vulgar?'
'My dear Miss Derrick--' Emmeline began in protest, but was at once
interrupted.
'Oh! that isn't what I want. You must call me Louise, or Lou, if you
like, and just say what you really think. Yes, I see, I _am_ rather
vulgar, and what can you expect? Look at mother; and if you saw Mr.
Higgins, oh! The mistake I made was to leave school so soon. I got
sick of it, and left at sixteen, and of course the idiots at home--I
mean the foolish people--let me have my own way. I'm not clever, you
know, and I didn't get on well at school. They used to say I could
do much better if I liked, and perhaps it was more laziness than
stupidity, though I don't care for books--I wish I did. I've had
lots of friends, but I never keep them for very long. I don't know
whether it's their fault or mine. My oldest friends are Amy Barker
and Muriel Featherstone; they were both at the school at Clapham,
and now Amy does type-writing in the City, and Muriel is at a
photographer's. They're awfully nice girls, and I like them so much;
but then, you see, they haven't enough money to live in what _I_
call a nice way, and, you know, I should never think of asking them
to advise me about my dresses, or anything of that kind. A friend of
mine once began to say something and I didn't like it; after that we
had nothing to do with each other.'
Emmeline could not hide her amusement.
'Well, that's just it,' went on the other frankly. 'I _have_ rather
a sharp temper, and I suppose I don't get on well with most people.
I used to quarrel dreadfully with some of the girls at school--the
uppish sort. And yet all the time I wanted to be friends with them.
But, of course, I could never have taken them home.'
Mrs. Mumford began to read the girl's character, and to understand
how its complexity had shaped her life. She was still uneasy as to
the impression this guest would make upon their friends, but on the
whole it seemed probable that Louise would conscientiously submit
herself to instruction, and do her very best to be "nice."
Clarence's opinion was still favourable; he pronounced Miss Derrick
"very amusing," and less of a savage than his wife's description had
led him to expect.
Having the assistance of two servants and a nurse-girl, Emmeline was
not overburdened with domestic work. She soon found it fortunate
that her child, a girl of two years old, needed no great share of
her attention; for Miss Derrick, though at first she affected an
extravagant interest in the baby, very soon had enough of that
plaything, and showed a decided preference for Emmeline's society
out of sight and hearing of nursery affairs. On the afternoon of the
second day they went together to call upon Mrs. Fentiman, who lived
at a distance of a quarter of an hour's walk, in a house called
"Hazeldene"; a semi-detached house, considerably smaller than
"Runnymede," and neither without nor within so pleasant to look
upon. Mrs. Fentiman, a tall, hard-featured, but amiable lady, had
two young children who occupied most of her time; at present one of
them was ailing, and the mother could talk of nothing else but this
distressing circumstance. The call lasted only for ten minutes, and
Emmeline felt that her companion was disappointed.
'Children are a great trouble,' Louise remarked, when they had left
the house. 'People ought never to marry unless they can keep a lot
of servants. Not long ago I was rather fond of somebody, but I
wouldn't have him because he had no money. Don't you think I was
quite right?'
'I have no doubt you were.'
'And now,' pursued the girl, poking the ground with her sunshade as
she walked, 'there's somebody else. And that's one of the things I
want to tell you about. He has about three hundred a year. It isn't
much, of course; but I suppose Mr. Higgins would give me something.
And yet I'm sure it won't come to anything. Let's go home and have a
good talk, shall we?'
Mrs. Higgins's letter had caused Emmeline and her husband no little
amusement; but at the same time it led them to reflect. Certainly
they numbered among their acquaintances one or two marriageable
young men who might perchance be attracted by Miss Derrick,
especially if they learnt that Mr. Higgins was disposed to 'behave
handsomely' to his stepdaughter; but the Mumfords had no desire to
see Louise speedily married. To the bribe with which the letter
ended they could give no serious thought. Having secured their
"paying guest," they hoped she would remain with them for a year or
two at least. But already Louise had dropped hints such as Emmeline
could not fail to understand, and her avowal of serious interest in
a lover came rather as an annoyance than a surprise to Mrs. Mumford.
It was a hot afternoon, and they had tea brought out into the
garden, under the rustling leaves of the chestnut.
'You don't know anyone else at Sutton except Mrs. Fentiman?' said
Louise, as she leaned back in the wicker chair.
'Not intimately. But some of our friends from London will be coming
on Sunday. I've asked four people to lunch.'
'How jolly! Of course you'll tell me all about them before then. But
I want to talk about Mr. Cobb. Please, _two_ lumps of sugar. I've
known him for about a year and a half. We seem quite old friends,
and he writes to me; I don't answer the letters, unless there's
something to say. To tell the truth, I don't like him.'
'How can that be if you seem old friends?'
'Well, he likes _me_; and there's no harm in that, so long as he
understands. I'm sure _you_ wouldn't like him. He's a rough, coarse
sort of man, and has a dreadful temper.'
'Good gracious! What is his position?'
'Oh, he's connected with the what-d'ye-call-it Electric Lighting
Company. He travels about a good deal. I shouldn't mind that; it
must be rather nice not to have one's husband always at home. Just
now I believe he's in Ireland. I shall be having a letter from him
very soon, no doubt. He doesn't know I've left home, and it'll make
him wild. Yes, that's the kind of man he is. Fearfully jealous, and
such a temper! If I married him, I'm quite sure he would beat me
some day.'
'Oh!' Emmeline exclaimed. 'How can you have anything to do with such
a man?'
'He's very nice sometimes,' answered Louise, thoughtfully.
'But do you really mean that he is "rough and coarse"?'
'Yes, I do. You couldn't call him a gentleman. I've never seen his
people; they live somewhere a long way off; and I shouldn't wonder
if they are a horrid lot. His last letter was quite insulting. He
said--let me see, what was it? Yes--"You have neither heart nor
brains, and I shall do my best not to waste another thought on you?"
What do you think of that?'
'It seems very extraordinary, my dear. How can he write to you in
that way if you never gave him any encouragement?'
'Well, but I suppose I have done. We've met on the Common now and
then, and--and that kind of thing. I'm afraid you're shocked, Mrs.
Mumford. I know it isn't the way that nice people behave, and I'm
going to give it up.'
'Does your mother know him?'
'Oh, yes! there's no secret about it. Mother rather likes him. Of
course he behaves himself when he's at the house. I've a good mind
to ask him to call here so that you could see him. Yes, I should
like you to see him. You wouldn't mind?'
'Not if you really wish it, Louise. But--I can't help thinking you
exaggerate his faults.'
'Not a bit. He's a regular brute when he gets angry.'
'My dear,' Emmeline interposed softly, 'that isn't quite a ladylike
expression.'
'No, it isn't. Thank you, Mrs. Mumford. I meant to say he is
horrid--very disagreeable. Then there's something else I want to tell you
about. Cissy Higgins--that's Mr. Higgins's daughter, you know--is
half engaged to a man called Bowling--an awful idiot--'
'I don't think I would use that word, dear.'
'Thank you, Mrs. Mumford. I mean to say he's a regular silly. But
he's in a very good position--a partner in Jannaway Brothers of
Woolwich, though he isn't thirty yet. Well, now, what do you think?
Mr. Bowling doesn't seem to know his own mind, and just lately he's
been paying so much attention to _me_ that Cissy has got quite
frantic about it. This was really and truly the reason why I left
home.'
'I see,' murmured the listener, with a look of genuine interest.
'Yes. They wanted to get me out of the way. There wasn't the
slightest fear that I should try to cut Cissy Higgins out; but it
was getting very awkward for her, I admit. Now that's the kind of
thing that doesn't go on among nice people, isn't it?'
'But what do you mean, Louise, when you say that Miss Higgins and
Mr.--Mr. Bowling are _half_ engaged?'
'Oh, I mean she has refused him once, just for form's sake; but he
knows very well she means to have him. People of your kind don't do
that sort of thing, do they?'
'I hardly know,' Emmeline replied, colouring a little at certain
private reminiscences. 'And am I to understand that you wouldn't on
any account listen to Mr. Bowling?'
Louise laughed.
'Oh, there's no knowing what I might do to spite Cissy. We hate each
other, of course. But I can't fancy myself marrying him, He has a
long nose, and talks through it. And he says "think you" for "thank
you," and he sings--oh, to hear him sing! I can't bear the man.'
The matter of this conversation Emmeline reported to her husband at
night, and they agreed in the hope that neither Mr. Cobb nor Mr.
Bowling would make an appearance at "Runnymede." Mumford opined that
these individuals were "cads." Small wonder, he said, that the girl
wished to enter a new social sphere. His wife, on the other hand,
had a suspicion that Miss Derrick would not be content to see the
last of Mr. Cobb. He, the electrical engineer, or whatever he was,
could hardly be such a ruffian as the girl depicted. His words, 'You
have neither heart nor brains,' seemed to indicate anything but a
coarse mind.
'But what a bad-tempered lot they are!' Mumford observed. 'I suppose
people of that sort quarrel and abuse each other merely to pass the
time. They seem to be just one degree above the roughs who come to
blows and get into the police court. You must really do your best to
get the girl out of it; I'm sure she is worthy of better things.'
'She is--in one way,' answered his wife judicially. 'But her
education stopped too soon. I doubt if it's possible to change her
very much. And--I really should like, after all, to see Mr. Cobb.'
Mumford broke into a laugh.
'There you go! The eternal feminine. You'll have her married in six
months.'
'Don't be vulgar, Clarence. And we've talked enough of Louise for
the present.'
Miss Derrick's presentiment that a letter from Mr. Cobb would soon
reach her was justified the next day; it arrived in the afternoon,
readdressed from Tulse Hill. Emmeline observed the eagerness with
which this epistle was pounced upon and carried off for private
perusal. She saw, too, that in half-an-hour's time Louise left the
house--doubtless to post a reply. But, to her surprise, not a word
of the matter escaped Miss Derrick during the whole evening.
In her school-days, Louise had learned to "play the piano," but,
caring little or nothing for music, she had hardly touched a key for
several years. Now the idea possessed her that she must resume her
practising, and to-day she had spent hours at the piano, with
painful effect upon Mrs. Mumford's nerves. After dinner she offered
to play to Mumford, and he, good-natured fellow, stood by her to
turn over the leaves. Emmeline, with fancy work in her hands,
watched the two. She was not one of the most foolish of her sex, but
it relieved her when Clarence moved away.
The next morning Louise was an hour late for breakfast. She came
down when Mumford had left the house, and Emmeline saw with surprise
that she was dressed for going out.
'Just a cup of coffee, please. I've no appetite this morning, and I
want to catch a train for Victoria as soon as possible.'
'When will you be back?'
'Oh, I don't quite know. To tea, I think.'
The girl had all at once grown reticent, and her lips showed the
less amiable possibilities of their contour.