Glad of a free evening, Emmeline, after dinner, walked round to Mrs.
Fentiman's. Louise had put a restraint upon the wonted friendly
intercourse between the Mumfords and their only familiar
acquaintances at Sutton. Mrs. Fentiman liked to talk of purely
domestic matters, and in a stranger's presence she was never at
ease. Coming alone, and when the children were all safe in bed,
Emmeline had a warm welcome. For the first time she spoke of her
troublesome guest without reserve. This chat would have been restful
and enjoyable but for a most unfortunate remark that fell from the
elder lady, a perfectly innocent mention of something her husband
had told her, but, secretly, so disturbing Mrs. Mumford that, after
hearing it, she got away as soon as possible, and walked quickly
home with dark countenance.
It was ten o'clock; Louise had not yet returned, but might do so any
moment. Wishing to be sure of privacy in a conversation with her
husband, Emmeline summoned him from his book to the bedroom.
'Well, what has happened now?' exclaimed Mumford. 'If this kind of
thing goes on much longer I shall feel inclined to take a lodging in
town.'
'I have heard something very strange. I can hardly believe it; there
must have been a mistake.'
'What is it? Really, one's nerves--'
'Is it true that, on Thursday evening, you and Miss Derrick were
seen talking together at the station? Thursday: the day she went off
and came back again after dinner.'
Mumford would gladly have got out of this scrape at any expense of
mendacity, but he saw at once how useless such an attempt would
prove. Exasperated by the result of his indiscretion, and resenting,
as all men do, the undignified necessity of defending himself, he
flew into a rage. Yes, it _was_ true, and what next? The girl had
waylaid him, begged him to intercede for her with his wife. Of
course it would have been better to come home and reveal the matter;
he didn't do so because it seemed to put him in a silly position.
For Heaven's sake, let the whole absurd business be forgotten and
done with!
Emmeline, though not sufficiently enlightened to be above small
jealousies, would have been ashamed to declare her feeling with the
energy of unsophisticated female nature. She replied coldly and
loftily that the matter, of course, _was_ done with; that it
interested her no more; but that she could not help regretting an
instance of secretiveness such as she had never before discovered in
her husband. Surely he had put himself in a much sillier position,
as things turned out, than if he had followed the dictates of
honour.
'The upshot of it is this,' cried Mumford: 'Miss Derrick has to
leave the house, and, if necessary, I shall tell her so myself.'
Again Emmeline was cold and lofty. There was no necessity whatever
for any further communication between Clarence and Miss Derrick. Let
the affair be left entirely in her hands. Indeed, she must very
specially request that Clarence would have nothing more to do with
Miss Derrick's business. Whereupon Mumford took offence. Did
Emmeline wish to imply that there had been anything improper in his
behaviour beyond the paltry indiscretion to which he had confessed?
No; Emmeline was thankful to say that she did not harbour base
suspicions. Then, rejoined Mumford, let this be the last word of a
difference as hateful to him as to her. And he left the room.
His wife did not linger more than a minute behind him, and she sat
in the drawing-room to await Miss Derrick's return; Mumford kept
apart in what was called the library. To her credit, Emmeline tried
hard to believe that she had learnt the whole truth; her mind, as
she had justly declared, was not prone to ignoble imaginings; but
acquitting her husband by no means involved an equal charity towards
Louise. Hitherto uncertain in her judgment, she had now the relief
of an assurance that Miss Derrick was not at all a proper person to
entertain as a guest, on whatever terms. The incident of the railway
station proved her to be utterly lacking in self-respect, in
feminine modesty, even if her behaviour merited no darker
description. Emmeline could now face with confidence the scene from
which she had shrunk; not only was it a duty to insist upon Miss
Derrick's departure, it would be a positive pleasure.
Louise very soon entered; she came into the room with her brightest
look, and cried gaily:
'Oh, I hope I haven't kept you waiting for me. Are you alone?'
'No. I have been out.'
'Had you the storm here? I'm not going to keep you talking; you look
tired.'
'I am rather,' said Emmeline, with reserve. She had no intention of
allowing Louise to suspect the real cause of what she was about to
say--that would have seemed to her undignified; but she could not
speak quite naturally. 'Still, I should be glad if you would sit
down for a minute.'
The girl took a chair and began to draw off her gloves. She
understood what was coming; it appeared in Emmeline's face.
'Something to say to me, Mrs. Mumford?'
'I hope you won't think me unkind. I feel obliged to ask you when
you will be able to make new arrangements.'
'You would like me to go soon?' said Louise, inspecting her
finger-nails, and speaking without irritation.
'I am sorry to say that I think it better you should leave us.
Forgive this plain speaking, Miss Derrick. It's always best to be
perfectly straightforward, isn't it?'
Whether she felt the force of this innuendo or not, Louise took it
in good part. As if the idea had only just struck her, she looked up
cheerfully.
'You're quite right, Mrs. Mumford. I'm sure you've been very kind to
me, and I've had a very pleasant time here, but it wouldn't do for
me to stay longer. May I wait over to-morrow, just till Wednesday
morning, to have an answer to a letter?'
'Certainly, if it is quite understood that there will be no delay
beyond that. There are circumstances--private matters--I don't feel
quite able to explain. But I must be sure that you will have left us
by Wednesday afternoon.'
'You may be sure of it. I will write a line and post it to-night,
for it to go as soon as possible.'
Therewith Louise stood up and, smiling, withdrew. Emmeline was both
relieved and surprised; she had not thought it possible for the girl
to conduct herself at such a juncture with such perfect propriety.
An outbreak of ill-temper, perhaps of insolence, had seemed more
than likely; at best she looked for tears and entreaties. Well, it
was over, and by Wednesday the house would be restored to its
ancient calm. Ancient, indeed! One could not believe that so short a
time had passed since Miss Derrick first entered the portals. Only
one more day.
'Oh, blindness to the future, kindly given, That each may fill the
circle marked by Heaven.' At school, Emmeline had learnt and recited
these lines; but it was long since they had recurred to her memory.
In ten minutes Louise had written her letter. She went out,
returned, and looked in at the drawing-room, with a pleasant smile.
'Good-night, Mrs. Mumford.' 'Good-night, Miss Derrick.' For the
grace of the thing, Emmeline would have liked to say 'Louise,' but
could not bring her lips to utter the name.
About a year ago there had been a little misunderstanding between
Mr. and Mrs. Mumford, which lasted for some twenty-four hours,
during which they had nothing to say to each other. To-night they
found themselves in a similar situation, and remembered that last
difference, and wondered, both of them, at the harmony of their
married life. It was in truth wonderful enough; twelve months
without a shadow of ill-feeling between them. The reflection
compelled Mumford to speak when his head was on the pillow.
'Emmy, we're making fools of ourselves. Just tell me what you have
done.'
'I can't see how _I_ am guilty of foolishness,' was the clear-cut
reply.
'Then why are you angry with me?'
'I don't like deceit.'
'Hanged if I don't dislike it just as much. When is that girl
going?'
Emmeline made known the understanding at which she had arrived, and
her husband breathed an exclamation of profound thankfulness. But
peace was not perfectly restored.
In another room, Louise lay communing with her thoughts, which were
not at all disagreeable. She had written to Cobb, telling him what
had happened, and asking him to let her know by Wednesday morning
what she was to do. She could not go home; he must not bid her do
so; but she would take a lodging wherever he liked. The position
seemed romantic and enjoyable. Not till after her actual marriage
should the people at home know what had become of her. She was
marrying with utter disregard of all her dearest ambitions all the
same, she had rather be the wife of Cobb than of anyone else. Her
stepfather might recover his old kindness and generosity as soon as
he knew she no longer stood in Cissy's way, and that she had never
seriously thought of marrying Mr. Bowling. Had she not thought of
it? The question did not enter her own mind, and she would have been
quite incapable of passing a satisfactory cross-examination on the
subject.
Mrs. Mumford, foreseeing the difficulty of spending the next day at
home, told her husband in the morning that she would have early
luncheon and go to see Mrs. Grove.
'And I should like you to fetch me from there, after business,
please.'
'I will,' answered Clarence readily. He mentally added a hope that
his wife did not mean to supervise him henceforth and for ever. If
so, their troubles were only beginning.
At breakfast, Louise continued to be discretion itself. She talked
of her departure on the morrow as though it had long been a settled
thing, and was quite unconnected with disagreeable circumstances.
Only midway in the morning did Mrs. Mumford, who had been busy with
her child, speak of the early luncheon and her journey to town. She
hoped Miss Derrick would not mind being left alone.
'Oh, don't speak of it,' answered Louise. 'I've lots to do. You'll
give my kind regards to Mrs. Grove?'
So they ate together at midday, rather silently, but with faces
composed. And Emmeline, after a last look into the nursery, hastened
away to catch her train. She had no misgivings; during her absence,
all would be well as ever.
Louise passed the time without difficulty, and at seven o'clock made
an excellent dinner. This evening no reply could be expected from
Cobb, as he was not likely to have received her letter of last night
till his return home from business. Still, there might be something
from someone; she always looked eagerly for the postman.
The weather was gloomy. Not long after eight the housemaid brought
in a lighted lamp, and set it, as usual, upon the little black
four-legged table in the drawing-room. And in the same moment the
knocker of the front door sounded a vigorous rat-tat-tat, a
visitor's summons.