'Accept it? Certainly. Why should we bear the loss if he's able to
make it good? He seems to be very well off for an unmarried man.'
'Yes,' replied Mumford, 'but he's just going to marry, and it
seems--Well, after all, you know, he didn't really cause the
damage. I should have felt much less scruple if Higgins had offered
to pay--'
'He _did_ cause the damage,' asseverated Emmeline. 'It was his gross
or violent behaviour. If we had been insured it wouldn't matter so
much. And pray let this be a warning, and insure at once. However
you look at it, he ought to pay.'
Emmeline's temper had suffered much since she made the acquaintance
of Miss Derrick. Aforetime, she could discuss difference of opinion;
now a hint of diversity drove her at once to the female weapon--angry
and iterative assertion. Her native delicacy, also, seemed to
have degenerated. Mumford could only hold his tongue and trust that
this would be but a temporary obscurement of his wife's amiable
virtues.
Cobb had written from Bristol, a week after the accident, formally
requesting a statement of the pecuniary loss which the Mumfords had
suffered; he was resolved to repay them, and would do so, if
possible, as soon as he knew the sum. Mumford felt a trifle ashamed
to make the necessary declaration; at the outside, even with
expenses of painting and papering, their actual damage could not be
estimated at more than fifty pounds, and even Emmeline did not wish
to save appearances by making an excessive demand. The one costly
object in the room--the piano--was practically uninjured, and sundry
other pieces of furniture could easily be restored; for Cobb and his
companion, as amateur firemen, had by no means gone recklessly to
work. By candle-light, when the floor was still a swamp, things
looked more desperate than they proved to be on subsequent
investigation; and it is wonderful at how little outlay, in our
glistening times, a villa drawing-room may be fashionably equipped.
So Mumford wrote to his correspondent that only a few 'articles' had
absolutely perished; that it was not his wish to make any demand at
all; but that, if Mr. Cobb insisted on offering restitution, why, a
matter of fifty pounds, etc. etc. And in a few days this sum
arrived, in the form of a draft upon respectable bankers.
Of course the house was in grievous disorder. Upholsterers' workmen
would have been bad enough, but much worse was the establishment of
Mrs. Higgins by her daughter's bedside, which naturally involved her
presence as a guest at table, and the endurance of her conversation
whenever she chose to come downstairs. Mumford urged his wife to
take her summer holiday--to go away with the child until all was put
right again--a phrase which included the removal of Miss Derrick
to her own home; but of this Emmeline would not hear. How could she
enjoy an hour of mental quietude when, for all she knew, Mrs.
Higgins and the patient might be throwing lamps at each other? And
her jealousy was still active, though she did not allow it to betray
itself in words. Clarence seemed to her quite needlessly anxious in
his inquiries concerning Miss Derrick's condition. Until that young
lady had disappeared from 'Runnymede' for ever, Emmeline would keep
matronly watch and ward.
Mrs. Higgins declared at least a score of times every day that she
could _not_ understand how this dreadful affair had come to pass.
The most complete explanation from her daughter availed nothing; she
deemed the event an insoluble mystery, and, in familiar talk with
Mrs. Mumford, breathed singular charges against Louise's lover.
'She's shielding him, my dear. I've no doubt of it. I never had a
very good opinion of him, but now she shall never marry him with
_my_ consent.' To this kind of remark Emmeline at length deigned no
reply. She grew to detest Mrs. Higgins, and escaped her society by
every possible manoeuvre.
'Oh, how pleasant it is,' she explained bitterly to her husband, 'to
think that everybody in the road is talking about us with contempt!
Of course the servants have spread nice stories. And the
Wilkinsons'--these were the people next door--'look upon us as
hardly respectable. Even Mrs. Fentiman said yesterday that she
really could not conceive how I came to take that girl into the
house. I acknowledged that I must have been crazy.'
'Whilst we're thoroughly upset,' replied Mumford, with irritation at
this purposeless talk, 'hadn't we better leave the house and go to
live as far away as possible?'
'Indeed, I very much wish we could. I don't think I shall ever be
happy again at Sutton.'
And Clarence went off muttering to himself about the absurdity and
the selfishness of women.
For a week or ten days Louise lay very ill; then her vigorous
constitution began to assert itself. It helped her greatly towards
convalescence when she found that the scorches on her face would not
leave a permanent blemish. Mrs. Mumford came into the room once a
day and sat for a few minutes, neither of them desiring longer
communion, but they managed to exchange inquiries and remarks with a
show of friendliness. When the fifty pounds came from Cobb, Emmeline
made no mention of it. Louise said with an air of satisfaction,
'So he has paid the money! I'm very glad of that.'
'Mr. Cobb insisted on paying,' Mrs. Mumford answered with reserve.
'We could not hurt his feelings by refusing.'
'Well, that's all right, isn't it? You won't think so badly of us
now? Of course you wish you'd never set eyes on me, Mrs. Mumford;
but that's only natural: in your place I'm sure I should feel the
same. Still, now the money's paid, you won't always think unkindly
of me, will you?'
The girl lay propped on pillows; her pale face, with its healing
scars, bore witness to what she had undergone, and one of her arms
was completely swathed in bandages. Emmeline did not soften towards
her, but the frank speech, the rather pathetic little smile, in
decency demanded a suave response.
'I shall wish you every happiness, Louise.'
'Thank you. We shall be married as soon as ever I'm well, but I'm
sure I don't know where. Mother hates his very name, and does her
best to set me against him; but I just let her talk. We're beginning
to quarrel a little--did you hear us this morning? I try to keep
down my voice, and I shan't be here much longer, you know. I shall
go home at first my stepfather has written a kind letter, and of
course he's glad to know I shall marry Mr. Cobb. But I don't think
the wedding will be there. It wouldn't be nice to go to church in a
rage, as I'm sure I should with mother and Cissy looking on.'
This might, or might not, signify a revival of the wish to be
married from 'Runnymede.' Emmeline quickly passed to another
subject.
Mrs. Higgins was paying a visit to Coburg Lodge, where, during the
days of confusion, the master of the house had been left at his
servants' mercy. On her return, late in the evening, she entered
flurried and perspiring, and asked the servant who admitted her
where Mrs. Mumford was.
'With master, in the library, 'm.'
'Tell her I wish to speak to her at once.'
Emmeline came forth, and a lamp was lighted in the dining-room, for
the drawing-room had not yet been restored to a habitable condition.
Silent, and wondering in gloomy resignation what new annoyance was
prepared for her, Emmeline sat with eyes averted, whilst the stout
woman mopped her face and talked disconnectedly of the hardships of
travelling in such weather as this; when at length she reached her
point, Mrs. Higgins became lucid and emphatic.
'I've heard things as have made me that angry I can hardly bear
myself. Would you believe that people are trying to take away my
daughter's character? It's Cissy 'Iggins's doing: I'm sure of it,
though I haven't brought it 'ome to her yet. I dropped in to see
some friends of ours--I shouldn't wonder if you know the name; it's
Mrs. Jolliffe, a niece of Mr. Baxter--Baxter, Lukin and Co., you
know. And she told me in confidence what people are saying--as how
Louise was to marry Mr. Bowling, but he broke it off when he found
_the sort of people she was living with_, here at Sutton--and a
great many more things as I shouldn't like to tell you. Now what
_do_ you think of--'
Emmeline, her eyes flashing, broke in angrily:
'I think nothing at all about it, Mrs. Higgins, and I had very much
rather not hear the talk of such people.'
'I don't wonder it aggravates you, Mrs. Mumford. Did anyone ever
hear such a scandal! I'm sure nobody that knows you could say a word
against your respectability, and, as I told Mrs. Jolliffe, she's
quite at liberty to call here to-morrow or the next day--'
'Not to see _me_, I hope,' said Emmeline. 'I must refuse--'
'Now just let me tell you what I've thought,' pursued the stout
lady, hardly aware of this interruption. 'This'll have to be set
right, both for Lou's sake and for yours, and to satisfy us all.
They're making a mystery, d'you see, of Lou leaving 'ome and going
off to live with strangers; and Cissy's been doing her best to make
people think there's something wrong--the spiteful creature! And
there's only one way of setting it right. As soon as Lou can be
dressed and got down, and when the drawing-room's finished, I want
her to ask all our friends here to five o'clock tea, just to let
them see with their own eyes--'
'Mrs. Higgins!'
'Of course there'll be no expense for _you_, Mrs. Mumford--not a
farthing. I'll provide everything, and all I ask of you is just to
sit in your own drawing-room--'
'Mrs. Higgins, be so kind as to listen to me. This is quite
impossible. I can't dream of allowing any such thing.'
The other glared in astonishment, which tended to wrath.
'But can't you see, Mrs. Mumford, that it's for your _own_ good as
well as ours? Do you want people to be using your name--'
'What can it matter to me how _such_ people think or speak of me?'
cried Emmeline, trembling with exasperation.
'Such people! I don't think you know who you're talking about, Mrs.
Mumford. You'll let me tell you that my friends are as respectable
as yours--'
'I shall not argue about it,' said Emmeline, standing up. 'You will
please to remember that already I've had a great deal of trouble and
annoyance, and what you propose would be quite intolerable. Once for
all, I can't dream of such a thing.'
'Then all I can say is, Mrs. Mumford'--the speaker rose with heavy
dignity--'that you're not behaving in a very ladylike way. I'm not a
quarrelsome person, as you well know, and I don't say nasty things
if I can help it. But there's one thing I _must_ say and _will_ say,
and that is, that when we first came here you gave a very different
account of yourself to what it's turned out. You told me and my
daughter distinctly that you had a great deal of the very best
society, and that was what Lou came here _for_, and you knew it, and
you can't deny that you did. And I should like to know how much
society she's seen all the time she's been here--that's the question
I _ask_ you. I don't believe she's seen more than three or four
people altogether. They may have been respectable enough, and I'm
not the one to say they weren't, but I _do_ say it isn't what we was
led to expect, and that you can't deny, Mrs. Mumford.'
She paused for breath. Emmeline had moved towards the door, and
stood struggling with the feminine rage which impelled her to
undignified altercation. To withdraw in silence would be like a
shamed confession of the charge brought against her, and she
suffered not a little from her consciousness of the modicum of truth
therein.
'It was a most unfortunate thing, Mrs. Higgins,' burst from her
lips, 'that I ever consented to receive your daughter, knowing as I
did that she wasn't our social equal.'
'Wasn't _what_?' exclaimed the other, as though the suggestion
startled her by its novelty. 'You think yourself superior to us? You
did us a favour--'
Whilst Mrs. Higgins was uttering these words the door opened, and
there entered a figure which startled her into silence. It was that
of Louise, in a dressing-gown and slippers, with a shawl wrapped
about the upper part of her body.
'I heard you quarrelling,' she began. (Her bedroom was immediately
above, and at this silent hour the voices of the angry ladies had
been quite audible to her as she lay in bed.) 'What _is_ it all
about? It's too bad of you, mother--'
'The idea, Louise, of coming down like that!' cried her parent
indignantly. 'How did you know Mr. Mumford wasn't here? For shame!
Go up again this moment.'
'I don't see any harm if Mr. Mumford had been here,' replied the
girl calmly.
'I'm sure it's most unwise of you to leave your bed,' began
Emmeline, with anxious thought for Louise's health, due probably to
her dread of having the girl in the house for an indefinite period.
'Oh, I've wrapped up. I feel shaky, that's all, and I shall have to
sit down.' She did so, on the nearest chair, with a little laugh at
her strange feebleness.
'Now please _don't_ quarrel, you two. Mrs. Mumford, don't mind
anything that mother says.'
Thereupon Louise's mother burst into a vehement exposition of the
reasons of discord, beginning with the calumnious stories she had
heard at Mrs. Jolliffe's, and ending with the outrageous arrogance
of Mrs. Mumford's latest remark. Louise listened with a smile.
'Now look here, mother,' she said, when silence came for a moment,
'you can't expect Mrs. Mumford to have a lot of strangers coming to
the house just on my account. She's sick and tired of us all, and
wants to see our backs as soon as ever she can. I don't say it to
offend you, Mrs. Mumford, but you know it's true. And I tell you
what it is: To-morrow morning I'm going back home. Yes, I am. You
can't stay here, mother, after this, and I'm not going to have
anyone new to wait on me. I shall go home in a cab, straight from
this house to the other, and I'm quite sure I shan't take any harm.'
'You won't do it till the doctor's given you leave,' said Mrs.
Higgins with concern.
'He'll be here at ten in the morning, and I know he will give me
leave. So there's an end of it. And you can go to bed and sleep in
peace, Mrs. Mumford.'
It was not at all unamiably said. But for Mrs. Higgins's presence,
Emmeline would have responded with a certain kindness. Still
smarting under the stout lady's accusations, which continued to
sound in sniffs and snorts, she answered as austerely as possible.
'I must leave you to judge, Miss Derrick, how soon you feel able to
go. I don't wish you to do anything imprudent. But it will be much
better if Mrs. Higgins regards me as a stranger during the rest of
her stay here. Any communication she wishes to make to me must be
made through a servant.'
Having thus delivered herself; Emmeline quitted the room. From the
library, of which the door was left ajar, she heard Louise and her
mother pass upstairs, both silent. Mumford, too well aware that yet
another disturbance had come upon his unhappy household, affected to
read, and it was only when the door of Louise's room had closed that
Emmeline spoke to him.
'Mrs. Higgins will breakfast by herself to-morrow,' she said
severely. 'She may perhaps go before lunch; but in any case we shall
not sit down at table with her again.'
'All right,' Mumford replied, studiously refraining from any hint of
curiosity.
So, next morning, their breakfast was served in the library. Mrs.
Higgins came down at the usual hour, found the dining-room at her
disposal, and ate with customary appetite, alone. Had Emmeline's
experience lain among the more vigorously vulgar of her sex she
would have marvelled at Mrs. Higgins's silence and general
self-restraint during these last hours. Louise's mother might,
without transgressing the probabilities of the situation, have made
this a memorable morning indeed. She confined herself to a rather
frequent ringing of the bedroom bell. Her requests of the servants
became orders, such as she would have given in a hotel or
lodging-house, but no distinctly offensive word escaped her. And
this was almost entirely due to Louise's influence for the girl
impressed upon her mother that 'to make a row' would be the sure and
certain way of proving that Mrs. Mumford was justified in claiming
social superiority over her guests.
The doctor, easily perceiving how matters stood, made no difficulty
about the patient's removal in a closed carriage, and, with exercise
of all obvious precautions, she might travel as soon as she liked.
Anticipating this, Mrs. Higgins had already packed all the luggage,
and Louise, as well as it could be managed, had been clad for the
journey.
'I suppose you'll go and order the cab yourself?' she said to her
mother, when they were alone again.
'Yes, I must, on account of making a bargain about the charge. A
nice expense you've been to us, Louise. That man ought to pay every
penny.'
'I'll tell him you say so, and no doubt he will.'
They wrangled about this whilst Mrs. Higgins was dressing to go out.
As soon as her mother had left the house Louise stole downstairs and
to the door of the drawing-room, which was half open. Emmeline, her
back turned, stood before the fireplace, as if considering some new
plan of decoration; she did not hear the girl's light step.
Whitewashers and paperhangers had done their work; a new carpet was
laid down; but pictures had still to be restored to their places,
and the furniture stood all together in the middle of the room. Not
till Louise had entered did her hostess look round.
'Mrs. Mumford, I want to say good-bye.'
'Oh, yes,' Emmeline answered civilly, but without a smile.
'Good-bye, Miss Derrick.'
And she stepped forward to shake hands.
'Don't be afraid,' said the girl, looking into her face
good-humouredly. 'You shall never see me again unless you wish to.'
'I'm sure I wish you all happiness,' was the embarrassed reply.
'And--I shall be glad to hear of your marriage.'
'I'll write to you about it. But you won't talk--unkindly about me
when I've gone--you and Mr. Mumford?'
'No, no; indeed we shall not.'
Louise tried to say something else, but without success. She pressed
Emmeline's hand, turned quickly, and disappeared. In half-an-hour's
time arrived the vehicle Mrs. Higgins had engaged; without delay
mother and daughter left the house, and were driven off. Mrs.
Mumford kept a strict retirement. When the two had gone she learnt
from the housemaid that their luggage would be removed later in the
day.
A fortnight passed, and the Mumfords once more lived in
enjoyment of tranquillity, though Emmeline could not quite recover
her old self. They never spoke of the dread experiences through
which they had gone. Mumford's holiday time approached, and they
were making arrangements for a visit to the seaside, when one
morning a carrier's cart delivered a large package, unexpected and
of unknown contents. Emmeline stripped off the matting, and found--a
drawing-room screen, not unlike that which she had lost in the
fire. Of course it came from Louise, and, though she professed
herself very much annoyed, Mrs. Mumford had no choice but to
acknowledge it in a civil little note addressed to Coburg Lodge.
They were away from home for three weeks. On returning, Emmeline
found a letter which had arrived for her the day before; it was from
Louise, and announced her marriage. 'Dear Mrs. Mumford,--I know
you'll be glad to hear it's all over. It was to have been at the end
of October, when our house was ready for us. We have taken a very
nice one at Holloway. But of course something happened, and mother
and Cissy and I quarrelled so dreadfully that I went off and took a
lodging. And then Tom said that we must be married at once; and so
we were, without any fuss at all, and I think it was ever so much
better, though some girls would not care to go in their plain dress
and without friends or anything. After it was over, Tom and I had
just a little disagreement about something, but of course he gave
way, and I don't think we shall get on together at all badly. My
stepfather has been very nice, and is paying for all the furniture,
and has promised me a lot of things. Of course he is delighted to
see me out of the house, just as you were. You see that I write from
Broadstairs, where we are spending our honeymoon. Please remember me
to Mr. Mumford, and believe me, very sincerely yours, Louise L.
Cobb.'
Enclosed was a wedding-card.
'Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Cobb,' in gilt lettering, occupied the middle,
and across the right-hand upper corner ran 'Louise E. Derrick,' an
arrow transfixing the maiden surname.