MRS CAFFYN persuaded Madge to go to bed at once, after giving her
‘something to comfort her.’ In the morning her kind hostess came to her
bedside.
‘You’ve got a mother, haven’t you—leastways, I know you have, because you
wrote to her.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, and you lives with her and she looks after you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And she’s fond of you, maybe?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘That’s a marcy; well then, my dear, you shall go back in the cart to
Letherhead, and you’ll catch the Darkin coach to London.’
‘You have been very good to me; what have I to pay you?’
‘Pay? Nothing! why, if I was to let you pay, it would just look as if
I’d trapped you here to get something out of you. Pay! no, not a penny.’
‘I can afford very well to pay, but if it vexes you I will not offer
anything. I don’t know how to thank you enough.’
Madge took Mrs Caffyn’s hand in hers and pressed it firmly.
‘Besides, my dear,’ said Mrs Caffyn, smoothing the sheets a little, ‘you
won’t mind my saying it, I expex you are in trouble. There’s something
on your mind, and I believe as I knows pretty well what it is.’
Madge turned round in the bed so as no longer to face the light; Mrs
Caffyn sat between her and the window.
‘Look you here, my dear; don’t you suppose I meant to say anything to
hurt you. The moment I looked on you I was drawed to you like; I
couldn’t help it. I see’d what was the matter, but I was all the more
drawed, and I just wanted you to know as it makes no difference. That’s
like me; sometimes I’m drawed that way and sometimes t’other way, and
it’s never no use for me to try to go against it. I ain’t a-going to say
anything more to you; God-A’mighty, He’s above us all; but p’r’aps you
may be comm’ this way again some day, and then you’ll look in.’
Madge turned again to the light, and again caught Mrs Caffyn’s hand, but
was silent.
The next morning, after Madge’s return, Mrs Cork, the landlady, presented
herself at the sitting-room door and ‘wished to speak with Mrs Hopgood
for a minute.’
‘Come in, Mrs Cork.’
‘Thank you, ma’am, but I prefer as you should come downstairs.’
Mrs Cork was about forty, a widow with no children. She had a face of
which it was impossible to recollect, when it had been seen even a dozen
times, any feature except the eyes, which were steel-blue, a little bluer
than the faceted head of the steel poker in her parlour, but just as
hard. She lived in the basement with a maid, much like herself but a
little more human. Although the front underground room was furnished Mrs
Cork never used it, except on the rarest occasions, and a kind of apron
of coloured paper hung over the fireplace nearly all the year. She was a
woman of what she called regular habits. No lodger was ever permitted to
transgress her rules, or to have meals ten minutes before or ten minutes
after the appointed time. She had undoubtedly been married, but who Cork
could have been was a marvel. Why he died, and why there were never any
children were no marvels. At two o’clock her grate was screwed up to the
narrowest possible dimensions, and the ashes, potato peelings, tea leaves
and cabbage stalks were thrown on the poor, struggling coals. No meat,
by the way, was ever roasted—it was considered wasteful—everything was
baked or boiled. After half-past four not a bit of anything that was not
cold was allowed till the next morning, and, indeed, from the first of
April to the thirty-first of October the fire was raked out the moment
tea was over. Mrs Hopgood one night was not very well and Clara wished
to give her mother something warm. She rang the bell and asked for hot
water. Maria came up and disappeared without a word after receiving the
message. Presently she returned.
‘Mrs Cork, miss, wishes me to tell you as it was never understood as ’ot
water would be required after tea, and she hasn’t got any.’
Mrs Hopgood had a fire, although it was not yet the thirty-first of
October, for it was very damp and raw. She had with much difficulty
induced Mrs Cork to concede this favour (which probably would not have
been granted if the coals had not yielded a profit of threepence a
scuttleful), and Clara, therefore, asked if she could not have the kettle
upstairs. Again Maria disappeared and returned.
‘Mrs Cork says, miss, as it’s very ill-convenient as the kettle is
cleaned up agin to-morrow, and if you can do without it she will be
obliged.’
It was of no use to continue the contest, and Clara bethought herself of
a little ‘Etna’ she had in her bedroom. She went to the druggist’s,
bought some methylated spirit, and obtained what she wanted.
Mrs Cork had one virtue and one weakness. Her virtue was cleanliness,
but she persecuted the ‘blacks,’ not because she objected to dirt as
dirt, but because it was unauthorised, appeared without permission at
irregular hours, and because the glittering polish on varnished paint and
red mahogany was a pleasure to her. She liked the dirt, too, in a way,
for she enjoyed the exercise of her ill-temper on it and the pursuit of
it to destruction. Her weakness was an enormous tom-cat which had a bell
round its neck and slept in a basket in the kitchen, the best-behaved and
most moral cat in the parish. At half-past nine every evening it was let
out into the back-yard and vanished. At ten precisely it was heard to
mew and was immediately admitted. Not once in a twelvemonth did that cat
prolong its love making after five minutes to ten.
Mrs Hopgood went upstairs to her room, Mrs Cork following and closing the
door.
‘If you please, ma’am, I wish to give you notice to leave this day week.’
‘What is the matter, Mrs Cork?’
‘Well, ma’am, for one thing, I didn’t know as you’d bring a bird with
you.’
It was a pet bird belonging to Madge.
‘But what harm does the bird do? It gives no trouble; my daughter
attends to it.’
‘Yes, ma’am, but it worrits my Joseph—the cat, I mean. I found him the
other mornin’ on the table eyin’ it, and I can’t a-bear to see him
urritated.’
‘I should hardly have thought that a reason for parting with good
lodgers.’
Mrs Hopgood had intended to move, as before explained, but she did not
wish to go till the three months had expired.
‘I don’t say as that is everything, but if you wish me to tell you the
truth, Miss Madge is not a person as I like to keep in the house. I wish
you to know’—Mrs Cork suddenly became excited and venomous—‘that I’m a
respectable woman, and have always let my apartments to respectable
people, and do you think I should ever let them to respectable people
again if it got about as I had had anybody as wasn’t respectable? Where
was she last night? And do you suppose as me as has been a married woman
can’t see the condition she’s in? I say as you, Mrs Hopgood, ought to be
ashamed of yourself for bringing of such a person into a house like mine,
and you’ll please vacate these premises on the day named.’ She did not
wait for an answer, but banged the door after her, and went down to her
subterranean den.
Mrs Hopgood did not tell her children the true reason for leaving. She
merely said that Mrs Cork had been very impertinent, and that they must
look out for other rooms. Madge instantly recollected Great Ormond
Street, but she did not know the number, and oddly enough she had
completely forgotten Mrs Caffyn’s name. It was a peculiar name, she had
heard it only once, she had not noticed it over the door, and her
exhaustion may have had something to do with her loss of memory. She
could not therefore write, and Mrs Hopgood determined that she herself
would go to Great Oakhurst. She had another reason for her journey. She
wished her kind friend there to see that Madge had really a mother who
cared for her. She was anxious to confirm Madge’s story, and Mrs
Caffyn’s confidence. Clara desired to go also, but Mrs Hopgood would not
leave Madge alone, and the expense of a double fare was considered
unnecessary.
When Mrs Hopgood came to Letherhead on her return, the coach was full
inside, and she was obliged to ride outside, although the weather was
cold and threatening. In about half an hour it began to rain heavily,
and by the time she was in Pentonville she was wet through. The next
morning she ought to have lain in bed, but she came down at her
accustomed hour as Mrs Cork was more than usually disagreeable, and it
was settled that they would leave at once if the rooms in Great Ormond
Street were available. Clara went there directly after breakfast, and
saw Mrs Marshall, who had already received an introductory letter from
her mother.