‘Then you have really wished for this from the first?’
Louise plucked at the fringe on the arm of her chair, and replied at length with maidenly frankness.
‘I always thought it would be a good marriage for me. But I never—do believe me—I never tried to cut Cissy out. The truth is I thought a good deal of the other—of Mr. Cobb. But I knew that I couldn’t marry him. It would be dreadful; we should quarrel frightfully, and he would kill me—I feel sure he would, he’s so violent in his temper. But Mr. Bowling is very nice; he couldn’t get angry if he tried. And ho has a much better position than Mr. Cobb.’
Emmeline began to waver in her conviction and to feel a natural annoyance.
‘And you think,’ she said coldly, ‘that your marriage will take place soon?’
‘That’s what I want to speak about, dear Mrs. Mumford. Did you hear from my mother this morning? Then you see what my position is. I am homeless. If I leave you, I don’t know where I shall go. When Mr. Higgins knows I’m going to marry Mr. Bowling he won’t have me in the house, even if I wanted to go back. Cissy Will be furious: she’ll come back from Margate just to keep up her father’s anger against me. If you could let me stay here just a short time, Mrs. Mumford; just a few weeks I should so like to be married from your house.’
The listener trembled with irritation, and before she could command her voice Louise added eagerly:
‘Of course, when we’re married, Mr. Bowling will pay all my debts.’
”You are quite mistaken,’ said Emmeline distantly, ‘if you think that the money matter has anything to do with—with my unreadiness to agree—’
‘Oh, I didn’t think it—not for a moment. I’m a trouble to you; I know I am. But I’ll be so quiet, dear Mrs. Mumford. You shall hardly know I’m in the house. If once it’s all settled I shall never be out of temper. Do, please, let me stay! I like you so much, and how wretched it would be if I had to be married from a lodging-house.’
‘I’m afraid, Louise—I’m really afraid—’
‘Of my temper?’ the girl interrupted. ‘If ever I say an angry word you shall turn me out that very moment. Dear Mrs. Mumford! Oh! what shall I do if you won’t be kind to me? What will become of me? I have no home, and everybody hates me.’
‘Tears streamed down her face; she lay back, overcome with misery. Emmeline was distracted. She felt herself powerless to act as common-sense dictated, yet desired more than ever to rid herself of every shadow of responsibility for the girl’s proceedings. The idea of this marriage taking place at “Runnymede” made her blood run cold. No, no; that was absolutely out of the question. But equally impossible did it seem to speak with brutal decision. Once more she must temporise, and hope for courage on another day.
‘I can’t—I really can’t give you a definite answer till I have spoken with Mr. Mumford.’
‘Oh! I am sure he will do me this kindness,’ sobbed Louise.
A slight emphasis on the “he” touched Mrs. Mumford unpleasantly. She rose, and began to pick out some overblown flowers from a vase on the table near her. Presently Louise became silent. Before either of them spoke again a postman’s knock sounded at the house-door, and Emmeline went to see what letter had been delivered. It was for Miss Derrick; the handwriting, as Emmeline knew, that of Mr. Cobb.
‘Oh, bother!’ Louise murmured, as she took the letter from Mrs. Mumford’s hand. ‘Well, I’m a trouble to everybody, and I don’t know how it’ll all end. I daresay I shan’t live very long.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense, Louise.’
‘Should you like me to go at once, Mrs. Mumford?’ the girl asked, with a submissive sigh.
‘No, no. Let us think over it for a day or two. Perhaps you haven’t quite made up your mind, after all.’
To this, oddly enough, Louise gave no reply. She lingered by the window, nervously bending and rolling her letter, which she did not seem to think of opening. After a glance or two of discreet curiosity, Mrs. Mumford left the room. Daily duties called for attention, and she was not at all inclined to talk further with Louise. The girl, as soon as she found herself alone, broke Mr. Cobb’s envelope, which contained four sides of bold handwriting—not a long letter, but, as usual, vigorously worded. ‘Dear Miss Derrick,’ he wrote, ‘I haven’t been in a hurry to reply to your last, as it seemed to me that you were in one of your touchy moods when you sent it. It wasn’t my fault that I called at the house when you were away. I happened to have business at Croydon unexpectedly, and ran over to Sutton just on the chance of seeing you. And I have no objection to tell you all I said to your friend there. I am not in the habit of saying things behind people’s backs that I don’t wish them to hear. All I did was to ask out plainly whether Mrs. M. was trying to persuade you to have nothing to do with me. She said she wasn’t, and that she didn’t wish to interfere one way or another. I told her that I could ask no more than that. She seemed to me a sensible sort of woman, and I don’t suppose you’ll get much harm from her, though I daresay she thinks more about dress and amusements, and so on, than is good for her or anyone else. You say at the end of your letter that I’m to let you know when I think of coming again, and if you mean by that that you would be glad to see me, I can only say, thank you. I don’t mean to give you up yet, and I don’t believe you want me to say what you will. I don’t spy after you; you’re mistaken in that. But I’m pretty much always thinking about you, and I wish you were nearer to me. I may have to go to Bristol in a week or two, and perhaps I shall be there for a month or more, so I must see you before then. Will you tell me what day would suit you, after seven? If you don’t want me to come to the house, then meet me where you like. And there’s only one more thing I have to say—you must deal honestly with me. I can wait, but I won’t be deceived.’
Louise pondered for a long time, turning now to this part of the letter, now to that. And the lines of her face, though they made no approach to smiling, indicated agreeable thoughts. Tears had left just sufficient trace to give her meditations a semblance of unwonted seriousness.
About midday she went up to her room and wrote letters. The first was to Miss Cissy Higgins:—’Dear Ciss,—I dare say you would like to know that Mr. B. has proposed to me. If you have any objection, please let me know it by return.—Affectionately yours, L. E. DERRICK.’ This she addressed to Margate, and stamped with a little thump of the fist. Her next sheet of paper was devoted to Mr. Bowling, and the letter, though brief, cost her some thought. ‘Dear Mr. Bowling,—Your last is so very nice and kind that I feel I ought to answer it without delay, but I cannot answer in the way you wish. I must have a long, long time to think over such a very important question. I don’t blame you in the least for your behaviour to someone we know of; and I think, after all that happened, you were quite free. It is quite true that she did not behave straightforwardly, and I am very sorry to have to say it. I shall not be going home again: I have quite made up my mind about that. I am afraid I must not let you come here to call upon me. I have a particular reason for it. To tell you the truth, my friend Mrs. Mumford is very particular, and rather fussy, and has a rather trying temper. So please do not come just yet. I am quite well, and enjoying myself in a very quiet way.—I remain, sincerely yours, LOUISE E. DERRICK.’ Finally she penned a reply to Mr. Cobb, and this, after a glance at a railway time-table, gave her no trouble at all. ‘Dear Mr. Cobb,’ she scribbled, ‘if you really must see me before you go away to Bristol, or wherever it is, you had better meet me on Saturday at Streatham Station, which is about halfway between me and you. I shall come by the train from Sutton, which reaches Streatham at 8.6.—Yours truly, L. E. D.’