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: Tomorrow 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 tomorrow,’ 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.