‘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;
‘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
To-day was Thursday. When Saturday came the state of things at “Runnymede” had undergone no change whatever; Emmeline still waited for a moment of courage, and Mumford, though he did not relish the prospect, began to think it more than probable that Miss Derrick would hold her ground until her actual marriage with Mr. Bowling. Whether that unknown person would discharge the debt his betrothed was incurring seemed an altogether uncertain matter. Louise, in the meantime, kept quiet as a mouse—so strangely quiet, indeed, that Emmeline’s prophetic soul dreaded some impending disturbance, worse than any they had yet suffered.
At luncheon, Louise made known that she would have to leave in the middle of dinner to catch a train. No explanation was offered or asked, but Emmeline, it being Saturday, said she would put the dinner-hour earlier, to suit her friend’s convenience. Louise smiled pleasantly, and said how very kind it was of Mrs. Mumford.
She had no difficulty in reaching Streatham by the time appointed. Unfortunately, it was a cloudy evening, and a spattering of rain fell from time to time.
‘I suppose you’ll be afraid to walk to the Common,’ said Mr. Cobb, who stood waiting at the exit from the station, and showed more satisfaction in his countenance when Louise appeared than he evinced in words.
‘Oh, I don’t care,’ she answered. ‘It won’t rain much, and I’ve brought my umbrella, and I’ve nothing on that will take any harm.’
She had, indeed, dressed herself in her least demonstrative costume. Cobb wore the usual garb of his leisure hours, which was better than that in which he had called the other day at “Runnymede.” For some minutes they walked towards Streatham Common without interchange of a word, and with no glance at each other. Then the man coughed, and said bluntly that he was glad Louise had come.
‘Well, I wanted to see you,’ was her answer.
‘What about?’
‘I don’t think I shall be able to stay with the Mumfords. They’re very nice people, but they’re not exactly my sort, and we don’t get on very well. Where had I better go?’
