The Paying Guest

‘Mrs. Mumford,’ said the girl, ‘this is my mother. Mother, this is Mrs. Mumford. And now, please, let me go somewhere while you have your talk.’

‘Yes, that’ll be best, that’ll be best,’ exclaimed Mrs. Higgins. ‘Dear, ‘ow ‘ot it is! Run out into the garden, Louise. Nice little ‘ouse, Mrs. Mumford. And Louise seems quite taken with you. She doesn’t take to people very easy, either. Of course, you can give satisfactory references? I like to do things in a business-like way. I understand your ‘usband is in the City; shouldn’t wonder if he knows some of Mr. ‘Iggins’s friends. Yes, I will take a cup, if you please. I’ve just had one at the station, but it’s such thirsty weather. And what do you think of Louise? Because I’d very much rather you said plainly if you don’t think you could get on.’

‘But, indeed, I fancy we could, Mrs. Higgins.’

‘Well, I’m sure I’m very glad of it. It isn’t everybody can get on with Louise. I dessay she’s told you a good deal about me and her stepfather. I don’t think she’s any reason to complain of the treatment—’

‘She said you were both very kind to her,’ interposed the hostess.

‘I’m sure we try to be, and Mr. ‘Iggins, he doesn’t mind what he gives her. A five- pound note, if you’ll believe me, is no more than a sixpence to him when he gives her presents. You see, Mrs. Rumford—no, Mumford, isn’t it?—I was first married very young—scarcely eighteen, I was; and Mr. Derrick died on our wedding-day, two years after. Then came Mr. ‘Iggins. Of course I waited a proper time. And one thing I can say, that no woman was ever ‘appier with two ‘usbands than I’ve been. I’ve two sons growing up, hearty boys as ever you saw. If it wasn’t for this trouble with Louise—’ She stopped to wipe her face. ‘I dessay she’s told you that Mr. ‘Iggins, who was a widower when I met him, has a daughter of his first marriage—her poor mother died at the birth, and she’s older than Louise. I don’t mind telling you, Mrs. Mumford, she’s close upon six-and-twenty, and nothing like so good-looking as Louise, neither. Mr. ‘Iggins, he’s kindness itself; but when it comes to differences between his daughter and my daughter, well, it isn’t in nature he shouldn’t favour his own. There’s more be’ind, but I dessay you can guess, and I won’t trouble you with things that don’t concern you. And that’s how it stands, you see.’

By a rapid calculation Emmeline discovered; with surprise, that Mrs. Higgins could not be much more than forty years of age. It must have been a life of gross self-indulgence that had made the woman look at least ten years older. This very undesirable parentage naturally affected Emmeline’s opinion of Louise, whose faults began to show in a more pronounced light. One thing was clear: but for the fact that Louise aimed at a separation from her relatives, it would be barely possible to think of receiving her. If Mrs. Higgins thought of coming down to Sutton at unexpected moments—no, that was too dreadful.

‘Should you wish, Mrs. Higgins, to entrust your daughter to me entirely?’

‘My dear Mrs. Rumford, it’s very little that my wishes has to do with it! She’s made up her mind to leave ‘ome, and all I can do is to see she gets with respectable people, which I feel sure you are; and of course I shall have your references.’

Emmeline turned pale at the suggestion. She all but decided that the matter must go no further.

‘And what might your terms be—inclusive?’ Mrs. Higgins proceeded to inquire.

At this moment a servant entered with tea, and Emmeline, sorely flurried, talked rapidly of the advantages of Sutton as a residence. She did not allow her visitor to put in a word till the door closed again. Then, with an air of decision, she announced her terms; they would be three guineas a week. It was half a guinea more than she and Clarence had decided to ask. She expected, she hoped, Mrs. Higgins would look grave. But nothing of the kind; Louise’s mother seemed to think the suggestion very reasonable. Thereupon Emmeline added that, of course, the young lady would discharge her own laundress’s bill. To this also Mrs. Higgins readily assented.

‘A hundred and sixty pounds per annum!’ Emmeline kept repeating to herself. And, alas! it looked as if she might have asked much more. The reference difficulty might be minimised by naming her own married sister, who lived at Blackheath, and Clarence’s most intimate friend, Mr. Tarling, who held a good position in a City house, and had a most respectable address at West Kensington. But her heart misgave her. She dreaded her husband’s return home.

The conversation was prolonged for half-an-hour. Emmeline gave her references, and in return requested the like from Mrs. Higgins. This astonished the good woman. Why, her husband was Messrs. ‘Iggins of Fenchurch Street! Oh, a mere formality, Emmeline hastened to add—for Mr. Mumford’s satisfaction. So Mrs. Higgins very pompously named two City firms, and negotiations, for the present, were at an end.

Louise, summoned to the drawing-room, looked rather tired of waiting.

‘When can you have me, Mrs. Mumford?’ she asked. ‘I’ve quite made up my mind to come.’

‘I’m afraid a day or two must pass, Miss Derrick—’

‘The references, my dear,’ began Mrs. Higgins.

‘Oh, nonsense! It’s all right; anyone can see.’

‘There you go! Always cutting short the words in my mouth. I can’t endure such behaviour, and I wonder what Mrs. Rumford thinks of it. I’ve given Mrs. Rumford fair warning—’

They wrangled for a few minutes, Emmeline feeling too depressed and anxious to interpose with polite commonplaces. When at length they took their leave, she saw the last of them with a sigh of thanksgiving. It had happened most fortunately that no one called this afternoon.

‘Clarence, it’s quite out of the question.’ Thus she greeted her husband. ‘The girl herself I could endure, but oh, her odious mother!—Three guineas a week! I could cry over the thought.’

By the first post in the morning came a letter from Louise. She wrote appealingly, touchingly. ‘I know you couldn’t stand my mother, but do please have me. I like Sutton, and I like your house, and I like you. I promise faithfully nobody from home shall ever come to see me, so don’t be afraid. Of course if you won’t have me, somebody else will; I’ve got two hundred to choose from, but I’d rather come to you. Do write and say I may come. I’m so sorry I quarrelled with mother before you. I promise never to quarrel with you. I’m very good-tempered when I get what I want.’ With much more to the same effect.

‘We will have her,’ declared Mumford. ‘Why not, if the old people keep away?—You are quite sure she sounds her h’s?’

‘Oh, quite. She has been to pretty good schools, I think. And I dare say I could persuade her to get other dresses and hats.’