Books: The Paying Guest
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George Gissing >> The Paying Guest
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6 Edited by Charles Aldarondo Aldarondo@yahoo.com
edited by:
Charles Aldarondo
Aldarondo@yahoo.com
George Gissing
The Paying Guest
CHAPTER I
It was Mumford who saw the advertisement and made the suggestion.
His wife gave him a startled look.
'But--you don't mean that it's necessary? Have we been extrav--'
'No, no! Nothing of the kind. It just occurred to me that some such
arrangement might be pleasant for you. You must feel lonely, now and
then, during the day, and as we have plenty of room--'
Emmeline took the matter seriously, but, being a young woman of some
discretion, did not voice all her thoughts. The rent was heavy: so
was the cost of Clarence's season-ticket. Against this they had set
the advantage of the fine air of Sutton, so good for the child and
for the mother, both vastly better in health since they quitted
London. Moreover, the remoteness of their friends favoured economy;
they could easily decline invitations, and need not often issue
them. They had a valid excuse for avoiding public entertainments--an
expense so often imposed by mere fashion. The house was roomy, the
garden delightful. Clarence, good fellow, might be sincere in his
wish for her to have companionship; at the same time, this
advertisement had probably appealed to him in another way.
'A YOUNG LADY desires to find a home with respectable,
well-connected family, in a suburb of London, or not more than 15
miles from Charing Cross. Can give excellent references. Terms not
so much a consideration as comfort and pleasant society. No
boarding-house.--Address: Louise, Messrs. Higgins & Co., Fenchurch
St., E.C.'
She read it again and again.
'It wouldn't be nice if people said that we were taking lodgers.'
'No fear of that. This is evidently some well-to-do person. It's a
very common arrangement nowadays, you know; they are called "paying
guests." Of course I shouldn't dream of having anyone you didn't
thoroughly like the look of.'
'Do you think,' asked Emmeline doubtfully, 'that we should quite
_do_? "Well-connected family"--'
'My dear girl! Surely we have nothing to be ashamed of?'
'Of course not, Clarence. But--and "pleasant society." What about
that?'
'Your society is pleasant enough, I hope,' answered Mumford,
gracefully. 'And the Fentimans--'
This was the only family with whom they were intimate at Sutton.
Nice people; a trifle sober, perhaps, and not in conspicuously
flourishing circumstances; but perfectly presentable.
'I'm afraid--' murmured Emmeline, and stopped short. 'As you say,'
she added presently, 'this is someone very well off. "Terms not so
much a consideration"--'
'Well, I tell you what--there can be no harm in dropping a note. The
kind of note that commits one to nothing, you know. Shall I write
it, or will you?'
They concocted it together, and the rough draft was copied by
Emmeline. She wrote a very pretty hand, and had no difficulty
whatever about punctuation. A careful letter, calculated for the eye
of refinement; it supplied only the indispensable details of the
writer's position, and left terms for future adjustment.
'It's so easy to explain to people,' said Mumford, with an air of
satisfaction, when he came back from the post, 'that you wanted a
companion. As I'm quite sure you do. A friend coming to stay with
you for a time--that's how I should put it.'
A week passed, and there came no reply. Mumford pretended not to
care much, but Emmeline imagined a new anxiety in his look.
'Do be frank with me, dear,' she urged one evening. 'Are we living
too--'
He answered her with entire truthfulness. Ground for serious
uneasiness there was none whatever; he could more than make ends
meet, and had every reason to hope it would always be so; but it
would relieve his mind if the end of the year saw a rather larger
surplus. He was now five-and-thirty--getting on in life. A man ought
to make provision beyond the mere life-assurance--and so on.
'Shall I look out for other advertisements?' asked Emmeline.
'Oh, dear, no! It was just that particular one that caught my eye.'
Next morning arrived a letter, signed 'Louise E. Derrick.' The
writer said she had been waiting to compare and think over some two
hundred answers to her advertisement. 'It's really too absurd. How
can I remember them all? But I liked yours as soon as I read it, and
I am writing to you first of all. Will you let me come and see you?
I can tell you about myself much better than writing. Would tomorrow
do, in the afternoon? Please telegraph yes or no to Coburg Lodge,
Emilia Road, Tulse Hill.'
To think over this letter Mumford missed his ordinary train. It was
not exactly the kind of letter he had expected, and Emmeline shared
his doubts. The handwriting seemed just passable; there was no
orthographic error; but--refinement? This young person wrote, too,
with such singular nonchalance. And she said absolutely nothing
about her domestic circumstances. Coburg Lodge, Tulse Hill. A decent
enough locality, doubtless; but--
'There's no harm in seeing her,' said Emmeline at length. 'Send a
telegram, Clarence. Do you know, I think she _may_ be the right kind
of girl. I was thinking of someone awfully grand, and it's rather a
relief. After all, you see, you--you are in business--'
'To be sure. And this girl seems to belong to a business family. I
only wish she wrote in a more ladylike way.'
Emmeline set her house in order, filled the drawing-room with
flowers, made the spare bedroom as inviting as possible, and, after
luncheon, spent a good deal of time in adorning her person. She was
a slight, pretty woman of something less than thirty; with a good,
but pale, complexion, hair tending to auburn, sincere eyes. Her
little vanities had no roots of ill-nature; she could admire without
envy, and loved an orderly domestic life. Her husband's desire to
increase his income had rather unsettled her; she exaggerated the
importance of to-day's interview, and resolved with nervous energy
to bring it to a successful issue, if Miss Derrick should prove a
possible companion.
About four o'clock sounded the visitor's ring. From her bedroom
window Emmeline had seen Miss Derrick's approach. As the distance
from the station was only five minutes' walk, the stranger naturally
came on foot. A dark girl, and of tolerably good features; rather
dressy; with a carriage corresponding to the tone of her letter--an
easy swing; head well up and shoulders squared. 'Oh, how I _hope_
she isn't vulgar!' said Emmeline to herself. 'I don't like the
bat--I don't. And that sunshade with the immense handle.' From the
top of the stairs she heard a clear, unaffected voice: 'Mrs. Mumford
at home?' Yes, the aspirate _was_ sounded--thank goodness!
It surprised her, on entering the room, to find that Miss Derrick
looked no less nervous than she was herself. The girl's cheeks were
flushed, and she half choked over her 'How do you do?'
'I hope you had no difficulty in finding the house. I would have met
you at the station if you had mentioned the train. Oh, but--how
silly!--I shouldn't have known you.'
Miss Derrick laughed, and seemed of a sudden much more at ease.
'Oh, I like you for that!' she exclaimed mirthfully. 'It's just the
kind of thing I say myself sometimes. And I'm so glad to see that
you are--you mustn't be offended--I mean you're not the kind of
person to be afraid of.'
They laughed together. Emmeline could not subdue her delight when
she found that the girl really might be accepted as a lady. There
were faults of costume undeniably; money had been misspent in
several directions; but no glaring vulgarity hurt the eye. And her
speech, though not strictly speaking refined, was free from the
faults that betray low origin. Then, she seemed good-natured though
there was something about her mouth not altogether charming.
'Do you know Sutton at all?' Emmeline inquired.
'Never was here before. But I like the look of it. I like this
house, too. I suppose you know a lot of people here, Mrs. Mumford?'
'Well--no. There's only one family we know at all well. Our friends
live in London. Of course they often come out here. I don't know
whether you are acquainted with any of them. The Kirby Simpsons, of
West Kensington; and Mrs. Hollings, of Highgate--'
Miss Derrick cast down her eyes and seemed to reflect. Then she
spoke abruptly.
'I don't know any people to speak of. I ought to tell you that my
mother has come down with me. She's waiting at the station till I go
back; then she'll come and see you. You're surprised? Well, I had
better tell you that I'm leaving home because I can't get on with my
people. Mother and I have always quarrelled, but it has been worse
than ever lately. I must explain that she has married a second time,
and Mr. Higgins--I'm glad to say that isn't _my_ name--has a
daughter of his own by a first marriage; and we can't bear each
other--Miss Higgins, I mean. Some day, if I come to live here, I
daresay I shall tell you more. Mr. Higgins is rich, and I can't say
he's unkind to me; he'll give me as much as I want; but I'm sure
he'll be very glad to get me out of the house. I have no money of my
own--worse luck! Well, we thought it best for me to come alone,
first, and see--just to see, you know--whether we were likely to
suit each other. Then mother will come and tell you all she has to
say about me. Of course I know what it'll be. They all say I've a
horrible temper. I don't think so myself; and I'm sure I don't think
I should quarrel with _you_, you look so nice. But I can't get on at
home, and it's better for all that we should part. I'm just
two-and-twenty--do I look older? I haven't learnt to do anything,
and I suppose I shall never need to.'
'Do you wish to see _much_ society?' inquired Mrs. Mumford, who was
thinking rapidly, 'or should you prefer a few really nice people?
I'm afraid I don't quite understand yet whether you want society of
the pleasure-seeking kind, or--'
She left the alternative vague. Miss Derrick again reflected for a
moment before abruptly declaring herself.
'I feel sure that your friends are the kind I want to know. At all
events, I should like to try. The great thing is to get away from
home and see how things look.'
They laughed together. Emmeline, after a little more talk, offered
to take her visitor over the house, and Miss Derrick had loud praise
for everything she saw.
'What I like about you,' she exclaimed of a sudden, as they stood
looking from a bedroom window on to the garden, 'is that you don't
put on any--you know what I mean. People seem to me to be generally
either low and ignorant, or so high and mighty there's no getting on
with them at all. You're just what I wanted to find. Now I must go
and send mother to see you.'
Emmeline protested against this awkward proceeding. Why should not
both come together and have a cup of tea? If it were desired, Miss
Derrick could step into the garden whilst her mother said whatever
she wished to say. The girl assented, and in excellent spirits
betook herself to the railway station. Emmeline waited something
less than a quarter of an hour; then a hansom drove up, and Mrs.
Higgins, after a deliberate surveyal of the house front, followed
her daughter up the pathway.
The first sight of the portly lady made the situation clearer to
Mrs. Mumford. Louise Derrick represented a certain stage of
civilisation, a degree of conscious striving for better things; Mrs.
Higgins was prosperous and self-satisfied vulgarity. Of a complexion
much lighter than the girl's, she still possessed a coarse
comeliness, which pointed back to the dairymaid type of damsel. Her
features revealed at the same time a kindly nature and an irascible
tendency. Monstrously overdressed, and weighted with costly gewgaws,
she came forward panting and perspiring, and, before paying any heed
to her hostess, closely surveyed the room.
'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.'
'Of course you could. Really, it seems almost a duty to take her--
doesn't it?'
So the matter was settled, and Mumford ran off gaily to catch his
train.
Three days later Miss Derrick arrived, bringing with her something
like half-a-ton of luggage. She bounded up the doorsteps, and,
meeting Mrs. Mumford in the hall, kissed her fervently.
'I've got such heaps to tell you Mr. Higgins has given me twenty
pounds to go on with--for myself; I mean; of course he'll pay
everything else. How delighted I am to be here! Please pay the
cabman I've got no change.'
A few hours before this there had come a letter from Mrs. Higgins;
better written and spelt than would have seemed likely.
'Dear Mrs. Mumford,' it ran, 'L. is coming to-morrow morning, and I
hope you won't repent. There's just one thing I meant to have said
to you but forgot, so I'll say it now. If it should happen that any
gentleman of your acquaintance takes a fancy to L., and if it should
come to anything, I'm sure both Mr. H. and me would be _most
thankful_, and Mr. H. would behave handsome to her. And what's more,
I'm sure he would be only too glad to show _in a handsome way_ the
thanks he would owe to you and Mr. M.--Very truly yours, Susan H.
Higgins.'
CHAPTER II
'Runnymede' (so the Mumfords' house was named) stood on its own
little plot of ground in one of the tree-shadowed roads which
persuade the inhabitants of Sutton that they live in the country. It
was of red brick, and double-fronted, with a porch of wood and
stucco; bay windows on one side of the entrance, and flat on the
other, made a contrast pleasing to the suburban eye. The little
front garden had a close fence of unpainted lath, a characteristic
of the neighbourhood. At the back of the house lay a long, narrow
lawn, bordered with flower-beds, and shaded at the far end by a fine
horse-chestnut.
Emmeline talked much of the delightful proximity of the Downs; one
would have imagined her taking long walks over the breezy uplands to
Ban stead or Epsom, or yet further afield The fact was, she saw no
more of the country than if she had lived at Brixton. Her windows
looked only upon the surrounding houses and their garden foliage.
Occasionally she walked along the asphalte pavement of the Brighton
Road--a nursemaids' promenade--as far as the stone which marks
twelve miles from Westminster Bridge. Here, indeed, she breathed the
air of the hills, but villas on either hand obstructed the view, and
brought London much nearer than the measured distance. Like her
friends and neighbours, Emmeline enjoyed Sutton because it was a
most respectable little portion of the great town, set in a purer
atmosphere. The country would have depressed her.
In this respect Miss Derrick proved a congenial companion. Louise
made no pretence of rural inclinations, but had a great liking for
tree-shadowed asphalte, for the results of elaborate horticulture,
for the repose and the quiet of villadom.
'I should like to have a house just like this,' she declared, on her
first evening at "Runnymede," talking with her host and hostess out
in the garden. 'It's quite big enough, unless, of course, you have a
very large family, which must be rather a bore.' She laughed
ingenuously. 'And one gets to town so easily. What do you pay for
your season-ticket, Mr. Mumford? Oh, well! that isn't much. I almost
think I shall get one.'
'Do you wish to go up very often, then?' asked Emmeline, reflecting
on her new responsibilities.
'Oh! not every day, of course. But a season-ticket saves the bother
each time, and you have a sort of feeling, you know, that you can be
in town whenever you like.'
It had not hitherto been the Mumfords' wont to dress for dinner, but
this evening they did so, and obviously to Miss Derrick's
gratification. She herself appeared in a dress which altogether
outshone that of her hostess. Afterwards, in private, she drew
Emmeline's attention to this garb, and frankly asked her opinion of
it.
'Very nice indeed,' murmured the married lady, with a good-natured
smile. 'Perhaps a little--'
'There, I know what you're going to say. You think it's too showy.
Now I want you to tell me just what you think about
everything--everything. I shan't be offended. I'm not so silly. You
know I've come here to learn all sorts of things. To-morrow you
shall go over all my dresses with me, and those you don't like I'll
get rid of. I've never had anyone to tell me what's nice and what
isn't. I want to be--oh, well, you know what I mean.'
'But, my dear,' said Emmeline, 'there's something I don't quite
understand. You say I'm to speak plainly, and so I will. How is it
that you haven't made friends long ago with the sort of people you
wish to know? It isn't as if you were in poor circumstances.'
'How _could_ I make friends with nice people when I was ashamed to
have them at home? The best I know are quite poor--girls I went to
school with. They're much better educated than I am, but they make
their own living, and so I can't see very much of them, and I'm not
sure they want to see much of _me_. I wish I knew what people think
of me; they call me vulgar, I believe--the kind I'm speaking of.
Now, do tell me, Mrs. Mumford, _am_ I vulgar?'
'My dear Miss Derrick--' Emmeline began in protest, but was at once
interrupted.
'Oh! that isn't what I want. You must call me Louise, or Lou, if you
like, and just say what you really think. Yes, I see, I _am_ rather
vulgar, and what can you expect? Look at mother; and if you saw Mr.
Higgins, oh! The mistake I made was to leave school so soon. I got
sick of it, and left at sixteen, and of course the idiots at home--I
mean the foolish people--let me have my own way. I'm not clever, you
know, and I didn't get on well at school. They used to say I could
do much better if I liked, and perhaps it was more laziness than
stupidity, though I don't care for books--I wish I did. I've had
lots of friends, but I never keep them for very long. I don't know
whether it's their fault or mine. My oldest friends are Amy Barker
and Muriel Featherstone; they were both at the school at Clapham,
and now Amy does type-writing in the City, and Muriel is at a
photographer's. They're awfully nice girls, and t like them so much;
but then, you see, they haven't enough money to live in what _I_
call a nice way, and, you know, I should never think of asking them
to advise me about my dresses, or anything of that kind. A friend of
mine once began to say something and I didn't like it; after that we
had nothing to do with each other.'
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