Chapter Seven.
Mrs Lilford’s Tenant.
In the increasing interest of getting the house at Pinnerton Green into order, the arrival of the furniture from Bordeaux, the unpacking of various precious belongings which had been left to come with the heavy things by sea, all of which necessitated almost daily expeditions to the new home, Mrs Derwent and her daughters forgot to think much of Mrs Burgess and her unwelcome offers of introductions.
And as Mrs Wandle did not present herself, they began to hope that perhaps the doctor’s wife was as short of memory as she was hard of hearing.
Still the latent fear was there, though what was to be done to evade the acquaintance, it was difficult to say.
One afternoon—a dull, December afternoon, when the air was misty and penetratingly cold, and one could only feel thankful it had not the addition of smoke to turn it into fog of the first quality—the little family was sitting in Miss Halliday’s well-warmed, best parlour, glad that the walk to Pinnerton Lodge had taken place that morning, before the day had become so ungenial; and Stasy was proposing that, to cheer them up a little, they should have afternoon tea rather earlier than usual, when suddenly a sharp rat-tat-tat at the front door—for the house owned both knocker and bell—followed by a resounding tinkle, made them all start.
“Who can it be?” said Blanche. “It isn’t often that any one both rings and knocks.”
“A telegram,” said Mrs Derwent. “No; that isn’t likely. There is no one to telegraph to us.”
Then Deborah was heard hurrying along the passage; her footsteps sounded as if she were somewhat flurried with the anticipation of a visitor of more importance than the postman or milkman. The ladies listened with curiosity, as a colloquy ensued between Deborah and some person or persons unknown, ending, after some little delay, by footsteps slow and heavy, following the small servant’s patter along the passage.
Blanche glanced at her mother.