The Lodger

“All I can say is, I think Daisy ought to go. One can’t always do just what one wants to do—not in this world, at any rate!”

Mrs. Bunting did not seem to be addressing anyone in particular, though both her husband and her stepdaughter were in the room. She was standing by the table, staring straight before her, and as she spoke she avoided looking at either Bunting or Daisy. There was in her voice a tone of cross decision, of thin finality, with which they were both acquainted, and to which each listener knew the other would have to bow.

There was silence for a moment, then Daisy broke out passionately, “I don’t see why I should go if I don’t want to!” she cried. “You’ll allow I’ve been useful to you, Ellen? ’Tisn’t even as if you was quite well.”

“I am quite well—perfectly well!” snapped out Mrs. Bunting, and she turned her pale, drawn face, and looked angrily at her stepdaughter.

“’Tain’t often I has a chance of being with you and father.” There were tears in Daisy’s voice, and Bunting glanced deprecatingly at his wife.

An invitation had come to Daisy—an invitation from her own dead mother’s sister, who was housekeeper in a big house in Belgrave Square. “The family” had gone away for the Christmas holidays, and Aunt Margaret—Daisy was her godchild—had begged that her niece might come and spend two or three days with her.

But the girl had already had more than one taste of what life was like in the great gloomy basement of 100 Belgrave Square. Aunt Margaret was one of those old-fashioned servants for whom the modern employer is always sighing. While “the family” were away it was her joy—she regarded it as a privilege—to wash sixty-seven pieces of very valuable china contained in two cabinets in the drawing-room; she also slept in every bed by turns, to keep them all well aired. These were the two duties with which she intended her young niece to assist her, and Daisy’s soul sickened at the prospect.

But the matter had to be settled at once. The letter had come an hour ago, containing a stamped telegraph form, and Aunt Margaret was not one to be trifled with.

Since breakfast the three had talked of nothing else, and from the very first Mrs. Bunting had said that Daisy ought to go—that there was no doubt about it, that it did not admit of discussion. But discuss it they all did, and for once Bunting stood up to his wife. But that, as was natural, only made his Ellen harder and more set on her own view.

“What the child says is true,” he observed. “It isn’t as if you was quite well. You’ve been took bad twice in the last few days—you can’t deny of it, Ellen. Why shouldn’t I just take a bus and go over and see Margaret? I’d tell her just how it is. She’d understand, bless you!”

“I won’t have you doing nothing of the sort!” cried Mrs. Bunting, speaking almost as passionately as her stepdaughter had done. “Haven’t I a right to be ill, haven’t I a right to be took bad, aye, and to feel all right again—same as other people?”

Daisy turned round and clasped her hands. “Oh, Ellen!” she cried; “do say that you can’t spare me! I don’t want to go across to that horrid old dungeon of a place.”

“Do as you like,” said Mrs. Bunting sullenly. “I’m fair tired of you both! There’ll come a day, Daisy, when you’ll know, like me, that money is the main thing that matters in this world; and when your Aunt Margaret’s left her savings to somebody else just because you wouldn’t spend a few days with her this Christmas, then you’ll know what it’s like to go without—you’ll know what a fool you were, and that nothing can’t alter it any more!”

And then, with victory actually in her grasp, poor Daisy saw it snatched from her.

“Ellen is right,” Bunting said heavily. “Money does matter—a terrible deal—though I never thought to hear Ellen say ’twas the only thing that mattered. But ’twould be foolish—very, very foolish, my girl, to offend your Aunt Margaret. It’ll only be two days after all—two days isn’t a very long time.”

But Daisy did not hear her father’s last words. She had already rushed from the room, and gone down to the kitchen to hide her childish tears of disappointment—the childish tears which came because she was beginning to be a woman, with a woman’s natural instinct for building her own human nest.

Aunt Margaret was not one to tolerate the comings of any strange young man, and she had a peculiar dislike to the police.

“Who’d ever have thought she’d have minded as much as that!” Bunting looked across at Ellen deprecatingly; already his heart was misgiving him.

“It’s plain enough why she’s become so fond of us all of a sudden,” said Mrs. Bunting sarcastically. And as her husband stared at her uncomprehendingly, she added, in a tantalising tone, “as plain as the nose on your face, my man.”

“What d’you mean?” he said. “I daresay I’m a bit slow, Ellen, but I really don’t know what you’d be at?”

“Don’t you remember telling me before Daisy came here that Joe Chandler had become sweet on her last summer? I thought it only foolishness then, but I’ve come round to your view—that’s all.”

Bunting nodded his head slowly. Yes, Joe had got into the way of coming very often, and there had been the expedition to that gruesome Scotland Yard museum, but somehow he, Bunting, had been so interested in the Avenger murders that he hadn’t thought of Joe in any other connection—not this time, at any rate.

“And do you think Daisy likes him?” There was an unwonted tone of excitement, of tenderness, in Bunting’s voice.

His wife looked over at him; and a thin smile, not an unkindly smile by any means, lit up her pale face. “I’ve never been one to prophesy,” she answered deliberately. “But this I don’t mind telling you, Bunting—Daisy’ll have plenty o’ time to get tired of Joe Chandler before they two are dead. Mark my words!”

“Well, she might do worse,” said Bunting ruminatingly. “He’s as steady as God makes them, and he’s already earning thirty-two shillings a week. But I wonder how Old Aunt’d like the notion? I don’t see her parting with Daisy before she must.”

“I wouldn’t let no old aunt interfere with me about such a thing as that!” cried Mrs. Bunting. “No, not for millions of gold!” And Bunting looked at her in silent wonder. Ellen was singing a very different tune now to what she’d sung a few minutes ago, when she was so keen about the girl going to Belgrave Square.

“If she still seems upset while she’s having her dinner,” said his wife suddenly, “well, you just wait till I’ve gone out for something, and then you just say to her, ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder’—just that, and nothing more! She’ll take it from you. And I shouldn’t be surprised if it comforted her quite a lot.”

“For the matter of that, there’s no reason why Joe Chandler shouldn’t go over and see her there,” said Bunting hesitatingly.

“Oh, yes, there is,” said Mrs. Bunting, smiling shrewdly. “Plenty of reason. Daisy’ll be a very foolish girl if she allows her aunt to know any of her secrets. I’ve only seen that woman once, but I know exactly the sort Margaret is. She’s just waiting for Old Aunt to drop off and then she’ll want to have Daisy herself—to wait on her, like. She’d turn quite nasty if she thought there was a young fellow what stood in her way.”

She glanced at the clock, the pretty little eight-day clock which had been a wedding present from a kind friend of her last mistress. It had mysteriously disappeared during their time of trouble, and had as mysteriously reappeared three or four days after Mr. Sleuth’s arrival.

“I’ve time to go out with that telegram,” she said briskly—somehow she felt better, different to what she had done the last few days—“and then it’ll be done. It’s no good having more words about it, and I expect we should have plenty more words if I wait till the child comes upstairs again.”

She did not speak unkindly, and Bunting looked at her rather wonderingly. Ellen very seldom spoke of Daisy as “the child”—in fact, he could only remember her having done so once before, and that was a long time ago. They had been talking over their future life together, and she had said, very solemnly, “Bunting, I promise I will do my duty—as much as lies in my power, that is—by the child.”

But Ellen had not had much opportunity of doing her duty by Daisy. As not infrequently happens with the duties that we are willing to do, that particular duty had been taken over by someone else who had no mind to let it go.

“What shall I do if Mr. Sleuth rings?” asked Bunting, rather nervously. It was the first time since the lodger had come to them that Ellen had offered to go out in the morning.

She hesitated. In her anxiety to have the matter of Daisy settled, she had forgotten Mr. Sleuth. Strange that she should have done so—strange, and, to herself, very comfortable and pleasant.