The brown cart was waiting at the station, a successor to the heavy one of former days, lighter and better built, and the cob—a new cob—hurried along with it as though it were a cockle-shell. Hannah was not there, only the boy who went out with the milk in the morning. He sat up behind and took care of the luggage, while Mr. Vincent drove with his daughter beside him, contented and happy. The visit to London had drawn them closer together. To Margaret it had been a strange looking back; for she had hardly realized till now that her father must have had a history before the day when he had entered the farm gates and seen her mother for the first time. She had heard Hannah speak of it—the coming of the stranger, as it had remained in Hannah's mind through all the years afterwards. Margaret thought, too, of her grandfather and uncle, the relations of whom she had known nothing when she started yesterday. She was glad they had been people of position, even though they had spent their money or had done undesirable things, as something in her father's manner seemed to imply;for it made her father's life appear a more important thing, not to her, but in the world, that might otherwise have thought it merely one of the details of the farm at Chidhurst. She looked at the moor as they drove beside it. The clumps of broom and gorse had come out since yesterday full and golden in the sunshine. The fresh green of the whortleberries was showing itself, the bell-heather was struggling into bloom; just so the possibilities of life had broken into her imagination, and if some struck her with wonder, there were others that filled her with joy. An unreasonable, undefinable happiness that could not be put into words rose to her heart when she thought of Tom Carringford. She could hear his laughter still, and his merry talk as they made a bower of Miss Hunstan's room; she wanted to see him again already, and something told her that he wanted to see her.
The farm-yard gates were wide open. It was good to see the corner of the Dutch garden again, and in the porch, just as Margaret had known she would be, her mother stood waiting. Mr. Vincent took his wife's hand without a word, and looked into her face with a little smile.
"We have come home," he said. She gave him her hand for a moment, then turned to Margaret, who saw with surprise that she was smarter than usual. She wore her gray cashmere and the brooch with the topaz in it, and one of her best hemstitchedhandkerchiefs was pushed into the front of her dress. A smile came to her lips as she answered the question in Margaret's eyes.
"Hannah didn't go to the station," she said, "for Mr. Garratt came over this afternoon. Tea has been ready this hour and more, but we waited for you."
A fresh cloth was on the table in the living-room, there was a vase of flowers in the middle, the best china was put out, and fresh-cooked scones and other good things were visible. Near the fireplace stood Hannah, looking a little defiant and rather shamefaced. Margaret noticed that her hair was brushed back tighter than ever and shone more than usual. At her neck was a bow of muslin and lace, of which she seemed uncomfortably conscious. Beside her, brisk and business-like, with a happy, self-satisfied expression on his face, stood a youthful-looking man of eight-and-twenty. He was fair and had a smart air with him. His hair was carefully parted in the middle and curled a little at the tips. He had a small mustache, which he stroked a great deal and pulled back towards his ears. He wore a cutaway coat and a navy-blue tie with white spots on it, and a gold watch-chain wandered over his waistcoat. Margaret saw in a moment that he was altogether different from the men who were her father's friends—from Mr. Carringford, for instance, or Sir GeorgeStringer, with whom she had felt natural and at home. There was something about this man that made her haughty and on the defensive even before she had spoken to him.
"Your train must have been late. Tea's been waiting this long time," Hannah said. "However, it's to be hoped you've enjoyed yourselves." Her manner was quite amiable, but a little confused, as was only to be expected.
"This is Mr. Garratt," Mrs. Vincent said. "You will like to meet him, father; he has always known James's people at Petersfield."
"How do you do, sir; pleased to make your acquaintance, I'm sure," Mr. Garratt said. "I hope you've had a pleasant visit to London?"
"How do you do?" Mr. Vincent answered, wondering whether this lively young man could really be in love with the sedate Hannah.
"And Miss Vincent, I'm pleased to meet you," Mr. Garratt went on, in a genial tone. "Have often heard of you, and hope you've enjoyed yourself since you've been away."
"Yes, thank you," Margaret answered, distantly.
"I dare say you've come back ready for your tea." This was by way of a little joke. "There's nothing like a railway journey, with the country at the end of it, for starting an appetite," to which she vouchsafed no reply, feeling instinctively that it would be wise to keep Mr. Garratt at a distance.
Then the business of tea was entered upon, reflectively, and almost in silence, as was the custom at Woodside Farm. The silence puzzled Mr. Garratt a little, this being his first visit; then he wondered if it were a compliment to himself, and whether these quiet people were shy before him.
"Is there much doing in London?" he asked Mr. Vincent, thinking perhaps that he was expected to lead the conversation.
"I suppose so," Mr. Vincent answered, a little coldly.
"I always think myself that it does one good to go up. I dare say you find the same? Did you stay at one of the hotels in the Strand?"
"We stayed at the Langham."
"It's rather swagger there, you know." Mr. Garratt thought this would be a pleasing remark.
"It's very quiet," Mr. Vincent said, haughtily.
"Did you go anywhere, father?" Mrs. Vincent asked.
"Yes; we went to Westminster Abbey."
"Magnificent building, Westminster Abbey," Mr. Garratt put in. "What did you think of it, Miss Vincent?"
"I don't think I could say just yet," Margaret answered; "it was only yesterday that I saw it."
"Quite right; it doesn't do to make up one's mind too soon," Mr. Garratt remarked, cheerily, at which Hannah looked up a little sharply.
"For my part," she said, "I like people to know at once what they think, and what they mean."
"Well, you see," he answered, looking back at her, "it isn't difficult sometimes." Whereupon the color came to her face and amiability to her expression. "What else did you see in London, Miss Vincent?" he turned to Margaret again.
Something prompted Mr. Vincent to answer for her, and with extreme gravity: "We went to the theatre."
"I'm sorry to hear it," Hannah said.
"And how did you like it?" Mr. Garratt asked Margaret, as if he had not heard Hannah's remark.
"It was wonderful," she answered. "I long to go again."
"It's a place of iniquity," Hannah said, firmly.
Mr. Vincent looked across at her. A sharp answer rose to his lips, but he remembered that the Petersfield young man was a suitor, and had been long expected. Before he could speak Margaret struck in, quickly:
"It was one of Shakespeare's plays that we saw."
"I have read a good many of them," Hannah remarked, not in the least pacified.
"Then, of course, you are aware, Miss Barton, that they are mostly historical," Mr. Garratt said, in a conciliatory voice, "and it may be said that to read him, or even to see him acted, makes usfamiliar with historical knowledge;" a sentence at which Mr. Vincent gave a little snort, but said nothing.
Hannah was delighted at the prospect of an argument. "History may teach us some lessons, Mr. Garratt," she said, "but we can read them, just as we can read other lessons. There is no occasion to do more; and as for play-acting teaching us history, once people have taken to their graves they might be left to lie in them and not be brought out and used as puppets that dance to man's imagination." Mr. Vincent looked up; he was becoming interested. "Moreover," continued Hannah, "it's making a mock of God, for only He can bring the dead to life."
"What you say is very true, Miss Barton," Mr. Garratt answered, sending another furtive look at Margaret, "and I never think myself that Shakespeare is as interesting as a good modern piece."
"Do you go to the theatre then, Mr. Garratt?" she asked, quickly putting down the teapot, but still keeping her hand on its handle.
"I don't make a practice of it, Miss Barton, but if one is in London one is tempted to do as London does. Moreover, I believe in seeing the world as it is, rather than in holding off because it is not as one wants it to be," he added, with the air of a moralist, but an obvious capacity for enjoyment lurking behind it.
"The world should be made a wilderness for the evil-doer—" Hannah began, as if she were trying to remember a bit from a sermon.
"There should be a voice crying in the wilderness, Miss Barton—" Mr. Garratt stopped, for it occurred to him that he might be going too far.
"Or what would be the good of the wilderness?" Mr. Vincent asked. "We have finished tea, I think?" He rose and went to the best parlor. The years he had spent out of the world, as he had once known it, made him a little intolerant of many things, of this vulgar and good-tempered young man with an eye to the main chance among them. But Mr. Garratt would do well enough for Hannah—in fact, nothing could be better, for evidently he was not narrow, and this might have a good effect upon her. For himself and his daughter and for his wife there was a different plane, a different point of view. The visit to London had made him see even more clearly than before the manner of woman he had married, and for the first time, after all these years and in the autumn of their days, he was nearly being her lover.
Just as if his thought had brought her to him, she put her head inside the door and asked, as she always did:
"Are you busy, father, or shall I come to you for a little while?"
He got up and went to her. "I wanted you," he said. "Come and sit by the window; there are a good many things to say." She felt as if heaven had flashed its joy into her heart; but only for a moment, then dread took its place.
"Is the news bad from London?" she asked.
"It's not good," he said. "That is one reason why I want to talk to you, dear wife." He stopped a moment before he went on. "I have told you two or three times that you know nothing about me or my people. Now, that I shall probably be going away very soon and that Margaret is grown up, I think you ought to know about them: one can never tell what may happen. There is not much to their credit to say—or to mine, I fear," he added, and then, quite briefly, he gave her the points of the family history, and made known to her the possibilities in the future. She was not elated—he had known that she would not be; but she was surprised, and a little offended.
"I didn't think there was this behind," she said; "I don't know what people will say."
"Is there any occasion to tell them?"
"I don't suppose there is," she answered, absently, and then, with an anxious look in her clear eyes, she said the one thing that hurt him in all the years he knew her. "Father, you didn't hold it back because you didn't think us good enough?"
He turned round quickly. "If it was anything of that sort," he answered, "it was because I did not think myself good enough. My people led useless, extravagant lives, and my own has not been much better. I have felt ashamed that you should know anything concerning us, and it wasn't necessary for our contentment here."
"No," she said, slowly, "it wasn't."
"Nor is it any more necessary to tell people our affairs now than it has been hitherto. If Cyril dies I shall not alter my name—what good would a title be to me? I have no son to come after me, no one at all to inherit anything except Margaret, for whom this doesn't matter."
"I'm glad you've told Margaret," Mrs. Vincent answered. She was silent for a moment, and then went on, thoughtfully: "She is changing in herself; I can feel it. She'll not be content here always. She is stretching her wings already, like a young bird that is waiting to fly."
"Well, at any rate, she had better stay quietly here till my return," he said. "By-the-way, an old friend of mine has taken the vicarage house—Sir George Stringer; he is sure to come over and see you."
"We are getting very grand, father," she said, ruefully, resenting it a little in her heart. She had been so well content with her own station in life, and had never wished to see it either lifted orlowered; the first seemed undignified to her, the last would have meant humiliation.
"It doesn't make any difference, dear," he said. "We were a worthless, ramshackling set, who put such privileges as we had under our feet; and as for me, I haven't even enough grace to take me to church on Sunday. I want to forget everything but the life of the last twenty years—you, and Margaret."
She put her hands up slowly to his shoulders.
"Father," she said, "you will never know what you have been to me, never in this world."
"I do," he answered; "I know—well."
"And I couldn't bear that you should be anything but just what you have been always."
"I never shall be anything else," he answered, and stooped and kissed her. "We won't tell Hannah about this," he went on, "and I don't suppose Margaret will. There's no reason to make a mystery of it; if it comes out, well and good, but if not we can be silent."
"I'd rather she didn't know," Mrs. Vincent answered, "unless she finds it out; she'd only be talking and thinking things I wouldn't bear."
Meanwhile Towsey and Hannah were clearing away the tea things: Margaret went out to the porch and looked at the garden and the beechwood she loved rising high beyond it. Mr. Garrattcast a quick glance towards the kitchen, and in a moment he was by her side.
"Are you inclined for a little stroll, Miss Vincent?"
His eyes said more than his words. She went a step forward and stood by a lilac bush.
"No," she said, "I am going in directly."
The sunset with a parting shaft of gold touched her hair; a whispering breeze carried a message from the roses to her cheek, and she was young—young, the dawn was in her eyes, she seemed to listen to the song of birds, to belong to the flowers that were springing from the earth. She was different altogether from Hannah. A dozen possibilities darted through his mind. His heart beat quicker, his usual ready speech failed him, he stood tugging at his mustache and thinking that he had never seen a girl like this before—but suddenly he was recalled to common-sense.
"Mr. Garratt," Hannah said, her voice was severe and unflinching, "if you want to see the grave of your aunt Amelia, I will take you."
Mr. Vincent started for Australia a week after his visit to London. In the first hours of his sailing Mrs. Vincent and Margaret measured in their hearts every length the ship took onward, while Hannah wondered whether the Lord would let it get safely to its journey's end, and prayed fervently for Jews, Turks, and infidels. For Hannah did not pretend to regret his departure. "It will be good for him to be away," she said to her mother, "and it's as well the place should be left for a bit to those whose hold was on it before he came and will be after he's gone." There was no question of her supremacy after Mr. Vincent departed, and her mother was as wax in her hands.
But it was not only for peace, and because of a vague feeling that she owed Hannah an indefinite reparation for the fact that she had set another man in her father's place, that Mrs. Vincent gave way; it was also because the keen interest she had once taken in the working of the farm had been gradually lulled, even half-forgotten, in her great love for the man she had first seen when middle-age had already overtaken her. There was anotherreason, too, but it existed unknown to any one, even to herself. Mrs. Vincent had become less active in the last year or two, more silent and thoughtful. Her hair was grayer, the lines on her face were deeper, dull pains beset her sometimes, and a lethargy she could not conquer. She put it down, as those about her did, to the gathering years and the hurrying of time; now and then it struck her that she "wasn't over well, that some day she'd see a doctor," but she dismissed the idea with the conviction that it was nothing, only that she was growing old—the worst disease of all, she thought, since every hour of life was sweet that she spent in the world that held her husband. Oddly enough, she, as well as Hannah, had been almost relieved when he went. It was the right thing for a man to go out and see the world; no women folk should tie him down forever; she even felt a little unselfish pleasure in remembering that it was she who had first proposed it. While he was away she determined to rest well, and sleep away her tiredness and all the uneasiness it brought, so that she might be strong to welcome him back. But after the excitement of getting him ready, and the passionate though undemonstrative farewell, a reaction came. She shut herself up in her room once or twice, so that her tears might not be suspected; or, when she had grown more accustomed to his absence,sat brooding in the living-place or the porch, trying to imagine what he was doing and to picture his surroundings.
"I must be a fool to go on like this at my age," she said to herself; "I wouldn't let the girls know for anything."
For Margaret, her father's going brought all sorts of restrictions and limitations; but her mother was too much wrapped up in her own dreams to perceive it, or to draw closer to her than before, and so to make up for the loss of his companionship. Thus Hannah was free to show the dislike she had always felt and to worry her with petty tyrannies.
"The best parlor will be used by any one who likes till he returns," she promptly announced. "It has been kept apart long enough, as if the whole of the house wasn't fit for those who own it to live in, unless it was sometimes by way of a treat."
"It was kept apart because father wanted to read and write and be quiet," Margaret said.
"Well, there's no one who need read and write now; you can do more useful things, and will be all the better for it; as for being quiet, well, there's others that will want to be quiet sometimes, and it'll do for them. Mr. Garratt is coming over to his dinner on Sundays, and we shall sit there in the afternoon—if we are not taking a walk. Motheris always in the porch, and we don't want you hanging about us."
"I am glad to get away," Margaret said, quickly.
"You do your best to keep his eyes fixed on you, anyway; but you needn't think you'll draw him to yourself; it isn't likely he'd mean anything by an unbeliever."
"I don't want him," Margaret cried, and fled up to the beechwood that stood high behind the farm as though it were the landscape's crown. Here, in some inconsequent manner born of the instinct that only comes to a woman's heart, she waited for Tom Carringford, or for news of him. That happy morning in London had changed the whole current of her thoughts, had put something strange and sweet into her life that she did not attempt to define and hardly knew to be there. But she wanted to see him again—and she waited, dreaming as her mother did, yet differently. He would come, or he would write, and soon; she felt it and knew it. But the days went by, and the weeks, and the first month of her father's absence, and nothing happened. She was a little disappointed, yet thought herself unreasonable, for, of course, he was thinking of his under-secretaryship, building castles concerning his parliamentary career—in Margaret's thoughts he was sure to be prime-minister some day—or going out with his friends; and she thought uneasily of theLakemans—he had no time to go to Hindhead, or to remember her father's invitation. And why should she expect him to write? He would come, perhaps, when Sir George Stringer was established at the house on the hill.
But of Sir George there was not a sign. Every day, in the early morning, or in the twilight, she hurried through the fields, towards the road on which the church and the garden entrance to his house faced each other on either side; but the gates were always closed, and a chain round them fastened by a padlock showed that as yet he was not expected. Then she came away slowly, and with dull disappointment in her heart, which Hannah's temper and tyranny emphasized till she could hardly bear it. The foundations of life seemed to be giving way—she felt it as she passed the windows of the empty best parlor, or saw her mother, erect still, but older and graver, sitting in the porch. The happiness of home, the dear home of all her life, had waned lately.
"Are you well, mother?" she asked one day, uneasily. "Sometimes I think you are suffering." This was five weeks after Mr. Vincent had started.
"It's nothing," Mrs. Vincent answered. "I'm getting on in years, Margey; at fifty-six aches and pains have a right to take some hold on one. I shall be better when your father returns; perhaps I did a little too much before he went."
"Yes, you did, darling," Margaret answered, kissing the hands—large, capable hands, that not even the rough farm-work had ever made coarse.
"There'll be a good many months to rest in before he comes," Mrs. Vincent went on; "perhaps it's as well that he's away for a bit."
"But, mother dear, you used to be so active only a little while ago."
"You see, Hannah's older, and likes doing things herself," Mrs. Vincent answered; "and that's as well, too; it gives me time to think over all the years back. I was never able to do it before. You mustn't trouble about me, Margey; when people are getting on they like being quiet." It was evident that her mother wanted to be let alone, and Margaret respected her wish, though it made her own life more difficult.
And then there was Mr. Garratt, brisk and vulgar, with the veneer of shoddy education over him, and the alertness of intelligence that is bent on "getting on" and making the most of chances. His coming and going would have been of little consequence to Margaret if he had but left her alone. But this was precisely what he would not do. She spoke to him as little as possible, and showed unconsciously that she thought him a rather inferior person; but Mr. Garratt faced everything, and was a difficult young man to abash.
Moreover, Mr. Garratt had lately been goingthrough an acute phase of his own, for possibilities had suggested themselves that puzzled and distracted him. He had seized a chance to improve his business by establishing a branch at Guildford, where he proposed to live during the summer months, leaving the Petersfield branch, more or less, to take care of itself. Land had gone up in Surrey; there was a good deal of buying and selling to be done among the people, who were anxious to build the red-brick houses at which Sir George Stringer had scoffed, and it had occurred to Mr. Garratt that the fashion might be used to his profit. Besides, he was tired of Petersfield. Guildford was nearer town; "a better class of people go there," he said, with the knowingness that grated on Margaret. It had lately become a rule that he appeared on Sunday morning and went to church with Mrs. Vincent and Hannah, walking back with them to the mid-day meal, which never varied—cold beef and baked plum-pudding in the winter, cold lamb and fruit tart in the summer, always eaten in silence, as if the Sabbath were a time of penance—and after it he was expected to submit, as he knew quite well, to atête-à-têtein the best parlor. But while he was getting his house and office ready at Guildford he often found it possible to take the afternoon train to Haslemere, and at Haslemere he hired a little dog-cart with a fat, gray pony, and drove himself over to Chidhurst, wherehe stayed to tea, driving himself back again in the early summer twilight. It was concerning the line he should take on these afternoons, that were somehow easier than the Sunday visits, that he was exercised in his mind. He had first considered Hannah from a matrimonial point of view on the advice of his mother, who had been assured by old Mrs. James Barton, of Petersfield, that she would ultimately possess Woodside Farm. It had seemed to Mr. Garratt that, by the time he was prepared to retire, the farm would be an excellent retreat for his old age, and meanwhile Hannah would make him a careful wife. But he was a far-seeing young man, who had a way of considering things in all their bearings, hence he had purposely held aloof for a long time, for the simple reason that there was no occasion to hurry. He knew what Hannah was like, and had come to the conclusion that, on the whole, she would do. But she did not inspire him to any display of sentiment, and there was no reason why he should waste his time with her when he felt that he could be employed quite as agreeably and perhaps more profitably at home. It was simply to make sure that things were going on satisfactorily that he went at last to Woodside Farm, and not from any particular desire to see her.
Then, to his surprise, Margaret had appeared. She took his breath away, and being a young man of intelligence, he saw at once that she andher father were altogether of a different class from that to which he was accustomed. He wondered how she came to be there. How her father came to be there, and what had induced him to marry Mrs. Vincent and settle down at the farm. "There must be a screw loose somewhere," he thought; but what would a dozen screws matter to him if only—for it promptly occurred to him—he could marry Margaret? The thought intoxicated him; she was young and beautiful; she made the blood dance through his veins as it had not done since he was two-and-twenty, when he had fallen in love with the daughter of a dentist who had thrown him over for the purser of an Atlantic-going steamer: and that young lady had not been a patch on this one. With a wife like Margaret, he told himself, there was no knowing what might be done, to what heights he might rise in these democratic days. He looked at Hannah's face; it was faded and somewhat weather-beaten; there were lines of temper on it—they would be deeper by-and-by; the hard gray-blue of her eyes chilled him, her tightly pulled back hair repelled him, her manner suggested that time would make her shrewish. Life with her would mean a clean, well-ordered home of a sort, but hardly a gay and pleasant dove-cot. Luckily, he had not in any way committed himself; he had merely been extremely polite and friendly, and entered upon that stagewhich, in the class just below the one he considered to be his own, was known as "walking-out"—a sort of prelude to getting engaged. But he had not said a single word of love; he had looked at her, it is true, but a cat may look at a king. The worst of it was that he could never manage to make any impression upon Margaret; at best, she was only civil to him; she spoke as little as possible, and generally vanished soon after his arrival; there were times when he felt her manner to be a little contemptuous; still, he determined not to bind himself in another direction till he made sure that she was impossible. He looked in the glass and came to the conclusion that he was by no means bad-looking; the curl of his hair and the fairness of his mustache he considered to be strong points to the good in his appearance.
"She is a little young," he said to himself, "and doesn't know what's what yet. A girl isn't up to much till she is two-and-twenty. She's had time then to look round at home, and to see that there mayn't always be room for her in it. Moreover, she knows then when a fellow is worth having, and doesn't give herself so many airs as she does at first. I wonder if my dress is quite up to the mark? She's got a quick eye, and she's been to London, and they always think they know a good deal after that." He considered this point very carefully, with the result that the next time he wentto Haslemere he wore drab spats over his by no means ill-made shoes; a white handkerchief, fine and slightly scented with white rose, showed itself from his breast-pocket, and in his hand he carried a crop, for he had determined that instead of driving he would ride to the farm. It would look more spirited, he thought, to trot beside the moor, past the church, along the road, and down the green lane, arriving with a clatter at the porch, than to appear in even the neatest of traps. There was a decent mare to be hired at "The Brown Bear" at Haslemere. He wrote to the landlord, and felt quite excited at an imaginary picture of himself and the effect it would have on Margaret.
Mr. Vincent had arranged that while he was away his two-hundred-a-year should be paid to Margaret. The five hundred pounds legacy, of which he had spoken, would, he knew, be more than sufficient for his travelling needs. The payment of the little income to Margaret had been Mrs. Vincent's suggestion. "You see, I shall not want it," she said, "and it will be better for her to have it. Then if anything happens while you are gone it will be there, and if not she'll save it, and when you come back we'll do something with it." Margaret was only told of this after her father's departure.
"You'll feel quite rich," her mother said.
"Why, yes," Margaret answered, and in truth it seemed like a fortune laid at her feet. "You and I might go a-travelling, mother darling."
But Mrs. Vincent shook her head. "I'm better at home," she replied; "travelling is not for old people."
Then, not as if she had generated the thought in her own mind, but as if it had come stealing to her over the Surrey hills from the city far away,Margaret wondered what it would feel like to go to London by herself, to be among the people there, to see the streets and hear the rumble of the traffic, to live alone, as Miss Hunstan did, in white-and-blue rooms in a quaint old street with a gray-haired woman to wait on her, and, above all, to do something outside in the open. She had come to see that there was a high-road through the world along which people worked their way. She had been thinking of it a great deal lately. Moreover, the fascination of the theatre had laid hold of her. All things had a beginning, she thought; the actress who played Constance in "King John," though her tones had seemed to come from a heart that had only to feel keenly to produce them, had once made a beginning. What a wonderful thing it must be to make anything, or to do anything that was counted in the world! If only she had been older, or had talked it over with her father, or if some strange and hard necessity were to overtake her and drive her onward, she felt as if hidden capacities might develop themselves and strength come to her. It was only a dream, of course, but the dream was a refuge from Hannah, and a retreat to which she could hurry at will; it was even better than books. After all, it was only the things that people had heard and seen and thought that were gathered up and put into books; but if she went out into the world she might get them at first-hand forherself. "I want to know things," she had said to her father that morning in London; "I want to know things, and to do them," she cried to herself, one afternoon in the woods, and amid the stillness of the coming summer at Chidhurst. Since her father went away she had drawn very close to nature beneath the great elms of her cathedral. The mysteries and immensities about her seemed to whisper secrets concerning the world that she longed to understand.
Nearly six weeks since her father went, and, except for the coming and going of Mr. Garratt, life had virtually stood still at Woodside Farm. "If only Sir George Stringer would arrive," she said to herself one afternoon, "I should feel as if it were the beginning of a new chapter." She had not ventured to look at the house on the hill for the last day or two, but she would go now, she thought—something told her there would be news. "I will go this very minute," she cried, "and then if there is no sign I will wait a whole week."
She went quickly through a copse and growth of underwood, over a ditch into the fields, across the fields and out by the church to the road. She saw in a moment that the gates of the house were open and her heart gave a bound. He was coming, perhaps he had come already, and would know something about Tom Carringford. She went a few steps up the drive, between the larches andthe fir-trees with the little monthly rose bushes in front, and wondered if she dared go up to the house and ask for him—her father's old friend would hardly take it amiss. Then she met the handy man who looked after the garden. Sir George had come the night before, he told her—come for a week, but he was out; drove away in a fly, to see some of the country round-about, most likely.
Margaret went out of the gate with a smile on her lips, to find herself face to face with Mr. Garratt on his steed. He was ambling past cautiously, not in the least expecting to see her, but the moment he did he pulled himself up and tried to look smart and unconcerned. She laughed and nodded to him because she was so happy, and because it amused her to see Hannah's sweetheart riding by supremely satisfied with himself, and his spats, and his crop, and bowler hat. He tugged at his mustache when he saw Margaret, and lifted his hat with a little flourish.
"Why, Mr. Garratt," she said, "I didn't know you!"
He was delighted at her manner; he took it as a tribute to his improved appearance; he held his reins tightly and swayed about a little in his saddle, as if his steed were restive.
"Riding is a little more lively, Miss Vincent, than tooling along in a trap; of course, if there'ssome one beside you it's different." He tried to put significance into his tone.
"You should get Hannah to meet you at the station in the brown cart," she said, wickedly, "and drive you back."
"I'm not sure whether it would be an enjoyment or not, Miss Vincent." She passed him while he spoke, and stood by the gate that opened into the field.
"I'm sure it would," she answered, as she undid the latch. "We shall meet presently," and she gave him a little nod of dismissal. "I'm going this way."
In a moment he had dismounted and stood by her side. "I can lead the mare across the grass and have the pleasure of escorting you at the same time," he said, quickly. They stood looking at each other for a moment, and the intolerance that she always felt for him came back.
"I'm not sure that I'm going home yet," she said, "or that I'm going back this way, after all."
"Any way will do for me, I'm not in a hurry. We might have a little talk about London, and the theatres," he added, with a sudden inspiration. "Miss Barton is rather strict, you know."
"Hannah was brought up to think the theatre a wicked place, so she is quite right not to go to one, and to disapprove of people who do—my father doesn't think it wrong."
"Neither do I, Miss Vincent." They were walking across the field by this time, he leading the mare, and she taking the narrow foot-path; "in fact, though I wouldn't like to tell Miss Barton so, I am very fond of it. Why, when I was up for a week a month ago I went four times." He looked at her knowingly, as if to establish a confidence. "I went to see 'The Lovers' Lesson'—a lovely piece, Miss Vincent; it made one feel"—Mr. Garratt lowered his voice at this point—"what real love was. Oh, I say, there's a stile to this next field; I didn't know that. I shall have to take the mare over." He put his foot into the stirrup, vaulted into the saddle, and went over with the air of a huntsman talking a five-barred gate; then dismounted and waited for Margaret. "Allow me to give you a hand," he said, and squeezed her fingers as she stepped down.
"Please don't," she said, haughtily.
"I'd do it again," he said, "to see the color come like that; you don't know what you make one feel like."
"I don't wish to know. Be good enough to remember that you come to see Hannah."
"But it isn't Hannah I want to come and see."
She turned upon him quickly. "It is only Hannah who wishes to see you, understand that."
"Oh, I say, what a spitfire! Look here, Miss Vincent, don't be angry. You and I ought tobe friends, you know; and I don't mean any harm."
After all, he was only vulgar, Margaret thought. "I'm sure you don't mean any harm—" she said, though not very graciously.
He felt that it would be a good move to get back to neutral subjects.
"Do you know the gent who has taken the house by the church?" he asked. "You seemed to be taking an interest in him."
"He is a friend of my father's," she condescended to inform him.
"He must be a swell—he's a 'Sir,' anyhow. You know, I've got an idea that you and your father are swells, too. Why, you and Miss Barton are as different as chalk from cheese—there isn't any looking at her when you are there."
Margaret walked on without a word, but he followed her meekly; it was all the same to Mr. Garratt.
"You're a downright beauty, that's what I think. I say! There's Hannah standing by the porch, looking out," for by this time they were within half a field and the length of the garden from the house. "She will be wild when she sees me walking with you, you know. Now, then," he added, touching his own shoulder with the crop in his hand as she made a sign of impatience, "don't be disagreeable again, there's a dear girl.Let's talk about the theatre; you like that, you know, and we've only got five minutes left. I'll tell you what you ought to have seen—'The School for Scandal,' and Miss Hunstan in it."
"Oh, did you see her!" Margaret exclaimed, and took a step nearer to him.
Hannah, watching from the porch, saw it. A deep pink came to her cheeks and to the tip of her nose. Some one in the best parlor, looking through the little lattice window, saw it, too, and drew conclusions.
"Oh, you want to know about her, do you?" Mr. Garratt said, triumphantly. "Now, why is that?"
"I met her at a friend's house when I was in London with father."
"Did you? Well, I wouldn't tell Hannah that if I were you; she'd ask them to put up a prayer in chapel for you."
"Tell me about Miss Hunstan—she played Lady Teazle—"
"Oh, you've heard about Lady Teazle, have you? Well, she was just splendid. You should have seen her chaff that old husband of hers, and the way she held her head when the screen fell. A friend of mine was over in New York when she first came out—fifteen years ago, now; getting on, isn't it?"
"What did she do first?"
"She walked on, holding up the train of a princess, but she did it with such an air the young fellows used to go in just to look at her. Then Dawson Farley went over there with an English company and spotted her, I suppose, and gave her a small part to play. She was just about your age," Mr. Garratt added, significantly. "People said they were going to be married, and there was a lot of talk about it, but it didn't come off, and she went about the States acting, and became a swell, and he became a swell over here. Now she's over here, too, starring as Lady Teazle. I wonder if she ever sees Dawson Farley?"
"Oh yes. I met them both when I was in London; he said they were old friends."
"You seem to have done a great deal on that visit of yours, and it only lasted a sandwiched night, I think?" he said, hurrying after her, but handicapped by having to lead his horse.
"Did you see Miss Hunstan in anything else?" Margaret asked, taking no notice of his remark.
"I saw her once in a mixture performance, got up for a charity—actors and actresses showing off in little bits, you know."
"What did she do?"
"She recited a poem by an American chap called Field. I dare say you know all about him, being fond of poetry?"
"No, I never heard of him."
Mr. Garratt was triumphant. "Really! I bought his poems and recited one of them myself at an entertainment we got up for the new chapel at Midhurst—"
"Oh!"
"I might lend you the book," but she made no answer. "I take a lively interest in most things," he went on, quickly, for he saw that their talk must necessarily come to an end in a moment, "and I should very much enjoy getting a little more conversation with you than I do at present. I think we take a similar view of a good many things. Now, Miss Barton and I take a different one. To tell the truth, I'm not overfond of chapel going and psalm singing. I believe in seeing a bit of life, and London's the place to see it in. I say"—he went up nearer to her—"I wish we were there together, don't you, eh?" and he gave her a little nudge.
She stopped and flushed with rage. "No, I do not," she answered, "and you will not touch me again, Mr. Garratt; I dislike people who are too familiar." She rubbed her elbow as if it had been stung, and strode on.
"Well, you've got a plainer way of speaking than any other young lady I've ever met in my life," he said, catching her up, "but I'll tell you something before we part—there isn't anything in the world I wouldn't do for you. Perhaps youthink I'm a little free in my manner, but we can't all be as high and mighty as you are—we're not made that way, you know."
Margaret went through the garden gate without a word. Mr. Garratt had to stand still and hold his horse. "Hannah!" Margaret called. He looked alarmed, as if he thought she might be going to tell tales. "You had better come—Mr. Garratt is here."
Hannah came quickly along the garden, her face very red, and its expression by no means a pleasant one.
"How do you do, Miss Barton?" Mr. Garratt shouted, pleasantly. "I met Miss Vincent on the hill and led the mare across the fields for the pleasure of her company."
"Was it an appointment?" she asked, sharply.
"Not on her side," he said, by way of a little joke—"and not on mine," he added, quickly, for Margaret had stopped, and there seemed to be an explanation on her lips; "only an unexpected pleasure. Shall I take the mare round to the stable, Miss Barton?"
"Jim!" Hannah called at the top of her voice, and a boy appeared from one of the side buildings. "Come and take Mr. Garratt's horse—and give it a feed of corn," she added, for it suddenly occurred to her that she was not making a very amiable appearance before her supposed suitor."Margaret, you had better go into the house; there is some one with mother, and she wants you."
Margaret was half-way down a side path on the left, but she turned in an instant, went quickly up the garden, and vanished through the porch.
"What was she up to?" Mr. Garratt asked Hannah, as they walked on beside the yew hedge, reluctantly on his part, but she was a dominant person, and not easy to thwart. "Going to meet any one?"
"Oh, she was only taking herself off to that wood up there—that's what she does on Sunday mornings instead of going to church like a Christian and walking home with mother," Hannah answered, resentfully, for if Margaret had attended to her religious duties properly, she reflected, it would not have been necessary for Mr. Garratt to walk back beside Mrs. Vincent. "In these days, Mr. Garratt, people don't seem to be taken with the thought of going to heaven, as they used, and they are not afraid of eternal punishment as they should be."
"Well, you see, Miss Barton, according to them there is nothing to be gained by dying, and the only thing to do is to make the best of what they've got."
"Mr. Garratt, I don't like the way you're talking; it's not a reverent spirit."
"It's not meant to be anything else, I assure you, Miss Barton," he answered, in an apologetictone, tapping his right leg with the crop which he still held in his hand. She raised her eyes and saw his new bowler hat, and the white handkerchief in his breast-pocket, and her manner softened.
"When do you think of settling in Guildford, Mr. Garratt?" she asked.
"I shall be over there in another six weeks," he answered; "they're painting the window-frames now. I hope you and Mrs. Vincent will come over some day," he added, after a pause. "I should like to have your opinion of the place."
"I shall be willing to give it to you," she said, demurely, and waited expectantly, but he said nothing more. He was thinking of Margaret again.
"Do you know anything of Vincent's people—has he got any besides this brother out in Australia?" he asked.
"He's never spoken of them—not even of the brother, till last year. I must tell you frankly, Mr. Garratt, that I never liked him. He is a man who has rejected religion, and brought up his child to do the same."
"You know, it strikes me somehow that they are swells," Mr. Garratt said, confidentially, "who have done something shady; or perhaps he did something shady himself, there's never any telling. It may be that he was suddenly afraid of being found out, and has taken himself off altogether.You've only his word for it that he's got a brother, I suppose?"
Hannah looked at him, dismayed. This idea would cover many odd feelings and instincts that she had encouraged in regard to Mr. Vincent. That he should be some sort of criminal in disguise seemed feasible enough when she remembered his opinions, and that he should desert his wife and daughter would be a natural outcome of them.
"He had letters with the Australian postmark," she said, remembering this proof of her step-father's veracity.
"They might be managed," Mr. Garratt answered, in a knowing manner that added to Hannah's consternation.
"There's some one that knows him come to see mother now. I was looking for Margaret, and didn't stay to hear his name."
"It's probably the gent who's taken the house on the hill; we might go and see what he's like," Mr. Garratt said, quickly, and turned towards the house, elated at the thought of meeting on terms of more or less equality some one whom in the ordinary course he would have had to treat with the respect due to a superior.
But Sir George Stringer had been and gone. He was just going when Margaret returned.
"I drove over for the pleasure of calling on yourmother and of seeing you again," he had said. "You were evidently having a most interesting conversation as you came across the field—I hope it has not been interrupted," he looked at her curiously, and saw the color rush to her face.
"It's only Mr. Garratt," Mrs. Vincent explained; "he often comes over from Guildford to see us."
"I've no doubt he does," Sir George answered. Margaret had no courage to contradict the mistake, and Mrs. Vincent did not see it. "You would have seen me before," he went on, "but I have had a sister ill at Folkestone. I fear I can't stay any longer now, but I shall come again in a day or two."
Margaret walked to the gate with him, confused and mortified, but she made an effort to set matters right.
"I didn't know you were here—"
"Don't apologize," he said, good-naturedly. "I'm going to stay a fortnight at least, and you'll see me very often. Are you and your mother here alone?"
"There is Hannah—"
"Oh yes, the sharp-faced woman who let me in, I suppose? She keeps an eye upon you. I saw her in the garden watching your approach with a great deal of anxiety and not much approval." The fly had been waiting in the lane instead of by the porch. He got in before he held out his hand.
"Sir George, I want to tell you—" she began, and stopped, for it was so difficult.
"I know," and he laughed again. "By-the-way, I dare say you'll have Carringford over next week; he's going to Hindhead; he said he should come and see you, and look me up on the way. Good-bye," and in a moment he had started. She stood watching him almost in despair. Suppose he told Tom Carringford about Mr. Garratt! Oh, but when he came again—he said just now that he should come often—she would explain. Only it was such a difficult thing to explain, it wanted so much courage, and why should it matter to Mr. Carringford? Perhaps, too, it would be better to leave it alone, and he would forget about Mr. Garratt; besides, Mr. Walford, the clergyman, would be sure to call on Sir George, and if by any chance he mentioned Woodside Farm he would probably tell him that Mr. Garratt was walking out with Hannah—he was always at church with her on Sunday mornings. She remembered joyfully that Sir George would see them there together, and in a little place like Chidhurst everything was known and talked about.
"Good Heavens! how lovely she is," Sir George thought as he drove away, "and what a pity that she should be left to those two women!" For he and Mrs. Vincent had spent an awkward ten minutes, not knowing in the least what to say toeach other, and he had naturally come to the conclusion that she was a handsome but quite ordinary woman of her class. "And then the young tradesman, with the crisp, curling hair showing under the brim of his bowler hat, and the look of a bounder. Vincent ought to be shot for leaving her to him." It was no business of his, of course, but it vexed him so much that he felt as if he could not bring himself to pay another visit to the farm.
Mr. Garratt hired the mare on which he had made so successful an appearance by the month, and determined to enjoy his long rides across the beautiful Surrey country. He thought matters well over, and came to the conclusion that it would be as well to keep up an appearance of paying attention to Hannah lest he should lose the bird in the hand before he had made sure of catching the one in the bush. But he found it difficult, for her voice set his teeth on edge, and her conversation, which was always harking round to evangelical subjects, and hits at her step-father and Margaret, irritated him till there were times when he could have shaken her. He was fully alive to the charms of the property that would one day be hers, and he saw her thrifty qualities clearly enough; but this was not all a man wanted, he told himself. He wanted besides a woman he could love and look at, and be proud of, and whose possession other men would envy him.
"If Margaret only showed a little common-sense," he thought, "she might be riding beside me two or three times a week. She would look stunningin a habit, and I wouldn't mind standing it—and the nag, too. People would sit up a bit if one day they saw us trotting through Guildford together; as for Hannah, she isn't fit to lick her boots." Even in a worldly sense he had come to the conclusion that Margaret would suit him better. "She'd pull one up," he thought, "for I'm certain she's a swell, though she mayn't know it herself, while t'other would keep one where one is for the rest of one's days." He touched up the mare in his excitement, and went by the church and towards the green lane in a canter.
Sir George Stringer, hidden behind the greenery of his garden, saw him pass. "That young bounder is going after Vincent's girl again," he said to himself. "I'd rather marry her myself than let him have her—not that she'd look at a grizzly old buffer five years her father's senior. I'll tell Hilda Lakeman about it; perhaps she will ask the girl there and get the nonsense out of her." He went up to town the next day, and made a point of lunching at the Embankment, and of sitting an hour in the flower-scented room afterwards; but Mrs. Lakeman was not as ready to help in the matter as he had imagined she would be.
"Gerald's family has come to a pretty pass," she said, with contemptuous amusement. "I'd do anything for him, dear old boy; but if his girlis in love with this young man, what would be the good of bringing her to town? I couldn't undertake the responsibility of it, I couldn't indeed, old friend."
"Did little Margaret seem fond of her tradesman?" Lena asked, sitting down on a low stool near her mother and looking up at Sir George.
"Well, I saw them get closer together as they crossed the field, and loiter out of sight behind the hedge before they came into the garden, and she blushed when she spoke of him."
"Dear little Margaret," purred Lena, "why shouldn't she marry him and be happy? It would be far better than interfering. I must tell Tom about it; he'll be so amused."
"I wish Tom would marry her," Sir George said, fervently.
"He's coming to-day; I'll tell him what you say."
"Then you'll mull it. I shall have to invite him to Chidhurst, I think."
"I think you had better invite us," said Mrs. Lakeman. "I should like to see Mrs. Gerald."
"Of course I will. You must come for a week-end."
"Later, before we go to Scotland in August," Mrs. Lakeman answered. "Tom is going with us," she added, and looked at Lena out of the tail of her eye.
Lena rose and sauntered towards the curtains."He is coming at four," she said, in a low tone. "I think I will go and wait for him."
Then Mrs. Lakeman put on her most dramatic manner, restrained, but full of feeling. "George Stringer," she said, in a thick, harsh voice, "I loved Gerald Vincent once, and would do anything in the world for him, but I can't give away—even to his girl—my own child's happiness. You won't interfere, will you, old friend? You won't throw Margaret Vincent in his way?"
"I don't understand," he said, slowly. "What do you mean?"
She held out her hands to him.
"May God forgive me for betraying my child's secret"—she managed to put a heartfelt tone into her words, and was quite pleased with it—"but I think, for I can't give her away more explicitly than that—I think she loves Tom."
"He hasn't proposed?"
"Not yet. But he's devoted to her. He sees her every day of his life, does everything we do, goes everywhere we go. He can't live without her," she said, with a little, crooked smile; "it hasn't yet occurred to him that the end must be the only one for two children who love each other—but it will."
Sir George looked at her and hesitated. "Humph! He's very well off?"
"Fairly well off," she answered, with a gleam inher blue eyes. "That doesn't matter in the least," she went on, in an off-hand manner. "But I can't play with my child's happiness, George, and I love the boy and want him for my own."
"All right, my dear, all right," he said, and, seeing it was expected of him, he took both her hands in his. "It's always better not to interfere with young people." And so Mrs. Lakeman was satisfied. But Sir George walked away with an uneasy feeling at the back of his head. "I wonder if Hilda Lakeman was lying," he said to himself. "I never understand her, and for the life of me I can never quite believe in her. She is tricky—tricky."
He saw Mr. Garratt at Haslemere station waiting for the Guildford train. "I should like to punch his head," he thought, but this desire, of course, made no difference in any way.
Meanwhile matters had not improved at Woodside Farm. A fierce jealousy was raging in Hannah's virgin heart; she found it difficult even to keep her hands off Margaret. "I should like to box your ears and lock you up in your room," she remarked, spitefully, when she could no longer control herself.
"Hannah, for shame!" Mrs. Vincent said, but even her efforts to keep the peace seemed somewhat futile.
"It's a pity you didn't go to Australia with yourfather," Hannah went on. "You are only in the way here."
"Oh, if he had but taken me!" Margaret answered, fervently.
"Perhaps he didn't want you. We've only his word for it there is this brother in Australia—and what is that worth, I should like to know?"
Mrs. Vincent looked up quickly from her seat in the porch. "I'll have you speak with respect of the man who is my husband," she said, gently.
"And shame to you, mother, that he is. He has undermined your faith, and made you forget your first husband's child."
"Hannah, you will be silent," Mrs. Vincent answered, with some of her old dignity. "We have each kept to our own way of thinking, and neither has meddled with the other. And I have never forgotten your father, nor what was due to him; but one has to make the best of life, and I was a young woman when he died."
Something in her voice touched Hannah. "I know that, mother," she said, "and I've tried to be a good daughter to you, and if sometimes I've thought I didn't get my share of what you felt, why it's only natural that I should complain. What's come between us and is trying to come between me and what is due to me, is the artfulness that has got no principle to build upon."
"If I could only get away! If Mrs. Lakemanwould ask me to stay with her, or if only I were like Miss Hunstan, and could act and live by myself till father comes back," Margaret said to herself, till the idea took deeper and deeper hold upon her.
Why shouldn't she? All things have a beginning, all journeys a starting-point. Mr. Garratt had told her how Miss Hunstan had begun by holding up the train of a princess, and how step by step she had reached her present position. She wished she could see Miss Hunstan. They had only met once, and for a few minutes, but she had told Margaret that she would like to see her again, and, as Tom had said, some people were never strangers. She longed to go to London and ask her advice, and she didn't think her father would be angry or object if he knew all that was going on at Woodside Farm. He saw no harm in theatres, and she was not sophisticated enough to understand the difficulties in the way of a girl who was not yet twenty, going to London with a vague idea that she could "walk on." But for the unfortunate meeting with Mr. Garratt she might have consulted Sir George Stringer. She had hoped that he would come again, but day after day went by without a sign of him. Half a dozen times she went towards his house, wondering if she dared go up to the door and boldly ask for him, and half a dozen times her courage failed her.
"If he doesn't come to-morrow, I'll make myself go to him," Margaret said, when nearly a fortnight had gone and he had not appeared; but again she hesitated. Tom Carringford might be there, and she was afraid to meet him, lest he should have heard of Mr. Garratt and be different. Then a note arrived from Sir George. He was going back to London, was starting when he wrote, and regretted that he had not been able to get to the farm again; he hoped to do so later. And so all hope in that direction vanished. She talked to her mother one day, but nothing was gained by it.
"You couldn't go to London by yourself, Margey," Mrs. Vincent said. "I was never strict in my heart as James Barton was, or as Hannah is, but I shouldn't like you to take a step of that sort out into the world without your father's approval."
"But, mother dear, every one has a life to live, and what is the use of me here? Hannah does all the farm business, and there's nothing that you want me to do. I just read and think and wait, and I don't know for what, unless it's for father's return."
"It's a feeling that comes to us all," Mrs. Vincent answered. "It's the fluttering of the bird trying to leave its nest. Better wait till your father comes and sets you on your way." Then Mrs. Vincent shut her lips—those beautiful, curved lips of hers—and said no more. All her thoughts were withthe man in Australia, the man younger than herself, at whom her heart clutched, and all her hours were passed in a dream beside him till she had no energy left for the actual life about her, but let it slip by unheeded.