At last, on the afternoon of a day when Hannah was more than usually unbearable, Margaret determined to write to Miss Hunstan, asking if she might really go and see her if she went to London. This was in her own room over the porch—a little room, with a latticed window and a seat to it, and an old-fashioned cupboard let into the wall.
"I will write at once," she cried, "this very minute." It gave her some comfort even to see the address on the envelope, for she wrote that first. When the letter was finished she felt as if she had taken a step towards freedom: she put her elbows on the table, and, resting her face in her hands, tried to imagine what freedom would be like, and all that might come of it. And then, faint in the distance, as in a dream, she heard the sound of a horse's hoofs. They were coming nearer and nearer along the lane. She rose and looked out, but it was not possible to see the rider, for in the summer-time the hedges were thick and green. It was June now, and the honeysuckle and traveller's joy grew high.
"Mr. Garratt again, I suppose," she said to herself in despair. The sound of the hoofs came nearer; they had come in at the gate, past the duck-pond, and the outbuildings and the hayricks, and round the corner of the garden. They stopped at the porch, and she heard the boy call out, "I'm coming, sir," and run to take the horse. "He generally rides round to the stable himself," she thought; but she had made up her mind that it was Mr. Garratt, and determined to keep to her room all the afternoon. There was a knock at the front door, though it was standing wide open, and at that she started, for Mr. Garratt never knocked; he just walked in as if he felt that one day he would be the master. Towsey came out of the kitchen and shuffled through the living-place to the porch.
"Is Mrs. Vincent at home?" Then there was no doubt at all.
"It is Mr. Carringford," Margaret said to herself, and her heart bounded with happiness.
"And is Miss Vincent at home?" she heard him further ask, as Towsey showed him into the best parlor. "Yes! Yes! She was at home," she thought, and danced a fan-fan round her room; but she stopped suddenly—suppose he had heard of Mr. Garratt? Oh, what a good thing Sir George had gone, for now, after all, Tom mightn't know. She stopped before her glass, and in a moment had taken down her hair, and smiled as she saw theglint of gold in it, and twisted it up into quite a neat knot. "And my lace collar," she said, and pinned it round her throat and fastened it with a little heart-shaped brooch that her mother had given her on her birthday; "and my best shoes, for these are shabby at the toes." Then she was ready.
She stopped for a moment at the head of the stairs to look in at her mother's room, of which the door stood open. It had a great, gaunt wardrobe in it, and an old-fashioned bed with a high screen round one side—the farther one from the door. She put her hand to her throat, for something like a sob came to it—and yet she was so happy. Outside her mother's door, still nearer to the stairs, there was a little room used as a box place and hanging cupboard: her mother's best dress and a long cloak that she wore in the winter, and many things not often used, were stowed away there, or hung on hooks. She looked at them as if to mark something in her memory, or because of an unconscious knowledge perhaps of a day that had yet to come. As she went down the old, polished staircase she heard Hannah moving briskly in the kitchen.
"She is getting some scones ready in case he stays to tea," Margaret thought, and demurely walked into the best parlor. Her mother was sitting in the chintz-covered arm-chair by the window, and Tom sat facing her near the writing-table.He looked tall and strong as he jumped up and went forward to greet her.
"How do you do?" he said. "Mr. Vincent told me I might come, you know, and here I am—I heard he had gone." His voice was cordial enough, but in the first moment Margaret knew that he was different—different from the morning when he had said good-bye at the Langham, and talked of coming to Chidhurst, and foretold that they would have another drive round London together. He was a little more distant, she felt, as if he thought less of her, as if he liked her less, as if he had heard of Mr. Garratt and despised her. It chilled her; she had nothing to say after a bare welcome, and Mrs. Vincent, thinking that, now Margaret had come, Mr. Carringford would naturally talk to her, was silent, too. Then Tom jerked out—
"When are you going to get a letter from Mr. Vincent?"
"We expect it every day now," Mrs. Vincent answered, and turned to Margaret. "Mr. Carringford has ridden over from Hindhead," she said, "and I've thanked him for the roses and told him I couldn't remember the day when I'd had any sent me before."
"Miss Vincent and I made an expedition together—"
"Oh yes, we've often talked it over together."
Margaret wished her mother hadn't said that;it made the color come to her face; but luckily Tom was not looking at her, and then Mrs. Vincent added simply, in the half-countrified manner into which, for some strange reason, her speech had relapsed since her husband's departure, "You'll be tired after your ride, Mr. Carringford; you must stay for a cup of tea."
"I should like to, if I may."
"And while it's getting ready Margaret could show you the garden, if you'd care to see it." She said it with the native dignity that was always impressive. It had its effect on Tom.
"I should like to see it very much," he said, and five minutes later he and Margaret were walking down the green pathway of the Dutch garden. Almost without knowing it, she took him through the garden gate towards the wood, and across a green corner, through a tangle of undergrowths, up to the great elms and beeches. They had hardly spoken on the way; they felt constrained and awkward; but when they reached the top things seemed to adjust themselves in their minds, and they looked at each other for a moment, and laughed as if they thought it good to be together again. Then Tom shook off his awkwardness; the boyish happiness was on his face again, and she was almost satisfied. "I say, what a wood!" he exclaimed.
"It's father's and mine; we call it our cathedral."
"Good! good!" he answered. "When are you coming to London again?"
She clasped her hands and looked at him. "I don't know, but I want to go again dreadfully. Do you think I could go by myself?"
"Well, no! But you might come up and stay with the Lakemans. You must make haste about it if you do, for they're going to Scotland at the end of July. Only another month, you know. By-the-way, I rather think you'll see them here first. Stringer can't get away again till the middle of August except for week-ends, and then he has to go to Folkestone; he has a sister there—ill. But the Lakemans told me a day or two ago that they were coming here for a Saturday to Monday; he had offered them the house."
"When?"
"I don't know when, but pretty soon, I expect. Farley is coming, too; he has taken a theatre, and is going to produce a legendary thing this autumn, 'Prince of—something', it is called."
"Will there be a princess in it?"
"I expect so. Why?"
"When Miss Hunstan came out first she walked on the stage holding up a princess's train."
"They generally begin in that way, you know. By-the-way, Stringer said that you were walking about the fields with a friend—was it anybody particular?"
"It was Mr. Garratt."
"Who is Mr. Garratt?"
"He used to be a house agent at Petersfield. He's at Guildford now. He has just taken a house there."
"A married gentleman?"
"No," she laughed; "that's why he comes. He doesn't come for me," she added, hurriedly, but he didn't understand her.
"Any success?" he asked, quickly—"of course not."
"Not yet; Hannah won't encourage him."
He mistook her tone altogether, and walked to the edge of the crown and looked out at the view.
"That's rather hard lines" he said; "but it doesn't matter if you make it up to him, of course. I say, it's magnificent up here," he went on; "do you ever bring Mr.—what is he called?—Garratt up here?"
"No," she answered, quickly.
"Well, you took him across the field?"
"I met him by accident, and Hannah was very angry—" she began, but stopped in sheer confusion.
"You seem to be rather afraid of Hannah," he said, for it simply never occurred to him that there should be any question of love-making between Mr. Garratt and Hannah. Margaret was such a nice girl, he thought; it was a pity sheshould flirt, for perhaps, after all, it was only a flirtation with a local house-agent; it put her on another level altogether from the girl he had known in London. And so talk was not very easy between them again, since each felt a little indignant with the other. "Are you going to be here all the summer?" he asked, when they returned to the garden.
"I suppose so," she answered, "unless I go to London. I want to do that more than anything in the world."
"A romantic elopement with the gentleman we have been discussing?"
"Oh, how can you! He is nothing to me; he knows that—it is Hannah."
She looked downright beautiful when the color came to her face, he thought, and wished Mr. Garratt at the bottom of the sea.
"When is your father coming back?" he asked, and his tone was constrained.
"We don't know till we get his letter," she said, impatiently; something was wrong with this interview, and it seemed impossible to set it right.
"You must tell the Lakemans when they turn up; then I shall hear."
Tea was ready when they returned—a generous tea, set out as usual in the living-room. Tom took his place next to Mrs. Vincent and talked to her gayly, while his eye wandered over the table withthe satisfaction of a school-boy. Margaret remembered how he had talked of going into the House of Commons; but he didn't look a bit like a politician, she thought, he was so splendidly young, and he and she had understood each other so well in London. But now he seemed to be bound hand and foot to the Lakemans, and he thought she cared for that horrid Mr. Garratt.
"I like big tea and jam," he said. "Do you ever come up to London, Mrs. Vincent?"
"No," she answered; "but sometimes I have thought that I should like to go with Margaret while her father is away."
"Did you think that, mother dear?" Margaret asked, in surprise.
"Better come and stay with me. I could take you both in."
Hannah was pouring out the tea, grasping the teapot with a firm hand, putting it down with determination on the tray when the cups were filled. "Mother is better where she is," she said, without looking up. "Towsey, there is no slop-basin on the table. I hold with staying at home, Mr. Carringford, though I've sometimes thought I'd like to go up myself for the May meetings."
"May meetings? Of course—I know. I thought you meant races at first—but it is Exeter Hall you are thinking of? I'm afraid Mr. and Miss Vincent didn't go there when they were in town."
"I'm afraid not, Mr. Carringford."
"Good Lord, what an ogress!" he thought. "They had a pretty good time, though," he said, aloud.
"Margaret has told me about it so often," Mrs. Vincent said, and Tom, turning to look at her while she spoke, realized suddenly that this mother of Margaret, who had grown old and gray, was beautiful. He looked round the living-room; his eyes lingered on the black beams and the great fireplace and the red-tiled floor; it made a peaceful picture, he thought, in spite of the ogress.
"Did she tell you about Miss Hunstan?" he asked. "It was rather lucky coming across her."
"She told me all about her," Mrs. Vincent answered, "and how you went to her rooms and put the flowers into the pots. It made me hope—that, and what my husband told me—that some day you would come and see us here."
"Thank you," he said, simply.
"Who is Miss Hunstan?" asked Hannah.
Tom answered, beamingly, "Why, Louise Hunstan, the actress, you know!"
"I didn't know, Mr. Carringford. I don't hold with theatres or any such places, and I was surprised at Mr. Vincent taking Margaret to one. I can't see that people are any the better—" She stopped, for there were footsteps on the pathway outside, and a moment later Mr. Garratt walked in with an air of being quite at home.
"How do you do, everybody?" he said. He wore his best clothes and the spats over his shoes. The handkerchief in his breast-pocket was scented more than usual. He took it out and shook it and put it back again, while a whiff of white rose floated over the table. His hair was tightly curled at the tips; he ran his fingers through it as he took off his bowler hat.
"We didn't expect you, Mr. Garratt," Hannah said with sudden graciousness, and made room for him beside her.
"Didn't know you had company," he answered, jauntily. "I hope I don't intrude? Mrs. Vincent, how do you do? Miss Margaret, your humble servant," and reluctantly he sat down beside Hannah.
"This is Mr. Carringford, a friend of my husband's," Mrs. Vincent told her visitor.
"How d'ye do?" Tom looked up and nodded.
"How d'ye do?" Mr. Garratt nodded back, trying to do it easily. "Thought it was Sir George Stringer at first till I recollected that he was a middle-ager."
"We didn't expect you to-day, Mr. Garratt," Hannah remarked, pouring out his tea.
"I told Miss Vincent I should come." He looked across at Margaret, determined to show off before the stranger.
"I don't remember that you did—" Margaret began.
"Oh, come now, you knew I wanted to bring you that book of poems I told you about. You shall have it if you're good."
"You had better give it to Hannah, Mr. Garratt. She will appreciate it more than I shall. I had no idea that you meant to bring it."
Tom looked up and wondered what it all meant.
"Well, but what did I say the other night?"
"I don't know," Margaret answered, coldly. "I never remember the things you say."
But Mr. Garratt was not to be snubbed. "Oh, come now, don't be showing off again," he laughed, and turned to Tom—"Miss Vincent is a difficult young lady, I assure you," he said, with an air of quite understanding her. "But perhaps you've found that out too."
"How should I have found it out?" Tom asked, stiffly.
"Well, you see, I've heard a few things—no jealousy—that's only a joke," as Margaret started; "you are one of Miss Vincent's London friends, I think? It was you who gave her the roses she brought back. You see I know all about it." He laughed with satisfaction, and gave Hannah a kick under the table from sheer lightness of heart, and by way of keeping everybody in tow, as he called it to himself.
"We certainly bought some roses in Covent Garden," Tom said, and got up to go. He couldn't stand any more of this chap, he thought.
"I didn't tell you about it, Mr. Garratt," Margaret said, indignantly. "Oh, don't go, Mr. Carringford."
"I know you didn't tell me," Mr. Garratt said, with a wink. "It was Miss Barton who gave me that little bit of information—you kept it to yourself." Tom had hesitated, but this decided him. Mr. Garratt was not the sort of person with whom he could bring himself to compete.
"Well, good-bye, Mrs. Vincent," he said, shaking hands with her and then with Margaret and Hannah. He nodded to Mr. Garratt, and strode towards the door.
"But you must wait till your horse is brought round," Mrs. Vincent said. "Hannah, will you tell Sandy or Jim?"
"It is ready," Mr. Garratt volunteered. "I wondered whose it was when I went into the stable just now. I'll take you to it, if you like," he added, graciously, to Tom.
"Pray don't trouble," Tom answered, in an off-hand manner.
"No trouble at all." Mr. Garratt led the way out as if he were the master of the house, while Margaret looked after them and felt as if she were being tortured.
"Fond of a ride?" asked Mr. Garratt as they went along.
"I suppose so," said Tom, distantly.
"I should like to show you the decent little mare I'm riding. I think sometimes I shall get a fellow to it for Margaret. We are both of us fond of the country and getting about." He called her Margaret deliberately, and with an air of custom—for it would be better, he told himself, to choke this Johnnie off as soon as possible.
"Would she like it?"
"Rather! Trust her," with a knowing wink.
"Beast!" thought Tom, as he mounted. "Well, good-evening," he said, aloud, to Mr. Garratt, and went off at a brisk trot, wondering how Margaret could stand him.
"He knows how to give himself airs, too," Mr. Garratt said to himself, looking after him. "I'm rather surprised he didn't offer me a tip while he was about it. I'd like to take down all these chaps and show 'em the way they should go; but we are doing it," he added, thinking not of himself but of his class—"and once we've got the upper hand we'll keep it, and let 'em see that we can be swells as well as any one else." He walked slowly back to the house, thinking of Margaret. He was getting up to her ways, and he knew how to keep his temper—and the man who waited won. He liked her, but his feeling was pique, rather than passion,and he felt that to subdue her would be a gratification to his vanity greater than any other he could imagine. "And she's such a beauty!"—he always came back to that. "While there's a chance of her, I'd rather be shot than kiss that sour old hen, Hannah. I'll have Margaret if I die for it. I wish I'd thought of it and tried to find out if that chap knew anything about Vincent's relations. I expect he's been up to something, but I don't care—the girl isn't any the worse for it."
During his absence the storm had burst in the living-room, but luckily circumstances obliged it to be brief.
"I should like to know what you think of yourself now with your slyness and deceit?" Hannah had asked Margaret.
"I'll not have you speak to your sister in this way," Mrs. Vincent began; but her remonstrances had grown ineffectual lately.
"Mr. Garratt told you he was coming, did he, though nobody else in the house knew it?" Hannah went on. "You took good care that they shouldn't."
"If he did tell me I had forgotten it," Margaret answered, scornfully.
"You can be trusted to forget anything—if it's convenient. What's this poetry he's brought you, I should like to know?"
"I didn't know he meant to bring it. He saidsomething about Eugene Field's poems the other day, and that he had recited one at a chapel festival."
The mention of the chapel somewhat mollified Hannah without subduing her jealousy. "Well, something will have to be done," she said. "I'm not going to put up with your conduct, and that you shall find out." At which point Mr. Garratt entered a little uneasily, as if conscious that things were not going smoothly. Margaret looked up and spoke to him quickly.
"Mr. Garratt, I want to tell you that if you've brought me a book of poems I would rather not have it."
"Why, what's up now?"
"Nothing is up," she said, with what Mr. Garratt called her high and mighty air.
"Well, look here—" but she had turned away.
"Mother, shall we go into the garden?" she asked.
"It's a little chilly this evening," Mrs. Vincent answered.
"You've taken to feel the cold lately," Hannah said, uneasily. To her credit be it said that she was always careful of her mother's health.
"I've taken to feel my years."
"Let us go into the best parlor, darling," Margaret said, tenderly. "I might play to you for a little while. You always like that," and she put her arms round her mother's shoulders.
Mr. Garratt took a quick step forward. "I should like to hear you play, too, Miss Margaret, if there's no objection. I'm a lover of music, as I think I've told you." He stood by the door of the best parlor and waited.
Margaret turned and faced him. "Stay with Hannah. I want to have my mother to myself," she said.
"Well, that's a nice handful!" Mr. Garratt remarked, as she shut the door and turned the handle with a click.
"You should live in the same house with her," said Hannah, "then you'd know."
"She might have left it a little bit open, at any rate; then we should have heard her."
"Are you as anxious as all that?" asked Hannah, in a sarcastic voice.
"Well, you see, it makes it a bit lively."
"When I was at Petersfield the other day your mother asked me if I would see that the grass on your Aunt Amelia's grave was clipped. I brought in the small shears, and thought perhaps you might walk over and do it next time you came."
"Damn my Aunt Amelia's grave!" he said, between his teeth.
"Mr. Garratt, you are forgetting yourself!" she cried, in amazement.
"She's enough to make any one forget anything," he said, nodding towards the best parlor.
"You take far too much notice of her."
"She doesn't return the compliment, anyhow."
"And for my part," said Hannah, indignantly, "I don't understand what it is you come here for."
At which Mr. Garratt faced her squarely. "Now look here, Hannah," he said, "she gives herself tantrums enough; don't you begin, for two of you in one house would be a trifle more than is needed."
She sat down without a word, and closed her lips firmly. The tip of her nose became a deeper pink. Her eyelids fluttered for a minute quickly up and down. She looked forlorn—even a shade tragic. Mr. Garratt, with his heart reaching out to Margaret, obstinate and determined not to be thwarted, yet felt a touch of pity for the woman before him; perhaps unconsciously he recognized the limitations and the impossibilities of her life.
"There, come along," he said, half kindly. "Come along, Hannah." The sound of her Christian name soothed her considerably. "Let's go for a little stroll; but I'm not going to hang about any one's grave. It'll be bad enough when I come to my own."
The letters from Mr. Vincent were not satisfactory. His brother was no better, but the end was not likely to be immediate. A specialist from Melbourne had even said that he might go on for another year. Mrs. Vincent's heart sank as she read it. She was a strange woman, with a wide outlook, and knew perfectly that time, which had dealt heavily with her, had tempered the years to her husband; there were days when he looked almost like a young man still, and in secret she fretted over her age. She knew, too, though no such thought had ever entered his head, that it was a little hard on him that he should be tied to a woman older than himself, incapable of giving him the companionship that insensibly he needed. She had not felt well lately, and found vague consolation in the possibility to which this pointed. But she wanted to see him again, even for a little while, then she could be content. Those about her guessed nothing of all this: to them it only seemed that she had grown more silent and dreamy than before.
Margaret heard of her father's probablyprotracted absence with despair. Something must happen, she thought; she herself must get out of the way, or Mr. Garratt must become engaged to Hannah. For matters had in no way improved. A sort of struggle was going on. On Margaret's side it was to keep out of his sight, on his to speak to her alone for some uninterrupted minutes; but as yet success had attended neither of them, and his attitude towards Hannah remained what it always had been. Once or twice Margaret had an idea of boldly seeking an interview, and then telling him that his attentions were simply making her miserable, of even throwing herself on his mercy; but something in his manner suggested that Mr. Garratt knew everything already, except the impossibility of his own success. Meanwhile the fifty pounds, that her father had arranged she should receive every quarter, arrived for the second time.
"You are sure that you want me to have it, mother?" she asked.
"Yes, Margey. I told your father that I wished it."
"I feel as if I am rolling in wealth," she said. This was a month after Tom Carringford's visit—a whole month, and there had not been another sign of him—and the last Saturday in July. The mid-day meal was just over, and Hannah was going to and fro between the living-place and thekitchen, while Margaret sat in the porch with Mrs. Vincent. "Mother," she whispered, "I have been thinking lately that I would write to Miss Hunstan again."
"The play-actress?" Mrs. Vincent whispered back, lest Hannah should catch the word.
"Yes, the play-actress," Margaret said, with a laugh in her eyes. "She is good and sweet—Mr. Carringford's mother loved her. She said again in the letter she sent me that I was to go and see her if I was in London. I want to go soon. I'm afraid she will be abroad if I don't; for she was going to Germany in August."
"But you can't go till your father returns."
"I can't stay here unless something to make things better happens. Oh, mother," she said, fervently, after a pause, "I do so hate Mr. Garratt."
Hannah heard the last words and stopped.
"It's a pity you don't tell him so," she said, "instead of always trying to draw him to yourself. You make one ashamed of your boldness."
"He came first because of Hannah, Margey, dear, and is as good as her promised husband," Mrs. Vincent urged.
"But he hasn't spoken—"
"And never will if you can help it," Hannah answered, quickly. "Besides, it's my opinion that he doesn't want to be related to an unbeliever—and perhaps something worse. It's just what he thought would happen about the Australian business."
"What do you mean?" Mrs. Vincent looked up aghast.
"What I mean is that we don't know anything about—father," Hannah answered, hesitating before she said the last word. "We never set eyes on any one belonging to him; we have only his word for it that he has got this brother; for all we know to the contrary he may have married another woman before he came here, and have gone back to her. There is nothing to hold him to what is right, or to help him to choose between right and wrong. For my part, I only hope that I may be out of the place before he comes into it again—if he ever does set foot in it again—for I hate the ground he treads on, and the ground that Margaret treads on, too—so now I've said it. It's my belief that the Lord will provide for them both some day according to their deserts."
Mrs. Vincent rose from her chair and stood with her back to the fireplace. Her face looked drawn and haggard, her lips were almost rigid, but her voice came clear and low. It fell upon Hannah like a lash.
"You are a malicious woman, Hannah," she said, "and I am ashamed of you. I know everything about him, and that is enough. I have heldmy tongue because you have never treated him as you should, and his affairs are no business of yours. But you ought to be ashamed of your thoughts; and as for religion, it is you that want it, not he. It's the leading of a good life, the telling of the truth, and the thinking well of others that makes religion and will gain heaven—that's my belief. Those that do different are as good as denying God. I said it to your grandparents long ago, and I say it again to you to-day." Mrs. Vincent's diction was not always strictly correct, but her meaning was clear enough.
"And I know everything about father, too," Margaret said, gently—for somehow she was sorry for Hannah—"and I cannot think why you should hate him—or even why you should hate me." She went a step out into the garden, and as she stood with her head raised, looking up at the high woods beyond, Hannah felt insensibly that there was a difference between them against which it was hopeless to contend—not merely a difference in looks, but a difference of class. It was one of the things she resented most.
"I know this," she said, "that it was a bad day for me when he first walked through Chidhurst village to Woodside farm."
"Mother," said Margaret, turning round, "some one has come to the house by the church. I passed it this morning and saw the luggage going in.Mr. Carringford said that Sir George was going to lend it from a Saturday to Monday to some friends of father's. Perhaps they have come."
"More of his fine feathers," said Hannah, contemptuously. "It's a pity he was left plucked so long."
"Hannah, be quiet," Mrs. Vincent said, sternly. "Go to your work, and don't come to me again till you have learned respect for those who are better than yourself." It was almost a command, but Mrs. Vincent had been roused into her old self again—the self of bygone years.
Luckily Towsey appeared on the scene.
"Sandy wants to know whether he's to be here to-morrow to take Mr. Garratt's horse. You said something about his not coming."
Hannah hurried out to speak to the old cowman who usually waited for Mr. Garratt's mare on Sunday morning before going to church.
"Mr. Garratt won't be over early to-morrow," she said. "He's driving a trap from Guildford, and it'll take him all he knows to get here by dinner-time. If you come up after church, Sandy, it'll do." This was an arrangement Mr. Garratt had made, rather to Hannah's surprise, on his last visit. It would be better than the train, he had explained; but it was a long way, and it would be impossible for him to arrive before the middle of the day.
Margaret had guessed rightly. Mrs. Lakeman and Lena, and Dawson Farley, who, as usual, was with them, were at Sir George Stringer's house from Saturday to Monday, while Sir George himself was at Folkestone with his sister. Dawson Farley rejoiced in the absence of their host, for he had wanted a talk with Mrs. Lakeman, and this visit promised to give him a good opportunity. He was deliberating within himself as they sat together after luncheon how he should begin it. Lena had slipped away, and wriggled among the greenery.
"We'll go over to the farm presently," Mrs. Lakeman said. "I want to see what the woman with the look of distinction is like," she added, with the crooked smile peculiar to her. "Gerald faced it out very well, but I expect he is frightfully bored."
"Why did he marry her?"
Mrs. Lakeman shrugged her shoulders. "Poor chap, he didn't care what became of him; but it wasn't my fault—'pon my word it wasn't, Dawson. My father made an awful row." Mrs. Lakeman was always a trifle slangy.
Dawson Farley looked at her and nodded absently. He quite understood all she meant to imply, but he was busy with his own train of thought. She was a curious woman, he thought, a curious, capable woman who never bored him and knew how to do things admirably. It had often occurred to him that it would be an excellent thing to marry her. The worst of it was that he simply could not stand Lena. She was so like a snake with her twisting and squirming, and the malicious things she said with an air of unconsciousness. The mother, on the other hand, was an excellent critic and companion, and would serve his purpose admirably. He was not in love with her, of course—she was too old for that—and it was just as well, for being in love with one's wife was a state that naturally didn't last long. Luckily she was not a jealous woman, and so would not be likely to resent it if he chose to flirt with his leading lady; on the contrary, if he told her all about it, he felt certain it would amuse her, and she had so excellent an eye for home-made dramatic effects that even the worst domestic crisis would be followed by a reconciliation, if only for the sake of contrast. She was a bit unreal, but what did it matter? the tragedies of life were bound up with realities, but there was comedy to be had from the make-believes.
The worst of it was, for his own peace, that atthe back of his life there was always Louise Hunstan. He had been in love with her once; but he was glad that nothing had come of it, for he couldn't have endured a wife in his own profession: if she had been a success he would have hated her; if she had been a failure he would have despised her. He had discovered Louise, that was the hard part of it; she had let go the princess's train to enter his company and gratefully play small parts. They had fallen in love with each other, and happiness and love together inspired her until, almost unawares, she achieved a reputation. If she had only made it on his advising, if he could have considered it his gift to her, he could have forgiven her more easily and even loved her through it. But she had struck out for herself, often contrary to his advice, and made a reputation for herself. In her heart she had laid it at his feet, and rejoiced in it, thinking it would make him proud of her, but it roused a miserable jealousy and drove them apart. He gave her to understand that he did not altogether believe in her success; that it was a fluke, due to the good nature of the critics and the stupidity of the public, and that it would vanish with her youth or her freshness. She believed him at first, but gradually she saw through him. She cared for him all the same for a time, though it was through a haze of bitterness and disappointment. Then their engagementcollapsed, and he returned to England alone, while she remained in the States through five hardworking years. At the end of them she came back to England. It was then that Tom's mother met her, and took her by the hand and helped her till she had achieved a permanent position. Over here she and Farley had become friends to a certain extent, but he couldn't stand the irritation of her success; he even found a secret pleasure in her occasional failures; and a meeting between them involved an embarrassment of manner that neither could put aside.
After all, he thought, Mrs. Lakeman would suit him much better. He liked her adaptability of manner, her quick interest in his affairs. They had only known each other a year, but she had become his most intimate friend, his chum and companion; her society stimulated him; he wanted it more and more. Why shouldn't he have it altogether? Only the girl stood in the way; but probably she would marry; she had a curious fascination for some people, and she had money.
"Is Carringford coming?" he asked. "I thought you invited him."
"He dines and sleeps here to-morrow with an old friend—they are staying at Frencham together. I didn't want him here all the time," she said, significantly. "He raved quite enough about Gerald Vincent's girl those two days in town."
"I thought Stringer found out there was a 'young bounder' in the way?"
"Awfully lucky, wasn't it?" Mrs. Lakeman said, triumphantly, and off her guard for a moment. "But Tom came afterwards and saw him, too—and was quite choked off. It's extraordinary how completely the Vincents have gone smash."
But Farley took no interest in the Vincents. "Carringford hangs about Lena far too much unless something is coming of it," he said. "I should tell him so if I were you."
"He's coming to us in Scotland on the tenth. They'll have opportunities there," she answered, carelessly. "Let us go and look for her."
Lena meanwhile was sitting on a grave in the churchyard, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, looking out towards the Surrey hills, and she, too, was thinking of Tom Carringford and Margaret. She had been uneasy from the moment they had met each other on the embankment. She had seen Margaret's beauty and Tom's recognition of it, and they were something like each other—well-grown and healthy, a boy and girl that matched. She was not violently in love with Tom herself, but she simply couldn't bear that he should escape her, and on one pretext or another she brought him perpetually to her side. It was easy enough, for they had known each other since they were born, and Mrs. Lakeman had helpedhim with the house in Stratton Street when he was left alone in it. Since his father's death and his sister's marriage she had taken the place of a near relation. He knew that Lena liked him, but it never occurred to him that her feeling was anything more—she always squirmed and looked into people's eyes and called them "dear"; if it had occurred to him he would probably have proposed on the spot, for there was no particular reason why he should not marry her, except that she was a little too clinging, and too fond of darkened rooms and limp clothes. He liked fresh air and a straightforwardness he could understand: there were many praiseworthy elementary qualities in Tom Carringford.
"He'll be quite happy with us in Scotland," Lena said to herself. "We'll sit by the streams or walk in the woods all day; he'll feel that we belong to each other and tell me he loves me"—for she was cloying even in her secret thoughts—"I think we must be married this autumn, then mother will be free. I wonder if mother will marry Dawson Farley." Lena was sharp enough, and was quite aware of the actor's vague intentions, little as he imagined it. She looked up at the wood—the crown—in the near distance, and then at the fields that led to the farm. That must be Margaret's wood, she thought, for Tom, who was frankness itself, had told the Lakemans ofhis visit to Chidhurst and his walk with Margaret.
Lena would have gone across the fields to the farm, but Mrs. Lakeman, who always had an eye for effect, would not hear of it.
"We will pay Mrs. Gerald Vincent a formal visit," she said, "in our best clothes and new gloves, and drive up to the door properly."
They had hired an open fly for the two days they were going to stay. Nothing could make it imposing—it was just a ramshackle landau, and that was all, and the driver was the ordinary country flyman. It happened—though this had nothing to do with the Lakemans—that he was the same man, grown old, who twenty years ago had taken the elder Bartons to Woodside Farm when they went to expostulate with the widow concerning her second marriage. He thought of it to-day as he went down the green lane and in at the farm gates, for afterwards he had come to know with what their errand had been concerned.
Mrs. Lakeman, with Lena beside her, sat on the front seat, Dawson Farley facing them. "I never believe in treating these people carelessly," she remarked, as she fidgeted with her lace handkerchief—it was scented with violets—and held back her lace parasol as they drove in at the gates. Then she was almost startled. "What a lovely place!"she exclaimed. "Look at that porch, and those old windows. Gerald's not such a fool, after all! And a Dutch garden, too—why, I could live and die here myself!"
"I don't think so," Mr. Farley said, cynically.
"It's just what I thought it would be," Lena cooed. "I felt sure that Margaret lived in the midst of flowers."
They had stopped by the porch. The front door was open, but not a soul was visible.
"You must get down and ring the bell, Dawson," Mrs. Lakeman said, a little puzzled, as if she had expected the inhabitants of the house to run out and greet her. Then suddenly Towsey appeared. Margaret's hint had evidently taken effect, for she wore the black dress that she usually kept for Sundays, and a white apron that met behind her generous waist. Above the porch, from the window seat of her own room, Margaret, listening and watching, heard Mrs. Lakeman ask, in a clear voice that always seemed to have a note of derision in it: "Is Mrs. Gerald Vincent at home?"
"You are to come in," said Towsey, brusquely.
Mrs. Lakeman trailed into the living-room, followed by Lena and Mr. Farley. She looked at the great fireplace piled with logs and bracken, at the old-fashioned chair on either side, at the oak table in the middle, and the chest against the wall, then back at the porch and the glorious view beyond it.Within, all was dim and cool and still; without, summer was at its highest and nature holding carnival. Impressionable and quick to succumb to influences, she was charmed. "I call this the perfection of peace and simplicity," she exclaimed, as they stood in a group waiting.
A door on the left opened, a tall figure appeared and hesitated. Mrs. Lakeman went forward with emotion, just as she had done to Gerald, but there was a shade of fine patronage in her manner this time. "It must be Mrs. Vincent—dear Gerald's wife," she said.
Mrs. Vincent looked at her visitor with calm wonderment.
"Yes," she said, simply. "I suppose you are a friend of his? Margaret thought you might come."
"I am Hilda Lakeman. You have heard of me, of course." Mrs. Lakeman's lips twisted with her odd smile. "You can imagine that I wanted to see you. I made a point of coming at once. We are staying at Sir George Stringer's till Monday."
"Perhaps you will come in," Mrs. Vincent said, a little awkwardly. Mrs. Lakeman followed her into the best parlor, and looked round it with surprise. The room was perfect in its way. She had pictured something more comfortless.
"Dear Gerald's books," she said in a low toneto herself, glancing up at the well-filled shelves—"and his writing-table and reading-chair," she added, with a thrill. "The piano, I suppose, is Margaret's?" she asked, with an air of knowing how to place and value everything; for on a closer inspection she had decided that, after all, Mrs. Vincent was the simple farmer woman she had imagined. She was tall, and in the distance had an air of distinction, it was true; but Mrs. Lakeman felt it to be a spurious one—a chance gift of squandering nature. Her eyes and mouth were still beautiful, but her hair was gray, her throat was brown and drawn, her shoulders were a little bent. "She is quite an old woman," Mrs. Lakeman thought, triumphantly, as she walked across the room, listening to the rustling of her own dress, and noting the stuff one clumsily made—such as a housekeeper might have worn—in which Mrs. Vincent stood waiting to see what her visitors would do next. "I wonder what she thinks of her prospect of being Lady Eastleigh?" Mrs. Lakeman thought, and then, with courteous but extreme formality, and the swift change of manner that was peculiar to her, she said: "This is my daughter, Mrs. Vincent—she has been looking forward to seeing you; and I have ventured to bring our old friend, Mr. Dawson Farley. I am sure it needs no excuse to present so famous a person to you—"
She stopped, for Hannah had entered and stood, half humbly, half defiantly, by the door. Hannah had dressed herself in her best, but the blue alpaca frock and the black alpaca apron and the white muslin tie round her neck only added to her uneasiness. Her hair was pulled well back, and two horn hair-pins showed in the scanty knot into which it was gathered at the top.
"That's Hannah," Mrs. Vincent explained, "my daughter by my first husband."
"How do you do?" Mrs. Lakeman said, with an odd smile, and looked at her insolently. "We are delighted to see you."
"How do you do?" Hannah answered, grimly. "Margaret thought you'd be coming. Won't you sit down?" She indicated seats to the visitors with an air of inferiority, and a consciousness of it, that was highly satisfactory to Mrs. Lakeman, whose dramatic instincts were fast coming into play.
"Miss—let me see—it was Miss Barton, I think? This is my daughter Lena, and this is Mr. Farley." Her manner was almost derisive as she presented them. "Ah! there is our Margaret. My dear!" and she folded Margaret in her arms, "I told you we should come. You knew we should, didn't you? It's such a wonderful thing," she went on, turning to Mrs. Vincent, "to see Gerald's child."
"She's a fine, tall girl," Mrs. Vincent answered, looking at Margaret with pride.
"We've come to see you in your home, you little thing," Lena whispered, and pulled Margaret gently towards her.
"It's very kind of you," Margaret answered, repelled immediately. "But if I'm a fine, tall girl I can't be very little, can I?"
"You are very sweet," Lena whispered again, and stroked her shoulder. "You remember Mr. Farley, don't you, dear?"
"Oh yes," Margaret said, shaking hands with him.
"He is staying with us till Monday morning," Mrs. Lakeman explained. "Then we are all going back together, very early, indeed, in order to catch the Scotch express from Euston."
"It's not a long stay," Mrs. Vincent said, with the restraint in her manner that was always impressive. "The place is worth a longer one. You will come to think so."
"I dare say, but we must start for Scotland on Monday, and, as I never can travel at night, we must leave here in the morning and go up to town by the eight o'clock train in order to catch the day express. Tom Carringford is coming over to-morrow afternoon"—and she looked up at Margaret with a smile—"to dine and sleep. He is at Frencham now, dear boy; but he said he must come and spend to-morrow evening with us and go up and see us off in the morning." She wishedMargaret to understand distinctly that Tom belonged to them.
"Is he going to Scotland, too?" Margaret asked, rather lamely, for lack of something else to say.
"Not with us. He is so disappointed, dear boy, at not being able to get away, but he comes to us in a week or two." She stopped for a moment and turned impulsively to Mrs. Vincent. "But I want to talk about Gerald," she said. "He told you of his visit to us? It was years since I had seen him— Mr. Farley wanted to meet him so much, too," she broke off to add, always careful to include every one in the room in her talk. "They ought to have gone to see him, of course—he had a magnificent part; but Gerald would take Margaret to 'King John'. He thought it would educate her more and amuse her less, I suppose."
"Is Mr. Farley an actor?" Hannah asked.
"Dawson, that ought to take it out of you!" Mrs. Lakeman laughed. "There's one place in the world, at any rate, where they haven't heard of you." And then turning to Hannah, she said, impressively, "He is the greatest romantic actor in England, Miss Barton."
"It's a thing I am not likely to have heard," Hannah answered. "I have never entered a theatre, or wished to enter one."
Lena made a little sound of sympathy. "Ialways like the Puritans," she said. "They were so self-denying."
"I'm a very wicked person, perhaps," Dawson Farley said, with pleasant cynicism, that almost won Hannah in spite of herself. "But all the same, won't you show us your garden, Miss Barton?" It seemed to him sheer insanity to come to the country and stay in-doors.
"I wish you young people would all go to the garden. I want to talk to this dear woman alone, and we have only a quarter of an hour to stay," Mrs. Lakeman said.
"You'll take a cup of tea?" Mrs. Vincent asked, for it always seemed to her that a visit was a poor thing unless it included refreshment.
"No, thank you; we must get back. And now tell me," she went on, when they were alone, "what does Gerald say about Cyril? He sent me a little note when he arrived, but he hadn't seen him then." The note was merely an acknowledgment of a sentimental farewell one she had sent him, but Mrs. Lakeman did not think it necessary to mention this.
"He sent you a note—from Australia?" Mrs. Vincent asked, wonderingly.
"Of course he did." She put her hand on Mrs. Vincent's. "You know what he and I were to each other once?"
"What were you?" Mrs. Vincent asked, the light beginning to dawn upon her.
"He didn't tell you?" Mrs. Lakeman said, in a low voice. "Perhaps he couldn't bear to speak of it; but he and I were all the world to each other till his opinions separated us. My father was Dr. Ashwell, Bishop of Barford—of course you have heard of him?" Her tone implied that even in these parts her father could not have been unknown. "He and my mother, Lady Mary—she was Lady Mary Torbey before she married"—the vulgarity of Mrs. Lakeman's soul was quite remarkable—"were devoted to Gerald; we all were, in fact, and he was devoted to us. But of course it was impossible," and she shrugged her shoulders.
"I suppose you thought it would have done you harm to marry him, when he didn't pretend to believe what he didn't feel to be true?" Mrs. Vincent said, in her calm, direct manner.
"Well, you see—it couldn't be." The woman was horribly phlegmatic, Mrs. Lakeman thought. She was neither impressed nor jealous; her attitude, if anything, was mildly critical. "Of course, I wasn't free to do as I liked, as you were. Poor, dear Gerald! I know he suffered horribly. That's the curse of a position like ours. One has to accept its obligations," she added, loftily.
"I didn't know that anything need make one unfaithful to the man who loved one, and to whom one was bound by promises."
"I thought so, too; but I couldn't break myfather's heart. I have never forgiven myself"—she tried hard to put tears into her eyes, but they would not come—"for I know what he suffered. He was a wanderer for years," she went on, "and never able to settle down in London again. I suppose that was how he found his way here. Tell me about your marriage." She gave a little gasp, as if she had screwed up courage to listen to details that would still be harrowing to her; but a gleam of amusement looked out of her blue eyes. Mrs. Vincent saw it, and, little as Mrs. Lakeman would have imagined her to be capable of it, she understood its meaning.
"I shouldn't care to talk about it to a stranger," she answered. "There are things that are sacred outside the Bible as well as written in it."
"I am not a stranger. I can't be a stranger to Gerald Vincent's wife." Mrs. Lakeman tried to be passionate, but it didn't come off very well. "I wouldn't say it to any one else in the world, but I've never ceased to care for him, and I don't believe—I don't believe," she repeated, in a low tone, "that he has ever quite forgotten me."
"I don't suppose he has forgotten you," Mrs. Vincent answered, calmly; "but I am certain that he has been faithful to his wife and child here."
"Of course he has."
"And he's loved them all the years he's known them. You let him go when it would have beeninconvenient to marry him; but he didn't marry any one else till he had quite got over it. He's not the sort of man to do anything dishonorable."
"Of course he isn't." Mrs. Lakeman began to feel uncomfortable.
"And it's better that what is past and dead should be buried, and left unspoken of. I know"—she looked Mrs. Lakeman straight in the eyes—"he feels that everything was for the best; and he's been content and happy here. He said it not three months ago, and I think it would have been better not to have raked up bygones."
"You are quite right," Mrs. Lakeman said, heartily, for she was a quick-sighted woman and rather enjoyed being beaten: it made good comedy. "You are a most sensible woman. And now, tell me, won't it seem odd to you to be Lady Eastleigh?"
"I've not thought about it," Mrs. Vincent answered. "A living man has the name at present, and I hope he'll keep it."
"I dare say you would rather he did," Mrs. Lakeman said, patronage coming into her voice again. "It would be rather a difficult change," she added, humorously. "Fancy Gerald, Lord Eastleigh, living at Woodside Farm, with Miss Barton for his step-daughter—the Gerald whom I remember with every woman at his feet."
"I don't see that it would make so muchdifference," Mrs. Vincent answered, "and I hope he won't call himself by any other name than the one he has been known by. For my part, I never could see why people set so much store on titles. The biggest lord that lives only lies in one grave at last, and it isn't as if Gerald had a son to come after him, or was coming to big estates that had to be thought of. He'll live here again, and be just the same as he always was." She looked bravely at Mrs. Lakeman though her heart was sinking, for she knew that the old life at Woodside Farm was forever at an end. And if he brought this title back with him, might it not cause people to come round him who had never thought of coming before, people who would think her inferior, and let her see what they thought, just as this Mrs. Lakeman did? She couldn't understand it, for the pride of race was in her, too. Had she not come of people who had belonged to the land—God's beautiful land—and spent their lives looking after it, faithful to their wives, bringing up their children to do right? There had not been a stain on their records for generations past—neither drunkard nor bankrupt nor anything of the sort had belonged to them. Suddenly she remembered Mrs. Lakeman.
"Perhaps, as you have to go almost directly, you would like to see the garden, too?" She got up, and for a moment she looked like an empress putting an end to an interview.
Mrs. Lakeman was carried away by her manner. "You are a very remarkable woman," she said, almost generously, "and the most unworldly person I ever came across."
"But you see the fashions and things that people care for in London are not in our way," Mrs. Vincent answered, with a smile. "Are you sure you won't stay for a cup of tea?"
"Let me sit in the porch with Margaret," said Lena, when they came back from their walk round the garden; "I am quite tired. Take Mr. Farley to see the cows, dear Miss Barton."
Hannah had stood by the visitors and showed the glories of the garden herself. It was her place, she thought, and time that she proved it.
"I want to rest," continued Lena, "and to talk to Margaret about her lover." She sat down and held out her hands. "Do come to me, little Margaret."
"It's all a mistake," Margaret began, in dismay.
"Who is it that's her lover?" Hannah asked, looking up sharply.
Lena scented an exciting track, and was happy. "George Stringer told us about him. He saw them in the fields together." She put out her hands again, but Margaret shrank back with something that was like horror. "He said you looked so happy together, darling; and you lingered behind the hedge just as lovers always do."
"He is not my lover, and I hate him!" Margaret exclaimed.
"Mr. Garratt cares nothing for her, I can tell you that," said Hannah, emphatically.
"Oh, but he must," Lena answered. "George Stringer said you blushed so sweetly when you took him to the gate, and spoke of him, and then Tom—our dear Tom—told us how Mr. Garratt came to tea, and he was so careful not to say that you had taken him to the wood for fear there should be jealousy."
"Miss Lakeman, I want you to understand—" Margaret began.
"Darling, you must call me Lena."
"That Mr. Garratt comes here to see Hannah, my half-sister, and not to see me."
"Oh, but Tom said that you and he talked to each other all the time," Lena went on in her sugary voice.
"This is just what I expected, considering the goings on," Hannah cried, almost losing control over herself. "But it's not Margaret that he comes to see."
"No one could come and see any one else when she is here," Lena whispered to herself; but Hannah heard, and answered quickly:
"It's she that puts herself forward and forces herself upon him."
"Oh, she couldn't, she looks so sweet. Here comes Mr. Farley back from his little walk. Shall we ask him if he thinks it possible that any one doesn't love you?"
Margaret turned and blazed at her. "Please be silent," she said; "you may not mean it, but you say things that are simply dreadful, and they sound as if you said them on purpose."
"I'll ask Tom about it when he comes to-morrow; and I'll make him come and see you again if I can." Lena put on an air of being puzzled and a little injured. "But we have not seen each other for three days and I want him for myself, just as Mr. Garratt wants you."
Margaret went forward and put her hand on Hannah's arm. "She's doing it on purpose, Hannah," she said, with distress in her voice, "and because she sees that it vexes you, and that I hate it."
Lena was enjoying herself immensely. "I have made you angry again," she said; "but you look splendid, just as you did in London. Isn't she beautiful, Miss Barton?"
Hannah could hardly bear it. "I have never been able to see it," she said, as her mother and Mrs. Lakeman entered.
Dawson Farley was standing by the porch. "Are you likely to come to London again, Miss Vincent?" he asked.
"I hope I shall, and soon," Margaret answered; and then she went on eagerly, "I heard that you saw Miss Hunstan first when she walked on the stage holding up a princess's train?"
Mr. Farley looked at her curiously. "There is a princess in my new piece," he said. "Do you want to come and hold up her train?"
"I should love it!" she answered, and walked up the grass-covered path with him.
Meanwhile Mrs. Lakeman, too, was amusing herself. "And what do you think of your step-father's chance of coming into the title?" she asked of Hannah.
Mrs. Vincent's lips locked closely together, but she said nothing.
"What title?" Hannah looked up quickly.
Mrs. Lakeman felt that here was quite a new sensation: she had always been a gambler in sensations, an inveterate speculator in effects.
"You know that your step-father will be Lord Eastleigh when his brother dies?"
"I know nothing about it. Why has a mystery been made of it?"
"There has been no mystery made of it," Mrs. Vincent said, firmly. "I don't suppose father will take up the title, and, anyway, it needn't be spoken of while the one who has it lives. It seems like hurrying him into his grave."
But Hannah was not to be silenced. "I suppose this is why we never heard anything of his relations," she said. "Was he ashamed of us?"
"Such a thing never entered his head," Mrs. Vincent answered.
"And why did this brother, who has got a title, go hiding himself in Australia? Did he do something he oughtn't to have done?"
"He never did anything but spend his money too quickly," Mrs. Lakeman answered. "He made an unlucky marriage, of course—dear old Cyril; but heaps of men do that. We must be going, Mrs. Vincent. Some people are coming to tea—the Harfords from Bannock Chase; do you know them?"
"I see them in church, but we have not their acquaintance," Mrs. Vincent answered. Mrs. Lakeman told Dawson Farley afterwards that she said it with the air of a duchess who had refused to call upon them.
"When are you going to be married, dear?" she asked Margaret, as she got into the fly. "George Stringer and Tom told us about Mr. Garratt."
"It's all a mistake—" Margaret began, with passionate distress in her voice.
"Don't tease her," Lena cooed, "she doesn't like it."
Mrs. Lakeman looked at her with an air of worldly wisdom and said, significantly, "I should wait if I were you. You'll be able to do better when your father returns." She opened her parasol, which was lined with lilac silk—and framed her face in it. "Good-bye, Mrs. Vincent, I'm soglad to have seen you." She made a last effort to put some feeling into her voice and almost succeeded.
But Mrs. Vincent only said "Good-bye," and turned away almost before the fly had started.