"It was impossible to stay there with Hannah—and Mr. Garratt—and—all the scenes." She was confused and incoherent, but Tom made out the story in his own mind.
"And then?" he said.
"And then I slipped out in the darkness on Sunday night and came up here. I thought, perhaps, Miss Hunstan would help me."
His face beamed with happiness. "Of course, I knew there couldn't really be anything between you and Mr. Garratt; only it looked very odd, didn't it? And then Lena told me about Sunday—about his being up there, you know, and how she found you—"
"Oh, don't," Margaret cried, passionately. "It was mean of her to tell you, for she heard everything I said to him—"
"Well, never mind," he answered, in a consoling voice, "we've done with him, haven't we? But you know, Margaret," he added, falling into the familiar address without being aware of it, "you can't go on staying in rooms in London by yourself; and as for going on the stage, why it's all nonsense. I am very impertinent to say it, of course; but you see our fathers knew each other all their lives, so you must look upon me as an old friend. It's a great bore the Lakemans being in Scotland; you might have stayed with them—"
"No, I couldn't."
"Why not? Mrs. Lakeman is a good sort. Lena is a bit of a bore, of course"—a remark which, for some unknown reason, brought exultation to Margaret's heart. "As for being an actress, why you know it's all nonsense—don't look so offended." His voice would have been tender if he had not checked it. "People often come to grief in London—things are too much for them."
"I am not offended," she answered; "but if things are too much for me I suppose I must bear it as others have done; after all, the soldier who falls on the battle-field is more to be envied than if he dies in his native village."
"I should think you have done a good deal ofreading; that sounds like it, you know," at which they laughed, like the boy and girl they were. "I wish you'd go back," he half entreated.
"But I won't," she said, obstinately.
"Then let me wire to the Lakemans and ask if they can have you?"
"I wouldn't for the world."
"You are very positive. And you mean to say that you are bent on this stage business?"
"Yes; I'm bent on it," and she told him of her visit to Mr. Farley in the morning and of the two rehearsals. He got up and walked about. He was worried, of course—he felt that he ought to be worried—but he was so happy at hearing that there was nothing between her and Mr. Garratt that he found it difficult to be serious. "I wish I could make you see," he said, "that you are only taking the bread out of other people's mouths. When I get into the House I shall make bread-snatching a penal offence, and send you to prison."
"Bread-snatching! What do you mean?"
"Why, you see lots of women have to work for food and clothes and a roof. Some try to act, some to dressmake, or write novels, or teach infants—that's all right, of course. They've got to do it to get through the world. If you have got a great deal of talent for acting, even though you are not obliged to do it, it is all right to go on the stage, and, of course, if you have genius youhave no business to keep it from the world. But there are a whole heap of women who want to do things for the sake of getting a little more money than they really need, or because they like being talked about, or for some other reason that doesn't hold water, and they do it under easy conditions and snatch the chances from the women who have got to do it for their bread-and-butter. I think they are an immoral lot myself."
"But, Mr. Carringford—"
"You don't want money, do you?"
"I've got a hundred pounds in my pocket—"
"Splendid! I've only got two pounds ten in mine. But what have you got a year?"
"Father has only two hundred. I have it while he is away."
"But when your father returns he'll be rich. His brother has made a pile out there—heard so the other day—and he hasn't any children. Do go back to the farm, there's a dear girl."
"But I can't," said Margaret, carefully concealing the pleasure she felt at being called a dear girl. "Hannah wouldn't even let me in now. Besides, I may be very stupid or I may be a genius; I want to find out, and I shall be quite safe here."
"Oh yes, you'll be quite safe here. Mrs. Gilman is a nice woman. She's a great friend of mine. I shall go and talk to her in a moment. My people used to know her—believe it was mymother who sent Miss Hunstan here. Well, if you are not going back to the farm, when you've done your rehearsal to-day we might have a spree—drive about, or something. Mr. Vincent let us do it before, so he wouldn't mind our doing it again."
"Of course not," she answered, joyfully.
"Shall I call for you at the theatre?"
"I don't know what time the rehearsal will be over."
"Then suppose I come here at four and we drive to Richmond, walk about in the park, dine early, and get back here by nine? That'll be all right, you know, or we'll take a steamer on the river Thames, as the guide-books say, and go to Greenwich. Meanwhile, does Sir George Stringer know that you are here?"
"No; but I am going to write to him, only I didn't think of it till mother wrote."
"I shall tell the Lakemans you are here, of course."
"Yes," she answered, very doubtfully.
"I don't believe you care about them?"
"I've only seen Mrs. Lakeman twice." She stopped a moment. "Mr. Carringford—" she began.
"Why do you call me that? It sounds so absurd."
"Does it," she said, and the color came to herface. "I was going to ask—are you engaged to Lena Lakeman?" She almost laughed, for now, somehow, the question seemed absurd.
"No. Are you engaged to Mr. Garratt?"
"Why, of course not!"
"That's all right, then. Didn't you say your rehearsal was at 11.30? I might drive you down. Only twenty minutes—you must be punctual, you know, if you are going on the stage."
"Of course," she laughed. "I'll go and get ready at once."
Ten days had passed. It was like a dream to Margaret to be in London alone, her mother and Hannah at Woodside Farm, and her father on the other side of the world. But she was beginning to be uneasy at what she had done—at taking this step out into the world without her father's knowledge. Perhaps he would be angry with her, or would say, as Tom did, that she had joined the great army of bread-snatchers, the women who were not obliged to work for their living, who had no genius to justify them, no particular talent even, and yet from sheer restlessness and inability to settle down in their homes and quietly fulfil the duties there, had come out into the open and meddled with work that others might do better, and for a wage that meant to those others not added luxuries and frivolities, but the means of living. She wished a hundred times that Mr. Garratt had never come near Woodside Farm, that she had never left it, that she were sitting on the arm of her mother's chair in the living-room once more, looking out at the garden and the beech wood beyond; but something in her heart told her that thathappiness was forever at an end. No one approved of the step she had taken except her mother, who had seen the impossibility of her remaining at home. Hannah had shut the door on her, and Tom had shaken his head.
Sir George Stringer had appeared as promptly as possible after getting her note; but, since he was away when it arrived, that was not till a couple of days after she had written it.
He was emphatic enough.
"My dear Margaret—I think I may call you that, as I have known your father all my life—this is simply madness, and, what's more, it's wrong," he said. "You are not old enough to choose your life yet. Take my advice and go back as fast as you can."
"I can't," she answered, dismayed.
"Of course it was unpleasant to have the attentions of the young man I saw." (Tom Carringford had told him the correct version of that story.) "But you have surely wit enough to let him see that they are distasteful to you?"
"I did—I did."
"If my sister were not such an invalid I should insist on your going to her at Folkestone."
"Oh, but I want to stay in London," she said, firmly, and told him of her engagement at Farley's Theatre. He was furious, and could not hide it.
"The fact of the matter is, you like thisrehearsing business. It's madness!" he said. "And I expect you like seeing Master Tom, and that is madness, too. He and Lena Lakeman have always been fond of each other, and you will only upset their relations with your pretty eyes, or ruin your own peace of mind." A more untactful gentleman than Sir George in a matter of this sort it would have been difficult to find. "I suppose you know that he and Lena Lakeman are fond of each other? She's fond of him, at any rate, or else it would have been the best thing in the world; 'pon my soul, I wish some one would marry you."
"But I don't want to be married." Margaret was indignant, but amused at his vehemence.
"Yes, you do," he said, recovering his good humor. "All girls want to be married—nice girls, that is. Quite right, too. For my part, I think women ought to be married as soon as possible; if they are single at eight-and-twenty, they ought to be shunted off to the colonies. They are only in the way here; but they might be of some use out there."
"Do you think I ought to go after my father to Australia?" Margaret asked, demurely, with a twinkle in her eye.
"No, my dear, I don't think that." He was quite pacified by this time. "But I think you ought to go home, and, if you can't do that, you had better come and stay with me. I'm going toChidhurst myself at the end of the week—day after to-morrow—if I can get off, unless I go to Dieppe for a few days first; better come with me—perhaps that wouldn't do either. 'Pon my soul, a young lady is a very difficult thing to manage."
"I am quite safe here, dear Sir George," she said. "When you are at Chidhurst I wish you would go and see my mother."
"I'll go and see your mother, and tell her she ought to be ashamed of herself to let you stay here." His voice had become abstracted; he was evidently considering something in his own mind. He got up and walked up and down once or twice. He turned and looked at Margaret half wonderingly, then at himself in the glass, and at her again. "My dear Margaret," he said, "I dare say you will think I am as mad as a hatter, but do you think you could marry me?"
She nearly bounded off her chair.
"Marry you?"
"Well, really, it seems to me that it's the best way out of it. I'm five years older than your father, but there's life in the old dog yet. You are a beautiful girl—I thought so the first moment I saw you—and I could be thoroughly fond of you. In fact, I believe I am already. I have no one belonging to me in the world except my sister, and I'm afraid she won't be here long, poor thing; noentanglements of any sort—never had. Quite well off; can give you as many pretty things as you like, and I'll take care of you, and not be grumpy. Do you think you could?"
"Oh no, I couldn't, indeed!" She was still staring at him, but she put both her hands into his with frank astonishment. "You are very kind, but you are—"
"Old, eh?"
"Oh no, no!" she said, "but I'm a girl—and I couldn't—"
"Why not? It seems to me it would work well enough, my dear."
"I couldn't!—I couldn't!" she repeated.
"Is it Master Tom?" he asked, like an idiot.
"No."
"Because he ought to marry Lena Lakeman and no one else."
"And I can't marry any one," she answered.
He stood still for a moment, holding the hands that she had held out, looking at her gravely. When he spoke there was real feeling in his voice, and Margaret knew it.
"Think it over," he said. "I would be very kind to you, dear; you should do pretty much as you liked, and there's no fool like an old fool, remember. I didn't mean to say this when I came in—hadn't an idea of it; but I think it's a way out, and a good one. I am very lonely sometimes; Ishould be another man if I had a girl to look after, and an old fogy would perhaps delight in your girlhood more than a boy would know how to do. I think I'll run over to Dieppe for a few days instead of going to Chidhurst, and come and hear what you have to say to me when I return."
"It will be just the same," she answered.
"You don't know;" he shook her hand and hesitated, then stooped and kissed her forehead. "I have known your father all my life, and would do well by you," he said.
He walked away from Great College Street muttering to himself. "Upon my life, I believe she's in love with Tom. I don't know what Hilda Lakeman will say to it all. I wonder if Hilda was lying? She generally is. Pretty fool I've made of myself, for I don't believe the girl will ever look at me. I wish she would. I suppose now she'll go and tell Tom; that'll be the next thing, and he will laugh at me. Best thing I can do is to tell him myself, and have done with it. Here! Hi!" and he stopped a hansom. "Stratton Street." He got in rather slowly. "I'm blest if there isn't a twinge of gout in my foot now—just to remind me that I'm an ass, I suppose." He met Tom coming out of his house.
"Just wanted to see you for a minute—can you come back?"
"All right; come along," and Tom led the way into the house.
"Look here, my dear boy, I came to speak to you about Margaret Vincent. You know she wrote to me?"
"Yes, of course."
"Well, it seems to me sheer idiotcy—worse, almost a crime—that Vincent's girl should be here alone in lodgings and apparently stark, staring mad about the stage."
"I have told her so—but I am looking after her."
"Which only makes matters worse; besides, the Lakemans won't like it."
"It doesn't matter to them."
"Well, but I suppose you are going to marry Lena some day?"
"I never dreamed of it."
"Never dreamed of it?" Sir George repeated, looking at him incredulously, and then with a glimmering of common-sense it occurred to him not to repeat Mrs. Lakeman's confidence. "But you are going to them in Scotland?"
"I ought. Lena's very ill, I fear, and Mrs. Lakeman telegraphs to me every day to go and cheer them up."
"Humph!" said Sir George to himself, "trust Hilda for knowing what she's about. Well," he added, aloud, "I didn't think it was a good thing for that girl to be here in London alone, and I knewthat you were due in Scotland and belonged to the Lakemans—"
"To the Lakemans?" Tom repeated, rather bewildered.
"So, when I went round to see her just now, I thought the only way out of the difficulty was—was—well, the fact is, I asked her to marry me."
"Lor'!" Tom said, and opened his blue eyes very wide. "What did she say?"
"Wouldn't look at me. Now, of course, I feel that I have made a fool of myself, and upon my life I haven't the courage to go near her again for a bit. Think I'll run over to Dieppe and shake it off. What I want to say is"—he stopped, for it suddenly occurred to him that he might be mismanaging things all round. "Something must be done about the girl, you know," he said.
Tom held out his hand.
"It's all right," he answered; "don't worry about her; I'll see that she doesn't come to grief."
Sir George looked back at him and understood. "I know you are a good boy," he said, and grasped Tom's hand, "and will do the best you can. Don't think me an old fool. I did it as much for her sake as my own. I shall come back next week and look her up again before I go to Chidhurst." And he took his departure.
But Tom stayed behind, and thought things over more seriously than was his wont. "I wishMrs. Lakeman would be quiet, or Lena would get better. I ought to go to them, I suppose, but can't till this matter is settled." Then he went down to the theatre and fetched Margaret from her rehearsal; it was nearly three o'clock before it was over.
"I have had two telegrams," she told him. "Mr. Farley, I suppose, told Mrs. Lakeman that I was in London, and she has sent me this."
He took it from her and read:
"Come and stay with us here. Pitlochry—train leaves Euston to-morrow night at eight; meet you at Perth; ask Farley to see you off."
"Come and stay with us here. Pitlochry—train leaves Euston to-morrow night at eight; meet you at Perth; ask Farley to see you off."
Mrs. Lakeman was always practical and full of detail. The other telegram was from Lena, and ran:
"Do come, little Margaret; we want you."
"Do come, little Margaret; we want you."
"What are you going to do?" asked Tom.
"I telegraphed back, 'Thank you very much, but quite impossible.'"
"Good! good!" but his voice was a little absent. He was becoming serious.
Miss Hunstan had written, but from a cheering point of view; for she, too, had once set out on her way through the world alone.
"I wish I'd been there to receive you," she said in her letter; "but when I come back you will bein your rooms above, and I in mine beneath. We must be friends and help each other."
"It's just like her," said Tom; "but she's a dear, you know. By-the-way, I saw Stringer just now; he told me he had been to see you."
"Yes," Margaret answered, uneasily. They were in a hansom by this time, driving to Great College Street.
"What did he say?" asked Tom, maliciously.
"He was very kind," she answered—the color came to her face; "he said I oughtn't to be in London alone."
"Quite right!" and Tom thought that she was a nice girl not to betray her elderly lover; a proposal was a thing that every woman should regard as confidential—unless she accepted it, of course.
Another week and the whole world had changed. Margaret forgot Hannah and Woodside Farm; sometimes she even forgot her longing to see her mother's face again. She was blind to the people in the street, to everything about her; her ambition to be an actress was lulled into pleasant abeyance. A great happiness dawned in her heart—she did not try to put a name to it; she did not even know it to be there; but the whole world seemed to be full of it, and in the world there was just one person—Tom Carringford. He came to her every day; in some sort of fashion he constituted himself her guardian, though they preserved the happy playfellow terms of boy and girl. They made all manner of innocent expeditions together—to Battersea Park, where they rowed about in a boat on the lake, and then drove back to dine in Margaret's little sitting-room (a simple dinner that Mrs. Gilman arranged); to Richmond, where they dined by an open window and drove back again before it was dark, for Tom, with all his exuberance, had an occasional uneasy sense of conventionality, though he said nothing about itto Margaret. "I don't want to put her up to things; she is much too nice as she is," he thought. They went to Chiswick and Kew; they talked about Pope at Twickenham and walked along the tow-path; to Bushey and Hampton Court, and had tea—by an open window again—at the old-fashioned inn, and returned in the cool of the evening. One day they went to the Zoo, where they laughed at the animals and fed the monkeys, and again had tea, and ate so many cucumber sandwiches that they were ashamed to count them—for it was a proof of their youth and unsophistication that they generally made eating a part of their entertainment when they went out together.
They lived only for each other, yet neither stopped to realize it, till at the end of ten days Tom was roused to a sense of what was happening by a letter from Mrs. Lakeman. Lena was very ill indeed, she said, and had been waiting day after day for Tom; why hadn't he come? She had heard from Sir George Stringer that the Vincent girl was in town—was Tom aware of it? Probably she was too much taken up with the young grocer from Guildford to have made a sign to him? This was an unwise remark for so tactful a woman as Mrs. Lakeman, for it made Tom snort indignantly, and it brought home to him the difficulties of Margaret's position. Just as he wasstarting to meet her after the rehearsal that afternoon a telegram arrived:
"Come immediately; Lena dangerously ill."
"Come immediately; Lena dangerously ill."
"Whew!" he said, "I must go by the eight-o'clock mail this evening." He turned back to tell his man to pack a bag, take tickets, and meet him at Euston, then drove to the theatre to find that the rehearsal was over and every one gone. He went on as fast as possible to Great College Street.
Margaret tried not to show her consternation, but her face betrayed her.
"Oh, I'm so sorry. Sir George told me you belonged to Lena—but that isn't true, is it?"
"Of course not," he answered, staring at her, and wondering that she could repeat anything so absurd; "but they have been very kind to me, and I ought to go. Besides," he added, for Tom was always loyal, "I like them both." He stopped a minute, and then he said, suddenly, "I wish you would give up the theatre."
"I can't," but her tone was not so positive as it had been.
"You know," he began, slowly, "I have been thinking a great deal about things lately, and wondering—"
"Yes."
"I'm not sure that I want to tell you—I'm ratherafraid; suppose we go and drive about a bit, and perhaps you shall know when we come in."
"It's such a rum thing," he thought, when she had gone to get her hat, "that she should be living here alone; I feel as if I simply can't go away and leave her. And if I say anything and she doesn't care for me, it will be all up, and I shall find myself where poor old Stringer is. I wonder if he's got over it a bit, and will come and look after her while I am away in Scotland." Sir George had returned from Dieppe the day before, but he had been shy of going near Margaret. Tom had seen him in the street and thought it wise not to recognize him.
Margaret came in ready to go out. She wore a white dress and a black hat that drooped a little on one side with the heaviness of its trimming. There was a thin gold chain round her neck; he knew that the locket attached to it contained her mother's hair. He looked at her for a moment, at her blue eyes and proud lips, and her slim, tall figure, and his reticence went to the winds.
"I can't bear to think I am going to-night," he said.
"And I can't," she answered, almost without being aware of it.
Then it seemed as if fate took hold of him and forced him to speak. "Margaret," he said, and his tone brought the color to her face, "this can't go on; it will have to come to an end somehow.You know we like being together—it's glorious, isn't it? But—I have grown fond of you—I can't help it. I wonder if you like me, if you care for me—it would make everything so easy. I love you—more than anything in the world, and you always seem happy enough with me. Do you think you could stand it always. Cut the theatre, you know, and all that at once, and marry me?"
"Oh, Tom!" she said, and without any rhyme or reason she burst into tears and sat down on the little sofa, for it seemed as if the floodgates of heaven had opened and poured its happiness into her heart—just as it had seemed to her mother once in the best parlor at Woodside Farm.
"My darling!" he said, "My little darling, what is the matter?" He knelt down by her and pulled her hat-pin out. "Ghastly long thing," he said to himself, even in that moment, "enough to kill one." He stuck it into the back of the sofa, took off her hat and flung it—her best hat—to the other end of the room, and gathered her into his arms and kissed her. "Why, what are you crying for?" he asked. "I have not frightened you, have I?" But his tone was triumphant, for since she made no resistance he thought it must be all right, so he wisely went on kissing her, for there is nothing like making the most of an opportunity—especially a first one.
"Oh, you mustn't—you mustn't!" she said,afraid lest he should see the shame and the joy in her eyes.
"You know this is what it means," he said, holding her closer. "Why, we liked each other from the first, didn't we? Think what a spree we had that morning when we came here with the flowers."
"I know," she whispered; "but I can't be married."
"Why not?"
"It seems so strange."
"You'll get used to it."
"And father is away."
"All the more reason."
"But we can't, till he comes back."
"Yes, we can; there are plenty of churches about. By-the-way, you don't go to one, do you? You know, I never thought much of those unbeliefs of yours."
"What do you mean?" she asked, struggling out of his arms and trying to be collected and sensible, but finding it rather difficult.
"Well, you know, I think people often believe in things and don't know it, or don't believe in anything and yet imagine they do. I can't see that it matters myself, so long as one tries to do the right thing. If all the roads lead to heaven, it doesn't matter what language one talks on the journey, or whether one arrives in a monk's cowl or with a feather in one's cap."
"You are talking nonsense," she said, looking at his face and thinking what a dear one it was.
"Of course I am; we are much too happy to talk anything else. By-the-way, I ought to beg your pardon for thinking you cared about Garratt."
"I think you ought," she laughed.
"Though I don't know whether I'm any better than he is," he added, modestly. "I say, you do care for me, don't you? You know you haven't said it yet."
"I do care for you," she said.
"When did you begin?"
"I don't know; I don't know a bit, Tom dear, but what I have felt is that—"
"Yes, go on."
"—That it was the greatest happiness in the world to be with you. Why, I have simply laughed for joy at the sound of your step, and when you are away I think of you all the time and every minute, and I don't even care for the theatre now, or for being an actress."
"Good! good!" he cried, triumphantly. "Go on."
"And I am so happy now," she continued—"so stifled and overcome with happiness that I feel as if I should die of it."
"Oh, well, don't do that—it's quite unnecessary, and it would be rather a bore, you know. When shall we be married?"
"Oh, but—"
"There's nothing to wait for. I've got enough money, and the house in Stratton Street is literally gaping for you to go and live in it. It seems to me that the only thing to be done is to get a ring and a license."
"But we can't be married till father knows; we can't, indeed."
"All right, dear; we'll send him a cable. We might send your mother a telegram at the same time—what do you think?"
Margaret considered for a moment. "How soon, do you think, I could give up the theatre?" she asked.
"Why, this very minute, of course. I'll write to Farley before I start, and so shall you, and tell him all about it."
"But can he get any one in my place immediately?"
"Of course; probably a whole crowd are waiting round the stage door ready to jump into it. There are too many people in the world who want to work—too many who must work," he added, with a shade of seriousness; "but what about your mother?"
"Why, if I really needn't go to the theatre any more, we won't telegraph. I should so love to tell her. She liked you, you know—she liked you so much. I'll go home to-morrow and tell her."
"Good! good! But what about Hannah; will she let you in?"
"I think she will, when she knows that I am not going to be an actress—and about this."
"She might think you are doing worse."
"No, she won't."
"Well, that's settled; now we'll send the cable. Let's write it out here, then we need only copy it out in the office. Where is your paper?" he asked, impulsively, going to the writing-table. "Now then. 'Carringford to Vincent. May I marry Margaret?—Tom.' Will that do?" he asked.
"Splendidly," she laughed.
"I think you ought to send one on your own account."
"Yes, yes," she cried, joyfully; so a second cable was written. "'Vincent to Vincent. Please say yes.—Margaret.' Will that do?" she echoed.
"Splendid!" he echoed back. "What a glorious girl you are, Margey—your mother called you Margey, you know. I think I should like to send one to your mother, not telling her, of course, but as a sort of preface—enough to make her guess something." He considered for a moment and then he wrote. 'Tom Carringford sends his love to you.' "It shall go as if it were a little message flying out of space." He stopped and considered again. "I should like the Lakemans to know before I get there. I have telegraphedalready to say that I start to-night; but if Lena's very ill, it looks rather cruel to burst upon them with news of happiness."
"Must they be told at once?" Margaret asked. For some reason she dreaded their knowing.
"Well, they've always been so kind to me." Almost mechanically he took up his pen and wrote: 'Margaret and I want you to know that we are engaged, but, of course, I start alone to-night. Kind love.—Tom.' Margaret kept her lips closed, for she thought of the Lakemans with a dislike that was almost beyond her control, but she felt that her father's memories, no less than the fact that they were Tom's friends, demanded her silence. "Now then," he said, "that's all over. Where's your hat?"
"Over there, on the floor," she answered, demurely, "upside down—my best hat."
"Never mind, I'll give you a dozen new ones. Let's send off these things and go for an hour's drive in the fastest hansom we can find—just to calm us down a little. Then, suppose we come back and dine quietly here at seven. Mrs. Gilman will manage it. I shall have to fly at half-past." Tom reflected quickly that Great College Street was the best shelter for a quiettête-à-tête. "Come along." He took her hand and ran with her down the narrow staircase. "I don't believe you know how fond I am of you, but you'll find out in time," he said, stopping half-way.
"I do know," she answered, "and I love you—dreadfully."
He looked at her and kissed her, then a happy thought struck him.
"Mrs. Gilman," he called, boisterously, for there were no other people in the house, "I want to tell you," he said, when that good woman appeared, "that Miss Vincent and I are engaged."
"Oh, Mr. Carringford!"
"It's all right," he added, rather afraid she was going to cry. "We are coming back presently, and you must give us some dinner at seven sharp. I start for Scotland at eight—from Euston—so let it be quite punctual. Now, Margey." He looked back and spoke to Mrs. Gilman again. "We'll stop in Stratton Street," he said, "and tell my man to bring round a couple of bottles of champagne. You must keep one and drink our healths. Keep the other cool and send it up at dinner. Oh, that's all right. Great fun, isn't it?"
"Tom," said Margaret, as they drove away; "what do you think Mrs. Lakeman will say?"
"Why, she'll be delighted, of course, and so will Lena."
Mr. Dawson Farley had a flat in Victoria Street. He came down at nine o'clock and leisurely opened his letters. The one from Margaret, telling him of her engagement to Tom, was on the top. Tom, who had known his private address, had advised her to send it there and not to the theatre. Mr. Farley started when he read it. "Now, this is the devil!" he said. "I thought that girl couldn't be in London without getting into some mischief. It's lucky I wrote and told Hilda about her; but I expect it's too late to do anything. It may make a serious difference, for I can't stand that wriggling snake, Lena, in any house in which I have to live. Why the deuce hasn't Hilda written?" he went on, as he looked through his letters; "perhaps wants to take time or to worry one a little, but I didn't think she was that sort of woman." Almost as he said the last word, the door opened and Mrs. Lakeman walked in. She wore a billycock hat and a long cloak; she looked almost rowdy.
"Dawson," she said, with her odd, crooked smile, "I thought it better to come up and answer yourletter in person; I travelled all night and have just arrived."
"You dear woman," he said, feeling that he ought to be equal to the occasion. "I knew you would do the very best thing."
"I'm going to do the very worst," she answered; "I'm going to refuse you."
"Refuse me?" he exclaimed.
"Only because I don't feel like marrying, dear friend," and she rolled some feeling into her voice. "Have you forgotten that I am an old frump with gray hair?" She took off the billycock hat and bent her head, just as she had done to Gerald Vincent.
"I don't care," he said, "I want you." He put an arm round her shoulder in a well-considered manner.
"I am very fond of you," she said; "I have a great affection for you, but I'm not going to be the laughing-stock of the town—a middle-aged frump marrying an actor a little younger than herself. Let's go on as we are, anyhow till Lena is married."
"Then what did you come up for?"
"It was quite time," she answered, dryly. "I suppose you know the Vincent girl is engaged to Tom Carringford?"
"She has just written to tell me, and thrown up the theatre business."
"She sha'n't have him, the little devil!" Mrs.Lakeman exclaimed. "I'll take good care of that; I have," she added, "for he's at Pitlochry by this time."
"At Pitlochry?" Farley exclaimed.
"Having breakfast with Lena. Lena, in a muslin morning gown lying on a sofa—Tom holding her hand—the rest you can imagine."
"This is madness! I don't understand."
Mrs. Lakeman's blue eyes were full of wickedness. "I knew something was wrong from his letters, so I have been careful to tell him that Lena wasn't well, and to make a few remarks about Margaret Vincent and the young grocer at Guildford, which I didn't think would please him altogether. As he didn't come and didn't write, I thought it as well yesterday morning to telegraph and let him know that she was dangerously ill."
"Which was strictly untrue, I suppose?"
"Strictly," she answered, with much relish. "But he answered at once that he would start at eight o'clock last night, and he's there this morning."
"He must have proposed to Miss Vincent yesterday afternoon. I didn't know that she had even seen Carringford till three days ago, when I came upon him at the stage door waiting for her in a hansom."
"It's a great pity. It shouldn't have gone so far, if I'd known in time."
"But, after all, why should you interfere?" heasked, thinking that, if Mrs. Lakeman were not going to marry him, he didn't take any particular interest in Lena's making a good marriage. "Carringford is a good fellow, and Miss Vincent's an uncommonly handsome girl. Why shouldn't they have each other?"
"And break Lena's heart?" she said, raising her eyes to his. "Besides, Tom belongs to us, and no one shall take him away."
"Still, it isn't quite fair to Miss Vincent, and I don't much care to help in the matter," he answered, quite pleasantly, but with determination; "besides, if you are not going to marry me, why should I—where do I come in?"
In a moment she saw the whole drift of his reasoning.
"I shall marry no one," she answered, "until Lena's future is settled."
"And if Lena marries Carringford?"
"Then you shall have your answer. You must see that a young man like you would look rather ridiculous going about with a middle-aged wife and a grown-up step-daughter."
He saw her policy; it was odd how well they saw through each other; he recognized her adroitness and her falseness, but it made no difference in his point of view; to marry her would be a worldly-wise transaction that he did not mean to forego if he could help it, and he wanted Lena out of theway. After all, he thought, if Margaret didn't marry Carringford, she would probably do still better—a handsome girl, well born, and probably well off when her father came back. And even if she were in love now, what did it matter? She would be all the better for a disappointment, perhaps: a woman who had not been made to suffer generally became a trifle heartless. Besides, what was the girl to him?
"Where is Margaret Vincent staying?" asked Mrs. Lakeman. "When I invited her to Scotland I telegraphed to the theatre, not knowing her private address, and she telegraphed back without giving it, which I thought rather impertinent. Tom, too, has only thought proper to send a telegram every other day lately."
"He has been too much occupied with other things," Farley said, with a little smile.
"Where is she staying?"
"In Louise Hunstan's house, in Great College Street. Louise is at Bayreuth."
"That's a good thing. I'm going"—and the tone of her voice showed that she meant to be victorious. "You may give me a kiss"—and she put up her face—"a matter-of-fact salute on my cheek would be highly appropriate to the situation."
"Stay a moment—when are you going back?" he asked, as he followed her to the door.
"To-night, at eight. I shall see Tom to-morrow morning at breakfast; he won't even know that I have been in London. I am supposed to be ill in my room," she laughed. "Violent neuralgia; not able to see anybody."
"You are a wonderful woman!" Farley said, as he let her out. "But I'm not sure that I could stand her," he thought as he went back to his letters; "she is a little too diplomatic for my taste."
"It was like Farley's impudence to think I should marry him," Mrs. Lakeman said to herself as she drove along. "He's not quite in my line, I can tell him. Still, he adds a little amusement to the occasion." She was full of pleasant excitement, curious to see how much her dramatic power would accomplish with Margaret, and resolved, at any rate, to thoroughly enjoy the interview.
Margaret meanwhile awoke full of happiness. She was engaged to Tom Carringford; she was going back to her mother to-day—it seemed too good to be true. A telegram came from Tom before she had finished her breakfast; he was safe at Perth, and just starting onward. She wondered how Lena was, and what her illness could be. It was dreadful for Mrs. Lakeman, she thought, and she was glad that Tom was gone. The post brought a letter from her mother; it was dated two days ago; but they were slow in posting things at Woodside Farm; probably it had been put on one side and forgotten. Mrs. Vincent was not very well, it was only a cold, but it had affected her heart, the doctor said, and she must be kept very quiet; there was not the least danger, and she would write again to-morrow. She begged Margaret not to think of coming, for Hannah was very bitter—she doubted if she would let her in, and Mr. Garratt had been there yesterday and made matters worse. "Hannah is fond of saying," Mrs. Vincent went on, "that the door is locked and barred against you, and shall remain so till she is forced to open it. Shetold Mr. Garratt so yesterday when he wanted your address. He said he should never care for anybody but you, and she told him not to come here again, and that if he did he should find the doors shut, as you would. Perhaps it will be better when we have had a letter from your father, for she was always in some fear of him."
While Margaret was still reading the letter there came the sound of wheels in the cobbled street. Something stopped in front of the house; a loud knock echoed through it and made Margaret start to her feet. For one horrible moment it struck her that Mr. Garratt had found her out. Then the door opened and Mrs. Lakeman entered. Her face was drawn, her lips were firmly shut, a strange, uncanny expression was in her eyes.
"Margaret!" she exclaimed. "Margaret Vincent, my old lover's child. I have come to throw myself on your mercy." She pushed Margaret back on the sofa, threw herself down by her, and burst into what sounded like hysterical tears.
Mrs. Lakeman had got her dramatic moment.
Margaret was aghast. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Is it Lena? Has anything happened to her?"
Mrs. Lakeman struggled for utterance; when she gained it her words were thick, her voice desperate. "I have come to ask you for her life!" she said.
"Me?"
"Your telegram has killed her."
"Oh!" Margaret's face blanched, for she saw what was coming. Mrs. Lakeman raised herself, and sat down on the sofa and took Margaret's hands, and looked at her with eyes as strangely blue as they were mocking.
"Margaret," she said, "I have done a desperate thing; but my child has been ill, she has been fretting and waiting for her lover—for the boy who has always been her lover. She can't bear separation from him. Yesterday morning I sent for him, and told him she was dangerously ill; at five o'clock your telegram—"
"It was Tom's telegram."
Mrs. Lakeman was impatient at the interruption. "Tom's telegram, then—came. By an accident it was given into her hands instead of mine, and a quarter of an hour later I was bending over her wondering if she would ever open her eyes again. Tom has been ours—all his life," Mrs. Lakeman went on, vehemently; "he and she have grown up together; he has always loved her; he has done everything for us; they have never been three days apart till we went to Scotland the other day. She worships him, and it has been the one hope of my life to see them married. She has never dreamed of anything else; he is the air she breathes and the world she lives in. When that telegram came yesterday it struck her like a death-blow."
"Oh, but Tom and I love each other," Margaret cried, in despair.
"No, dear," Mrs. Lakeman answered, impressively. "You must know the truth, for my child's life hangs on it. He does not love you—he loves her. He may have been infatuated with you during the last fortnight in which he has been parted from her. It's so like Tom," she added, with a little smile, for she found the tragic rôle a difficult one to maintain. "He has been infatuated so often."
"So often?" repeated Margaret, incredulously.
"Oh yes," Mrs. Lakeman answered, and the odd smile came to her lips. "You wouldn't believe how many times he has come to confess to me that he has made an idiot of himself. He is always falling in love, and getting engaged, and going to be married."
"I can't believe it! I won't believe it!" Margaret cried, passionately.
"It's quite true," Mrs. Lakeman answered, coolly. "Generally I have managed to conceal everything from Lena, and to get him out of his scrapes—I have known perfectly well that they were only boyish nonsense, for at the bottom of his heart, Margaret Vincent," she went on, resuming her solemnity, "he loves no one but my child; any other woman would be miserable with him. You won't give him any trouble?" she asked,insultingly; "you will give him up quietly, won't you?"
"I can't—I can't believe it."
"You would have believed it," Mrs. Lakeman said, slowly, opening her eyes wide, and this time contriving to keep the humor out of them, "if you saw her lying straight and still in her little room at Pitlochry, as she would have been now but for my presence of mind."
"What do you mean?" Margaret asked, a little scared by Mrs. Lakeman's manner.
"You mustn't ask me." She dropped her voice, and the words appeared to be dragged from her. "I can't tell you; it shall never pass my lips. I shouldn't dare to tell you," she whispered. "I have left her with a woman I can trust, more dead than alive. I told her I would come and ask her life of you, and I've come to ask it, Margaret. You are your father's child, and will do the straight and just thing by another woman?"
"I don't know what to do," Margaret said, desperately, and, rising quickly, she walked up and down, clasping her head in her hands, trying to think clearly. The whole thing was theatrical and unreal, and the mocking look in Mrs. Lakeman's eyes nearly drove her mad.
"It won't break your heart to give him up; it can't." Mrs. Lakeman's tone was a triflecontemptuous. "You were in love with the other young man only a few weeks ago."
"I was never in love with Mr. Garratt," Margaret answered, indignantly—"never for a moment."
"You may think so now, just as Tom thinks he cares for you; but you did care for him. George Stringer saw it directly, and Tom saw it the day he had tea with you all. In fact, he thought it was more on your side than on his," she added, watching the effect of her words with an amusement she could scarcely control. "He came and told us about it at once—he tells us everything—he was so funny when he described it all to us," Mrs. Lakeman added, as if the remembrance were highly diverting. Then recovering, she asked, in a deep voice: "What are you going to do, Margaret; are you going to give me back my child's life?"
"I am going to wait and see Tom, and hear what he says."
"I can't believe you will be so cruel."
"I don't understand," Margaret cried, desperately. "If Lena is so very ill, if she is dying, why have you left her?"
"Because I knew that there was only one thing that could save her."
"You must have started directly you got the telegram."
"I did—as soon as she recovered her senses. Itold you she was with some one I could trust; I have been in the train all night." From her tone it might have been a torture-chamber. "I have come to throw myself on your mercy. I felt that for a fortnight's foolish infatuation you couldn't be so cruel as to wreck my child's whole life. Your father would not let you do it, Margaret. Be worthy of him, dear; be the noble woman you ought to be and give him up."
Mrs. Gilman entered with two telegrams. Mrs. Lakeman gave a little suppressed shriek; but there was unreality in it, and Margaret felt it at the back of her head.
"There's one for you, ma'am, and one for Miss Vincent," Mrs. Gilman said.
Mrs. Lakeman chattered her teeth till Mrs. Gilman had left the room. "I can't open it," she said, and tried to make her hand tremble. But Margaret had read hers already.
"Forgive me, dear," it ran, "I am here with Lena.Better go home.—Tom." She stood rigid and scarcely able to believe her eyes. Was it true, then?
"Thank God!" exclaimed Mrs. Lakeman, holding out her telegram to Margaret. "We are together again and happy, darling. Be gentle to little Margaret.—Lena."
"Now do you see?" said Mrs. Lakeman, triumphantly.
"Yes, I see," Margaret said. "You needn't have come," she added, with white lips that almost refused to move.
"I came partly out of love for you," Mrs. Lakeman began, and then seeing how ill this chimed in with her previous remarks, she added, lamely, "I couldn't let my child die, could I?"
"What do you want me to do?" Margaret was in despair.
"Will you go to Paris for a time as my guest. You might start to-night. A former maid of mine could go with you. It would do you a world of good. It would be better to go away for a time, dear."
"I won't," Margaret answered, quite simply and doggedly. "If Tom loves Lena better than he does me let him go to her, but I shall stay here."
Then Mrs. Lakeman had an inspiration, and, as usual, she was practical.
"Go out to your father," she said, "in Australia. A cousin of mine is a director of one of the largest lines of steamers; I'll make him put a state-room at your disposal. You'll come back in a vastly different position from your present one. Cyril can't live many months—I shouldn't be surprised if he's dead already—and you, of course, will be the daughter of Lord Eastleigh." She stopped, for Mrs. Gilman entered again with acablegram. Perhaps the gods were listening and thought the moment an apt one for its arrival.
"It is from my father," Margaret said, with a quivering lip. "We cabled to him yesterday." She opened it, and the violent effort to keep back her tears brought the color to her face. It contained the one word—delighted.
"What does he say?" Mrs. Lakeman asked.
"It doesn't matter; it makes no difference," Margaret answered, crushing it in her hand; and then she said, gently and sweetly, so that it was impossible to take offence: "I will give up Tom, Mrs. Lakeman, but you must go away now, for I feel as if I can't bear any one's presence. And I can't go away; you must manage as you please, but I shall stay here."
"But there's something else I want you to do," Mrs. Lakeman said. "I want you to keep this visit of mine a secret from Tom—for Lena's sake."
"Doesn't he know that you have come?"
"He doesn't dream it; and I'm going back to Pitlochry this evening."
"But I don't understand! Where is Tom, and where does he think you are?"
"Tom is with Lena," Mrs. Lakeman said, with a confident smile, "and he doesn't miss me; he is too happy. I couldn't humiliate my child in her future husband's eyes"—Margaret quailed at the word—"by letting him know that I had come tobeg her life of a woman for whom he had had a passing infatuation. Now," she added, and her manner showed her alertness for practical detail. "Why won't you go to Australia?"
"I don't wish to go," Margaret answered, positively. "I don't wish to leave my mother."
"Your dear mother," Mrs. Lakeman said, with a funny little twitch. "Go home to her, Margaret; let me drive you to the station and know that you are on your way back to the farm?"
"I can't go home now," Margaret answered. "I will do as you wish about Tom, and I will not tell him that you came to me; but you must leave the rest in my hands."
"But how is he to know?" said Mrs. Lakeman, feeling in a moment that her house of cards might fall. "How is he to know that you give him up?"
"I will write to him," she said, bitterly.
"You had better telegraph at once."
Margaret felt as if these telegrams were becoming a nightmare; but, at any cost, she must get rid of Mrs. Lakeman.
"Oh yes; I will telegraph if you like." She crossed over to the table at which Tom had sat so joyfully only yesterday.
"Tell him you are going away," Mrs. Lakeman said. "Oh, Margaret, you don't know how they have loved each other all these years."
"You said he'd been infatuated so often?"
"He has always laughed at it afterwards."
Margaret took up her pen and wrote: "Stay with Lena; I do not want you. I am going away.—Margaret."
"You had better put your surname, too," Mrs. Lakeman said, and she wrote it. "I'll take it for you, dear," she said; "you don't want to go out just yet, and you don't want the landlady to see it. Now, tell me what you mean to do?" she asked, in a good, businesslike tone.
"I don't know," Margaret answered, gently. "I want to be alone and think. I have done all I could; it has been very hard to do, and I hope Lena will be happy. Please go; I feel as if I couldn't bear it any longer, unless I am alone."
Mrs. Lakeman took her in her arms and kissed her, and, though Margaret submitted, she could not help shuddering.
"It's rather a desperate game," Mrs. Lakeman thought, as she drove away; "but it's thoroughly amusing. The best way will be to insist on Tom marrying Lena at once—a special license. A man is often caught in a rebound."
Margaret sometimes wondered how she lived through that day. Mr. Farley sent her a little note releasing her from her engagement, but saying that if at any time she wanted to come back he would gladly take her on again. Margaret felt it to be a kindly letter. Oddly enough, too, a note came from the agency in the Strand, asking her to call the next day. "I will," she thought, "if I have had a letter from my mother." At the bottom of her heart there was some uneasiness, and once or twice it occurred to her that she would go back to Chidhurst and ask a neighbor to take her in, but the inhabitants of Woodside Farm had always kept their affairs to themselves, and she did not want to give occasion for gossip in the village. She read her mother's letter again. No, there was nothing in it to be alarmed about; it was only her own miserable state of mind. She was desperate, maddened, ashamed every time she remembered Tom and his kisses, and her own protestations to him. She couldn't bear to think that he was with Lena—Lena who would never love him as she did. Somehow, too, at the bottom ofher heart, she felt that there was trickery in the whole business. She didn't know how or where, only that Mrs. Lakeman's manner had not been very real; but everything in the world had become unreal and torturing. There was only one thing left that could comfort her—home and mother. She hungered and thirsted for her home. She wanted to see her mother's face, to sit on the arm of her chair in the living-room, to talk to her, even to hear Hannah scold. She wanted to go up to the wood and to think out the nightmare of the last few hours in her cathedral. She imagined the great rest of arriving at Haslemere Station, of walking the long six miles to Woodside Farm, of entering the porch and finding her mother sitting there. Oh! but it was no good; Hannah would not allow her to enter. Hannah was a firm woman who kept her word, and would think that she proved her religion by being cruel. As the day went on and no telegram came from Tom, the latent hope she had unconsciously cherished vanished. It was all true, then, and he really cared for Lena.
"I'm glad mother didn't know," she thought; "it would have made her so unhappy when this ending came; and I couldn't have borne Hannah's gibes." She longed desperately for some one to speak to, but there was no one; besides, her lips were closed; she had promised to be silent. Suddenly, she remembered Miss Hunstan; she wouldwrite to her. But no, it was impossible; she had left Bayreuth and the new address had not yet come. "And I don't know what to do, or what to say to father," she thought. "Oh, it's maddening. If it were a case of life and death I could bear it, but this is some trick, I know it—it is a case of sham life and death."
Late in the afternoon Sir George Stringer called. He entered awkwardly, as if he were afraid of meeting her; but the moment he saw her face he knew that something was the matter, and all his self-consciousness vanished.
"I told you I should come again," he said; "there is no reason why I shouldn't look after my old friend's girl, is there?"
"No, none," she answered, hardly able to collect her senses sufficiently to talk to him.
He looked at her sharply. "Something's the matter," he said; "you have been crying?"
"Oh no—yes, I have been crying; I am very homesick." He put his hand on hers as her father might have done.
"Take my advice and go home, my dear," he said. "Is the stage fever over?"
"Yes; I suppose that's over."
He looked at her again, then suddenly he asked: "Has Tom Carringford been playing fast and loose with you?"
"Don't ask me any questions, dear Sir George;I don't want to say anything at all. He is in Scotland with Lena Lakeman."
"He is a fool," he said, with conviction.
"So am I," she answered, ruefully.
"And I'm another. My dear, I'm not going to ask you to tell me anything you want to keep to yourself." He stopped for a moment, then he asked, awkwardly, "I suppose what I asked you the other day is impossible?" For answer she only nodded, and her eyes filled with tears. "Then we won't say anything more about it." He took her hands and held them tightly in his own. "But I should like to be your friend—your father, if you like, till your own returns. If you can't go home to your mother, or if that young bounder at Guildford worries, or if there is any reason of that sort, why shouldn't you go to my house by the church and shut yourself up there? You would be very comfortable. I thought of going there myself, but I could easily go somewhere else."
It seemed a good idea at first, and she caught at it, then she shook her head.
"No," she said; "people would know and they would talk."
"I suppose they would—damn them. I wish you'd tell me what Master Tom has been up to, dear."
"I can't talk about him to-day, Sir George; I can't talk about anything—my head is so bad. Iwish you would go now," she said, but so very gently it was impossible that he could be hurt, "and come and see me to-morrow; my mother is not well and I am worried. To-morrow I shall have thought out plans and will gladly talk them over with you. I want some one's help and advice."
"I think you do," he answered, "and I'll come to-morrow, my dear."
Margaret sat and thought again when she was alone; she had thought and thought since Mrs. Lakeman had gone that morning till her head was dazed, but it was no good; the whole thing was acul-de-sac. Then an inspiration seized her. "I'll write to Hannah," she said, "and beg her to let me go home and see my mother for a little while, at any rate. She'll get the letter in the morning, and I'll ask her to telegraph if I may go." She sat down at once and told Hannah, with all the vehemence in her heart, that she had never cared for Mr. Garratt; that perhaps she had even cared for somebody else; that she had given up her engagement at Mr. Farley's theatre; that she was miserable about her mother, and wanted to come and see her; would Hannah telegraph in the morning if she might come at once, even for a few hours. She felt better when she had written it, and determined to go out and post it herself. She was just starting when Dawson Farley appeared. His hearthad smote him for his share in the morning's transactions.
"I thought I would come round and tell you how sorry I am at your resignation," he said.
"And it was so unnecessary, after all, for my sudden engagement to Mr. Carringford is broken off."
"I know."
"How do you know?" she asked, astonished.
"Mrs. Lakeman came to see me and told me."
"Oh yes, Mrs. Lakeman," she answered, bitterly. "Is Lena really dangerously ill?" She wondered at her own question, but some other self had asked it—a self that doubted everything.
Mr. Farley, too, was taken by surprise. "I suppose so," he said, with a little smile. "Mrs. Lakeman's facts are sometimes a little elusive; but she can hardly have invented that one. Carringford has always been by way of—I mean he has always been considered Lena Lakeman's property." Quite suddenly Margaret lost her self-control for a moment, and shudderingly put her hands over her face.
"I'm sorry if she's ill, but I do dislike her so," she said.
Mr. Farley, too, was off his guard. "I hate her," he said, quickly. "Tell me, frankly, what you think about it?"
But Margaret shook her head impatiently. "Ioughtn't to have said that; and I can't talk about it, Mr. Farley. I'm sure you will understand that the whole thing is painful, and not one that I can discuss."
"At any rate, I may congratulate you on your father's probable return?"
"Oh, he will not be here for a long time."
"But you know that his brother is dead?"
She started to her feet. "When did he die; how did you know?"
"He died yesterday after an operation at Melbourne. I have just seen it in an evening paper," Mr. Farley answered.
"Oh, my dear mother, she will get my father back," burst from Margaret's lips. "She is ill, but this news will make her better. I have been writing to my half-sister"—and she took up the letter—"I will open it and tell her, for she may not know." Without knowing it, she showed her impatience to be alone, and in a few minutes Dawson Farley discreetly took his leave.
"I'm not going on with it," he thought, as he walked back to Victoria Street. "That girl is a sweet woman, dignified and courageous, and I can't be turned into a common scoundrel to please Mrs. Lakeman."