Part 11

"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 so glad 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.

XVIII

Breakfast was always half an hour later on Sundays. Margaret had spent the early hours in writing to her father, telling him of the impossibility of remaining any longer at Woodside Farm unless the relations between Mr. Garratt and Hannah were definitely settled. Something would have to be done, and immediately, but he was not to be distressed about her. She meant to go to Miss Hunstan and to take her advice. Perhaps if she could gather courage she would consult Sir George Stringer, but it was Miss Hunstan on whom she relied, she even asked her father to direct his next letter to her care just on the chance. The morning was sultry, the notes of the birds were languid, there was not a stir among the branches though the scent of flowers came stealing upwards from the bed against the house. She went to the window and leaned forward to catch any passing breeze that might chance to wander by. Suddenly Mrs. Vincent and Hannah came out of the porch and stood just a few yards below her. Hannah was evidently continuing a conversation.

"Well, I've no patience with them, mother, fine folks giving themselves airs and ashamed to say who they are and what they've done; lord, or no lord, he shall see that I don't care for his ways, nor for Margaret's either." All the same there was in Hannah's heart an odd feeling of curiosity. What would happen to her when her step-father was Lord Eastleigh? What would the country people say to her, the people who now and then, most politely, it is true, asked her to accept a present for herself when they paid a quarter's account. And Mr. Garratt, what would he say? He would surely know that Margaret, with her stuck-up ways, would not look at him now. Most likely he would think himself lucky to get Hannah, since she would gain a reflected importance. But she wasn't sure, on the whole, if she wanted him any longer, and yet it would be something to make sure of a man. She couldn't bear going over to Petersfield and seeing women younger than herself, whom she remembered as girls, walking out with their husbands, or nursing their children, while she remained a spinster. "I do wonder what Mr. Garratt will have to say to it all," she said, aloud, without meaning it.

"He'll see it's no good caring for Margaret," Mrs. Vincent said.

"Why should he? Not that he does care," Hannah answered, quickly. "She isn't any better than she was yesterday, nor than I am. For my part, I think this title business will make us the laughing-stock of the place."

"There is no occasion to speak of it; it's no one's business but our own."

"I never was one for secrets."

"Neither was I," said Mrs. Vincent. "But I have always found that there was more in silence than in talk. I hope you and Mr. Garratt will settle up soon, Hannah, for these quarrels make me miserable."

"It's Margaret's fault, not mine," Hannah answered, doggedly. "After all, mother, whatever's said, you know that I'm fond of you. If there had been no strangers about all these years, and I'd had the taking care of you by myself, I could have been content enough without any thought of marrying."

"Jealousy is such a poor thing, Hannah."

"We ourselves are poor things in the sight of the Lord, mother. If Margaret would once come to see that she might be different."

Margaret, above, could stand it no longer. "It's so mean to be listening here," she said to herself; "and though Hannah was horrid last night she is rather better this morning, and she's fond of mother. Oh, I'm so glad that she loves her." Then she raised her voice and called out, "Good-morning, mother. I can hear all you say. Let us have a happy Sunday, Hannah. I won't look at Mr. Garratt; I will be thoroughly disagreeable to him if that will please you." At which Hannah answered, not without a trace of amiability and with the flicker of a smile:

"You had better come down to your breakfast; for my part, I never know why we are so late on Sunday mornings." As she spoke, Towsey tinkled a bell to show that the simple meal was ready.

When the breakfast was over and the things were put away as usual, there was the getting ready in best clothes, and the starting of Hannah and Mrs. Vincent across the fields for church. Mr. Garratt was not coming till mid-day, and for the first time Hannah took an interest in Margaret's movements.

"I suppose you are going to the wood as usual?" she asked.

"I'm going there with a book," Margaret answered.

Then, with anxiety in her voice, Hannah said: "I wish you'd take a book that would do you some good."

"It can't do me any harm." Margaret was delighted at finding Hannah a little softer than usual. "I'm going to take _Paradise Lost_--it's a poem."

"It sounds very appropriate," Hannah said, solemnly.

Margaret blinked her eyes in astonishment, and wondered if Hannah were making a joke, and on the Sabbath, too! Perhaps, as most people are influenced by worldly matters, protest to the contrary as they will, Hannah was somewhat soothed in her secret mind at yesterday's revelations concerning the Vincent family. To be sure, the Australian brother had gone away, according to Mrs. Lakeman, because he made an unlucky marriage. And Gerald Vincent had lived quietly for twenty years at Woodside Farm: perhaps he, too, considered his marriage unlucky, and in his heart looked down on her and her mother; but even that would not undo the fact of the relationship, or prevent the step-daughter of Lord Eastleigh from being counted a more important person than hitherto when she went to Petersfield. There were moments when Hannah had visions of herself as an aristocrat in an open carriage driving through a park, or going to court in a train and feathers; she had often heard that people wore trains and feathers when they went to court. Nonsense and vanity she called it, but the momentary vision of herself trailing along and the white plumes nodding from her head was pleasant all the same.

"Well, we'll see when he comes back," she thought, as she walked across the fields with her mother. "If he isn't going to call himself Lord anything, and is going to live on here all the same, I may as well marry Mr. Garratt and be done with it--that is, if he behaves himself properly. He's getting a good business round him at Guildford, and we'll hardly rank as tradespeople when they know who I am. Mother," she said, aloud, "you'll not be staying on at the farm if what this Mrs. Lakeman said is true, and father comes back with a title?"

"Nothing will ever take me away from it," Mrs. Vincent answered; "and father will be just the same when he comes back, whether his brother be living or dead. I'm sorry you know anything about it, Hannah, for it won't make any difference one way or another."

XIX

Lena Lakeman, haunting the green landscape like an uneasy spirit, watched Mrs. Vincent and Hannah go into the church. "I wonder what little Margaret does with her morning when she's left alone?" she thought, as she went through the gate that led across the fields, and played about the field searching for clover, counting the blades in a tuft of grass, or resting beneath the outreaching hedge of honeysuckle like a lizard. From sheer sleepiness, she stayed there almost without moving till presently she heard the country voices in church singing "Oh, be joyful in the Lord all ye lands." She opened her eyes then and looked at the beauty round her. The land did rejoice, she thought--in the summer time. If God would only let it last His people would rejoice all the year round; but how could they, how could they be religious, when the climate was bad? Perhaps one reason why Roman Catholics took their religions so closely into their lives was that it had generated in those places that were filled with sunshine.

The voices had ceased. She tried to remember the order of the prayers, so that she might know how much longer the worshippers had to stay, but she could not hear with sufficient distinctness to recognize the words. Suddenly there was the sound of wheels coming towards the church and the road that led to the farm. She sat up and listened, then knelt and looked through the hedge till she saw, going along at a brisk pace, a fat gray pony and a little dog-cart, in which sat a spruce young man with a handkerchief looking out of his pocket, a flower in his button-hole, and a bowler hat stuck jauntily on his head.

"It's Mr. Garratt," she exclaimed, "he's going to see Margaret; they will have a happy time together while the others are at church." She watched the dog-cart vanish in the distance, then stole along the field, keeping close to the hedge lest she should be observed from the farm. And suddenly a thought struck her. "Margaret will take him to her wood," she said to herself; "presently I should find them together, but they mustn't see me coming."

She crossed the field twenty minutes later, keeping close to the hedge so as not to be seen, and made for the high ground. On the side of the hill a young copse grew, reaching up to the great trees that Margaret called her cathedral; the undergrowth of bracken and briar went up with it and formed a green wall round the summit. Between the columns of the cathedral, and over the green wall, the sweet country-side could be seen stretching long miles away to the blue hills, with here and there a patch of white suggesting a homestead, or a speck of red that betrayed a cottage.

Lena went up softly and slowly, so that the stir of the vegetation might not betray her, till suddenly she heard voices. She stopped and listened, then went on still more cautiously till there was only a screen of green between her and the speakers. Then she dropped among the bracken and was completely hidden, though she could hear perfectly. Margaret was speaking, and her voice was indignant--

"This is my wood; it belongs to me."

"Oh, come now!"

"How did you know where to find me?"

"Hannah told me herself; she said you spent your mornings up here instead of going to church, so I thought I'd just look in."

Lena, peeping through the greenery, could see that they stood facing each other--Margaret, with her head thrown back, resting one hand against the trunk of a tree. On the gnarled roots that rose high from the ground, and had evidently formed her seat, lay an open book. Mr. Garratt, with a triumphant expression, stood a few paces off.

"You must go back instantly," Margaret said.

"Not I! Come, let's sit down and have a quiet little talk--we don't often get the chance."

"Mr. Garratt, please--please go away," she said, "why should you try to annoy me as you do. You came here to see Hannah--"

"Well I don't come now to see Hannah--"

"Then you had better stay away--"

"I should like to stay away if I had you with me. Look here, don't cut up rusty or be silly. I'm not a bad sort of chap, you know," and he tugged at his mustache; "lots of girls have rather fancied me, but I've never cared a bit for one of them, though I've chaffed them a little now and then, because I've liked to make them mad."

"I don't care what you like, and I want you to go away."

"But I mean business this time, give you my word I do. I'm awfully fond of you and I'll tell 'em so when we get back if you'll say it's all right--"

"It's not all right!" Margaret cried, passionately.

"Well, you needn't take on so--you're awfully pretty." He went a step nearer. "I say, give me a kiss to go on with."

"I would rather die," and she drew back closer to the trunk of the tree.

"Well, you needn't shudder as if I were snakes or coal-tar; you may not know it, young lady, but you are not everybody's money, in spite of your good looks. I'm not a stickler myself, still it isn't all plain sailing marrying a girl who won't go into a church, and whose family is a mystery. It would not add to the business, I assure you."

"My family a mystery?" said Margaret. Lena cocked up her head like a snake and looked through the leaves; she could see them quite plainly. "How dare you--"

"Oh, well, we won't say anything more about it if you're going to explode. Still, there may be all sorts of crimes covered up for what we know to the contrary, and I understand that the farm will belong to Hannah by and by--"

"And that's why you thought of marrying her, I suppose?" she asked, indignantly.

"Of course it is," he answered triumphantly, "but I'd rather have you with nothing at all. I'm quite gone on you, Margaret; I am, indeed."

"How dare you call me Margaret?"

"All right, then I'm very fond of you, ducky; will that do? And I'll marry you to-morrow if you like--get a special license, wake up the parson, and off we go. You've only got to say the word. Now, come, give us a kiss and say it's all right. I'm not a bad sort, I tell you, and I'm bound to get on, and we'll do all manner of things when we are married--you bet. Come now?"

"Mr. Garratt," Margaret said in a low voice, "it's very kind of you to want to marry me, but--but I want you to understand," and the hot tears rushed down her flushed cheeks, "that I simply can't bear you."

"That's a straight one--you do give them out, you know."

"And I wouldn't marry you for the world," she went on; "either you must make it up with Hannah, or you must leave off coming here." She had brushed away her tears, and, flushed and haughty, looked him imploringly in the face.

"Oh, I say, don't go on like this; I wouldn't make you unhappy for the world," and he went a step forward.

"Oh, do keep back!" she said with another shudder. "I hate you--"

"All right, hate me," his wounded vanity getting the better of him, "but I'll have something for my pains at any rate," and in a moment he had darted forward and tried to clasp her in his arms.

Margaret gave a cry of fright that ended in one of astonishment, for suddenly the leaves that formed a low wall half-way round her cathedral parted and Lena appeared.

"You mustn't be so cruel!" she cried. He let go Margaret and stood gaping at Lena, who crossed over to the tree.

"I said you would have to love us, little Margaret; I've come to rescue you," she said, and put her arms round Margaret, to whom it seemed as if her Eden were full of serpents.

"Well, if you don't mind, I should like to know who the deuce you are, miss?" said Mr. Garratt, astonished, but not in the least confused.

"I'm Margaret's friend," Lena answered, in her sugary voice.

"And what business is this of yours?" he inquired, insolently.

"I know her father and I know her. Darling," she said, pulling Margaret towards her, "I told you in London it was always best to tell everything about yourself," and then she turned to Mr. Garratt. "She doesn't go to church; it's very wrong of her, but she would go if she were coaxed. Perhaps she'll go with me some day. And there isn't any mystery about her family. It's a very, very old one, isn't it, dear?" she said, looking at Margaret. "It came over with the Conqueror."

"Well, mine may have scudded about with Noah's for all I know to the contrary. What's that got to do with it?" Mr. Garratt asked.

"He means it for a joke, darling," Lena said to Margaret. "He doesn't mean to be rude--" She stood with her arms round Margaret, looking with soft reproachfulness at Mr. Garrett.

"Look here, I'm off," he said with a sudden inspiration; "good-morning," and in a moment he had disappeared down the direct pathway towards the farm.

XX

Hannah in the porch saw him coming.

"Mr. Garratt," she said, severely, "have you been for a walk? I thought I heard the pony go by when we were in church."

"Yes, I've been for a walk," he answered, huffily, for he was beginning to feel that matters at Woodside Farm were a little too much for him.

"Towsey says you went out directly the pony was put to."

"That's all right. What then?"

"Where's Margaret?"

"Up in the wood there," he said, nodding towards it, "with a young lady who, judging from her conversation, has swallowed a bottle of soothing syrup and let the cork come out inside her."

"And what did you go up to the wood for?" Hannah asked, severely.

"Because I chose. Look here, Miss Barton, I don't want to be cross-examined, if you please."

"Well, what I should like to know is--to speak plainly--what are you coming here for, Mr. Garratt?"

"That's my business," he answered. "If you like I'll put the pony to at once and be done with it, though, on the whole, I should prefer having some dinner first, seeing that I've come a good way." After all, Mr. Garratt had a fair temper, for he said the last words with a smile that somewhat pacified Hannah, who, seeing that she was likely to get the worst of it, drew in her horns.

"I didn't mean to be disagreeable," she said, "but really it's difficult to understand all the goings on here."

"That's just what I think. Who is that girl with Margaret? She was just like a snake springing up from the green and wriggling about--said she knew Vincent."

Then Hannah, being somewhat further pacified, told him the history of yesterday's visit.

"Well, I'm jiggered," Mr. Garratt answered, after a moment's hesitation. "I told you there was something behind it all. This brother of his, Lord Eastleigh--of course I'm on to him directly. He was an awful rummy lot--married Bella Barrington, who used to sing at the Cosmopolitan in the Hornsey Road. A pretty low lot, I can tell you. Well, I am--"

"Mr. Garratt," said Hannah horrified, "they are a set of people we should have nothing to do with."

"Rubbish. Margaret will be a toff."

"There's no money with it."

"Well, that's a pity," he said, "but it won't take the title away from them. I always knew they were somebodies."

"Hannah," said Towsey, coming from the kitchen, for it was only to Margaret that she gave a respectful prefix, "I'm ready for you to mix the salad."

"You'd better go," said Mr. Garratt, "I've got no end of an appetite--I'll just take a stroll to the end of the garden to improve it." For as Hannah turned her head he had seen Margaret coming towards the gate of the Dutch garden, and Mr. Garratt was a politic young man.

"Miss Margaret," he said, deferentially, "I want to apologize for what I said just now about your family and about your not going to church--it was my feelings that carried me away. I've just heard who you are. I always said you looked like a somebody; you may remember that I told you so that day going across the fields. And as for not going to church, why, I quite agree with what I believe Mrs. Vincent thinks, that it's what one does outside it that matters, not what one does inside."

"It's very kind of you to say all this, Mr. Garratt, but please let me pass." He walked beside her down the green pathway.

"You know what my feelings have always been," he said, "and if true devotion--" he felt as if this were the right line.

"Please don't say anything more." She was almost distressed, for through the porch in the dim background she could see Hannah's wrathful figure.

"If true devotion counts for anything," he went on, "why, you'd get it from me. I understand there isn't any money to come with this title, and it isn't going to make any difference in anything, and you'll want some one to love you just the same. We all want that, Miss Margaret, and--"

"Margaret, you'd better come in and not keep dinner waiting," Hannah called, shrilly. "I should have thought you had had enough of Mr. Garratt, meeting him up in the wood when other people were in church."

Mr. Garratt was very silent at dinner. He had to decide on his own course of action. He came to the conclusion that the safest plan was to propitiate everybody, but it took his breath away to think that he, Jimmy Garratt, house agent of Petersfield and Guildford, grandson on his mother's side of James Morgan, grocer at Midhurst, wanted to marry Miss Margaret Vincent, as he now described her to himself; still, there would be nothing lost by going on with it; besides, he was a good-looking chap, lots of girls liked him, and, after all, Margaret hadn't any money. It would be a good move, he thought, to get her over to Guildford and let her see the house; it had a real drawing-room and a conservatory going out of it, and he could afford to let her spend a little money; she should do anything she liked, and if people got on in these days it didn't matter what they were in the beginning. There were lots of them in Parliament who were nobodies, why shouldn't he get into Parliament, too, some day--he had always been rather good at speaking, and for matter of that he might get a title of his own in the end? He had only to make money and get his name into the papers, and give a lot to some charity that royalty cared about, and there he'd be.

"You are very absent to-day, Mr. Garratt," Hannah said, as she gave him a large helping of raspberry and currant tart.

"It's very warm, Miss Barton; very warm, indeed."

"I always find," said Mrs. Vincent, unlocking her beautiful lips, and looking like a woman in a legend, with her gray hair and high cheek bones, "that the summer is a time for thinking more than talking."

"You are right, Mrs. Vincent; don't you agree, Miss Margaret?"

"I don't know," Margaret answered, carelessly. "The summer is lovely, of course; it always seems as if the world had rolled itself up a little bit nearer to heaven--"

"I thought you didn't believe in any such place," said Hannah, sharply.

Mrs. Vincent looked at her younger daughter with fond eyes. "One's heart sometimes believes one thing and one's head another," she said. But Margaret ate her tart in silence, and Mr. Garratt, still weighing the chances of his future, followed her example.

XXI

The Sunday tea was over. Hannah had successfully monopolized Mr. Garratt all the afternoon. He was becoming desperate. "She would drive a fellow mad," he thought; "why, the way she tramps into that kitchen with the tea things is enough to send any one a mile off her track. I should get the staggers if I married her; besides, she wouldn't let one call one's soul one's own by the time she was forty." He looked towards the door of the best parlor. Mrs. Vincent and Margaret were there; he got up and went in boldly. "May I venture to ask for a little music?" he asked.

Margaret had risen quickly as he entered. "Oh, but it's Sunday," she answered.

"I thought perhaps there wouldn't be any objection to something sacred," he said. His manner was respectful, and altogether different from that of the morning; and he had been attentive to Hannah all the afternoon--which was soothing to Margaret.

"We used to sing and play hymns in mother's time," Mrs. Vincent said; "the old piano was only given to the school when James died. It was worn out and I thought they'd be glad of it." The sequence was not quite clear, but no one perceived it. "I wish you could play hymns, Margey."

"Oh, but I can play something that is quite beautiful," she answered, and went towards the piano.

"Allow me," Mr. Garratt said, opening it.