Part 14

"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 this rehearsing 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 to Chidhurst 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; no entanglements 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; I should 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 knew that 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 wish Mrs. 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."

Mrs. Lakeman was always practical and full of detail. The other telegram was from Lena, and ran:

"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 be in 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.

XXVI

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 it to 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 was starting to meet her after the rehearsal that afternoon a telegram arrived:

"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 rather afraid; 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 telegraphed already 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 quiet _tête-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."

XXVII

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 your letter 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.