Part 5

"Are you eager, now that you have come into the world?" Lena asked, taking no notice of Tom's crushing remark. "Do you long to run all over it, and feel as if you could eat it up?"

"Rubbish!" said Tom again. "She doesn't feel anything of the sort."

"Everybody does who is really alive."

"All right," he said, imperturbably. "I am a babe unborn, or a mummy." Then he turned to Margaret: "I have to go now; but I wish I had seen your father, Miss Vincent. Where are you staying?"

"At the Langham Hotel--it's in Regent Street."

"Oh yes, we know; we have been in London for some time, you see," Mr. Farley laughed. He liked this girl; she was fresh and unspoiled, he thought. He had a curious hatred of Lena Lakeman, which had just been intensified by her treatment of Margaret. There were times when he felt that he should like to strangle her, just for the good of the community. He hated her wriggling movements, her low tones, her sugary manner, and the outrageous things she said and did with an air of unconsciousness.

Tom Carringford stood talking with Miss Hunstan before he departed. They appeared to be making some arrangement together, for, as he wished her good-bye he said, "All right, then; I will if I can. Anyhow, may I look in at tea-time to-morrow?"

"You may look in at any time you like," Miss Hunstan said, and then she explained to Margaret: "Mr. Carringford and I are old friends, and always have a great deal to say to each other." She got up when he had gone. "I'm going, too," she said; "but I wish I could stay longer." She held out her hand to Margaret. "I am a stranger to you," she said; "but I should like you to know that I am an American woman, and an actress--who was once a stranger, too, here in London. I hope to stay for some time, and if you come up again and would come and see me, either at the theatre or at my home, I'd be more glad than I can say, for you remind me of a girl I knew in Philadelphia, and she was the sweetest thing on earth."

"I should like it so very much," Margaret said, gratefully.

"Write to me if you can, for I wouldn't like to miss you. Anyway, just remember that I live in Great College Street, Westminster; and you will easily find it, for it's quite near the Abbey. No, thank you, Miss Lakeman, I won't stay for tea. Good-bye."

"I'll walk with you, Louise," Mr. Farley said. "Miss Hunstan is an old friend of mine, too," he told Margaret. "We knew each other in America."

Then, when they were alone, Lena went up to Margaret. "I am glad they are gone," she said. "Now we shall understand each other so much better, and you must tell me"--she stopped to ring the bell--"all about yourself. We ought to know each other, when we remember--" She had been speaking in an intense tone, but the servant entered, and in quite an ordinary one she asked for tea to be brought at once; then turned and immediately resumed the intensity--"when we remember that your father and my mother were lovers."

"Oh, don't say that," Margaret answered, almost vehemently, but with a sweetness of which her listener was uneasily sensible. "It was all finished and done with before we were born. I couldn't bear you to speak of it, nor of my father's opinions, as you did when the others were here; and I can't now, for we have only known each other an hour. There are some things we should only say to those who are nearest to us, and very seldom even then."

Lena wriggled a little closer. "You beautiful thing! Imagine your knowing that. But don't you know that some people are never strangers? And when mother brought you in just now I felt that I had known you for years. You must love mother and me, Margaret. People always do; we understand so well."

"You don't--you can't--or you would not have spoken as you did before those strangers."

"Didn't you hear what I said? I am one of those people who think that everything we do and feel should be spread out under the light of heaven. There should be no dark corners or secret places in our lives."

"But why did you say that my father and your mother were lovers once? I didn't want to know that he had ever cared for any one but my own dear mother." Margaret was indignant still.

Lena looked at her with a bewildered smile. "How sweet you are, and how unspoiled by the world," she said. "I wish I could come and live on your farm, dear. Tell me about your mother."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I shouldn't like to talk about her to any one I don't know."

"Do you love her very much?"

"I love her with all my heart. That is why--"

"Tell me what she is like."

"I can't. I don't want to talk about her to you."

"Do you feel that I am not worthy?" Lena asked, with a gleam of amusement in her eyes.

"I don't think you worthy or unworthy," Margaret answered; "but I don't want to talk about her to you."

"You are very curious, little Margaret. I am glad we have met." Lena leaned forward, as if she were trying to dive into the innermost depths of the soul before her, but Margaret felt half afraid of her, as of something uncanny.

"I don't think I am glad," she whispered, and shuddered.

"But you mustn't struggle against me, dear--you can't," she whispered back; "because I understand people--mother and I do. The tea is ready; I will go and bring your father here." She rose and slipped softly through the curtains.

VIII

Mrs. Lakeman looked at her old lover triumphantly. "I felt," she said, "that I must have you to myself for a little while. I couldn't bear the presence even of that dear child." Her listener fidgeted a little, but said nothing. "Gerald," her voice trembled, but in the tail of her eye there lurked amusement, "have you hated me all these years?"

"Why should I? You did what you thought was right, and so did I." There was a shade of impatience in his manner, though it was fairly polite.

She felt in an instant that tragedy would be thrown away upon him; she changed her note and tried a suspicion of comedy. "I would have stuck to you through anything else," she said, with a shake of her head and a smile that she meant to be pathetic. "I would have gone to perdition for you with pleasure--in this world."

"Quite so."

"I often think you people who do away with the next get a great pull over us. You see it's going to be such a long business, by all accounts."

"Yes." He looked bored: this sort of joke did not amuse him.

"I couldn't help myself. I couldn't break my father's heart and bring a scandal on the diocese; I was obliged to do what I did," she said, with a little burst.

"Of course, I quite understand that," he answered; "and, to be frank, I think it would be better not to discuss it any more."

"You will always be dear to me," she went on, as if she had not heard him; "and when Cyril told me you were at Chidhurst, I felt that I must write and ask you to come and see me. I nearly took a house there, but it fell through." Mr. Vincent remembered Sir George Stringer's remark, and said nothing. "Perhaps I should have been more eager if I had known--and yet I don't think I could have borne it; I don't think I could have spent a summer there with you and--and--your wife"--she stopped, as if the last word were full of tragedy, and repeated, in a lower tone--"with you and your wife only a mile off. I couldn't bear to see her," and quite suddenly she burst into tears.

Mr. Vincent looked at her awkwardly. She meant him to soothe her, to say something regretful, perhaps to kiss her if he still knew how--she doubted it. But he made no sign, he sat quite still, while she thought him a fool for his pains. After a moment's silence he put out his hand and touched her arm.

"It's a good thing you didn't take the house, then," he said, and that was all.

She brushed her tears away, and wondered for a moment what to do with this wooden man, who seemed incapable of response to any interesting mood of hers.

"Tell me what she is like," she half whispered.

He considered for a moment. "I don't think I am good at describing people," he answered, in quite an ordinary tone.

"I imagine her"--she began and stopped, as though she were trying to keep back just the ghost of a mocking tone that would come into her voice--"a dear, good, useful creature, a clever, managing woman, who looks after everything and makes you thoroughly comfortable."

"I believe I am pretty comfortable," he answered, thoughtfully.

"Oh! And do you help with the farm?" she asked, with a possibility of contempt--it depended on his answer.

"No, I fear I don't do that. I leave it to her and to Hannah. Hannah is her daughter by her first husband."

"I dare say he was very different from you," and her lip curled.

"I don't know whether he was or not--I never saw him." His manner was beginning to be impatient again.

"Tell me one thing more," she said, after a moment's hesitation; "do you love her very much?"

He looked at her almost resentfully. "I fail to see your right to ask that question," he said; "but, since you have done so, I will certainly tell you that I care for her more than I do for any other woman in the world."

"Gerald!" she cried, and burst into tears again; "I feel that you have never forgiven me--that you will always despise me."

"This is nonsense," he said; "and I don't understand what you are driving at. We broke off with each other years ago. You married another man, and presumably you were very happy with him. I married another woman, and am very happy with her, and there is nothing more to be said."

She got up and stood with her back to the dull, smouldering fire; it had been allowed to get low, for the day had been like a summer one.

"Just like you men," she exclaimed, with a little laugh and a sudden change of manner. "You are curious creatures; sometimes I wonder if you are anything more than superior animals. Shake hands, old boy, and let us be friends. We are middle-aged people, both of us. Look at my gray hair." She bent her head almost gayly, and put her finger along a narrow line--"Rather too late for sentiment, isn't it?"

"Yes, I think it is," he was surprised, but distinctly relieved. "Now perhaps you'll tell me when it was that Cyril wrote to you?"

"About two months ago. Poor old chap, his marriage wasn't up to much--ei--ther." She checked the last word and finished it with a gasp. "Awful pity, you know, to marry a woman from a music-hall. Lucky they haven't any children, isn't it?"

"Perhaps it is, on the whole."

"I don't like the account of his health; it sounds as if he is in a bad way."

"I'm afraid he is," Mr. Vincent assented, reluctantly; and then he added, slowly, for he always disliked making any statement concerning himself. "I shall probably go out to him."

"I knew you would," she cried, with a little glow of approval. But he was unresponsive to this, too. "Of course, if anything happened, the title would come to you?"

He looked up with quick indignation. But before he could speak the curtain was drawn and Lena appeared.

"Are you coming to tea?" she asked, taking them both in with a long look. "That sweet thing you brought to me just now and I are waiting for you." She went up to Mr. Vincent and held out her hand. "I have heard so much of you," she said, with perfect self-possession, "and often wished to see you." She opened her large, dark eyes as if to show that they were full of appreciation.

"This is your daughter, I suppose?" he asked her mother.

The question was so like Gerald, Mrs. Lakeman thought; he always made sure of even his most trivial facts.

"Yes, this is my daughter--my ewe lamb, my Lena." She put her arm round Lena's shoulders, and once more there was a thrill in her voice; but still he failed to respond. He looked at them both with a little embarrassment, dramatic situations were beyond him, and he had not the faintest notion what to do next.

Mrs. Lakeman smiled inwardly. The man was a perfect idiot, she thought. "Go, darling," she said, "we are coming."

Lena gave Mr. Vincent another of her long, intense looks as she turned away. "Do come," she said; "I am longing to hear you talk."

"It's very kind of you, but I don't know that I have anything to say." The suspicion of patronage in her manner amused him, but it irritated him too, and he wanted to get out of the house. Mrs. Lakeman made a step towards the curtains through which her daughter had disappeared, then stopped, and, as if with a last great effort she had gathered courage, said, "Tell me one thing--is Margaret like her mother?"

He considered for a moment before he answered. "I think she is," he said, slowly. "She has the same eyes and mouth, and the same distinction of carriage."

"Oh!" The exclamation was almost ironical. Then they went to the dim room with the overpowering scent of flowers. Lena was making tea, while Margaret surveyed the arrangements with great interest. They were so different from any she had seen before. At Woodside Farm a cloth was spread over the oak table in the middle of the room, a loaf and a large pat of butter, a substantial cake, jam, and such other things as might help to make a serviceable meal were set out. Occasionally a savory dish of ham and eggs appeared, or of chicken fried in batter, of which the cooking was a matter of pride to Hannah; plates and knives were put round for each person, and chairs drawn up; altogether it was a much more business-like but far less elegant affair than this dainty one over which Lena presided.

"Good-bye, Margaret dear," Mrs. Lakeman said to her ten minutes later; "you don't know what it has been to me to see you," and she kissed her on either cheek. "You must come and stay with us some day. Gerald, you will let her come, won't you?"

"Certainly, if she wishes it."

"She and Lena must be friends; our children ought to be friends. And you and I," she said, with deeper feeling in her voice, "must not lose sight of each other again."

"Of course not," he answered, and this time he managed to look at her with his old smile, in which there had always been a charm. It went to her heart and made her a natural woman. With something like a sigh she watched him as he descended the stairs.

"I could love him now," she thought, "and go to the devil for him too, with all the pleasure in the world. But he's so abominably good that he will probably be faithful to his farmer woman till the breath is out of his body."

"Well, would you like to go and stay there some day?" Mr. Vincent asked Margaret.

"No," she answered, quickly, and then she added, reluctantly, and because she couldn't help it; "I don't know why it is, father, but I feel as if I never wanted to go there again."

"That's right," he said. What the answer meant she didn't quite understand, but she rubbed her shoulder against his in sheer sympathy. A hansom gives little scope for variety in caresses, but this did well enough.

IX

At ten o'clock next morning Tom Carringford appeared at the Langham.

"Miss Vincent said you were staying here, so I made bold to come," he explained, with a boyish frankness that immediately won over Mr. Vincent. "Please forgive me, and don't think it awfully cool of me to come so early. I was afraid I should miss you if I waited."

"I'm very glad to see you," Mr. Vincent said. "I knew your father well." And in a moment Tom was quite at his ease.

"What did you think of 'King John?'" he asked Margaret.

"It was splendid; and a theatre is a wonderful place. How can people call it wicked?"

"Well, they don't," he laughed, "unless they are idiots, then they do, perhaps," at which she laughed too, and thought of Hannah. "I expect the scenes with Arthur gave you a few bad moments, didn't they?" he asked.

"She wept," her father said, evidently amused at the recollection.

"That's all right." Tom beamed with satisfaction. She was a nice girl, he thought, so of course she wept; she ought to weep at seeing that sort of thing for the first time. Then he turned to Mr. Vincent. "My father would be glad to think I had seen you at last," he said; "he often wondered why you never turned up."

"I have not turned up anywhere for more than five-and-twenty years," Mr. Vincent answered. "If I had he would have seen me." He was looking at Tom with downright pleasure, at his six feet of growth and broad shoulders, at his frank face and clear blue eyes. This was the sort of boy that a man would like to have for a son, he thought; and then, after a moment's characteristic hesitation, he said: "Stringer told us that you went to Hindhead sometimes; perhaps one day you would get over and see us?"

"Should like it," said Tom, heartily.

"You have left Oxford, of course?"

"Oh yes, last year."

"Any ambitions?"

"Plenty. But I don't know whether they'll come to anything. I believe there'll be an unpaid under-secretaryship presently, and by-and-by I hope to get into the House. Politics are rather low down, you know, Miss Vincent, so they'll suit me. What did you think of Miss Hunstan? I saw her last night; she had fallen in love with you."

"Had she?" Margaret exclaimed, joyfully. "I'm so glad. I love her, though I only saw her for a moment."

"I'll tell her so. Every one does. My mother was devoted to her; that's one reason why I am. She's great fun, too, though, of course, she's getting on a bit," he added, with the splendid insolence of youth. "There's something more at the back of this visit," and he looked at Mr. Vincent. "I have been wondering if you are really going to-day?"

"By the 2.50 from Waterloo. We can't stay any longer."

"Well--I know this is daring; but couldn't you both come and lunch with me? I have my father's little house in Stratton Street, and should like to think you had been there. It would be very good of you."

Mr. Vincent shook his head. "No time."

"You'll have to lunch somewhere," Tom pleaded.

"Yes, but I must go to my lawyer's almost immediately, and one or two other places, and don't quite know how much time they'll take up."

"Are you going alone?"

"Yes."

"Then look here," Tom exclaimed, delighted at his own audacity, "if you are going to lawyers and people, couldn't I take Miss Vincent round and show her something? Picture-galleries, Tower of London, British Museum, Houses of Parliament, top of the Monument--that kind of thing, you know. We'd take a hansom, and put half London into a couple of hours."

"Could I, father--could I?" she asked, eagerly.

Mr. Vincent looked from one to the other. They were boy and girl, he thought--Tom was twenty-two and Margaret eighteen, a couple of wild children, and before either of them was born their fathers had been old friends. Why shouldn't they go out together?

"It's very kind of you," he said, "and it would prevent her from spending a dull morning."

"It sha'n't be dull if I can help it," Tom answered, triumphantly.

"I may really go?" Margaret cried and kissed her father. "Oh, father, you are a dear."

She was a dear, too, Tom thought, and so was the old man, as he described Mr. Vincent in his thoughts.

The "old man" had an idea of his own. "Bring Margaret back here and lunch with us," he said; "there might be just time enough for that, and we will go and see you on another occasion."

"Good--good!" And Margaret presently found out that this was his favorite expression. "It shall be as you say. Now, Miss Vincent, there's hard work before us." Five minutes later Mr. Vincent watched them start. They waved their hands to him from the hansom, and he turned away with a smile.

"The real thing to do," Tom told Margaret, was to see the great green spaces in the midst of a wonderful city, and the chestnuts which in another month would be in bloom in Hyde Park, and the Round Pond and the Serpentine. "But as, after all," he went on, "you probably have trees and ponds at Chidhurst, we'll begin by going to St. Paul's. I'm afraid, seeing the limited time at our disposal, that the Tower and the Monument must be left alone." A brilliant thought struck him as they were driving back down the Strand to the Houses of Parliament. "We'll take Miss Hunstan a stack of flowers from Covent Garden--you must see Covent Garden, you know. Hi! cabby, turn up here--Covent Garden; we want to get some flowers."

"Oh, but I've brought no money with me."

"I have--heaps," he laughed, delighted at her innocence. "I had an idea we might do something, you know. Now then, here we are. You must jump out, if you don't mind."

They walked up and down the centre arcade, looking in at the shops, as happy and as guileless as Adam and Eve in the first garden when the world was all their own. They chose a stack of flowers, as Tom called it; he filled Margaret's arms with them just for the pleasure of looking at her.

"You make quite a picture loaded with them," he said. "Look here, I should like to give you some roses, too, if you will have them?" he said, almost humbly. "We get them in London, you see, before you do in the country; and I want you to take some back with you."

"I should like to take my mother some," she answered, quite unconscious, of course, of their value.

"Good! You shall take her a heap from us both--I should like to send her some, if I may. But they shall meet you at Waterloo in a box, then they'll be fresh at the last moment."

Margaret felt, as they drove on again, as if she had found a playfellow, a comrade, some one who made life a wholly different thing. She had never been on equal terms with any one young before--with any one at all who laughed and chattered and looked at the world from the same stand-point as she felt that she and Tom did, though till yesterday she had not set eyes on him. It was a new delight that the world had suddenly sprung upon her. This was what it was like to be a boy and girl together, to have a brother, to have friends, what it would be like if some day in the future she were married: people went about then laughing and talking and delighting in being together. Oh, that wonderful word together!

"We won't go to the Abbey," Tom said, "because you did that yesterday, and before we inspect the House of Commons--"

"Some day you will be there!"

"Some day I shall be there," he echoed; "but before I show you the identical seat in which it is my ambition to sit, we'll get rid of these flowers. Great College Street is here, just round the corner. I wonder if she's at home. Jolly little street, isn't it? with its low houses on one side and the old wall on the other."

"And the trees looking over--"

"Here we are."

He flew out and knocked at the door. It was opened by a gray-haired woman, middle-aged, and with a kindly face, overmuch wrinkled for her years. Miss Hunstan had gone to rehearsal, she said.

"Oh--what a bore!" Tom was crestfallen. Then a happy thought struck him. "Look here, Mrs. Gilman, we have brought her some flowers. Will you let us come and stuff them into her pots?"

"To be sure," she answered. "I'll get you some water at once," and she made off, leaving the street door open.

"Come in," he cried to Margaret. "Mrs. Gilman knows me, and she'll let us arrange them." The hall of the little old-fashioned house was panelled like Mrs. Lakeman's, but it was very narrow and painted white, and there were no fripperies about. Miss Hunstan's sitting-room was on the ground floor; it was small, and the walls matched the panelling outside it. The two windows went up high and let in the light, and the bygone centuries from over the way. In front of them were muslin curtains, fresh and white, with frills to their edges. There were brass sconces in the wall with candles and blue silk shades, but the reading-lamp on the table suggested that they were seldom used. On one side of the fireplace was a writing-table covered with papers, and over it a bookshelf; here and there a photograph, above the mantelpiece an autotype of the Sistine Madonna in a dark brown frame, and beneath it, filled with white flowers, was a vase of cheap green pottery; there were other pots of the same ware about the room, but they were all empty.