XVI

Margaret had guessed rightly. Mrs. Lakeman and Lena, and Dawson Farley,

who, as usual, was with them, were at Sir George Stringer's house from

Saturday to Monday, while Sir George himself was at Folkestone with his

sister. Dawson Farley rejoiced in the absence of their host, for he had

wanted a talk with Mrs. Lakeman, and this visit promised to give him a

good opportunity. He was deliberating within himself as they sat

together after luncheon how he should begin it. Lena had slipped away,

and wriggled among the greenery.

"We'll go over to the farm presently," Mrs. Lakeman said. "I want to see

what the woman with the look of distinction is like," she added, with

the crooked smile peculiar to her. "Gerald faced it out very well, but I

expect he is frightfully bored."

"Why did he marry her?"

Mrs. Lakeman shrugged her shoulders. "Poor chap, he didn't care what

became of him; but it wasn't my fault--'pon my word it wasn't, Dawson.

My father made an awful row." Mrs. Lakeman was always a trifle slangy.

Dawson Farley looked at her and nodded absently. He quite understood

all she meant to imply, but he was busy with his own train of thought.

She was a curious woman, he thought, a curious, capable woman who never

bored him and knew how to do things admirably. It had often occurred to

him that it would be an excellent thing to marry her. The worst of it

was that he simply could not stand Lena. She was so like a snake with

her twisting and squirming, and the malicious things she said with an

air of unconsciousness. The mother, on the other hand, was an excellent

critic and companion, and would serve his purpose admirably. He was not

in love with her, of course--she was too old for that--and it was just

as well, for being in love with one's wife was a state that naturally

didn't last long. Luckily she was not a jealous woman, and so would not

be likely to resent it if he chose to flirt with his leading lady; on

the contrary, if he told her all about it, he felt certain it would

amuse her, and she had so excellent an eye for home-made dramatic

effects that even the worst domestic crisis would be followed by a

reconciliation, if only for the sake of contrast. She was a bit unreal,

but what did it matter? the tragedies of life were bound up with

realities, but there was comedy to be had from the make-believes.

The worst of it was, for his own peace, that at the back of his life

there was always Louise Hunstan. He had been in love with her once; but

he was glad that nothing had come of it, for he couldn't have endured a

wife in his own profession: if she had been a success he would have

hated her; if she had been a failure he would have despised her. He had

discovered Louise, that was the hard part of it; she had let go the

princess's train to enter his company and gratefully play small parts.

They had fallen in love with each other, and happiness and love together

inspired her until, almost unawares, she achieved a reputation. If she

had only made it on his advising, if he could have considered it his

gift to her, he could have forgiven her more easily and even loved her

through it. But she had struck out for herself, often contrary to his

advice, and made a reputation for herself. In her heart she had laid it

at his feet, and rejoiced in it, thinking it would make him proud of

her, but it roused a miserable jealousy and drove them apart. He gave

her to understand that he did not altogether believe in her success;

that it was a fluke, due to the good nature of the critics and the

stupidity of the public, and that it would vanish with her youth or her

freshness. She believed him at first, but gradually she saw through him.

She cared for him all the same for a time, though it was through a haze

of bitterness and disappointment. Then their engagement collapsed, and

he returned to England alone, while she remained in the States through

five hardworking years. At the end of them she came back to England. It

was then that Tom's mother met her, and took her by the hand and helped

her till she had achieved a permanent position. Over here she and Farley

had become friends to a certain extent, but he couldn't stand the

irritation of her success; he even found a secret pleasure in her

occasional failures; and a meeting between them involved an

embarrassment of manner that neither could put aside.

After all, he thought, Mrs. Lakeman would suit him much better. He liked

her adaptability of manner, her quick interest in his affairs. They had

only known each other a year, but she had become his most intimate

friend, his chum and companion; her society stimulated him; he wanted it

more and more. Why shouldn't he have it altogether? Only the girl stood

in the way; but probably she would marry; she had a curious fascination

for some people, and she had money.

"Is Carringford coming?" he asked. "I thought you invited him."

"He dines and sleeps here to-morrow with an old friend--they are staying

at Frencham together. I didn't want him here all the time," she said,

significantly. "He raved quite enough about Gerald Vincent's girl those

two days in town."

"I thought Stringer found out there was a 'young bounder' in the way?"

"Awfully lucky, wasn't it?" Mrs. Lakeman said, triumphantly, and off her

guard for a moment. "But Tom came afterwards and saw him, too--and was

quite choked off. It's extraordinary how completely the Vincents have

gone smash."

But Farley took no interest in the Vincents. "Carringford hangs about

Lena far too much unless something is coming of it," he said. "I should

tell him so if I were you."

"He's coming to us in Scotland on the tenth. They'll have opportunities

there," she answered, carelessly. "Let us go and look for her."

Lena meanwhile was sitting on a grave in the churchyard, her elbows on

her knees, her chin in her hands, looking out towards the Surrey hills,

and she, too, was thinking of Tom Carringford and Margaret. She had been

uneasy from the moment they had met each other on the embankment. She

had seen Margaret's beauty and Tom's recognition of it, and they were

something like each other--well-grown and healthy, a boy and girl that

matched. She was not violently in love with Tom herself, but she simply

couldn't bear that he should escape her, and on one pretext or another

she brought him perpetually to her side. It was easy enough, for they

had known each other since they were born, and Mrs. Lakeman had helped

him with the house in Stratton Street when he was left alone in it.

Since his father's death and his sister's marriage she had taken the

place of a near relation. He knew that Lena liked him, but it never

occurred to him that her feeling was anything more--she always squirmed

and looked into people's eyes and called them "dear"; if it had occurred

to him he would probably have proposed on the spot, for there was no

particular reason why he should not marry her, except that she was a

little too clinging, and too fond of darkened rooms and limp clothes. He

liked fresh air and a straightforwardness he could understand: there

were many praiseworthy elementary qualities in Tom Carringford.

"He'll be quite happy with us in Scotland," Lena said to herself. "We'll

sit by the streams or walk in the woods all day; he'll feel that we

belong to each other and tell me he loves me"--for she was cloying even

in her secret thoughts--"I think we must be married this autumn, then

mother will be free. I wonder if mother will marry Dawson Farley." Lena

was sharp enough, and was quite aware of the actor's vague intentions,

little as he imagined it. She looked up at the wood--the crown--in the

near distance, and then at the fields that led to the farm. That must be

Margaret's wood, she thought, for Tom, who was frankness itself, had

told the Lakemans of his visit to Chidhurst and his walk with Margaret.

Lena would have gone across the fields to the farm, but Mrs. Lakeman,

who always had an eye for effect, would not hear of it.

"We will pay Mrs. Gerald Vincent a formal visit," she said, "in our best

clothes and new gloves, and drive up to the door properly."

They had hired an open fly for the two days they were going to stay.

Nothing could make it imposing--it was just a ramshackle landau, and

that was all, and the driver was the ordinary country flyman. It

happened--though this had nothing to do with the Lakemans--that he was

the same man, grown old, who twenty years ago had taken the elder

Bartons to Woodside Farm when they went to expostulate with the widow

concerning her second marriage. He thought of it to-day as he went down

the green lane and in at the farm gates, for afterwards he had come to

know with what their errand had been concerned.

Mrs. Lakeman, with Lena beside her, sat on the front seat, Dawson Farley

facing them. "I never believe in treating these people carelessly," she

remarked, as she fidgeted with her lace handkerchief--it was scented

with violets--and held back her lace parasol as they drove in at the

gates. Then she was almost startled. "What a lovely place!" she

exclaimed. "Look at that porch, and those old windows. Gerald's not such

a fool, after all! And a Dutch garden, too--why, I could live and die

here myself!"

"I don't think so," Mr. Farley said, cynically.

"It's just what I thought it would be," Lena cooed. "I felt sure that

Margaret lived in the midst of flowers."

They had stopped by the porch. The front door was open, but not a soul

was visible.

"You must get down and ring the bell, Dawson," Mrs. Lakeman said, a

little puzzled, as if she had expected the inhabitants of the house to

run out and greet her. Then suddenly Towsey appeared. Margaret's hint

had evidently taken effect, for she wore the black dress that she

usually kept for Sundays, and a white apron that met behind her generous

waist. Above the porch, from the window seat of her own room, Margaret,

listening and watching, heard Mrs. Lakeman ask, in a clear voice that

always seemed to have a note of derision in it: "Is Mrs. Gerald Vincent

at home?"

"You are to come in," said Towsey, brusquely.

Mrs. Lakeman trailed into the living-room, followed by Lena and Mr.

Farley. She looked at the great fireplace piled with logs and bracken,

at the old-fashioned chair on either side, at the oak table in the

middle, and the chest against the wall, then back at the porch and the

glorious view beyond it. Within, all was dim and cool and still;

without, summer was at its highest and nature holding carnival.

Impressionable and quick to succumb to influences, she was charmed. "I

call this the perfection of peace and simplicity," she exclaimed, as

they stood in a group waiting.

A door on the left opened, a tall figure appeared and hesitated. Mrs.

Lakeman went forward with emotion, just as she had done to Gerald, but

there was a shade of fine patronage in her manner this time. "It must be

Mrs. Vincent--dear Gerald's wife," she said.

Mrs. Vincent looked at her visitor with calm wonderment.

"Yes," she said, simply. "I suppose you are a friend of his? Margaret

thought you might come."

"I am Hilda Lakeman. You have heard of me, of course." Mrs. Lakeman's

lips twisted with her odd smile. "You can imagine that I wanted to see

you. I made a point of coming at once. We are staying at Sir George

Stringer's till Monday."

"Perhaps you will come in," Mrs. Vincent said, a little awkwardly. Mrs.

Lakeman followed her into the best parlor, and looked round it with

surprise. The room was perfect in its way. She had pictured something

more comfortless.

"Dear Gerald's books," she said in a low tone to herself, glancing up

at the well-filled shelves--"and his writing-table and reading-chair,"

she added, with a thrill. "The piano, I suppose, is Margaret's?" she

asked, with an air of knowing how to place and value everything; for on

a closer inspection she had decided that, after all, Mrs. Vincent was

the simple farmer woman she had imagined. She was tall, and in the

distance had an air of distinction, it was true; but Mrs. Lakeman felt

it to be a spurious one--a chance gift of squandering nature. Her eyes

and mouth were still beautiful, but her hair was gray, her throat was

brown and drawn, her shoulders were a little bent. "She is quite an old

woman," Mrs. Lakeman thought, triumphantly, as she walked across the

room, listening to the rustling of her own dress, and noting the stuff

one clumsily made--such as a housekeeper might have worn--in which Mrs.

Vincent stood waiting to see what her visitors would do next. "I wonder

what she thinks of her prospect of being Lady Eastleigh?" Mrs. Lakeman

thought, and then, with courteous but extreme formality, and the swift

change of manner that was peculiar to her, she said: "This is my

daughter, Mrs. Vincent--she has been looking forward to seeing you; and

I have ventured to bring our old friend, Mr. Dawson Farley. I am sure it

needs no excuse to present so famous a person to you--"

She stopped, for Hannah had entered and stood, half humbly, half

defiantly, by the door. Hannah had dressed herself in her best, but the

blue alpaca frock and the black alpaca apron and the white muslin tie

round her neck only added to her uneasiness. Her hair was pulled well

back, and two horn hair-pins showed in the scanty knot into which it was

gathered at the top.

"That's Hannah," Mrs. Vincent explained, "my daughter by my first

husband."

"How do you do?" Mrs. Lakeman said, with an odd smile, and looked at her

insolently. "We are delighted to see you."

"How do you do?" Hannah answered, grimly. "Margaret thought you'd be

coming. Won't you sit down?" She indicated seats to the visitors with an

air of inferiority, and a consciousness of it, that was highly

satisfactory to Mrs. Lakeman, whose dramatic instincts were fast coming

into play.

"Miss--let me see--it was Miss Barton, I think? This is my daughter

Lena, and this is Mr. Farley." Her manner was almost derisive as she

presented them. "Ah! there is our Margaret. My dear!" and she folded

Margaret in her arms, "I told you we should come. You knew we should,

didn't you? It's such a wonderful thing," she went on, turning to Mrs.

Vincent, "to see Gerald's child."

"She's a fine, tall girl," Mrs. Vincent answered, looking at Margaret

with pride.

"We've come to see you in your home, you little thing," Lena whispered,

and pulled Margaret gently towards her.

"It's very kind of you," Margaret answered, repelled immediately. "But

if I'm a fine, tall girl I can't be very little, can I?"

"You are very sweet," Lena whispered again, and stroked her shoulder.

"You remember Mr. Farley, don't you, dear?"

"Oh yes," Margaret said, shaking hands with him.

"He is staying with us till Monday morning," Mrs. Lakeman explained.

"Then we are all going back together, very early, indeed, in order to

catch the Scotch express from Euston."

"It's not a long stay," Mrs. Vincent said, with the restraint in her

manner that was always impressive. "The place is worth a longer one. You

will come to think so."

"I dare say, but we must start for Scotland on Monday, and, as I never

can travel at night, we must leave here in the morning and go up to town

by the eight o'clock train in order to catch the day express. Tom

Carringford is coming over to-morrow afternoon"--and she looked up at

Margaret with a smile--"to dine and sleep. He is at Frencham now, dear

boy; but he said he must come and spend to-morrow evening with us and go

up and see us off in the morning." She wished Margaret to understand

distinctly that Tom belonged to them.

"Is he going to Scotland, too?" Margaret asked, rather lamely, for lack

of something else to say.

"Not with us. He is so disappointed, dear boy, at not being able to get

away, but he comes to us in a week or two." She stopped for a moment and

turned impulsively to Mrs. Vincent. "But I want to talk about Gerald,"

she said. "He told you of his visit to us? It was years since I had seen

him-- Mr. Farley wanted to meet him so much, too," she broke off to add,

always careful to include every one in the room in her talk. "They ought

to have gone to see him, of course--he had a magnificent part; but

Gerald would take Margaret to 'King John'. He thought it would educate

her more and amuse her less, I suppose."

"Is Mr. Farley an actor?" Hannah asked.

"Dawson, that ought to take it out of you!" Mrs. Lakeman laughed.

"There's one place in the world, at any rate, where they haven't heard

of you." And then turning to Hannah, she said, impressively, "He is the

greatest romantic actor in England, Miss Barton."

"It's a thing I am not likely to have heard," Hannah answered. "I have

never entered a theatre, or wished to enter one."

Lena made a little sound of sympathy. "I always like the Puritans," she

said. "They were so self-denying."

"I'm a very wicked person, perhaps," Dawson Farley said, with pleasant

cynicism, that almost won Hannah in spite of herself. "But all the same,

won't you show us your garden, Miss Barton?" It seemed to him sheer

insanity to come to the country and stay in-doors.

"I wish you young people would all go to the garden. I want to talk to

this dear woman alone, and we have only a quarter of an hour to stay,"

Mrs. Lakeman said.

"You'll take a cup of tea?" Mrs. Vincent asked, for it always seemed to

her that a visit was a poor thing unless it included refreshment.

"No, thank you; we must get back. And now tell me," she went on, when

they were alone, "what does Gerald say about Cyril? He sent me a little

note when he arrived, but he hadn't seen him then." The note was merely

an acknowledgment of a sentimental farewell one she had sent him, but

Mrs. Lakeman did not think it necessary to mention this.

"He sent you a note--from Australia?" Mrs. Vincent asked, wonderingly.

"Of course he did." She put her hand on Mrs. Vincent's. "You know what

he and I were to each other once?"

"What were you?" Mrs. Vincent asked, the light beginning to dawn upon

her.

"He didn't tell you?" Mrs. Lakeman said, in a low voice. "Perhaps he

couldn't bear to speak of it; but he and I were all the world to each

other till his opinions separated us. My father was Dr. Ashwell, Bishop

of Barford--of course you have heard of him?" Her tone implied that even

in these parts her father could not have been unknown. "He and my

mother, Lady Mary--she was Lady Mary Torbey before she married"--the

vulgarity of Mrs. Lakeman's soul was quite remarkable--"were devoted to

Gerald; we all were, in fact, and he was devoted to us. But of course it

was impossible," and she shrugged her shoulders.

"I suppose you thought it would have done you harm to marry him, when he

didn't pretend to believe what he didn't feel to be true?" Mrs. Vincent

said, in her calm, direct manner.

"Well, you see--it couldn't be." The woman was horribly phlegmatic, Mrs.

Lakeman thought. She was neither impressed nor jealous; her attitude, if

anything, was mildly critical. "Of course, I wasn't free to do as I

liked, as you were. Poor, dear Gerald! I know he suffered horribly.

That's the curse of a position like ours. One has to accept its

obligations," she added, loftily.

"I didn't know that anything need make one unfaithful to the man who

loved one, and to whom one was bound by promises."

"I thought so, too; but I couldn't break my father's heart. I have

never forgiven myself"--she tried hard to put tears into her eyes, but

they would not come--"for I know what he suffered. He was a wanderer for

years," she went on, "and never able to settle down in London again. I

suppose that was how he found his way here. Tell me about your

marriage." She gave a little gasp, as if she had screwed up courage to

listen to details that would still be harrowing to her; but a gleam of

amusement looked out of her blue eyes. Mrs. Vincent saw it, and, little

as Mrs. Lakeman would have imagined her to be capable of it, she

understood its meaning.

"I shouldn't care to talk about it to a stranger," she answered. "There

are things that are sacred outside the Bible as well as written in it."

"I am not a stranger. I can't be a stranger to Gerald Vincent's wife."

Mrs. Lakeman tried to be passionate, but it didn't come off very well.

"I wouldn't say it to any one else in the world, but I've never ceased

to care for him, and I don't believe--I don't believe," she repeated, in

a low tone, "that he has ever quite forgotten me."

"I don't suppose he has forgotten you," Mrs. Vincent answered, calmly;

"but I am certain that he has been faithful to his wife and child here."

"Of course he has."

"And he's loved them all the years he's known them. You let him go when

it would have been inconvenient to marry him; but he didn't marry any

one else till he had quite got over it. He's not the sort of man to do

anything dishonorable."

"Of course he isn't." Mrs. Lakeman began to feel uncomfortable.

"And it's better that what is past and dead should be buried, and left

unspoken of. I know"--she looked Mrs. Lakeman straight in the eyes--"he

feels that everything was for the best; and he's been content and happy

here. He said it not three months ago, and I think it would have been

better not to have raked up bygones."

"You are quite right," Mrs. Lakeman said, heartily, for she was a

quick-sighted woman and rather enjoyed being beaten: it made good

comedy. "You are a most sensible woman. And now, tell me, won't it seem

odd to you to be Lady Eastleigh?"

"I've not thought about it," Mrs. Vincent answered. "A living man has

the name at present, and I hope he'll keep it."

"I dare say you would rather he did," Mrs. Lakeman said, patronage

coming into her voice again. "It would be rather a difficult change,"

she added, humorously. "Fancy Gerald, Lord Eastleigh, living at Woodside

Farm, with Miss Barton for his step-daughter--the Gerald whom I remember

with every woman at his feet."

"I don't see that it would make so much difference," Mrs. Vincent

answered, "and I hope he won't call himself by any other name than the

one he has been known by. For my part, I never could see why people set

so much store on titles. The biggest lord that lives only lies in one

grave at last, and it isn't as if Gerald had a son to come after him, or

was coming to big estates that had to be thought of. He'll live here

again, and be just the same as he always was." She looked bravely at

Mrs. Lakeman though her heart was sinking, for she knew that the old

life at Woodside Farm was forever at an end. And if he brought this

title back with him, might it not cause people to come round him who had

never thought of coming before, people who would think her inferior, and

let her see what they thought, just as this Mrs. Lakeman did? She

couldn't understand it, for the pride of race was in her, too. Had she

not come of people who had belonged to the land--God's beautiful

land--and spent their lives looking after it, faithful to their wives,

bringing up their children to do right? There had not been a stain on

their records for generations past--neither drunkard nor bankrupt nor

anything of the sort had belonged to them. Suddenly she remembered Mrs.

Lakeman.

"Perhaps, as you have to go almost directly, you would like to see the

garden, too?" She got up, and for a moment she looked like an empress

putting an end to an interview.

Mrs. Lakeman was carried away by her manner. "You are a very remarkable

woman," she said, almost generously, "and the most unworldly person I

ever came across."

"But you see the fashions and things that people care for in London are

not in our way," Mrs. Vincent answered, with a smile. "Are you sure you

won't stay for a cup of tea?"