Margaret sometimes wondered how she lived through that day. Mr. Farley
sent her a little note releasing her from her engagement, but saying
that if at any time she wanted to come back he would gladly take her on
again. Margaret felt it to be a kindly letter. Oddly enough, too, a note
came from the agency in the Strand, asking her to call the next day. "I
will," she thought, "if I have had a letter from my mother." At the
bottom of her heart there was some uneasiness, and once or twice it
occurred to her that she would go back to Chidhurst and ask a neighbor
to take her in, but the inhabitants of Woodside Farm had always kept
their affairs to themselves, and she did not want to give occasion for
gossip in the village. She read her mother's letter again. No, there was
nothing in it to be alarmed about; it was only her own miserable state
of mind. She was desperate, maddened, ashamed every time she remembered
Tom and his kisses, and her own protestations to him. She couldn't bear
to think that he was with Lena--Lena who would never love him as she
did. Somehow, too, at the bottom of her heart, she felt that there was
trickery in the whole business. She didn't know how or where, only that
Mrs. Lakeman's manner had not been very real; but everything in the
world had become unreal and torturing. There was only one thing left
that could comfort her--home and mother. She hungered and thirsted for
her home. She wanted to see her mother's face, to sit on the arm of her
chair in the living-room, to talk to her, even to hear Hannah scold. She
wanted to go up to the wood and to think out the nightmare of the last
few hours in her cathedral. She imagined the great rest of arriving at
Haslemere Station, of walking the long six miles to Woodside Farm, of
entering the porch and finding her mother sitting there. Oh! but it was
no good; Hannah would not allow her to enter. Hannah was a firm woman
who kept her word, and would think that she proved her religion by being
cruel. As the day went on and no telegram came from Tom, the latent hope
she had unconsciously cherished vanished. It was all true, then, and he
really cared for Lena.
"I'm glad mother didn't know," she thought; "it would have made her so
unhappy when this ending came; and I couldn't have borne Hannah's
gibes." She longed desperately for some one to speak to, but there was
no one; besides, her lips were closed; she had promised to be silent.
Suddenly, she remembered Miss Hunstan; she would write to her. But no,
it was impossible; she had left Bayreuth and the new address had not yet
come. "And I don't know what to do, or what to say to father," she
thought. "Oh, it's maddening. If it were a case of life and death I
could bear it, but this is some trick, I know it--it is a case of sham
life and death."
Late in the afternoon Sir George Stringer called. He entered awkwardly,
as if he were afraid of meeting her; but the moment he saw her face he
knew that something was the matter, and all his self-consciousness
vanished.
"I told you I should come again," he said; "there is no reason why I
shouldn't look after my old friend's girl, is there?"
"No, none," she answered, hardly able to collect her senses sufficiently
to talk to him.
He looked at her sharply. "Something's the matter," he said; "you have
been crying?"
"Oh no--yes, I have been crying; I am very homesick." He put his hand on
hers as her father might have done.
"Take my advice and go home, my dear," he said. "Is the stage fever
over?"
"Yes; I suppose that's over."
He looked at her again, then suddenly he asked: "Has Tom Carringford
been playing fast and loose with you?"
"Don't ask me any questions, dear Sir George; I don't want to say
anything at all. He is in Scotland with Lena Lakeman."
"He is a fool," he said, with conviction.
"So am I," she answered, ruefully.
"And I'm another. My dear, I'm not going to ask you to tell me anything
you want to keep to yourself." He stopped for a moment, then he asked,
awkwardly, "I suppose what I asked you the other day is impossible?" For
answer she only nodded, and her eyes filled with tears. "Then we won't
say anything more about it." He took her hands and held them tightly in
his own. "But I should like to be your friend--your father, if you like,
till your own returns. If you can't go home to your mother, or if that
young bounder at Guildford worries, or if there is any reason of that
sort, why shouldn't you go to my house by the church and shut yourself
up there? You would be very comfortable. I thought of going there
myself, but I could easily go somewhere else."
It seemed a good idea at first, and she caught at it, then she shook her
head.
"No," she said; "people would know and they would talk."
"I suppose they would--damn them. I wish you'd tell me what Master Tom
has been up to, dear."
"I can't talk about him to-day, Sir George; I can't talk about
anything--my head is so bad. I wish you would go now," she said, but so
very gently it was impossible that he could be hurt, "and come and see
me to-morrow; my mother is not well and I am worried. To-morrow I shall
have thought out plans and will gladly talk them over with you. I want
some one's help and advice."
"I think you do," he answered, "and I'll come to-morrow, my dear."
Margaret sat and thought again when she was alone; she had thought and
thought since Mrs. Lakeman had gone that morning till her head was
dazed, but it was no good; the whole thing was a _cul-de-sac_. Then an
inspiration seized her. "I'll write to Hannah," she said, "and beg her
to let me go home and see my mother for a little while, at any rate.
She'll get the letter in the morning, and I'll ask her to telegraph if I
may go." She sat down at once and told Hannah, with all the vehemence in
her heart, that she had never cared for Mr. Garratt; that perhaps she
had even cared for somebody else; that she had given up her engagement
at Mr. Farley's theatre; that she was miserable about her mother, and
wanted to come and see her; would Hannah telegraph in the morning if she
might come at once, even for a few hours. She felt better when she had
written it, and determined to go out and post it herself. She was just
starting when Dawson Farley appeared. His heart had smote him for his
share in the morning's transactions.
"I thought I would come round and tell you how sorry I am at your
resignation," he said.
"And it was so unnecessary, after all, for my sudden engagement to Mr.
Carringford is broken off."
"I know."
"How do you know?" she asked, astonished.
"Mrs. Lakeman came to see me and told me."
"Oh yes, Mrs. Lakeman," she answered, bitterly. "Is Lena really
dangerously ill?" She wondered at her own question, but some other self
had asked it--a self that doubted everything.
Mr. Farley, too, was taken by surprise. "I suppose so," he said, with a
little smile. "Mrs. Lakeman's facts are sometimes a little elusive; but
she can hardly have invented that one. Carringford has always been by
way of--I mean he has always been considered Lena Lakeman's property."
Quite suddenly Margaret lost her self-control for a moment, and
shudderingly put her hands over her face.
"I'm sorry if she's ill, but I do dislike her so," she said.
Mr. Farley, too, was off his guard. "I hate her," he said, quickly.
"Tell me, frankly, what you think about it?"
But Margaret shook her head impatiently. "I oughtn't to have said that;
and I can't talk about it, Mr. Farley. I'm sure you will understand that
the whole thing is painful, and not one that I can discuss."
"At any rate, I may congratulate you on your father's probable return?"
"Oh, he will not be here for a long time."
"But you know that his brother is dead?"