Margaret Vincent Part 27

"Bread-s.n.a.t.c.hing! What do you mean?"

"Why, you see lots of women have to work for food and clothes and a roof. Some try to act, some to dressmake, or write novels, or teach infants--that's all right, of course. They've got to do it to get through the world. If you have got a great deal of talent for acting, even though you are not obliged to do it, it is all right to go on the stage, and, of course, if you have genius you have no business to keep it from the world. But there are a whole heap of women who want to do things for the sake of getting a little more money than they really need, or because they like being talked about, or for some other reason that doesn't hold water, and they do it under easy conditions and s.n.a.t.c.h the chances from the women who have got to do it for their bread-and-b.u.t.ter. I think they are an immoral lot myself."

"But, Mr. Carringford--"

"You don't want money, do you?"

"I've got a hundred pounds in my pocket--"

"Splendid! I've only got two pounds ten in mine. But what have you got a year?"

"Father has only two hundred. I have it while he is away."

"But when your father returns he'll be rich. His brother has made a pile out there--heard so the other day--and he hasn't any children. Do go back to the farm, there's a dear girl."

"But I can't," said Margaret, carefully concealing the pleasure she felt at being called a dear girl. "Hannah wouldn't even let me in now.

Besides, I may be very stupid or I may be a genius; I want to find out, and I shall be quite safe here."

"Oh yes, you'll be quite safe here. Mrs. Gilman is a nice woman. She's a great friend of mine. I shall go and talk to her in a moment. My people used to know her--believe it was my mother who sent Miss Hunstan here.

Well, if you are not going back to the farm, when you've done your rehearsal to-day we might have a spree--drive about, or something. Mr.

Vincent let us do it before, so he wouldn't mind our doing it again."

"Of course not," she answered, joyfully.

"Shall I call for you at the theatre?"

"I don't know what time the rehearsal will be over."

"Then suppose I come here at four and we drive to Richmond, walk about in the park, dine early, and get back here by nine? That'll be all right, you know, or we'll take a steamer on the river Thames, as the guide-books say, and go to Greenwich. Meanwhile, does Sir George Stringer know that you are here?"

"No; but I am going to write to him, only I didn't think of it till mother wrote."

"I shall tell the Lakemans you are here, of course."

"Yes," she answered, very doubtfully.

"I don't believe you care about them?"

"I've only seen Mrs. Lakeman twice." She stopped a moment. "Mr.

Carringford--" she began.

"Why do you call me that? It sounds so absurd."

"Does it," she said, and the color came to her face. "I was going to ask--are you engaged to Lena Lakeman?" She almost laughed, for now, somehow, the question seemed absurd.

"No. Are you engaged to Mr. Garratt?"

"Why, of course not!"

"That's all right, then. Didn't you say your rehearsal was at 11.30? I might drive you down. Only twenty minutes--you must be punctual, you know, if you are going on the stage."

"Of course," she laughed. "I'll go and get ready at once."

XXV

Ten days had pa.s.sed. It was like a dream to Margaret to be in London alone, her mother and Hannah at Woodside Farm, and her father on the other side of the world. But she was beginning to be uneasy at what she had done--at taking this step out into the world without her father's knowledge. Perhaps he would be angry with her, or would say, as Tom did, that she had joined the great army of bread-s.n.a.t.c.hers, the women who were not obliged to work for their living, who had no genius to justify them, no particular talent even, and yet from sheer restlessness and inability to settle down in their homes and quietly fulfil the duties there, had come out into the open and meddled with work that others might do better, and for a wage that meant to those others not added luxuries and frivolities, but the means of living. She wished a hundred times that Mr. Garratt had never come near Woodside Farm, that she had never left it, that she were sitting on the arm of her mother's chair in the living-room once more, looking out at the garden and the beech wood beyond; but something in her heart told her that that happiness was forever at an end. No one approved of the step she had taken except her mother, who had seen the impossibility of her remaining at home. Hannah had shut the door on her, and Tom had shaken his head.

Sir George Stringer had appeared as promptly as possible after getting her note; but, since he was away when it arrived, that was not till a couple of days after she had written it.

He was emphatic enough.

"My dear Margaret--I think I may call you that, as I have known your father all my life--this is simply madness, and, what's more, it's wrong," he said. "You are not old enough to choose your life yet. Take my advice and go back as fast as you can."

"I can't," she answered, dismayed.

"Of course it was unpleasant to have the attentions of the young man I saw." (Tom Carringford had told him the correct version of that story.) "But you have surely wit enough to let him see that they are distasteful to you?"

"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 gla.s.s, 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--"