Margaret Vincent: A Novel

by Mrs. W. K. Clifford

"Oh no," said Margaret, "I have plenty of money," for it seemed to her that she had an inexhaustible fortune; and as this was a pleasant statement, Mrs. Gilman invited her in with alacrity. And so in an hour she was installed in two wainscoted rooms—as comfortable, if not as dainty, as Miss Hunstan's beneath, and Mrs. Gilman had explained to Margaret that she had known Miss Hunstan ever since she came to England, and had often gone to the theatre with her or fetched her back. And Margaret had told Mrs. Gilman that she wanted to be an actress, too.

"In time, miss, I suppose," Mrs. Gilman answered, with a motherly smile. Then, when a telegram had been despatched to Chidhurst—for Margaret felt that her mother's heart had been aching all the morning—and when she had had breakfast alone in her own little sitting-room, she felt that she had indeed set out on her way through the world alone. She determined to make no sign to Mr. Farley till the Lakemans had started for Scotland—they were to start at ten o'clock that morning from Euston. To-morrow it would be safe, and she would write and ask if he would let her "walk on" as Miss Hunstan had done once.

But suppose he refused, what then? Suddenly there flashed upon her the remembrance of the dramatic agency in the Strand, that she had seen advertised when she was at the Langham. If Mr. Farley could do nothing for her, the agency might help her; it had said that engagements were guaranteed. A spirit of adventure made her determine to try and find it that very afternoon. It was in the Strand, where her father had bought her the Gladstone bag, and, in the odd way that trifles sometimes lodge in one's memory, the number of the house had remained with her. But now she was tired out with the long excitement and the night beneath the sky. She put her brown head down on a pillow, and in ten minutes was fast asleep.

She asked Mrs. Gilman for the address, and wrote to Miss Hunstan before she went out—a long letter, telling her all she had done and longed to do, and asking for her advice. Then she went in search of the agency, and found it easily. It was on a second floor, up a dirty staircase; she stopped to gather courage, and gave a feeble knock at the door, on which was painted in white letters, "Mr. Baker, Theatrical Agent."

"Come in!" said a voice. She entered and found a large room hung indiscriminately with playbills and advertisements. At a writing-table placed across the window sat a man of forty, with a florid face and a bald head. In an easy-chair by the fireplace was a woman, expensively and rather showily dressed. Her large, gray eyes were bright but expressionless. She had a quantity of fair hair done up elaborately; the color on her cheeks did not vary, she might have been any age between twenty-eight and forty. Leaning against the fireplace was a young man, clean shaven and well-dressed. Margaret heard him say:

"Certainly not, I won't pay a penny; if a manager has no faith in it he can leave it alone."

"You'll never get any one to risk it," the woman said, with a laugh. "Regeneration never pays—" she stopped as Margaret entered, and did not try to disguise the admiration into which she was surprised.

But Margaret felt that it would be impossible to speak before her. "Perhaps I'd better come another time?" she began. The young man by the fireplace looked at her intently, but he took the hint.

"Good-morning, Baker, I'll come round later," he said, and, with another look at Margaret, departed.