"You mustn't ask me." She dropped her voice, and the words appeared to be dragged from her. "I can't tell you; it shall never pass my lips. I shouldn't dare to tell you," she whispered. "I have left her with a woman I can trust, more dead than alive. I told her I would come and ask her life of you, and I've come to ask it, Margaret. You are your father's child, and will do the straight and just thing by another woman?"
"I don't know what to do," Margaret said, desperately, and, rising quickly, she walked up and down, clasping her head in her hands, trying to think clearly. The whole thing was theatrical and unreal, and the mocking look in Mrs. Lakeman's eyes nearly drove her mad.
"It won't break your heart to give him up; it can't." Mrs. Lakeman's tone was a trifle contemptuous. "You were in love with the other young man only a few weeks ago."
"I was never in love with Mr. Garratt," Margaret answered, indignantly—"never for a moment."
"You may think so now, just as Tom thinks he cares for you; but you did care for him. George Stringer saw it directly, and Tom saw it the day he had tea with you all. In fact, he thought it was more on your side than on his," she added, watching the effect of her words with an amusement she could scarcely control. "He came and told us about it at once—he tells us everything—he was so funny when he described it all to us," Mrs. Lakeman added, as if the remembrance were highly diverting. Then recovering, she asked, in a deep voice: "What are you going to do, Margaret; are you going to give me back my child's life?"
"I am going to wait and see Tom, and hear what he says."
"I can't believe you will be so cruel."
"I don't understand," Margaret cried, desperately. "If Lena is so very ill, if she is dying, why have you left her?"
"Because I knew that there was only one thing that could save her."
"You must have started directly you got the telegram."