Margaret Vincent: A Novel

by Mrs. W. K. Clifford

"No, you never were. You were always as silent and as wise as a dear owl. I have a child, too," she went on. "You must see her—my Lena. She is all I have in the world—a splendid girl and a wonderful companion."

"Where is she?" Mr. Vincent asked.

"She is in there," nodding towards the curtains, "in her own sitting-room. You shall go to her, dear," she said, quickly turning to Margaret. "She knows all about you, and is longing to see you. Tom Carringford is there, too—he is always there," she added, significantly. "You remember old Tom Carringford, Gerald? This is his boy—awfully nice boy; I am never tired of him." She was gay by this time, and it was obvious that good spirits were natural to her. "I'll tell you who is with them," she went on. "Dawson Farley—I dare say Margaret would like to see him. He is a genius in my opinion—the only man on the stage fit to play a romantic part—and Louise Hunstan, the American actress, you know. She is playing just now in 'The School for Scandal' at the Shaftesbury—great fun to hear her do Lady Teazle with a little twang in her voice; it is an awfully pretty twang, though. We are devoted to the theatre, Lena and I." She appeared to be hurrying as much information as possible into her words, as if she wanted to give her listeners an impression of her life.

"We are going to the play to-night," Mr. Vincent said, but Mrs. Lakeman hardly heard him. Other lives only interested her so far as they affected her own. If the Vincents had been going with her she would have taken any trouble, shown any amount of excitement; but as it was, why it was nothing to her.

"You shall go to them," she said decisively to Margaret, evidently carrying on her own train of thought. She went towards the curtains as if to pull them aside. "Tell them we are coming in ten minutes, dear."

"Oh, but I don't know them," Margaret answered, appalled at being told to rush in among strangers.

"Of course you don't," Mrs. Lakeman said, in a sympathetic voice. "I'll take you. No, no, Gerald," as Mr. Vincent made a step to follow them; "we must have a little talk to ourselves after all these years."

She led Margaret into a second drawing-room, and beyond it into a still smaller room. There were pictures, and flowers again—quantities of flowers, the air was heavy with their scent. Silk draperies shaded the light that struggled through the small-paned windows, and bits of color and silver gleamed everywhere. It was like entering a dream, and dim figures seemed to rise from it—an indefinite number of them, it seemed to Margaret, though she soon made out that there were only four. She felt so strange as she stood hesitating just inside the room, like a little wayfarer, who knew only of green fields and a farm-house, straying into an enchanted world, for it was odd how the remembrance of her home never left her through all those first hours in London, and in her thoughts she sent it constant messages.

"Lena, my darling, this is Margaret Vincent. Be kind to her," Mrs. Lakeman said, in a low, thrilling voice. "You must love her, for I used to love her father—I do now." She turned to a young man who had come towards them. "Tom, your father knew this girl's father, too. I am coming back with him in a few minutes to tea. This is Tom Carringford, dear," she said to Margaret. Then, as if she had done enough, she went back with a look of amusement in her eyes and a gay little smile on her lips. "I have got rid of the girl," she thought. "I wonder what that old idiot will have to say for himself now she is out of the way."