Margaret Vincent: A Novel

by Mrs. W. K. Clifford

Mr. Vincent had arranged that while he was away his two-hundred-a-year should be paid to Margaret. The five hundred pounds legacy, of which he had spoken, would, he knew, be more than sufficient for his travelling needs. The payment of the little income to Margaret had been Mrs. Vincent's suggestion. "You see, I shall not want it," she said, "and it will be better for her to have it. Then if anything happens while you are gone it will be there, and if not she'll save it, and when you come back we'll do something with it." Margaret was only told of this after her father's departure.

"You'll feel quite rich," her mother said.

"Why, yes," Margaret answered, and in truth it seemed like a fortune laid at her feet. "You and I might go a-travelling, mother darling."

But Mrs. Vincent shook her head. "I'm better at home," she replied; "travelling is not for old people."

Then, not as if she had generated the thought in her own mind, but as if it had come stealing to her over the Surrey hills from the city far away, Margaret wondered what it would feel like to go to London by herself, to be among the people there, to see the streets and hear the rumble of the traffic, to live alone, as Miss Hunstan did, in white-and-blue rooms in a quaint old street with a gray-haired woman to wait on her, and, above all, to do something outside in the open. She had come to see that there was a high-road through the world along which people worked their way. She had been thinking of it a great deal lately. Moreover, the fascination of the theatre had laid hold of her. All things had a beginning, she thought; the actress who played Constance in "King John," though her tones had seemed to come from a heart that had only to feel keenly to produce them, had once made a beginning. What a wonderful thing it must be to make anything, or to do anything that was counted in the world! If only she had been older, or had talked it over with her father, or if some strange and hard necessity were to overtake her and drive her onward, she felt as if hidden capacities might develop themselves and strength come to her. It was only a dream, of course, but the dream was a refuge from Hannah, and a retreat to which she could hurry at will; it was even better than books. After all, it was only the things that people had heard and seen and thought that were gathered up and put into books; but if she went out into the world she might get them at first-hand for herself. "I want to know things," she had said to her father that morning in London; "I want to know things, and to do them," she cried to herself, one afternoon in the woods, and amid the stillness of the coming summer at Chidhurst. Since her father went away she had drawn very close to nature beneath the great elms of her cathedral. The mysteries and immensities about her seemed to whisper secrets concerning the world that she longed to understand.

Nearly six weeks since her father went, and, except for the coming and going of Mr. Garratt, life had virtually stood still at Woodside Farm. "If only Sir George Stringer would arrive," she said to herself one afternoon, "I should feel as if it were the beginning of a new chapter." She had not ventured to look at the house on the hill for the last day or two, but she would go now, she thought—something told her there would be news. "I will go this very minute," she cried, "and then if there is no sign I will wait a whole week."

She went quickly through a copse and growth of underwood, over a ditch into the fields, across the fields and out by the church to the road. She saw in a moment that the gates of the house were open and her heart gave a bound. He was coming, perhaps he had come already, and would know something about Tom Carringford. She went a few steps up the drive, between the larches and the fir-trees with the little monthly rose bushes in front, and wondered if she dared go up to the house and ask for him—her father's old friend would hardly take it amiss. Then she met the handy man who looked after the garden. Sir George had come the night before, he told her—come for a week, but he was out; drove away in a fly, to see some of the country round-about, most likely.

Margaret went out of the gate with a smile on her lips, to find herself face to face with Mr. Garratt on his steed. He was ambling past cautiously, not in the least expecting to see her, but the moment he did he pulled himself up and tried to look smart and unconcerned. She laughed and nodded to him because she was so happy, and because it amused her to see Hannah's sweetheart riding by supremely satisfied with himself, and his spats, and his crop, and bowler hat. He tugged at his mustache when he saw Margaret, and lifted his hat with a little flourish.

"Why, Mr. Garratt," she said, "I didn't know you!"

He was delighted at her manner; he took it as a tribute to his improved appearance; he held his reins tightly and swayed about a little in his saddle, as if his steed were restive.