"At Pitlochry?" Farley exclaimed.

"Having breakfast with Lena. Lena, in a muslin morning gown lying on a sofa--Tom holding her hand--the rest you can imagine."

"This is madness! I don't understand."

Mrs. Lakeman's blue eyes were full of wickedness. "I knew something was wrong from his letters, so I have been careful to tell him that Lena wasn't well, and to make a few remarks about Margaret Vincent and the young grocer at Guildford, which I didn't think would please him altogether. As he didn't come and didn't write, I thought it as well yesterday morning to telegraph and let him know that she was dangerously ill."

"Which was strictly untrue, I suppose?"

"Strictly," she answered, with much relish. "But he answered at once that he would start at eight o'clock last night, and he's there this morning."

"He must have proposed to Miss Vincent yesterday afternoon. I didn't know that she had even seen Carringford till three days ago, when I came upon him at the stage door waiting for her in a hansom."

"It's a great pity. It shouldn't have gone so far, if I'd known in time."

"But, after all, why should you interfere?" he asked, thinking that, if Mrs. Lakeman were not going to marry him, he didn't take any particular interest in Lena's making a good marriage. "Carringford is a good fellow, and Miss Vincent's an uncommonly handsome girl. Why shouldn't they have each other?"

"And break Lena's heart?" she said, raising her eyes to his. "Besides, Tom belongs to us, and no one shall take him away."

"Still, it isn't quite fair to Miss Vincent, and I don't much care to help in the matter," he answered, quite pleasantly, but with determination; "besides, if you are not going to marry me, why should I--where do I come in?"

In a moment she saw the whole drift of his reasoning.

"I shall marry no one," she answered, "until Lena's future is settled."

"And if Lena marries Carringford?"

"Then you shall have your answer. You must see that a young man like you would look rather ridiculous going about with a middle-aged wife and a grown-up step-daughter."

He saw her policy; it was odd how well they saw through each other; he recognized her adroitness and her falseness, but it made no difference in his point of view; to marry her would be a worldly-wise transaction that he did not mean to forego if he could help it, and he wanted Lena out of the way. After all, he thought, if Margaret didn't marry Carringford, she would probably do still better--a handsome girl, well born, and probably well off when her father came back. And even if she were in love now, what did it matter? She would be all the better for a disappointment, perhaps: a woman who had not been made to suffer generally became a trifle heartless. Besides, what was the girl to him?

"Where is Margaret Vincent staying?" asked Mrs. Lakeman. "When I invited her to Scotland I telegraphed to the theatre, not knowing her private address, and she telegraphed back without giving it, which I thought rather impertinent. Tom, too, has only thought proper to send a telegram every other day lately."

"He has been too much occupied with other things," Farley said, with a little smile.

"Where is she staying?"

"In Louise Hunstan's house, in Great College Street. Louise is at Bayreuth."

"That's a good thing. I'm going"--and the tone of her voice showed that she meant to be victorious. "You may give me a kiss"--and she put up her face--"a matter-of-fact salute on my cheek would be highly appropriate to the situation."

"Stay a moment--when are you going back?" he asked, as he followed her to the door.

"To-night, at eight. I shall see Tom to-morrow morning at breakfast; he won't even know that I have been in London. I am supposed to be ill in my room," she laughed. "Violent neuralgia; not able to see anybody."

"You are a wonderful woman!" Farley said, as he let her out. "But I'm not sure that I could stand her," he thought as he went back to his letters; "she is a little too diplomatic for my taste."

"It was like Farley's impudence to think I should marry him," Mrs.

Lakeman said to herself as she drove along. "He's not quite in my line, I can tell him. Still, he adds a little amus.e.m.e.nt to the occasion." She was full of pleasant excitement, curious to see how much her dramatic power would accomplish with Margaret, and resolved, at any rate, to thoroughly enjoy the interview.

XXVIII

Margaret meanwhile awoke full of happiness. She was engaged to Tom Carringford; she was going back to her mother to-day--it seemed too good to be true. A telegram came from Tom before she had finished her breakfast; he was safe at Perth, and just starting onward. She wondered how Lena was, and what her illness could be. It was dreadful for Mrs.

Lakeman, she thought, and she was glad that Tom was gone. The post brought a letter from her mother; it was dated two days ago; but they were slow in posting things at Woodside Farm; probably it had been put on one side and forgotten. Mrs. Vincent was not very well, it was only a cold, but it had affected her heart, the doctor said, and she must be kept very quiet; there was not the least danger, and she would write again to-morrow. She begged Margaret not to think of coming, for Hannah was very bitter--she doubted if she would let her in, and Mr. Garratt had been there yesterday and made matters worse. "Hannah is fond of saying," Mrs. Vincent went on, "that the door is locked and barred against you, and shall remain so till she is forced to open it. She told Mr. Garratt so yesterday when he wanted your address. He said he should never care for anybody but you, and she told him not to come here again, and that if he did he should find the doors shut, as you would.

Perhaps it will be better when we have had a letter from your father, for she was always in some fear of him."

While Margaret was still reading the letter there came the sound of wheels in the cobbled street. Something stopped in front of the house; a loud knock echoed through it and made Margaret start to her feet. For one horrible moment it struck her that Mr. Garratt had found her out.

Then the door opened and Mrs. Lakeman entered. Her face was drawn, her lips were firmly shut, a strange, uncanny expression was in her eyes.

"Margaret!" she exclaimed. "Margaret Vincent, my old lover's child. I have come to throw myself on your mercy." She pushed Margaret back on the sofa, threw herself down by her, and burst into what sounded like hysterical tears.

Mrs. Lakeman had got her dramatic moment.

Margaret was aghast. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Is it Lena? Has anything happened to her?"

Mrs. Lakeman struggled for utterance; when she gained it her words were thick, her voice desperate. "I have come to ask you for her life!" she said.

"Me?"

"Your telegram has killed her."

"Oh!" Margaret's face blanched, for she saw what was coming. Mrs.

Lakeman raised herself, and sat down on the sofa and took Margaret's hands, and looked at her with eyes as strangely blue as they were mocking.

"Margaret," she said, "I have done a desperate thing; but my child has been ill, she has been fretting and waiting for her lover--for the boy who has always been her lover. She can't bear separation from him.

Yesterday morning I sent for him, and told him she was dangerously ill; at five o'clock your telegram--"

"It was Tom's telegram."

Mrs. Lakeman was impatient at the interruption. "Tom's telegram, then--came. By an accident it was given into her hands instead of mine, and a quarter of an hour later I was bending over her wondering if she would ever open her eyes again. Tom has been ours--all his life," Mrs.

Lakeman went on, vehemently; "he and she have grown up together; he has always loved her; he has done everything for us; they have never been three days apart till we went to Scotland the other day. She worships him, and it has been the one hope of my life to see them married. She has never dreamed of anything else; he is the air she breathes and the world she lives in. When that telegram came yesterday it struck her like a death-blow."

"Oh, but Tom and I love each other," Margaret cried, in despair.

"No, dear," Mrs. Lakeman answered, impressively. "You must know the truth, for my child's life hangs on it. He does not love you--he loves her. He may have been infatuated with you during the last fortnight in which he has been parted from her. It's so like Tom," she added, with a little smile, for she found the tragic role a difficult one to maintain.

"He has been infatuated so often."

"So often?" repeated Margaret, incredulously.

"Oh yes," Mrs. Lakeman answered, and the odd smile came to her lips.

"You wouldn't believe how many times he has come to confess to me that he has made an idiot of himself. He is always falling in love, and getting engaged, and going to be married."

"I can't believe it! I won't believe it!" Margaret cried, pa.s.sionately.

"It's quite true," Mrs. Lakeman answered, coolly. "Generally I have managed to conceal everything from Lena, and to get him out of his sc.r.a.pes--I have known perfectly well that they were only boyish nonsense, for at the bottom of his heart, Margaret Vincent," she went on, resuming her solemnity, "he loves no one but my child; any other woman would be miserable with him. You won't give him any trouble?" she asked, insultingly; "you will give him up quietly, won't you?"