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.

"Riding is a little more lively, Miss Vincent, than tooling along in a trap; of course, if there's some one beside you it's different." He tried to put significance into his tone.

"You should get Hannah to meet you at the station in the brown cart," she said, wickedly, "and drive you back."

"I'm not sure whether it would be an enjoyment or not, Miss Vincent." She passed him while he spoke, and stood by the gate that opened into the field.

"I'm sure it would," she answered, as she undid the latch. "We shall meet presently," and she gave him a little nod of dismissal. "I'm going this way."

In a moment he had dismounted and stood by her side. "I can lead the mare across the grass and have the pleasure of escorting you at the same time," he said, quickly. They stood looking at each other for a moment, and the intolerance that she always felt for him came back.

"I'm not sure that I'm going home yet," she said, "or that I'm going back this way, after all."

"Any way will do for me, I'm not in a hurry. We might have a little talk about London, and the theatres," he added, with a sudden inspiration. "Miss Barton is rather strict, you know."

"Hannah was brought up to think the theatre a wicked place, so she is quite right not to go to one, and to disapprove of people who do—my father doesn't think it wrong."

"Neither do I, Miss Vincent." They were walking across the field by this time, he leading the mare, and she taking the narrow foot-path; "in fact, though I wouldn't like to tell Miss Barton so, I am very fond of it. Why, when I was up for a week a month ago I went four times." He looked at her knowingly, as if to establish a confidence. "I went to see 'The Lovers' Lesson'—a lovely piece, Miss Vincent; it made one feel"—Mr. Garratt lowered his voice at this point—"what real love was. Oh, I say, there's a stile to this next field; I didn't know that. I shall have to take the mare over." He put his foot into the stirrup, vaulted into the saddle, and went over with the air of a huntsman talking a five-barred gate; then dismounted and waited for Margaret. "Allow me to give you a hand," he said, and squeezed her fingers as she stepped down.

"Please don't," she said, haughtily.

"I'd do it again," he said, "to see the color come like that; you don't know what you make one feel like."

"I don't wish to know. Be good enough to remember that you come to see Hannah."

"But it isn't Hannah I want to come and see."

She turned upon him quickly. "It is only Hannah who wishes to see you, understand that."

"Oh, I say, what a spitfire! Look here, Miss Vincent, don't be angry. You and I ought to be friends, you know; and I don't mean any harm."

After all, he was only vulgar, Margaret thought. "I'm sure you don't mean any harm—" she said, though not very graciously.

He felt that it would be a good move to get back to neutral subjects.

"Do you know the gent who has taken the house by the church?" he asked. "You seemed to be taking an interest in him."

"He is a friend of my father's," she condescended to inform him.

"He must be a swell—he's a 'Sir,' anyhow. You know, I've got an idea that you and your father are swells, too. Why, you and Miss Barton are as different as chalk from cheese—there isn't any looking at her when you are there."

Margaret walked on without a word, but he followed her meekly; it was all the same to Mr. Garratt.

"You're a downright beauty, that's what I think. I say! There's Hannah standing by the porch, looking out," for by this time they were within half a field and the length of the garden from the house. "She will be wild when she sees me walking with you, you know. Now, then," he added, touching his own shoulder with the crop in his hand as she made a sign of impatience, "don't be disagreeable again, there's a dear girl. Let's talk about the theatre; you like that, you know, and we've only got five minutes left. I'll tell you what you ought to have seen—'The School for Scandal,' and Miss Hunstan in it."

"Oh, did you see her!" Margaret exclaimed, and took a step nearer to him.

Hannah, watching from the porch, saw it. A deep pink came to her cheeks and to the tip of her nose. Some one in the best parlor, looking through the little lattice window, saw it, too, and drew conclusions.

"Oh, you want to know about her, do you?" Mr. Garratt said, triumphantly. "Now, why is that?"

"I met her at a friend's house when I was in London with father."

"Did you? Well, I wouldn't tell Hannah that if I were you; she'd ask them to put up a prayer in chapel for you."

"Tell me about Miss Hunstan—she played Lady Teazle—"

"Oh, you've heard about Lady Teazle, have you? Well, she was just splendid. You should have seen her chaff that old husband of hers, and the way she held her head when the screen fell. A friend of mine was over in New York when she first came out—fifteen years ago, now; getting on, isn't it?"

"What did she do first?"

"She walked on, holding up the train of a princess, but she did it with such an air the young fellows used to go in just to look at her. Then Dawson Farley went over there with an English company and spotted her, I suppose, and gave her a small part to play. She was just about your age," Mr. Garratt added, significantly. "People said they were going to be married, and there was a lot of talk about it, but it didn't come off, and she went about the States acting, and became a swell, and he became a swell over here. Now she's over here, too, starring as Lady Teazle. I wonder if she ever sees Dawson Farley?"

"Oh yes. I met them both when I was in London; he said they were old friends."

"You seem to have done a great deal on that visit of yours, and it only lasted a sandwiched night, I think?" he said, hurrying after her, but handicapped by having to lead his horse.

"Did you see Miss Hunstan in anything else?" Margaret asked, taking no notice of his remark.

"I saw her once in a mixture performance, got up for a charity—actors and actresses showing off in little bits, you know."

"What did she do?"

"She recited a poem by an American chap called Field. I dare say you know all about him, being fond of poetry?"

"No, I never heard of him."

Mr. Garratt was triumphant. "Really! I bought his poems and recited one of them myself at an entertainment we got up for the new chapel at Midhurst—"

"Oh!"

"I might lend you the book," but she made no answer. "I take a lively interest in most things," he went on, quickly, for he saw that their talk must necessarily come to an end in a moment, "and I should very much enjoy getting a little more conversation with you than I do at present. I think we take a similar view of a good many things. Now, Miss Barton and I take a different one. To tell the truth, I'm not overfond of chapel going and psalm singing. I believe in seeing a bit of life, and London's the place to see it in. I say"—he went up nearer to her—"I wish we were there together, don't you, eh?" and he gave her a little nudge.

She stopped and flushed with rage. "No, I do not," she answered, "and you will not touch me again, Mr. Garratt; I dislike people who are too familiar." She rubbed her elbow as if it had been stung, and strode on.

"Well, you've got a plainer way of speaking than any other young lady I've ever met in my life," he said, catching her up, "but I'll tell you something before we part—there isn't anything in the world I wouldn't do for you. Perhaps you think I'm a little free in my manner, but we can't all be as high and mighty as you are—we're not made that way, you know."

Margaret went through the garden gate without a word. Mr. Garratt had to stand still and hold his horse. "Hannah!" Margaret called. He looked alarmed, as if he thought she might be going to tell tales. "You had better come—Mr. Garratt is here."

Hannah came quickly along the garden, her face very red, and its expression by no means a pleasant one.

"How do you do, Miss Barton?" Mr. Garratt shouted, pleasantly. "I met Miss Vincent on the hill and led the mare across the fields for the pleasure of her company."

"Was it an appointment?" she asked, sharply.

"Not on her side," he said, by way of a little joke—"and not on mine," he added, quickly, for Margaret had stopped, and there seemed to be an explanation on her lips; "only an unexpected pleasure. Shall I take the mare round to the stable, Miss Barton?"

"Jim!" Hannah called at the top of her voice, and a boy appeared from one of the side buildings. "Come and take Mr. Garratt's horse—and give it a feed of corn," she added, for it suddenly occurred to her that she was not making a very amiable appearance before her supposed suitor. "Margaret, you had better go into the house; there is some one with mother, and she wants you."

Margaret was half-way down a side path on the left, but she turned in an instant, went quickly up the garden, and vanished through the porch.

"What was she up to?" Mr. Garratt asked Hannah, as they walked on beside the yew hedge, reluctantly on his part, but she was a dominant person, and not easy to thwart. "Going to meet any one?"

"Oh, she was only taking herself off to that wood up there—that's what she does on Sunday mornings instead of going to church like a Christian and walking home with mother," Hannah answered, resentfully, for if Margaret had attended to her religious duties properly, she reflected, it would not have been necessary for Mr. Garratt to walk back beside Mrs. Vincent. "In these days, Mr. Garratt, people don't seem to be taken with the thought of going to heaven, as they used, and they are not afraid of eternal punishment as they should be."

"Well, you see, Miss Barton, according to them there is nothing to be gained by dying, and the only thing to do is to make the best of what they've got."

"Mr. Garratt, I don't like the way you're talking; it's not a reverent spirit."

"It's not meant to be anything else, I assure you, Miss Barton," he answered, in an apologetic tone, tapping his right leg with the crop which he still held in his hand. She raised her eyes and saw his new bowler hat, and the white handkerchief in his breast-pocket, and her manner softened.

"When do you think of settling in Guildford, Mr. Garratt?" she asked.

"I shall be over there in another six weeks," he answered; "they're painting the window-frames now. I hope you and Mrs. Vincent will come over some day," he added, after a pause. "I should like to have your opinion of the place."

"I shall be willing to give it to you," she said, demurely, and waited expectantly, but he said nothing more. He was thinking of Margaret again.

"Do you know anything of Vincent's people—has he got any besides this brother out in Australia?" he asked.

"He's never spoken of them—not even of the brother, till last year. I must tell you frankly, Mr. Garratt, that I never liked him. He is a man who has rejected religion, and brought up his child to do the same."

"You know, it strikes me somehow that they are swells," Mr. Garratt said, confidentially, "who have done something shady; or perhaps he did something shady himself, there's never any telling. It may be that he was suddenly afraid of being found out, and has taken himself off altogether. You've only his word for it that he's got a brother, I suppose?"

Hannah looked at him, dismayed. This idea would cover many odd feelings and instincts that she had encouraged in regard to Mr. Vincent. That he should be some sort of criminal in disguise seemed feasible enough when she remembered his opinions, and that he should desert his wife and daughter would be a natural outcome of them.

"He had letters with the Australian postmark," she said, remembering this proof of her step-father's veracity.

"They might be managed," Mr. Garratt answered, in a knowing manner that added to Hannah's consternation.

"There's some one that knows him come to see mother now. I was looking for Margaret, and didn't stay to hear his name."

"It's probably the gent who's taken the house on the hill; we might go and see what he's like," Mr. Garratt said, quickly, and turned towards the house, elated at the thought of meeting on terms of more or less equality some one whom in the ordinary course he would have had to treat with the respect due to a superior.

But Sir George Stringer had been and gone. He was just going when Margaret returned.

"I drove over for the pleasure of calling on your mother and of seeing you again," he had said. "You were evidently having a most interesting conversation as you came across the field—I hope it has not been interrupted," he looked at her curiously, and saw the color rush to her face.

"It's only Mr. Garratt," Mrs. Vincent explained; "he often comes over from Guildford to see us."

"I've no doubt he does," Sir George answered. Margaret had no courage to contradict the mistake, and Mrs. Vincent did not see it. "You would have seen me before," he went on, "but I have had a sister ill at Folkestone. I fear I can't stay any longer now, but I shall come again in a day or two."

Margaret walked to the gate with him, confused and mortified, but she made an effort to set matters right.

"I didn't know you were here—"

"Don't apologize," he said, good-naturedly. "I'm going to stay a fortnight at least, and you'll see me very often. Are you and your mother here alone?"

"There is Hannah—"

"Oh yes, the sharp-faced woman who let me in, I suppose? She keeps an eye upon you. I saw her in the garden watching your approach with a great deal of anxiety and not much approval." The fly had been waiting in the lane instead of by the porch. He got in before he held out his hand.

"Sir George, I want to tell you—" she began, and stopped, for it was so difficult.

"I know," and he laughed again. "By-the-way, I dare say you'll have Carringford over next week; he's going to Hindhead; he said he should come and see you, and look me up on the way. Good-bye," and in a moment he had started. She stood watching him almost in despair. Suppose he told Tom Carringford about Mr. Garratt! Oh, but when he came again—he said just now that he should come often—she would explain. Only it was such a difficult thing to explain, it wanted so much courage, and why should it matter to Mr. Carringford? Perhaps, too, it would be better to leave it alone, and he would forget about Mr. Garratt; besides, Mr. Walford, the clergyman, would be sure to call on Sir George, and if by any chance he mentioned Woodside Farm he would probably tell him that Mr. Garratt was walking out with Hannah—he was always at church with her on Sunday mornings. She remembered joyfully that Sir George would see them there together, and in a little place like Chidhurst everything was known and talked about.

"Good Heavens! how lovely she is," Sir George thought as he drove away, "and what a pity that she should be left to those two women!" For he and Mrs. Vincent had spent an awkward ten minutes, not knowing in the least what to say to each other, and he had naturally come to the conclusion that she was a handsome but quite ordinary woman of her class. "And then the young tradesman, with the crisp, curling hair showing under the brim of his bowler hat, and the look of a bounder. Vincent ought to be shot for leaving her to him." It was no business of his, of course, but it vexed him so much that he felt as if he could not bring himself to pay another visit to the farm.