At last, on the afternoon of a day when Hannah was more than usually unbearable, Margaret determined to write to Miss Hunstan, asking if she might really go and see her if she went to London. This was in her own room over the porch—a little room, with a latticed window and a seat to it, and an old-fashioned cupboard let into the wall.

"I will write at once," she cried, "this very minute." It gave her some comfort even to see the address on the envelope, for she wrote that first. When the letter was finished she felt as if she had taken a step towards freedom: she put her elbows on the table, and, resting her face in her hands, tried to imagine what freedom would be like, and all that might come of it. And then, faint in the distance, as in a dream, she heard the sound of a horse's hoofs. They were coming nearer and nearer along the lane. She rose and looked out, but it was not possible to see the rider, for in the summer-time the hedges were thick and green. It was June now, and the honeysuckle and traveller's joy grew high.

"Mr. Garratt again, I suppose," she said to herself in despair. The sound of the hoofs came nearer; they had come in at the gate, past the duck-pond, and the outbuildings and the hayricks, and round the corner of the garden. They stopped at the porch, and she heard the boy call out, "I'm coming, sir," and run to take the horse. "He generally rides round to the stable himself," she thought; but she had made up her mind that it was Mr. Garratt, and determined to keep to her room all the afternoon. There was a knock at the front door, though it was standing wide open, and at that she started, for Mr. Garratt never knocked; he just walked in as if he felt that one day he would be the master. Towsey came out of the kitchen and shuffled through the living-place to the porch.

"Is Mrs. Vincent at home?" Then there was no doubt at all.

"It is Mr. Carringford," Margaret said to herself, and her heart bounded with happiness.

"And is Miss Vincent at home?" she heard him further ask, as Towsey showed him into the best parlor. "Yes! Yes! She was at home," she thought, and danced a fan-fan round her room; but she stopped suddenly—suppose he had heard of Mr. Garratt? Oh, what a good thing Sir George had gone, for now, after all, Tom mightn't know. She stopped before her glass, and in a moment had taken down her hair, and smiled as she saw the glint of gold in it, and twisted it up into quite a neat knot. "And my lace collar," she said, and pinned it round her throat and fastened it with a little heart-shaped brooch that her mother had given her on her birthday; "and my best shoes, for these are shabby at the toes." Then she was ready.

She stopped for a moment at the head of the stairs to look in at her mother's room, of which the door stood open. It had a great, gaunt wardrobe in it, and an old-fashioned bed with a high screen round one side—the farther one from the door. She put her hand to her throat, for something like a sob came to it—and yet she was so happy. Outside her mother's door, still nearer to the stairs, there was a little room used as a box place and hanging cupboard: her mother's best dress and a long cloak that she wore in the winter, and many things not often used, were stowed away there, or hung on hooks. She looked at them as if to mark something in her memory, or because of an unconscious knowledge perhaps of a day that had yet to come. As she went down the old, polished staircase she heard Hannah moving briskly in the kitchen.

"She is getting some scones ready in case he stays to tea," Margaret thought, and demurely walked into the best parlor. Her mother was sitting in the chintz-covered arm-chair by the window, and Tom sat facing her near the writing-table. He looked tall and strong as he jumped up and went forward to greet her.

"How do you do?" he said. "Mr. Vincent told me I might come, you know, and here I am—I heard he had gone." His voice was cordial enough, but in the first moment Margaret knew that he was different—different from the morning when he had said good-bye at the Langham, and talked of coming to Chidhurst, and foretold that they would have another drive round London together. He was a little more distant, she felt, as if he thought less of her, as if he liked her less, as if he had heard of Mr. Garratt and despised her. It chilled her; she had nothing to say after a bare welcome, and Mrs. Vincent, thinking that, now Margaret had come, Mr. Carringford would naturally talk to her, was silent, too. Then Tom jerked out—

"When are you going to get a letter from Mr. Vincent?"

"We expect it every day now," Mrs. Vincent answered, and turned to Margaret. "Mr. Carringford has ridden over from Hindhead," she said, "and I've thanked him for the roses and told him I couldn't remember the day when I'd had any sent me before."

"Miss Vincent and I made an expedition together—"

"Oh yes, we've often talked it over together."

Margaret wished her mother hadn't said that; it made the color come to her face; but luckily Tom was not looking at her, and then Mrs. Vincent added simply, in the half-countrified manner into which, for some strange reason, her speech had relapsed since her husband's departure, "You'll be tired after your ride, Mr. Carringford; you must stay for a cup of tea."

"I should like to, if I may."

"And while it's getting ready Margaret could show you the garden, if you'd care to see it." She said it with the native dignity that was always impressive. It had its effect on Tom.

"I should like to see it very much," he said, and five minutes later he and Margaret were walking down the green pathway of the Dutch garden. Almost without knowing it, she took him through the garden gate towards the wood, and across a green corner, through a tangle of undergrowths, up to the great elms and beeches. They had hardly spoken on the way; they felt constrained and awkward; but when they reached the top things seemed to adjust themselves in their minds, and they looked at each other for a moment, and laughed as if they thought it good to be together again. Then Tom shook off his awkwardness; the boyish happiness was on his face again, and she was almost satisfied. "I say, what a wood!" he exclaimed.

"It's father's and mine; we call it our cathedral."

"Good! good!" he answered. "When are you coming to London again?"

She clasped her hands and looked at him. "I don't know, but I want to go again dreadfully. Do you think I could go by myself?"

"Well, no! But you might come up and stay with the Lakemans. You must make haste about it if you do, for they're going to Scotland at the end of July. Only another month, you know. By-the-way, I rather think you'll see them here first. Stringer can't get away again till the middle of August except for week-ends, and then he has to go to Folkestone; he has a sister there—ill. But the Lakemans told me a day or two ago that they were coming here for a Saturday to Monday; he had offered them the house."

"When?"

"I don't know when, but pretty soon, I expect. Farley is coming, too; he has taken a theatre, and is going to produce a legendary thing this autumn, 'Prince of—something', it is called."

"Will there be a princess in it?"

"I expect so. Why?"

"When Miss Hunstan came out first she walked on the stage holding up a princess's train."

"They generally begin in that way, you know. By-the-way, Stringer said that you were walking about the fields with a friend—was it anybody particular?"

"It was Mr. Garratt."

"Who is Mr. Garratt?"

"He used to be a house agent at Petersfield. He's at Guildford now. He has just taken a house there."

"A married gentleman?"

"No," she laughed; "that's why he comes. He doesn't come for me," she added, hurriedly, but he didn't understand her.

"Any success?" he asked, quickly—"of course not."

"Not yet; Hannah won't encourage him."

He mistook her tone altogether, and walked to the edge of the crown and looked out at the view.

"That's rather hard lines" he said; "but it doesn't matter if you make it up to him, of course. I say, it's magnificent up here," he went on; "do you ever bring Mr.—what is he called?—Garratt up here?"

"No," she answered, quickly.

"Well, you took him across the field?"

"I met him by accident, and Hannah was very angry—" she began, but stopped in sheer confusion.

"You seem to be rather afraid of Hannah," he said, for it simply never occurred to him that there should be any question of love-making between Mr. Garratt and Hannah. Margaret was such a nice girl, he thought; it was a pity she should flirt, for perhaps, after all, it was only a flirtation with a local house-agent; it put her on another level altogether from the girl he had known in London. And so talk was not very easy between them again, since each felt a little indignant with the other. "Are you going to be here all the summer?" he asked, when they returned to the garden.

"I suppose so," she answered, "unless I go to London. I want to do that more than anything in the world."

"A romantic elopement with the gentleman we have been discussing?"

"Oh, how can you! He is nothing to me; he knows that—it is Hannah."

She looked downright beautiful when the color came to her face, he thought, and wished Mr. Garratt at the bottom of the sea.

"When is your father coming back?" he asked, and his tone was constrained.

"We don't know till we get his letter," she said, impatiently; something was wrong with this interview, and it seemed impossible to set it right.

"You must tell the Lakemans when they turn up; then I shall hear."

Tea was ready when they returned—a generous tea, set out as usual in the living-room. Tom took his place next to Mrs. Vincent and talked to her gayly, while his eye wandered over the table with the satisfaction of a school-boy. Margaret remembered how he had talked of going into the House of Commons; but he didn't look a bit like a politician, she thought, he was so splendidly young, and he and she had understood each other so well in London. But now he seemed to be bound hand and foot to the Lakemans, and he thought she cared for that horrid Mr. Garratt.

"I like big tea and jam," he said. "Do you ever come up to London, Mrs. Vincent?"

"No," she answered; "but sometimes I have thought that I should like to go with Margaret while her father is away."

"Did you think that, mother dear?" Margaret asked, in surprise.

"Better come and stay with me. I could take you both in."

Hannah was pouring out the tea, grasping the teapot with a firm hand, putting it down with determination on the tray when the cups were filled. "Mother is better where she is," she said, without looking up. "Towsey, there is no slop-basin on the table. I hold with staying at home, Mr. Carringford, though I've sometimes thought I'd like to go up myself for the May meetings."

"May meetings? Of course—I know. I thought you meant races at first—but it is Exeter Hall you are thinking of? I'm afraid Mr. and Miss Vincent didn't go there when they were in town."

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Carringford."

"Good Lord, what an ogress!" he thought. "They had a pretty good time, though," he said, aloud.

"Margaret has told me about it so often," Mrs. Vincent said, and Tom, turning to look at her while she spoke, realized suddenly that this mother of Margaret, who had grown old and gray, was beautiful. He looked round the living-room; his eyes lingered on the black beams and the great fireplace and the red-tiled floor; it made a peaceful picture, he thought, in spite of the ogress.

"Did she tell you about Miss Hunstan?" he asked. "It was rather lucky coming across her."

"She told me all about her," Mrs. Vincent answered, "and how you went to her rooms and put the flowers into the pots. It made me hope—that, and what my husband told me—that some day you would come and see us here."

"Thank you," he said, simply.

"Who is Miss Hunstan?" asked Hannah.

Tom answered, beamingly, "Why, Louise Hunstan, the actress, you know!"

"I didn't know, Mr. Carringford. I don't hold with theatres or any such places, and I was surprised at Mr. Vincent taking Margaret to one. I can't see that people are any the better—" She stopped, for there were footsteps on the pathway outside, and a moment later Mr. Garratt walked in with an air of being quite at home.

"How do you do, everybody?" he said. He wore his best clothes and the spats over his shoes. The handkerchief in his breast-pocket was scented more than usual. He took it out and shook it and put it back again, while a whiff of white rose floated over the table. His hair was tightly curled at the tips; he ran his fingers through it as he took off his bowler hat.

"We didn't expect you, Mr. Garratt," Hannah said with sudden graciousness, and made room for him beside her.

"Didn't know you had company," he answered, jauntily. "I hope I don't intrude? Mrs. Vincent, how do you do? Miss Margaret, your humble servant," and reluctantly he sat down beside Hannah.

"This is Mr. Carringford, a friend of my husband's," Mrs. Vincent told her visitor.

"How d'ye do?" Tom looked up and nodded.

"How d'ye do?" Mr. Garratt nodded back, trying to do it easily. "Thought it was Sir George Stringer at first till I recollected that he was a middle-ager."

"We didn't expect you to-day, Mr. Garratt," Hannah remarked, pouring out his tea.

"I told Miss Vincent I should come." He looked across at Margaret, determined to show off before the stranger.

"I don't remember that you did—" Margaret began.

"Oh, come now, you knew I wanted to bring you that book of poems I told you about. You shall have it if you're good."

"You had better give it to Hannah, Mr. Garratt. She will appreciate it more than I shall. I had no idea that you meant to bring it."

Tom looked up and wondered what it all meant.

"Well, but what did I say the other night?"

"I don't know," Margaret answered, coldly. "I never remember the things you say."

But Mr. Garratt was not to be snubbed. "Oh, come now, don't be showing off again," he laughed, and turned to Tom—"Miss Vincent is a difficult young lady, I assure you," he said, with an air of quite understanding her. "But perhaps you've found that out too."

"How should I have found it out?" Tom asked, stiffly.

"Well, you see, I've heard a few things—no jealousy—that's only a joke," as Margaret started; "you are one of Miss Vincent's London friends, I think? It was you who gave her the roses she brought back. You see I know all about it." He laughed with satisfaction, and gave Hannah a kick under the table from sheer lightness of heart, and by way of keeping everybody in tow, as he called it to himself.

"We certainly bought some roses in Covent Garden," Tom said, and got up to go. He couldn't stand any more of this chap, he thought.

"I didn't tell you about it, Mr. Garratt," Margaret said, indignantly. "Oh, don't go, Mr. Carringford."

"I know you didn't tell me," Mr. Garratt said, with a wink. "It was Miss Barton who gave me that little bit of information—you kept it to yourself." Tom had hesitated, but this decided him. Mr. Garratt was not the sort of person with whom he could bring himself to compete.

"Well, good-bye, Mrs. Vincent," he said, shaking hands with her and then with Margaret and Hannah. He nodded to Mr. Garratt, and strode towards the door.

"But you must wait till your horse is brought round," Mrs. Vincent said. "Hannah, will you tell Sandy or Jim?"

"It is ready," Mr. Garratt volunteered. "I wondered whose it was when I went into the stable just now. I'll take you to it, if you like," he added, graciously, to Tom.

"Pray don't trouble," Tom answered, in an off-hand manner.

"No trouble at all." Mr. Garratt led the way out as if he were the master of the house, while Margaret looked after them and felt as if she were being tortured.

"Fond of a ride?" asked Mr. Garratt as they went along.

"I suppose so," said Tom, distantly.

"I should like to show you the decent little mare I'm riding. I think sometimes I shall get a fellow to it for Margaret. We are both of us fond of the country and getting about." He called her Margaret deliberately, and with an air of custom—for it would be better, he told himself, to choke this Johnnie off as soon as possible.

"Would she like it?"

"Rather! Trust her," with a knowing wink.

"Beast!" thought Tom, as he mounted. "Well, good-evening," he said, aloud, to Mr. Garratt, and went off at a brisk trot, wondering how Margaret could stand him.

"He knows how to give himself airs, too," Mr. Garratt said to himself, looking after him. "I'm rather surprised he didn't offer me a tip while he was about it. I'd like to take down all these chaps and show 'em the way they should go; but we are doing it," he added, thinking not of himself but of his class—"and once we've got the upper hand we'll keep it, and let 'em see that we can be swells as well as any one else." He walked slowly back to the house, thinking of Margaret. He was getting up to her ways, and he knew how to keep his temper—and the man who waited won. He liked her, but his feeling was pique, rather than passion, and he felt that to subdue her would be a gratification to his vanity greater than any other he could imagine. "And she's such a beauty!"—he always came back to that. "While there's a chance of her, I'd rather be shot than kiss that sour old hen, Hannah. I'll have Margaret if I die for it. I wish I'd thought of it and tried to find out if that chap knew anything about Vincent's relations. I expect he's been up to something, but I don't care—the girl isn't any the worse for it."

During his absence the storm had burst in the living-room, but luckily circumstances obliged it to be brief.

"I should like to know what you think of yourself now with your slyness and deceit?" Hannah had asked Margaret.

"I'll not have you speak to your sister in this way," Mrs. Vincent began; but her remonstrances had grown ineffectual lately.

"Mr. Garratt told you he was coming, did he, though nobody else in the house knew it?" Hannah went on. "You took good care that they shouldn't."

"If he did tell me I had forgotten it," Margaret answered, scornfully.

"You can be trusted to forget anything—if it's convenient. What's this poetry he's brought you, I should like to know?"

"I didn't know he meant to bring it. He said something about Eugene Field's poems the other day, and that he had recited one at a chapel festival."

The mention of the chapel somewhat mollified Hannah without subduing her jealousy. "Well, something will have to be done," she said. "I'm not going to put up with your conduct, and that you shall find out." At which point Mr. Garratt entered a little uneasily, as if conscious that things were not going smoothly. Margaret looked up and spoke to him quickly.

"Mr. Garratt, I want to tell you that if you've brought me a book of poems I would rather not have it."

"Why, what's up now?"

"Nothing is up," she said, with what Mr. Garratt called her high and mighty air.

"Well, look here—" but she had turned away.

"Mother, shall we go into the garden?" she asked.

"It's a little chilly this evening," Mrs. Vincent answered.

"You've taken to feel the cold lately," Hannah said, uneasily. To her credit be it said that she was always careful of her mother's health.

"I've taken to feel my years."

"Let us go into the best parlor, darling," Margaret said, tenderly. "I might play to you for a little while. You always like that," and she put her arms round her mother's shoulders.

Mr. Garratt took a quick step forward. "I should like to hear you play, too, Miss Margaret, if there's no objection. I'm a lover of music, as I think I've told you." He stood by the door of the best parlor and waited.

Margaret turned and faced him. "Stay with Hannah. I want to have my mother to myself," she said.

"Well, that's a nice handful!" Mr. Garratt remarked, as she shut the door and turned the handle with a click.

"You should live in the same house with her," said Hannah, "then you'd know."

"She might have left it a little bit open, at any rate; then we should have heard her."

"Are you as anxious as all that?" asked Hannah, in a sarcastic voice.

"Well, you see, it makes it a bit lively."

"When I was at Petersfield the other day your mother asked me if I would see that the grass on your Aunt Amelia's grave was clipped. I brought in the small shears, and thought perhaps you might walk over and do it next time you came."

"Damn my Aunt Amelia's grave!" he said, between his teeth.

"Mr. Garratt, you are forgetting yourself!" she cried, in amazement.

"She's enough to make any one forget anything," he said, nodding towards the best parlor.

"You take far too much notice of her."

"She doesn't return the compliment, anyhow."

"And for my part," said Hannah, indignantly, "I don't understand what it is you come here for."

At which Mr. Garratt faced her squarely. "Now look here, Hannah," he said, "she gives herself tantrums enough; don't you begin, for two of you in one house would be a trifle more than is needed."

She sat down without a word, and closed her lips firmly. The tip of her nose became a deeper pink. Her eyelids fluttered for a minute quickly up and down. She looked forlorn—even a shade tragic. Mr. Garratt, with his heart reaching out to Margaret, obstinate and determined not to be thwarted, yet felt a touch of pity for the woman before him; perhaps unconsciously he recognized the limitations and the impossibilities of her life.

"There, come along," he said, half kindly. "Come along, Hannah." The sound of her Christian name soothed her considerably. "Let's go for a little stroll; but I'm not going to hang about any one's grave. It'll be bad enough when I come to my own."