"John, you might as well tell me this; are you engaged to Margaret Mackenzie?"
"No, I am not," said her son, angrily.
After that his mother's humour had become worse than before, and in that state her niece had found her when she returned home in the evening, and had suffered in consequence.
On the next morning Miss Mackenzie sent down word to say she was not well, and would not come down to breakfast. It so happened that John Ball was going into town on this day also, the Abednego Life Office holding its board day immediately after that of the Shadrach Fire Office, and therefore he was not able to see her before she encountered his mother. Lady Ball went up to her in her bedroom immediately after breakfast, and there remained with her for some time. Her aunt at first was tender with her, giving her tea and only asking her gentle little questions at intervals; but as the old lady became impatient at learning nothing, she began a system of cross-questions, and at last grew to be angry and disagreeable. Her son had distinctly told her that he was not engaged to his cousin, and had in fact told her nothing else distinctly; but she, when she had seen how careful he had been in supplying Margaret's wants himself, with what anxious solicitude he had pressed wine on her; how he had sat by her saying soft words to her—Lady Ball, when she remembered this, could not but think that her son had deceived her. And if so, why had he wished to deceive her? Could it be that he had allowed her to give away half her money, and had promised to marry her with the other half? There were moments in which her dear son John could be very foolish, in spite of that life-long devotion to the price of stocks, for which he was conspicuous. She still remembered, as though it were but the other day, how he had persisted in marrying Rachel, though Rachel brought nothing with her but a sweet face, a light figure, a happy temper, and the clothes on her back. To all mothers their sons are ever young, and to old Lady Ball John Ball was still young, and still, possibly, capable of some such folly as that of which she was thinking. If it were not so, if there were not something of that kind in the wind why should he—why should she—be so hard and uncommunicative in all their answers? There lay her niece, however, sick with the headache, and therefore weak, and very much in Lady Ball's power. The evil to be done was great, and the necessity for preventing it might be immediate. And Lady Ball was a lady who did not like to be kept in the dark in reference to anything concerning her family. Having gone downstairs, therefore, for an hour or so to look after her servants, or, as she had said, to allow Margaret to have a little sleep, she returned again to the charge, and sitting close to Margaret's pillow, did her best to find out the truth.
If she could only have known the whole truth; how her son's thoughts were running throughout the day, even as he sat at the Abednego board, not on Margaret with half her fortune, but on Margaret with none! how he was recalling the sweetness of her face as she looked up to him in the square, and took him by his coat, and her tears as she spoke of the orphan children, and the grace of her figure as she had walked away from him, and the persistency of her courage in doing what she thought to be right! how he was struggling within himself with an endeavour, a vain endeavour, at a resolution that such a marriage as that must be out of the question! Had Lady Ball known all that, I think she would have flown to the offices of the Abednego after her son, and never have left him till she had conquered his heart and trampled his folly under her feet.
But she did not conquer Margaret Mackenzie. The poor creature lying there, racked, in truth, with pain and sorrow, altogether incapable of any escape from her aunt's gripe, would not say a word that might tend to ease Lady Ball's mind. If she had told all that she knew, all that she surmised, how would her aunt have rejoiced? That the money should come without the wife would indeed have been a triumph! And Margaret in telling all would have had nothing to tell of those terribly foolish thoughts which were then at work in the City. To her such a state of things as that which I have hinted would have seemed quite as improbable, quite as unaccountable, as it would have done to her aunt. But she did not tell all, nor in truth did she tell anything.
"And John was with you at the lawyer's," said Lady Ball, attempting her cross-examination for the third time. "Yes; he was with me there."
"And what did he say when you asked Mr Slow to make such a settlement as that?"
"He didn't say anything, aunt. The whole thing was put off."
"I know it was put off; of course it was put off. I didn't suppose any respectable lawyer in London would have dreamed of doing such a thing. But what I want to know is, how it was put off. What did Mr Slow say?"
"I am to see him again next week."
"But not to get him to do anything of that kind?"
"I can't tell, aunt, what he is to do then."
"But what did he say when you made such a proposition as that? Did he not tell you that it was quite out of the question?"
"I don't think he said that, aunt."
"Then what did he say? Margaret, I never saw such a person as you are. Why should you be so mysterious? There can't be anything you don't want me to know, seeing how very much I am concerned; and I do think you ought to tell me all that occurred, knowing, as you do, that I have done my very best to be kind to you."
"Indeed there isn't anything I can tell—not yet."
Then Lady Ball remained silent at the bed-head for the space, perhaps, of ten minutes, meditating over it all. If her son was, in truth, engaged to this woman, at any rate she would find that out. If she asked a point-blank question on that subject, Margaret would not be able to leave it unanswered, and would hardly be able to give a directly false answer.
"My dear," she said, "I think you will not refuse to tell me plainly whether there is anything between you and John. As his mother, I have a right to know?"
"How anything between us?" said Margaret, raising herself on her elbow.
"Are you engaged to marry him?"
"Oh, dear! no."
"And there is nothing of that sort going on?"
"Nothing at all."
"You are determined still to refuse him?"
"It is quite out of the question, aunt. He does not wish it at all. You may be sure that he has quite changed his mind about it."
"But he won't have changed his mind if you have given up your plan about your sister-in-law."
"He has changed it altogether, aunt. You needn't think anything more about that. He thinks no more about it."
Nevertheless he was thinking about it this very moment, as he voted for accepting a doubtful life at the Abednego, which was urged on the board by a director, who, I hope, had no intimate personal relations with the owner of the doubtful life in question.
Lady Ball did not know what to make of it. For many years past she had not seen her son carry himself so much like a lover as he had done when he sat himself beside his cousin pressing her to drink her glass of sherry. Why was he so anxious for her comfort? And why, before that, had he been so studiously reticent as to her affairs?
"I can't make anything out of you," said Lady Ball, getting up from her chair with angry alacrity; "and I must say that I think it very ungrateful of you, seeing all that I have done for you."
So saying, she left the room.
What, oh, what would she think when she should come to know the truth? Margaret told herself as she lay there, holding her head between her hands, that she was even now occupying that room and enjoying the questionable comfort of that bed under false pretences. When it was known that she was absolutely a pauper, would she then be made welcome to her uncle's house? She was now remaining there without divulging her circumstances, under the advice and by the authority of her cousin; and she had resolved to be guided by him in all things as long as he would be at the trouble to guide her. On whom else could she depend? But, nevertheless, her position was very grievous to her, and the more so now that her aunt had twitted her with ingratitude. When the servant came to her, she felt that she had no right to the girl's services; and when a message was brought to her from Lady Ball, asking whether she would be taken out in the carriage, she acknowledged to herself that such courtesy to her was altogether out of place.
On that evening her cousin said nothing to her, and on the next day he went again up to town.
"What, four days running, John!" said Lady Ball, at breakfast.
"I have particular business to-day, mother," said he.
On that evening, when he came back, he found a moment to take Margaret by the hand and tell her that his own lawyer also was to meet them at Mr Slow's chambers on the day named. He took her thus, and held her hand closely in his while he was speaking, but he said nothing to her more tender than the nature of such a communication required.
"You and John are terribly mysterious," said Lady Ball to her, a minute or two afterwards. "If there is anything I do hate it's mystery in families. We never had any with us till you came."
On the next day a letter reached her which had been redirected from Gower Street. It was from Mr Maguire; and she took it up into her own room to read it and answer it. The letter and reply were as follows:
Littlebath, Oct., 186—.
Dearest Margaret,
I hope the circumstances of the case will, in your opinion, justify me in writing to you again, though I am sorry to intrude upon you at a time when your heart must yet be sore with grief for the loss of your lamented brother. Were we now all in all to each other, as I hope we may still be before long, it would be my sweet privilege to wipe your eyes, and comfort you in your sorrow, and bid you remember that it is the Lord who giveth and the Lord who taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord. I do not doubt that you have spoken to yourself daily in those words, nay, almost hourly, since your brother was taken from you. I had not the privilege of knowing him, but if he was in any way like his sister, he would have been a friend whom I should have delighted to press to my breast and carry in my heart of hearts.
But now, dearest Margaret, will you allow me to intrude upon you with another theme? Of course you well know the subject upon which, at present, I am thinking more than on any other. May I be permitted to hope that that subject sometimes presents itself to you in a light that is not altogether disagreeable. When you left Littlebath so suddenly, carried away on a mission of love and kindness, you left me, as you will doubtlessly remember, in a state of some suspense. You had kindly consented to acknowledge that I was not altogether indifferent to you.
"That's not true," said Margaret to herself, almost out loud; "I never told him anything of the kind."
And it was arranged that on that very day we were to have had a meeting, to which—shall I confess it?—I looked forward as the happiest moment of my life. I can hardly tell you what my feelings were when I found that you were going, and that I could only just say to you, farewell. If I could only have been with you when that letter came I think I could have softened your sorrow, and perhaps then, in your gentleness, you might have said a word which would have left me nothing to wish for in this world. But it has been otherwise ordered, and, Margaret, I do not complain.
But what makes me write now is the great necessity that I should know exactly how I stand. You said something in your last dear letter which gave me to understand that you wished to do something for your brother's family. Promises made by the bed-sides of the dying are always dangerous, and in the cases of Roman Catholics have been found to be replete with ruin.
Mr Maguire, no doubt, forgot that in such cases the promises are made by, and not to, the dying person.
Nevertheless, I am far from saying that they should not be kept in a modified form, and you need not for a moment think that I, if I may be allowed to have an interest in the matter, would wish to hinder you from doing whatever may be becoming. I think I may promise you that you will find no mercenary spirit in me, although, of course, I am bound, looking forward to the tender tie which will, I hope, connect us, to regard your interests above all other worldly affairs. If I may then say a word of advice, it is to recommend that nothing permanent be done till we can act together in this matter. Do not, however, suppose that anything you can do or have done, can alter the nature of my regard.
But now, dearest Margaret, will you not allow me to press for an immediate answer to my appeal? I will tell you exactly how I am circumstanced, and then you will see how strong is my reason that there should be no delay. Very many people here, I may say all the elite of the evangelical circles, including Mrs Perch—[Mrs Perch was the coachmaker's wife, who had always been so true to Mrs Stumfold]—desired that I should establish a church here, on my own bottom, quite independent of Mr Stumfold. The Stumfolds would then soon have to leave Littlebath, there is no doubt of that, and she has already made herself so unendurable, and her father and she together are so distressing, that the best of their society has fallen away from them. Her treatment to you was such that I could never endure her afterwards. Now the opening for a clergyman with pure Gospel doctrines would be the best thing that has turned up for a long time. The church would be worth over six hundred a year, besides the interest of the money which would have to be laid out. I could have all this commenced at once, and secure the incumbency, if I could myself head the subscription list with two thousand pounds. It should not be less than that. You will understand that the money would not be given, though, no doubt, a great many persons would, in this way, be induced to give theirs. But the pew rents would go in the first instance to provide interest for the money not given, but lent; as would of course be the case with your money, if you would advance it.
I should not think of such a plan as this if I did not feel that it was the best thing for your interests; that is, if, as I fondly hope, I am ever to call you mine. Of course, in that case, it is only common prudence on my part to do all I can to insure for myself such a professional income, for your sake. For, dearest Margaret, my brightest earthly hope is to see you with everything comfortable around you. If that could be arranged, it would be quite within our means to keep some sort of carriage.
Here would be a fine opportunity for rivalling Mrs Stumfold! That was the temptation with which he hoped to allure her.
But the thing must be done quite immediately; therefore let me pray you not to postpone my hopes with unnecessary delay. I know it seems unromantic to urge a lady with any pecuniary considerations, but I think that under the circumstances, as I have explained them, you will forgive me.
Believe me to be, dearest Margaret,
Yours, with truest,
Most devoted affection,
Jereh. Maguire.
One man had wanted her money to buy a house on a mortgage, and another now asked for it to build a church, giving her, or promising to give her, the security of the pew rents. Which of the two was the worst? They were both her lovers, and she thought that he was the worst who first made his love and then tried to get her money. These were the ideas which at once occurred to her upon her reading Mr Maguire's letter. She had quite wit enough to see through the whole project; how outsiders were to be induced to give their money, thinking that all was to be given; whereas those inside the temple,—those who knew all about it,—were simply to make for themselves a good speculation. Her cousin John's constant solicitude for money was bad; but, after all, it was not so bad as this. She told herself at once that the letter was one which would of itself have ended everything between her and Mr Maguire, even had nothing occurred to put an absolute and imperative stop to the affair. Mr Maguire pressed for an early answer, and before she left the room she sat down and wrote it.
The Cedars, Twickenham, October, 186—.
Dear Sir
Before she wrote the words, "Dear Sir," she had to think much of them, not having had as yet much experience in writing letters to gentlemen; but she concluded at last that if she simply wrote "Sir," he would take it as an insult, and that if she wrote "My dear Mr Maguire," it would, under the circumstances, be too affectionate.
Dear Sir,
I have got your letter to-day, and I hasten to answer it at once. All that to which you allude between us must be considered as being altogether over, and I am very sorry that you should have had so much trouble. My circumstances are altogether changed. I cannot explain how, as it would make my letter very long; but you may be assured that such is the case, and to so great an extent that the engagement you speak of would not at all suit you at present. Pray take this as being quite true, and believe me to be
Your very humble servant,
Margaret Mackenzie.
I feel that the letter was somewhat curt and dry as an answer to an effusion so full of affection as that which the gentleman had written; and the fair reader, when she remembers that Miss Mackenzie had given the gentleman considerable encouragement, will probably think that she should have expressed something like regret at so sudden a termination to so tender a friendship. But she, in truth, regarded the offer as having been made to her money solely, and as in fact no longer existing as an offer, now that her money itself was no longer in existence. She was angry with Mr Maguire for the words he had written about her brother's affairs; for his wish to limit her kindness to her nephews and nieces, and also for his greediness in being desirous of getting her money at once; but as to the main question, she thought herself bound to answer him plainly, as she would have answered a man who came to buy from her a house, which house was no longer in her possession.
Mr Maguire when he received her letter, did not believe a word of it. He did not in the least believe that she had actually lost everything that had once belonged to her, or that he, if he married her now, would obtain less than he would have done had he married her before her brother's death. But he thought that her brother's family and friends had got hold of her in London; that Mr Rubb might very probably have done it; and that they were striving to obtain command of her money, and were influencing her to desert him. He thinking so, and being a man of good courage, took a resolution to follow his game, and to see whether even yet he might not obtain the good things which had made his eyes glisten and his mouth water. He knew that there was very much against him in the race that he was desirous of running, and that an heiress with—he did not know how much a year, but it had been rumoured among the Stumfoldians that it was over a thousand—might not again fall in his way. There were very many things against him, of which he was quite conscious. He had not a shilling of his own, and was in receipt of no professional income. He was not altogether a young man. There was in his personal appearance a defect which many ladies might find it difficult to overcome; and then that little story about his debts, which Miss Todd had picked up, was not only true, but was some degrees under the truth. No doubt, he had a great wish that his wife should be comfortable; but he also, for himself, had long been pining after those eligible comforts, which when they appertain to clergymen, the world, with so much malice, persists in calling the flesh-pots of Egypt. Thinking of all this, of the position he had already gained in spite of his personal disadvantages, and of the great chance there was that his Margaret might yet be rescued from the Philistines, he resolved upon a journey to London.
In the meantime Miss Mackenzie's other lover had not been idle, and he also was resolved by no means to give up the battle.
It cannot be said that Mr Rubb was not mercenary in his views, but with his desire for the lady's money was mingled much that was courageous, and something also that was generous. The whole truth had been told to him as plainly as it had been told to Mr Ball, and nevertheless he determined to persevere. He went to work diligently on that very afternoon, deserting the smiles of Miss Colza, and made such inquiries into the law of the matter as were possible to him; and they resulted, as far as Miss Mackenzie was concerned, in his appearing late one afternoon at the front door of Sir John Ball's house. On the day following this Miss Mackenzie was to keep her appointment with Mr Slow, and her cousin was now up in London among the lawyers.
Miss Mackenzie was sitting with her aunt when Mr Rubb called. They were both in the drawing-room; and Lady Ball, who had as yet succeeded in learning nothing, and who was more than ever convinced that there was much to learn, was not making herself pleasant to her companion. Throughout the whole week she had been very unpleasant. She did not quite understand why Margaret's sojourn at the Cedars had been and was to be so much prolonged. Margaret, feeling herself compelled to say something on the subject, had with some hesitation told her aunt that she was staying till she had seen her lawyer again, because her cousin wished her to stay.
In answer to this, Lady Ball had of course told her that she was welcome. Her ladyship had then cross-questioned her son on that subject also, but he had simply said that as there was law business to be done, Margaret might as well stay at Twickenham till it was completed.
"But, my dear," Lady Ball had said, "her law business might go on for ever, for what you know."
"Mother," said the son, sternly, "I wish her to stay here at present, and I suppose you will not refuse to permit her to do so."
After this, Lady Ball could go no further.
On the day on which Mr Rubb was announced in the drawing-room, the aunt and niece were sitting together. "Mr Rubb—to see Miss Mackenzie," said the old servant, as he opened the door.
Miss Mackenzie got up, blushing to her forehead, and Lady Ball rose from her chair with an angry look, as though asking the oilcloth manufacturer how he dared to make his way in there. The name of the Rubbs had been specially odious to all the family at the Cedars since Tom Mackenzie had carried his share of Jonathan Ball's money into the firm in the New Road. And Mr Rubb's appearance was not calculated to mitigate this anger. Again he had got on those horrid yellow gloves, and again had dressed himself up to his idea of the garb of a man of fashion. To Margaret's eyes, in the midst of her own misfortunes, he was a thing horrible to behold, as he came into that drawing-room. When she had seen him in his natural condition, at her brother's house, he had been at any rate unobjectionable to her; and when, on various occasions, he had talked to her about his own business, pleading his own cause and excusing his own fault, she had really liked him. There had been a moment or two, the moments of his bitterest confessions, in which she had in truth liked him much. But now! What would she not have given that the old servant should have taken upon himself to declare that she was not at home.
But there he was in her aunt's drawing-room, and she had nothing to do but to ask him to sit down.
"This is my aunt, Lady Ball," said Margaret.
"I hope I have the honour of seeing her ladyship quite well," said Mr Rubb, bowing low before he ventured to seat himself.
Lady Ball would not condescend to say a word, but stared at him in a manner that would have driven him out of the room had he understood the nature of such looks on ladies' faces.
"I hope my sister-in-law and the children are well," said Margaret, with a violent attempt to make conversation.
"Pretty much as you left them, Miss Mackenzie; she takes on a good deal; but that's only human nature; eh, my lady?"
But her ladyship still would not condescend to speak a word.
Margaret did not know what further to say. All subjects on which it might have been possible for her to speak to Mr Rubb were stopped from her in the presence of her aunt. Mr Rubb knew of that great calamity of which, as yet, Lady Ball knew nothing,—of that great calamity to the niece, but great blessing, as it would be thought by the aunt. And she was in much fear lest Mr Rubb should say something which might tend to divulge the secret.
"Did you come by the train?" she said, at last, reduced in her agony to utter the first unmeaning question of which she could think.
"Yes, Miss Mackenzie, I came by the train, and I am going back by the 5.45, if I can just be allowed to say a few words to you first."
"Does the gentleman mean in private?" asked Lady Ball.
"If you please, my lady," said Mr Rubb, who was beginning to think that he did not like Lady Ball.
"If Miss Mackenzie wishes it, of course she can do so."
"It may be about my brother's affairs," said Margaret, getting up.
"It is nothing to me, my dear, whether they are your brother's or your own," said Lady Ball; "you had better not interrupt your uncle in the study; but I daresay you'll find the dining-room disengaged."
So Miss Mackenzie led the way into the dining-room, and Mr Rubb followed. There they found some of the girls, who stared very hard at Mr Rubb, as they left the room at their cousin's request. As soon as they were left alone Mr Rubb began his work manfully.
"Margaret," said he, "I hope you will let me call you so now that you are in trouble?"
To this she made no answer.
"But perhaps your trouble is over? Perhaps you have found out that it isn't as you told us the other day?"
"No, Mr Rubb; I have found nothing of that kind; I believe it is as I told you."
"Then I'll tell you what I propose. You haven't given up the fight, have you? You have not done anything?"
"I have done nothing as yet."
"Then I'll tell you my plan. Fight it out."
"I do not want to fight for anything that is not my own."
"But it is your own. It is your own of rights, even though it should not be so by some quibble of the lawyers. I don't believe twelve Englishmen would be found in London to give it to anybody else; I don't indeed."
"But my own lawyer tells me it isn't mine, Mr Rubb."
"Never mind him; don't you give up anything. Don't you let them make you soft. When it comes to money nobody should give up anything. Now I'll tell you what I propose."
She now sat down and listened to him, while he stood over her. It was manifest that he was very eager, and in his eagerness he became loud, so that she feared his words might be heard out of the room.
"You know what my sentiments are," he said. At that moment she did not remember what his sentiments were, nor did she know what he meant. "They're the same now as ever. Whether you have got your fortune, or whether you've got nothing, they're the same. I've seen you tried alongside of your brother, when he was a-dying, and, Margaret, I like you now better than ever I did."
"Mr Rubb, at present, all that cannot mean anything."
"But doesn't it mean anything? By Jove! it does though. It means just this, that I'll make you Mrs Rubb to-morrow, or as soon as Doctors' Commons, and all that, will let us do it; and I'll chance the money afterwards. Do you let it just go easy, and say nothing, and I'll fight them. If the worst comes to the worst, they'll be willing enough to cry halves with us. But, Margaret, if the worst does come to be worse than that you won't find me hard to you on that account. I shall always remember who helped me when I wanted help."
"I am sure, Mr Rubb, I am much obliged to you."
"Don't talk about being obliged, but get up and give me your hand, and say it shall be a bargain." Then he tried to take her by the hand and raise her from the chair up towards him.
"No, no, no!" said she.
"But I say yes. Why should it be no? If there never should come a penny out of this property I will put a roof over your head, and will find you victuals and clothes respectably. Who will do better for you than that? And as for the fight, by Jove! I shall like it. You'll find they'll get nothing out of my hands till they have torn away my nails."
Here was a new phase in her life. Here was a man willing to marry her even though she had no assured fortune.
"Margaret," said he, pleading his cause again, "I have that love for you that I would take you though it was all gone, to the last farthing."
"It is all gone."
"Let that be as it may, we'll try it. But though it should be all gone, every shilling of it, still, will you be my wife?"
It was altogether a new phase, and one that was inexplicable to her. And this came from a man to whom she had once thought that she might bring herself to give her hand and her heart, and her money also. She did not doubt that if she took him at his word he would be good to her, and provide her with shelter, and food and raiment, as he had promised her. Her heart was softened towards him, and she forgot his gloves and his shining boots. But she could not bring herself to say that she would love him, and be his wife. It seemed to her now that she was under the guidance of her cousin, and that she was pledged to do nothing of which he would disapprove. He would not approve of her accepting the hand of a man who would be resolved to litigate this matter with him.
"It cannot be," she said. "I feel how generous you are, but it cannot be."
"And why shouldn't it be?"
"Oh, Mr Rubb, there are things one cannot explain."
"Margaret, think of it. How are you to do better?"
"Perhaps not; probably not. In many ways I am sure I could not do better. But it cannot be."
Not then, nor for the next twenty minutes, but at last he took his answer and went. He did this when he found that he had no more minutes to spare if he intended to return by the 5.45 train. Then, with an angry gesture of his head, he left her, and hurried across to the front door. Then, as he went out, Mr John Ball came in.
"Good evening, sir," said Mr Rubb. "I am Mr Samuel Rubb. I have just been seeing Miss Mackenzie, on business. Good evening, sir."
John Ball said never a word, and Samuel Rubb hurried across the grounds to the railway station.