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Miss Mackenzie

<h3>CHAPTER XXII</h3> <h3>Still at the Cedars  </h3> Margaret, when she had reached her own room, and seated herself so that she could consider all that had occurred in quietness, immediately knew her own difficulty. Of course Lady Ball would give her account of what had occurred to her son, and of course John would be angry when he learned that there had been any purpose of marriage between her and Mr Maguire. She herself took a different view of the matter now than that which had hitherto presented itself. She had not thought much of Mr Maguire or his proposal. It had been made under a state of things differing much from that now existing, and the change that had come upon her affairs had seemed to her to annul the offer. She had learned to regard it almost as though it had never been. There had been no engagement; there had hardly been a purpose in her own mind; and the moment had never come in which she could have spoken of it to her cousin with propriety. That last, in truth, was her valid excuse for not having told him the whole story. She had hardly been with him long enough to do more than accept the offer he had himself made. Of course she would have told him of Mr Maguire,—of Mr Maguire and of Mr Rubb also, when first an opportunity might come for her to do so. She had no desire to keep from his knowledge any tittle of what had occurred. There had been nothing of which she was ashamed. But not the less did she feel that it would have been well for her that she should have told her own story before that horrid man had come to the Cedars. The story would now first be told to him by her aunt, and she knew well the tone in which it would be told. It occurred to her that she might even yet go and meet him at the station. But if so, she must tell him at once, and he would know that she had done so because she was afraid of her aunt, and she disliked the idea of excusing herself before she was accused. If he really loved her, he would listen to her, and believe her. If he did not—why then let Lady Ball have her own way. She had promised to be firm, and she would keep her promise; but she would not intrigue with the hope of making him firm. If he was infirm of purpose, let him go. So she sat in her room, even when she heard the door close after his entrance, and did not go down till it was time for her to show herself in the drawing-room before dinner. When she entered the room was full. He nodded at her with a pleasant smile, and she made up her mind that he had heard nothing as yet. Her uncle had excused himself from coming to table, and her aunt and John were talking together in apparent eagerness about him. For one moment her cousin spoke to her before dinner. "I am afraid," he said, "that my father is sinking fast." Then she felt quite sure that he had as yet heard nothing about Mr Maguire. But it was late in the evening, when other people had gone to bed, that Lady Ball was in the habit of discussing family affairs with her son, and doubtless she would do so to-night. Margaret, before she went up to her room, strove hard to get from him a few words of kindness, but it seemed as though he was not thinking of her. "He is full of his father," she said to herself. When her bed-candle was in her hand she did make an opportunity to speak to him. "Has Mr Slow settled anything more as yet?" she asked. "Well, yes. Not that he has settled anything, but he has made a proposition to which I am willing to agree. I don't go up to town to-morrow, and we will talk it over. If you will agree to it, all the money difficulties will be settled." "I will agree to anything that you tell me is right." "I will explain it all to you to-morrow; and, Margaret, I have told Mr Slow what are my intentions,—our intentions, I ought to say." She smiled at him with that sweet smile of hers, as though she thanked him for speaking of himself and her together, and then she took herself away. Surely, after speaking to her in that way, he would not allow any words from his mother to dissuade him from his purpose? She could not go to bed. She knew that her fate was being discussed, and she knew that her aunt at that very time was using every argument in her power to ruin her. She felt, moreover, that the story might be told in such a way as to be terribly prejudicial to her. And now, when his father was so ill, might it not be very natural that he should do almost anything to lessen his mother's troubles? But to her it would be absolute ruin; such ruin that nothing which she had yet endured would be in any way like it. The story of the loss of her money had stunned her, but it had not broken her spirit. Her misery from that had arisen chiefly from the wants of her brother's family. But if he were now to tell her that all must be over between them, her very heart would be broken. She could not go to bed while this was going on, so she sat listening, till she should hear the noise of feet about the house. Silently she loosened the lock of her own door, so that the sound might more certainly come to her, and she sat thinking what she might best do. It had not been quite eleven when she came upstairs, and at twelve she did not hear anything. And yet she was almost sure that they must be still together in that small room downstairs, talking of her and of her conduct. It was past one before she heard the door of the room open. She heard it so plainly, that she wondered at herself for having supposed for a moment that they could have gone without her noticing them. Then she heard her cousin's heavy step coming upstairs. In passing to his room he would not go actually by her door, but would be very near it. She looked through the chink, having carefully put away her own candle, and could see his face as he came upon the top stair. It wore a look of trouble and of pain, but not, as she thought, of anger. Her aunt, she knew, would go to her room by the back stairs, and would go through the kitchen and over the whole of the lower house, before she would come out on the landing to which Margaret's room opened. Then, seeing her cousin, the idea occurred to her that she would have it all over on that very night. If he had heard that which changed his purpose, why should she be left in suspense? He should tell her at once, and at once she would prepare herself for her future life. So she opened the door a little way, and called to him. "John," she said, "is that you?" She spoke almost in a whisper, but, nevertheless, he heard her very clearly, and at once turned towards her room. "Come in, John," she said, opening the door wider. "I wish to speak to you. I have been waiting till you should come up." She had taken off her dress, and had put on in place of it a white dressing-gown; but of this she had not thought till he was already within the room. "I hope you won't mind finding me like this, but I did so want to speak to you to-night." He, as he looked at her, felt that he had no objection to make to her appearance. If that had been his only trouble concerning her he would have been well satisfied. When he was within the room, she closed the lock of the door very softly, and then began to question him. "Tell me," she said, "what my aunt has been saying to you about that man that came here to-day." He did not answer her at once, but stood leaning against the bed. "I know she has been telling you," continued Margaret. "I know she would not let you go to bed without accusing me. Tell me, John, what she has told you." He was very slow to speak. As he had sat listening to his mother's energetic accusation against the woman he had promised to marry, hearing her bring up argument after argument to prove that Margaret had, in fact, been engaged to that clergyman,—that she had intended to marry that man while she had money, and had not, up to that day, made him fully understand that she would not do so,—he had himself said little or nothing, claiming to himself the use of that night for consideration. The circumstances against Margaret he owned to be very strong. He felt angry with her for having had any lover at Littlebath. It was but the other day, during her winter visit to the Cedars, that he had himself proposed to her, and that she had rejected him. He had now renewed his proposal, and he did not like to think that there had been any one else between his overtures. And he could not deny the strength of his mother's argument when she averred that Mr Maguire would not have come down there unless he had had, as she said, every encouragement. Indeed, throughout the whole affair, Lady Ball believed Mr Maguire, and disbelieved her niece; and something of her belief, and something also of her disbelief, communicated itself to her son. But, still, he reserved to himself the right of postponing his own opinion till the morrow; and as he was coming upstairs, when Margaret saw him through the chink of the door, he was thinking of her smiles, of her graciousness, and her goodness. He was remembering the touch of her hand when they were together in the square, and the feminine sweetness with which she had yielded to him every point regarding her fortune. When he did not speak to her at once, she questioned him again. "I know she has told you that Mr Maguire has been here, and that she has accused me of deceiving you." "Yes, Margaret, she has." "And what have you said in return; or rather, what have you thought?" He had been leaning, or half sitting, on the bed, and she had placed herself beside him. How was it that she had again taken him by the coat, and again looked up into his face with those soft, trusting eyes? Was it a trick with her? Had she ever taken that other man by the coat in the same way, and smitten him also with the battery of her eyes? The loose sleeve of her dressing-gown had fallen back, and he could see that her arm was round and white, and very fair. Was she conversant with such tricks as these? His mother had called her clever and cunning as a serpent. Was it so? Had his mother seen with eyes clearer than his own, and was he now being surrounded by the meshes of a false woman's web? He moved away from her quickly, and stood upon the hearth-rug with his back to the empty fire grate. Then she stood up also. "John," she said, "if you have condemned me, say so. I shall defend myself for the sake of my character, but I shall not ask you to come back to me." But he had not condemned her. He had not condemned her altogether, neither had he acquitted her. He was willing enough to hear her defence, as he had heard his mother's accusation; but he was desirous of hearing it without committing himself to any opinion. "I have been much surprised," he said, "by what my mother has now told me,—very much surprised indeed. If Mr Maguire had any claim upon your hand, should you not have told me?" "He had no claim; but no doubt it was right that I should tell you. I was bound by my duty to tell you everything that had occurred." "Of course you were—and yet you did not do it." "But I was not so bound before what you said to me in the shrubbery last night? Remember, John, it was but last night. Have I had a moment to speak to you?" "If there was any question of engagement between you and him, you should have told it me then, on the instant." "But there was no question. He came to me one day and made me an offer. I will tell you everything, and I think you will believe me. I found him holding a position of respect, at Littlebath, and I was all alone in the world. Why should I not listen to him? I gave him no answer, but told him to speak to me again after a while. Then came my poor brother's illness and death; and after that came, as you know, the loss of all my money. In the meantime Mr Maguire had written, but as I knew that my brother's family must trust to me for their support—that, at least, John was my hope then—I answered him that my means were not the same as before, and that everything must be over. Then he wrote to me again after I had lost my money, and once I answered him. I wrote to him so that he should know that nothing could come of it. Here are all his letters, and I have a copy of the last I wrote to him." So saying, she pulled the papers out of her desk,—the desk in which still lay the torn shreds of her poetry,—and handed them to him. "After that, what right had he to come here and make such a statement as he did to my aunt? How can he be a gentleman, and say what was so false?" "No one says that he is a gentleman," replied John Ball, as he took the proffered papers. "I have told you all now," said she; and as she spoke, a gleam of anger flashed from her eyes, for she was not in all respects a Griselda such as she of old. "I have told you all now, and if further excuse be wanting, I have none further to make." Slowly he read the letters, still standing up on the hearth-rug, and then he folded them again into their shapes, and slowly gave them back to her. "There is no doubt," said he, "as to his being a blackguard. He was hunting for your money, and now that he knows you have got none, he will trouble you no further." Then he made a move from the place on which he stood, as if he were going. "And is that to be all, John?" she said. "I shall see you to-morrow," he replied. "I am not going to town." "But is that to be all to-night?" "It is very late," and he looked at his watch. "I do not see that any good can come of talking more about it now. Good-night to you." "Good-night," she said. Then she waited till the door was closed, and when he was gone she threw herself upon the bed. Alas! alas! Now once more was she ruined, and her present ruin was ruin indeed. She threw herself on the bed, and sobbed as though she would have broken her heart in the bitterness of her spirit. She had told him the plainest, simplest truest story, and he had received it without one word of comment in her favour,—without one sign to show that her truthfulness had been acknowledged by him! He had told her that this man, who had done her so great an injury, was a blackguard; but of her own conduct he had not allowed himself to speak. She knew that his judgment had gone against her, and though she felt it to be hard,—very hard,—she resolved that she would make no protest against it. Of course she would leave the Cedars. Only a few hours since she had assured herself that it was her duty henceforward to obey him in everything. But that was now all changed. Whatever he might say to the contrary, she would go. If he chose to follow her whither she went, and again ask her to be his wife she would receive him with open arms. Oh, yes; let him only once again own that she was worthy of him, and then she would sit at his feet and confess her folly, and ask his pardon a thousand times for the trouble she had given him. But unless he were to do this she would never again beg for favour. She had made her defence, and had, as she felt, made it in vain. She would not condescend to say one other word in excuse of her conduct. As for her aunt, all terms between Lady Ball and herself must be at an end. Lady Ball had passed a day with her in the house without speaking to her, except when that man had come, and then she had taken part with him! Her aunt, she thought, had been untrue to hospitality in not defending the guest within her own walls; she had been untrue to her own blood, in not defending her husband's niece; but, worse than all that, ten times worse, she had been untrue as from one woman to another! Margaret, as she thought of this, rose from the bed and walked wildly through the room unlike any Griselda. No; she would have no terms with Lady Ball. Lady Ball had understood it all, though John had not done so! She had known how it all was, and had pretended not to know. Because she had an object of her own to gain, she had allowed these calumnies to be believed! Let come what might, they should all know that Margaret Mackenzie, poor, wretched, destitute as she was, had still spirit enough to resent such injuries as these. In the morning she sent down word by one of her young cousins that she would not come to breakfast, and she asked that some tea might be sent up to her. "Is she in bed, my dear?" asked Lady Ball. "No, she is not in bed," said Jane Ball. "She is sitting up, and has got all her things about the room as though she were packing." "What nonsense!" said Lady Ball; "why does she not come down?" Then Isabella, the eldest girl, was sent up to her, but Margaret refused to show herself. "She says she would rather not; but she wants to know if papa will walk out with her at ten." Lady Ball again said that this was nonsense, but tea and toast were at last supplied to her, and her cousin promised to be ready at the hour named. Exactly at ten o'clock, Margaret opened the schoolroom door, and asked one of the girls to tell her father that she would be found on the walk leading to the long shrubbery. There on the walk she remained, walking slowly backwards and forwards over a space of twenty yards, till he joined her. She gave him her hand, and then turned towards the long shrubbery, and he, following her direction, walked at her side. "John," she said, "you will not be surprised at my telling you that, after what has occurred, I shall leave this place to-day." "You must not do that," he said. "Ah, but I must do it. There are some things John, which no woman should bear or need bear. After what has occurred it is not right that I should incur your mother's displeasure any longer. All my things are ready. I want you to have them taken down to the one o'clock train." "No, Margaret; I will not consent to that." "But, John, I cannot consent to anything else. Yesterday was a terrible day for me. I don't think you can know how terrible. What I endured then no one has a right to expect that I should endure any longer. It was necessary that I should say something to you of what had occurred, and that I said last night. I have no further call to remain here, and, most positively, I shall go to-day." He looked into her face and saw that she was resolved, but yet he was not minded to give way. He did not like to think that all authority over her was passing out of his hands. During the night he had not made up his mind to pardon her at once. Nay, he had not yet told himself that he would pardon her at all. But he was prepared to receive her tears and excuses, and we may say that, in all probability, he would have pardoned her had she wept before him and excused herself. But though she could shed tears on this matter,—though, doubtless, there were many tears to be shed by her,—she would shed no more before him in token of submission. If he would first submit, then, indeed, she might weep on his shoulder or laugh on his breast, as his mood might dictate. "Margaret," he said, "we have very much to talk over before you can go." "There will be time for that between this and one. Look here, John; I have made up my mind to go. After what took place yesterday, it will be better for us all that we should be apart." "I don't see that, unless, indeed, you are determined to quarrel with us altogether. I suppose my wishes in the matter will count for something." "Yesterday morning they would have counted for everything; but not this morning." "And why not, Margaret?" This was a question to which it was so difficult to find a reply, that she left it unanswered. They both walked on in silence for some paces, and then she spoke again. "You said yesterday that you had been with Mr Slow, and that you had something to tell me. If you still wish to tell me anything, perhaps you can do so now." "Everything seems to be so much changed," said he, speaking very gloomily. "Yes," said she; "things are changed. But my confidence in Mr Slow, and in you, is not altered. If you like it, you can settle everything about the money without consulting me. I shall agree to anything about that." "I was going to propose that your brother's family should have the debt due by the Rubbs. Mr Slow thinks he might so manage as to secure the payment of the interest." "Very well; I shall be delighted that it should be so. I had hoped that they would have had more, but that of course is all over. I cannot give them what is not mine." But this arrangement, which would have been pleasant enough before,—which seemed to be very pleasant when John Ball was last in Mr Slow's chambers, telling that gentleman that he was going to make everything smooth by marrying his cousin,—was not by any means so pleasant now. He had felt, when he was mentioning the proposed arrangement to Margaret, that the very naming of it seemed to imply that Mr Maguire and his visit were to go for nothing. If Mr Maguire and his visit were to go for much—to go for all that which Lady Ball wished to make of them—then, in such a case as that, the friendly arrangement in question would not hold water. If that were to be so, they must all go to work again, and Mr Slow must be told to do the best in his power for his own client. John Ball was by no means resolved to obey his mother implicitly and make so much of Mr Maguire and his visit as all this; but how could he help doing so if Margaret would go away? He could not as yet bring himself to tell her that Mr Maguire and the visit should go altogether for nothing. He shook his head in his trouble, and pished and pshawed. "The truth is, Margaret, you can't go to-day." "Indeed I shall, John," said she, smiling. "You would hardly wish to keep me a prisoner, and the worst you could do would be to keep my luggage from me." "Then I must say that you are very obstinate." "It is not very often that I resolve to have my own way; but I have resolved now, and you should not try to balk me." They had now come round nearly to the house, and she showed, by the direction that she took, that she was going in. "You will go?" said he. "Yes," said she; "I will go. My address will be at the old house in Arundel Street. Shall I see you again before I go?" she asked him, when she stood on the doorstep. "Perhaps you will be busy, and I had better say goodbye." "Good-bye," said he, very gloomily; but he took her hand. "I suppose I had better not disturb my uncle. You will give him my love. And, John, you will tell some one about my luggage; will you not?" He muttered some affirmative, and then went round from the front of the house, while she entered the hall. It was now half-past eleven, and she intended to start at half-past twelve. She went into the drawing-room and not finding her aunt, rang the bell. Lady Ball was with Sir John, she was told. She then wrote a note on a scrap of paper, and sent it in:   <blockquote> Dear Aunt, I leave here at half-past twelve. Perhaps you would like to see me before I go. M. M.   </blockquote> Then, while she was waiting for an answer, she went into the school room, and said good-bye to all the children. "But you are coming back, aunt Meg," said the youngest girl. Margaret stooped down to kiss her, and, when the child saw and felt the tears, she asked no further questions. "Lady Ball is in the drawing-room, Miss," a servant said at that moment, and there she went to fight her last battle! "What's the meaning of this, Margaret?" said her aunt. "Simply that I am going. I was to have gone on Monday, as you will remember." "But it was understood that you were to stop." For a moment or two Margaret said nothing. "I hate these sudden changes," said Lady Ball; "they are hardly respectable. I don't think you should leave the house in this way, without having given notice to any one. What will the servants think of it?" "They will probably think the truth, aunt. They probably thought that, when they saw that you did not speak to me yesterday morning. You can hardly imagine that I should stay in the house under such circumstances as that." "You must do as you like, of course." "In this instance I must, aunt. I suppose I cannot see my uncle?" "It is quite out of the question." "Then I will say good-bye to you. I have said good-bye to John. Good-bye, aunt," and Margaret put out her hand. But Lady Ball did not put out hers. "Good-bye, Margaret," she said. "There are circumstances under which it is impossible for a person to make any expression of feeling that may be taken for approbation. I hope a time may come when these things shall have passed away, and that I may be able to see you again." Margaret's eyes, as she made her way out of the room were full of tears, and when she found herself outside the hall door, and at the bottom of the steps, she was obliged to put her handkerchief up to them. Before her on the road was a boy with a donkey cart and her luggage. She looked round furtively, half-fearing, half hoping—hardly expecting, but yet thinking, that she might again see her cousin. But he did not show himself to her as she walked down to the railway station by herself. As she went she told herself that she was right; she applauded her own courage, but what, oh! what was she to do? Everything now was over for her. Her fortune was gone. The man whom she had learned to love had left her. There was no place in the world on which her feet might rest till she had made one for herself by the work of her hands. And as for friends—was there a single being in the world whom she could now call her friend? <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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