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Miss Mackenzie

<h3>CHAPTER XXIX</h3> <h3>A Friend in Need Is a Friend Indeed  </h3> When the work of the bazaar was finished all the four Mackenzie ladies went home to Mrs Mackenzie's house in Cavendish Square, very tired, eager for tea, and resolved that nothing more should be done that evening. There should be no dressing for dinner, no going out, nothing but idleness, tea, lamb chops, and gossip about the day's work. Mr Mackenzie was down at the House, and there was no occasion for any domestic energy. And thus the evening was passed. How Mrs Chaucer Munro and the loud bevy fared among them, or how old Lady Ware and her daughters, or the poor, dear, bothered duchess or Mr Manfred Smith, or the kings and heroes who had appeared in paint and armour, cannot be told. I fear that the Mackenzie verdict about the bazaar in general was not favourable and that they agreed among themselves to abstain from such enterprises of charity in future. It concerns us now chiefly to know that our Griselda held up her head well throughout that evening, and made herself comfortable and at her ease among her cousins, although it was already known to her that the legal decision had gone against her in the great case of Ball v. Mackenzie. But had that decision been altogether in her favour the result would not have been so favourable to her spirits, as had been that little speech made by Mrs Mackenzie as to her having no right as yet to scold Sir John for his extravagance,—that little speech made in good humour, and apparently accepted in good humour even by him. But on that evening Mrs Mackenzie was not able to speak to Margaret about her prospects, or to lecture her on the expediency of regarding the nicenesses of her dress in Sir John's presence, because of the two other cousins. The two other cousins, no doubt, knew all the story of the Lion and the Lamb, and talked to their sister-in-law, Clara, of their other cousin, Griselda, behind Griselda's back; and were no doubt very anxious that Griselda should become a baronet's wife; but among so large a party there was no opportunity for confidential advice. On the next morning Mrs Mackenzie and Margaret were together, and then Mrs Mackenzie began: "Margaret, my dear," said she, "that bonnet I gave you has been worth its weight in gold." "It cost nearly as much," said Margaret, "for it was very expensive and very light." "Or in bank-notes either, because it has shown him and me and everybody else that you needn't be a dowdy unless you please. No man wishes to marry a dowdy, you know." "I suppose I was a dowdy when he asked me." "I wasn't there, and didn't know you then, and can't say. But I do know that he liked the way you looked yesterday. Now, of course, he'll be coming here before long." "I dare say he won't come here again the whole summer." "If he did not, I should send for him." "Oh, Mrs Mackenzie!" "And oh, Griselda! Why should I not send for him? You don't suppose I'm going to let this kind of thing go on from month to month, till that old woman at the Cedars has contrived to carry her point. Certainly not." "Now that the matter is settled, of course, I shall not go on staying here." "Not after you're married, my dear. We couldn't well take in Sir John and all the children. Besides, we shall be going down to Scotland for the grouse. But I mean you shall be married out of this house. Don't look so astonished. Why not? There's plenty of time before the end of July." "I don't think he means anything of the kind; I don't indeed." "Then he must be the queerest man that ever I met; and I should say about the falsest and most heartless also. But whether he means to do that or does not, he must mean to do something. You don't suppose he'll take all your fortune away from you, and then leave you without coming to say a word to you about it? If you had disputed the matter, and put him to all manner of expense; if, in short, you had been enemies through it all, that might have been possible. But you have been such a veritable lamb, giving your fleece to the shearer so meekly,—such a true Griselda, that if he were to leave you in that way, no one would ever speak to him again." "But you forget Lady Ball." "No, I don't. He'll have a disagreeable scene with his mother, and I don't pretend to guess what will be the end of that; but when he has done with his mother, he'll come here. He must do it. He has no alternative. And when he does come, I want you to look your best. Believe me, my dear, there would be no muslins in the world and no starch, if it was not intended that people should make themselves look as nice as possible." "Young people," suggested Margaret. "Young people, as you call them, can look well without muslin and without starch. Such things were intended for just such persons as you and me; and as for me, I make it a rule to take the goods the gods provide me." Mrs Mackenzie's philosophy was not without its result, and her prophecy certainly came true. A few days passed by and no lover came, but early on the Friday morning after the bazaar, Margaret, who at the moment was in her own room, was told that Sir John was below in the drawing-room with Mrs Mackenzie. He had already been there some little time, the servant said, and Mrs Mackenzie had sent up with her love to know if Miss Mackenzie would come down. Would she go down? Of course she would go to her cousin. She was no coward. Indeed, a true Griselda can hardly be a coward. So she made up her mind to go to her cousin and hear her fate. The last four-and-twenty hours had been very bitter with Sir John Ball. What was he to do, walking about with that man's letter in his pocket—with that reptile's venom still curdling through his veins? On that Thursday morning, as he went towards his office, he had made up his mind, as he thought, to go to Margaret and bid her choose her own destiny. She should become his wife, or have half of Jonathan Ball's remaining fortune, as she might herself elect. "She refused me," he said to himself, "when the money was all hers. Why should she wish to come to such a house as mine, to marry a dull husband and undertake the charge of a lot of children? She shall choose herself." And then he thought of her as he had seen her at the bazaar, and began to flatter himself that, in spite of his dullness and his children, she would choose to become his wife. He was making some scheme as to his mother's life, proposing that two of his girls should live with her, and that she should be near to him, when the letter from Mr Maguire was put into his hands. How was he to marry his cousin after that? If he were to do so, would not that wretch at Littlebath declare, through all the provincial and metropolitan newspapers, that he had compelled the marriage? That letter would be published in the very column that told of the wedding. But yet he must decide. He must do something. They who read this will probably declare that he was a weak fool to regard anything that such a one as Mr Maguire could say of him. He was not a fool, but he was so far weak and foolish; and in such matters such men are weak and foolish, and often cowardly. It was, however, absolutely necessary that he should do something. He was as well aware as was Mrs Mackenzie that it was essentially his duty to see his cousin, now that the question of law between them had been settled. Even if he had no thought of again asking her to be his wife, he could not confide to any one else the task of telling her what was to be her fate. Her conduct to him in the matter of the property had been exemplary, and it was incumbent on him to thank her for her generous forbearance. He had pledged himself also to give his mother a final answer on Saturday. On the Friday morning, therefore, he knocked at the Mackenzies' house door in Cavendish Square, and soon found himself alone with Mrs Mackenzie. I do not know that even then he had come to any fixed purpose. What he would himself have preferred would have been permission to postpone any action as regards his cousin for another six months, and to have been empowered to use that time in crushing Mr Maguire out of existence. But this might not be so, and therefore he went to Cavendish Square that he might there decide his fate. "You want to see Margaret, no doubt," said Mrs Mackenzie, "that you may tell her that her ruin is finally completed;" and as she thus spoke of her cousin's ruin, she smiled her sweetest smile and put on her pleasantest look. "Yes, I do want to see her presently," he said. Mrs Mackenzie had stood up as though she were about to go in quest of her cousin, but had sat down again when the word presently was spoken. She was by no means averse to having a few words of conversation about Margaret, if Sir John should wish it. Sir John, I fear, had merely used the word through some instinctive idea that he might thereby stave off the difficulty for a while. "Don't you think she looked very well at the Bazaar?" said Mrs Mackenzie. "Very well, indeed," he answered; "very well. I can't say I liked the place." "Nor any of us, I can assure you. Only one must do that sort of thing sometimes, you know. Margaret was very much admired there. So much has been said of this singular story about her fortune, that people have, of course, talked more of her than they would otherwise have done." "That has been a great misfortune," said Sir John, frowning. "It has been a misfortune, but it has been one of those things that can't be helped. I don't think you have any cause to complain, for Margaret has behaved as no other woman ever did behave, I think. Her conduct has been perfect." "I don't complain of her." "As for the rest, you must settle that with the world yourself. I don't care for any one beyond her. But, for my part, I think it is the best to let those things die away of themselves. After all, what does it matter as long as one does nothing to be ashamed of oneself? People can't break any bones by their talking." "Wouldn't you think it very unpleasant, Mrs Mackenzie, to have your name brought up in the newspapers?" "Upon my word I don't think I should care about it as long as my husband stood by me. What is it after all? People say that you and Margaret are the Lion and the Lamb. What's the harm of being called a lamb or a lion either? As long as people are not made to believe that you have behaved badly, that you have been false or cruel, I can't see that it comes to much. One does not, of course, wish to have newspaper articles written about one." "No, indeed." "But they can't break your bones, nor can they make the world think you dishonest, as long as you take care that you are honest. Now, in this matter, I take it for granted that you and Margaret are going to make a match of it—" "Has she told you so?" Mrs Mackenzie paused a moment to collect her thoughts before she answered; but it was only for a moment, and Sir John Ball hardly perceived that she had ceased to speak. "No," she said; "she has not told me so. But I have told her that it must be so." "And she does not wish it?" "Do you want me to tell a lady's secret? But in such a case as this the truth is always the best. She does wish it, with all her heart,—as much as any woman ever wished for anything. You need have no doubt about her loving you." "Of course, Mrs Mackenzie, I should take care in any case that she were provided for amply. If a single life will suit her best, she shall have half of all that she ever thought to be her own." "And do you wish it to be so?" "I have not said that, Mrs Mackenzie. But it may be that I should wish her to have the choice fairly in her own power." "Then I can tell you at once which she would choose. Your offer is very generous. It is more than generous. But, Sir John, a single life will not suit her; and my belief is, that were you to offer her the money without your hand, she would not take a farthing of it." "She must have some provision." "She will take none from you but the one, and you need be under no doubt whatsoever that she will take that without a moment's doubt as to her own future happiness. And, Sir John, I think you would have the best wife that I know anywhere among my acquaintance." Then she stopped, and he sat silent, making no reply. "Shall I send to her now?" said Mrs Mackenzie. "I suppose you might as well," said Sir John. Then Mrs Mackenzie got up and left the room, but she did not herself go up to her cousin. She felt that she could not see Margaret without saying something of what had passed between herself and Sir John, and that it would be better that nothing should be said. So she went away to her own room, and dispatched her maid to send the lamb to the lion. Nevertheless, it was not without compunction, some twang of feminine conscience, that Mrs Mackenzie gave up this opportunity of saying some last important word, and perhaps doing some last important little act with regard to those nicenesses of which she thought perhaps too much. Mrs Mackenzie's philosophy was not without its truth; but a man of fifty should not be made to marry a woman by muslin and starch, if he be not prepared to marry her on other considerations. When the message came, Margaret thought nothing of the muslin and starch. The bonnet that had been worth its weight in gold, and the black-freckled dress, were all forgotten. But she thought of the words which her cousin John had spoken to her as soon as they had got through the little gate into the grounds of the Cedars when they had walked back together from the railway station at Twickenham; and she remembered that she had then pledged herself to be firm. If he alluded to the offer he had then made, and repeated it, she would throw herself into his arms at once, and tell him that she would serve him with all her heart and all her strength as long as God might leave them together. But she was quite as strongly determined to accept from him for herself no other kind of provision. That money which for a short while had been hers was now his; and she could have no claim upon him unless he gave her the claim of a wife. After what had passed between them she would not be the recipient of his charity. Certain words had been written and spoken from which she had gathered the existence, in Mr Slow's mind, of some such plan as this. His client should lose her cause meekly and graciously, and should then have a claim for alms. That had been the idea on which Mr Slow had worked. She had long made up her mind that Mr Slow should be taught to know her better, if the day for such offering of alms should ever come. Perhaps it had come now. She took up a little scarf that she wore ordinarily and folded it tight across her shoulders, quite forgetful of muslin and starch, as she descended to the drawing-room in order that this question might be solved for her. Sir John met her almost at the door as she entered. "I'm afraid you've been expecting me to come sooner," he said. "No, indeed; I was not quite sure that you would come at all." "Oh, yes; I was certain to come. You have hardly received as yet any official notification that your cause has been lost." "It was not my cause, John," she said, smiling, "and I received no other notification than what I got through Mrs Mackenzie. Indeed, as you know, I have regarded this law business as nonsense all through. Since what you and Mr Slow told me, I have known that the property was yours." "But it was quite necessary to have a judgment." "I suppose so, and there's an end of it. I, for one, am not in the least disappointed,—if it will give you any comfort to know that." "I don't believe that any other woman in England would have lost her fortune with the equanimity that you have shown." She could not explain to him that, in the first days of dismay caused by that misfortune, he had given her such consolation as to make her forget her loss, and that her subsequent misery had been caused by the withdrawal of that consolation. She could not tell him that the very memory of her money had been, as it were, drowned by other hopes in life,—by other hopes and by other despair. But when he praised her for her equanimity, she thought of this. She still smiled as she heard his praise. "I suppose I ought to return the compliment," she said, "and declare that no cousin who had been kept so long out of his own money ever behaved so well as you have done. I can assure you that I have thought of it very often,—of the injustice that has been involuntarily done to you." "It has been unjust, has it not?" said he, piteously, thinking of his injuries. "So much of it has gone in that oilcloth business, and all for nothing!" "I'm glad at any rate that Walter's share did not go." He knew that this was not the kind of conversation which he had desired to commence, and that it must be changed before anything could be settled. So he shook himself and began again. "And now, Margaret, as the lawyers have finished their part of the business, ours must begin." She had been standing hitherto and had felt herself to be strong enough to stand, but at the sound of these words her knees had become weak under her, and she found a retreat upon the sofa. Of course she said nothing as he came and stood over her. "I hope you have understood," he continued, "that while all this was going on I could propose no arrangement of any kind." "I know you have been very much troubled." "Indeed I have. It seems that any blackguard has a right to publish any lies that he likes about any one in any of the newspapers, and that nobody can do anything to protect himself! Sometimes I have thought that it would drive me mad!" But he again perceived that he was getting out of the right course in thus dwelling upon his own injuries. He had come there to alleviate her misfortunes, not to talk about his own. "It is no good, however, talking about all that; is it, Margaret?" "It will cease now, will it not?" "I cannot say. I fear not. Whichever way I turn, they abuse me for what I do. What business is it of theirs?" "You mean their absurd story—calling you a lion." "Don't talk of it, Margaret." Then Margaret was again silent. She by no means wished to talk of the story, if he would only leave it alone. "And now about you." Then he came and sat beside her, and she put her hand back behind the cushion on the sofa so as to save herself from trembling in his presence. She need not have cared much, for, let her tremble ever so much, he had then no capacity for perceiving it. "Come, Margaret; I want to do what is best for us both. How shall it be?" "John, you have children, and you should do what is best for them." Then there was a pause again, and when he spoke after a while, he was looking down at the floor and poking among the pattern on the carpet with his stick. "Margaret, when I first asked you to marry me, you refused me." "I did," said she; "and then all the property was mine." "But afterwards you said you would have me." "Yes; and when you asked me the second time I had nothing. I know all that." "I thought nothing about the money then. I mean that I never thought you refused me because you were rich and took me because you were poor. I was not at all unhappy about that when we were walking round the shrubbery. But when I thought you had cared for that man—" "I had never cared for him," said Margaret, withdrawing her hand from behind the pillow in her energy, and fearing no longer that she might tremble. "I had never cared for him. He is a false man, and told untruths to my aunt." "Yes, he is, a liar,—a damnable liar. That is true at any rate." "He is beneath your notice, John, and beneath mine. I will not speak of him." Sir John, however, had an idea that when he felt the wasp's venom through all his blood, the wasp could not be altogether beneath his notice. "The question is," said he, speaking between his teeth, and hardly pronouncing his words, "the question is whether you care for me." "I do," said she turning round upon him; and as she did so our Griselda took both his hands in hers. "I do, John. I do care for you. I love you better than all the world besides. Whom else have I to love at all? If you choose to think it mean of me, now that I am so poor, I cannot help it. But who was it told me to be firm? Who was it told me? Who was it told me?" Lady Ball had lost her game, and Mrs Mackenzie had been a true prophet. Mrs Mackenzie had been one of those prophets who knew how to assist the accomplishment of their own prophecies, and Lady Ball had played her game with very indifferent skill. Sir John endeavoured to say a word as to that other alternative that he had to offer, but the lamb was not lamb-like enough to listen to it. I doubt even whether Margaret knew, when at night she thought over the affairs of the day, that any such offer had been made to her. During the rest of the interview she was by far the greatest talker, and she would not rest till she had made him swear that he believed her when she said, that both in rejecting him and accepting him, she had been guided simply by her affection. "You know, John," she said, "a woman can't love a man all at once." They had been together for the best part of two hours, when Mrs Mackenzie knocked at the door. "May I come in?" "Oh, yes," said Margaret. "And may I ask a question?" She knew by the tone of her cousin's voice that no question could come amiss. "You must ask him," said Margaret, coming to her and kissing her. "But, first of all," said Mrs Mackenzie, shutting the door and assuming a very serious countenance, "I have news of my own to tell. There is a gentleman downstairs in the dining-room who has sent up word that he wants to see me. He says he is a clergyman." Then Sir John Ball ceased to smile, and look foolish, but doubled his fist, and went towards the door. "Who is it?" said Margaret, whispering. "I have not heard his name, but from the servant's account of him I have not much doubt myself; I suppose he comes from Littlebath. You can go down to him, if you like, Sir John; but I would not advise it." "No," said Margaret, clinging to his arm, "you shall not go down. What good can you do? He is beneath you. If you beat him he will have the law of you—and he is a clergyman. If you do not, he will only revile you, and make you wretched." Thus between the two ladies the baronet was restrained. It was Mr Maguire. Having learned from his ally, Miss Colza, that Margaret was staying with her cousins in Cavendish Square, he had resolved upon calling on Mrs Mackenzie, and forcing his way, if possible, into Margaret's presence. Things were not going well with him at Littlebath, and in his despair he had thought that the best chance to him of carrying on the fight lay in this direction. Then there was a course of embassies between the dining-room and drawing-room in the Mackenzie mansion. The servant was sent to ask the gentleman his name, and the gentleman sent up to say that he was a clergyman,—that his name was not known to Mrs Mackenzie, but that he wanted to see her most particularly for a few minutes on very special business. Then the servant was despatched to ask him whether or no he was the Rev. Jeremiah Maguire, of Littlebath, and under this compulsion he sent back word that such was his designation. He was then told to go. Upon that he wrote a note to Mrs Mackenzie, setting forth that he had a private communication to make, much to the advantage of her cousin, Miss Margaret Mackenzie. He was again told to go; and then told again, that if he did not leave the house at once, the assistance of the police would be obtained. Then he went. "And it was frightful to behold him," said the servant, coming up for the tenth time. But the servant no doubt enjoyed the play, and on one occasion presumed to remark that he did not think any reference to the police was necessary. "Such a game as we've had up!" he said to the coachman that afternoon in the kitchen. And the game that they had in the drawing-room was not a bad game either. When Mr Maguire would not go, the two women joined in laughing, till at last the tears ran down Mrs Mackenzie's face. "Only think of our being kept prisoners here by a one-eyed clergyman." "He has got two eyes," said Margaret. "If he had ten he shan't see us." And at last Sir John laughed; and as he laughed he came and stood near Margaret; and once he got his arm round her waist, and Griselda was very happy. At the present moment she was quite indifferent to Mr Maguire and any mode of fighting that he might adopt. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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