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Miss Mackenzie

<h3>CHAPTER XXVI</h3> <h3>Mrs Mackenzie of Cavendish Square  </h3> "My dear," said the beautifully-dressed lady, "you don't know me, I think;" and the beautifully-dressed lady came up to Miss Mackenzie very cordially, took her by the hand, smiled upon her, and seemed to be a very good-natured person indeed. Margaret told the lady that she did not know her, and at that moment was altogether at a loss to guess who the lady might be. The lady might be forty years of age, but was still handsome, and carried with her that easy, self-assured, well balanced manner, which, if it be not overdone, goes so far to make up for beauty, if beauty itself be wanting. "I am your cousin, Mrs Mackenzie,—Clara Mackenzie. My husband is Walter Mackenzie, and his father is Sir Walter Mackenzie, of Incharrow. Now you will know all about me." "Oh, yes, I know you," said Margaret. "I ought, I suppose, to make ever so many apologies for not coming to you before; but I did call upon you, ever so long ago; I forget when, and after that you went to live at Littlebath. And then we heard of you as being with Lady Ball, and for some reason, which I don't quite understand, it has always been supposed that Lady Ball and I were not to know each other. And now I have heard this wonderful story about your fortune, and about everything else, too, my dear; and it seems all very beautiful, and very romantic; and everybody says that you have behaved so well; and so, to make a long story short, I have come to find you out in your hermitage, and to claim cousinship, and all that sort of thing." "I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you, Mrs Mackenzie—" "Don't say it in that way, my dear, or else you'll make me think you mean to turn a cold shoulder on me for not coming to you before." "Oh, no." "But we've only just come to town; and though of course I heard the story down in Scotland—" "Did you?" "Did I? Why, everybody is talking about it, and the newspapers have been full of it." "Oh, Mrs Mackenzie, that is so terrible." "But nobody has said a word against you. Even that stupid clergyman, who calls you the lamb, has not pretended to say that you were his lamb. We had the whole story of the Lion and the Lamb in the Inverary Interpreter, but I had no idea that it was you, then. But the long and the short of it is, that my husband says he must know his cousin; and to tell the truth, it was he that sent me; and we want you to come and stay with us in Cavendish Square till the lawsuit is over, and everything is settled." Margaret was so startled by the proposition, that she did not know how to answer it. Of course she was at first impressed with a strong idea of the impossibility of her complying with such a request, and was simply anxious to find some proper way of refusing it. The Incharrow Mackenzies were great people who saw much company, and it was, she thought, quite out of the question that she should go to their house. At no time of her career would she have been, as she conceived, fit to live with such grand persons; but at the present moment, when she grudged herself even a new pair of gloves out of the money remaining to her, while she was still looking forward to a future life passed as a nurse in a hospital, she felt that there would be an absolute unfitness in such a visit. "You are very kind," she said at last with faltering voice, as she meditated in what words she might best convey her refusal. "No, I'm not a bit kind; and I know from the tone of your voice that you are meditating a refusal. But I don't mean to accept it. It is much better that you should be with us while all this is going on, than that you should be living here alone. And there is no one with whom you could live during this time so properly, as with those who are your nearest relatives." "But, Mrs Mackenzie—" "I suppose you are thinking now of another cousin, but it's not at all proper that you should go to his house;—not as yet, you know. And you need not suppose that he'll object because of what I said about Lady Ball and myself. The Capulets and the Montagues don't intend to keep it up for ever; and, though we have never visited Lady Ball, my husband and the present Sir John know each other very well." Mrs Mackenzie was not on that occasion able to persuade Margaret to come at once to Cavendish Square, and neither was Margaret able to give a final refusal. She did not intend to go, but she could not bring herself to speak a positive answer in such a way as to have much weight with Mrs Mackenzie. That lady left her at last, saying that she would send her husband, and promising Margaret that she would herself come in ten days to fetch her. "Oh no," said Margaret; "it will be very good-natured of you to come, but not for that." "But I shall come, and shall come for that," said Mrs Mackenzie; and at the end of the ten days she did come, and she did carry her husband's cousin back with her to Cavendish Square. In the meantime Walter Mackenzie had called in Arundel Street, and had seen Margaret. But there had been given to her advice by a counsellor whom she was more inclined to obey than any of the Mackenzies. John Ball had written to her, saying that he had heard of the proposition, and recommending her to accept the invitation given to her. "Till all this trouble about the property is settled," said he, "it will be much better that you should be with your cousins than living alone in Mrs Buggins' lodgings." After receiving this Margaret held out no longer but was carried off by the handsome lady in the grand carriage, very much to the delight of Mrs Buggins. Mrs Buggins' respect for Miss Mackenzie had returned altogether since she had heard of the invitation to Cavendish Square, and she apologised, almost without ceasing, for the liberty she had taken in suggesting that Margaret should drink tea with her husband. "And indeed, Miss, I shouldn't have proposed such a thing, were it ever so, if I had suspected for a hinstant how things were a going to be. For Buggins is a man as knows his place, and never puts himself beyond it! But you was that close, Miss—" In answer to this Margaret would say that it didn't signify, and that it wasn't on that account; and I have no doubt but that the two women thoroughly understood each other. There was a subject on which, in spite of all her respect, Mrs Buggins ventured to give Miss Mackenzie much advice, and to insist on that advice strongly. Mrs Buggins was very anxious that the future "baronet's lady" should go out upon her grand visit with a proper assortment of clothing. That argument of the baronet's lady was the climax of Mrs Buggins' eloquence: "You, my dear, as is going to be one baronet's lady is going to a lady who is going to be another baronet's lady, and it's only becoming you should go as is becoming." Margaret declared that she was not going to be anybody's lady, but Mrs Buggins altogether pooh-poohed this assertion. "That, Miss, is your predestination," said Mrs Buggins, "and well you'll become it. And as for money, doesn't that old party who found it all out say reg'lar once a month that there's whatever you want to take for your own necessaries? and you that haven't had a shilling from him yet! If it was me, I'd send him in such a bill for necessaries as 'ud open that old party's eyes a bit, and hurry him up with his lawsuits." The matter was at last compromised between her and Margaret, and a very moderate expenditure for smarter clothing was incurred. On the day appointed Mrs Mackenzie again came, and Margaret was carried off to Cavendish Square. Here she found herself suddenly brought into a mode of life altogether different from anything she had as yet experienced. The Mackenzies were people who went much into society, and received company frequently at their own house. The first of these evils for a time Margaret succeeded in escaping, but from the latter she had no means of withdrawing herself. There was very much to astonish her at this period of her life, but that which astonished her perhaps more than anything else was her own celebrity. Everybody had heard of the Lion and the Lamb, and everybody was aware that she was supposed to represent the milder of those two favourite animals. Everybody knew the story of her property, or rather of the property which had never in truth been hers, and which was now being made to pass out of her hands by means of a lawsuit, of which everybody spoke as though it were the best thing in the world for all the parties concerned. People, when they mentioned Sir John Ball to her—and he was often so mentioned—never spoke of him in harsh terms, as though he were her enemy. She observed that he was always named before her in that euphuistic language which we naturally use when we speak to persons of those who are nearest to them and dearest to them. The romance of the thing, and not the pity of it, was the general subject of discourse, so that she could not fail to perceive that she was generally regarded as the future wife of Sir John Ball. It was the sudden way in which all this had come upon her that affected her so greatly. While staying in Arundel Street she had been altogether ignorant that the story of the Lion and the Lamb had become public, or that her name had been frequent in men's mouths. When Mrs Buggins had once told her that she was thus becoming famous, she had ridiculed Mrs Buggins' statement. Mrs Buggins had brought home word from some tea-party that the story had been discussed among her own friends; but Miss Mackenzie had regarded that as an accident. A lawyer's clerk or two about Chancery Lane or Carey Street might by chance hear of the matter in the course of their daily work;—that it should be so, and that such people talked of her affairs distressed her; but that had, she was sure, been all. Now, however, in her new home she had learned that Mr Maguire's efforts had become notorious, and that she and her history were public property. When all this first became plain to her, it overwhelmed her so greatly that she was afraid to show her face; but this feeling gradually wore itself away, and she found herself able to look around upon the world again, and ask herself new questions of the future, as she had done when she had first found herself to be the possessor of her fortune. When she had been about three weeks with the Mackenzies, Sir John Ball came to see her. He had written to her once before that, but his letter had referred simply to some matter of business. When he was shown into the drawing-room in Cavendish Square, Mrs Mackenzie and Margaret were both there, but the former in a few minutes got up and left the room. Margaret had wished with all her heart that her hostess would remain with them. She was sure that Sir John Ball had nothing to say that she would care to hear, and his saying nothing would seem to be of no special moment while three persons were in the room. But his saying nothing when special opportunity for speaking had been given to him would be of moment to her. Her destiny was in his hands to such a degree that she felt his power over her to amount almost to a cruelty. She longed to ask him what her fate was to be, but it was a question that she could not put to him. She knew that he would not tell her now; and she knew also that the very fact of his not telling her would inflict upon her a new misery, and deprive her of the comfort which she was beginning to enjoy. If he could not tell her at once how all this was to be ended, it would be infinitely better for her that he should remain away from her altogether. As soon as Mrs Mackenzie had left the room he began to describe to her his last interview with the lawyers. She listened to him, and pretended to interest herself, but she did not care two straws about the lawyers. Point after point he explained to her, showing the unfortunate ingenuity with which his uncle Jonathan had contrived to confuse his affairs, and Margaret attempted to appear concerned. But her mind had now for some months past refused to exert itself with reference to the mode in which Mr Jonathan Ball had disposed of his money. Two years ago she had been told that it was hers; since that, she had been told that it was not hers. She had felt the hardship of this at first; but now that feeling was over with her, and she did not care to hear more about it. But she did care very much to know what was to be her future fate. "And when will be the end of it, John?" she asked him. "Ha! that seems so hard to say. They did name the first of April, but it won't be so soon as that. Mr Slow said to-day about the end of April, but his clerk seems to think it will be the middle of May." "It is very provoking," said Margaret. "Yes, it is," said John Ball, "very provoking; I feel it so. It worries me so terribly that I have no comfort in life. But I suppose you find everything very nice here." "They are very kind to me." "Very kind, indeed. It was quite the proper thing for them to do; and when I heard that Mrs Mackenzie had been to you in Arundel Street, I was delighted." Margaret did not dare to tell him that she would have preferred to have been left in Arundel Street; but that, at the moment, was her feeling. If, when all this was over, she would still have to earn her bread, it would have been much better for her not to have come among her rich relations. What good would it then do her to have lived two or three months in Cavendish Square? "I wish it were all settled, John," she said; and as she spoke there was a tear standing in the corner of each eye. "I wish it were, indeed," said John Ball; but I think that he did not see the tears. It was on her tongue to speak some word about the hospital; but she felt that if she did so now, it would be tantamount to asking him that question which it did not become her to ask; so she repressed the word, and sat in silence. "When the day is positively fixed for the hearing," said he, "I will be sure to let you know." "I wish you would let me know nothing further about it, John, till it is all settled." "I sometimes almost fancy that I wish the same thing," said he, with a faint attempt at a smile; and after that he got up and went his way. This was not to be endured. Margaret declared to herself that she could not live and bear it. Let the people around her say what they would, it could not be that he would treat her in this way if he intended to make her his wife. It would be better for her to make up her mind that it was not to be so, and to insist on leaving the Mackenzies' house. She would go, not again to Arundel Street, but to some lodging further away, in some furthest recess of London, where no one would come to her and flurry her with false hopes, and there remain till she might be allowed to earn her bread. That was the mood in which Mrs Mackenzie found her late in the afternoon on the day of Sir John Ball's visit. There was to be a dinner party in the house that evening, and Margaret began by asking leave to absent herself. "Nonsense, Margaret," said Mrs Mackenzie; "I won't have anything of the kind." "I cannot come down, Mrs Mackenzie; I cannot, indeed." "That is absolute nonsense. That man has been saying something unkind to you. Why do you mind what he says?" "He has not said anything unkind; he has not said anything at all." "Oh, that's the grief, is it?" "I don't know what you mean by grief; but if you were situated as I am you would perceive that you were in a false position." "I am sure he has been saying something unkind to you." Margaret hardly knew how to tell her thoughts and feelings, and yet she wished to tell them. She had resolved that she would tell the whole to Mrs Mackenzie, having convinced herself that she could not carry out her plan of leaving Cavendish Square without some explanation of the kind. She did not know how to make her speech with propriety, so she jumped at the difficulty boldly. "The truth is, Mrs Mackenzie, that he has no more idea of marrying me than he has of marrying you." "Margaret, how can you talk such nonsense?" "It is not nonsense; it is true; and it will be much better that it should all be understood at once. I have nothing to blame him for, nothing; and I don't blame him; but I cannot bear this kind of life any longer. It is killing me. What business have I to be living here in this way, when I have got nothing of my own, and have no one to depend on but myself?" "Then he must have said something to you; but, whatever it was, you cannot but have misunderstood him." "No; he has said nothing, and I have not misunderstood him." Then there was a pause. "He has said nothing to me, and I am bound to understand what that means." "Margaret, I want to put one question to you," said Mrs Mackenzie, speaking with a serious air that was very unusual with her,—"and you will understand, dear, that I only do so because of what you are saying now." "You may put any question you please to me," said Margaret. "Has your cousin ever asked you to be his wife, or has he not?" "Yes, he has. He has asked me twice." "And what answer did you make him?" "When I thought all the property was mine, I refused him. Then, when the property became his, he asked me again, and I accepted him. Sometimes, when I think of that, I feel so ashamed of myself, that I hardly dare to hold up my head." "But you did not accept him simply because you had lost your money." "No; but it looks so like it; does it not? And of course he must think that I did so." "I am quite sure he thinks nothing of the kind. But he did ask you, and you did accept him?" "Oh, yes." "And since that, has he ever said anything to you to signify that the match should be broken off?" "The very day after he had asked me, Mr Maguire came to the Cedars and saw me, and Lady Ball was there too. And he was very false, and told my aunt things that were altogether untrue. He said that—that I had promised to marry him, and Lady Ball believed him." "But did Mr Ball believe him?" "My aunt said all that she could against me, and when John spoke to me the next day, it was clear that he was very angry with me." "But did he believe you or Mr Maguire when you told him that Mr Maguire's story was a falsehood from beginning to end?" "But it was not a falsehood from beginning to end. That's where I have been so very, very unfortunate; and perhaps I ought to say, as I don't want to hide anything from you, so very, very wrong. The man did ask me to marry him, and I had given him no answer." "Had you thought of accepting him?" "I had not thought about that at all, when he came to me. So I told him that I would consider it all, and that he must come again." "And he came again." "Then my brother's illness occurred, and I went to London. After that Mr Maguire wrote to me two or three times, and I refused him in the plainest language that I could use. I told him that I had lost all my fortune, and then I was sure that there would be an end of any trouble from him; but he came to the Cedars on purpose to do me all this injury; and now he has put all these stories about me into the newspapers, how can I think that any man would like to make me his wife? I have no right to be surprised that Lady Ball should be so eager against it." "But did Mr Ball believe you when you told him the story?" "I think he did believe me." "And what did he say?" Margaret did not answer at once, but sat with her fingers up among her hair upon her brow: "I am trying to think what were his words," she said, "but I cannot remember. I spoke more than he did. He said that I should have told him about Mr Maguire, and I tried to explain to him that there had been no time to do so. Then I said that he could leave me if he liked." "And what did he answer?" "If I remember rightly, he made no answer. He left me saying that he would see me again the next day. But the next day I went away. I would not remain in the house with Lady Ball after what she had believed about me. She took that other man's part against me, and therefore I went away." "Did he say anything as to your going?" "He begged me to stay, but I would not stay. I thought it was all over then. I regarded him as being quite free from any engagement, and myself as being free from any necessity of obeying him. And it was all over. I had no right to think anything else." "And what came next?" "Nothing. Nothing else has happened, except that Lady Ball came to me in Arundel Street, asking me to renounce him." "And you refused?" "Yes; I would do nothing at her bidding. Why should I? She had been my enemy throughout, since she found that the money belonged to her son and not to me." "And all this time you have seen him frequently?" "I have seen him sometimes about the business." "And he has never said a word to you about your engagement to him?" "Never a word." "Nor you to him?" "Oh, no! how could I speak to him about it?" "I would have done so. I would not have had my heart crushed within me. But perhaps you were right. Perhaps it was best to be patient." "I know that I have been wrong to expect anything or to hope for anything," said Margaret. "What right have I to hope for anything when I refused him while I was rich?" "That has nothing to do with it." "When he asked me again, he only did it because he pitied me. I don't want to be any man's wife because he pities me." "But you accepted him." "Yes; because I loved him." "And now?" Again Miss Mackenzie sat silent, still moving her fingers among the locks upon her brow. "And now, Margaret?" repeated Mrs Mackenzie. "What's the use of it now?" "But you do love him?" "Of course I love him. How shall it be otherwise? What has he done to change my love? His feelings have changed, and I have no right to blame him. He has changed; and I hate myself, because I feel that in coming here I have, as it were, run after him. I should have put myself in some place where no thought of marrying him should ever have come again to me." "Margaret, you are wrong throughout." "Am I? Everybody always says that I am always wrong." "If I can understand anything of the matter, Sir John Ball has not changed." "Then, why—why—why?" "Ah, yes, exactly; why? Why is it that men and women cannot always understand each other; that they will remain for hours in each other's presence without the power of expressing, by a single word, the thoughts that are busy within them? Who can say why it is so? Can you get up and make a clean breast of it all to him?" "But I am a woman, and am very poor." "Yes, and he is a man, and, like most men, very dumb when they have anything at heart which requires care in the speaking. He knows no better than to let things be as they are; to leave the words all unspoken till he can say to you, 'Now is the time for us to go and get ourselves married;' just as he might tell you that now was the time to go and dine." "But will he ever say that?" "Of course he will. If he does not say so when all this business is off his mind, when Mr Maguire and his charges are put at rest, when the lawyers have finished their work, then come to me and tell me that I have deceived you. Say to me then, 'Clara Mackenzie, you have put me wrong, and I look to you to put me right.' You will find I will put you right." In answer to this, Margaret was able to say nothing further. She sat for a while with her face buried in her hands thinking of it all, asking herself whether she might dare to believe it all. At last, however, she went up to dress for dinner; and when she came down to the drawing-room there was a smile upon her face. After that a month or six weeks passed in Cavendish Square, and there was, during all that time, no further special reference to Sir John Ball or his affairs. Twice he was asked to dine with the Mackenzies, and on both occasions he did so. On neither of those evenings did he say very much to Margaret; but, on both of them he said some few words, and it was manifestly his desire that they should be regarded as friends. And as the spring came on, Margaret's patience returned to her, and her spirits were higher than they had been at any time since she first discovered that success among the Stumfoldians at Littlebath did not make her happy. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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