"What on earth is she going there for?" said Mrs Tom Mackenzie.
"Because they have asked her," replied the husband.
"Of course they have asked her; but that's no reason she should go. The Balls have behaved very badly to us, and I should think much better of her if she stayed away."
To this Mr Mackenzie made no answer, but simply remarked that he would be rejoiced in having Susanna at home on Christmas Day.
"That's all very well, my dear," said Mrs Tom, "and of course so shall I. But as she has taken the charge of the child I don't think she ought to drop her down and pick her up just whenever she pleases. Suppose she was to take it into her head to stop at the Cedars altogether, what are we to do then?—just have the girl returned upon our hands, with all her ideas of life confused and deranged2. I hate such ways."
"She has promised to provide for Susanna, whenever she may not continue to give her a home."
"What would such a promise be worth if John Ball got hold of her money? That's what they're after, as sure as my name is Martha; and what she's after too, very likely. She was there once before she went to Littlebath at all. They want to get their uncle's money back, and she wants to be a baronet's wife."
The same view of the matter was perhaps taken by Mr Rubb, junior, when he was told that Miss Mackenzie was to pass through London on her way to the Cedars, though he did not express his fears openly, as Mrs Mackenzie had done.
"Why don't you ask your sister to stay in Gower Street?" he said to his partner.
"She wouldn't come."
"You might at any rate ask her."
"What good would it do?"
"Well; I don't know that it would do any good; but it wouldn't do any harm. Of course it's natural that she should wish to have friends about her; and it will only be natural too that she should marry some one."
"She may marry whom she pleases for me."
"She will marry whom she pleases; but I suppose you don't want to see her money go to the Balls."
"I shouldn't care a straw where her money went," said Thomas Mackenzie, "if I could only know that this sum which we have had from her was properly arranged. To tell you the truth, Rubb, I'm ashamed to look my sister in the face."
"That's nonsense. Her money is as right as the bank; and if in such matters as that brothers and sisters can't take liberties with each other, who the deuce can?"
"In matters of money nobody should ever take a liberty with anybody," said Mr Mackenzie.
He knew, however, that a great liberty had been taken with his sister's money, and that his firm had no longer the power of providing her with the security which had been promised to her.
Mr Mackenzie would take no steps, at his partner's instance, towards arresting his sister in London; but Mr Rubb was more successful with Mrs Mackenzie, with whom, during the last month or two, he had contrived3 to establish a greater intimacy4 than had ever previously5 existed between the two families. He had been of late a good deal in Gower Street, and Mrs Mackenzie had found him to be a much pleasanter and better educated man than she had expected. Such was the language in which she expressed her praise of him, though I am disposed to doubt whether she herself was at all qualified6 to judge of the education of any man. He had now talked over the affairs of Margaret Mackenzie with her sister-in-law, and the result of that talking was that Mrs Mackenzie wrote a letter to Littlebath, pressing Miss Mackenzie to stay a few days in Gower Street, on her way through London. She did this as well as she knew how to do it; but still there was that in the letter which plainly told an apt reader that there was no reality in the professions of affection made in it. Miss Mackenzie became well aware of the fact as she read her sister's words. Available hypocrisy7 is a quality very difficult of attainment8 and of all hypocrisies9, epistolatory hypocrisy is perhaps the most difficult. A man or woman must have studied the matter very thoroughly10, or be possessed11 of great natural advantages in that direction, who can so fill a letter with false expressions of affection, as to make any reader believe them to be true. Mrs Mackenzie was possessed of no such skill.
"Believe her to be my affectionate sister-in-law! I won't believe her to be anything of the kind," Margaret so spoke12 of the writer to herself, when she had finished the letter; but, nevertheless, she answered it with kind language, saying that she could not stay in town as she passed through to the Cedars, but that she would pass one night in Gower Street when she called to pick up Susanna on her return home.
It is hard to say what pleasure she promised herself in going to the Cedars, or why she accepted that invitation. She had, in truth, liked neither the people nor the house, and had felt herself to be uncomfortable while she was there. I think she felt it to be a duty to force herself to go out among people who, though they were personally disagreeable to her, might be socially advantageous13. If Sir John Ball had not been a baronet, the call to the Cedars would not have been so imperative14 on her. And yet she was not a tufthunter, nor a toady15. She was doing what we all do,—endeavouring to choose her friends from the best of those who made overtures16 to her of friendship. If other things be equal, it is probable that a baronet will be more of a gentleman and a pleasanter fellow than a manufacturer of oilcloth. Who is there that doesn't feel that? It is true that she had tried the baronet, and had not found him very pleasant, but that might probably have been her own fault. She had been shy and stiff, and perhaps ill-mannered, or had at least accused herself of these faults; and therefore she resolved to go again.
She called with Susanna as she passed through London, and just saw her sister-in-law.
"I wish you could have stayed," said Mrs Mackenzie.
"I will for one night, as I return, on the 10th of January," said Miss Mackenzie.
Mrs Mackenzie could not understand what Mr Rubb had meant by saying that that old maid was soft and pleasant, nor could she understand Susanna's love for her aunt. "I suppose men will put up with anything for the sake of money," she said to herself; "and as for children, the truth is, they'll love anybody who indulges them."
"Aunt is so kind," Susanna said. "She's always kind. If you wake her up in the middle of the night, she's kind in a moment. And if there's anything good to eat, it will make her eyes quite shine if she sees that anybody else likes it. I have known her sit for half an hour ever so uncomfortable, because she would not disturb the cat."
"Then she must be a fool, my dear," said Mrs Mackenzie.
"She isn't a fool, mamma; I'm quite sure of that," said Susanna.
Miss Mackenzie went on to the Cedars, and her mind almost misgave17 her in going there, as she was driven up through the dull brick lodges18, which looked as though no paint had touched them for the last thirty years, up to the front door of the dull brick house, which bore almost as dreary19 a look of neglect as the lodges. It was a large brick house of three stories, with the door in the middle, and three windows on each side of the door, and a railed area with a kitchen below the ground. Such houses were built very commonly in the neighbourhood of London some hundred and fifty years ago, and they may still be pleasant enough to the eye if there be ivy20 over them, and if they be clean with new paint, and spruce with the outer care of gardeners and the inner care of housemaids; but old houses are often like old ladies, who require more care in their dressing21 than they who are younger. Very little care was given to the Cedars, and the place therefore always looked ill-dressed. On the right hand as you entered was the dining-room, and the three windows to the left were all devoted22 to the hall. Behind the dining-room was Sir John's study, as he called it, and behind or beyond the hall was the drawing-room, from which four windows looked out into the garden. This might have been a pretty room had any care been taken to make anything pretty at the Cedars. But the furniture was old, and the sofas were hard, and the tables were rickety, and the curtains which had once been red had become brown with the sun. The dinginess23 of the house had not struck Miss Mackenzie so forcibly when she first visited it, as it did now. Then she had come almost direct from Arundel Street, and the house in Arundel Street had itself been very dingy24. Mrs Stumfold's drawing-rooms were not dingy, nor were her own rooms in the Paragon25. Her eye had become accustomed to better things, and she now saw at once how old were the curtains, and how lamentably26 the papers wanted to be renewed on the walls. She had, however, been drawn27 from the neighbouring station to the house in the private carriage belonging to the establishment, and if there was any sense of justice in her, it must be presumed that she balanced the good things with the bad.
But her mind misgave her, not because the house was outwardly dreary, but in fear of the inward dreariness28 of the people—or in fear rather of their dreariness and pride combined. Old Lady Ball, though naturally ill-natured, was not ill-mannered, nor did she give herself any special airs; but she knew that she was a baronet's wife, that she kept her carriage, and that it was an obligation upon her to make up for the poverty of her house by some little haughtiness29 of demeanour. There are women, high in rank, but poor in pocket, so gifted with the peculiar30 grace of aristocracy, that they show by every word spoken, by every turn of the head, by every step taken, that they are among the high ones of the earth, and that money has nothing to do with it. Old Lady Ball was not so gifted, nor had she just claim to such gifts. But some idea on the subject pervaded31 her mind, and she made efforts to be aristocratic in her poverty. Sir John was a discontented, cross old man, who had succeeded greatly in early life, having been for nearly twenty years in Parliament, but had fallen into adversity in his older days. The loss of that very money of which his niece, Miss Mackenzie was possessed, was, in truth, the one great misfortune which he deplored33; but that misfortune had had ramifications34 and extensions with which the reader need not trouble himself; but which, altogether, connected as they were with certain liberal aspirations35 which he had entertained in early life, and certain political struggles made during his parliamentary career, induced him to regard himself as a sort of Prometheus. He had done much for the world, and the world in return had made him a baronet without any money! He was a very tall, thin, gray-haired, old man, stooping much, and worn with age, but still endowed with some strength of will, and great capability36 of making himself unpleasant. His son was a bald-headed, stout37 man, somewhat past forty, who was by no means without cleverness, having done great things as a young man at Oxford38; but in life he had failed. He was a director of certain companies in London, at which he used to attend, receiving his guinea for doing so, and he had some small capital,—some remnant of his father's trade wealth, which he nursed with extreme care, buying shares here and there and changing his money about as his keen outlook into City affairs directed him. I do not suppose that he had much talent for the business, or he would have grown rich; but a certain careful zeal39 carried him on without direct loss, and gave him perhaps five per cent for his capital, whereas he would have received no more than four and a half had he left it alone and taken his dividends40 without troubling himself. As the difference did not certainly amount to a hundred a-year, it can hardly be said that he made good use of his time. His zeal deserved a better success. He was always thinking of his money, excusing himself to himself and to others by the fact of his nine children. For myself I think that his children were no justification41 to him; as they would have been held to be none, had he murdered and robbed his neighbours for their sake.
There had been a crowd of girls in the house when Miss Mackenzie had paid her former visit to the Cedars,—so many that she had carried away no remembrance of them as individuals. But at that time the eldest42 son, a youth now just of age, was not at home. This hope of the Balls, who was endeavouring to do at Oxford as his father had done, was now with his family, and came forward to meet his cousin as the old carriage was driven up to the door. Old Sir John stood within, in the hall, mindful of the window air, and Lady Ball, a little mindful of her dignity, remained at the drawing-room door. Even though Miss Mackenzie had eight hundred a-year, and was nearly related to the Incharrow family, a further advance than the drawing-room door would be inexpedient; for the lady, with all her virtues43, was still sister to the man who dealt in retail44 oilcloth in the New Road!
Miss Mackenzie thought nothing of this, but was well contented32 to be received by her hostess in the drawing-room.
"It's a dull house to come to, my dear," said Lady Ball; "but blood is thicker than water, they say, and we thought that perhaps you might like to be with your cousins at Christmas."
"I shall like it very much," said Miss Mackenzie.
"I suppose you must find it rather sad, living alone at Littlebath, away from all your people?"
"I have my niece with me, you know."
"A niece, have you? That's one of the girls from Gower Street, I suppose? It's very kind of you, and I dare say, very proper."
"But Littlebath is a very gay place, I thought," said John Ball, the third and youngest of the name. "We always hear of it at Oxford as being the most stunning45 place for parties anywhere near."
"I suppose you play cards every night of your life," said the baronet.
"No; I don't play cards," said Miss Mackenzie. "Many ladies do, but I'm not in that set."
"What set are you in?" said Sir John.
"I don't think I am in any set. I know Mr Stumfold, the clergyman there, and I go to his house sometimes."
"Oh, ah; I see," said Sir John. "I beg your pardon for mentioning cards. I shouldn't have done it, if I had known that you were one of Mr Stumfold's people."
"I am not one of Mr Stumfold's people especially," she said, and then she went upstairs.
The other John Ball came back from London just in time for dinner—the middle one of the three, whom we will call Mr Ball. He greeted his cousin very kindly46, and then said a word or two to his mother about shares. She answered him, assuming a look of interest in his tidings.
"I don't understand it; upon my word, I don't," said he. "Some of them will burn their fingers before they've done. I don't dare do it; I know that."
In the evening, when John Ball,—or Jack47, as he was called in the family,—had left the drawing-room, and the old man was alone with his son, they discussed the position of Margaret Mackenzie.
"You'll find she has taken up with the religious people there," said the father.
"It's just what she would do," said the son.
"They're the greatest thieves going. When once they have got their eyes upon money, they never take them off again."
"She's not been there long enough yet to give any one a hold upon her."
"I don't know that, John; but, if you'll take my advice, you'll find out the truth at once. She has no children, and if you've made up your mind about it, you'll do no good by delay."
"She's a very nice woman, in her way."
"Yes, she's nice enough. She's not a beauty; eh, John? and she won't set the Thames on fire."
"I don't wish her to do so; but I think she'd look after the girls, and do her duty."
"I dare say; unless she has taken to run after prayer-meetings every hour of her life."
"They don't often do that after they're married, sir."
"Well; I know nothing against her. I never thought much of her brothers, and I never cared to know them. One's dead now, and as for the other, I don't suppose he need trouble you much. If you've made up your mind about it, I think you might as well ask her at once." From all which it may be seen that Miss Mackenzie had been invited to the Cedars with a direct object on the part of Mr Ball.
But though the old gentleman thus strongly advised instant action, nothing was done during Christmas week, nor had any hint been given up to the end of the year. John Ball, however, had not altogether lost his time, and had played the part of middle-aged48 lover better than might have been expected from one the whole tenor49 of whose life was so thoroughly unromantic. He did manage to make himself pleasant to Miss Mackenzie, and so far ingratiated himself with her that he won much of her confidence in regard to money matters.
"But that's a very large sum of money?" he said to her one day as they were sitting together in his father's study. He was alluding50 to the amount which she had lent to Messrs Rubb and Mackenzie, and had become aware of the fact that as yet Miss Mackenzie held no security for the loan. "Two thousand five hundred pounds is a very large sum of money."
"But I'm to get five per cent, John." They were first cousins, but it was not without some ceremonial difficulty that they had arrived at each other's Christian51 names.
"My dear Margaret, their word for five per cent is no security. Five per cent is nothing magnificent. A lady situated52 as you are should never part with her money without security—never: but if she does, she should have more than five per cent."
"You'll find it's all right, I don't doubt," said Miss Mackenzie, who, however, was beginning to have little inward tremblings of her own.
"I hope so; but I must say, I think Mr Slow has been much to blame. I do, indeed." Mr Slow was the attorney who had for years acted for Walter Mackenzie and his father, and was now acting53 for Miss Mackenzie. "Will you allow me to go to him and see about it?"
"It has not been his fault. He wrote and asked me whether I would let them have it, before the papers were ready, and I said I would."
"But may I ask about it?"
Miss Mackenzie paused before she answered:
"I think you had better not, John. Remember that Tom is my own brother, and I should not like to seem to doubt him. Indeed, I do not doubt him in the least—nor yet Mr Rubb."
"I can assure you that it is a very bad way of doing business," said the anxious lover.
By degrees she began to like her cousin John Ball. I do not at all wish the reader to suppose that she had fallen in love with that bald-headed, middle-aged gentleman, or that she even thought of him in the light of a possible husband; but she found herself to be comfortable in his company, and was able to make a friend of him. It is true that he talked to her more of money than anything else; but then it was her money of which he talked, and he did it with an interest that could not but flatter her. He was solicitous54 about her welfare, gave her bits of advice, did one or two commissions for her in town, called her Margaret, and was kind and cousinly. The Cedars, she thought, was altogether more pleasant than she had found the place before. Then she told herself that on the occasion of her former visit she had not been there long enough to learn to like the place or the people. Now she knew them, and though she still dreaded55 her uncle and his cross sayings, and though that driving out with her aunt in the old carriage was tedious, she would have been glad to prolong her stay there, had she not bound herself to take Susanna back to school at Littlebath on a certain day. When that day came near—and it did come very near before Mr Ball spoke out—they pressed her to prolong her stay. This was done by both Lady Ball and by her son.
"You might as well remain with us another fortnight," said Lady Ball during one of these drives. It was the last drive which Miss Mackenzie had through Twickenham lanes during that visit to the Cedars.
"I can't do it, aunt, because of Susanna."
"I don't see that at all. You're not to make yourself a slave to Susanna."
"But I'm to make myself a mother to her as well as I can."
"I must say you have been rather hasty, my dear. Suppose you were to change your mode of life, what would you do?"
Then Miss Mackenzie, blushing slightly in the obscure corner of the carriage as she spoke, explained to Lady Ball that clause in her agreement with her brother respecting the five hundred pounds.
"Oh, indeed," said Lady Ball.
The information thus given had been manifestly distasteful, and the conversation was for a while interrupted; but Lady Ball returned to her request before they were again at home.
"I really do think you might stop, Margaret. Now that we have all got to know each other, it will be a great pity that it all should be broken up."
"But I hope it won't be broken up, aunt."
"You know what I mean, my dear. When people live so far off they can't see each other constantly; and now you are here, I think you might stay a little longer. I know there is not much attraction—"
"Oh, aunt, don't say that! I like being here very much."
"Then, why can't you stay? Write and tell Mrs Tom that she must keep Susanna at home for another week or so. It can't matter."
"It is not only for myself I speak, but John likes having you here with his girls; and Jack is so fond of you; and John himself is quite different while you are here. Do stay!"
Saying which Lady Ball put out her hand caressingly57 on Miss Mackenzie's arm.
"I'm afraid I mustn't," said Miss Mackenzie, very slowly. "Much as I should like it, I'm afraid I mustn't do it. I've pledged myself to go back with Susanna, and I like to be as good as my word."
Lady Ball drew herself up.
"I never went so much out of my way to ask any one to stay in my house before," she said.
"Dear aunt! don't be angry with me."
"Oh no! I'm not angry. Here we are. Will you get out first?"
Whereupon Lady Ball descended58 from the carriage, and walked into the house with a good deal of dignity.
"What a wicked old woman she was!" virtuous59 readers will say; "what a wicked old woman to endeavour to catch that poor old maid's fortune for her son!"
But I deny that she was in any degree a wicked old woman on that score. Why should not the two cousins marry, and do very well together with their joint60 means? Lady Ball intended to make a baronet's wife of her. If much was to be taken, was not much also to be given?
"You are going to stay, are you not?" Jack said to her that evening, as he wished her good-night. She was very fond of Jack, who was a nice-looking, smooth-faced young fellow, idolised by his sisters over whom he tyrannised, and bullied61 by his grandfather, before whom he quaked.
"I'm afraid not, Jack; but you shall come and see me at Littlebath, if you will."
"I should like it, of all things; but I do wish you'd stay: the house is so much nicer when you are in it!"
But of course she could not stay at the request of the young lad, when she had refused the request of the lad's grandmother.
After this she had one day to remain at the Cedars. It was a Thursday, and on the Friday she was to go to her brother's house on her way to Littlebath. On the Thursday morning Mr Ball waylaid62 her on the staircase, as she came down to breakfast, and took her with him into the drawing-room. There he made his request, standing63 with her in the middle of the room.
"Margaret," he said, "must you go away and leave us?"
"I'm afraid I must, John," she said.
"I wish we could make you think better of it."
"Of course I should like to stay, but—"
"Yes, there's always a but. I should have thought that, of all people in the world, you were the one most able to do just what you please with your time."
"We have all got duties to do, John."
"Of course we have; but why shouldn't it be your duty to make your relations happy? If you could only know how much I like your being here?"
Had it not been that she did not dare to do that for the son which she had refused to the mother, I think that she would have given way. As it was, she did not know how to yield, after having persevered64 so long.
"You are all so kind," she said, giving him her hand, "that it goes to my heart to refuse you; but I'm afraid I can't. I do not wish to give my brother's wife cause to complain of me."
"Then," said Mr Ball, speaking very slowly, "I must ask this favour of you, that you will let me see you alone for half an hour after dinner this evening."
"Certainly," said Miss Mackenzie.
"Thank you, Margaret. After tea I will go into the study, and perhaps you will follow me."
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cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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deranged
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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previously
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qualified
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hypocrisy
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attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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hypocrisies
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| n.伪善，虚伪( hypocrisy的名词复数 ) | |
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thoroughly
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possessed
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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advantageous
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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toady
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overtures
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misgave
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lodges
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dreary
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ivy
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dressing
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dinginess
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dingy
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paragon
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lamentably
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drawn
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dreariness
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haughtiness
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peculiar
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pervaded
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contented
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deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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dividends
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| 红利( dividend的名词复数 )； 股息； 被除数； （足球彩票的）彩金 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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