"John," she said, when they had walked half the length of that side of the square, "I have heard dreadful news."
Then that deed of gift was, after all, a fact; and Mr Slow, instead of being a rogue3, must be the honestest old lawyer in London! He must have been at work in discovering the wrong that had been done, and was now about to reveal it to the world. Some such idea as this had glimmered4 across Mr Ball's mind as he had sat in Mr Slow's outer office, with his chin still resting on his umbrella.
But though some such idea as this did cross his mind, his thought on the instant was of his cousin.
"What dreadful news, Margaret?"
"It is about my money."
"Stop a moment, Margaret. Are you sure that you ought to tell it to me?"
"If I don't, to whom shall I tell it? And how can I bear it without telling it to some one?"
"Did Mr Slow bid you speak of it to me?"
"No; he bade me think much of it before I did so, as you are concerned. And he said that you might perhaps be disappointed."
Then they walked on again in silence. John Ball found his position to be very difficult, and hardly knew how to speak to her, or how to carry himself. If it was to be that this money was to come back to him; if it was his now in spite of all that had come and gone; if the wrong done was to be righted, and the property wrested5 from him was to be restored,—restored to him who wanted it so sorely,—how could he not triumph in such an act of tardy6 restitution7? He remembered all the particulars at this moment. Twelve thousand pounds of his uncle Jonathan's money had gone to Walter Mackenzie. The sum once intended for him had been much more than that,—more he believed than double that; but if twelve thousand pounds was now restored to him, how different would it make the whole tenor8 of his life; Mr Slow said that he might be disappointed; but then Mr Slow was not his lawyer. Did he not owe it to his family immediately to go to his own attorney? Now he thought no more of his guinea at the Shadrach, but walked on by his cousin's side with his mind intently fixed10 on his uncle's money. She was still leaning on his arm.
"Tell me, John, what shall I do?" said she, looking up into his face.
Would it not be better for them, better for the interests of them both, that they should be separated? Was it probable, or possible, that with interests so adverse11, they should give each other good advice? Did it not behove him to explain to her that till this should be settled between them, they must necessarily regard each other as enemies? For a moment or two he wished himself away from her, and was calculating how he might escape. But then, when he looked down at her, and saw the softness of her eye, and felt the confidence implied in the weight of her hand upon his arm, his hard heart was softened12, and he relented.
"It is difficult to tell you what you should do," he said. "At present nothing seems to be known. He has said nothing for certain."
"But I could understand him," she said, in reply; "I could see by his face, and I knew by the tone of his voice, that he was almost certain. I know that he is sure of it. John, I shall be a beggar, an absolute beggar! I shall have nothing; and those poor children will be beggars, and their mother. I feel as though I did not know where I am, or what I am doing."
Then an idea came into his head. If this money was not hers, it was his. If it was not his, then it was hers. Would it not be well that they should solve all the difficulty by agreeing then and there to be man and wife? It was true that since his Rachel's death he had seen no woman whom he so much coveted13 to have in his home as this one who now leaned on his arm. But, as he thought of it, there seemed to be a romance about such a step which would not befit him. What would his mother and father say to him if, after all his troubles, he was at last to marry a woman without a farthing? And then, too, would she consent to give up all further consideration for her brother's family? Would she agree to abandon her idea of assisting them, if ultimately it should turn out that the property was hers? No; there was certainly a looseness about such a plan which did not befit him; and, moreover, were he to attempt it, he would probably not succeed.
But something must be done, now at this moment. The guinea at the Shadrach was gone for ever, and therefore he could devote himself for the day to his cousin.
"Are you to hear again from Mr Slow?" he said.
"I am to go to him this day week."
"John, it is decided now; I am sure of it. I feel that it is all gone. A careful man like that would never have spoken as he did, unless he was sure. It will be all yours, John."
"So would have been that which your brother had," said he.
"I suppose so. It is dreadful to think of; very dreadful. I can only promise that I will spend nothing till it is decided. John, I wish you would take from me what I have, lest it should go." And she absolutely had her hand upon her purse in her pocket.
"No," said he slowly, "no; you need think of nothing of that sort."
"But what am I to do? Where am I to go while this week passes by?"
"You will stay where you are, of course."
"Oh John! if you could understand! How am I to look my aunt in the face. Don't you know that she would not wish to have me there at all if I was a poor creature without anything?" The poor creature did not know herself how terribly heavy was the accusation16 she was bringing against her aunt. "And what will she say when she knows that the money I have spent has never really been my own?"
Then he counselled her to say nothing about it to her aunt till after her next visit to Mr Slow's and made her understand that he, himself, would not mention the subject at the Cedars17 till the week was passed. He should go, he said, to his own lawyer, and tell him the whole story as far as he knew it. It was not that he in the least doubted Mr Slow's honesty or judgment18, but it would be better that the two should act together. Then when the week was over, he and Margaret would once more go to Lincoln's Inn Fields.
"What a week I shall have!" said she.
"It will be a nervous time for us both," he answered.
"And what must I do after that?" This question she asked, not in the least as desirous of obtaining from him any assurance of assistance, but in the agony of her spirit, and in sheer dismay as to her prospects19.
"We must hope for the best," he said. "God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb." He had often thought of the way in which he had been shorn, but he did not, at this moment, remember that the shearing20 had never been so tempered as to be acceptable to his own feelings.
"And in God only can I trust," she answered. As she said this, her mind went away to Littlebath, and the Stumfoldians, and Mr Maguire. Was there not great mercy in the fact, that this ruin had not found her married to that unfortunate clergyman? And what would they all say at Littlebath when they heard the story? How would Mrs Stumfold exult21 over the downfall of the woman who had rebelled against her! how would the nose of the coachmaker's wife rise in the air! and how would Mr Maguire rejoice that this great calamity22 had not fallen upon him! Margaret Mackenzie's heart and spirit had been sullied by no mean feeling with reference to her own wealth. It had never puffed23 her up with exultation24. But she calculated on the meanness of others, as though it was a matter of course, not, indeed, knowing that it was meanness, or blaming them in any way for that which she attributed to them. Four gentlemen had wished to marry her during the past year. It never occurred to her now, that any one of these four would on that account hold out a hand to help her. In losing her money she would have lost all that was desirable in their eyes, and this seemed to her to be natural.
They were still walking round Lincoln's Inn Fields. "John," she exclaimed suddenly, "I must go to them in Gower Street."
"What, now, to-day?"
"Yes, now, immediately. You need not mind me; I can get back to Twickenham by myself. I know the trains."
"If I were you, Margaret, I would not go till all this is decided."
"It is decided, John; I know it is. And how can I leave them in such a condition, spending money which they will never get? They must know it some time, and the sooner the better. Mr Rubb must know it too. He must understand that he is more than ever bound to provide them with an income out of the business."
"I would not do it to-day if I were you."
"But I must, John; this very day. If I am not home by dinner, tell them that I had to go to Gower Street. I shall at any rate be there in the evening. Do not you mind coming back with me."
They were then at the gate leading into the New Square, and she turned abruptly25 round, and hurried away from him up into Holborn, passing very near to Mr Slow's chambers. John Ball did not attempt to follow her, but stood there awhile looking after her. He felt, in his heart, and knew by his judgment, that she was a good woman, true, unselfish, full of love, clever too in her way, quick in apprehension26, and endowed with an admirable courage. He had heard her spoken of at the Cedars as a poor creature who had money. Nay27, he himself had taken a part in so speaking of her. Now she had no money, but he knew well that she was a creature the very reverse of poor. What should he do for her? In what way should he himself behave towards her? In the early days of his youth, before the cares of the world had made him hard, he had married his Rachel without a penny, and his father had laughed at him, and his mother had grieved over him. Tough and hard, and careworn28 as he was now, defiled29 by the price of stocks, and saturated30 with the poison of the money market, then there had been in him a touch of romance and a dash of poetry, and he had been happy with his Rachel. Should he try it again now? The woman would surely love him when she found that he came to her in her poverty as he had before come to her in her wealth. He watched her till she passed out of his sight along the wall leading to Holborn, and then he made his way to the City through Lincoln's Inn and Chancery Lane.
Margaret walked straight into Holborn, and over it towards Red Lion Square. She crossed the line of the omnibuses, feeling that now she must spend no penny which she could save. She was tired, for she had already walked much that morning, and the day was close and hot; but nevertheless she went on quickly, through Bloomsbury Square and Russell Square, to Gower Street. As she got near to the door her heart almost failed her; but she went up to it and knocked boldly. The thing should be done, let the pain of doing it be what it might.
"Laws, Miss Margaret! is that you?" said the maid. "Yes, missus is at home. She'll see you, of course, but she's hard at work on the furniture."
Then she went directly up into the drawing-room and there she found her sister-in-law, with her dress tucked up to her elbows, with a cloth in her hand, rubbing the chairs.
"What, Margaret! Whoever expected to see you? If we are to let the rooms, it's as well to have the things tidy, isn't it? Besides, a person bears it all the better when there's anything to do."
Then Mary Jane, the eldest31 daughter, came in from the bedroom behind the drawing-room, similarly armed for work.
Margaret sat down wearily upon the sofa, having muttered some word in answer to Mrs Tom's apology for having been found at work so soon after her husband's death.
"Sarah," she said, "I have come to you to-day because I had something to say to you about business."
"Oh, to be sure! I never thought for a moment you had come for pleasure, or out of civility, as it might be. Of course I didn't expect that when I saw you."
"Sarah, will you come upstairs with me into your own room?"
"Upstairs, Margaret? Oh yes, if you please. We shall be down directly, my dear, and I dare say Margaret will stay to tea. We tea early, because, since you went, we have dined at one."
Then Mrs Tom led the way up to the room in which Margaret had watched by her dying brother's bed-side.
"I'm come in here," said Mrs Tom, again apologising, "because the children had to come out of the room behind the drawing-room. Miss Colza is staying with us, and she and Mary Jane have your room."
Margaret did not care much for all this; but the solemnity of the chamber2 in which, when she last saw it, her brother's body was lying, added something to her sadness at the moment.
"Sarah," she said, endeavouring to warn her sister-in-law by the tone of her voice that her news was bad news, "I have just come from Mr Slow."
"He's the lawyer, isn't he?"
"Yes, he's the lawyer. You know what I promised my brother. I went to him to make arrangements for doing it, and when there I heard—oh, Sarah, such dreadful news!"
"He says you're not to do it, I suppose!" And in the woman's voice and eyes there were signs of anger, not against Mr Slow alone, but also against Miss Mackenzie. "I knew how it would be. But, Margaret, Mr Slow has got nothing to do with it. A promise is a promise; and a promise made to a dying man! Oh, Margaret!"
"If I had it to give I would give it as surely as I am standing32 here. When I told my brother it should be so, he believed me at once."
"Of course he believed you."
"But Sarah, they tell me now that I have nothing to give."
"Who tells you so?"
"The lawyer. I cannot explain it all to you; indeed, I do not as yet understand it myself; but I have learned this morning that the property which Walter left me was not his to leave. It had been given away before Mr Jonathan Ball died."
"It's a lie!" said the injured woman,—the woman who was the least injured, but who, with her children, had perhaps the best excuse for being ill able to bear the injury. "It must be a lie. It's more than twenty years ago. I don't believe and won't believe that it can be so. John Ball must have something to do with this."
"The property will go to him, but he has had nothing to do with it. Mr Slow found it out."
"It can't be so, not after twenty years. Whatever they may have done from Walter, they can't take it away from you; not if you've spirit enough to stand up for your rights. If you let them take it in that way, I can't tell you what I shall think of you."
"It is my own lawyer that says so."
"Yes, Mr Slow; the biggest rogue of them all. I always knew that of him, always. Oh, Margaret, think of the children! What are we to do? What are we to do?" And sitting down on the bedside, she put her dirty apron33 up to her eyes.
"I have been thinking of them ever since I heard it," said Margaret.
"But what good will thinking do? You must do something. Oh! Margaret, after all that you said to him when he lay there dying!" and the woman, with some approach to true pathos34, put her hand on the spot where her husband's head had rested. "Don't let his children come to beggary because men like that choose to rob the widow and the orphan35."
"Every one has a right to what is his own," said Margaret. "Even though widows should be beggars, and orphans36 should want."
"That's very well of you, Margaret. It's very well for you to say that, who have friends like the Balls to stand by you. And, perhaps, if you will let him have it all without saying anything, he will stand by you firmer than ever. But who is there to stand by me and my children? It can't be that after twenty years your fortune should belong to anyone else. Why should it have gone on for more than twenty years, and nobody have found it out? I don't believe it can come so, Margaret, unless you choose to let them do it. I don't believe a word of it."
There was nothing more to be said upon that subject at present. Mrs Tom did indeed say a great deal more about it, sometimes threatening Margaret, and sometimes imploring37 her; but Miss Mackenzie herself would not allow herself to speak of the thing otherwise than as an ascertained38 fact. Had the other woman been more reasonable or less passionate39 in her lamentations Miss Mackenzie might have trusted herself to tell her that there was yet a doubt. But she herself felt that the doubt was so small, and that, in Mrs Tom's mind, it would be so magnified into nearly a certainty on the other side, that she thought it most discreet40 not to refer to the exact amount of information which Mr Slow had given to her.
"It will be best for us to think, Sarah," she said, trying to turn the other's mind away from the coveted income which she would never possess—"to think what you and the children had better do."
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear!"
"It is very bad; but there is always something to be done. We must lose no time in letting Mr Rubb know the truth. When he hears how it is, he will understand that something must be done for you out of the firm."
"He won't do anything. He's downstairs now, flirting41 with that girl in the drawing-room, instead of being at his business."
"If he's downstairs, I will see him."
As Mrs Mackenzie made no objection to this, Margaret went downstairs, and when she came near the passage at the bottom, she heard the voices of people talking merrily in the parlour. As her hand was on the lock of the door, words from Miss Colza became very audible. "Now, Mr Rubb, be quiet." So she knocked at the door, and having been invited by Mr Rubb to come in, she opened it.
It may be presumed that the flirting had not gone to any perilous42 extent, as there were three or four children present. Nevertheless Miss Colza and Mr Rubb were somewhat disconcerted, and expressed their surprise at seeing Miss Mackenzie.
"We all thought you were staying with the baronet's lady," said Miss Colza.
Miss Mackenzie explained that she was staying at Twickenham, but that she had come up to pay a visit to her sister-in-law. "And I've a word or two I want to say to you, Mr Rubb, if you'll allow me."
"I suppose, then, I'd better make myself scarce," said Miss Colza.
As she was not asked to stay, she did make herself scarce, taking the children with her up among the tables and chairs in the drawing-room. There she found Mary Jane, but she did not find Mrs Mackenzie, who had thrown herself on the bed in her agony upstairs.
Then Miss Mackenzie told her wretched story to Mr Rubb,—telling it for the third time. He was awe-struck as he listened, but did not once attempt to deny the facts, as had been done by Mrs Mackenzie.
"And is it sure?" he asked, when her story was over.
"I don't suppose it is quite sure yet. Indeed, Mr Slow said it was not quite sure. But I have not allowed myself to doubt it, and I do not doubt it."
"If he himself had not felt himself sure, he would not have told you."
"Just so, Mr Rubb. That is what I think; and therefore I have given my sister-in-law no hint that there is a chance left. I think you had better not do so either."
"Perhaps not," said he. He spoke15 in a low voice, almost whispering, as though he were half scared by the tidings he had heard.
"It is very dreadful," she said; "very dreadful for Sarah and the children."
"And for you too, Miss Mackenzie."
"But about them, Mr Rubb. What can you do for them out of the business?"
"I know you will feel for their position," she said. "You do; do you not?"
"Indeed I do, Miss Mackenzie."
"And you will do what you can. You can at any rate ensure them the interest of the money—of the money you know that came from me."
Still Mr Rubb sat in silence, and she thought that he must be stonyhearted. Surely he might undertake to do that, knowing, as he so well knew, the way in which the money had been obtained, and knowing also that he had already said that so much should be forthcoming out of the firm to make up a general income for the family of his late partner.
"Surely there will be no doubt about that, Mr Rubb."
"The Balls will claim the debt," said he hoarsely43; and then, in answer to her inquiries44, he explained that the sum she had lent had not, in truth, been hers to lend. It had formed part of the money that John Ball could claim, and Mr Slow held in his hands an acknowledgement of the debt from Rubb and Mackenzie. Of course, Mr Ball would claim that the interest should be paid to him; and he would claim the principal too, if, on inquiry45, he should find that the firm would be able to raise it. "I don't know that he wouldn't be able to come upon the firm for the money your brother put into the business," said he gloomily. "But I don't think he'll be such a fool as that. He'd get nothing by it."
"Then may God help them!" said Miss Mackenzie.
"And what will you do?" he asked.
She shook her head, but made him no answer. As for herself she had not begun to form a plan. Her own condition did not seem to her to be nearly so dreadful as that of all these young children.
"I wish I knew how to help you," said Samuel Rubb.
"There are some positions, Mr Rubb, in which no one but God can help one. But, perhaps—perhaps you may still do something for the children."
"I will try, Miss Mackenzie."
"Thank you, and may God bless you; and He will bless you if you try. 'Who giveth a drop of water to one of them in my name, giveth it also to me.' You will think of that, will you not?"
"I will think of you, and do the best that I can."
"I had hoped to have made them so comfortable! But God's will be done; God's will be done. I think I had better go now, Mr Rubb. There will be no use in my going to her upstairs again. Tell her from me, with my love, that she shall hear from me when I have seen the lawyer. I will try to come to her, but perhaps I may not be able. Good-bye, Mr Rubb."
"Good-bye, Miss Mackenzie. I hope we shall see each other sometimes."
"Perhaps so. Do what you can to support her. She will want all that her friends can do for her." So saying she went out of the room, and let herself out of the front door into the street, and began her walk back to the Waterloo Station.
She had not broken bread in her sister-in-law's house, and it was now nearly six o'clock. She had taken nothing since she had breakfasted at Twickenham, and the affairs of the day had been such as to give her but little time to think of such wants. But now as she made her weary way through the streets she became sick with hunger, and went into a baker's shop for a bun. As she ate it she felt that it was almost wrong in her to buy even that. At the present moment nothing that she possessed46 seemed to her to be, by right, her own. Every shilling in her purse was the property of John Ball, if Mr Slow's statement were true. Then, when the bun was finished, as she went down by Bloomsbury church and the region of St Giles's back to the Strand47, she did begin to think of her own position. What should she do, and how should she commence to do it? She had declared to herself but lately that the work for which she was fittest was that of nursing the sick. Was it not possible that she might earn her bread in this way? Could she not find such employment in some quarter where her labour would be worth the food she must eat and the raiment she would require? There was a hospital somewhere in London with which she thought she had heard that John Ball was connected. Might not he obtain for her a situation such as that?
It was past eight when she reached the Cedars, and then she was very tired,—very tired and nearly sick also with want. She went first of all up to her room, and then crept down into the drawing-room, knowing that she should find them at tea. When she entered there was a large party round the table, consisting of the girls and children and Lady Ball. John Ball, who never took tea, was sitting in his accustomed place near the lamp, and the old baronet was half asleep in his arm-chair.
"If you were going to dine in Gower Street, Margaret, why didn't you say so?" said Lady Ball.
In answer to this, Margaret burst out into tears. It was not the unkindness of her aunt's voice that upset her so much as her own weakness, and the terrible struggle of the long day.
"What on earth is the matter?" said Sir John.
One of the girls brought her a cup of tea, but she felt herself to be too weak to take it in her hand, and made a sign that it should be put on the table. She was not aware that she had ever fainted, but a fear came upon her that she might do so now. She rallied herself and struggled, striving to collect her strength.
"Do you know what is the matter with her, John?" said Lady Ball.
Then John Ball asked her if she had had dinner, and when she did not answer him he saw how it was.
"Mother," he said, "she has had no food all day; I will get it for her."
"If she wants anything, the servants can bring it to her, John," said the mother.
But he would not trust the servants in this matter, but went out himself and fetched her meat and wine, and pressed her to take it, and sat himself beside her, and spoke kind words into her ear, and at last, in some sort, she was comforted.
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1
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wrested
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| （用力）拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 )； 费力取得； （从…）攫取； （ 从… ） 强行取去… | |
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tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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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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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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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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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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shearing
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| n.剪羊毛，剪取的羊毛v.剪羊毛( shear的现在分词 )；切断；剪切 | |
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exult
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| v.狂喜，欢腾；欢欣鼓舞 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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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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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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