"He came to see me, John," said Miss Mackenzie, going back into the dining-room. "He was my brother's partner."
"He said he came upon business; what business could he have?"
It was not very easy for her to tell him what had been Mr Rubb's business. She had no wish to keep anything secret from her cousin, but she did not know how to describe the scene which had just taken place, or how to acknowledge that the man had come there to ask her to marry him.
"Does he know anything of this matter of your money?" continued Mr Ball.
"Oh yes; he knows it all. He was in Gower Street when I told my sister-in-law."
"And he came to advise you about it?"
"Yes; he did advise me about it. But his advice I shall not take."
"And what did he advise?"
Then Margaret told him that Mr Rubb had counselled her to fight it out to the last, in order that a compromise might at any rate be obtained.
"If it has no selfish object in view I am far from saying that he is wrong," said John Ball. "It is what I should advise a friend to do under similar circumstances."
"It is not what I shall do, John."
"No; you are like a lamb that gives itself up to the slaughterer2. I have been with one lawyer or the other all day, and the end of it is that there is no use on earth in your going to London to-morrow, nor, as far as I can see, for another week to come. The two lawyers together have referred the case to counsel for opinion,—for an amicable3 opinion as they call it. From what they all say, Margaret, it seems to me clear that the matter will go against you."
"I have expected nothing else since Mr Slow spoke to me."
"But no doubt you can make a fight, as your friend says."
"I don't want to fight, John; you know that."
"Mr Slow won't let you give it up without a contest. He suggested a compromise,—that you and I should divide it. But I hate compromises." She looked up into his face but said nothing. "The truth is, I have been so wronged in the matter, the whole thing has been so cruel, it has, all of it together, so completely ruined me and my prospects4 in life, that were it any one but you, I would sooner have a lawsuit5 than give up one penny of what is left." Again she looked at him, but he went on speaking of it without observing her. "Think what it has been, Margaret! The whole of this property was once mine! Not the half of it only that has been called yours, but the whole of it! The income was actually paid for one half-year to a separate banking6 account on my behalf, before I was of age. Yes, paid to me, and I had it! My uncle Jonathan had no more legal right to take it away from me than you have to take the coat off my back. Think of that, and of what four-and-twenty thousand pounds would have done for me and my family from that time to this. There have been nearly thirty years of this robbery!"
"It was not my fault, John."
"No; it was not your fault. But if your brothers could pay me back all that they really owe me, all that the money would now be worth, it would come to nearly a hundred thousand pounds. After that, what is a man to say when he is asked to compromise? As far as I can see, there is not a shadow of doubt about it. Mr Slow does not pretend that there is a doubt. How they can fail to see the justice of it is what passes my understanding!"
"Mr Slow will give up at once, I suppose, if I ask him?"
"I don't want you to ask him. I would rather that you didn't say a word to him about it. There is a debt too from that man Rubb which they advise me to abandon."
In answer to this, Margaret could say nothing, for she knew well that her trust in the interest of that money was the only hope she had of any maintenance for her sister-in-law.
After a few minutes' silence he again spoke to her. "He desires to know whether you want money for immediate7 use."
"Who wants to know?"
"Mr Slow."
"Oh no, John. I have money at the bankers', but I will not touch it."
"How much is there at the bankers?"
"There is more than three hundred pounds; but very little more; perhaps three hundred and ten."
"You may have that."
"John, I don't want anything that is not my own; not though I had to walk out to earn my bread in the streets to-morrow."
"That is your own, I tell you. The tenants8 have been ordered not to pay any further rents, till they receive notice. You can make them pay, nevertheless, if you wish it; at least, you might do so, till some legal steps were taken."
"Of course, I shall do nothing of the kind. It was Mr Slow's people who used to get the money. And am I not to go up to London to-morrow?"
"You can go if you choose, but you will learn nothing. I told Mr Slow that I would bid you wait till I heard from him again. It is time now for us to get ready for dinner."
Then, as he was going to leave the room, she took him by the coat and held him again,—held him as fast as she had done on the pavement in Lincoln's Inn Fields. There was a soft, womanly, trusting weakness in the manner of her motion as she did this, which touched him now as it had touched him then.
"John," she said, "if there is to be so much delay, I must not stay here."
"Why not, Margaret?"
"My aunt does not like my staying; I can see that; and I don't think it is fair to do so while she does not know all about it. It is something like cheating her out of the use of the house."
"Then I will tell her."
"What, all? Had I not better go first?"
"No; you cannot go. Where are you to go to? I will tell her everything to-night. I had almost made up my mind to do so already. It will be better that they should both know it,—my father and my mother. My father probably will be required to say all that he knows about the matter."
"I shall be ready to go at once if she wishes it," said Margaret.
To this he made no answer, but went upstairs to his bedroom, and there, as he dressed, thought again, and again, and again of his cousin Margaret. What should he do for her, and in what way should he treat her? The very name of the Mackenzies he had hated of old, and their names were now more hateful to him than ever. He had correctly described his own feelings towards them when he said, either truly or untruly, that they had deprived him of that which would have made his whole life prosperous instead of the reverse. And it seemed as though he had really thought that they had been in fault in this,—that they had defrauded9 him. It did not, apparently10, occur to him that the only persons he could blame were his uncle Jonathan and his own lawyers, who, at his uncle's death, had failed to discover on his behalf what really were his rights. Walter Mackenzie had been a poor creature who could do nothing. Tom Mackenzie had been a mean creature who had allowed himself to be cozened in a petty trade out of the money which he had wrongfully acquired. They were odious11 to him, and he hated their memories. He would fain have hated all that belonged to them, had he been able. But he was not able to hate this woman who clung to him, and trusted him, and felt no harsh feelings towards him, though he was going to take from her everything that had been hers. She trusted him for advice even though he was her adversary12! Would he have trusted her or any other human being under such circumstances? No, by heavens! But not the less on that account did he acknowledge to himself that this confidence in her was very gracious.
That evening passed by very quietly as far as Miss Mackenzie was concerned. She had some time since, immediately on her last arrival at the Cedars13, offered to relieve her aunt from the trouble of making tea, and the duty had then been given up to her. But since Lady Ball's affair in obtaining possession of her niece's secret, the post of honour had been taken away.
"You don't make it as your uncle likes it," Lady Ball had said.
She made her little offer again on this evening, but it was rejected.
"Thank you, no; I believe I had better do it myself," had been the answer.
"Why can't you let Margaret make tea? I'm sure she does it very well," said John.
"I don't see that you can be a judge, seeing that you take none," his mother replied; "and if you please, I'd rather make the tea in my own house as long as I can."
This little allusion14 to her own house was, no doubt, a blow at her son, to punish him in that he had dictated15 to her in that matter of the continued entertainment of her guest; but Margaret also felt it to be a blow at her, and resolved that she would escape from the house with as little further delay as might be possible. Beyond this, the evening was very quiet, till Margaret, a little after tea, took her candle and went off wearily to her room.
But then the business of the day as regarded the Cedars began; for John Ball, before he went to bed, told both his father and his mother the whole story,—the story, that is, as far as the money was concerned, and also as far as Margaret's conduct to him was concerned; but of his own feelings towards her he said nothing.
"She has behaved admirably, mother," he said; "you must acknowledge that, and I think that she is entitled to all the kindness we can show her."
"I have been kind to her," Lady Ball answered.
This had taken place in Lady Ball's own room, after they had left Sir John. The tidings had taken the old man so much by surprise, that he had said little or nothing. Even his caustic16 ill-nature had deserted17 him, except on one occasion, when he remarked that it was like his brother Jonathan to do as much harm with his money as was within his reach.
"My memory in such a matter is worth nothing,—absolutely nothing," the old man had said. "I always supposed something was wrong. I remember that. But I left it all to the lawyers."
In Lady Ball's room the conversation was prolonged to a late hour of the night, and took various twists and turns, as such conversations will do.
"What are we to do about the young woman?" That was Lady Ball's main question, arising, no doubt, from the reflection that the world would lean very heavily on them if they absolutely turned her out to starve in the streets.
John Ball made no proposition in answer to this, having not as yet made up his mind as to what his own wishes were with reference to the young woman. Then his mother made her proposition.
"Of course that money due by the Rubbs must be paid. Let her take that." But her son made no reply to this other than that he feared the Rubbs were not in a condition to pay the money.
"They would pay her the interest at any rate," said Lady Ball, "till she had got into some other way of life. She would do admirably for a companion to an old lady, because her manners are good, and she does not want much waiting upon herself."
On the next morning Miss Mackenzie trembled in her shoes as she came down to breakfast. Her uncle, whom she feared the most, would not be there; but the meeting with her aunt, when her aunt would know that she was a pauper18 and that she had for the last week been an impostor, was terrible to her by anticipation19. But she had not calculated that her aunt's triumph in this newly-acquired wealth for the Ball family would, for the present, cover any other feeling that might exist. Her aunt met her with a gracious smile, was very urbane20 in selecting a chair for her at prayers close to her own, and pressed upon her a piece of buttered toast out of a little dish that was always prepared for her ladyship's own consumption. After breakfast John Ball again went to town. He went daily to town during the present crisis; and, on this occasion, his mother made no remark as to the urgency of his business. When he was gone Lady Ball began to potter about the house, after her daily custom, and was longer in her pottering than was usual with her. Miss Mackenzie helped the younger children in their lessons, as she often did; and when time for luncheon21 came, she had almost begun to think that she was to be allowed to escape any conversation with her aunt touching22 the great money question. But it was not so. At one she was told that luncheon and the children's dinner was postponed23 till two, and she was asked by the servant to go up to Lady Ball in her own room.
"Come and sit down, my dear," said Lady Ball, in her sweetest voice. "It has got to be very cold, and you had better come near the fire." Margaret did as she was bidden, and sat herself down in the chair immediately opposite to her aunt.
"This is a wonderful story that John has told me," continued her aunt—"very wonderful."
"It is sad enough for me," said Margaret, who did not feel inclined to be so self-forgetful in talking to her aunt as she had been with her cousin.
"It is sad for you, Margaret, no doubt. But I am sure you have within you that conscientious25 rectitude of purpose that you would not wish to keep anything for yourself that in truth belongs to another."
To this Margaret answered nothing, and her aunt went on.
"It is a great change to you, no doubt; and, of course, that is the point on which I wish to speak to you most especially. I have told John that something must be done for you."
This jarred terribly on poor Margaret's feelings. Her cousin had said nothing, not a word as to doing anything for her. The man who had told her of his love, and asked her to be his wife, not twelve months since,—who had pressed her to be of all women the dearest to him and the nearest,—had talked to her of her ruin without offering her aid, although this ruin to her would enrich him very greatly. She had expected nothing from him, had wanted nothing from him; but by degrees, when absent from him, the feeling had grown upon her that he had been hard to her in abstaining27 from expressions of commiseration28. She had yielded to him in the whole affair, assuring him that nothing should be done by her to cause him trouble; and she would have been grateful to him if in return he had said something to her of her future mode of life. She had intended to speak to him about the hospital; but she had thought that she might abstain26 from doing so till he himself should ask some question as to her plans. He had asked no such question, and she was now almost determined29 to go away without troubling him on the subject. But if he, who had once professed30 to love her, would make no suggestion as to her future life, she could ill bear that any offer of the kind should come from her aunt, who, as she knew, had only regarded her for her money.
"I would rather," she replied, "that nothing should be said to him on the subject."
"And why not, Margaret?"
"I desire that I may be no burden to him or anybody. I will go away and earn my bread; and even if I cannot do that, my relations shall not be troubled by hearing from me."
She said this without sobbing31, but not without that almost hysterical32 emotion which indicates that tears are being suppressed with pain.
"That is false pride, my dear."
"Very well, aunt. I daresay it is false; but it is my pride. I may be allowed to keep my pride, though I can keep nothing else."
"What you say about earning your bread is very proper; and I and John and your uncle also have been thinking of that. But I should be glad if some additional assistance should be provided for you, in the event of old age, you know, or illness. Now, as to earning your bread, I remarked to John that you were peculiarly qualified33 for being a lady's companion."
"For being what, aunt?"
"For being companion to some lady in the decline of life, who would want to have some nice mannered person always with her. You have the advantage of being ladylike and gentle, and I think that you are patient by disposition34."
"Aunt," said Miss Mackenzie, and her voice as she spoke was hardly gentle, nor was it indicative of much patience. Her hysterics also seemed for the time to have given way to her strong passionate35 feeling. "Aunt," she said, "I would sooner take a broom in my hand, and sweep a crossing in London, than lead such a life as that. What! make myself the slave of some old woman, who would think that she had bought the power of tyrannising over me by allowing me to sit in the same room with her? No, indeed! It may very likely be the case that I may have to serve such a one in the kitchen, but it shall be in the kitchen, and not in the drawing-room. I have not had much experience in life, but I have had enough to learn that lesson!"
Lady Ball, who during the first part of the conversation had been unrolling and winding36 a great ball of worsted, now sat perfectly37 still, holding the ball in her lap, and staring at her niece. She was a quick-witted woman, and it no doubt occurred to her that the great objection to living with an old lady, which her niece had expressed so passionately38, must have come from the trial of that sort of life which she had had at the Cedars. And there was enough in Miss Mackenzie's manner to justify39 Lady Ball in thinking that some such expression of feeling as this had been intended by her. She had never before heard Margaret speak out so freely, even in the days of her undoubted heiress-ship; and now, though she greatly disliked her niece, she could not avoid mingling40 something of respect and something almost amounting to fear with her dislike. She did not dare to go on unwinding her worsted, and giving the advantage of her condescension41 to a young woman who spoke out at her in that way.
"I thought I was advising you for the best," she said, "and I hoped that you would have been thankful."
"I don't know what may be for the best," said Margaret, again bordering upon the hysterical in the tremulousness of her voice, "but that I'm sure would be for the worst. However, I've made up my mind to nothing as yet."
"No, my dear; of course not; but we all must think of it, you know."
Her cousin John had not thought of it, and she did not want any one else to do so. She especially did not want her aunt to think of it. But it was no doubt necessary that her aunt should consider how long she would be required to provide a home for her impoverished42 niece, and Margaret's mind at once applied43 itself to that view of the subject. "I have made up my mind that I will go to London next week, and then I must settle upon something."
"You mean when you go to Mr Slow's?"
"I mean that I shall go for good. I have a little money by me, which John says I may use, and I shall take a lodging44 till—till—till—" Then she could not go on any further.
"You can stay here, Margaret, if you please;—that is till something more is settled about all this affair."
"I will go on Monday, aunt. I have made up my mind to that." It was now Saturday. "I will go on Monday. It will be better for all parties that I should be away." Then she got up, and waiting no further speech from her aunt, took herself off to her own room.
She did not see her aunt again till dinner-time, and then neither of them spoke to each other. Lady Ball thought that she had reason to be offended, and Margaret would not be the first to speak. In the evening, before the whole family, she told her cousin that she had made up her mind to go up to London on Monday. He begged her to reconsider her resolution, but when she persisted that she would do so, he did not then argue the question any further. But on the Sunday he implored45 her not to go as yet, and did obtain her consent to postpone24 her departure till Tuesday. He wished, he said, to be at any rate one day more in London before she went. On the Sunday she was closeted with her uncle who also sent for her, and to him she suggested her plan of becoming nurse at a hospital. He remarked that he hoped that would not be necessary.
"Something will be necessary," she said, "as I don't mean to eat anybody's bread but my own."
In answer to this he said that he would speak to John, and then that interview was over. On the Monday morning John Ball said something respecting Margaret to his mother which acerbated that lady more than ever against her niece. He had not proposed that anything special should be done; but he had hinted, when his mother complained of Margaret, that Margaret's conduct was everything that it ought to be.
"I believe you would take anybody's part against me," Lady Ball had said, and then as a matter of course she had been very cross. The whole of that day was terrible to Miss Mackenzie, and she resolved that nothing said by her cousin should induce her to postpone her departure for another day.
In order to insure this by a few minutes' private conversation with him, and also with the view of escaping for some short time from the house, she walked down to the station in the evening to meet her cousin. The train by which he arrived reached Twickenham at five o'clock, and the walk occupied about twenty minutes. She met him just as he was coming out of the station gate, and at once told him that she had come there for the sake of walking back with him and talking to him. He thanked her, and said that he was very glad to meet her. He also wanted to speak to her very particularly. Would she take his arm?
She took his arm, and then began with a quick tremulous voice to tell him of her sufferings at the house. She threw no blame on her aunt that she could avoid, but declared it to be natural that under such circumstances as those now existing her prolonged sojourn46 at her aunt's house should be unpleasant to both of them. In answer to all this, John Ball said nothing, but once or twice lifted up his left hand so as to establish Margaret's arm more firmly on his own. She hardly noticed the motion, but yet she was aware that it was intended for kindness, and then she broke forth47 with a rapid voice as to her plan about the hospital. "I think we can manage better than that, at any rate," said he, stopping her in the path when this proposal met his ear. But she went on to declare that she would like it, that she was strong and qualified for such work, that it would satisfy her aspirations48, and be fit for her. And then, after that, she declared that nothing should induce her to undertake the kind of life that had been suggested by her aunt. "I quite agree with you there," said he; "quite. I hate tabbies as much as you do."
They had now come to a little gate, of which John Ball kept a key, and which led into the grounds belonging to the Cedars. The grounds were rather large, and the path through them extended for half a mile, but the land was let off to a grazier. When inside the wall, however, they were private; and Mr Ball, as soon as he had locked the gate behind him, stopped her in the dark path, and took both her hands in his. The gloom of the evening had now come round them, and the thick trees which formed the belt of the place, joined to the high wall, excluded from them nearly all what light remained.
"And now," said he, "I will tell you my plan."
"What plan?" said she; but her voice was very low.
"I proposed it once before, but you would not have it then."
When she heard this, she at once drew both her hands from him, and stood before him in an agony of doubt. Even in the gloom, the trees were going round her, and everything, even her thoughts, were obscure and misty49.
"Margaret," said he, "you shall be my wife, and the mother of my children, and I will love you as I loved Rachel before. I loved you when I asked you at Christmas, but I did not love you then as I love you now."
She still stood before him, but answered him not a word. How often since the tidings of her loss had reached her had the idea of such a meeting as this come before her! how often had she seemed to listen to such words as those he now spoke to her! Not that she had expected it, or hoped for it, or even thought of it as being in truth possible; but her imagination had been at work, during the long hours of the night, and the romance of the thing had filled her mind, and the poetry of it had been beautiful to her. She had known—she had told herself that she knew—that no man would so sacrifice himself; certainly no such man as John Ball, with all his children and his weary love of money! But now the poetry had come to be fact, and the romance had turned itself into reality, and the picture formed by her imagination had become a living truth. The very words of which she had dreamed had been spoken to her.
"Shall it be so, my dear?" he said, again taking one of her hands. "You want to be a nurse; will you be my nurse? Nay50; I will not ask, but it shall be so. They say that the lovers who demand are ever the most successful. I make my demand. Tell me, Margaret, will you obey me?"
He had walked on now, but in order that his time might be sufficient, he led her away from the house. She was following him, hardly knowing whither she was going.
"Susanna," said he, "shall come and live with the others; one more will make no difference."
"And my aunt?" said Margaret.
It was the first word she had spoken since the gate had been locked behind her, and this word was spoken in a whisper.
"I hope my mother may feel that such a marriage will best conduce to my happiness; but, Margaret, nothing that my mother can say will change me. You and I have known something of each other now. Of you, from the way in which things have gone, I have learned much. Few men, I take it, see so much of their future wives as I have seen of you. If you can love me as your husband, say so at once honestly, and then leave the rest to me."
"I will," she said, again whispering; and then she clung to his hand, and for a minute or two he had his arm round her waist. Then he took her, and kissed her lips, and told her that he would take care of her, and watch for her, and keep her, if possible, from trouble.
Ah, me, how many years had rolled by since last she had been kissed in that way! Once, and once only, had Harry51 Handcock so far presumed, and so far succeeded. And now, after a dozen years or more, that game had begun again with her! She had boxed Harry Handcock's ears when he had kissed her; but now, from her lover of to-day, she submitted to the ceremony very tamely.
"Oh, John," she said, "how am I to thank you?" But the thanks were tendered for the promise of his care, and not for the kiss.
I think there was but little more said between them before they reached the door-step. When there, Mr Ball, speaking already with something of marital52 authority, gave her his instructions.
"I shall tell my mother this evening," he said, "as I hate mysteries; and I shall tell my father also. Of course there may be something disagreeable said before we all shake down happily in our places, but I shall look to you, Margaret, to be firm."
"I shall be firm," she said, "if you are."
"I shall be firm," was the reply; and then they went into the house.
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1
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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slaughterer
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| 屠夫，刽子手 | |
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amicable
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| adj.和平的，友好的；友善的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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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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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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defrauded
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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abstaining
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| 戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的现在分词 )； 弃权（不投票） | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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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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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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