She had often told herself, in those days of her philosophy at Littlebath, that she did not care to be a lady; and she told herself now the same thing very often when she was thinking of the hospital. She cosseted4 herself with no false ideas as to the nature of the work which she proposed to undertake. She knew very well that she might have to keep rougher company than that of Buggins if she put her shoulder to that wheel. She was willing enough to do this, and had been willing to encounter such company ever since she left the Cedars5. She was prepared for the roughness. But she would not put herself beyond the pale, as it were, of her cousin's hearth6, moved simply by a temptation to relieve the monotony of her life. When the work came within her reach she would go to it, but till then she would bear the wretchedness of her dull room upstairs. She wondered whether he ever thought how wretched she must be in her solitude7.
On New Year's Day she heard that her uncle was dead. She was already in mourning for her brother, and was therefore called upon to make no change in that respect. She wrote a note of condolence to her aunt, in which she strove much, and vainly, to be cautious and sympathetic at the same time, and in return received a note, in which Lady Ball declared her purpose of coming to Arundel Street to see her niece as soon as she found herself able to leave the house. She would, she said, give Margaret warning the day beforehand, as it would be very sad if she had her journey all for nothing.
Her aunt, Lady Ball, was coming to see her in Arundel Street! What could be the purpose of such a visit after all that had passed between them? And why should her aunt trouble herself to make it at a period of such great distress8? Lady Ball must have some very important plan to propose, and poor Margaret's heart was in a flutter. It was ten days after this before the second promised note arrived, and then Margaret was asked to say whether she would be at home and able to receive her aunt's visit at ten minutes past two on the day but one following. Margaret wrote back to say that she would be at home at ten minutes past two on the day named.
Her aunt was old, and she again borrowed the parlour, though she was not now well inclined to ask favours from Mrs Buggins. Mrs Buggins had taken to heart the slight put upon her husband, and sometimes made nasty little speeches.
"Oh dear, yes, in course, Miss Margaret; not that I ever did think much of them Ballses, and less than ever now, since the gentleman was kind enough to send me the newspaper. But she's welcome to the room, seeing as how Mr Tiddy will be in the City, of course; and you're welcome to it, too, though you do keep yourself so close to yourself, which won't ever bring you round to have your money again; that it won't."
Lady Ball came and was shown into the parlour, and her niece went down to receive her.
"I would have been here before you came, aunt, only the room is not mine."
In answer to this, Lady Ball said that it did very well. Any room would answer the present purpose. Then she sat down on the sofa from which she had risen. She was dressed, of course, in the full weeds of her widowhood, and the wide extent of her black crape was almost awful in Margaret's eyes. She did not look to be so savage9 as her niece had sometimes seen her, but there was about her a ponderous10 accumulation of crape, which made her even more formidable than she used to be. It would be almost impossible to refuse anything to a person so black, so grave, so heavy, and so big.
"I have come to you, my dear," she said, "as soon as I possibly could after the sad event which we have had at home."
In answer to this, Margaret said that she was much obliged, but she hoped that her aunt had put herself to no trouble. Then she said a word or two about her uncle,—a word or two that was very difficult, as of course it could mean nothing.
"Yes," said the widow, "he has been taken from us after a long and useful life. I hope his son will always show himself to be worthy11 of such a father."
After that there was silence in the room for a minute or two, during which Margaret waited for her aunt to begin; but Lady Ball sat there solid, grave, and black, as though she thought that her very presence, without any words, might be effective upon Margaret as a preliminary mode of attack. Margaret herself could find nothing to say to her aunt, and she, therefore, also remained silent. Lady Ball was so far successful in this, that when three minutes were over her niece had certainly been weakened by the oppressive nature of the meeting. She had about her less of vivacity12, and perhaps also less of vitality13, than when she first entered the room.
"Well, my dear," said her aunt at last, "there are things, you know, which must be talked about, though they are ever so disagreeable;" and then she pulled out of her pocket that abominable14 number of the Littlebath Christian15 Examiner.
"Oh, aunt, I hope you are not going to talk about that."
"My dear, that is cowardly; it is, indeed. How am I to help talking about it? I have come here, from Twickenham, on purpose to talk about it."
"Then, aunt, I must decline; I must, indeed."
"My dear!"
"I must, indeed, aunt."
Let a man or a woman's vitality be ever so thoroughly16 crushed and quenched17 by fatigue18 or oppression—or even by black crape—there will always be some mode of galvanising which will restore it for a time, some specific either of joy or torture which will produce a return of temporary energy. This Littlebath newspaper was a battery of sufficient power to put Margaret on her legs again, though she perhaps might not be long able to keep them.
"It is a vile19, lying paper, and it was written by a vile, lying man, and I hope you will put it up and say nothing about it."
"It is a vile, lying paper, Margaret; but the lies are against my son, and not against you."
"He is a man, and knows what he is about, and it does not signify to him. But, aunt, I won't talk about it, and there's an end of it."
"I hope he does know what he is about," said Lady Ball. "I hope he does. But you, as you say, are a woman, and therefore it specially20 behoves you to know what you are about."
"I am not doing anything to anybody," said Margaret.
Lady Ball had now refolded the offensive newspaper, and restored it to her pocket. Perhaps she had done as much with it as she had from the first intended. At any rate, she brought it forth21 no more, and made no further intentionally22 direct allusion23 to it. "I don't suppose you really wish to do any injury to anybody," she said.
"Does anybody accuse me of doing them an injury?" Margaret asked.
"Well, my dear, if I were to say that I accused you, perhaps you would misunderstand me. I hope—I thoroughly expect, that before I leave you, I may be able to say that I do not accuse you. If you will only listen to me patiently for a few minutes, Margaret—which I couldn't get you to do, you know, before you went away from the Cedars in that very extraordinary manner—I think I can explain to you something which—" Here Lady Ball became embarrassed, and paused; but Margaret gave her no assistance, and therefore she began a new sentence. "In point of fact, I want you to listen to what I say, and then, I think—I do think—you will do as we would have you."
Whom did she include in that word "we"? Margaret had still sufficient vitality not to let the word pass by unquestioned. "You mean yourself and John?" said she.
"I mean the family," said Lady Ball rather sharply. "I mean the whole family, including those dear girls to whom I have been in the position of a mother since my son's wife died. It is in the name of the Ball family that I now speak, and surely I have a right."
Margaret thought that Lady Ball had no such right, but she would not say so at that moment.
"Well, Margaret, to come to the point at once, the fact is this. You must renounce24 any idea that you may still have of becoming my son's wife." Then she paused.
"Has John sent you here to say this?" demanded Margaret.
"I don't wish you to ask any such question as that. If you had any real regard for him I don't think you would ask it. Consider his difficulties, and consider the position of those poor children! If he were your brother, would you advise him, at his age, to marry a woman without a farthing, and also to incur25 the certain disgrace which would attach to his name after—after all that has been said about it in this newspaper?"—then, Lady Ball put her hand upon her pocket—"in this newspaper, and in others?"
This was more than Margaret could bear. "There would be no disgrace," said she, jumping to her feet.
"Margaret, if you put yourself into a passion, how can you understand reason? You ought to know, yourself, by the very fact of your being in a passion, that you are wrong. Would there be no disgrace, after all that has come out about Mr Maguire?"
"No, none—none!" almost shouted this modern Griselda. "There could be no disgrace. I won't admit it. As for his marrying me, I don't expect it. There is nothing to bind26 him to me. If he doesn't come to me I certainly shall not go to him. I have looked upon it as all over between him and me; and as I have not troubled him with any importunities, nor yet you, it is cruel in you to come to me in this way. He is free to do what he likes—why don't you go to him? But there would be no disgrace."
"Of course he is free. Of course such a marriage never can take place now. It is quite out of the question. You say that it is all over, and you are quite right. Why not let this be settled in a friendly way between you and me, so that we might be friends again? I should be so glad to help you in your difficulties if you would agree with me about this."
"I want no help."
"Margaret, that is nonsense. In your position you are very wrong to set your natural friends at defiance27. If you will only authorise me to say that you renounce this marriage—"
"I will not renounce it," said Margaret, who was still standing28 up. "I will not renounce it. I would sooner lose my tongue than let it say such a word. You may tell him, if you choose to tell him anything, that I demand nothing from him; nothing. All that I once thought mine is now his, and I demand nothing from him. But when he asked me to be his wife he told me to be firm, and in that I will obey him. He may renounce me, and I shall have nothing with which to reproach him; but I will never renounce him—never." And then the modern Griselda, who had been thus galvanised into vitality, stood over her aunt in a mood that was almost triumphant29.
"Margaret, I am astonished at you," said Lady Ball, when she had recovered herself.
"I can't help that, aunt."
"And now let me tell you this. My son is, of course, old enough to do as he pleases. If he chooses to ruin himself and his children by marrying, anybody—even if it were out of the streets—I can't help it. Stop a moment and hear me to the end." This she said, as her niece had made a movement as though towards the door. "I say, even if it were out of the streets, I couldn't help it. But nothing shall induce me to live in the same house with him if he marries you. It will be on your conscience for ever that you have brought ruin on the whole family, and that will be your punishment. As for me, I shall take myself off to some solitude, and—there—I—shall—die." Then Lady Ball put her handkerchief up to her face and wept copiously30.
Margaret stood still, leaning upon the table, but she spoke31 no word, either in answer to the threat or to the tears. Her immediate32 object was to take herself out of the room, but this she did not know how to achieve. At last her aunt spoke again: "If you please, I will get you to ask your landlady33 to send for a cab." Then the cab was procured34, and Buggins, who had come home for his dinner, handed her ladyship in. Not a word had been spoken during the time that the cab was being fetched, and when Lady Ball went down the passage, she merely said, "I wish you good-bye, Margaret."
"Good-bye," said Margaret, and then she escaped to her own bedroom.
Lady Ball had not done her work well. It was not within her power to induce Margaret to renounce her engagement, and had she known her niece better, I do not think that she would have made the attempt. She did succeed in learning that Margaret had received no renewal35 of an offer from her son,—that there was, in fact, no positive engagement now existing between them; and with this, I think, she should have been satisfied. Margaret had declared that she demanded nothing from her cousin, and with this assurance Lady Ball should have been contented36. But she had thought to carry her point, to obtain the full swing of her will, by means of a threat, and had forgotten that in the very words of her own menace she conveyed to Margaret some intimation that her son was still desirous of doing that very thing which she was so anxious to prevent. There was no chance that her threat should have any effect on Margaret. She ought to have known that the tone of the woman's mind was much too firm for that. Margaret knew—was as sure of it as any woman could be sure—that her cousin was bound to her by all ties of honour. She believed, too, that he was bound to her by love, and that if he should finally desert it, he would be moved to do so by mean motives37. It was no anger on the score of Mr Maguire that would bring him to such a course, no suspicion that she was personally unworthy of being his wife. Our Griselda, with all her power of suffering and willingness to suffer, understood all that, and was by no means disposed to give way to any threat from Lady Ball.
When she was upstairs, and once more in solitude, she disgraced herself again by crying. She could be strong enough when attacked by others, but could not be strong when alone. She cried and sobbed38 upon her bed, and then, rising, looked at herself in the glass, and told herself that she was old and ugly, and fitted only for that hospital nursing of which she had been thinking. But still there was something about her heart that bore her up. Lady Ball would not have come to her, would not have exercised her eloquence39 upon her, would not have called upon her to renounce this engagement, had she not found all similar attempts upon her own son to be ineffectual. Could it then be so, that, after all, her cousin would be true to her? If it were so, if it could be so, what would she not do for him and for his children? If it were so, how blessed would have been all these troubles that had brought her to such a haven40 at last! Then she tried to reconcile his coldness to her with that which she so longed to believe might be the fact. She was not to expect him to be a lover such as are young men. Was she young herself, or would she like him better if he were to assume anything of youth in his manners? She understood that life with him was a serious thing, and that it was his duty to be serious and grave in what he did. It might be that it was essential to his character, after all that had passed, that the question of the property should be settled finally, before he could come to her, and declare his wishes. Thus flattering herself, she put away from her her tears, and dressed herself, smoothing her hair, and washing away the traces of her weeping; and then again she looked at herself in the glass to see if it were possible that she might be comely41 in his eyes.
The months of January and February slowly wore themselves away, and during the whole of that time Margaret saw her cousin but once, and then she met him at Mr Slow's chambers42. She had gone there to sign some document, and there she had found him. She had then been told that she would certainly lose her cause. No one who had looked into the matter had any doubt of that. It certainly was the case that Jonathan Ball had bequeathed property which was not his at the time he made the will, but which at the time of his death, in fact, absolutely belonged to his nephew, John Ball. Old Mr Slow, as he explained this now for the seventh or eighth time, did it without a tone of regret in his voice, or a sign of sorrow in his eye. Margaret had become so used to the story now, that it excited no strong feelings within her. Her wish, she said, was, that the matter should be settled. The lawyer, with almost a smile on his face, but still shaking his head, said that he feared it could not be settled before the end of April. John Ball sat by, leaning his face, as usual, upon his umbrella, and saying nothing. It did, for a moment, strike Miss Mackenzie as singular, that she should be reduced from affluence43 to absolute nothingness in the way of property, in so very placid44 a manner. Mr Slow seemed to be thinking that he was, upon the whole, doing rather well for his client.
"Of course you understand, Miss Mackenzie, that you can have any money you require for your present personal wants."
This had been said to her so often, that she took it as one of Mr Slow's legal formulas, which meant nothing to the laity45.
On that occasion also Mr Ball walked home with her, and was very eloquent46 about the law's delays. He also seemed to speak as though there was nothing to be regretted by anybody, except the fact that he could not get possession of the property as quick as he wished. He said not a word of anything else, and Margaret, of course, submitted to be talked to by him rather than to talk herself. Of Lady Ball's visit he said not a word, nor did she. She asked after the children, and especially after Jack47. One word she did say:
"Perhaps he had better not," said Jack's father, "till all is settled. We have had much to trouble us at home since my father's death."
Then of course she dropped that subject. She had been greatly startled on that day on hearing her cousin called Sir John by Mr Slow. Up to that moment it had never occurred to her that the man of whom she was so constantly thinking as her possible husband was a baronet. To have been Mrs Ball seemed to her to have been possible; but that she should become Lady Ball was hardly possible. She wished that he had not been called Sir John. It seemed to her to be almost natural that people should be convinced of the impropriety of such a one as her becoming the wife of a baronet.
During this period she saw her sister-in-law once or twice, who on those occasions came down to Arundel Street. She herself would not go to Gower Street, because of the presence of Miss Colza. Miss Colza still continued to live there, and still continued very much in arrear49 in her contributions to the household fund. Mrs Mackenzie did not turn her out, because she would,—so she said,—in such case get nothing. Mrs Tom was by this time quite convinced that the property would, either justly or unjustly, go into the hands of John Ball, and she was therefore less anxious to make any sacrifice to please her sister-in-law.
"I'm sure I don't see why you should be so bitter against her," said Mrs Tom. "I don't suppose she told the clergyman a word that wasn't true."
Miss Mackenzie declined to discuss the subject, and assured Mrs Tom that she only recommended the banishment50 of Miss Colza because of her apparent unwillingness51 to pay.
"As for the money," said Mrs Tom, "I expect Mr Rubb to see to that. I suppose he intends to make her Mrs Rubb sooner or later."
Miss Mackenzie, having some kindly52 feeling towards Mr Rubb, would have preferred to hear that Miss Colza was likely to become Mrs Maguire. During these visits, Mrs Tom got more than one five-pound note from her sister-in-law, pleading the difficulty she had in procuring53 breakfast for lodgers54 without any money for the baker56. Margaret protested against these encroachments, but, still, the money would be forthcoming.
Once, towards the end of February, Mrs Buggins seduced57 her lodger55 down into her parlour in the area, and Miss Mackenzie thought she perceived that something of the old servant's manners had returned to her. She was more respectful than she had been of late, and made no attempts at smart, ill-natured speeches.
"It's a weary life, Miss, this you're living here, isn't it?" said she.
Margaret said that it was weary, but that there could be no change till the lawsuit58 should be settled. It would be settled, she hoped, in April.
"Bother it for a lawsuit," said Mrs Buggins. "They all tells me that it ain't any lawsuit at all, really."
"I never see such amicableness60! 'Tis a wonder to hear, Miss, how everybody is talking about it everywheres. Where we was last night—that is, Buggins and I—most respectable people in the copying line—it isn't only he as does the copying, but she too; nurses the baby, and minds the kitchen fire, and goes on, sheet after sheet, all at the same time; and a very tidy thing they make of it, only they do straggle their words so;—well, they were saying as it's one of the most remarkablest cases as ever was know'd."
"I don't see that I shall be any the better because it's talked about."
"Well, Miss Margaret, I'm not so sure of that. It's my belief that if one only gets talked about enough, one may have a'most anything one chooses to ask for."
"But I don't want to ask for anything."
"But if what we heard last night is all true, there's somebody else that does want to ask for something, or, as has asked, as folks say."
Margaret blushed up to the eyes, and then protested that she did not know what Mrs Buggins meant.
"I never dreamed of it, my dear; indeed, I didn't, when the old lady come here with her tantrums; but now, it's as plain as a pikestaff. If I'd a' known anything about that, my dear, I shouldn't have made so free about Buggins; indeed, I shouldn't."
"You're talking nonsense, Mrs Buggins; indeed, you are."
"They have the whole story all over the town at any rate, and in the lane, and all about the courts; and they declare it don't matter a toss of a halfpenny which way the matter goes, as you're to become Lady Ball the very moment the case is settled."
Miss Mackenzie protested that Mrs Buggins was a stupid woman,—the stupidest woman she had ever heard or seen; and then hurried up into her own room to hug herself in her joy, and teach herself to believe that what so many people said must at last come true.
Three days after this, a very fine, private carriage, with two servants on a hammer cloth, drove up to the door in Arundel Street, and the maid-servant, hurrying upstairs, told Miss Mackenzie that a beautifully-dressed lady downstairs was desirous of seeing her immediately.
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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cosseted
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| v.宠爱，娇养，纵容( cosset的过去式 ) | |
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cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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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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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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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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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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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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affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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laity
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| n.俗人；门外汉 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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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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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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arrear
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| n.欠款 | |
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banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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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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procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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54
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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amicable
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| adj.和平的，友好的；友善的 | |
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amicableness
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