"I do so hate London, Miss Mackenzie."

"I lived here all my life, and I can't say I liked it."

"It is such a crowd, isn't it? and yet so dull. Give me Brighton! We were down for a week in November, and it was nice."

"I never saw Brighton."

"Oh, do go to Brighton. Everybody goes there now; you really do see the world at Brighton. Now, in London one sees nothing."

Then came in Mr Rubb, and Miss Colza at once turned her attention to him. But Mr Rubb shook Miss Colza off almost unceremoniously, and seated himself by Miss Mackenzie. Immediately afterwards arrived the doctor and his wife. The doctor was a very silent man, and as Tom Mackenzie himself was not given to much talking, it was well that Miss Colza should be there. Mrs Slumpy could take her share in conversation with an effort, when duly assisted; but she could not lead the van, and required more sprightly aid than her host was qualified to give her. Then there was a whisper between Tom and Mrs Tom and the bell was rung, and the dinner was ordered. Seven had been the time named, and a quarter past seven saw the guests assembled in the drawing-room. A very dignified person in white cotton gloves had announced the names, and the same dignified person had taken the order for dinner. The dignified person had then retreated downstairs slowly, and what was taking place for the next half-hour poor Mrs Mackenzie, in the agony of her mind, could not surmise. She longed to go and see, but did not dare. Even for Dr Slumpy, or even for his wife, had they been alone with her she would not have cared much. Miss Colza she could have treated with perfect indifference—could even have taken her down into the kitchen with her. Rubb, her own junior partner, was nothing, and Miss Mackenzie was simply her sister-in-law. But together they made a party. Moreover she had on her best and stiffest silk gown, and so armed she could not have been effective in the kitchen. And so came a silence for some minutes, in spite of the efforts of Miss Colza. At last the hostess plucked up her courage to make a little effort.

"Tom," she said, "I really think you had better ring again."

"It will be all right, soon," said Tom, considering that upon the whole it would be better not to disturb the gentleman downstairs just yet.

"Upon my word, I never felt it so cold in my life as I did to-day," he said, turning on Dr Slumpy for the third time with that remark.

"Very cold," said Dr Slumpy, pulling out his watch and looking at it.

"I really think you'd better ring the bell," said Mrs Tom.

Tom, however, did not stir, and after another period of five minutes dinner was announced. It may be as well, perhaps, to explain, that the soup had been on the table for the last quarter of an hour or more, but that after placing the tureen on the table, the dignified gentleman downstairs had come to words with the cook, and had refused to go on further with the business of the night until that ill-used woman acceded to certain terms of his own in reference to the manner in which the foods should be served. He had seen the world, and had lofty ideas, and had been taught to be a tyrant by the weakness of those among whom his life had been spent. The cook had alleged that the dinner, as regarded the eating of it, would certainly be spoilt. As to that, he had expressed a mighty indifference. If he was to have any hand in them, things were to be done according to certain rules, which, as he said, prevailed in the world of fashion. The cook, who had a temper and who regarded her mistress, stood out long and boldly, but when the housemaid, who was to assist Mr Grandairs upstairs, absolutely deserted her, and sitting down began to cry, saying: "Sairey, why don't you do as he tells you? What signifies its being greasy if it hain't never to go hup?" then Sarah's courage gave way, and Mr Grandairs, with all the conqueror in his bosom, announced that dinner was served.

It was a great relief. Even Miss Colza's tongue had been silent, and Mr Rubb had found himself unable to carry on any further small talk with Miss Mackenzie. The minds of men and women become so tuned to certain positions, that they go astray and won't act when those positions are confused. Almost every man can talk for fifteen minutes, standing in a drawing-room, before dinner; but where is the man who can do it for an hour? It is not his appetite that impedes him, for he could well have borne to dine at eight instead of seven; nor is it that matter lacks him, for at other times his eloquence does not cease to flow so soon. But at that special point of the day he is supposed to talk for fifteen minutes, and if any prolonged call is then made upon him, his talking apparatus falls out of order and will not work. You can sit still on a Sunday morning, in the cold, on a very narrow bench, with no comfort appertaining, and listen for half an hour to a rapid outflow of words, which, for any purpose of instruction or edification, are absolutely useless to you. The reading to you of the "Quae genus," or "As in praesenti," could not be more uninteresting. Try to undergo the same thing in your own house on a Wednesday afternoon, and see where you will be. To those ladies and gentlemen who had been assembled in Mrs Mackenzie's drawing-room this prolonged waiting had been as though the length of the sermon had been doubled, or as if it had fallen on them at some unexpected and unauthorised time.

But now they descended, each gentleman taking his allotted lady, and Colza's voice was again heard. At the bottom of the stairs, just behind the dining-room door, stood the tyrant, looking very great, repressing with his left hand the housemaid who was behind him. She having observed Sarah at the top of the kitchen stairs telegraphing for assistance, had endeavoured to make her way to her friend while Tom Mackenzie and Mrs Slumpy were still upon the stairs; but the tyrant, though he had seen the cook's distress, had refused and sternly kept the girl a prisoner behind him. Ruat dinner, fiat genteel deportment.

The order of the construction of the dinner was no doubt a la Russe; and why should it not have been so, as Tom Mackenzie either had or was supposed to have as much as eight hundred a year? But I think it must be confessed that the architecture was in some degree composite. It was a la Russe, because in the centre there was a green arrangement of little boughs with artificial flowers fixed on them, and because there were figs and raisins, and little dishes with dabs of preserve on them, all around the green arrangement; but the soups and fish were on the table, as was also the wine, though it was understood that no one was to be allowed to help himself or his neighbour to the contents of the bottle. When Dr Slumpy once made an attempt at the sherry, Grandairs was down upon him instantly, although laden at the time with both potatoes and sea-kale; after that he went round and frowned at Dr Slumpy, and Dr Slumpy understood the frown.

That the soup should be cold, everybody no doubt expected. It was clear soup, made chiefly of Marsala, and purchased from the pastry cook's in Store Street. Grandairs, no doubt, knew all about it, as he was connected with the same establishment. The fish—Mrs Mackenzie had feared greatly about her fish, having necessarily trusted its fate solely to her own cook—was very ragged in its appearance, and could not be very warm; the melted butter too was thick and clotted, and was brought round with the other condiments too late to be of much service; but still the fish was eatable, and Mrs Mackenzie's heart, which had sunk very low as the unconsumed soup was carried away, rose again in her bosom. Poor woman! she had done her best, and it was hard that she should suffer. One little effort she made at the moment to induce Elizabeth to carry round the sauce, but Grandairs had at once crushed it; he had rushed at the girl and taken the butter-boat from her hand. Mrs Mackenzie had seen it all; but what could she do, poor soul?

The thing was badly managed in every way. The whole hope of conversation round the table depended on Miss Colza, and she was deeply offended by having been torn away from Mr Rubb. How could she talk seated between the two Tom Mackenzies? From Dr Slumpy Mrs Mackenzie could not get a word. Indeed, with so great a weight on her mind, how could she be expected to make any great effort in that direction? But Mr Mackenzie might have done something, and she resolved that she would tell him so before he slept that night. She had slaved all day in order that he might appear respectable before his own relatives, at the bottom of his own table—and now he would do nothing! "I believe he is thinking of his own dinner!" she said to herself. If her accusation was just his thoughts must have been very sad.

In a quiet way Mr Rubb did talk to his neighbour. Upstairs he had spoken a word or two about Littlebath, saying how glad he was that he had been there. He should always remember Littlebath as one of the pleasantest places he had ever seen. He wished that he lived at Littlebath; but then what was the good of his wishing anything, knowing as he did that he was bound for life to Rubb and Mackenzie's counting house!

"And you will earn your livelihood there," Miss Mackenzie had replied.

"Yes; and something more than that I hope. I don't mind telling you,—a friend like you,—that I will either spoil a horn or make a spoon. I won't go on in the old groove, which hardly gives any of us salt to our porridge. If I understand anything of English commerce, I think I can see my way to better things than that." Then the period of painful waiting had commenced, and he was unable to say anything more.

That had been upstairs. Now below, amidst all the troubles of Mrs Mackenzie and the tyranny of Grandairs, he began again:

"Do you like London dinner parties?"

"I never was at one before."

"Never at one before! I thought you had lived in London all your life."

"So I have; but we never used to dine out. My brother was an invalid."

"And do they do the thing well at Littlebath?"

"I never dined out there. You think it very odd, I dare say, but I never was at a dinner party in my life—not before this."

"Don't the Balls see much company?"

"No, very little; none of that kind."

"Dear me. It comes so often to us here that we get tired of it. I do, at least. I'm not always up to this kind of thing. Champagne—if you please. Miss Mackenzie, you will take some champagne?"

Now had come the crisis of the evening, the moment that was all important, and Grandairs was making his round in all the pride of his vocation. But Mrs Mackenzie was by no means so proud at the present conjuncture of affairs. There was but one bottle of champagne. "So little wine is drank now, that, what is the good of getting more? Of course the children won't have it." So she had spoken to her husband. And who shall blame her or say where economy ends, or where meanness begins? She had wanted no champagne herself, but had wished to treat her friends well. She had seized a moment after Grandairs had come, and Mrs Slumpy was not yet there, to give instructions to the great functionary.

"Don't mind me with the champagne, nor yet Mr Tom, nor the young ladies."

Thus she had reduced the number to six, and had calculated that the bottle would certainly be good for that number, with probably a second glass for the doctor and Mr Rubb. But Grandairs had not condescended to be put out of his way by such orders as these. The bottle had first come to Miss Colza, and then Tom's glass had been filled, and Susanna's—through no fault of theirs, innocent bairns, "but on purpose!" as Mrs Mackenzie afterwards declared to her husband when speaking of the man's iniquity. And I think it had been done on purpose. The same thing occurred with Mary Jane—till Mrs Mackenzie, looking on, could have cried. The girl's glass was filled full, and she did give a little shriek at last. But what availed shrieking? When the bottle came round behind Mrs Mackenzie back to Dr Slumpy, it was dry, and the wicked wretch held the useless nozzle triumphantly over the doctor's glass.

"Give me some sherry, then," said the doctor.

The little dishes which had been brought round after the fish, three in number,—and they in the proper order of things should have been spoken of before the champagne,—had been in their way successful. They had been so fabricated, that all they who attempted to eat of their contents became at once aware that they had got hold of something very nasty, something that could hardly have been intended by Christian cooks as food for men; but, nevertheless, there had been something of glory attending them. Little dishes require no concomitant vegetables, and therefore there had been no scrambling. Grandairs brought one round after the other with much majesty, while Elizabeth stood behind looking on in wonder. After the second little dish Grandairs changed the plates, so that it was possible to partake of two, a feat which was performed by Tom Mackenzie the younger. At this period Mrs Mackenzie, striving hard for equanimity, attempted a word or two with the doctor. But immediately upon that came the affair of the champagne, and she was crushed, never to rise again.

Mr Rubb at this time had settled down into so pleasant a little series of whispers with his neighbour, that Miss Colza resolved once more to exert herself, not with the praiseworthy desire of assisting her friend Mrs Mackenzie, but with malice prepense in reference to Miss Mackenzie.

Miss Mackenzie seemed to be having "a good time" with her neighbour Samuel Rubb, junior, and Miss Colza, who was a woman of courage, could not see that and not make an effort. It cannot be told here what passages there had been between Mr Rubb and Miss Colza. That there had absolutely been passages I beg the reader to understand. "Mr Rubb," she said, stretching across the table, "do you remember when, in this very room, we met Mr and Mrs Talbot Green?"

"Oh yes, very well," said Mr Rubb, and then turning to Miss Mackenzie, he went on with his little whispers.

"Mr Rubb," continued Miss Colza, "does anybody put you in mind of Mrs Talbot Green?"

"Nobody in particular. She was a thin, tall, plain woman, with red hair, wasn't she? Who ought she to put me in mind of?"

"Oh dear! how can you forget so? That wasn't her looks at all. We all agreed that she was quite interesting-looking. Her hair was just fair, and that was all. But I shan't say anything more about it."

"But who do you say is like her?"

"Miss Colza means Aunt Margaret," said Mary Jane.

"Of course I do," said Miss Colza. "But Mrs Talbot Green was not at all the person that Mr Rubb has described; we all thought her very nice-looking. Mr Rubb, do you remember how you would go on talking to her, till Mr Talbot Green did not like it at all?"

"No, I don't."

"Oh, but you did; and you always do."

Then Miss Colza ceased, having finished that effort. But she made others from time to time as long as they remained in the dining-room, and by no means gave up the battle. There are women who can fight such battles when they have not an inch of ground on which to stand.

After the little dishes there came, of course, a saddle of mutton, and, equally of course, a pair of boiled fowls. There was also a tongue; but the a la Russe construction of the dinner was maintained by keeping the tongue on the sideboard, while the mutton and chickens were put down to be carved in the ordinary way. The ladies all partook of the chickens, and the gentlemen all of the mutton. The arrangement was very tedious, as Dr Slumpy was not as clever with the wings of the fowls as he perhaps would have been had he not been defrauded in the matter of the champagne; and then every separate plate was carried away to the sideboard with reference to the tongue. Currant jelly had been duly provided, and, if Elizabeth had been allowed to dispense it, might have been useful. But Grandairs was too much for the jelly, as he had been for the fish-sauce, and Dr Slumpy in vain looked up, and sighed, and waited. A man in such a condition measures the amount of cold which his meat may possibly endure against the future coming of the potatoes, till he falls utterly to the ground between two stools. So was it now with Dr Slumpy. He gave one last sigh as he saw the gravy congeal upon his plate, but, nevertheless, he had finished the unpalatable food before Grandairs had arrived to his assistance.

Why tell of the ruin of the maccaroni, of the fine-coloured pyramids of shaking sweet things which nobody would eat, and by the non-consumption of which nothing was gained, as they all went back to the pastrycook's,—or of the ice-puddings flavoured with onions? It was all misery, wretchedness, and degradation. Grandairs was king, and Mrs Mackenzie was the lowest of his slaves. And why? Why had she done this thing? Why had she, who, to give her her due, generally held her own in her own house pretty firmly,—why had she lowered her neck and made a wretched thing of herself? She knew that it would be so when she first suggested to herself the attempt. She did it for fashion's sake, you will say. But there was no one there who did not as accurately know as she did herself, how absolutely beyond fashion's way lay her way. She was making no fight to enter some special portal of the world, as a lady may do who takes a house suddenly in Mayfair, having come from God knows where. Her place in the world was fixed, and she made no contest as to the fixing. She hoped for no great change in the direction of society. Why on earth did she perplex her mind and bruise her spirit, by giving a dinner a la anything? Why did she not have the roast mutton alone, so that all her guests might have eaten and have been merry?

She could not have answered this question herself, and I doubt whether I can do so for her. But this I feel, that unless the question can get itself answered, ordinary Englishmen must cease to go and eat dinners at each other's houses. The ordinary Englishman, of whom we are now speaking, has eight hundred a year; he lives in London; and he has a wife and three or four children. Had he not better give it up and go back to his little bit of fish and his leg of mutton? Let him do that boldly, and he will find that we, his friends, will come to him fast enough; yes, and will make a gala day of it. By Heavens, we have no gala time of it when we go to dine with Mrs Mackenzie a la Russe! Lady Mackenzie, whose husband has ever so many thousands a year, no doubt does it very well. Money, which cannot do everything,—which, if well weighed, cannot in its excess perhaps do much,—can do some things. It will buy diamonds and give grand banquets. But paste diamonds, and banquets which are only would-be grand, are among the poorest imitations to which the world has descended.

"So you really go to Littlebath to-morrow," Mr Rubb said to Miss Mackenzie, when they were again together in the drawing-room.

"Yes, to-morrow morning. Susanna must be at school the next day."

"Happy Susanna! I wish I were going to school at Littlebath. Then I shan't see you again before you go."

"No; I suppose not."

"I am so sorry, because I particularly wished to speak to you,—most particularly. I suppose I could not see you in the morning? But, no; it would not do. I could not get you alone without making such a fuss of the thing."

"Couldn't you say it now?" asked Miss Mackenzie.

"I will, if you'll let me; only I suppose it isn't quite the thing to talk about business at an evening party; and your sister-in-law, if she knew it, would never forgive me."

"Then she shan't know it, Mr Rubb."

"Since you are so good, I think I will make bold. Carpe diem, as we used to say at school, which means that one day is as good as another, and, if so why not any time in the day? Look here, Miss Mackenzie—about that money, you know."

And Mr Rubb got nearer to her on the sofa as he whispered the word money into her ear. It immediately struck her that her own brother Tom had said not a word to her about the money, although they had been together for the best part of an hour before they had gone up to dress.

"I suppose Mr Slow will settle all that," said Miss Mackenzie.

"Of course;—that is to say, he has nothing further to settle just as yet. He has our bond for the money, and you may be sure it's all right. The property is purchased, and is ours,—our own at this moment, thanks to you. But landed property is so hard to convey. Perhaps you don't understand much about that! and I'm sure I don't. The fact is, the title deeds at present are in other hands, a mere matter of form; and I want you to understand that the mortgage is not completed for that reason."

"I suppose it will be done soon?"

"It may, or it may not; but that won't affect your interest, you know."

"I was thinking of the security."

"Well, the security is not as perfect as it should be. I tell you that honestly; and if we were dealing with strangers we should expect to be called on to refund. And we should refund instantly, but at a great sacrifice, a ruinous sacrifice. Now, I want you to put so much trust in us,—in me, if I may be allowed to ask you to do so,—as to believe that your money is substantially safe. I cannot explain it all now; but the benefit which you have done us is immense."

"I suppose it will all come right, Mr Rubb."

"It will all come right, Miss Mackenzie."

Then there was extracted from her something which he was able to take as a promise that she would not stir in the matter for a while, but would take her interest without asking for any security as to her principal.

The conversation was interrupted by Miss Colza, who came and stood opposite to them.

"Well, I'm sure," she said; "you two are very confidential."

"And why shouldn't we be confidential, Miss Colza?" asked Mr Rubb.

"Oh, dear! no reason in life, if you both like it."

Miss Mackenzie was not sure that she did like it. But again she was not sure that she did not, when Mr Rubb pressed her hand at parting, and told her that her great kindness had been of the most material service to the firm. "He felt it," he said, "if nobody else did." That also might be a sacrificial duty and therefore gratifying.

The next morning she and Susanna left Gower Street at eight, spent an interesting period of nearly an hour at the railway station, and reached Littlebath in safety at one.



CHAPTER IX

Miss Mackenzie's Philosophy

Miss Mackenzie remained quiet in her room for two days after her return before she went out to see anybody. These last Christmas weeks had certainly been the most eventful period of her life, and there was very much of which it was necessary that she should think. She had, she thought, made up her mind to refuse her cousin's offer; but the deed was not yet done. She had to think of the mode in which she must do it; and she could not but remember, also, that she might still change her mind in that matter if she pleased. The anger produced in her by Lady Ball's claim, as it were, to her fortune, had almost evaporated; but the memory of her cousin's story of his troubles was still fresh. "I have a hard time of it sometimes, I can tell you." Those words and others of the same kind were the arguments which had moved her, and made her try to think that she could love him. Then she remembered his bald head and the weary, careworn look about his eyes, and his little intermittent talk, addressed chiefly to his mother, about the money-market,—little speeches made as he would sit with the newspaper in his hand:

"The Confederate loan isn't so bad, after all. I wish I'd taken a few."

"You know you'd never have slept if you had," Lady Ball would answer.

All this Miss Mackenzie now turned in her mind, and asked herself whether she could be happy in hearing such speeches for the remainder of her life.

"It is not as if you two were young people, and wanted to be billing and cooing," Lady Ball had said to her the same evening.

Miss Mackenzie, as she thought of this, was not so sure that Lady Ball was right. Why should she not want billing and cooing as well as another? It was natural that a woman should want some of it in her life, and she had had none of it yet. She had had a lover, certainly, but there had been no billing and cooing with him. Nothing of that kind had been possible in her brother Walter's house.

And then the question naturally arose to her whether her aunt had treated her justly in bracketing her with John Ball in that matter of age. John Ball was ten years her senior; and ten years, she knew, was a very proper difference between a man and his wife. She was by no means inclined to plead, even to herself, that she was too young to marry her cousin; there was nothing in their ages to interfere, if the match was in other respects suitable. But still, was not he old for his age, and was not she young for hers? And if she should ultimately resolve to devote herself and what she had left of youth to his children and his welfare, should not the sacrifice be recognised? Had Lady Ball done well to speak of her as she certainly might well speak of him? Was she beyond all aptitude for billing and cooing, if billing and cooing might chance to come in her way?

Thinking of this during the long afternoon, when Susanna was at school, she got up and looked at herself in the mirror. She moved up her hair from off her ears, knowing where she would find a few that were grey, and shaking her head, as though owning to herself that she was old; but as her fingers ran almost involuntarily across her locks, her touch told her that they were soft and silken; and she looked into her own eyes, and saw that they were bright; and her hand touched the outline of her cheek, and she knew that something of the fresh bloom of youth was still there; and her lips parted, and there were her white teeth; and there came a smile and a dimple, and a slight purpose of laughter in her eye, and then a tear. She pulled her scarf tighter across her bosom, feeling her own form, and then she leaned forward and kissed herself in the glass.

He was very careworn, soiled as it were with the world, tired out with the dusty, weary life's walk which he had been compelled to take. Of romance in him there was nothing left, while in her the aptitude for romance had only just been born. It was not only that his head was bald, but that his eye was dull, and his step slow. The juices of life had been pressed out of him; his thoughts were all of his cares, and never of his hopes. It would be very sad to be the wife of such a man; it would be very sad, if there were no compensation; but might not the sacrificial duties give her that atonement which she would require? She would fain do something with her life and her money,—some good, some great good to some other person. If that good to another person and billing and cooing might go together, it would be very pleasant. But she knew there was danger in such an idea. The billing and cooing might lead altogether to evil. But there could be no doubt that she would do good service if she married her cousin; her money would go to good purposes, and her care to those children would be invaluable. They were her cousins, and would it not be sweet to make of herself a sacrifice?

And then—Reader! remember that she was no saint, and that hitherto very little opportunity had been given to her of learning to discriminate true metal from dross. Then—she thought of Mr Samuel Rubb, junior. Mr Samuel Rubb, junior, was a handsome man, about her own age; and she felt almost sure that Mr Samuel Rubb, junior, admired her. He was not worn out with life; he was not broken with care; he would look forward into the world, and hope for things to come. One thing she knew to be true—he was not a gentleman. But then, why should she care for that? The being a gentleman was not everything. As for herself, might there not be strong reason to doubt whether those who were best qualified to judge would call her a lady? Her surviving brother kept an oilcloth shop, and the brother with whom she had always lived had been so retired from the world that neither he nor she knew anything of its ways. If love could be gained, and anything of romance; if some active living mode of life could thereby be opened to her, would it not be well for her to give up that idea of being a lady? Hitherto her rank had simply enabled her to become a Stumfoldian; and then she remembered that Mr Maguire's squint was very terrible! How she should live, what she should do with herself, were matters to her of painful thought; but she looked in the glass again, and resolved that she would decline the honour of becoming Mrs Ball.

On the following morning she wrote her letter, and it was written thus:

7 Paragon, Littlebath, January, 186—.

MY DEAR JOHN,

I have been thinking a great deal about what you said to me, and I have made up my mind that I ought not to become your wife. I know that the honour you have proposed to me is very great, and that I may seem to be ungrateful in declining it; but I cannot bring myself to feel that sort of love for you which a wife should have for her husband. I hope this will not make you displeased with me. It ought not to do so, as my feelings towards you and to your children are most affectionate.

I know my aunt will be angry with me. Pray tell her from me, with my best love, that I have thought very much of all she said to me, and that I feel sure that I am doing right. It is not that I should be afraid of the duties which would fall upon me as your wife; but that the woman who undertakes those duties should feel for you a wife's love. I think it is best to speak openly, and I hope that you will not be offended.

Give my best love to my uncle and aunt, and to the girls, and to Jack, who will, I hope, keep his promise of coming and seeing me.

Your very affectionate cousin,

MARGARET MACKENZIE.

"There," said John Ball to his mother, when he had read the letter, "I knew it would be so; and she is right. Why should she give up her money and her comfort and her ease, to look after my children?"

Lady Ball took the letter and read it, and pronounced it to be all nonsense.

"It may be all nonsense," said her son; "but such as it is, it is her answer."

"I suppose you'll have to go down to Littlebath after her," said Lady Ball.

"I certainly shall not do that. It would do no good; and I'm not going to persecute her."

"Persecute her! What nonsense you men do talk! As if any woman in her condition could be persecuted by being asked to become a baronet's wife. I suppose I must go down."

"I beg that you will not, mother."

"She is just one of those women who are sure to stand off, not knowing their own minds. The best creature in the world, and really very clever, but weak in that respect! She has not had lovers when she was young, and she thinks that a man should come dallying about her as though she were eighteen. It only wants a little perseverance, John, and if you'll take my advice, you'll go down to Littlebath after her."

But John, in this matter, would not follow his mother's advice, and declared that he would take no further steps. "He was inclined," he said, "to think that Margaret was right. Why should any woman burden herself with nine children?"

Then Lady Ball said a great deal more about the Ball money, giving it as her decided opinion that Margaret owed herself and her money to the Balls. As she could not induce her son to do anything, she wrote a rejoinder to her niece.

"My dearest Margaret," she said, "Your letter has made both me and John very unhappy. He has set his heart upon making you his wife, and I don't think will ever hold up his head again if you will not consent. I write now instead of John, because he is so much oppressed. I wish you had remained here, because then we could have talked it over quietly. Would it not be better for you to be here than living alone at Littlebath? for I cannot call that little girl who is at school anything of a companion. Could you not leave her as a boarder, and come to us for a month? You would not be forced to pledge yourself to anything further; but we could talk it over."

It need hardly be said that Miss Mackenzie, as she read this, declared to herself that she had no desire to talk over her own position with Lady Ball any further.

"John is afraid," the letter went on to say, "that he offended you by the manner of his proposition; and that he said too much about the children, and not enough about his own affection. Of course he loves you dearly. If you knew him as I do, which of course you can't as yet, though I hope you will, you would be aware that no consideration, either of money or about the children, would induce him to propose to any woman unless he loved her. You may take my word for that."

There was a great deal more in the letter of the same kind, in which Lady Ball pressed her own peculiar arguments; but I need hardly say that they did not prevail with Miss Mackenzie. If the son could not induce his cousin to marry him, the mother certainly never would do so. It did not take her long to answer her aunt's letter. She said that she must, with many thanks, decline for the present to return to the Cedars, as the charge which she had taken of her niece made her presence at Littlebath necessary. As to the answer which she had given to John, she was afraid she could only say that it must stand. She had felt a little angry with Lady Ball; and though she tried not to show this in the tone of her letter, she did show it.

"If I were you I would never see her or speak to her again," said Lady Ball to her son.

"Very likely I never shall," he replied.

"Has your love-making with that old maid gone wrong, John?" the father asked.

But John Ball was used to his father's ill nature, and never answered it.

Nothing special to our story occurred at Littlebath during the next two or three months, except that Miss Mackenzie became more and more intimate with Miss Baker, and more and more anxious to form an acquaintance with Miss Todd. With all the Stumfoldians she was on terms of mitigated friendship, and always went to Mrs Stumfold's fortnightly tea-drinkings. But with no lady there,—always excepting Miss Baker,—did she find that she grew into familiarity. With Mrs Stumfold no one was familiar. She was afflicted by the weight of her own position, as we suppose the Queen to be, when we say that her Majesty's altitude is too high to admit of friendships. Mrs Stumfold never condescended—except to the bishop's wife who, in return, had snubbed Mrs Stumfold. But living, as she did, in an atmosphere of flattery and toadying, it was wonderful how well she preserved her equanimity, and how she would talk and perhaps think of herself, as a poor, erring human being. When, however, she insisted much upon this fact of her humanity, the coachmaker's wife would shake her head, and at last stamp her foot in anger, swearing that though everybody was of course dust, and grass, and worms; and though, of course, Mrs Stumfold must, by nature, be included in that everybody; yet dust, and grass, and worms nowhere exhibited themselves with so few of the stains of humanity on them as they did within the bosom of Mrs Stumfold. So that, though the absolute fact of Mrs Stumfold being dust, and grass, and worms, could not, in regard to the consistency of things, be denied, yet in her dustiness, grassiness, and worminess she was so little dusty, grassy, and wormy, that it was hardly fair, even in herself, to mention the fact at all.

"I know the deceit of my own heart," Mrs Stumfold would say.

"Of course you do, Mrs Stumfold," the coachmaker's wife replied. "It is dreadful deceitful, no doubt. Where's the heart that ain't? But there's a difference in hearts. Your deceit isn't hard like most of 'em. You know it, Mrs Stumfold, and wrestle with it, and get your foot on the neck of it, so that, as one may say, it's always being killed and got the better of."

During these months Miss Mackenzie learned to value at a very low rate the rank of the Stumfoldian circle into which she had been admitted. She argued the matter with herself, saying that the coachbuilder's wife and others were not ladies. In a general way she was, no doubt, bound to assume them to be ladies; but she taught herself to think that such ladyhood was not of itself worth a great deal. It would not be worth the while of any woman to abstain from having some Mr Rubb or the like, and from being the lawful mother of children in the Rubb and Mackenzie line of life, for the sake of such exceptional rank as was to be maintained by associating with the Stumfoldians. And, as she became used to the things and persons around her, she indulged herself in a considerable amount of social philosophy, turning over ideas in her mind for which they, who saw merely the lines of her outer life, would hardly have given her credit. After all, what was the good of being a lady? Or was there any good in it at all? Could there possibly be any good in making a struggle to be a lady? Was it not rather one of those things which are settled for one externally, as are the colour of one's hair and the size of one's bones, and which should be taken or left alone, as Providence may have directed? "One cannot add a cubit to one's height, nor yet make oneself a lady;" that was the nature of Miss Mackenzie's argument with herself.

And, indeed, she carried the argument further than that. It was well to be a lady. She recognised perfectly the delicacy and worth of the article. Miss Baker was a lady; as to that there was no doubt. But, then, might it not also be very well not to be a lady; and might not the advantages of the one position be compensated with equal advantages in the other? It is a grand thing to be a queen; but a queen has no friends. It is fine to be a princess; but a princess has a very limited choice of husbands. There was something about Miss Baker that was very nice; but even Miss Baker was very melancholy, and Miss Mackenzie could see that that melancholy had come from wasted niceness. Had she not been so much the lady, she might have been more the woman. And there could be no disgrace in not being a lady, if such ladyhood depended on external circumstances arranged for one by Providence. No one blames one's washerwoman for not being a lady. No one wishes one's housekeeper to be a lady; and people are dismayed, rather than pleased, when they find that their tailors' wives want to be ladies. What does a woman get by being a lady? If fortune have made her so, fortune has done much for her. But the good things come as the natural concomitants of her fortunate position. It is not because she is a lady that she is liked by her peers and peeresses. But those choice gifts which have made her a lady have made her also to be liked. It comes from the outside, and for it no struggle can usefully be made. Such was the result of Miss Mackenzie's philosophy.

One may see that all these self-inquiries tended Rubb-wards. I do not mean that they were made with any direct intention on her part to reconcile herself to a marriage with Mr Samuel Rubb, or that she even thought of such an event as probable. He had said nothing to her to justify such thought, and as yet she knew but very little of him. But they all went to reconcile her to that sphere of life which her brother Tom had chosen, and which her brother Walter had despised. They taught her to believe that a firm footing below was better than what might, after a life's struggle, be found to be but a false footing above. And they were brightened undoubtedly by an idea that some marriage in which she could love and be loved was possible to her below, though it would hardly be possible to her above.

Her only disputant on the subject was Miss Baker, and she startled that lady much by the things which she said. Now, with Miss Baker, not to be a lady was to be nothing. It was her weakness, and I may also say her strength. Her ladyhood was of that nature that it took no soil from outer contact. It depended, even within her own bosom, on her own conduct solely, and in no degree on the conduct of those among whom she might chance to find herself. She thought it well to pass her evenings with Mr Stumfold's people, and he at any rate had the manners of a gentleman. So thinking, she felt in no wise disgraced because the coachbuilder's wife was a vulgar, illiterate woman. But there were things, not bad in themselves, which she herself would never have done, because she was a lady. She would have broken her heart rather than marry a man who was not a gentleman. It was not unlady-like to eat cold mutton, and she ate it. But she would have shuddered had she been called on to eat any mutton with a steel fork. She had little generous ways with her, because they were the ways of ladies, and she paid for them from off her own back and out of her own dish. She would not go out to tea in a street cab, because she was a lady and alone; but she had no objection to walk, with her servant with her if it was dark. No wonder that such a woman was dismayed by the philosophy of Miss Mackenzie.

And yet they had been brought together by much that was alike in their dispositions. Miss Mackenzie had now been more than six months an inhabitant of Littlebath, and six months at such places is enough for close intimacies. They were both quiet, conscientious, kindly women, each not without some ambition of activity, but each a little astray as to the way in which that activity should be shown. They were both alone in the world, and Miss Baker during the last year or two had become painfully so from the fact of her estrangement from her old friend Miss Todd. They both wished to be religious, having strong faith in the need of the comfort of religion; but neither of them were quite satisfied with the Stumfoldian creed. They had both, from conscience, eschewed the vanities of the world; but with neither was her conscience quite satisfied that such eschewal was necessary, and each regretted to be losing pleasures which might after all be innocent.

"If I'm to go to the bad place," Miss Todd had said to Miss Baker, "because I like to do something that won't hurt my old eyes of an evening, I don't see the justice of it. As for calling it gambling, it's a falsehood, and your Mr Stumfold knows that as well as I do. I haven't won or lost ten pounds in ten years, and I've no more idea of making money by cards than I have by sweeping the chimney. Tell me why are cards wicked? Drinking, and stealing, and lying, and backbiting, and naughty love-making,—but especially backbiting—backbiting—backbiting,—those are the things that the Bible says are wicked. I shall go on playing cards, my dear, till Mr Stumfold can send me chapter and verse forbidding it."

Then Miss Baker, who was no doubt weak, had been unable to answer her, and had herself hankered after the flesh-pots of Egypt and the delights of the unregenerated.

All these things Miss Baker and Miss Mackenzie discussed, and Miss Baker learned to love her younger friend in spite of her heterodox philosophy. Miss Mackenzie was going to give a tea-party,—nothing as yet having been quite settled, as there were difficulties in the way; but she propounded to Miss Baker the possibility of asking Miss Todd and some few of the less conspicuous Toddites. She had her ambition, and she wished to see whether even she might not do something to lessen the gulf which separated those who loved the pleasures of the world in Littlebath from the bosom of Mr Stumfold.

"You don't know what you are going to do," Miss Baker said.

"I'm not going to do any harm."

"That's more than you can say, my dear." Miss Baker had learnt from Miss Todd to call her friends "my dear."

"You are always so afraid of everything," said Miss Mackenzie.

"Of course I am;—one has to be afraid. A single lady can't go about and do just as she likes, as a man can do, or a married woman."

"I don't know about a man; but I think a single woman ought to be able to do more what she likes than a married woman. Suppose Mrs Stumfold found that I had got old Lady Ruff to meet her, what could she do to me?"

Old Lady Ruff was supposed to be the wickedest old card-player in all Littlebath, and there were strange stories afloat of the things she had done. There were Stumfoldians who declared that she had been seen through the blinds teaching her own maid piquet on a Sunday afternoon; but any horror will get itself believed nowadays. How could they have known that it was not beggar-my-neighbour? But piquet was named because it is supposed in the Stumfoldian world to be the wickedest of all games.

"I don't suppose she'd do much," said Miss Baker; "no doubt she would be very much offended."

"Why shouldn't I try to convert Lady Ruff?"

"She's over eighty, my dear."

"But I suppose she's not past all hope. The older one is the more one ought to try. But, of course, I'm only joking about her. Would Miss Todd come if you were to ask her?"

"Perhaps she would, but I don't think she'd be comfortable; or if she were, she'd make the others uncomfortable. She always does exactly what she pleases."

"That's just why I think I should like her. I wish I dared to do what I pleased! We all of us are such cowards. Only that I don't dare, I'd go off to Australia and marry a sheep farmer."

"You would not like him when you'd got him;—you'd find him very rough."

"I shouldn't mind a bit about his being rough. I'd marry a shoe-black to-morrow if I thought I could make him happy, and he could make me happy."

"But it wouldn't make you happy."

"Ah! that's just what we don't know. I shan't marry a shoe-black, because I don't dare. So you think I'd better not ask Miss Todd. Perhaps she wouldn't get on well with Mr Maguire."

"I had them both together once, my dear, and she made herself quite unbearable. You've no idea what kind of things she can say."

"I should have thought Mr Maguire would have given her as good as she brought," said Miss Mackenzie.

"So he did; and then Miss Todd got up and left him, saying out loud, before all the company, that it was not fair for him to come and preach sermons in such a place as that. I don't think they have ever met since."

All this made Miss Mackenzie very thoughtful. She had thrown herself into the society of the saints, and now there seemed to be no escape for her; she could not be wicked even if she wished it. Having got into her convent, and, as it were, taken the vows of her order, she could not escape from it.

"That Mr Rubb that I told you of is coming down here," she said, still speaking to Miss Baker of her party.

"Oh, dear! will he be here when you have your friends here?"

"That's what I intended; but I don't think I shall ask anybody at all. It is so stupid always seeing the same people."

"Mr Rubb is—is—is—?"

"Yes; Mr Rubb is a partner in my brother's house, and sells oilcloth, and things of that sort, and is not by any means aristocratic. I know what you mean."

"Don't be angry with me, my dear."

"Angry! I am not a bit angry. Why should I be angry? A man who keeps a shop is not, I suppose, a gentleman. But then, you know, I don't care about gentlemen,—about any gentleman, or any gentlemen."

Miss Baker sighed, and then the conversation dropped. She had always cared about gentlemen,—and once in her life, or perhaps twice, had cared about a gentleman.

Yes; Mr Rubb was coming down again. He had written to say that it was necessary that he should again see Miss Mackenzie about the money. The next morning after the conversation which has just been recorded, Miss Mackenzie got another letter about the same money, of which it will be necessary to say more in the next chapter.



CHAPTER X

Plenary Absolutions

The letter which Miss Mackenzie received was from old Mr Slow, her lawyer; and it was a very unpleasant letter. It was so unpleasant that it made her ears tingle when she read it and remembered that the person to whom special allusion was made was one whom she had taught herself to regard as her friend. Mr Slow's letter was as follows:

7 Little St Dunstan Court, April, 186—.

DEAR MADAM,

I think it proper to write to you specially, about the loan made by you to Messrs Rubb and Mackenzie, as the sum lent is serious, and as there has been conduct on the part of some one which I regard as dishonest. I find that what we have done in the matter has been regulated rather by the fact that you and Mr Mackenzie are brother and sister, than by the ordinary course of such business; and I perceive that we had special warrant given to us for this by you in your letter of the 23rd November last; but, nevertheless, it is my duty to explain to you that Messrs Rubb and Mackenzie, or,—as I believe to be the case, Mr Samuel Rubb, junior, of that firm,—have not dealt with you fairly. The money was borrowed for the purpose of buying certain premises, and, I believe, was laid out in that way. But it was borrowed on the special understanding that you, as the lender, were to have the title-deeds of that property, and the first mortgage upon them. It was alleged, when the purchase was being made, that the money was wanted before the mortgage could be effected, and you desired us to advance it. This we did, aware of the close family connection between yourself and one of the firm. Of course, on your instruction, we should have done this had there been no such relationship, but in that case we should have made further inquiry, and, probably, have ventured to advise you. But though the money was so advanced without the completion of the mortgage, it was advanced on the distinct understanding that the security proffered in the first instance was to be forthcoming without delay. We now learn that the property is mortgaged to other parties to its full value, and that no security for your money is to be had.

I have seen both Mr Mackenzie and Mr Rubb, junior. As regards your brother, I believe him to have been innocent of any intention of the deceit, for deceit there certainly has been. Indeed, he does not deny it. He offers to give you any security on the business, such as the stock-in-trade or the like, which I may advise you to take. But such would in truth be of no avail to you as security. He, your brother, seemed to be much distressed by what has been done, and I was grieved on his behalf. Mr Rubb,—the younger Mr Rubb,—expressed himself in a very different way. He at first declined to discuss the matter with me; and when I told him that if that was his way I would certainly expose him, he altered his tone a little, expressing regret that there should be delay as to the security, and wishing me to understand that you were yourself aware of all the facts.

There can be no doubt that deceit has been used towards you in getting your money, and that Mr Rubb has laid himself open to proceedings which, if taken against him, would be absolutely ruinous to him. But I fear they would be also ruinous to your brother. It is my painful duty to tell you that your money so advanced is on a most precarious footing. The firm, in addition to their present liabilities, are not worth half the money; or, I fear I may say, any part of it. I presume there is a working profit, as two families live upon the business. Whether, if you were to come upon them as a creditor, you could get your money out of their assets, I cannot say; but you, perhaps, will not feel yourself disposed to resort to such a measure. I have considered it my duty to tell you all the facts, and though your distinct authority to us to advance the money absolves us from responsibility, I must regret that we did not make further inquiries before we allowed so large a sum of money to pass out of our hands.

I am, dear Madam, Your faithful servant,

JONATHAN SLOW.

Mr Rubb's promised visit was to take place in eight or ten days from the date on which this letter was received. Miss Mackenzie's ears, as I have said, tingled as she read it. In the first place, it gave her a terrible picture of the precarious state of her brother's business. What would he do,—he with his wife, and all his children, if things were in such a state as Mr Slow described them? And yet a month or two ago he was giving champagne and iced puddings for dinner! And then what words that discreet old gentleman, Mr Slow, had spoken about Mr Rubb, and what things he had hinted over and above what he had spoken! Was it not manifest that he conceived Mr Rubb to have been guilty of direct fraud?

Miss Mackenzie at once made up her mind that her money was gone! But, in truth, this did not much annoy her. She had declared to herself once before that if anything was wrong about the money she would regard it as a present made to her brother; and when so thinking of it, she had, undoubtedly, felt that it was, not improbably, lost to her. It was something over a hundred a year to be deducted from her computed income, but she would still be able to live at the Paragon quite as well as she had intended, and be able also to educate Susanna. Indeed, she could do this easily and still save money, and, therefore, as regarded the probable loss, why need she be unhappy?

Before the morning was over she had succeeded in white-washing Mr Rubb in her own mind. It is, I think, certainly the fact that women are less pervious to ideas of honesty than men are. They are less shocked by dishonesty when they find it, and are less clear in their intellect as to that which constitutes honesty. Where is the woman who thinks it wrong to smuggle? What lady's conscience ever pricked her in that she omitted the armorial bearings on her silver forks from her tax papers? What wife ever ceased to respect her husband because he dealt dishonestly in business? Whereas, let him not go to church, let him drink too much wine, let him go astray in his conversation, and her wrath arises against these faults. But this lack of feminine accuracy in the matter of honesty tends rather to charity in their judgment of others, than to deeds of fraud on the part of women themselves.

Miss Mackenzie, who desired nothing that was not her own, who scrupulously kept her own hands from all picking and stealing, gave herself no peace, after reading the lawyer's letter, till she was able to tell herself that Mr Rubb was to be forgiven for what he had done. After all, he had, no doubt, intended that she should have the promised security. And had not he himself come to her in London and told her the whole truth,—or, if not the whole truth, as much of it as was reasonable to expect that he should be able to tell her at an evening party after dinner? Of course Mr Slow was hard upon him. Lawyers always were hard. If she chose to give Messrs Rubb and Mackenzie two thousand five hundred pounds out of her pocket, what was that to him? So she went on, till at last she was angry with Mr Slow for the language he had used.

It was, however, before all things necessary that she should put Mr Slow right as to the facts of the case. She had, no doubt, condoned whatever Mr Rubb had done. Mr Rubb undoubtedly had her sanction for keeping her money without security. Therefore, by return of post, she wrote the following short letter, which rather astonished Mr Slow when he received it—

Littlebath, April, 186—.

DEAR SIR,

I am much obliged by your letter about the money; but the truth is that I have known for some time that there was to be no mortgage. When I was in town I saw Mr Rubb at my brother's house, and it was understood between us then that the matter was to remain as it is. My brother and his partner are very welcome to the money.

Believe me to be, Yours sincerely,

MARGARET MACKENZIE.

The letter was a false letter; but I suppose Miss Mackenzie did not know that she was writing falsely. The letter was certainly false, because when she spoke of the understanding "between us," having just mentioned her brother and Mr Rubb, she intended the lawyer to believe that the understanding was between them three; whereas, not a word had been said about the money in her brother's hearing, nor was he aware that his partner had spoken of the money.

Mr Slow was surprised and annoyed. As regarded his comfort as a lawyer, his client's letter was of course satisfactory. It absolved him not only from all absolute responsibility, but also from the feeling which no doubt had existed within his own breast, that he had in some sort neglected the lady's interest. But, nevertheless, he was annoyed. He did not believe the statement that Rubb and Mackenzie had had permission to hold the money without mortgage, and thought that neither of the partners had themselves so conceived when he had seen them. They had, however, been too many for him—and too many also for the poor female who had allowed herself to be duped out of her money. Such were Mr Slow's feelings on the matter, and then he dismissed the subject from his mind.

The next day, about noon, Miss Mackenzie was startled almost out of her propriety by the sudden announcement at the drawing-room door of Mr Rubb. Before she could bethink herself how she would behave herself, or whether it would become her to say anything of Mr Slow's letter to her, he was in the room.

"Miss Mackenzie," he said, hurriedly—and yet he had paused for a moment in his hurry till the servant had shut the door—"may I shake hands with you?"

There could, Miss Mackenzie thought, be no objection to so ordinary a ceremony; and, therefore, she said, "Certainly," and gave him her hand.

"Then I am myself again," said Mr Rubb; and having so said, he sat down.

Miss Mackenzie hoped that there was nothing the matter with him, and then she also sat down at a considerable distance.

"There is nothing the matter with me," said he, "as you are still so kind to me. But tell me, have you not received a letter from your lawyer?"

"Yes, I have."

"And he has done all in his power to blacken me? I know it. Tell me, Miss Mackenzie, has he not blackened me? Has he not laid things to my charge of which I am incapable? Has he not accused me of getting money from you under false pretences,—than do which, I'd sooner have seen my own brains blown out? I would, indeed."

"He has written to me about the money, Mr Rubb."

"Yes; he came to me, and behaved shamefully to me; and he saw your brother, too, and has been making all manner of ignominious inquiries. Those lawyers can never understand that there can be anything of friendly feeling about money. They can't put friendly feelings into their unconscionable bills. I believe the world would go on better if there was no such thing as an attorney in it. I wonder who invented them, and why?"

Miss Mackenzie could give him no information on this point, and therefore he went on:

"But you must tell me what he has said, and what it is he wants us to do. For your sake, if you ask us, Miss Mackenzie, we'll do anything. We'll sell the coats off our backs, if you wish it. You shall never lose one shilling by Rubb and Mackenzie as long as I have anything to do with the firm. But I'm sure you will excuse me if I say that we can do nothing at the bidding of that old cormorant."

"I don't know that there's anything to be done, Mr Rubb."

"Is not there? Well, it's very generous in you to say so; and you always are generous. I've always told your brother, since I had the honour of knowing you, that he had a sister to be proud of. And, Miss Mackenzie, I'll say more than that; I've flattered myself that I've had a friend to be proud of. But now I must tell you why I've come down to-day; you know I was to have been here next week. Well, when Mr Slow came to me and I found what was up, I said to myself at once that it was right you should know exactly—exactly—how the matter stands. I was going to explain it next week, but I wouldn't leave you in suspense when I knew that that lawyer was going to trouble you."

"It hasn't troubled me, Mr Rubb."

"Hasn't it though, really? That's so good of you again! Now the truth is—but it's pretty nearly just what I told you that day after dinner, when you agreed, you know, to what we had done."

Here he paused, as though expecting an answer.

"Yes, I did agree."

"Just at present, while certain other parties have a right to hold the title-deeds, and I can't quite say how long that may be, we cannot execute a mortgage in your favour. The title-deeds represent the property. Perhaps you don't know that."

"Oh yes, I know as much as that."

"Well then, as we haven't the title-deeds, we can't execute the mortgage. Perhaps you'll say you ought to have the title-deeds."

"No, Mr Rubb, I don't want to say anything of the kind. If my money can be of any assistance to my brother—to my brother and you—you are welcome to the use of it, without any mortgage. I will show you a copy of the letter I sent to Mr Slow."

"Thanks; a thousand thanks! and may I see the letter which Mr Slow wrote?"

"No, I think not. I don't know whether it would be right to show it to you."

"I shouldn't think of doing anything about it; that is, resenting it, you know. Only then we should all be on the square together."

"I think I'd better not. Mr Slow, when he wrote it, probably did not mean that I should show it to you."

"You're right; you're always right. But you'll let me see your answer."

Then Miss Mackenzie went to her desk, and brought him a copy of the note she had written to the lawyer. He read it very carefully, twice over; and then she could see, when he refolded the paper, that his eyes were glittering with satisfaction.

"Miss Mackenzie, Miss Mackenzie," he said, "I think that you are an angel!"

And he did think so. In so much at that moment he was at any rate sincere. She saw that he was pleased, and she was pleased herself.

"There need be no further trouble about it," she said; and as she spoke she rose from her seat.

And he rose, too, and came close to her. He came close to her, hesitated for a moment, and then, putting one hand behind her waist, though barely touching her, he took her hand with his other hand. She thought that he was going to kiss her lips, and for a moment or two he thought so too; but either his courage failed him or else his discretion prevailed. Whether it was the one or the other, must depend on the way in which she would have taken it. As it was, he merely raised her hand and kissed that. When she could look into his face his eyes were full of tears.

"The truth is," said he, "that you have saved us from ruin;—that's the real truth. Damn all lying!"

She started at the oath, but in an instant she had forgiven him that too. There was a sound of reality about it, which reconciled her to the indignity; though, had she been true to her faith as a Stumfoldian, she ought at least to have fainted at the sound.

"I hardly know what I am saying, Miss Mackenzie, and I beg your pardon; but the fact is you could sell us up if you pleased. I didn't mean it when I first got your brother to agree as to asking you for the loan; I didn't indeed; but things were going wrong with us, and just at that moment they went more wrong than ever; and then came the temptation, and we were able to make everything right by giving up the title-deeds of the premises. That's how it was, and it was I that did it. It wasn't your brother; and though you may forgive me, he won't."

This was all true, but how far the truth should be taken towards palliating the deed done, I must leave the reader to decide; and the reader will doubtless perceive that the truth did not appear until Mr Rubb had ascertained that its appearance would not injure him. I think, however, that it came from his heart, and that it should count for something in his favour. The tear which he rubbed from his eye with his hand counted very much in his favour with Miss Mackenzie; she had not only forgiven him now, but she almost loved him for having given her something to forgive. With many women I doubt whether there be any more effectual way of touching their hearts than ill-using them and then confessing it. If you wish to get the sweetest fragrance from the herb at your feet, tread on it and bruise it.

She had forgiven him, and taken him absolutely into favour, and he had kissed her hand, having all but embraced her as he did so; but on the present occasion he did not get beyond that. He lacked the audacity to proceed at once from the acknowledgment of his fault to a declaration of his love; but I hardly think that he would have injured himself had he done so. He should have struck while the iron was hot, and it was heated now nearly to melting; but he was abashed by his own position, and having something real in his heart, having some remnant of generous feeling left about him, he could not make such progress as he might have done had he been cool enough to calculate all his advantages.

"Don't let it trouble you any more," Miss Mackenzie said, when he had dropped her hand.

"But it does trouble me, and it will trouble me."

"No," she said, with energy, "it shall not; let there be an end of it. I will write to Tom, and tell him that he is welcome to the money. Isn't he my brother? You are both welcome to it. If it has been of service to you, I am very happy that it should be so. And now, Mr Rubb, if you please, we won't have another word about it."

"What am I to say?"

"Not another word."

It seemed as though he couldn't speak another word, for he went to the window and stood there silently, looking into the street. As he did so, there came another visitor to Miss Mackenzie, whose ringing at the doorbell had not been noticed by them, and Miss Baker was announced while Mr Rubb was still getting the better of his feelings. Of course he turned round when he heard the lady's name, and of course he was introduced by his hostess. Miss Mackenzie was obliged to make some apology for the gentleman's presence.

"Mr Rubb was expected next week, but business brought him down to-day unexpectedly."

"Quite unexpectedly," said Mr Rubb, making a violent endeavour to recover his equanimity.

Miss Baker looked at Mr Rubb, and disliked him at once. It should be remembered that she was twenty years older than Miss Mackenzie, and that she regarded the stranger, therefore, with a saner and more philosophical judgment than her friend could use,—with a judgment on which the outward comeliness of the man had no undue influence; and it should be remembered also that Miss Baker, from early age, and by all the association of her youth, had been taught to know a gentleman when she saw him. Miss Mackenzie, who was by nature the cleverer woman of the two, watched her friend's face, and saw by a glance that she did not like Mr Rubb, and then, within her own bosom, she called her friend an old maid.

"We're having uncommonly fine weather for the time of year," said Mr Rubb.

"Very fine weather," said Miss Baker. "I've called, my dear, to know whether you'll go in with me next door and drink tea this evening?"

"What, with Miss Todd?" asked Miss Mackenzie, who was surprised at the invitation.

"Yes, with Miss Todd. It is not one of her regular nights, you know, and her set won't be there. She has some old friends with her,—a Mr Wilkinson, a clergyman, and his wife. It seems that her old enemy and your devoted slave, Mr Maguire, knows Mr Wilkinson, and he's going to be there."

"Mr Maguire is no slave of mine, Miss Baker."

"I thought he was; at any rate his presence will be a guarantee that Miss Todd will be on her best behaviour, and that you needn't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid of anything of that sort."

"But will you go?"

"Oh, yes, if you are going."

"That's right; and I'll call for you as I pass by. I must see her now, and tell her. Good-morning, Sir;" whereupon Miss Baker bowed very stiffly to Mr Rubb.

"Good-morning, Ma'am," said Mr Rubb, bowing very stiffly to Miss Baker.

When the lady was gone, Mr Rubb sat himself again down on the sofa, and there he remained for the next half-hour. He talked about the business of the firm, saying how it would now certainly be improved; and he talked about Tom Mackenzie's family, saying what a grand thing it was for Susanna to be thus taken in hand by her aunt; and he asked a question or two about Miss Baker, and then a question or two about Mr Maguire, during which questions he learned that Mr Maguire was not as yet a married man; and from Mr Maguire he got on to the Stumfolds, and learned somewhat of the rites and ceremonies of the Stumfoldian faith. In this way he prolonged his visit till Miss Mackenzie began to feel that he ought to take his leave.

Miss Baker had gone at once to Miss Todd, and had told that lady that Miss Mackenzie would join her tea-party. She had also told how Mr Rubb, of the firm of Rubb and Mackenzie, was at this moment in Miss Mackenzie's drawing-room.

"I'll ask him to come, too," said Miss Todd. Then Miss Baker had hesitated, and had looked grave.

"What's the matter?" said Miss Todd.

"I'm not quite sure you'll like him," said Miss Baker.

"Probably not," said Miss Todd; "I don't like half the people I meet, but that's no reason I shouldn't ask him."

"But he is—that is, he is not exactly—"

"What is he, and what is he not, exactly?" asked Miss Todd.

"Why, he is a tradesman, you know," said Miss Baker.

"There's no harm that I know of in that," said Miss Todd. "My uncle that left me my money was a tradesman."

"No," said Miss Baker, energetically; "he was a merchant in Liverpool."

"You'll find it very hard to define the difference, my dear," said Miss Todd. "At any rate I'll ask the man to come;—that is, if it won't offend you."

"It won't in the least offend me," said Miss Baker.

So a note was at once written and sent in to Miss Mackenzie, in which she was asked to bring Mr Rubb with her on that evening. When the note reached Miss Mackenzie, Mr Rubb was still with her.

Of course she communicated to him the invitation. She wished that it had not been sent; she wished that he would not accept it,—though on that head she had no doubt; but she had not sufficient presence of mind to keep the matter to herself and say nothing about it. Of course he was only too glad to drink tea with Miss Todd. Miss Mackenzie attempted some slight manoeuvre to induce Mr Rubb to go direct to Miss Todd's house; but he was not such an ass as that; he knew his advantage, and kept it, insisting on his privilege of coming there, to Miss Mackenzie's room, and escorting her. He would have to escort Miss Baker also; and things, as he thought, were looking well with him. At last he rose to go, but he made good use of the privilege of parting. He held Miss Mackenzie's hand, and pressed it.

"You mustn't be angry," he said, "if I tell you that you are the best friend I have in the world."

"You have better friends than me," she said, "and older friends."

"Yes; older friends; but none,—not one, who has done for me so much as you have; and certainly none for whom I have so great a regard. May God bless you, Miss Mackenzie!"

"May God bless you, too, Mr Rubb!"

What else could she say? When his civility took so decorous a shape, she could not bear to be less civil than he had been, or less decorous. And yet it seemed to her that in bidding God bless him with that warm pressure of the hand, she had allowed to escape from her an appearance of affection which she had not intended to exhibit.

"Thank you; thank you," said he; and then at last he went.

She seated herself slowly in her own chair near the window,—the chair in which she was accustomed to sit for many solitary hours, and asked herself what it all meant. Was she allowing herself to fall in love with Mr Rubb, and if so, was it well that it should be so? This would be bringing to the sternest proof of reality her philosophical theory on social life. It was all very well for her to hold a bold opinion in discussions with Miss Baker as to a "man being a man for a' that," even though he might not be a gentleman; but was she prepared to go the length of preferring such a man to all the world? Was she ready to go down among the Rubbs, for now and ever, and give up the society of such women as Miss Baker? She knew that it was necessary that she should come to some resolve on the matter, as Mr Rubb's purpose was becoming too clear to her. When an unmarried gentleman of forty tells an unmarried lady of thirty-six that she is the dearest friend he has in the world, he must surely intend that they shall, neither of them, remain unmarried any longer. Then she thought also of her cousin, John Ball; and some vague shadow of thought passed across her mind also in respect of the Rev. Mr Maguire.



CHAPTER XI

Miss Todd Entertains Some Friends at Tea

I believe that a desire to get married is the natural state of a woman at the age of—say from twenty-five to thirty-five, and I think also that it is good for the world in general that it should be so. I am now speaking, not of the female population at large, but of women whose position in the world does not subject them to the necessity of earning their bread by the labour of their hands. There is, I know, a feeling abroad among women that this desire is one of which it is expedient that they should become ashamed; that it will be well for them to alter their natures in this respect, and learn to take delight in the single state. Many of the most worthy women of the day are now teaching this doctrine, and are intent on showing by precept and practice that an unmarried woman may have as sure a hold on the world, and a position within it as ascertained, as may an unmarried man. But I confess to an opinion that human nature will be found to be too strong for them. Their school of philosophy may be graced by a few zealous students,—by students who will be subject to the personal influence of their great masters,—but it will not be successful in the outer world. The truth in the matter is too clear. A woman's life is not perfect or whole till she has added herself to a husband.

Nor is a man's life perfect or whole till he has added to himself a wife; but the deficiency with the man, though perhaps more injurious to him than its counterpart is to the woman, does not, to the outer eye, so manifestly unfit him for his business in the world. Nor does the deficiency make itself known to him so early in life, and therefore it occasions less of regret,—less of regret, though probably more of misery. It is infinitely for his advantage that he should be tempted to take to himself a wife; and, therefore, for his sake if not for her own, the philosophic preacher of single blessedness should break up her class-rooms, and bid her pupils go and do as their mothers did before them.

They may as well give up their ineffectual efforts, and know that nature is too strong for them. The desire is there; and any desire which has to be repressed with an effort, will not have itself repressed unless it be in itself wrong. But this desire, though by no means wrong, is generally accompanied by something of a feeling of shame. It is not often acknowledged by the woman to herself, and very rarely acknowledged in simple plainness to another. Miss Mackenzie could not by any means bring herself to own it, and yet it was there strong within her bosom. A man situated in outer matters as she was situated, possessed of good means, hampered by no outer demands, would have declared to himself clearly that it would be well for him to marry. But he would probably be content to wait a while and would, unless in love, feel the delay to be a luxury. But Miss Mackenzie could not confess as much, even to herself,—could not let herself know that she thought as much; but yet she desired to be married, and dreaded delay. She desired to be married, although she was troubled by some half-formed idea that it would be wicked. Who was she, that she should be allowed to be in love? Was she not an old maid by prescription, and, as it were, by the force of ordained circumstances? Had it not been made very clear to her when she was young that she had no right to fall in love, even with Harry Handcock? And although in certain moments of ecstasy, as when she kissed herself in the glass, she almost taught herself to think that feminine charms and feminine privileges had not been all denied to her, such was not her permanent opinion of herself. She despised herself. Why, she knew not; and probably did not know that she did so. But, in truth, she despised herself, thinking herself to be too mean for a man's love.

She had been asked to marry him by her cousin Mr Ball, and she had almost yielded. But had she married him it would not have been because she thought herself good enough to be loved by him, but because she held herself to be so insignificant that she had no right to ask for love. She would have taken him because she could have been of use, and because she would have felt that she had no right to demand any other purpose in the world. She would have done this, had she not been deterred by the rude offer of other advantages which had with so much ill judgment been made to her by her aunt.

Now, here was a lover who was not old and careworn, who was personally agreeable to her, with whom something of the customary romance of the world might be possible. Should she take him? She knew well that there were drawbacks. Her perceptions had not missed to notice the man's imperfections, his vulgarities, his false promises, his little pushing ways. But why was she to expect him to be perfect, seeing, as she so plainly did, her own imperfections? As for her money, of course he wanted her money. So had Mr Ball wanted her money. What man on earth could have wished to marry her unless she had had money? It was thus that she thought of herself. And he had robbed her! But that she had forgiven; and, having forgiven it, was too generous to count it for anything. But, nevertheless, she was ambitious. Might there not be a better, even than Mr Rubb?

Mr Maguire squinted horribly; so horribly that the form and face of the man hardly left any memory of themselves except the memory of the squint. His dark hair, his one perfect eye, his good figure, his expressive mouth, were all lost in that dreadful perversion of vision. It was a misfortune so great as to justify him in demanding that he should be judged by different laws than those which are used as to the conduct of the world at large. In getting a wife he might surely use his tongue with more freedom than another man, seeing that his eye was so much against him. If he were somewhat romantic in his talk, or even more than romantic, who could find fault with him? And if he used his clerical vocation to cover the terrors of that distorted pupil, can any woman say that he should be therefore condemned? Miss Mackenzie could not forget his eye, but she thought that she had almost brought herself to forgive it. And, moreover, he was a gentleman, not only by Act of Parliament, but in outward manners. Were she to become Mrs Maguire, Miss Baker would certainly come to her house, and it might be given to her to rival Mrs Stumfold—in running which race she would be weighted by no Mr Peters.

It is true that Mr Maguire had never asked her to marry him, but she believed that he would ask her if she gave him any encouragement. Now it was to come to pass, by a wonderful arrangement of circumstances, that she was to meet these two gentlemen together. It might well be, that on this very occasion, she must choose whether it should be either or neither.

Mr Rubb came, and she looked anxiously at his dress. He had on bright yellow kid gloves, primrose he would have called them, but, if there be such things as yellow gloves, they were yellow; and she wished that she had the courage to ask him to take them off. This was beyond her, and there he sat, with his gloves almost as conspicuous as Mr Maguire's eye. Should she, however, ever become Mrs Rubb, she would not find the gloves to be there permanently; whereas the eye would remain. But then the gloves were the fault of the one man, whereas the eye was simply the misfortune of the other. And Mr Rubb's hair was very full of perfumed grease, and sat on each side of his head in a conscious arrangement of waviness that was detestable. As she looked at Mr Rubb in all the brightness of his evening costume, she began to think that she had better not. At last Miss Baker came, and they started off together. Miss Mackenzie saw that Miss Baker eyed the man, and she blushed. When they got down upon the doorstep, Samuel Rubb, junior, absolutely offered an arm simultaneously to each lady! At that moment Miss Mackenzie hated him in spite of her special theory.

"Thank you," said Miss Baker, declining the arm; "it is only a step."

Miss Mackenzie declined it also.

"Oh, of course," said Mr Rubb. "If it's only next door it does not signify."

Miss Todd welcomed them cordially, gloves and all. "My dear," she said to Miss Baker, "I haven't seen you for twenty years. Miss Mackenzie, this is very kind of you. I hope we sha'n't do you any harm, as we are not going to be wicked to-night."

Miss Mackenzie did not dare to say that she would have preferred to be wicked, but that is what she would have said if she had dared.

"Mr Rubb, I'm very happy to see you," continued Miss Todd, accepting her guest's hand, glove and all. "I hope they haven't made you believe that you are going to have any dancing, for, if so, they have hoaxed you shamefully." Then she introduced them to Mr and Mrs Wilkinson.

Mr Wilkinson was a plain-looking clergyman, with a very pretty wife. "Adela," Miss Todd said to Mrs Wilkinson, "you used to dance, but that's all done with now, I suppose."

"I never danced much," said the clergyman's wife, "but have certainly given it up now, partly because I have no one to dance with."

"Here's Mr Rubb quite ready. He'll dance with you, I'll be bound, if that's all."

Mr Rubb became very red, and Miss Mackenzie, when she next took courage to look at him, saw that the gloves had disappeared.

There came also a Mr and Mrs Fuzzybell, and immediately afterwards Mr Maguire, whereupon Miss Todd declared her party to be complete.

"Mrs Fuzzybell, my dear, no cards!" said Miss Todd, quite out loud, with a tragic-comic expression in her face that was irresistible. "Mr Fuzzybell, no cards!" Mrs Fuzzybell said that she was delighted to hear it. Mr Fuzzybell said that it did not signify. Miss Baker stole a glance at Mr Maguire, and shook in her shoes. Mr Maguire tried to look as though he had not heard it.

"Do you play cards much here?" asked Mr Rubb.

"A great deal too much, Sir," said Miss Todd, shaking her head.

"Have you many Dissenters in your parish, Mr Wilkinson?" asked Mr Maguire.

"A good many," said Mr Wilkinson.

"But no Papists?" suggested Mr Maguire.

"No, we have no Roman Catholics."

"That is such a blessing!" said Mr Maguire, turning his eyes up to Heaven in a very frightful manner. But he had succeeded for the present in putting down Miss Todd and her cards.

They were now summoned round the tea-table,—a genuine tea-table at which it was expected that they should eat and drink. Miss Mackenzie was seated next to Mr Maguire on one side of the table, while Mr Rubb sat on the other between Miss Todd and Miss Baker. While they were yet taking their seats, and before the operations of the banquet had commenced, Susanna entered the room. She also had been specially invited, but she had not returned from school in time to accompany her aunt. The young lady had to walk round the room to shake hands with everybody, and when she came to Mr Rubb, was received with much affectionate urgency. He turned round in his chair and was loud in his praises. "Miss Mackenzie," said he, speaking across the table, "I shall have to report in Gower Street that Miss Susanna has become quite the lady." From that moment Mr Rubb had an enemy close to the object of his affections, who was always fighting a battle against him.

Susanna had hardly gained her seat, before Mr Maguire seized an opportunity which he saw might soon be gone, and sprang to his legs. "Miss Todd," said he, "may I be permitted to ask a blessing?"

"Oh, certainly," said Miss Todd; "but I thought one only did that at dinner."

Mr Maguire, however, was not the man to sit down without improving the occasion.

"And why not for tea also?" said he. "Are they not gifts alike?"

"Very much alike," said Miss Todd, "and so is a cake at a pastry-cook's. But we don't say grace over our buns."

"We do, in silence," said Mr Maguire, still standing; "and therefore we ought to have it out loud here."

"I don't see the argument; but you're very welcome."

"Thank you," said Mr Maguire; and then he said his grace. He said it with much poetic emphasis, and Miss Mackenzie, who liked any little additional excitement, thought that Miss Todd had been wrong.

"You've a deal of society here, no doubt," said Mr Rubb to Miss Baker, while Miss Todd was dispensing her tea.

"I suppose it's much the same as other places," said Miss Baker. "Those who know many people can go out constantly if they like it."

"And it's so easy to get to know people," said Mr Rubb. "That's what makes me like these sort of places so much. There's no stiffness and formality, and all that kind of thing. Now in London, you don't know your next neighbour, though you and he have lived there for ten years."

"Nor here either, unless chance brings you together."

"Ah; but there is none of that horrid decorum here," said Mr Rubb. "There's nothing I hate like decorum. It prevents people knowing each other, and being jolly and happy together. Now, the French know more about society than any people, and I'm told they have none of it."

"I'm sure I can't say," said Miss Baker.

"It's given up to them that they've got rid of it altogether," said Mr Rubb.

"Who have got rid of what?" asked Miss Todd, who saw that her friend was rather dismayed by the tenor of Mr Rubb's conversation.

"The French have got rid of decorum," said Mr Rubb.

"Altogether, I believe," said Miss Todd.

"Of course they have. It's given up to them that they have. They're the people that know how to live!"

"You'd better go and live among them, if that's your way of thinking," said Miss Todd.

"I would at once, only for the business," said Mr Rubb. "If there's anything I hate, it's decorum. How pleasant it was for me to be asked in to take tea here in this social way!"

"But I hope decorum would not have forbidden that," said Miss Todd.

"I rather think it would though, in London."

"Where you're known, you mean?" asked Miss Todd.

"I don't know that that makes any difference; but people don't do that sort of thing. Do they, Miss Mackenzie? You've lived in London most of your life, and you ought to know."

Miss Mackenzie did not answer the appeal that was made to her. She was watching Mr Rubb narrowly, and knew that he was making a fool of himself. She could perceive also that Miss Todd would not spare him. She could forgive Mr Rubb for being a fool. She could forgive him for not knowing the meaning of words, for being vulgar and assuming; but she could hardly bring herself to forgive him in that he did so as her friend, and as the guest whom she had brought thither. She did not declare to herself that she would have nothing more to do with him, because he was an ass; but she almost did come to this conclusion, lest he should make her appear to be an ass also.

"What is the gentleman's name?" asked Mr Maguire, who, under the protection of the urn, was able to whisper into Miss Mackenzie's ear.

"Rubb," said she.

"Oh, Rubb; and he comes from London?"

"He is my brother's partner in business," said Miss Mackenzie.

"Oh, indeed. A very worthy man, no doubt. Is he staying with—with you, Miss Mackenzie?"

Then Miss Mackenzie had to explain that Mr Rubb was not staying with her,—that he had come down about business, and that he was staying at some inn.

"An excellent man of business; I'm sure," said Mr Maguire. "By-the-bye, Miss Mackenzie, if it be not improper to ask, have you any share in the business?"

Miss Mackenzie explained that she had no share in the business; and then blundered on, saying how Mr Rubb had come down to Littlebath about money transactions between her and her brother.

"Oh, indeed," said Mr Maguire; and before he had done, he knew very well that Mr Rubb had borrowed money of Miss Mackenzie.

"Now, Mrs Fuzzybell, what are we to do?" said Miss Todd, as soon as the tea-things were gone.

"We shall do very well," said Mrs Fuzzybell; "we'll have a little conversation."

"If we could all banish decorum, like Mr Rubb, and amuse ourselves, wouldn't it be nice? I quite agree with you, Mr Rubb; decorum is a great bore; it prevents our playing cards to-night."

"As for cards, I never play cards myself," said Mr Rubb.

"Then, when I throw decorum overboard, it sha'n't be in company with you, Mr Rubb."

"We were always taught to think that cards were objectionable."

"You were told they were the devil's books, I suppose," said Miss Todd.

"Mother always objected to have them in the house," said Mr Rubb.

"Your mother was quite right," said Mr Maguire; "and I hope that you will never forget or neglect your parent's precepts. I'm not meaning to judge you, Miss Todd—"

"But that's just what you are meaning to do, Mr Maguire."

"Not at all; very far from it. We've all got our wickednesses and imperfections."

"No, no, not you, Mr Maguire. Mrs Fuzzybell, you don't think that Mr Maguire has any wickednesses and imperfections?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Mrs Fuzzybell, tossing her head.

"Miss Todd," said Mr Maguire, "when I look into my own heart, I see well how black it is. It is full of iniquity; it is a grievous sore that is ever running, and will not be purified."

"Gracious me, how unpleasant!" said Miss Todd.

"I trust that there is no one here who has not a sense of her own wickedness."

"Or of his," said Miss Todd.

"Or of his," and Mr Maguire looked very hard at Mr Fuzzybell. Mr Fuzzybell was a quiet, tame old gentleman, who followed his wife's heels about wherever she went; but even he, when attacked in this way, became very fierce, and looked back at Mr Maguire quite as severely as Mr Maguire looked at him.

"Or of his," continued Mr Maguire; "and therefore far be it from me to think hardly of the amusements of other people. But when this gentleman tells me that his excellent parent warned him against the fascination of cards, I cannot but ask him to remember those precepts to his dying bed."

"I won't say what I may do later in life," said Mr Rubb.

"When he becomes like you and me, Mrs Fuzzybell," said Miss Todd.

"When one does get older," said Mr Rubb.

"And has succeeded in throwing off all decorum," said Miss Todd.

"How can you say such things?" asked Miss Baker, who was shocked by the tenor of the conversation.

"It isn't I, my dear; it's Mr Rubb and Mr Maguire, between them. One says he has thrown off all decorum and the other declares himself to be a mass of iniquity. What are two poor old ladies like you and I to do in such company?"

Miss Mackenzie, when she heard Mr Maguire declare himself to be a running sore, was even more angry with him than with Mr Rubb. He, at any rate, should have known better. After all, was not Mr Ball better than either of them, though his head was bald and his face worn with that solemn, sad look of care which always pervaded him?

In the course of the evening she found herself seated apart from the general company, with Mr Maguire beside her. The eye that did not squint was towards her, and he made an effort to be agreeable to her that was not altogether ineffectual.

"Does not society sometimes make you very sad?" he said.

Society had made her sad to-night, and she answered him in the affirmative.

"It seems that people are so little desirous to make other people happy," she replied.

"It was just that idea that was passing through my own mind. Men and women are anxious to give you the best they have, but it is in order that you may admire their wealth or their taste; and they strive to be witty, amusing, and sarcastic! but that, again, is for the eclat they are to gain. How few really struggle to make those around them comfortable!"

"It comes, I suppose, from people having such different tastes," said Miss Mackenzie, who, on looking round the room, thought that the people assembled there were peculiarly ill-assorted.

"As for happiness," continued Mr Maguire, "that is not to be looked for from society. They who expect their social hours to be happy hours will be grievously disappointed."

"Are you not happy at Mrs Stumfold's?"

"At Mrs Stumfold's? Yes;—sometimes, that is; but even there I always seem to want something. Miss Mackenzie, has it never occurred to you that the one thing necessary in this life, the one thing—beyond a hope for the next, you know, the one thing is—ah, Miss Mackenzie, what is it?"