"Perhaps you mean a competence," said Miss Mackenzie.

"I mean some one to love," said Mr Maguire.

As he spoke he looked with all the poetic vigour of his better eye full into Miss Mackenzie's face, and Miss Mackenzie, who then could see nothing of the other eye, felt the effect of the glance somewhat as he intended that she should feel it. When a lady who is thinking about getting married is asked by a gentleman who is frequently in her thoughts whether she does not want some one to love, it is natural that she should presume that he means to be particular; and it is natural also that she should be in some sort gratified by that particularity. Miss Mackenzie was, I think, gratified, but she did not express any such feeling.

"Is not that your idea also?" said he,—"some one to love; is not that the great desideratum here below!" And the tone in which he repeated the last words was by no means ineffective.

"I hope everybody has that," said she.

"I fear not; not anyone to love with a perfect love. Who does Miss Todd love?"

"Miss Baker."

"Does she? And yet they live apart, and rarely see each other. They think differently on all subjects. That is not the love of which I am speaking. And you, Miss Mackenzie, are you sure that you love anyone with that perfect all-trusting, love?"

"I love my niece Susanna best," said she.

"Your niece, Susanna! She is a sweet child, a sweet girl; she has everything to make those love her who know her; but—"

"You don't think anything amiss of Susanna, Mr Maguire?"

"Nothing, nothing; Heaven forbid, dear child! And I think so highly of you for your generosity in adopting her."

"I could not do less than take one of them, Mr Maguire."

"But I meant a different kind of love from that. Do you feel that your regard for your niece is sufficient to fill your heart?"

"It makes me very comfortable."

"Does it? Ah! me; I wish I could make myself comfortable."

"I should have thought, seeing you so much in Mrs Stumfold's house—"

"I have the greatest veneration for that woman, Miss Mackenzie! I have sometimes thought that of all the human beings I have ever met, she is the most perfect; she is human, and therefore a sinner, but her sins never meet my eyes."

Miss Mackenzie, who did not herself regard Mrs Stumfold as being so much better than her neighbours, could not receive this with much rapture.

"But," continued Mr Maguire, "she is as cold—as cold—as cold as ice."

As the lady in question was another man's wife, this did not seem to Miss Mackenzie to be of much consequence to Mr Maguire, but she allowed him to go on.

"Stumfold I don't think minds it; he is of that joyous disposition that all things work to good for him. Even when she's most obdurate in her sternness to him—"

"Law! Mr Maguire, I did not think she was ever stern to him."

"But she is, very hard. Even then I don't think he minds it much. But, Miss Mackenzie, that kind of companion would not do for me at all. I think a woman should be soft and soothing, like a dove."

She did not stop to think whether doves are soothing, but she felt that the language was pretty.

Just at this moment she was summoned by Miss Baker, and looking up she perceived that Mr and Mrs Fuzzybell were already leaving the room.

"I don't know why you need disturb Miss Mackenzie," said Miss Todd, "she has only got to go next door, and she seems very happy just now."

"I would sooner go with Miss Baker," said Miss Mackenzie.

"Mr Maguire would see you home," suggested Miss Todd.

But Miss Mackenzie of course went with Miss Baker, and Mr Rubb accompanied them.

"Good-night, Mr Rubb," said Miss Todd; "and don't make very bad reports of us in London."

"Oh! no; indeed I won't."

"For though we do play cards, we still stick to decorum, as you must have observed to-night."

At Miss Mackenzie's door there was an almost overpowering amount of affectionate farewells. Mr Maguire was there as well as Mr Rubb, and both gentlemen warmly pressed the hand of the lady they were leaving. Mr Rubb was not quite satisfied with his evening's work, because he had not been able to get near to Miss Mackenzie; but, nevertheless, he was greatly gratified by the general manner in which he had been received, and was much pleased with Littlebath and its inhabitants. Mr Maguire, as he walked home by himself, assured himself that he might as well now put the question; he had been thinking about it for the last two months, and had made up his mind that matrimony would be good for him.

Miss Mackenzie, as she went to bed, told herself that she might have a husband if she pleased; but then, which should it be? Mr Rubb's manners were very much against him; but of Mr Maguire's eye she had caught a gleam as he turned from her on the doorsteps, which made her think of that alliance with dismay.



CHAPTER XII

Mrs Stumfold Interferes

On the morning following Miss Todd's tea-party, Mr Rubb called on Miss Mackenzie and bade her adieu. He was, he said, going up to London at once, having received a letter which made his presence there imperative. Miss Mackenzie could, of course, do no more than simply say good-bye to him. But when she had said so he did not even then go at once. He was standing with his hat in hand, and had bade her farewell; but still he did not go. He had something to say, and she stood there trembling, half fearing what the nature of that something might be.

"I hope I may see you again before long," he said at last.

"I hope you may," she replied.

"Of course I shall. After all that's come and gone, I shall think nothing of running down, if it were only to make a morning call."

"Pray don't do that, Mr Rubb."

"I shall, as a matter of course. But in spite of that, Miss Mackenzie, I can't go away without saying another word about the money. I can't indeed."

"There needn't be any more about that, Mr Rubb."

"But there must be, Miss Mackenzie; there must, indeed; at least, so much as this. I know I've done wrong about that money."

"Don't talk about it. If I choose to lend it to my brother and you without security, there's nothing very uncommon in that."

"No; there ain't; at least perhaps there ain't. Though as far as I can see, brothers and sisters out in the world are mostly as hard to each other where money is concerned as other people. But the thing is, you didn't mean to lend it without security."

"I'm quite contented as it is."

"And I did wrong about it all through; I feel it so that I can't tell you. I do, indeed. But I'll never rest till that money is paid back again. I never will."

Then, having said that, he went away. When early on the preceding evening he had put on bright yellow gloves, making himself smart before the eyes of the lady of his love, it must be presumed that he did so with some hope of success. In that hope he was altogether betrayed. When he came and confessed his fraud about the money, it must be supposed that in doing so he felt that he was lowering himself in the estimation of her whom he desired to win for his wife. But, had he only known it, he thereby took the most efficacious step towards winning her esteem. The gloves had been nearly fatal to him; but those words,—"I feel it so that I can't tell you," redeemed the evil that the gloves had done. He went away, however, saying nothing more then, and failing to strike while the iron was hot.

Some six weeks after this Mrs Stumfold called on Miss Mackenzie, making a most important visit. But it should be first explained, before the nature of that visit is described, that Miss Mackenzie had twice been to Mrs Stumfold's house since the evening of Miss Todd's party, drinking tea there on both occasions, and had twice met Mr Maguire. On the former occasion they two had had some conversation, but it had been of no great moment. He had spoken nothing then of the pleasures of love, nor had he made any allusion to the dove-like softness of women. On the second meeting he had seemed to keep aloof from her altogether, and she had begun to tell herself that that dream was over, and to scold herself for having dreamed at all—when he came close up behind and whispered a word in her ear.

"You know," he said, "how much I would wish to be with you, but I can't now."

She had been startled, and had turned round, and had found herself close to his dreadful eye. She had never been so close to it before, and it frightened her. Then again he came to her just before she left, and spoke to her in the same mysterious way:

"I will see you in a day or two," he said, "but never mind now;" and then he walked away. She had not spoken a word to him, nor did she speak a word to him that evening.

Miss Mackenzie had never before seen Mrs Stumfold since her first visit of ceremony, except in that lady's drawing-room, and was surprised when she heard the name announced. It was an understood thing that Mrs Stumfold did not call on the Stumfoldians unless she had some great and special reason for doing so,—unless some erring sister required admonishing, or the course of events in the life of some Stumfoldian might demand special advice. I do not know that any edict of this kind had actually been pronounced, but Miss Mackenzie, though she had not yet been twelve months in Littlebath, knew that this arrangement was generally understood to exist. It was plain to be seen by the lady's face, as she entered the room, that some special cause had brought her now. It wore none of those pretty smiles with which morning callers greet their friends before they begin their first gentle attempts at miscellaneous conversation. It was true that she gave her hand to Miss Mackenzie, but she did even this with austerity; and when she seated herself,—not on the sofa as she was invited to do, but on one of the square, hard, straight-backed chairs,—Miss Mackenzie knew well that pleasantness was not to be the order of the morning.

"My dear Miss Mackenzie," said Mrs Stumfold, "I hope you will pardon me if I express much tender solicitude for your welfare."

Miss Mackenzie was so astonished at this mode of address, and at the tone in which it was uttered, that she made no reply to it. The words themselves had in them an intention of kindness, but the voice and look of the lady were, if kind, at any rate not tender.

"You came among us," continued Mrs Stumfold, "and became one of us, and we have been glad to welcome you."

"I'm sure I've been much obliged."

"We are always glad to welcome those who come among us in a proper spirit. Society with me, Miss Mackenzie, is never looked upon as an end in itself. It is only a means to an end. No woman regards society more favourably than I do. I think it offers to us one of the most efficacious means of spreading true gospel teaching. With these views I have always thought it right to open my house in a spirit, as I hope, of humble hospitality;—and Mr Stumfold is of the same opinion. Holding these views, we have been delighted to see you among us, and, as I have said already, to welcome you as one of us."

There was something in this so awful that Miss Mackenzie hardly knew how to speak, or let it pass without speaking. Having a spirit of her own she did not like being told that she had been, as it were, sat upon and judged, and then admitted into Mrs Stumfold's society as a child may be admitted into a school after an examination. And yet on the spur of the moment she could not think what words might be appropriate for her answer. She sat silent, therefore, and Mrs Stumfold again went on.

"I trust that you will acknowledge that we have shown our good will towards you, our desire to cultivate a Christian friendship with you, and that you will therefore excuse me if I ask you a question which might otherwise have the appearance of interference. Miss Mackenzie, is there anything between you and my husband's curate, Mr Maguire?"

Miss Mackenzie's face became suddenly as red as fire, but for a moment or two she made no answer. I do not know whether I may as yet have succeeded in making the reader understand the strength as well as the weakness of my heroine's character; but Mrs Stumfold had certainly not succeeded in perceiving it. She was accustomed, probably, to weak, obedient women,—to women who had taught themselves to believe that submission to Stumfoldian authority was a sign of advanced Christianity; and in the mild-looking, quiet-mannered lady who had lately come among them, she certainly did not expect to encounter a rebel. But on such matters as that to which the female hierarch of Littlebath was now alluding, Miss Mackenzie was not by nature adapted to be submissive.

"Is there anything between you and Mr Maguire?" said Mrs Stumfold again. "I particularly wish to have a plain answer to that question."

Miss Mackenzie, as I have said, became very red in the face. When it was repeated, she found herself obliged to speak. "Mrs Stumfold, I do not know that you have any right to ask me such a question as that."

"No right! No right to ask a lady who sits under Mr Stumfold whether or not she is engaged to Mr Stumfold's own curate! Think again of what you are saying, Miss Mackenzie!" And there was in Mrs Stumfold's voice as she spoke an expression of offended majesty, and in her countenance a look of awful authority, sufficient no doubt to bring most Stumfoldian ladies to their bearings.

"You said nothing about being engaged to him."

"Oh, Miss Mackenzie!"

"You said nothing about being engaged to him, but if you had I should have made the same answer. You asked me if there was anything between me and him; and I think it was a very offensive question."

"Offensive! I am afraid, Miss Mackenzie, you have not your spirit subject to a proper control. I have come here in all kindness to warn you against danger, and you tell me that I am offensive! What am I to think of you?"

"You have no right to connect my name with any gentleman's. You can't have any right merely because I go to Mr Stumfold's church. It's quite preposterous. If I went to Mr Paul's church"—Mr Paul was a very High Church young clergyman who had wished to have candles in his church, and of whom it was asserted that he did keep a pair of candles on an inverted box in a closet inside his bedroom—"if I went to Mr Paul's church, might his wife, if he had one, come and ask me all manner of questions like that?"

Now Mr Paul's name stank in the nostrils of Mrs Stumfold. He was to her the thing accursed. Had Miss Mackenzie quoted the Pope, or Cardinal Wiseman or even Dr Newman, it would not have been so bad. Mrs Stumfold had once met Mr Paul, and called him to his face the most abject of all the slaves of the scarlet woman. To this courtesy Mr Paul, being a good-humoured and somewhat sportive young man, had replied that she was another. Mrs Stumfold had interpreted the gentleman's meaning wrongly, and had ever since gnashed with her teeth and fired great guns with her eyes whenever Mr Paul was named within her hearing. "Ribald ruffian," she had once said of him; "but that he thinks his priestly rags protect him, he would not have dared to insult me." It was said that she had complained to Stumfold; but Mr Stumfold's sacerdotal clothing, whether ragged or whole, prevented him also from interfering, and nothing further of a personal nature had occurred between the opponents.

But Miss Mackenzie, who certainly was a Stumfoldian by her own choice, should not have used the name. She probably did not know the whole truth as to that passage of arms between Mr Paul and Mrs Stumfold, but she did know that no name in Littlebath was so odious to the lady as that of the rival clergyman.

"Very well, Miss Mackenzie," said she, speaking loudly in her wrath; "then let me tell you that you will come by your ruin,—yes, by your ruin. You poor unfortunate woman, you are unfit to guide your own steps, and will not take counsel from those who are able to put you in the right way!"

"How shall I be ruined?" said Miss Mackenzie, jumping up from her seat.

"How? Yes. Now you want to know. After having insulted me in return for my kindness in coming to you, you ask me questions. If I tell you how, no doubt you will insult me again."

"I haven't insulted you, Mrs Stumfold. And if you don't like to tell me, you needn't. I'm sure I did not want you to come to me and talk in this way."

"Want me! Who ever does want to be reproved for their own folly? I suppose what you want is to go on and marry that man, who may have two or three other wives for what you know, and put yourself and your money into the hands of a person whom you never saw in your life above a few months ago, and of whose former life you literally know nothing. Tell the truth, Miss Mackenzie, isn't that what you desire to do?"

"I find him acting as Mr Stumfold's curate."

"Yes; and when I come to warn you, you insult me. He is Mr Stumfold's curate, and in many respects he is well fitted for his office."

"But has he two or three wives already, Mrs Stumfold?"

"I never said that he had."

"I thought you hinted it."

"I never hinted it, Miss Mackenzie. If you would only be a little more careful in the things which you allow yourself to say, it would be better for yourself; and better for me too, while I am with you."

"I declare you said something about two or three wives; and if there is anything of that kind true of a gentleman and a clergyman, I don't think he ought to be allowed to go about as a single gentleman. I mean as a curate. Mr Maguire is nothing to me,—nothing whatever; and I don't see why I should have been mixed up with him; but if there is anything of that sort—"

"But there isn't."

"Then, Mrs Stumfold, I don't think you ought to have mentioned two or three wives. I don't, indeed. It is such a horrid idea,—quite horrid! And I suppose, after all, the poor man has not got one?"

"If you had allowed me, I should have told you all, Miss Mackenzie. Mr Maguire is not married, and never has been married, as far as I know."

"Then I do think what you said of him was very cruel."

"I said nothing; as you would have known, only you are so hot. Miss Mackenzie, you quite astonish me; you do, indeed. I had expected to find you temperate and calm; instead of that, you are so impetuous, that you will not listen to a word. When it first came to my ears that there might be something between you and Mr Maguire—"

"I will not be told about something. What does something mean, Mrs Stumfold?"

"When I was told of this," continued Mrs Stumfold, determined that she would not be stopped any longer by Miss Mackenzie's energy; "when I was told of this, and, indeed, I may say saw it—"

"You never saw anything, Mrs Stumfold."

"I immediately perceived that it was my duty to come to you; to come to you and tell you that another lady has a prior claim upon Mr Maguire's hand and heart."

"Oh, indeed."

"Another young lady,"—with an emphasis on the word young,—"whom he first met at my house, who was introduced to him by me,—a young lady not above thirty years of age, and quite suitable in every way to be Mr Maguire's wife. She may not have quite so much money as you; but she has a fair provision, and money is not everything; a lady in every way suitable—"

"But is this suitable young lady, who is only thirty years of age, engaged to him?"

"I presume, Miss Mackenzie, that in speaking to you, I am speaking to a lady who would not wish to interfere with another lady who has been before her. I do hope that you cannot be indifferent to the ordinary feelings of a female Christian on that subject. What would you think if you were interfered with, though, perhaps, as you had not your fortune in early life, you may never have known what that was."

This was too much even for Miss Mackenzie.

"Mrs Stumfold," she said, again rising from her seat, "I won't talk about this any more with you. Mr Maguire is nothing to me; and, as far as I can see, if he was, that would be nothing to you."

"But it would,—a great deal."

"No, it wouldn't. You may say what you like to him, though, for the matter of that, I think it a very indelicate thing for a lady to go about raising such questions at all. But perhaps you have known him a long time, and I have nothing to do with what you and he choose to talk about. If he is behaving bad to any friend of yours, go and tell him so. As for me, I won't hear anything more about it."

As Miss Mackenzie continued to stand, Mrs Stumfold was forced to stand also, and soon afterwards found herself compelled to go away. She had, indeed, said all that she had come to say, and though she would willingly have repeated it again had Miss Mackenzie been submissive, she did not find herself encouraged to do so by the rebellious nature of the lady she was visiting.

"I have meant well, Miss Mackenzie," she said as she took her leave, "and I hope that I shall see you just the same as ever on my Thursdays."

To this Miss Mackenzie made answer only by a curtsey, and then Mrs Stumfold went her way.

Miss Mackenzie, as soon as she was left to herself, began to cry. If Mrs Stumfold could have seen her, how it would have soothed and rejoiced that lady's ruffled spirit! Miss Mackenzie would sooner have died than have wept in Mrs Stumfold's presence, but no sooner was the front door closed than she began. To have been attacked at all in that way would have been too much for her, but to have been called old and unsuitable—for that was, in truth, the case; to hear herself accused of being courted solely for her money, and that when in truth she had not been courted at all; to have been informed that a lover for her must have been impossible in those days when she had no money! was not all this enough to make her cry? And then, was it the truth that Mr Maguire ought to marry some one else? If so, she was the last woman in Littlebath to interfere between him and that other one. But how was she to know that this was not some villainy on the part of Mrs Stumfold? She felt sure, after what she had now seen and heard, that nothing in that way would be too bad for Mrs Stumfold to say or do. She never would go to Mrs Stumfold's house again; that was a matter of course; but what should she do about Mr Maguire? Mr Maguire might never speak to her in the way of affection,—probably never would do so; that she could bear; but how was she to bear the fact that every Stumfoldian in Littlebath would know all about it? On one thing she finally resolved, that if ever Mr Maguire spoke to her on the subject, she would tell him everything that had occurred. After that she cried herself to sleep.

On that afternoon she felt herself to be very desolate and much in want of a friend. When Susanna came back from school in the evening she was almost more desolate than before. She could say nothing of her troubles to one so young, nor yet could she shake off the thought of them. She had been bold enough while Mrs Stumfold had been with her, but now that she was alone, or almost worse than alone, having Susanna with her,—now that the reaction had come, she began to tell herself that a continuation of this solitary life would be impossible to her. How was she to live if she was to be trampled upon in this way? Was it not almost necessary that she should leave Littlebath? And yet if she were to leave Littlebath, whither should she go, and how should she muster courage to begin everything over again? If only it had been given her to have one friend,—one female friend to whom she could have told everything! She thought of Miss Baker, but Miss Baker was a staunch Stumfoldian; and what did she know of Miss Baker that gave her any right to trouble Miss Baker on such a subject? She would almost rather have gone to Miss Todd, if she had dared.

She laid awake crying half the night. Nothing of the kind had ever occurred to her before. No one had ever accused her of any impropriety; no one had ever thrown it in her teeth that she was longing after fruit that ought to be forbidden to her. In her former obscurity and dependence she had been safe. Now that she had begun to look about her and hope for joy in the world, she had fallen into this terrible misfortune! Would it not have been better for her to have married her cousin John Ball, and thus have had a clear course of duty marked out for her? Would it not have been better for her even to have married Harry Handcock than to have come to this misery? What good would her money do her, if the world was to treat her in this way?

And then, was it true? Was it the fact that Mr Maguire was ill-treating some other woman in order that he might get her money? In all her misery she remembered that Mrs Stumfold would not commit herself to any such direct assertion, and she remembered also that Mrs Stumfold had especially insisted on her own part of the grievance,—on the fact that the suitable young lady had been met by Mr Maguire in her drawing-room. As to Mr Maguire himself, she could reconcile herself to the loss of him. Indeed she had never yet reconciled herself to the idea of taking him. But she could not endure to think that Mrs Stumfold's interference should prevail, or, worse still, that other people should have supposed it to prevail.

The next day was Thursday,—one of Mrs Stumfold's Thursdays,—and in the course of the morning Miss Baker came to her, supposing that, as a matter of course, she would go to the meeting.

"Not to-night, Miss Baker," said she.

"Not going! and why not?"

"I'd rather not go out to-night."

"Dear me, how odd. I thought you always went to Mrs Stumfold's. There's nothing wrong, I hope?"

Then Miss Mackenzie could not restrain herself, and told Miss Baker everything. And she told her story, not with whines and lamentations, as she had thought of it herself while lying awake during the past night, but with spirited indignation. "What right had she to come to me and accuse me?"

"I suppose she meant it for the best," said Miss Baker.

"No, Miss Baker, she meant it for the worst. I am sorry to speak so of your friend, but I must speak as I find her. She intended to insult me. Why did she tell me of my age and my money? Have I made myself out to be young? or misbehaved myself with the means which Providence has given me? And as to the gentleman, have I ever conducted myself so as to merit reproach? I don't know that I was ever ten minutes in his company that you were not there also."

"It was the last accusation I should have brought against you," whimpered Miss Baker.

"Then why has she treated me in this way? What right have I given her to be my advisor, because I go to her husband's church? Mr Maguire is my friend, and it might have come to that, that he should be my husband. Is there any sin in that, that I should be rebuked?"

"It was for the other lady's sake, perhaps."

"Then let her go to the other lady, or to him. She has forgotten herself in coming to me, and she shall know that I think so."

Miss Baker, when she left the Paragon, felt for Miss Mackenzie more of respect and more of esteem also than she had ever felt before. But Miss Mackenzie, when she was left alone, went upstairs, threw herself on her bed, and was again dissolved in tears.



CHAPTER XIII

Mr Maguire's Courtship

After the scene between Miss Mackenzie and Miss Baker more than a week passed by before Miss Mackenzie saw any of her Littlebath friends; or, as she called them with much sadness when speaking of them to herself, her Littlebath acquaintances. Friends, or friend, she had none. It was a slow, heavy week with her, and it is hardly too much to say that every hour in it was spent in thinking of the attack which Mrs Stumfold had made upon her. When the first Sunday came, she went to church, and saw there Miss Baker, and Mrs Stumfold, and Mr Stumfold and Mr Maguire. She saw, indeed, many Stumfoldians, but it seemed that their eyes looked at her harshly, and she was quite sure that the coachmaker's wife treated her with marked incivility as they left the porch together. Miss Baker had frequently waited for her on Sunday mornings, and walked the length of two streets with her; but she encountered no Miss Baker near the church gate on this morning, and she was sure that Mrs Stumfold had prevailed against her. If it was to be thus with her, had she not better leave Littlebath as soon as possible? In the same solitude she lived the whole of the next week; with the same feelings did she go to church on the next Sunday; and then again was she maltreated by the upturned nose and half-averted eyes of the coachmaker's wife.

Life such as this would be impossible to her. Let any of my readers think of it, and then tell themselves whether it could be possible. Mariana's solitude in the moated grange was as nothing to hers. In granges, and such like rural retreats, people expect solitude; but Miss Mackenzie had gone to Littlebath to find companionship. Had she been utterly disappointed, and found none, that would have been bad; but she had found it and then lost it. Mariana, in her desolateness, was still waiting for the coming of some one; and so was Miss Mackenzie waiting, though she hardly knew for whom. For me, if I am to live in a moated grange, let it be in the country. Moated granges in the midst of populous towns are very terrible.

But on the Monday morning,—the morning of the second Monday after the Stumfoldian attach,—Mr Maguire came, and Mariana's weariness was, for the time, at an end. Susanna had hardly gone, and the breakfast things were still on the table, when the maid brought her up word that Mr Maguire was below, and would see her if she would allow him to come up. She had heard no ring at the bell, and having settled herself with a novel in the arm-chair, had almost ceased for the moment to think of Mr Maguire or of Mrs Stumfold. There was something so sudden in the request now made to her, that it took away her breath.

"Mr Maguire, Miss, the clergyman from Mr Stumfold's church," said the girl again.

It was necessary that she should give an answer, though she was ever so breathless.

"Ask Mr Maguire to walk up," she said; and then she began to bethink herself how she would behave to him.

He was there, however, before her thoughts were of much service to her, and she began by apologising for the breakfast things.

"It is I that ought to beg your pardon for coming so early," said he; "but my time at present is so occupied that I hardly know how to find half an hour for myself; and I thought you would excuse me."

"Oh, certainly," said she; and then sitting down she waited for him to begin.

It would have been clear to any observer, had there been one present, that Mr Maguire had practised his lesson. He could not rid himself of those unmistakable signs of preparation which every speaker shows when he has been guilty of them. But this probably did not matter with Miss Mackenzie, who was too intent on the part she herself had to play to notice his imperfections.

"I saw that you observed, Miss Mackenzie," he said, "that I kept aloof from you on the two last evenings on which I met you at Mrs Stumfold's."

"That's a long time ago, Mr Maguire," she answered. "It's nearly a month since I went to Mrs Stumfold's house."

"I know that you were not there on the last Thursday. I noticed it. I could not fail to notice it. Thinking so much of you as I do, of course I did notice it. Might I ask you why you did not go?"

"I'd rather not say anything about it," she replied, after a pause.

"Then there has been some reason? Dear Miss Mackenzie, I can assure you I do not ask you without a cause."

"If you please, I will not speak upon that subject. I had much rather not, indeed, Mr Maguire."

"And shall I not have the pleasure of seeing you there on next Thursday?"

"Certainly not."

"Then you have quarrelled with her, Miss Mackenzie?"

He said nothing now of the perfections of that excellent woman, of whom not long since he had spoken in terms almost too strong for any simple human virtues.

"I'd rather not speak of it. It can't do any good. I don't know why you should ask me whether I intend to go there any more, but as you have, I have answered you."

Then Mr Maguire got up from his chair, and walked about the room, and Miss Mackenzie, watching him closely, could see that he was much moved. But, nevertheless, I think he had made up his mind to walk about the room beforehand. After a while he paused, and, still standing, spoke to her again across the table.

"May I ask you this question? Has Mrs Stumfold said anything to you about me?"

"I'd rather not talk about Mrs Stumfold."

"But, surely, I may ask that. I don't think you are the woman to allow anything said behind a person's back to be received to his detriment."

"Whatever one does hear about people one always hears behind their backs."

"Then she has told you something, and you have believed it?"

She felt herself to be so driven by him that she did not know how to protect herself. It seemed to her that these clerical people of Littlebath had very little regard for the feelings of others in their modes of following their own pursuits.

"She has told you something of me, and you have believed her?" repeated Mr Maguire. "Have I not a right to ask you what she has said?"

"You have no right to ask me anything."

"Have I not, Miss Mackenzie? Surely that is hard. Is it not hard that I should be stabbed in the dark, and have no means of redressing myself? I did not expect such an answer from you;—indeed I did not."

"And is not it hard that I should be troubled in this way? You talk of stabbing. Who has stabbed you? Is it not your own particular friend, whom you described to me as the best person in all the world? If you and she fall out why should I be brought into it? Once for all, Mr Maguire, I won't be brought into it."

Now he sat down and again paused before he went on with his talk.

"Miss Mackenzie," he said, when he did speak. "I had not intended to be so abrupt as I fear you will think me in that which I am about to say; but I believe you will like plain measures best."

"Certainly I shall, Mr Maguire."

"They are the best, always. If, then, I am plain with you, will you be plain with me also? I think you must guess what it is I have to say to you."

"I hate guessing anything, Mr Maguire."

"Very well; then I will be plain. We have now known each other for nearly a year, Miss Mackenzie."

"A year, is it? No, not a year. This is the beginning of June, and I did not come here till the end of last August. It's about nine months, Mr Maguire."

"Very well; nine months. Nine months may be as nothing in an acquaintance, or it may lead to the closest friendship."

"I don't know that we have met so very often. You have the parish to attend to, Mr Maguire."

"Of course I have—or rather I had, for I have left Mr Stumfold."

"Left Mr Stumfold! Why, I heard you preach yesterday."

"I did preach yesterday, and shall till he has got another assistant. But he and I are parted as regards all friendly connection."

"But isn't that a pity?"

"Miss Mackenzie, I don't mind telling you that I have found it impossible to put up with the impertinence of that woman"—and now, as he spoke, there came a distorted fire out of his imperfect eye—"impossible! If you knew what I have gone through in attempting it! But that's over. I have the greatest respect for him in the world; a very thorough esteem. He is a hard-working man, and though I do not always approve the style of his wit,—of which, by-the-bye, he thinks too much himself,—still I acknowledge him to be a good spiritual pastor. But he has been unfortunate in his marriage. No doubt he has got money, but money is not everything."

"Indeed, it is not, Mr Maguire."

"How he can live in the same house with that Mr Peters, I can never understand. The quarrels between him and his daughter are so incessant that poor Mr Stumfold is unable to conceal them from the public."

"But you have spoken so highly of her."

"I have endeavoured, Miss Mackenzie—I have endeavoured to think well of her. I have striven to believe that it was all gold that I saw. But let that pass. I was forced to tell you that I am going to leave Mr Stumfold's church, or I should not now have spoken about her or him. And now comes the question, Miss Mackenzie."

"What is the question, Mr Maguire?"

"Miss Mackenzie—Margaret, will you share your lot with mine? It is true that you have money. It is true that I have none,—not even a curacy now. But I don't think that any such consideration as that would weigh with you for a moment, if you can find it in your heart to love me."

Miss Mackenzie sat thinking for some minutes before she gave her answer—or striving to think; but she was so completely under the terrible fire of his eye, that any thought was very difficult.

"I am not quite sure about that," she said after a while. "I think, Mr Maguire, that there should be a little money on both sides. You would hardly wish to live altogether on your wife's fortune."

"I have my profession," he replied, quickly.

"Yes, certainly; and a noble profession it is,—the most noble," said she.

"Yes, indeed; the most noble."

"But somehow—"

"You mean the clergymen are not paid as they should be. No, they are not, Miss Mackenzie. And is it not a shame for a Christian country like this that it should be so? But still, as a profession, it has its value. Look at Mrs Stumfold; where would she be if she were not a clergyman's wife? The position has its value. A clergyman's wife is received everywhere, you know."

"A man before he talks of marriage ought to have something of his own, Mr Maguire, besides—"

"Besides what?"

"Well, I'll tell you. As you have done me this honour, I think that I am now bound to tell you what Mrs Stumfold said to me. She had no right to connect my name with yours or with that of any other gentleman, and my quarrel with her is about that. As to what she said about you, that is your affair and not mine."

Then she told him the whole of that conversation which was given in the last chapter, not indeed repeating the hint about the three or four wives, but recapitulating as clearly as she could all that had been said about the suitable young lady.

"I knew it," said he; "I knew it. I knew it as well as though I had heard it. Now what am I to think of that woman, Miss Mackenzie?"

"Of which woman?"

"Of Mrs Stumfold, of course. It's all jealousy: every bit of it jealousy."

"Jealousy! Do you mean that she—that she—"

"Not jealousy of that kind, Miss Mackenzie. Oh dear, no. She's as pure as the undriven snow, I should say, as far as that goes. But she can't bear to think that I should rise in the world."

"I thought she wanted to marry you to a suitable lady, and young, with a fair provision."

"Pshaw! The lady has about seventy pounds a-year! But that would signify nothing if I loved her, Miss Mackenzie."

"There has been something, then?"

"Yes; there has been something. That is, nothing of my doing,—nothing on earth. Miss Mackenzie, I am as innocent as the babe unborn."

As he said this she could not help looking into the horrors of his eyes, and thinking that innocent was not the word for him.

"I'm as innocent as the babe unborn. Why should I be expected to marry a lady merely because Mrs Stumfold tells me that there she is? And it's my belief that old Peters has got their money somewhere, and won't give it up, and that that's the reason of it."

"But did you ever say you would marry her?"

"What! Miss Floss, never! I'll tell you the whole story, Miss Mackenzie; and if you want to ask any one else, you can ask Mrs Perch." Mrs Perch was the coachbuilder's wife. "You've seen Miss Floss at Mrs Stumfold's, and must know yourself whether I ever noticed her any more than to be decently civil."

"Is she the lady that's so thin and tall?"

"Yes."

"With the red hair?"

"Well, it's sandy, certainly. I shouldn't call it just red myself."

"Some people like red hair, you know," said Miss Mackenzie, thinking of the suitable lady. Miss Mackenzie was willing at that moment to forfeit all her fortune if Miss Floss was not older than she was! "And that is Miss Floss, is it?"

"Yes, and I don't blame Mrs Stumfold for wishing to get a husband for her friend, but it is hard upon me."

"Really, Mr Maguire, I think that perhaps you couldn't do better."

"Better than what?"

"Better than take Miss Floss. As you say, some people like red hair. And she is very suitable, certainly. And, Mr Maguire, I really shouldn't like to interfere;—I shouldn't indeed."

"Miss Mackenzie, you're joking, I know."

"Not in the least, Mr Maguire. You see there has been something about it."

"There has been nothing."

"There's never smoke without fire; and I don't think a lady like Mrs Stumfold would come here and tell me all that she did, if it hadn't gone some way. And you owned just now that you admired her."

"I never owned anything of the kind. I don't admire her a bit. Admire her! Oh, Miss Mackenzie, what do you think of me?"

Miss Mackenzie said that she really didn't know what to think.

Then, having as he thought altogether disposed of Miss Floss, he began again to press his suit. And she was weak; for though she gave him no positive encouragement, neither did she give him any positive denial. Her mind was by no means made up, and she did not know whether she wished to take him or to leave him. Now that the thing had come so near, what guarantee had she that he would be good to her if she gave him everything that she possessed? As to her cousin John Ball, she would have had many guarantees. Of him she could say that she knew what sort of a man he was; but what did she know of Mr Maguire? At that moment, as he sat there pleading his own cause with all the eloquence at his command, she remembered that she did not even know his Christian name. He had always in her presence been called Mr Maguire. How could she say that she loved a man whose very name she had not as yet heard?

But still, if she left all her chances to run from her, what other fate would she have but that of being friendless all her life? Of course she must risk much if she was ever minded to change her mode of life. She had said something to him as to the expediency of there being money on both sides, but as she said it she knew that she would willingly have given up her money could she only have been sure of her man. Was not her income enough for both? What she wanted was companionship, and love if it might be possible; but if not love, then friendship. This, had she known where she could purchase it with certainty, she would willingly have purchased with all her wealth.

"If I have surprised you, will you say that you will take time to think of it?" pleaded Mr Maguire.

Miss Mackenzie, speaking in the lowest possible voice, said that she would take time to think of it.

When a lady says that she will take time to think of such a proposition, the gentleman is generally justified in supposing that he has carried his cause. When a lady rejects a suitor, she should reject him peremptorily. Anything short of such peremptory reaction is taken for acquiescence. Mr Maguire consequently was elated, called her Margaret, and swore that he loved her as he had never loved woman yet.

"And when may I come again?" he asked.

Miss Mackenzie begged that she might be allowed a fortnight to think of it.

"Certainly," said the happy man.

"And you must not be surprised," said Miss Mackenzie, "if I make some inquiry about Miss Floss."

"Any inquiry you please," said Mr Maguire. "It is all in that woman's brain; it is indeed. Miss Floss, perhaps, has thought of it; but I can't help that, can I? I can't help what has been said to her. But if you mean anything as to a promise from me, Margaret, on my word as a Christian minister of the Gospel, there has been nothing of the kind."

She did not much mind his calling her Margaret; it was in itself such a trifle; but when he made a fuss about kissing her hand it annoyed her.

"Only your hand," he said, beseeching the privilege.

"Pshaw," she said, "what's the good?"

She had sense enough to feel that with such lovemaking as that between her and her lover there should be no kissing till after marriage; or at any rate, no kissing of hands, as is done between handsome young men of twenty-three and beautiful young ladies of eighteen, when they sit in balconies on moonlight nights. A good honest kiss, mouth to mouth, might not be amiss when matters were altogether settled; but when she thought of this, she thought also of his eye and shuddered. His eye was not his fault, and a man should not be left all his days without a wife because he squints; but still, was it possible? could she bring herself to endure it?

He did kiss her hand, however, and then went. As he stood at the door he looked back fondly and exclaimed—

"On Monday fortnight, Margaret; on Monday fortnight."

"Goodness gracious, Mr Maguire," she answered, "do shut the door;" and then he vanished.

As soon as he was gone she remembered that his name was Jeremiah. She did not know how she had learned it, but she knew that such was the fact. If it did come to pass how was she to call him? She tried the entire word Jeremiah, but it did not seem to answer. She tried Jerry also, but that was worse. Jerry might have been very well had they come together fifteen years earlier in life, but she did not think that she could call him Jerry now. She supposed it must be Mr Maguire; but if so, half the romance of the thing would be gone at once!

She felt herself to be very much at sea, and almost wished that she might be like Mariana again, waiting and aweary, so grievous was the necessity of having to make up her mind on such a subject. To whom should she go for advice? She had told him that she would make further inquiries about Miss Floss, but of whom was she to make them? The only person to whom she could apply was Miss Baker, and she was almost sure that Miss Baker would despise her for thinking of marrying Mr Maguire.

But after a day or two she did tell Miss Baker, and she saw at once that Miss Baker did despise her. But Miss Baker, though she manifestly did despise her, promised her some little aid. Miss Todd knew everything and everybody. Might Miss Baker tell Miss Todd? If there was anything wrong, Miss Todd would ferret it out to a certainty. Miss Mackenzie, hanging down her head, said that Miss Baker might tell Miss Todd. Miss Baker, when she left Miss Mackenzie, turned at once into Miss Todd's house, and found her friend at home.

"It surprises me that any woman should be so foolish," said Miss Baker.

"Come, come, my dear, don't you be hard upon her. We have all been foolish in our days. Do you remember, when Sir Lionel used to be here, how foolish you and I were?"

"It's not the same thing at all," said Miss Baker. "Did you ever see a man with such an eye as he has got?"

"I shouldn't mind his eye, my dear; only I'm afraid he's got no money."

Miss Todd, however, promised to make inquiries, and declared her intention of communicating what intelligence she might obtain direct to Miss Mackenzie. Miss Baker resisted this for a little while, but ultimately submitted, as she was wont to do, to the stronger character of her friend.

Miss Mackenzie had declared that she must have a fortnight to think about it, and Miss Todd therefore knew that she had nearly a fortnight for her inquiries. The reader may be sure that she did not allow the grass to grow under her feet. With Miss Mackenzie the time passed slowly enough, for she could only sit on her sofa and doubt, resolving first one way and then another; but Miss Todd went about Littlebath, here and there, among friends and enemies, filling up all her time; and before the end of the fortnight she certainly knew more about Mr Maguire than did anybody else in Littlebath.

She did not see Miss Mackenzie till the Saturday, the last Saturday before the all-important Monday; but on that day she went to her.

"I suppose you know what I'm come about, my dear," she said.

Miss Mackenzie blushed, and muttered something about Miss Baker.

"Yes, my dear; Miss Baker was speaking to me about Mr Maguire. You needn't mind speaking out to me, Miss Mackenzie. I can understand all about it; and if I can be of any assistance, I shall be very happy. No doubt you feel a little shy, but you needn't mind with me."

"I'm sure you're very good."

"I don't know about that, but I hope I'm not very bad. The long and the short of it is, I suppose, that you think you might as well—might as well take Mr Maguire."

Miss Mackenzie felt thoroughly ashamed of herself. She could not explain to Miss Todd all her best motives; and then, those motives which were not the best were made to seem so very weak and mean by the way in which Miss Todd approached them. When she thought of the matter alone, it seemed to her that she was perfectly reasonable in wishing to be married, in order that she might escape the monotony of a lonely life; and she thought that if she could talk to Miss Todd about the subject gently, for a quarter of an hour at a time every day for two or three months, it was possible that she might explain her views with credit to herself; but how could she do this to anyone so very abruptly? She could only confess that she did want to marry the man, as the child confesses her longing for a tart.

"I have thought about it, certainly," she said.

"Quite right," said Miss Todd; "quite right if you like him. Now for me, I'm so fond of my own money and my own independence, that I've never had a fancy that way,—not since I was a girl."

"But you're so different, Miss Todd; you've got such a position of your own."

And Miss Mackenzie, who was at present desirous of marrying a very strict evangelical clergyman, thought with envy of the social advantages and pleasant iniquities of her wicked neighbour.

"Oh, I don't know. I've a few friends, but that comes of being here so long. And then, you see, I ain't particular as you are. I always see that when a lady goes in to be evangelical, she soon finds a husband to take care of her; that is, if she has got any money. It all goes on very well, and I've no doubt they're right. There's my friend Mary Baker, she's single still; but then she began very late in life. Now about Mr Maguire."

"Well, Miss Todd."

"In the first place, I really don't think he has got much that he can call his own."

"He hasn't got anything, Miss Todd; he told me so himself."

"Did he, indeed?" said Miss Todd; "then let me tell you he is a deal honester than they are in general."

"Oh, he told me that. I know he's got no income in the world besides his curacy, and that he has thrown up."

"And therefore you are going to give him yours."

"I don't know about that, Miss Todd; but it wasn't about money that I was doubting. What I've got is enough for both of us, if his wants are not greater than mine. What is the use of money if people cannot be happy together with it? I don't care a bit for money, Miss Todd; that is, not for itself. I shouldn't like to be dependent on a stranger; I don't know that I would like to be dependent again even on a brother; but I should take no shame to be dependent on a husband if he was good to me."

"That's just it; isn't it?"

"There's quite enough for him and me."

"I must say you look at the matter in the most disinterested way. I couldn't bring myself to take it up like that."

"You haven't lived the life that I have, Miss Todd, and I don't suppose you ever feel solitary as I do."

"Well, I don't know. We single women have to be solitary sometimes—and sometimes sad."

"But you're never sad, Miss Todd."

"Have you never heard there are some animals, that, when they're sick, crawl into holes, and don't ever show themselves among the other animals? Though it is only the animals that do it, there's a pride in that which I like. What's the good of complaining if one's down in the mouth? When one gets old and heavy and stupid, one can't go about as one did when one was young; and other people won't care to come to you as they did then."

"But I had none of that when I was young, Miss Todd."

"Hadn't you? Then I won't say but what you may be right to try and begin now. But, law! what am I talking of? I am old enough to be your mother."

"I think it so kind of you to talk to me at all."

"Well, now about Mr Maguire. I don't think he's possessed of much of the fat of the land; but that you say you know already?"

"Oh yes, I know all that."

"And it seems he has lost his curacy?"

"He threw that up himself."

"I shouldn't be surprised—but mind I don't say this for certain—but I shouldn't be surprised if he owed a little money."

Miss Mackenzie's face became rather long.

"What do you call a little, Miss Todd?"

"Two or three hundred pounds. I don't call that a great deal."

"Oh dear, no!" and Miss Mackenzie's face again became cheerful. "That could be settled without any trouble."

"Upon my word you are the most generous woman I ever saw."

"No, I'm not that."

"Or else you must be very much in love?"

"I don't think I am that either, Miss Todd; only I don't care much about money if other things are suitable. What I chiefly wanted to know was—"

"About that Miss Floss?"

"Yes, Miss Todd."

"My belief is there never was a greater calumny, or what I should call a stronger attempt at a do. Mind I don't think much of your St Stumfolda, and never did. I believe the poor man has never said a word to the woman. Mrs Stumfold has put it into her head that she could have Mr Maguire if she chose to set her cap at him, and, I dare say, Miss Floss has been dutiful to her saint. But, Miss Mackenzie, if nothing else hinders you, don't let that hinder you." Then Miss Todd, having done her business and made her report, took her leave.

This was on Saturday. The next day would be Sunday, and then on the following morning she must make her answer. All that she had heard about Mr Maguire was, to her thinking, in his favour. As to his poverty, that he had declared himself, and that she did not mind. As to a few hundred pounds of debt, how was a poor man to have helped such a misfortune? In that matter of Miss Floss he had been basely maligned,—so much maligned, that Miss Mackenzie owed him all her sympathy. What excuse could she now have for refusing him?

When she went to bed on the Sunday night such were her thoughts and her feelings.



CHAPTER XIV

Tom Mackenzie's Bed-Side

There was a Stumfoldian edict, ultra-Median-and-Persian in its strictness, ordaining that no Stumfoldian in Littlebath should be allowed to receive a letter on Sundays. And there also existed a coordinate rule on the part of the Postmaster-General,—or, rather, a privilege granted by that functionary,—in accordance with which Stumfoldians, and other such sects of Sabbatarians, were empowered to prohibit the letter-carriers from contaminating their special knockers on Sunday mornings. Miss Mackenzie had given way to this easily, seeing nothing amiss in the edict, and not caring much for her Sunday letters. In consequence, she received on the Monday mornings those letters which were due to her on Sundays, and on this special Monday morning she received a letter, as to which the delay was of much consequence. It was to tell her that her brother Tom was dying, and to pray that she would be up in London as early on the Monday as was practicable. Mr Samuel Rubb, junior, who had written the letter in Gower Street, had known nothing of the Sabbatical edicts of the Stumfoldians.

"It is an inward tumour," said Mr Rubb, "and has troubled him long, though he has said nothing about it. It is now breaking, and the doctor says he can't live. He begs that you will come to him, as he has very much to say to you. Mrs Tom would have written, but she is so much taken up, and is so much beside herself, that she begs me to say that she is not able; but I hope it won't be less welcome coming from me. The second pair back will be ready for you, just as if it were your own. I would be waiting at the station on Monday, if I knew what train you would come by."

This she received while at breakfast on the Monday morning, having sat down a little earlier than usual, in order that the tea-things might be taken away so as to make room for Mr Maguire.

Of course she must go up to town instantly, by the first practicable train. She perceived at once that she would have to send a message by telegraph, as they would have expected to hear from her that morning. She got the railway guide, and saw that the early express train had already gone. There was, however, a mid-day train which would reach Paddington in the afternoon. She immediately got her bonnet and went off to the telegraph office, leaving word with the servant, that if any one called "he" was to be told that she had received sudden tidings which took her up to London. On her return she found that "he" had not been there yet, and now she could only hope that he would not come till after she had started. It would, of course, be impossible, at such a moment as this, to make any answer to such a proposition as Mr Maguire's.

He came, and when the servant gave him the message at the door, he sent up craving permission to see her but for a moment. She could not refuse him, and went down to him in the drawing-room, with her shawl and bonnet.

"Dearest Margaret," said he, "what is this?" and he took both her hands.

"I have received word that my brother, in London, is very ill,—that he is dying, and I must go to him."

He still held her hands, standing close to her, as though he had some special right to comfort her.

"Cannot I go with you?" he said. "Let me; do let me."

"Oh, no, Mr Maguire; it is impossible. What could you do? I am going to my brother's house."

"But have I not a right to be of help to you at such a time?" he asked.

"No, Mr Maguire; no right; certainly none as yet."

"Oh! Margaret."

"I'm sure you will see that I cannot talk of anything of that sort now."

"But you will not be back for ever so long."

"I cannot tell."

"Oh! Margaret; you will not leave me in suspense? After bidding me wait a fortnight, you will not go away without telling me that you will be mine when you come back? One word will do it."

"Mr Maguire, you really must excuse me now."

"One word, Margaret; only one word," and he still held her.

"Mr Maguire," she said, tearing her hand from him, "I am astonished at you. I tell you that my brother is dying and you hold me here, and expect me to give you an answer about nonsense. I thought you were more manly."

He saw that there was a flash in her eye as he stepped back; so he begged her pardon, and muttering something about hoping to hear from her soon, took his leave. Poor man! I do not see why she should not have accepted him, as she had made up her mind to do so. And to him, with his creditors, and in his present position, any certainty in this matter would have made so much difference!

At the Paddington station Miss Mackenzie was met by her other lover, Mr Rubb. Mr Rubb, however, had never yet declared himself as holding this position, and did not do so on the present occasion. Their conversation in the cab was wholly concerning her brother's state, or nearly so. It seemed that there was no hope. Mr Rubb said that very clearly. As to time the doctor would say nothing certain; but he had declared that it might occur any day. The patient could never leave his bed again; but as his constitution was strong, he might remain in his present condition some weeks. He did not suffer much pain, or, at any rate, did not complain of much; but was very sad. Then Mr Rubb said one other word.

"I am afraid he is thinking of his wife and children."

"Would there be nothing for them out of the business?" asked Miss Mackenzie.

The junior partner at first shook his head, saying nothing. After a few minutes he did speak in a low voice. "If there be anything, it will be very little,—very little."

Miss Mackenzie was rejoiced that she had given no definite promise to Mr Maguire. There seemed to be now a job for her to do in the world which would render it quite unnecessary that she should look about for a husband. If her brother's widow were left penniless, with seven children, there would be no longer much question as to what she would do with her money. Perhaps the only person in the world that she cordially disliked was her sister-in-law. She certainly knew no other woman whose society would be so unpalatable to her. But if things were so as Mr Rubb now described them, there could be no doubt about her duty. It was very well indeed that her answer to Mr Maguire had been postponed to that Monday.

She found her sister-in-law in the dining-room, and Mrs Mackenzie, of course, received her with a shower of tears. "I did think you would have come, Margaret, by the first train."

Then Margaret was forced to explain all about the letter and the Sunday arrangements at Littlebath; and Mrs Tom was stupid and wouldn't understand, but persisted in her grievance, declaring that Tom was killing himself with disappointment.

"And there's Dr Slumpy just this moment gone without a word to comfort one,—not even to say about when it will be. I suppose you'll want your dinner before you go up to see him. As for us we've had no dinners, or anything regular; but, of course, you must be waited on." Miss Mackenzie simply took off her bonnet and shawl, and declared herself ready to go upstairs as soon as her brother would be ready to see her.

"It's fret about money has done it all, Margaret," said the wife. "Since the day that Walter's shocking will was read, he's never been himself for an hour. Of course he wouldn't show it to you; but he never has."

Margaret turned short round upon her sister-in-law on the stairs.

"Sarah," said she, and then she stopped herself. "Never mind; it is natural, no doubt, you should feel it; but there are times and places when one's feelings should be kept under control."

"That's mighty fine," said Mrs Mackenzie; "but, however, if you'll wait here, I'll go up to him."

In a few minutes more Miss Mackenzie was standing by her brother's bedside, holding his hand in hers.

"I knew you would come, Margaret," he said.

"Of course I should come; who doubted it? But never mind that, for here I am."

"I only told her that we expected her by the earlier train," said Mrs Tom.

"Never mind the train as long as she's here," said Tom. "You've heard how it is with me, Margaret?"

Then Margaret buried her face in the bed-clothes and wept, and Mrs Tom, weeping also, hid herself behind the curtains.

There was nothing said then about money or the troubles of the business, and after a while the two women went down to tea. In the dining-room they found Mr Rubb, who seemed to be quite at home in the house. Cold meat was brought up for Margaret's dinner, and they all sat down to one of those sad sick-house meals which he or she who has not known must have been lucky indeed. To Margaret it was nothing new. All the life that she remembered, except the last year, had been spent in nursing her other brother; and now to be employed about the bed-side of a sufferer was as natural to her as the air she breathed.

"I will sit with him to-night, Sarah, if you will let me," she said; and Sarah assented.

It was still daylight when she found herself at her post. Mrs Mackenzie had just left the room to go down among the children, saying that she would return again before she left him for the night. To this the invalid remonstrated, begging his wife to go to bed.

"She has not had her clothes off for the last week," said the husband.

"It don't matter about my clothes," said Mrs Tom, still weeping. She was always crying when in the sick room, and always scolding when out of it; thus complying with the two different requisitions of her nature. The matter, however, was settled by an assurance on her part that she would go to bed, so that she might be stirring early.

There are women who seem to have an absolute pleasure in fixing themselves for business by the bedside of a sick man. They generally commence their operations by laying aside all fictitious feminine charms, and by arraying themselves with a rigid, unconventional, unenticing propriety. Though they are still gentle,—perhaps more gentle than ever in their movements,—there is a decision in all they do very unlike their usual mode of action. The sick man, who is not so sick but what he can ponder on the matter, feels himself to be like a baby, whom he has seen the nurse to take from its cradle, pat on the back, feed, and then return to its little couch, all without undue violence or tyranny, but still with a certain consciousness of omnipotence as far as that child was concerned. The vitality of the man is gone from him, and he, in his prostrate condition, debarred by all the features of his condition from spontaneous exertion, feels himself to be more a woman than the woman herself. She, if she be such a one as our Miss Mackenzie, arranges her bottles with precision; knows exactly how to place her chair, her lamp, and her teapot; settles her cap usefully on her head, and prepares for the night's work certainly with satisfaction. And such are the best women of the world,—among which number I think that Miss Mackenzie has a right to be counted.

A few words of affection were spoken between the brother and sister, for at such moments brotherly affection returns, and the estrangements of life are all forgotten in the old memories. He seemed comforted to feel her hand upon the bed, and was glad to pronounce her name, and spoke to her as though she had been the favourite of the family for years, instead of the one member of it who had been snubbed and disregarded. Poor man, who shall say that there was anything hypocritical or false in this? And yet, undoubtedly, it was the fact that Margaret was now the only wealthy one among them, which had made him send to her, and think of her, as he lay there in his sickness.

When these words of love had been spoken, he turned himself on his pillow, and lay silent for a long while,—for hours, till the morning sun had risen, and the daylight was again seen through the window curtain. It was not much after midsummer, and the daylight came to them early. From time to time she had looked at him, and each hour in the night she had crept round to him, and given him that which he needed. She did it all with a certain system, noiselessly, but with an absolute assurance on her own part that she carried with her an authority sufficient to ensure obedience. On that ground, in that place, I think that even Miss Todd would have succumbed to her.

But when the morning sun had driven the appearance of night from the room, making the paraphernalia of sickness more ghastly than they had been under the light of the lamp, the brother turned himself back again, and began to talk of those things which were weighing on his mind.

"Margaret," he said, "it's very good of you to come, but as to myself, no one's coming can be of any use to me."

"It is all in the hands of God, Tom."

"No doubt, no doubt," said he, sadly, not daring to argue such a point with her, and yet feeling but little consolation from her assurance. "So is the bullock in God's hands when the butcher is going to knock him on the head, but yet we know that the beast will die. Men live and die from natural causes, and not by God's interposition."

"But there is hope; that is what I mean. If God pleases—"

"Ah, well. But, Margaret, I fear that he will not please; and what am I to do about Sarah and the children?"

This was a question that could be answered by no general platitude,—by no weak words of hopeless consolation. Coming from him to her, it demanded either a very substantial answer, or else no answer at all. What was he to do about Sarah and the children? Perhaps there came a thought across her mind that Sarah and the children had done very little for her,—had considered her very little, in those old, weary days, in Arundel Street. And those days were not, as yet, so very old. It was now not much more than twelve months since she had sat by the deathbed of her other brother,—since she had expressed to herself, and to Harry Handcock, a humble wish that she might find herself to be above absolute want.

"I do not think you need fret about that, Tom," she said, after turning these things over in her mind for a minute or two.

"How, not fret about them? But I suppose you know nothing of the state of the business. Has Rubb spoken to you?"

"He did say some word as we came along in the cab."

"What did he say?"

"He said—"

"Well, tell me what he said. He said, that if I died—what then? You must not be afraid of speaking of it openly. Why, Margaret, they have all told me that it must be in a month or two. What did Rubb say?"

"He said that there would be very little coming out of the business—that is, for Sarah and the children—if anything were to happen to you."

"I don't suppose they'd get anything. How it has been managed I don't know. I have worked like a galley slave at it, but I haven't kept the books, and I don't know how things have gone so badly. They have gone badly,—very badly."

"Has it been Mr Rubb's fault?"

"I won't say that; and, indeed, if it has been any man's fault it has been the old man's. I don't want to say a word against the one that you know. Oh, Margaret!"

"Don't fret yourself now, Tom."

"If you had seven children, would not you fret yourself? And I hardly know how to speak to you about it. I know that we have already had ever so much of your money, over two thousand pounds; and I fear you will never see it again."

"Never mind, Tom; it is yours, with all my heart. Only, Tom, as it is so badly wanted, I would rather it was yours than Mr Rubb's. Could I not do something that would make that share of the building yours?"

He shifted himself uneasily in his bed, and made her understand that she had distressed him.

"But perhaps it will be better to say nothing more about that," said she.

"It will be better that you should understand it all. The property belongs nominally to us, but it is mortgaged to the full of its value. Rubb can explain it all, if he will. Your money went to buy it, but other creditors would not be satisfied without security. Ah, dear! it is so dreadful to have to speak of all this in this way."

"Then don't speak of it, Tom."

"But what am I to do?"

"Are there no proceeds from the business?"

"Yes, for those who work in it; and I think there will be something coming out of it for Sarah,—something, but it will be very small. And if so, she must depend for it solely on Mr Rubb."

"On the young one?"

"Yes; on the one that you know."

There was a great deal more said, and of course everyone will know how such a conversation was ended, and will understand with what ample assurance as to her own intentions Margaret promised that the seven children should not want. As she did so, she made certain rapid calculations in her head. She must give up Mr Maguire. There was no doubt about that. She must give up all idea of marrying any one, and, as she thought of this, she told herself that she was perhaps well rid of a trouble. She had already given away to the firm of Rubb and Mackenzie above a hundred a-year out of her income. If she divided the remainder with Mrs Tom, keeping about three hundred and fifty pounds a-year for herself and Susanna, she would, she thought, keep her promise well, and yet retain enough for her own comfort and Susanna's education. It would be bad for the prospects of young John Ball, the third of the name, whom she had taught herself to regard as her heir; but young John Ball would know nothing of the good things he had lost. As to living with her sister-in-law Sarah, and sharing her house and income with the whole family, that she declared to herself nothing should induce her to do. She would give up half of all that she had, and that half would be quite enough to save her brother's children from want. In making the promise to her brother she said nothing about proportions, and nothing as to her own future life. "What I have," she said, "I will share with them and you may rest assured that they shall not want." Of course he thanked her as dying men do thank those who take upon themselves such charges; but she perceived as he did so, or thought that she perceived, that he still had something more upon his mind.

Mrs Tom came and relieved her in the morning, and Miss Mackenzie was obliged to put off for a time that panoply of sick-room armour which made her so indomitable in her brother's bedroom. Downstairs she met Mr Rubb, who talked to her much about her brother's affairs, and much about the oilcloth business, speaking as though he were desirous that the most absolute confidence should exist between him and her. But she said no word of her promise to her brother, except that she declared that the money lent was now to be regarded as a present made by her to him personally.

"I am afraid that that will avail nothing," said Mr Rubb, junior, "for the amount now stands as a debt due by the firm to you, and the firm, which would pay you the money if it could, cannot pay it to your brother's estate any more than it can to yours."

"But the interest," said Miss Mackenzie.

"Oh, yes! the interest can be paid," said Mr Rubb, junior, but the tone of his voice did not give much promise that this interest would be forthcoming with punctuality.

She watched again that night; and on the next day, in the afternoon, she was told that a gentleman wished to see her in the drawing-room. Her thoughts at once pointed to Mr Maguire, and she went downstairs prepared to be very angry with that gentleman. But on entering the room she found her cousin, John Ball. She was, in truth, glad to see him; for, after all, she thought that she liked him the best of all the men or women that she knew. He was always in trouble, but then she fancied that with him she at any rate knew the worst. There was nothing concealed with him,—nothing to be afraid of. She hoped that they might continue to know each other intimately as cousins. Under existing circumstances they could not, of course, be anything more to each other than that.

"This is very kind of you, John," she said, taking his hand. "How did you know I was here?"

"Mr Slow told me. I was with Mr Slow about business of yours. I'm afraid from what I hear that you find your brother very ill."

"Very ill, indeed, John,—ill to death."

She then asked after her uncle and aunt, and the children, at the Cedars.

They were much as usual, he said; and he added that his mother would be very glad to see her at the Cedars; only he supposed there was no hope of that.

"Not just at present, John. You see I am wholly occupied here."

"And will he really die, do you think?"

"The doctors say so."

"And his wife and children—will they be provided for?"

Margaret simply shook her head, and John Ball, as he watched her, felt assured that his uncle Jonathan's money would never come in his way, or in the way of his children. But he was a man used to disappointment, and he bore this with mild sufferance.

Then he explained to her the business about which he had specially come to her. She had entrusted him with certain arrangements as to a portion of her property, and he came to tell her that a certain railway company wanted some houses which belonged to her, and that by Act of Parliament she was obliged to sell them.

"But the Act of Parliament will make the railway company pay for them, won't it, John?"

Then he went on to explain to her that she was in luck's way, "as usual," said the poor fellow, thinking of his own misfortunes, and that she would greatly increase her income by the sale. Indeed, it seemed to her that she would regain pretty nearly all she had lost by the loan to Rubb and Mackenzie. "How very singular," thought she to herself. Under these circumstances, it might, after all, be possible that she should marry Mr Maguire, if she wished it.

When Mr Ball had told his business he did not stay much longer. He said no word of his own hopes, if hopes they could be called any longer. As he left her, he just referred to what had passed between them. "This is no time, Margaret," said he, "to ask you whether you have changed your mind?"

"No, John; there are other things to think of now; are there not? And, besides, they will want here all that I can do for them."

She spoke to him with an express conviction that what was wanted of her by him, as well as by others, was her money, and it did not occur to him to contradict her.

"He might have asked to see me, I do think," said Mrs Tom, when John Ball was gone. "But there always was an upsetting pride about those people at the Cedars which I never could endure. And they are as poor as church mice. When poverty and pride go together I do detest them. I suppose he came to find out all about us, but I hope you told him nothing."

To all this Miss Mackenzie made no answer at all.



CHAPTER XV

The Tearing of the Verses

Things went on in Gower Street for three or four weeks in the same way, and then Susanna was fetched home from Littlebath. Miss Mackenzie would have gone down herself but that she was averse to see Mr Maguire. She therefore kept on her Littlebath lodgings, though Mrs Tom said much to her of the wasteful extravagance in doing so. It was at last settled that Mr Rubb should go down to Littlebath and bring Susanna back with him; and this he did, not at all to that young lady's satisfaction. It was understood that Susanna did not leave the school, at which she had lately been received as a boarder; but the holidays had come, and it was thought well that she should see her father. During this time Miss Mackenzie received two letters from Mr Maguire. In the first he pleaded hard for an answer to his offer. He had, he said, now relinquished his curacy, having found the interference of that terrible woman to be unendurable. He had left his curacy, and was at present without employment. Under such circumstances, "his Margaret" would understand how imperative it was that he should receive an answer. A curacy, or, rather, a small incumbency, had offered itself among the mines in Cornwall; but he could not think of accepting this till he should know what "his Margaret" might say to it.

To this Margaret answered most demurely, and perhaps a little slily. She said that her brother's health and affairs were at present in such a condition as to allow her to think of nothing else; that she completely understood Mr Maguire's position, and that it was essential that he should not be kept in suspense. Under these combined circumstances she had no alternative but to release him from the offer he had made. This she did with the less unwillingness as it was probable that her pecuniary position would be considerably altered by the change in her brother's family which they were now expecting almost daily. Then she bade him farewell, with many expressions of her esteem, and said that she hoped he might be happy among the mines in Cornwall.

Such was her letter; but it did not satisfy Mr Maguire, and he wrote a second letter. He had declined, he said, the incumbency among the mines, having heard of something which he thought would suit him better in Manchester. As to that, there was no immediate hurry, and he proposed remaining at Littlebath for the next two months, having been asked to undertake temporary duty in a neighbouring church for that time. By the end of the two months he hoped that "his Margaret" would be able to give him an answer in a different tone. As to her pecuniary position, he would leave that, he said, "all to herself."

To this second letter Miss Mackenzie did not find it necessary to send any reply. The domestics in the Mackenzie family were not at this time numerous, and the poor mother had enough to do with her family downstairs. No nurse had been hired for the sick man, for nurses cannot be hired without money, and money with the Tom Mackenzies was scarce. Our Miss Mackenzie would have hired a nurse, but she thought it better to take the work entirely into her own hands. She did so, and I think we may say that her brother did not suffer by it. As she sat by his bedside, night after night, she seemed to feel that she had fallen again into her proper place, and she looked back upon the year she had spent at Littlebath almost with dismay. Since her brother's death, three men had offered to marry her, and there was a fourth from whom she had expected such an offer. She looked upon all this with dismay, and told herself that she was not fit to sail, under her own guidance, out in the broad sea, amidst such rocks as those. Was not some humbly feminine employment, such as that in which she was now engaged, better for her in all ways? Sad as was the present occasion, did she not feel a satisfaction in what she was doing, and an assurance that she was fit for her position? Had she not always been ill at ease, and out of her element, while striving at Littlebath to live the life of a lady of fortune? She told herself that it was so, and that it would be better for her to be a hard-working, dependent woman, doing some tedious duty day by day, than to live a life of ease which prompted her to longings for things unfitted to her.

She had brought a little writing-desk with her that she had carried from Arundel Street to Littlebath, and this she had with her in the sick man's bedroom. Sitting there through the long hours of night, she would open this and read over and over again those remnants of the rhymes written in her early days which she had kept when she made her great bonfire. There had been quires of such verses, but she had destroyed all but a few leaves before she started for Littlebath. What were left, and were now read, were very sweet to her, and yet she knew that they were wrong and meaningless. What business had such a one as she to talk of the sphere's tune and the silvery moon, of bright stars shining and hearts repining? She would not for worlds have allowed any one to know what a fool she had been—either Mrs Tom, or John Ball, or Mr Maguire, or Miss Todd. She would have been covered with confusion if her rhymes had fallen into the hands of any one of them.

And yet she loved them well, as a mother loves her only idiot child. They were her expressions of the romance and poetry that had been in her; and though the expressions doubtless were poor, the romance and poetry of her heart had been high and noble. How wrong the world is in connecting so closely as it does the capacity for feeling and the capacity for expression,—in thinking that capacity for the one implies capacity for the other, or incapacity for the one incapacity also for the other; in confusing the technical art of the man who sings with the unselfish tenderness of the man who feels! But the world does so connect them; and, consequently, those who express themselves badly are ashamed of their feelings.

She read her poor lines again and again, throwing herself back into the days and thoughts of former periods, and telling herself that it was all over. She had thought of encouraging love, and love had come to her in the shape of Mr Maguire, a very strict evangelical clergyman, without a cure or an income, somewhat in debt, and with, oh! such an eye! She tore the papers, very gently, into the smallest fragments. She tore them again and again, swearing to herself as she did so that there should be an end of all that; and, as there was no fire at hand, she replaced the pieces in her desk. During this ceremony of the tearing she devoted herself to the duties of a single life, to the drudgeries of ordinary utility, to such works as those she was now doing. As to any society, wicked or religious,—wicked after the manner of Miss Todd, or religious after the manner of St Stumfolda,—it should come or not, as circumstances might direct. She would go no more in search of it. Such were the resolves of a certain night, during which the ceremony of the tearing took place.

It came to pass at this time that Mr Rubb, junior, visited his dying partner almost daily, and was always left alone with him for some time. When these visits were made Miss Mackenzie would descend to the room in which her sister-in-law was sitting, and there would be some conversation between them about Mr Rubb and his affairs. Much as these two women disliked each other, there had necessarily arisen between them a certain amount of confidence. Two persons who are much thrown together, to the exclusion of other society, will tell each other their thoughts, even though there be no love between them.

"What is he saying to him all these times when he is with him?" said Mrs Tom one morning, when Miss Mackenzie had come down on the appearance of Mr Rubb in the sick room.

"He is talking about the business, I suppose."

"What good can that do? Tom can't say anything about that, as to how it should be done. He thinks a great deal about Sam Rubb; but it's more than I do."

"They must necessarily be in each other's confidence, I should say."

"He's not in my confidence. My belief is he's been a deal too clever for Tom; and that he'll turn out to be too clever—for me, and—my poor orphans." Upon which Mrs Tom put her handkerchief up to her eyes. "There; he's coming down," continued the wife. "Do you go up now, and make Tom tell you what it is that Sam Rubb has been saying to him."

Margaret Mackenzie did go up as she heard Mr Rubb close the front door; but she had no such purpose as that with which her sister-in-law had striven to inspire her. She had no wish to make the sick man tell her anything that he did not wish to tell. In considering the matter within her own breast, she owned to herself that she did not expect much from the Rubbs in aid of the wants of her nephews and nieces; but what would be the use of troubling a dying man about that? She had agreed with herself to believe that the oilcloth business was a bad affair, and that it would be well to hope for nothing from it. That her brother to the last should harass himself about the business was only natural; but there could be no reason why she should harass him on the same subject. She had recognised the fact that his widow and children must be supported by her; and had she now been told that the oilcloth factory had been absolutely abandoned as being worth nothing, it would not have caused her much disappointment. She thought a great deal more of the railway company that was going to buy her property under such favourable circumstances.

She was, therefore, much surprised when her brother began about the business as soon as she had seated herself. I do not know that the reader need be delayed with any of the details that he gave her, or with the contents of the papers which he showed her. She, however, found herself compelled to go into the matter, and compelled also to make an endeavour to understand it. It seemed that everything hung upon Samuel Rubb, junior, except the fact that Samuel Rubb's father, who now never went near the place, got more than half the net profits; and the further fact, that the whole thing would come to an end if this payment to old Rubb were stopped.

"Tom," said she, in the middle of it all, when her head was aching with figures, "if it will comfort you, and enable you to put all these things away, you may know that I will divide everything I have with Sarah."

He assured her that her kindness did comfort him; but he hoped better than that; he still thought that something better might be arranged if she would only go on with her task. So she went on painfully toiling through figures.

"Sam drew them up on purpose for you, yesterday afternoon," said he.

"Who did it?" she asked.

"Samuel Rubb."

He then went on to declare that she might accept all Samuel Rubb's figures as correct.

She was quite willing to accept them, and she strove hard to understand them. It certainly did seem to her that when her money was borrowed somebody must have known that the promised security would not be forthcoming; but perhaps that somebody was old Rubb, whom, as she did not know him, she was quite ready to regard as the villain in the play that was being acted. Her own money, too, was a thing of the past. That fault, if fault there had been, was condoned; and she was angry with herself in that she now thought of it again.

"And now," said her brother, as soon as she had put the papers back, and declared that she understood them. "Now I have something to say to you which I hope you will hear without being angry." He raised himself on his bed as he said this, doing so with difficulty and pain, and turning his face upon her so that he could look into her eyes. "If I didn't know that I was dying I don't think that I could say it to you."

"Say what, Tom?"

She thought of what most terrible thing it might be possible that he should have to communicate. Could it be that he had got hold, or that Rubb and Mackenzie had got hold, of all her fortune, and turned it into unprofitable oilcloth? Could they in any way have made her responsible for their engagements? She wished to trust them; she tried to avoid suspicion; but she feared that things were amiss.

"Samuel Rubb and I have been talking of it, and he thinks it had better come from me," said her brother.

"What had better come?" she asked.

"It is his proposition, Margaret." Then she knew all about it, and felt great relief. Then she knew all about it, and let him go on till he had spoken his speech.

"God knows how far he may be indulging a false hope, or deceiving himself altogether; but he thinks it possible that you might—might become fond of him. There, Margaret, that's the long and the short of it. And when I told him that he had better say that himself, he declared that you would not bring yourself to listen to him while I am lying here dying."

"Of course I would not."

"But, look here, Margaret; I know you would do much to comfort me in my last moments."

"Indeed, I would, Tom."

"I wouldn't ask you to marry a man you didn't like,—not even if it were to do the children a service; but if that can be got over, the other feeling should not restrain you when it would be the greatest possible comfort to me."

"But how could it serve you, Tom?"

"If that could be arranged, Rubb would give up to Sarah during his father's life all the proceeds of the business, after paying the old man. And when he dies, and he is very old now, the five hundred a-year would be continued to her. Think what that would be, Margaret."

"But, Tom, she shall have what will make her comfortable without waiting for any old man's death. It shall be quite half of my income. If that is not enough it shall be more. Will not that do for her?"

Then her brother strove to explain as best he could that the mere money was not all he wanted. If his sister did not like this man, if she had no wish to become a married woman, of course, he said, the plan must fall to the ground. But if there was anything in Mr Rubb's belief that she was not altogether indifferent to him, if such an arrangement could be made palatable to her, then he would be able to think that he, by the work of his life, had left something behind him to his wife and family.

"And Sarah would be more comfortable," he pleaded. "Of course, she is grateful to you, as I am, and as we all are. But given bread is bitter bread, and if she could think it came to her, of her own right—"

He said ever so much more, but that ever so much more was quite unnecessary. His sister understood the whole matter. It was desirable that she, by her fortune, should enable the widow and orphans of her brother to live in comfort; but it was not desirable that this dependence on her should be plainly recognised. She did not, however, feel herself to be angry or hurt. It would, no doubt, be better for the family that they should draw their income in an apparently independent way from their late father's business than that they should owe their support to the charity of an aunt. But then, how about herself? A month or two ago, before the Maguire feature in her career had displayed itself so strongly, an overture from Mr Rubb might probably not have been received with disfavour. But now, while she was as it were half engaged to another man, she could not entertain such a proposition. Her womanly feeling revolted from it. No doubt she intended to refuse Mr Maguire. No doubt she had made up her mind to that absolutely, during the ceremony of tearing up her verses. And she had never had much love for Mr Maguire, and had felt some—almost some, for Mr Rubb. In either case she was sure that, had she married the man,—the one man or the other,—she would instantly have become devoted to him. And I, who chronicle her deeds and endeavour to chronicle her thoughts, feel equally sure that it would have been so. There was something harsh in it, that Mr Maguire's offer to her should, though never accepted, debar her from the possibility of marrying Mr Rubb, and thus settling all the affairs of her family in a way that would have been satisfactory to them and not altogether unsatisfactory to her; but she was aware that it did so. She felt that it was so, and then threw herself back for consolation upon the security which would still be hers, and the want of security which must attach itself to a marriage with Mr Rubb. He might make ducks, and drakes, and oilcloth of it all; and then there would be nothing left for her, for her sister-in-law, or for the children.

"May I tell him to speak to yourself?" her brother asked, while she was thinking of all this.

"No, Tom; it would do no good."

"You do not fancy him, then."

"I do not know about fancying; but I think it will be better for me to remain as I am. I would do anything for you and Sarah, almost anything; but I cannot do that."

"Then I will say nothing further."

"Don't ask me to do that."

And he did not ask her again, but turned his face from her and thought of the bitterness of his death-bed.

That evening, when she went down to tea, she met Samuel Rubb standing at the drawing-room door.

"There is no one here," he said; "will you mind coming in? Has your brother spoken to you?"

She had followed him into the room, and he had closed the door as he asked the question.

"Yes, he has spoken to me."

She could see that the man was trembling with anxiety and eagerness, and she almost loved him that he was anxious and eager. Mr Maguire, when he had come a wooing, had not done it badly altogether, but there had not been so much reality as there was about Sam Rubb while he stood there shaking, and fearing, and hoping.

"Well," said he, "may I hope—may I think it will be so? may I ask you to be mine?"

He was handsome in her eyes, though perhaps, delicate reader, he would not have been handsome in yours. She knew that he was not a gentleman; but what did that matter? Neither was her sister-in-law Sarah a lady. There was not much in that house in Gower Street that was after the manner of gentlemen and ladies. She was ready to throw all that to the dogs, and would have done so but for Mr Maguire. She felt that she would like to have allowed herself to love him in spite of the tearing of the verses. She felt this, and was very angry with Mr Maguire. But the facts were stern, and there was no hope for her.

"Mr Rubb," she said, "there can be nothing of that kind."

"Can't there really, now?" said he.

She assured him in her strongest language, that there could be nothing of that kind, and then went down to the dining-room.

He did not venture to follow her, but made his way out of the house without seeing anyone else.

Another fortnight went by, and then, towards the close of September, came the end of all things in this world for poor Tom Mackenzie. He died in the middle of the night in his wife's arms, while his sister stood by holding both their hands. Since the day on which he had endeavoured to arrange a match between his partner and his sister he had spoken no word of business, at any rate to the latter, and things now stood on that footing which she had then attempted to give them. We all know how silent on such matters are the voices of all in the bereft household, from the hour of death till that other hour in which the body is consigned to its kindred dust. Women make mourning, and men creep about listlessly, but during those few sad days there may be no talk about money. So it was in Gower Street. The widow, no doubt, thought much of her bitter state of dependence, thought something, perhaps, of the chance there might be that her husband's sister would be less good than her word, now that he was gone—meditated with what amount of submission she must accept the generosity of the woman she had always hated; but she was still mistress of that house till the undertakers had done their work; and till that work had been done, she said little of her future plans.

"I'd earn my bread, if I knew how," she began, putting her handkerchief up to her eyes, on the afternoon of the very day on which he was buried.

"There will be no occasion for that, Sarah," said Miss Mackenzie, "there will be enough for us all."

"But I would if I knew how. I wouldn't mind what I did; I'd scour floors rather than be dependent, I've that spirit in me; and I've worked, and moiled, and toiled with those children; so I have."

Miss Mackenzie then told her that she had solemnly promised her brother to divide her income with his widow, and informed her that she intended to see Mr Slow, the lawyer, on the following day, with reference to the doing of this.

"If there is anything from the factory, that can be divided too," said Miss Mackenzie.

"But there won't. The Rubbs will take all that; of course they will. And Tom put into it near upon ten thousand pounds!"

Then she began to cry again, but soon interrupted her tears to ask what was to become of Susanna. Susanna, who was by, looked anxiously up into her aunt's eyes.