Believe me to be, dearest Margaret, Yours, with truest, Most devoted affection,

JEREH. MAGUIRE.

One man had wanted her money to buy a house on a mortgage, and another now asked for it to build a church, giving her, or promising to give her, the security of the pew rents. Which of the two was the worst? They were both her lovers, and she thought that he was the worst who first made his love and then tried to get her money. These were the ideas which at once occurred to her upon her reading Mr Maguire's letter. She had quite wit enough to see through the whole project; how outsiders were to be induced to give their money, thinking that all was to be given; whereas those inside the temple,—those who knew all about it,—were simply to make for themselves a good speculation. Her cousin John's constant solicitude for money was bad; but, after all, it was not so bad as this. She told herself at once that the letter was one which would of itself have ended everything between her and Mr Maguire, even had nothing occurred to put an absolute and imperative stop to the affair. Mr Maguire pressed for an early answer, and before she left the room she sat down and wrote it.

The Cedars, Twickenham, October, 186—.

DEAR SIR

Before she wrote the words, "Dear Sir," she had to think much of them, not having had as yet much experience in writing letters to gentlemen; but she concluded at last that if she simply wrote "Sir," he would take it as an insult, and that if she wrote "My dear Mr Maguire," it would, under the circumstances, be too affectionate.

DEAR SIR,

I have got your letter to-day, and I hasten to answer it at once. All that to which you allude between us must be considered as being altogether over, and I am very sorry that you should have had so much trouble. My circumstances are altogether changed. I cannot explain how, as it would make my letter very long; but you may be assured that such is the case, and to so great an extent that the engagement you speak of would not at all suit you at present. Pray take this as being quite true, and believe me to be

Your very humble servant,

MARGARET MACKENZIE.

I feel that the letter was somewhat curt and dry as an answer to an effusion so full of affection as that which the gentleman had written; and the fair reader, when she remembers that Miss Mackenzie had given the gentleman considerable encouragement, will probably think that she should have expressed something like regret at so sudden a termination to so tender a friendship. But she, in truth, regarded the offer as having been made to her money solely, and as in fact no longer existing as an offer, now that her money itself was no longer in existence. She was angry with Mr Maguire for the words he had written about her brother's affairs; for his wish to limit her kindness to her nephews and nieces, and also for his greediness in being desirous of getting her money at once; but as to the main question, she thought herself bound to answer him plainly, as she would have answered a man who came to buy from her a house, which house was no longer in her possession.

Mr Maguire when he received her letter, did not believe a word of it. He did not in the least believe that she had actually lost everything that had once belonged to her, or that he, if he married her now, would obtain less than he would have done had he married her before her brother's death. But he thought that her brother's family and friends had got hold of her in London; that Mr Rubb might very probably have done it; and that they were striving to obtain command of her money, and were influencing her to desert him. He thinking so, and being a man of good courage, took a resolution to follow his game, and to see whether even yet he might not obtain the good things which had made his eyes glisten and his mouth water. He knew that there was very much against him in the race that he was desirous of running, and that an heiress with—he did not know how much a year, but it had been rumoured among the Stumfoldians that it was over a thousand—might not again fall in his way. There were very many things against him, of which he was quite conscious. He had not a shilling of his own, and was in receipt of no professional income. He was not altogether a young man. There was in his personal appearance a defect which many ladies might find it difficult to overcome; and then that little story about his debts, which Miss Todd had picked up, was not only true, but was some degrees under the truth. No doubt, he had a great wish that his wife should be comfortable; but he also, for himself, had long been pining after those eligible comforts, which when they appertain to clergymen, the world, with so much malice, persists in calling the flesh-pots of Egypt. Thinking of all this, of the position he had already gained in spite of his personal disadvantages, and of the great chance there was that his Margaret might yet be rescued from the Philistines, he resolved upon a journey to London.

In the meantime Miss Mackenzie's other lover had not been idle, and he also was resolved by no means to give up the battle.

It cannot be said that Mr Rubb was not mercenary in his views, but with his desire for the lady's money was mingled much that was courageous, and something also that was generous. The whole truth had been told to him as plainly as it had been told to Mr Ball, and nevertheless he determined to persevere. He went to work diligently on that very afternoon, deserting the smiles of Miss Colza, and made such inquiries into the law of the matter as were possible to him; and they resulted, as far as Miss Mackenzie was concerned, in his appearing late one afternoon at the front door of Sir John Ball's house. On the day following this Miss Mackenzie was to keep her appointment with Mr Slow, and her cousin was now up in London among the lawyers.

Miss Mackenzie was sitting with her aunt when Mr Rubb called. They were both in the drawing-room; and Lady Ball, who had as yet succeeded in learning nothing, and who was more than ever convinced that there was much to learn, was not making herself pleasant to her companion. Throughout the whole week she had been very unpleasant. She did not quite understand why Margaret's sojourn at the Cedars had been and was to be so much prolonged. Margaret, feeling herself compelled to say something on the subject, had with some hesitation told her aunt that she was staying till she had seen her lawyer again, because her cousin wished her to stay.

In answer to this, Lady Ball had of course told her that she was welcome. Her ladyship had then cross-questioned her son on that subject also, but he had simply said that as there was law business to be done, Margaret might as well stay at Twickenham till it was completed.

"But, my dear," Lady Ball had said, "her law business might go on for ever, for what you know."

"Mother," said the son, sternly, "I wish her to stay here at present, and I suppose you will not refuse to permit her to do so."

After this, Lady Ball could go no further.

On the day on which Mr Rubb was announced in the drawing-room, the aunt and niece were sitting together. "Mr Rubb—to see Miss Mackenzie," said the old servant, as he opened the door.

Miss Mackenzie got up, blushing to her forehead, and Lady Ball rose from her chair with an angry look, as though asking the oilcloth manufacturer how he dared to make his way in there. The name of the Rubbs had been specially odious to all the family at the Cedars since Tom Mackenzie had carried his share of Jonathan Ball's money into the firm in the New Road. And Mr Rubb's appearance was not calculated to mitigate this anger. Again he had got on those horrid yellow gloves, and again had dressed himself up to his idea of the garb of a man of fashion. To Margaret's eyes, in the midst of her own misfortunes, he was a thing horrible to behold, as he came into that drawing-room. When she had seen him in his natural condition, at her brother's house, he had been at any rate unobjectionable to her; and when, on various occasions, he had talked to her about his own business, pleading his own cause and excusing his own fault, she had really liked him. There had been a moment or two, the moments of his bitterest confessions, in which she had in truth liked him much. But now! What would she not have given that the old servant should have taken upon himself to declare that she was not at home.

But there he was in her aunt's drawing-room, and she had nothing to do but to ask him to sit down.

"This is my aunt, Lady Ball," said Margaret.

"I hope I have the honour of seeing her ladyship quite well," said Mr Rubb, bowing low before he ventured to seat himself.

Lady Ball would not condescend to say a word, but stared at him in a manner that would have driven him out of the room had he understood the nature of such looks on ladies' faces.

"I hope my sister-in-law and the children are well," said Margaret, with a violent attempt to make conversation.

"Pretty much as you left them, Miss Mackenzie; she takes on a good deal; but that's only human nature; eh, my lady?"

But her ladyship still would not condescend to speak a word.

Margaret did not know what further to say. All subjects on which it might have been possible for her to speak to Mr Rubb were stopped from her in the presence of her aunt. Mr Rubb knew of that great calamity of which, as yet, Lady Ball knew nothing,—of that great calamity to the niece, but great blessing, as it would be thought by the aunt. And she was in much fear lest Mr Rubb should say something which might tend to divulge the secret.

"Did you come by the train?" she said, at last, reduced in her agony to utter the first unmeaning question of which she could think.

"Yes, Miss Mackenzie, I came by the train, and I am going back by the 5.45, if I can just be allowed to say a few words to you first."

"Does the gentleman mean in private?" asked Lady Ball.

"If you please, my lady," said Mr Rubb, who was beginning to think that he did not like Lady Ball.

"If Miss Mackenzie wishes it, of course she can do so."

"It may be about my brother's affairs," said Margaret, getting up.

"It is nothing to me, my dear, whether they are your brother's or your own," said Lady Ball; "you had better not interrupt your uncle in the study; but I daresay you'll find the dining-room disengaged."

So Miss Mackenzie led the way into the dining-room, and Mr Rubb followed. There they found some of the girls, who stared very hard at Mr Rubb, as they left the room at their cousin's request. As soon as they were left alone Mr Rubb began his work manfully.

"Margaret," said he, "I hope you will let me call you so now that you are in trouble?"

To this she made no answer.

"But perhaps your trouble is over? Perhaps you have found out that it isn't as you told us the other day?"

"No, Mr Rubb; I have found nothing of that kind; I believe it is as I told you."

"Then I'll tell you what I propose. You haven't given up the fight, have you? You have not done anything?"

"I have done nothing as yet."

"Then I'll tell you my plan. Fight it out."

"I do not want to fight for anything that is not my own."

"But it is your own. It is your own of rights, even though it should not be so by some quibble of the lawyers. I don't believe twelve Englishmen would be found in London to give it to anybody else; I don't indeed."

"But my own lawyer tells me it isn't mine, Mr Rubb."

"Never mind him; don't you give up anything. Don't you let them make you soft. When it comes to money nobody should give up anything. Now I'll tell you what I propose."

She now sat down and listened to him, while he stood over her. It was manifest that he was very eager, and in his eagerness he became loud, so that she feared his words might be heard out of the room.

"You know what my sentiments are," he said. At that moment she did not remember what his sentiments were, nor did she know what he meant. "They're the same now as ever. Whether you have got your fortune, or whether you've got nothing, they're the same. I've seen you tried alongside of your brother, when he was a-dying, and, Margaret, I like you now better than ever I did."

"Mr Rubb, at present, all that cannot mean anything."

"But doesn't it mean anything? By Jove! it does though. It means just this, that I'll make you Mrs Rubb to-morrow, or as soon as Doctors' Commons, and all that, will let us do it; and I'll chance the money afterwards. Do you let it just go easy, and say nothing, and I'll fight them. If the worst comes to the worst, they'll be willing enough to cry halves with us. But, Margaret, if the worst does come to be worse than that you won't find me hard to you on that account. I shall always remember who helped me when I wanted help."

"I am sure, Mr Rubb, I am much obliged to you."

"Don't talk about being obliged, but get up and give me your hand, and say it shall be a bargain." Then he tried to take her by the hand and raise her from the chair up towards him.

"No, no, no!" said she.

"But I say yes. Why should it be no? If there never should come a penny out of this property I will put a roof over your head, and will find you victuals and clothes respectably. Who will do better for you than that? And as for the fight, by Jove! I shall like it. You'll find they'll get nothing out of my hands till they have torn away my nails."

Here was a new phase in her life. Here was a man willing to marry her even though she had no assured fortune.

"Margaret," said he, pleading his cause again, "I have that love for you that I would take you though it was all gone, to the last farthing."

"It is all gone."

"Let that be as it may, we'll try it. But though it should be all gone, every shilling of it, still, will you be my wife?"

It was altogether a new phase, and one that was inexplicable to her. And this came from a man to whom she had once thought that she might bring herself to give her hand and her heart, and her money also. She did not doubt that if she took him at his word he would be good to her, and provide her with shelter, and food and raiment, as he had promised her. Her heart was softened towards him, and she forgot his gloves and his shining boots. But she could not bring herself to say that she would love him, and be his wife. It seemed to her now that she was under the guidance of her cousin, and that she was pledged to do nothing of which he would disapprove. He would not approve of her accepting the hand of a man who would be resolved to litigate this matter with him.

"It cannot be," she said. "I feel how generous you are, but it cannot be."

"And why shouldn't it be?"

"Oh, Mr Rubb, there are things one cannot explain."

"Margaret, think of it. How are you to do better?"

"Perhaps not; probably not. In many ways I am sure I could not do better. But it cannot be."

Not then, nor for the next twenty minutes, but at last he took his answer and went. He did this when he found that he had no more minutes to spare if he intended to return by the 5.45 train. Then, with an angry gesture of his head, he left her, and hurried across to the front door. Then, as he went out, Mr John Ball came in.

"Good evening, sir," said Mr Rubb. "I am Mr Samuel Rubb. I have just been seeing Miss Mackenzie, on business. Good evening, sir."

John Ball said never a word, and Samuel Rubb hurried across the grounds to the railway station.



CHAPTER XX

Showing How the Third Lover Behaved

"What has that man been here for?" Those were the first words which Mr Ball spoke to his cousin after shutting the hall-door behind Mr Rubb's back. When the door was closed he turned round and saw Margaret as she was coming out of the dining-room, and in a voice that sounded to her as though he were angry, asked her the above question.

"He came to see me, John," said Miss Mackenzie, going back into the dining-room. "He was my brother's partner."

"He said he came upon business; what business could he have?"

It was not very easy for her to tell him what had been Mr Rubb's business. She had no wish to keep anything secret from her cousin, but she did not know how to describe the scene which had just taken place, or how to acknowledge that the man had come there to ask her to marry him.

"Does he know anything of this matter of your money?" continued Mr Ball.

"Oh yes; he knows it all. He was in Gower Street when I told my sister-in-law."

"And he came to advise you about it?"

"Yes; he did advise me about it. But his advice I shall not take."

"And what did he advise?"

Then Margaret told him that Mr Rubb had counselled her to fight it out to the last, in order that a compromise might at any rate be obtained.

"If it has no selfish object in view I am far from saying that he is wrong," said John Ball. "It is what I should advise a friend to do under similar circumstances."

"It is not what I shall do, John."

"No; you are like a lamb that gives itself up to the slaughterer. I have been with one lawyer or the other all day, and the end of it is that there is no use on earth in your going to London to-morrow, nor, as far as I can see, for another week to come. The two lawyers together have referred the case to counsel for opinion,—for an amicable opinion as they call it. From what they all say, Margaret, it seems to me clear that the matter will go against you."

"I have expected nothing else since Mr Slow spoke to me."

"But no doubt you can make a fight, as your friend says."

"I don't want to fight, John; you know that."

"Mr Slow won't let you give it up without a contest. He suggested a compromise,—that you and I should divide it. But I hate compromises." She looked up into his face but said nothing. "The truth is, I have been so wronged in the matter, the whole thing has been so cruel, it has, all of it together, so completely ruined me and my prospects in life, that were it any one but you, I would sooner have a lawsuit than give up one penny of what is left." Again she looked at him, but he went on speaking of it without observing her. "Think what it has been, Margaret! The whole of this property was once mine! Not the half of it only that has been called yours, but the whole of it! The income was actually paid for one half-year to a separate banking account on my behalf, before I was of age. Yes, paid to me, and I had it! My uncle Jonathan had no more legal right to take it away from me than you have to take the coat off my back. Think of that, and of what four-and-twenty thousand pounds would have done for me and my family from that time to this. There have been nearly thirty years of this robbery!"

"It was not my fault, John."

"No; it was not your fault. But if your brothers could pay me back all that they really owe me, all that the money would now be worth, it would come to nearly a hundred thousand pounds. After that, what is a man to say when he is asked to compromise? As far as I can see, there is not a shadow of doubt about it. Mr Slow does not pretend that there is a doubt. How they can fail to see the justice of it is what passes my understanding!"

"Mr Slow will give up at once, I suppose, if I ask him?"

"I don't want you to ask him. I would rather that you didn't say a word to him about it. There is a debt too from that man Rubb which they advise me to abandon."

In answer to this, Margaret could say nothing, for she knew well that her trust in the interest of that money was the only hope she had of any maintenance for her sister-in-law.

After a few minutes' silence he again spoke to her. "He desires to know whether you want money for immediate use."

"Who wants to know?"

"Mr Slow."

"Oh no, John. I have money at the bankers', but I will not touch it."

"How much is there at the bankers?"

"There is more than three hundred pounds; but very little more; perhaps three hundred and ten."

"You may have that."

"John, I don't want anything that is not my own; not though I had to walk out to earn my bread in the streets to-morrow."

"That is your own, I tell you. The tenants have been ordered not to pay any further rents, till they receive notice. You can make them pay, nevertheless, if you wish it; at least, you might do so, till some legal steps were taken."

"Of course, I shall do nothing of the kind. It was Mr Slow's people who used to get the money. And am I not to go up to London to-morrow?"

"You can go if you choose, but you will learn nothing. I told Mr Slow that I would bid you wait till I heard from him again. It is time now for us to get ready for dinner."

Then, as he was going to leave the room, she took him by the coat and held him again,—held him as fast as she had done on the pavement in Lincoln's Inn Fields. There was a soft, womanly, trusting weakness in the manner of her motion as she did this, which touched him now as it had touched him then.

"John," she said, "if there is to be so much delay, I must not stay here."

"Why not, Margaret?"

"My aunt does not like my staying; I can see that; and I don't think it is fair to do so while she does not know all about it. It is something like cheating her out of the use of the house."

"Then I will tell her."

"What, all? Had I not better go first?"

"No; you cannot go. Where are you to go to? I will tell her everything to-night. I had almost made up my mind to do so already. It will be better that they should both know it,—my father and my mother. My father probably will be required to say all that he knows about the matter."

"I shall be ready to go at once if she wishes it," said Margaret.

To this he made no answer, but went upstairs to his bedroom, and there, as he dressed, thought again, and again, and again of his cousin Margaret. What should he do for her, and in what way should he treat her? The very name of the Mackenzies he had hated of old, and their names were now more hateful to him than ever. He had correctly described his own feelings towards them when he said, either truly or untruly, that they had deprived him of that which would have made his whole life prosperous instead of the reverse. And it seemed as though he had really thought that they had been in fault in this,—that they had defrauded him. It did not, apparently, occur to him that the only persons he could blame were his uncle Jonathan and his own lawyers, who, at his uncle's death, had failed to discover on his behalf what really were his rights. Walter Mackenzie had been a poor creature who could do nothing. Tom Mackenzie had been a mean creature who had allowed himself to be cozened in a petty trade out of the money which he had wrongfully acquired. They were odious to him, and he hated their memories. He would fain have hated all that belonged to them, had he been able. But he was not able to hate this woman who clung to him, and trusted him, and felt no harsh feelings towards him, though he was going to take from her everything that had been hers. She trusted him for advice even though he was her adversary! Would he have trusted her or any other human being under such circumstances? No, by heavens! But not the less on that account did he acknowledge to himself that this confidence in her was very gracious.

That evening passed by very quietly as far as Miss Mackenzie was concerned. She had some time since, immediately on her last arrival at the Cedars, offered to relieve her aunt from the trouble of making tea, and the duty had then been given up to her. But since Lady Ball's affair in obtaining possession of her niece's secret, the post of honour had been taken away.

"You don't make it as your uncle likes it," Lady Ball had said.

She made her little offer again on this evening, but it was rejected.

"Thank you, no; I believe I had better do it myself," had been the answer.

"Why can't you let Margaret make tea? I'm sure she does it very well," said John.

"I don't see that you can be a judge, seeing that you take none," his mother replied; "and if you please, I'd rather make the tea in my own house as long as I can."

This little allusion to her own house was, no doubt, a blow at her son, to punish him in that he had dictated to her in that matter of the continued entertainment of her guest; but Margaret also felt it to be a blow at her, and resolved that she would escape from the house with as little further delay as might be possible. Beyond this, the evening was very quiet, till Margaret, a little after tea, took her candle and went off wearily to her room.

But then the business of the day as regarded the Cedars began; for John Ball, before he went to bed, told both his father and his mother the whole story,—the story, that is, as far as the money was concerned, and also as far as Margaret's conduct to him was concerned; but of his own feelings towards her he said nothing.

"She has behaved admirably, mother," he said; "you must acknowledge that, and I think that she is entitled to all the kindness we can show her."

"I have been kind to her," Lady Ball answered.

This had taken place in Lady Ball's own room, after they had left Sir John. The tidings had taken the old man so much by surprise, that he had said little or nothing. Even his caustic ill-nature had deserted him, except on one occasion, when he remarked that it was like his brother Jonathan to do as much harm with his money as was within his reach.

"My memory in such a matter is worth nothing,—absolutely nothing," the old man had said. "I always supposed something was wrong. I remember that. But I left it all to the lawyers."

In Lady Ball's room the conversation was prolonged to a late hour of the night, and took various twists and turns, as such conversations will do.

"What are we to do about the young woman?" That was Lady Ball's main question, arising, no doubt, from the reflection that the world would lean very heavily on them if they absolutely turned her out to starve in the streets.

John Ball made no proposition in answer to this, having not as yet made up his mind as to what his own wishes were with reference to the young woman. Then his mother made her proposition.

"Of course that money due by the Rubbs must be paid. Let her take that." But her son made no reply to this other than that he feared the Rubbs were not in a condition to pay the money.

"They would pay her the interest at any rate," said Lady Ball, "till she had got into some other way of life. She would do admirably for a companion to an old lady, because her manners are good, and she does not want much waiting upon herself."

On the next morning Miss Mackenzie trembled in her shoes as she came down to breakfast. Her uncle, whom she feared the most, would not be there; but the meeting with her aunt, when her aunt would know that she was a pauper and that she had for the last week been an impostor, was terrible to her by anticipation. But she had not calculated that her aunt's triumph in this newly-acquired wealth for the Ball family would, for the present, cover any other feeling that might exist. Her aunt met her with a gracious smile, was very urbane in selecting a chair for her at prayers close to her own, and pressed upon her a piece of buttered toast out of a little dish that was always prepared for her ladyship's own consumption. After breakfast John Ball again went to town. He went daily to town during the present crisis; and, on this occasion, his mother made no remark as to the urgency of his business. When he was gone Lady Ball began to potter about the house, after her daily custom, and was longer in her pottering than was usual with her. Miss Mackenzie helped the younger children in their lessons, as she often did; and when time for luncheon came, she had almost begun to think that she was to be allowed to escape any conversation with her aunt touching the great money question. But it was not so. At one she was told that luncheon and the children's dinner was postponed till two, and she was asked by the servant to go up to Lady Ball in her own room.

"Come and sit down, my dear," said Lady Ball, in her sweetest voice. "It has got to be very cold, and you had better come near the fire." Margaret did as she was bidden, and sat herself down in the chair immediately opposite to her aunt.

"This is a wonderful story that John has told me," continued her aunt—"very wonderful."

"It is sad enough for me," said Margaret, who did not feel inclined to be so self-forgetful in talking to her aunt as she had been with her cousin.

"It is sad for you, Margaret, no doubt. But I am sure you have within you that conscientious rectitude of purpose that you would not wish to keep anything for yourself that in truth belongs to another."

To this Margaret answered nothing, and her aunt went on.

"It is a great change to you, no doubt; and, of course, that is the point on which I wish to speak to you most especially. I have told John that something must be done for you."

This jarred terribly on poor Margaret's feelings. Her cousin had said nothing, not a word as to doing anything for her. The man who had told her of his love, and asked her to be his wife, not twelve months since,—who had pressed her to be of all women the dearest to him and the nearest,—had talked to her of her ruin without offering her aid, although this ruin to her would enrich him very greatly. She had expected nothing from him, had wanted nothing from him; but by degrees, when absent from him, the feeling had grown upon her that he had been hard to her in abstaining from expressions of commiseration. She had yielded to him in the whole affair, assuring him that nothing should be done by her to cause him trouble; and she would have been grateful to him if in return he had said something to her of her future mode of life. She had intended to speak to him about the hospital; but she had thought that she might abstain from doing so till he himself should ask some question as to her plans. He had asked no such question, and she was now almost determined to go away without troubling him on the subject. But if he, who had once professed to love her, would make no suggestion as to her future life, she could ill bear that any offer of the kind should come from her aunt, who, as she knew, had only regarded her for her money.

"I would rather," she replied, "that nothing should be said to him on the subject."

"And why not, Margaret?"

"I desire that I may be no burden to him or anybody. I will go away and earn my bread; and even if I cannot do that, my relations shall not be troubled by hearing from me."

She said this without sobbing, but not without that almost hysterical emotion which indicates that tears are being suppressed with pain.

"That is false pride, my dear."

"Very well, aunt. I daresay it is false; but it is my pride. I may be allowed to keep my pride, though I can keep nothing else."

"What you say about earning your bread is very proper; and I and John and your uncle also have been thinking of that. But I should be glad if some additional assistance should be provided for you, in the event of old age, you know, or illness. Now, as to earning your bread, I remarked to John that you were peculiarly qualified for being a lady's companion."

"For being what, aunt?"

"For being companion to some lady in the decline of life, who would want to have some nice mannered person always with her. You have the advantage of being ladylike and gentle, and I think that you are patient by disposition."

"Aunt," said Miss Mackenzie, and her voice as she spoke was hardly gentle, nor was it indicative of much patience. Her hysterics also seemed for the time to have given way to her strong passionate feeling. "Aunt," she said, "I would sooner take a broom in my hand, and sweep a crossing in London, than lead such a life as that. What! make myself the slave of some old woman, who would think that she had bought the power of tyrannising over me by allowing me to sit in the same room with her? No, indeed! It may very likely be the case that I may have to serve such a one in the kitchen, but it shall be in the kitchen, and not in the drawing-room. I have not had much experience in life, but I have had enough to learn that lesson!"

Lady Ball, who during the first part of the conversation had been unrolling and winding a great ball of worsted, now sat perfectly still, holding the ball in her lap, and staring at her niece. She was a quick-witted woman, and it no doubt occurred to her that the great objection to living with an old lady, which her niece had expressed so passionately, must have come from the trial of that sort of life which she had had at the Cedars. And there was enough in Miss Mackenzie's manner to justify Lady Ball in thinking that some such expression of feeling as this had been intended by her. She had never before heard Margaret speak out so freely, even in the days of her undoubted heiress-ship; and now, though she greatly disliked her niece, she could not avoid mingling something of respect and something almost amounting to fear with her dislike. She did not dare to go on unwinding her worsted, and giving the advantage of her condescension to a young woman who spoke out at her in that way.

"I thought I was advising you for the best," she said, "and I hoped that you would have been thankful."

"I don't know what may be for the best," said Margaret, again bordering upon the hysterical in the tremulousness of her voice, "but that I'm sure would be for the worst. However, I've made up my mind to nothing as yet."

"No, my dear; of course not; but we all must think of it, you know."

Her cousin John had not thought of it, and she did not want any one else to do so. She especially did not want her aunt to think of it. But it was no doubt necessary that her aunt should consider how long she would be required to provide a home for her impoverished niece, and Margaret's mind at once applied itself to that view of the subject. "I have made up my mind that I will go to London next week, and then I must settle upon something."

"You mean when you go to Mr Slow's?"

"I mean that I shall go for good. I have a little money by me, which John says I may use, and I shall take a lodging till—till—till—" Then she could not go on any further.

"You can stay here, Margaret, if you please;—that is till something more is settled about all this affair."

"I will go on Monday, aunt. I have made up my mind to that." It was now Saturday. "I will go on Monday. It will be better for all parties that I should be away." Then she got up, and waiting no further speech from her aunt, took herself off to her own room.

She did not see her aunt again till dinner-time, and then neither of them spoke to each other. Lady Ball thought that she had reason to be offended, and Margaret would not be the first to speak. In the evening, before the whole family, she told her cousin that she had made up her mind to go up to London on Monday. He begged her to reconsider her resolution, but when she persisted that she would do so, he did not then argue the question any further. But on the Sunday he implored her not to go as yet, and did obtain her consent to postpone her departure till Tuesday. He wished, he said, to be at any rate one day more in London before she went. On the Sunday she was closeted with her uncle who also sent for her, and to him she suggested her plan of becoming nurse at a hospital. He remarked that he hoped that would not be necessary.

"Something will be necessary," she said, "as I don't mean to eat anybody's bread but my own."

In answer to this he said that he would speak to John, and then that interview was over. On the Monday morning John Ball said something respecting Margaret to his mother which acerbated that lady more than ever against her niece. He had not proposed that anything special should be done; but he had hinted, when his mother complained of Margaret, that Margaret's conduct was everything that it ought to be.

"I believe you would take anybody's part against me," Lady Ball had said, and then as a matter of course she had been very cross. The whole of that day was terrible to Miss Mackenzie, and she resolved that nothing said by her cousin should induce her to postpone her departure for another day.

In order to insure this by a few minutes' private conversation with him, and also with the view of escaping for some short time from the house, she walked down to the station in the evening to meet her cousin. The train by which he arrived reached Twickenham at five o'clock, and the walk occupied about twenty minutes. She met him just as he was coming out of the station gate, and at once told him that she had come there for the sake of walking back with him and talking to him. He thanked her, and said that he was very glad to meet her. He also wanted to speak to her very particularly. Would she take his arm?

She took his arm, and then began with a quick tremulous voice to tell him of her sufferings at the house. She threw no blame on her aunt that she could avoid, but declared it to be natural that under such circumstances as those now existing her prolonged sojourn at her aunt's house should be unpleasant to both of them. In answer to all this, John Ball said nothing, but once or twice lifted up his left hand so as to establish Margaret's arm more firmly on his own. She hardly noticed the motion, but yet she was aware that it was intended for kindness, and then she broke forth with a rapid voice as to her plan about the hospital. "I think we can manage better than that, at any rate," said he, stopping her in the path when this proposal met his ear. But she went on to declare that she would like it, that she was strong and qualified for such work, that it would satisfy her aspirations, and be fit for her. And then, after that, she declared that nothing should induce her to undertake the kind of life that had been suggested by her aunt. "I quite agree with you there," said he; "quite. I hate tabbies as much as you do."

They had now come to a little gate, of which John Ball kept a key, and which led into the grounds belonging to the Cedars. The grounds were rather large, and the path through them extended for half a mile, but the land was let off to a grazier. When inside the wall, however, they were private; and Mr Ball, as soon as he had locked the gate behind him, stopped her in the dark path, and took both her hands in his. The gloom of the evening had now come round them, and the thick trees which formed the belt of the place, joined to the high wall, excluded from them nearly all what light remained.

"And now," said he, "I will tell you my plan."

"What plan?" said she; but her voice was very low.

"I proposed it once before, but you would not have it then."

When she heard this, she at once drew both her hands from him, and stood before him in an agony of doubt. Even in the gloom, the trees were going round her, and everything, even her thoughts, were obscure and misty.

"Margaret," said he, "you shall be my wife, and the mother of my children, and I will love you as I loved Rachel before. I loved you when I asked you at Christmas, but I did not love you then as I love you now."

She still stood before him, but answered him not a word. How often since the tidings of her loss had reached her had the idea of such a meeting as this come before her! how often had she seemed to listen to such words as those he now spoke to her! Not that she had expected it, or hoped for it, or even thought of it as being in truth possible; but her imagination had been at work, during the long hours of the night, and the romance of the thing had filled her mind, and the poetry of it had been beautiful to her. She had known—she had told herself that she knew—that no man would so sacrifice himself; certainly no such man as John Ball, with all his children and his weary love of money! But now the poetry had come to be fact, and the romance had turned itself into reality, and the picture formed by her imagination had become a living truth. The very words of which she had dreamed had been spoken to her.

"Shall it be so, my dear?" he said, again taking one of her hands. "You want to be a nurse; will you be my nurse? Nay; I will not ask, but it shall be so. They say that the lovers who demand are ever the most successful. I make my demand. Tell me, Margaret, will you obey me?"

He had walked on now, but in order that his time might be sufficient, he led her away from the house. She was following him, hardly knowing whither she was going.

"Susanna," said he, "shall come and live with the others; one more will make no difference."

"And my aunt?" said Margaret.

It was the first word she had spoken since the gate had been locked behind her, and this word was spoken in a whisper.

"I hope my mother may feel that such a marriage will best conduce to my happiness; but, Margaret, nothing that my mother can say will change me. You and I have known something of each other now. Of you, from the way in which things have gone, I have learned much. Few men, I take it, see so much of their future wives as I have seen of you. If you can love me as your husband, say so at once honestly, and then leave the rest to me."

"I will," she said, again whispering; and then she clung to his hand, and for a minute or two he had his arm round her waist. Then he took her, and kissed her lips, and told her that he would take care of her, and watch for her, and keep her, if possible, from trouble.

Ah, me, how many years had rolled by since last she had been kissed in that way! Once, and once only, had Harry Handcock so far presumed, and so far succeeded. And now, after a dozen years or more, that game had begun again with her! She had boxed Harry Handcock's ears when he had kissed her; but now, from her lover of to-day, she submitted to the ceremony very tamely.

"Oh, John," she said, "how am I to thank you?" But the thanks were tendered for the promise of his care, and not for the kiss.

I think there was but little more said between them before they reached the door-step. When there, Mr Ball, speaking already with something of marital authority, gave her his instructions.

"I shall tell my mother this evening," he said, "as I hate mysteries; and I shall tell my father also. Of course there may be something disagreeable said before we all shake down happily in our places, but I shall look to you, Margaret, to be firm."

"I shall be firm," she said, "if you are."

"I shall be firm," was the reply; and then they went into the house.



CHAPTER XXI

Mr Maguire Goes to London on Business

Mr Maguire made up his mind to go to London, to look after his lady-love, but when he found himself there he did not quite know what to do. It is often the case with us that we make up our minds for great action,—that in some special crisis of our lives we resolve that something must be done, and that we make an energetic start; but we find very soon that we do not know how to go on doing anything. It was so with Mr Maguire. When he had secured a bed at a small public house near the Great Western railway station,—thinking, no doubt that he would go to the great hotel on his next coming to town, should he then have obtained the lady's fortune,—he scarcely knew what step he would next take. Margaret's last letter had been written to him from the Cedars, but he thought it probable that she might only have gone there for a day or two. He knew the address of the house in Gower Street, and at last resolved that he would go boldly in among the enemy there; for he was assured that the family of the lady's late brother were his special enemies in this case. It was considerably past noon when he reached London, and it was about three when, with a hesitating hand, but a loud knock, he presented himself at Mrs Mackenzie's door.

He first asked for Miss Mackenzie, and was told that she was not staying there. Was he thereupon to leave his card and go away? He had told himself that in this pursuit of the heiress he would probably be called upon to dare much, and if he did not begin to show some daring at once, how could he respect himself, or trust to himself for future daring? So he boldly asked for Mrs Mackenzie, and was at once shown into the parlour. There sat the widow, in her full lugubrious weeds, there sat Miss Colza, and there sat Mary Jane, and they were all busy hemming, darning, and clipping; turning old sheets into new ones; for now it was more than ever necessary that Mrs Mackenzie should make money at once by taking in lodgers. When Mr Maguire was shown into the room each lady rose from her chair, with her sheet in her hands and in her lap, and then, as he stood before them, at the other side of the table, each lady again sat down.

"A gentleman as is asking for Miss Margaret," the servant had said; that same cook to whom Mr Grandairs had been so severe on the occasion of Mrs Mackenzie's dinner party. The other girl had been unnecessary to them in their poverty, and had left them.

"My name is Maguire, the Rev. Mr Maguire, from Littlebath, where I had the pleasure of knowing Miss Mackenzie."

Then the widow asked him to take a chair, and he took a chair.

"My sister-in-law is not with us at present," said Mrs Mackenzie.

"She is staying for a visit with her aunt, Lady Ball, at the Cedars, Twickenham," said Mary Jane, who had contrived to drop her sheet, and hustle it under the table with her feet, as soon as she learned that the visitor was a clergyman.

"Lady Ball is the lady of Sir John Ball, Baronet," said Miss Colza, whose good nature made her desirous of standing up for the honour of the family with which she was, for the time, domesticated.

"I knew she had been at Lady Ball's," said the clergyman, "as I heard from her from thence; but I thought she had probably returned."

"Oh dear, no," said the widow, "she ain't returned here, nor don't mean. We haven't the room for her, and that's the truth. Have we, Mary Jane?"

"That we have not, mamma; and I don't think aunt Margaret would think of such a thing."

Then, thought Mr Maguire, the Balls must have got hold of the heiress, and not the Mackenzies, and my battle must be fought at the Cedars, and not here. Still, as he was there, he thought possibly he might obtain some further information; and this would be the easier, if, as appeared to be the case, there was enmity between the Gower Street family and their relative.

"Has Miss Mackenzie gone to live permanently at the Cedars?" he asked.

"Not that I know of," said the widow.

"It isn't at all unlikely, mamma, that it may be so, when you consider everything. It's just the sort of way in which they'll most likely get over her."

"Mary Jane, hold your tongue," said her mother; "you shouldn't say things of that sort before strangers."

"Though I may not have the pleasure of knowing you and your amiable family," said Mr Maguire, smiling his sweetest, "I am by no means a stranger to Miss Mackenzie."

Then the ladies all looked at him, and thought they had never seen anything so terrible as that squint.

"Miss Mackenzie is making a long visit at the Cedars," said Miss Colza, "that is all we know at present. I am told the Balls are very nice people, but perhaps a little worldly-minded; that's to be expected, however, from people who live out of the west-end from London. I live in Finsbury Square, or at least, I did before I came here, and I ain't a bit ashamed to own it. But of course the west-end is the nicest."

Then Mr Maguire got up, saying that he should probably do himself the pleasure of calling on Miss Mackenzie at the Cedars, and went his way.

"I wonder what he's after," said Mrs Mackenzie, as soon as the door was shut.

"Perhaps he came to tell her to bear it all with Christian resignation," said Miss Colza; "they always do come when anything's in the wind like that; they like to know everything before anybody else."

"It's my belief he's after her money," said Mrs Mackenzie.

"With such a squint as that!" said Mary Jane; "I wouldn't have him though he was made of money, and I hadn't a farthing."

"Beauty is but skin deep," said Miss Colza.

"And it's manners to wait till you are asked," said Mrs Mackenzie.

Mary Jane chucked up her head with disdain, thereby indicating that though she had not been asked, and though beauty is but skin deep, still she held the same opinion.

Mr Maguire, as he went away to a clerical advertising office in the neighbourhood of Exeter Hall, thought over the matter profoundly. It was clear enough to him that the Mackenzies of Gower Street were not interfering with him; very probably they might have hoped and attempted to keep the heiress among them; that assertion that there was no room for her in the house—as though they were and ever had been averse to having her with them—seemed to imply that such was the case. It was the natural language of a disappointed woman. But if so, that hope was now over with them. And then the young lady had plainly exposed the suspicions which they all entertained as to the Balls. These grand people at the Cedars, this baronet's family at Twickenham, must have got her to come among them with the intention of keeping her there. It did not occur to him that the baronet or the baronet's son would actually want Miss Mackenzie's money. He presumed baronets to be rich people; but still they might very probably be as dogs in the manger, and desirous of preventing their relative from doing with her money that active service to humanity in general which would be done were she to marry a deserving clergyman who had nothing of his own.

He made his visit to the advertising office, and learned that clergymen without cures were at present drugs in the market. He couldn't understand how this should be the case, seeing that the newspapers were constantly declaring that the supply of university clergymen were becoming less and less every day. He had come from Trinity, Dublin and after the success of his career at Littlebath, was astonished that he should not be snapped at by the retailers of curacies.

On the next day he visited Twickenham. Now, on the morning of that very day Margaret Mackenzie first woke to the consciousness that she was the promised wife of her cousin John Ball. There was great comfort in the thought.

It was not only, nor even chiefly, that she who, on the preceding morning, had awakened to the remembrance of her utter destitution, now felt that all those terrible troubles were over. It was not simply that her great care had been vanquished for her. It was this, that the man who had a second time come to her asking for her love, had now given her all-sufficient evidence that he did so for the sake of her love. He, who was so anxious for money, had shown her that he could care for her more even than he cared for gold. As she thought of this, and made herself happy in the thought, she would not rise at once from her bed, but curled herself in the clothes and hugged herself in her joy.

"I should have taken him before, at once, instantly, if I could have thought that it was so," she said to herself; "but this is a thousand times better."

Then she found that the pillow beneath her cheek was wet with her tears.

On the preceding evening she had been very silent and demure, and her betrothed had also been silent. There had been no words about the tea-making, and Lady Ball had been silent also. As far as she knew, Margaret was to go on the following day, but she would say nothing on the subject. Margaret, indeed, had commenced her packing, and did not know when she went to bed whether she was to go or not. She rather hoped that she might be allowed to go, as her aunt would doubtless be disagreeable; but in that, and in all matters now, she would of course be guided implicitly by Mr Ball. He had told her to be firm, and of her own firmness she had no doubt whatever. Lady Ball, with all her anger, or with all her eloquence, should not talk her out of her husband. She could be firm, and she had no doubt that John Ball could be firm also.

Nevertheless, when she was dressing, she did not fail to tell herself that she might have a bad time of it that morning,—and a bad time of it for some days to come, if it was John's intention that she should remain at the Cedars. She was convinced that Lady Ball would not welcome her as a daughter-in-law now as she would have done when the property was thought to belong to her. What right had she to expect such welcome? No doubt some hard things would be said to her; but she knew her own courage, and was sure that she could bear any hard things with such a hope within her breast as that which she now possessed. She left her room a little earlier than usual, thinking that she might thus meet her cousin and receive his orders. And in this she was not disappointed; he was in the hall as she came down, and she was able to smile on him, and press his hand, and make her morning greetings to him with some tenderness in her voice. He looked heavy about the face, and almost more careworn than usual, but he took her hand and led her into the breakfast-room.

"Did you tell your mother, John?" she said, standing very close to him, almost leaning upon his shoulder.

He, however, did not probably want such signs of love as this, and moved a step away from her.

"Yes," said he, "I told both my father and my mother. What she says to you, you must hear, and bear it quietly for my sake."

"I will," said Margaret.

"I think that she is unreasonable, but still she is my mother."

"I shall always remember that, John."

"And she is old, and things have not always gone well with her. She says, too, that you have been impertinent to her."

Margaret's face became very red at this charge, but she made no immediate reply.

"I don't think you could mean to be impertinent."

"Certainly not, John; but, of course, I shall feel myself much more bound to her now than I was before."

"Yes, of course; but I wish that nothing had occurred to make her so angry with you."

"I don't think that I was impertinent, John, though perhaps it might seem so. When she was talking about my being a companion to a lady, I perhaps answered her sharply. I was so determined that I wouldn't lead that sort of life, that, perhaps I said more than I should have done. You know, John, that it hasn't been quite pleasant between us for the last few days."

John did know this, and he knew also that there was not much probability of pleasantness for some days to come. His mother's last words to him on the preceding evening, as he was leaving her after having told his story, did not give much promise of pleasantness for Margaret. "John," she had said, "nothing on earth shall induce me to live in the same house with Margaret Mackenzie as your wife. If you choose to break up everything for her sake, you can do it. I cannot control you. But remember, it will be your doing."

Margaret then asked him what she was to do, and where she was to live. She would fain have asked him when they were to be married, but she did not dare to make inquiry on that point. He told her that, for the present, she must remain at the Cedars. If she went away it would be regarded as an open quarrel, and moreover, he did not wish that she should live by herself in London lodgings. "We shall be able to see how things go for a day or two," he said. To this she submitted without a murmur, and then Lady Ball came into the room.

They were both very nervous in watching her first behaviour, but were not at all prepared for the line of conduct which she adopted. John Ball and Margaret had separated when they heard the rustle of her dress. He had made a step towards the window, and she had retreated to the other side of the fire-place. Lady Ball, on entering the room, had been nearest to Margaret, but she walked round the table away from her usual place for prayers, and accosted her son.

"Good-morning, John," she said, giving him her hand.

Margaret waited a second or two, and then addressed her aunt.

"Good-morning, aunt," she said, stepping half across the rug.

But her aunt, turning her back to her, moved into the embrasure of the window. It had been decided that there was to be an absolute cut between them! As long as she remained in that house Lady Ball would not speak to her. John said nothing, but a black frown came upon his brow. Poor Margaret retired, rebuked, to her corner by the chimney. Just at that moment the girls and children rushed in from the study, with the daily governess who came every morning, and Sir John rang for the servants to come to prayers.

I wonder whether that old lady's heart was at all softened as she prayed? whether it ever occurred to her to think that there was any meaning in that form of words she used, when she asked her God to forgive her as she might forgive others? Not that Margaret had in truth trespassed against her at all; but, doubtless, she regarded her niece as a black trespasser, and as being quite qualified for forgiveness, could she have brought herself to forgive. But I fear that the form of words on that occasion meant nothing, and that she had been delivered from no evil during those moments she had been on her knees. Margaret sat down in her accustomed place, but no notice was taken of her by her aunt. When the tea had been poured out, John got up from his seat and asked his mother which was Margaret's cup.

"My dear," said she, "if you will sit down, Miss Mackenzie shall have her tea."

"I will take it to her," said he.

"John," said his mother, drawing her chair somewhat away from the table, "if you flurry me in this way, you will drive me out of the room."

Then he had sat down, and Margaret received her cup in the usual way. The girls and children stared at each other, and the governess, who always breakfasted at the house, did not dare to lift her eyes from off her plate.

Margaret longed for an opportunity of starting with John Ball, and walking with him to the station, but no such opportunity came in her way. It was his custom always to go up to his father before he left home, and on this occasion Margaret did not see him after he quitted the breakfast table. When the clatter of the knives and cups was over, and the eating and drinking was at an end, Lady Ball left the room and Margaret began to think what she would do. She could not remain about the house in her aunt's way, without being spoken to, or speaking. So she went to her room, resolving that she would not leave it till the carriage had taken off Sir John and her aunt. Then she would go out for a walk, and would again meet her cousin at the station.

From her bedroom window she could see the sweep before the front of the house, and at two o'clock she saw and heard the lumbering of the carriage as it came to the door, and then she put on her hat to be ready for her walk; but her uncle and aunt did not, as it seemed, come out, and the carriage remained there as a fixture. This had been the case for some twenty minutes, when there came a knock at her own door, and the maid-servant told her that her aunt wished to see her in the drawing-room.

"To see me?" said Margaret, thoroughly surprised, and not a little dismayed.

"Yes, Miss; and there's a gentleman there who asked for you when he first come."

Now, indeed, she was dismayed. Who could be the gentleman? Was it Mr Slow, or a myrmidon from Mr Slow's legal abode? Or was it Mr Rubb with his yellow gloves again? Whoever it was there must be something very special in his mission, as her aunt had, in consequence, deferred her drive, and was also apparently about to drop her purpose of cutting her niece's acquaintance in her own house.

But we will go back to Mr Maguire. He had passed the evening and the morning in thinking over the method of his attack, and had at last resolved that he would be very bold. He would go down to the Cedars, and claim Margaret as his affianced bride. He went, therefore, down to the Cedars, and in accordance with his plan as arranged, he gave his card to the servant, and asked if he could see Sir John Ball alone. Now, Sir John Ball never saw any one on business, or, indeed, not on business; and, after a while, word was brought out to Mr Maguire that he could see Lady Ball, but that Sir John was not well enough to receive any visitors. Lady Ball, Mr Maguire thought, would suit him better than Sir John. He signified his will accordingly, and on being shown into the drawing-room, found her ladyship there alone.

It must be acknowledged that he was a brave man, and that he was doing a bold thing. He knew that he should find himself among enemies, and that his claim would be ignored and ridiculed by the persons whom he was about to attack; he knew that everybody, on first seeing him, was affrighted and somewhat horrified; he knew too,—at least, we must presume that he knew,—that the lady herself had given him no promise. But he thought it possible, nay, almost probable, that she would turn to him if she saw him again; that she might own him as her own; that her feelings might be strong enough in his favour to induce her to throw off the thraldom of her relatives, and that he might make good his ground in her breast, even if he could not bear her away in triumph out of the hands of his enemies.

When he entered the room Lady Ball looked at him and shuddered. People always did shudder when they saw him for the first time.

"Lady Ball," said he, "I am the Rev. Mr Maguire, of Littlebath."

She was holding his card in her hand, and having notified to him that she was aware of the fact he had mentioned, asked him to sit down.

"I have called," said he, taking his seat, "hoping to be allowed to speak to you on a subject of extreme delicacy."

"Indeed," said Lady Ball, thinking to catch his eye, and failing in the effort.

"I may say of very extreme delicacy. I believe your niece, Miss Margaret Mackenzie, is staying here?" In answer to this, Lady Ball acknowledged that Miss Mackenzie was now at the Cedars.

"Have you any objection, Lady Ball, to allowing me to see her in your presence?"

Lady Ball was a quick-thinking, intelligent, and, at the same time, prudent old lady, and she gave no answer to this before she had considered the import of the question. Why should this clergyman want to see Margaret? And would his seeing her conduce most to her own success, or to Margaret's? Then there was the fact that Margaret was of an age which entitled her to the right of seeing any visitor who might call on her. Thinking over all this as best she could in the few moments at her command, and thinking also of this clergyman's stipulation that she was to be present at the interview, she said that she had no objection whatever. She would send for Miss Mackenzie.

She rose to ring the bell, but Mr Maguire, also rising from his chair, stopped her hand.

"Pardon me for a moment," said he. "Before you call Margaret to come down I would wish to explain to you for what purpose I have come here."

Lady Ball, when she heard the man call her niece by her Christian name, listened with all her ears. Under no circumstances but one could such a man call such a woman by her Christian name in such company.

"Lady Ball," he said, "I do not know whether you may be aware of it or no, but I am engaged to marry your niece."

Lady Ball, who had not yet resumed her seat, now did so.

"I had not heard of it," she said.

"It may be so," said Mr Maguire.

"It is so," said Lady Ball.

"Very probably. There are many reasons which operate upon young ladies in such a condition to keep their secret even from their nearest relatives. For myself, being a clergyman of the Church of England, professing evangelical doctrines, and therefore, as I had need not say, averse to everything that may have about it even a seeming of impropriety, I think it best to declare the fact to you, even though in doing so I may perhaps give some offence to dear Margaret."

It must, I think, be acknowledged that Mr Maguire was true to himself, and that he was conducting his case at any rate with courage.

Lady Ball was doubtful what she would do. It was on her tongue to tell the man that her niece's fortune was gone. But she remembered that she might probably advance her own interests by securing an interview between the two lovers of Littlebath in her own presence. She never for a moment doubted that Mr Maguire's statement was true. It never occurred to her that there had been no such engagement. She felt confident from the moment in which Mr Maguire's important tidings had reached her ears that she had now in her hands the means of rescuing her son. That Mr Maguire would cease to make his demand for his bride when he should hear the truth, was of course to be expected; but her son would not be such an idiot, such a soft fool, as to go on with his purpose when he should learn that such a secret as this had been kept back from him. She had refused him, and taken up with this horrid, greasy, evil-eyed parson when she was rich; and then, when she was poor,—even before she had got rid of her other engagement, she had come back upon him, and, playing upon his pity, had secured him in her toils. Lady Ball felt well inclined to thank the clergyman for coming to her relief at such a moment.

"It will be best that I should ask my niece to come down to you," said she, getting up and walking out of the room.

But she did not go up to her niece. She first went to Sir John and quieted his impatience with reference to the driving, and then, after a few minutes' further delay for consideration, she sent the servant up to her niece. Having done this she returned to the drawing-room, and found Mr Maguire looking at the photographs on the table.

"It is very like dear Margaret, very like her, indeed," said he, looking at one of Miss Mackenzie. "The sweetest face that ever my eyes rested on! May I ask you if you have just seen your niece, Lady Ball?"

"No, sir, I have not seen her; but I have sent for her."

There was still some little delay before Margaret came down. She was much fluttered, and wanted time to think, if only time could be allowed to her. Perhaps there had come a man to say that her money was not gone. If so, with what delight would she give it all to her cousin John! That was her first thought. But if so, how then about the promise made to her dying brother? She almost wished that the money might not be hers. Looking to herself only, and to her own happiness, it would certainly be better for her that it should not be hers. And if it should be Mr Rubb with the yellow gloves! But before she could consider that alternative she had opened the door, and there was Mr Maguire standing ready to receive her.

"Dearest Margaret!" he exclaimed. "My own love!" And there he stood, with his arms open, as though he expected Miss Mackenzie to rush into them. He was certainly a man of very great courage.

"Mr Maguire!" said she, and she stood still near the door. Then she looked at her aunt, and saw that Lady Ball's eyes were keenly fixed upon her. Something like the truth, some approximation to the facts as they were, flashed upon her in a moment, and she knew that she had to bear herself in this difficulty with all her discretion and all her fortitude.

"Margaret," exclaimed Mr Maguire, "will you not come to me?"

"What do you mean, Mr Maguire?" said she, still standing aloof from him, and retreating somewhat nearer to the door.

"The gentleman says that you are engaged to marry him," said Lady Ball.

Margaret, looking again into her aunt's face, saw the smile of triumph that sat there, and resolved at once to make good her ground.

"If he has said that, he has told an untruth,—an untruth both unmanly and unmannerly. You hear, sir, what Lady Ball has stated. Is it true that you have made such an assertion?"

"And will you contradict it, Margaret? Oh, Margaret! Margaret! you cannot contradict it."

The reader must remember that this clergyman no doubt thought and felt that he had a good deal of truth on his side. Gentlemen when they make offers to ladies, and are told by ladies that they may come again, and that time is required for consideration, are always disposed to think that the difficulties of the siege are over. And in nine cases out of ten it is so. Mr Maguire, no doubt, since the interview in question, had received letters from the lady which should at any rate have prevented him from uttering any such assertion as that which he had now made; but he looked upon those letters as the work of the enemy, and chose to go back for his authority to the last words which Margaret had spoken to him. He knew that he was playing an intricate game,—that all was not quite on the square; but he thought that the enemy was playing him false, and that falsehood in return was therefore fair. This that was going on was a robbery of the Church, a spoiling of Israel, a touching with profane hands of things that had already been made sacred.

"But I do contradict it," said Margaret, stepping forward into the room, and almost exciting admiration in Lady Ball's breast by her demeanour. "Aunt," said she, "as this gentleman has chosen to come here with such a story as this, I must tell you all the facts."

"Has he ever been engaged to you?" asked Lady Ball.

"Never."

"Oh, Margaret!" again exclaimed Mr Maguire.

"Sir, I will ask you to let me tell my aunt the truth. When I was at Littlebath, before I knew that my fortune was not my own,"—as she said this she looked hard into Mr Maguire's face—"before I had become penniless, as I am now,"—then she paused again, and still looking at him, saw with inward pleasure the elongation of her suitor's face, "this gentleman asked me to marry him."

"He did ask you?" said Lady Ball.

"Of course I asked her," urged Mr Maguire. "There can be no denying that on either side."

He did not now quite know what to do. He certainly did not wish to impoverish the Church by marrying Miss Mackenzie without any fortune. But might it not all be a trick? That she had been rich he knew, and how could she have become poor so quickly?

"He did ask me, and I told him that I must take a fortnight to consider of it."

"You did not refuse him, then?" said Lady Ball.

"Not then, but I have done so since by letter. Twice I have written to him, telling him that I had nothing of my own, and that there could be nothing between us."

"I got her letters," said Mr Maguire, turning round to Lady Ball. "I certainly got her letters. But such letters as those, if they are written under dictation—"

He was rather anxious that Lady Bell should quarrel with him. In the programme which he had made for himself when he came to the house, a quarrel to the knife with the Ball family was a part of his tactics. His programme, no doubt, was disturbed by the course which events had taken, but still a quarrel with Lady Ball might be the best for him. If she were to quarrel with him, it would give him some evidence that this story about the loss of the money was untrue. But Lady Ball would not quarrel with him. She sat still and said nothing. "Nobody dictated them," said Margaret. "But now you are here, I will tell you the facts. The money which I thought was mine, in truth belongs to my cousin, Mr John Ball, and I—"

So far she spoke loudly, With her face raised, and her eyes fixed upon him. Then as she concluded, she dropped her voice and eyes together. "And I am now engaged to him as his wife."

"Oh, indeed!" said Mr Maguire.

"That statement must be taken for what it is worth," said Lady Ball, rising from her seat. "Of what Miss Mackenzie says now, I know nothing. I sincerely hope that she may find that she is mistaken."

"And now, Margaret," said Mr Maguire, "may I ask to see you for one minute alone?"

"Certainly not," said she. "If you have anything more to say I will hear it in my aunt's presence." She waited a few moments, but as he did not speak, she took herself back to the door and made her escape to her own room.

How Mr Maguire took himself out of the house we need not stop to inquire. There must, I should think, have been some difficulty in the manoeuvre. It was considerably past three when Sir John was taken out for his drive, and while he was in the carriage his wife told him what had occurred.



CHAPTER XXII

Still at the Cedars

Margaret, when she had reached her own room, and seated herself so that she could consider all that had occurred in quietness, immediately knew her own difficulty. Of course Lady Ball would give her account of what had occurred to her son, and of course John would be angry when he learned that there had been any purpose of marriage between her and Mr Maguire. She herself took a different view of the matter now than that which had hitherto presented itself. She had not thought much of Mr Maguire or his proposal. It had been made under a state of things differing much from that now existing, and the change that had come upon her affairs had seemed to her to annul the offer. She had learned to regard it almost as though it had never been. There had been no engagement; there had hardly been a purpose in her own mind; and the moment had never come in which she could have spoken of it to her cousin with propriety.

That last, in truth, was her valid excuse for not having told him the whole story. She had hardly been with him long enough to do more than accept the offer he had himself made. Of course she would have told him of Mr Maguire,—of Mr Maguire and of Mr Rubb also, when first an opportunity might come for her to do so. She had no desire to keep from his knowledge any tittle of what had occurred. There had been nothing of which she was ashamed. But not the less did she feel that it would have been well for her that she should have told her own story before that horrid man had come to the Cedars. The story would now first be told to him by her aunt, and she knew well the tone in which it would be told.

It occurred to her that she might even yet go and meet him at the station. But if so, she must tell him at once, and he would know that she had done so because she was afraid of her aunt, and she disliked the idea of excusing herself before she was accused. If he really loved her, he would listen to her, and believe her. If he did not—why then let Lady Ball have her own way. She had promised to be firm, and she would keep her promise; but she would not intrigue with the hope of making him firm. If he was infirm of purpose, let him go. So she sat in her room, even when she heard the door close after his entrance, and did not go down till it was time for her to show herself in the drawing-room before dinner. When she entered the room was full. He nodded at her with a pleasant smile, and she made up her mind that he had heard nothing as yet. Her uncle had excused himself from coming to table, and her aunt and John were talking together in apparent eagerness about him. For one moment her cousin spoke to her before dinner.

"I am afraid," he said, "that my father is sinking fast."

Then she felt quite sure that he had as yet heard nothing about Mr Maguire.

But it was late in the evening, when other people had gone to bed, that Lady Ball was in the habit of discussing family affairs with her son, and doubtless she would do so to-night. Margaret, before she went up to her room, strove hard to get from him a few words of kindness, but it seemed as though he was not thinking of her.

"He is full of his father," she said to herself.

When her bed-candle was in her hand she did make an opportunity to speak to him.

"Has Mr Slow settled anything more as yet?" she asked.

"Well, yes. Not that he has settled anything, but he has made a proposition to which I am willing to agree. I don't go up to town to-morrow, and we will talk it over. If you will agree to it, all the money difficulties will be settled."

"I will agree to anything that you tell me is right."

"I will explain it all to you to-morrow; and, Margaret, I have told Mr Slow what are my intentions,—our intentions, I ought to say." She smiled at him with that sweet smile of hers, as though she thanked him for speaking of himself and her together, and then she took herself away. Surely, after speaking to her in that way, he would not allow any words from his mother to dissuade him from his purpose?

She could not go to bed. She knew that her fate was being discussed, and she knew that her aunt at that very time was using every argument in her power to ruin her. She felt, moreover, that the story might be told in such a way as to be terribly prejudicial to her. And now, when his father was so ill, might it not be very natural that he should do almost anything to lessen his mother's troubles? But to her it would be absolute ruin; such ruin that nothing which she had yet endured would be in any way like it. The story of the loss of her money had stunned her, but it had not broken her spirit. Her misery from that had arisen chiefly from the wants of her brother's family. But if he were now to tell her that all must be over between them, her very heart would be broken.

She could not go to bed while this was going on, so she sat listening, till she should hear the noise of feet about the house. Silently she loosened the lock of her own door, so that the sound might more certainly come to her, and she sat thinking what she might best do. It had not been quite eleven when she came upstairs, and at twelve she did not hear anything. And yet she was almost sure that they must be still together in that small room downstairs, talking of her and of her conduct. It was past one before she heard the door of the room open. She heard it so plainly, that she wondered at herself for having supposed for a moment that they could have gone without her noticing them. Then she heard her cousin's heavy step coming upstairs. In passing to his room he would not go actually by her door, but would be very near it. She looked through the chink, having carefully put away her own candle, and could see his face as he came upon the top stair. It wore a look of trouble and of pain, but not, as she thought, of anger. Her aunt, she knew, would go to her room by the back stairs, and would go through the kitchen and over the whole of the lower house, before she would come out on the landing to which Margaret's room opened. Then, seeing her cousin, the idea occurred to her that she would have it all over on that very night. If he had heard that which changed his purpose, why should she be left in suspense? He should tell her at once, and at once she would prepare herself for her future life.

So she opened the door a little way, and called to him.

"John," she said, "is that you?"

She spoke almost in a whisper, but, nevertheless, he heard her very clearly, and at once turned towards her room.

"Come in, John," she said, opening the door wider. "I wish to speak to you. I have been waiting till you should come up."

She had taken off her dress, and had put on in place of it a white dressing-gown; but of this she had not thought till he was already within the room. "I hope you won't mind finding me like this, but I did so want to speak to you to-night."

He, as he looked at her, felt that he had no objection to make to her appearance. If that had been his only trouble concerning her he would have been well satisfied. When he was within the room, she closed the lock of the door very softly, and then began to question him.

"Tell me," she said, "what my aunt has been saying to you about that man that came here to-day."

He did not answer her at once, but stood leaning against the bed.

"I know she has been telling you," continued Margaret. "I know she would not let you go to bed without accusing me. Tell me, John, what she has told you."

He was very slow to speak. As he had sat listening to his mother's energetic accusation against the woman he had promised to marry, hearing her bring up argument after argument to prove that Margaret had, in fact, been engaged to that clergyman,—that she had intended to marry that man while she had money, and had not, up to that day, made him fully understand that she would not do so,—he had himself said little or nothing, claiming to himself the use of that night for consideration. The circumstances against Margaret he owned to be very strong. He felt angry with her for having had any lover at Littlebath. It was but the other day, during her winter visit to the Cedars, that he had himself proposed to her, and that she had rejected him. He had now renewed his proposal, and he did not like to think that there had been any one else between his overtures. And he could not deny the strength of his mother's argument when she averred that Mr Maguire would not have come down there unless he had had, as she said, every encouragement. Indeed, throughout the whole affair, Lady Ball believed Mr Maguire, and disbelieved her niece; and something of her belief, and something also of her disbelief, communicated itself to her son. But, still, he reserved to himself the right of postponing his own opinion till the morrow; and as he was coming upstairs, when Margaret saw him through the chink of the door, he was thinking of her smiles, of her graciousness, and her goodness. He was remembering the touch of her hand when they were together in the square, and the feminine sweetness with which she had yielded to him every point regarding her fortune. When he did not speak to her at once, she questioned him again.

"I know she has told you that Mr Maguire has been here, and that she has accused me of deceiving you."

"Yes, Margaret, she has."

"And what have you said in return; or rather, what have you thought?"

He had been leaning, or half sitting, on the bed, and she had placed herself beside him. How was it that she had again taken him by the coat, and again looked up into his face with those soft, trusting eyes? Was it a trick with her? Had she ever taken that other man by the coat in the same way, and smitten him also with the battery of her eyes? The loose sleeve of her dressing-gown had fallen back, and he could see that her arm was round and white, and very fair. Was she conversant with such tricks as these? His mother had called her clever and cunning as a serpent. Was it so? Had his mother seen with eyes clearer than his own, and was he now being surrounded by the meshes of a false woman's web? He moved away from her quickly, and stood upon the hearth-rug with his back to the empty fire grate.