"As for the money," said Mrs Tom, "I expect Mr Rubb to see to that. I suppose he intends to make her Mrs Rubb sooner or later."

Miss Mackenzie, having some kindly feeling towards Mr Rubb, would have preferred to hear that Miss Colza was likely to become Mrs Maguire. During these visits, Mrs Tom got more than one five-pound note from her sister-in-law, pleading the difficulty she had in procuring breakfast for lodgers without any money for the baker. Margaret protested against these encroachments, but, still, the money would be forthcoming.

Once, towards the end of February, Mrs Buggins seduced her lodger down into her parlour in the area, and Miss Mackenzie thought she perceived that something of the old servant's manners had returned to her. She was more respectful than she had been of late, and made no attempts at smart, ill-natured speeches.

"It's a weary life, Miss, this you're living here, isn't it?" said she.

Margaret said that it was weary, but that there could be no change till the lawsuit should be settled. It would be settled, she hoped, in April.

"Bother it for a lawsuit," said Mrs Buggins. "They all tells me that it ain't any lawsuit at all, really."

"It's an amicable lawsuit," said Miss Mackenzie.

"I never see such amicableness! 'Tis a wonder to hear, Miss, how everybody is talking about it everywheres. Where we was last night—that is, Buggins and I—most respectable people in the copying line—it isn't only he as does the copying, but she too; nurses the baby, and minds the kitchen fire, and goes on, sheet after sheet, all at the same time; and a very tidy thing they make of it, only they do straggle their words so;—well, they were saying as it's one of the most remarkablest cases as ever was know'd."

"I don't see that I shall be any the better because it's talked about."

"Well, Miss Margaret, I'm not so sure of that. It's my belief that if one only gets talked about enough, one may have a'most anything one chooses to ask for."

"But I don't want to ask for anything."

"But if what we heard last night is all true, there's somebody else that does want to ask for something, or, as has asked, as folks say."

Margaret blushed up to the eyes, and then protested that she did not know what Mrs Buggins meant.

"I never dreamed of it, my dear; indeed, I didn't, when the old lady come here with her tantrums; but now, it's as plain as a pikestaff. If I'd a' known anything about that, my dear, I shouldn't have made so free about Buggins; indeed, I shouldn't."

"You're talking nonsense, Mrs Buggins; indeed, you are."

"They have the whole story all over the town at any rate, and in the lane, and all about the courts; and they declare it don't matter a toss of a halfpenny which way the matter goes, as you're to become Lady Ball the very moment the case is settled."

Miss Mackenzie protested that Mrs Buggins was a stupid woman,—the stupidest woman she had ever heard or seen; and then hurried up into her own room to hug herself in her joy, and teach herself to believe that what so many people said must at last come true.

Three days after this, a very fine, private carriage, with two servants on a hammer cloth, drove up to the door in Arundel Street, and the maid-servant, hurrying upstairs, told Miss Mackenzie that a beautifully-dressed lady downstairs was desirous of seeing her immediately.



CHAPTER XXVI

Mrs Mackenzie of Cavendish Square

"My dear," said the beautifully-dressed lady, "you don't know me, I think;" and the beautifully-dressed lady came up to Miss Mackenzie very cordially, took her by the hand, smiled upon her, and seemed to be a very good-natured person indeed. Margaret told the lady that she did not know her, and at that moment was altogether at a loss to guess who the lady might be. The lady might be forty years of age, but was still handsome, and carried with her that easy, self-assured, well balanced manner, which, if it be not overdone, goes so far to make up for beauty, if beauty itself be wanting.

"I am your cousin, Mrs Mackenzie,—Clara Mackenzie. My husband is Walter Mackenzie, and his father is Sir Walter Mackenzie, of Incharrow. Now you will know all about me."

"Oh, yes, I know you," said Margaret.

"I ought, I suppose, to make ever so many apologies for not coming to you before; but I did call upon you, ever so long ago; I forget when, and after that you went to live at Littlebath. And then we heard of you as being with Lady Ball, and for some reason, which I don't quite understand, it has always been supposed that Lady Ball and I were not to know each other. And now I have heard this wonderful story about your fortune, and about everything else, too, my dear; and it seems all very beautiful, and very romantic; and everybody says that you have behaved so well; and so, to make a long story short, I have come to find you out in your hermitage, and to claim cousinship, and all that sort of thing."

"I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you, Mrs Mackenzie—"

"Don't say it in that way, my dear, or else you'll make me think you mean to turn a cold shoulder on me for not coming to you before."

"Oh, no."

"But we've only just come to town; and though of course I heard the story down in Scotland—"

"Did you?"

"Did I? Why, everybody is talking about it, and the newspapers have been full of it."

"Oh, Mrs Mackenzie, that is so terrible."

"But nobody has said a word against you. Even that stupid clergyman, who calls you the lamb, has not pretended to say that you were his lamb. We had the whole story of the Lion and the Lamb in the Inverary Interpreter, but I had no idea that it was you, then. But the long and the short of it is, that my husband says he must know his cousin; and to tell the truth, it was he that sent me; and we want you to come and stay with us in Cavendish Square till the lawsuit is over, and everything is settled."

Margaret was so startled by the proposition, that she did not know how to answer it. Of course she was at first impressed with a strong idea of the impossibility of her complying with such a request, and was simply anxious to find some proper way of refusing it. The Incharrow Mackenzies were great people who saw much company, and it was, she thought, quite out of the question that she should go to their house. At no time of her career would she have been, as she conceived, fit to live with such grand persons; but at the present moment, when she grudged herself even a new pair of gloves out of the money remaining to her, while she was still looking forward to a future life passed as a nurse in a hospital, she felt that there would be an absolute unfitness in such a visit.

"You are very kind," she said at last with faltering voice, as she meditated in what words she might best convey her refusal.

"No, I'm not a bit kind; and I know from the tone of your voice that you are meditating a refusal. But I don't mean to accept it. It is much better that you should be with us while all this is going on, than that you should be living here alone. And there is no one with whom you could live during this time so properly, as with those who are your nearest relatives."

"But, Mrs Mackenzie—"

"I suppose you are thinking now of another cousin, but it's not at all proper that you should go to his house;—not as yet, you know. And you need not suppose that he'll object because of what I said about Lady Ball and myself. The Capulets and the Montagues don't intend to keep it up for ever; and, though we have never visited Lady Ball, my husband and the present Sir John know each other very well."

Mrs Mackenzie was not on that occasion able to persuade Margaret to come at once to Cavendish Square, and neither was Margaret able to give a final refusal. She did not intend to go, but she could not bring herself to speak a positive answer in such a way as to have much weight with Mrs Mackenzie. That lady left her at last, saying that she would send her husband, and promising Margaret that she would herself come in ten days to fetch her.

"Oh no," said Margaret; "it will be very good-natured of you to come, but not for that."

"But I shall come, and shall come for that," said Mrs Mackenzie; and at the end of the ten days she did come, and she did carry her husband's cousin back with her to Cavendish Square.

In the meantime Walter Mackenzie had called in Arundel Street, and had seen Margaret. But there had been given to her advice by a counsellor whom she was more inclined to obey than any of the Mackenzies. John Ball had written to her, saying that he had heard of the proposition, and recommending her to accept the invitation given to her.

"Till all this trouble about the property is settled," said he, "it will be much better that you should be with your cousins than living alone in Mrs Buggins' lodgings."

After receiving this Margaret held out no longer but was carried off by the handsome lady in the grand carriage, very much to the delight of Mrs Buggins.

Mrs Buggins' respect for Miss Mackenzie had returned altogether since she had heard of the invitation to Cavendish Square, and she apologised, almost without ceasing, for the liberty she had taken in suggesting that Margaret should drink tea with her husband.

"And indeed, Miss, I shouldn't have proposed such a thing, were it ever so, if I had suspected for a hinstant how things were a going to be. For Buggins is a man as knows his place, and never puts himself beyond it! But you was that close, Miss—"

In answer to this Margaret would say that it didn't signify, and that it wasn't on that account; and I have no doubt but that the two women thoroughly understood each other.

There was a subject on which, in spite of all her respect, Mrs Buggins ventured to give Miss Mackenzie much advice, and to insist on that advice strongly. Mrs Buggins was very anxious that the future "baronet's lady" should go out upon her grand visit with a proper assortment of clothing. That argument of the baronet's lady was the climax of Mrs Buggins' eloquence: "You, my dear, as is going to be one baronet's lady is going to a lady who is going to be another baronet's lady, and it's only becoming you should go as is becoming."

Margaret declared that she was not going to be anybody's lady, but Mrs Buggins altogether pooh-poohed this assertion.

"That, Miss, is your predestination," said Mrs Buggins, "and well you'll become it. And as for money, doesn't that old party who found it all out say reg'lar once a month that there's whatever you want to take for your own necessaries? and you that haven't had a shilling from him yet! If it was me, I'd send him in such a bill for necessaries as 'ud open that old party's eyes a bit, and hurry him up with his lawsuits."

The matter was at last compromised between her and Margaret, and a very moderate expenditure for smarter clothing was incurred.

On the day appointed Mrs Mackenzie again came, and Margaret was carried off to Cavendish Square. Here she found herself suddenly brought into a mode of life altogether different from anything she had as yet experienced. The Mackenzies were people who went much into society, and received company frequently at their own house. The first of these evils for a time Margaret succeeded in escaping, but from the latter she had no means of withdrawing herself. There was very much to astonish her at this period of her life, but that which astonished her perhaps more than anything else was her own celebrity. Everybody had heard of the Lion and the Lamb, and everybody was aware that she was supposed to represent the milder of those two favourite animals. Everybody knew the story of her property, or rather of the property which had never in truth been hers, and which was now being made to pass out of her hands by means of a lawsuit, of which everybody spoke as though it were the best thing in the world for all the parties concerned. People, when they mentioned Sir John Ball to her—and he was often so mentioned—never spoke of him in harsh terms, as though he were her enemy. She observed that he was always named before her in that euphuistic language which we naturally use when we speak to persons of those who are nearest to them and dearest to them. The romance of the thing, and not the pity of it, was the general subject of discourse, so that she could not fail to perceive that she was generally regarded as the future wife of Sir John Ball.

It was the sudden way in which all this had come upon her that affected her so greatly. While staying in Arundel Street she had been altogether ignorant that the story of the Lion and the Lamb had become public, or that her name had been frequent in men's mouths. When Mrs Buggins had once told her that she was thus becoming famous, she had ridiculed Mrs Buggins' statement. Mrs Buggins had brought home word from some tea-party that the story had been discussed among her own friends; but Miss Mackenzie had regarded that as an accident. A lawyer's clerk or two about Chancery Lane or Carey Street might by chance hear of the matter in the course of their daily work;—that it should be so, and that such people talked of her affairs distressed her; but that had, she was sure, been all. Now, however, in her new home she had learned that Mr Maguire's efforts had become notorious, and that she and her history were public property. When all this first became plain to her, it overwhelmed her so greatly that she was afraid to show her face; but this feeling gradually wore itself away, and she found herself able to look around upon the world again, and ask herself new questions of the future, as she had done when she had first found herself to be the possessor of her fortune.

When she had been about three weeks with the Mackenzies, Sir John Ball came to see her. He had written to her once before that, but his letter had referred simply to some matter of business. When he was shown into the drawing-room in Cavendish Square, Mrs Mackenzie and Margaret were both there, but the former in a few minutes got up and left the room. Margaret had wished with all her heart that her hostess would remain with them. She was sure that Sir John Ball had nothing to say that she would care to hear, and his saying nothing would seem to be of no special moment while three persons were in the room. But his saying nothing when special opportunity for speaking had been given to him would be of moment to her. Her destiny was in his hands to such a degree that she felt his power over her to amount almost to a cruelty. She longed to ask him what her fate was to be, but it was a question that she could not put to him. She knew that he would not tell her now; and she knew also that the very fact of his not telling her would inflict upon her a new misery, and deprive her of the comfort which she was beginning to enjoy. If he could not tell her at once how all this was to be ended, it would be infinitely better for her that he should remain away from her altogether.

As soon as Mrs Mackenzie had left the room he began to describe to her his last interview with the lawyers. She listened to him, and pretended to interest herself, but she did not care two straws about the lawyers. Point after point he explained to her, showing the unfortunate ingenuity with which his uncle Jonathan had contrived to confuse his affairs, and Margaret attempted to appear concerned. But her mind had now for some months past refused to exert itself with reference to the mode in which Mr Jonathan Ball had disposed of his money. Two years ago she had been told that it was hers; since that, she had been told that it was not hers. She had felt the hardship of this at first; but now that feeling was over with her, and she did not care to hear more about it. But she did care very much to know what was to be her future fate.

"And when will be the end of it, John?" she asked him.

"Ha! that seems so hard to say. They did name the first of April, but it won't be so soon as that. Mr Slow said to-day about the end of April, but his clerk seems to think it will be the middle of May."

"It is very provoking," said Margaret.

"Yes, it is," said John Ball, "very provoking; I feel it so. It worries me so terribly that I have no comfort in life. But I suppose you find everything very nice here."

"They are very kind to me."

"Very kind, indeed. It was quite the proper thing for them to do; and when I heard that Mrs Mackenzie had been to you in Arundel Street, I was delighted."

Margaret did not dare to tell him that she would have preferred to have been left in Arundel Street; but that, at the moment, was her feeling. If, when all this was over, she would still have to earn her bread, it would have been much better for her not to have come among her rich relations. What good would it then do her to have lived two or three months in Cavendish Square?

"I wish it were all settled, John," she said; and as she spoke there was a tear standing in the corner of each eye.

"I wish it were, indeed," said John Ball; but I think that he did not see the tears.

It was on her tongue to speak some word about the hospital; but she felt that if she did so now, it would be tantamount to asking him that question which it did not become her to ask; so she repressed the word, and sat in silence.

"When the day is positively fixed for the hearing," said he, "I will be sure to let you know."

"I wish you would let me know nothing further about it, John, till it is all settled."

"I sometimes almost fancy that I wish the same thing," said he, with a faint attempt at a smile; and after that he got up and went his way.

This was not to be endured. Margaret declared to herself that she could not live and bear it. Let the people around her say what they would, it could not be that he would treat her in this way if he intended to make her his wife. It would be better for her to make up her mind that it was not to be so, and to insist on leaving the Mackenzies' house. She would go, not again to Arundel Street, but to some lodging further away, in some furthest recess of London, where no one would come to her and flurry her with false hopes, and there remain till she might be allowed to earn her bread. That was the mood in which Mrs Mackenzie found her late in the afternoon on the day of Sir John Ball's visit. There was to be a dinner party in the house that evening, and Margaret began by asking leave to absent herself.

"Nonsense, Margaret," said Mrs Mackenzie; "I won't have anything of the kind."

"I cannot come down, Mrs Mackenzie; I cannot, indeed."

"That is absolute nonsense. That man has been saying something unkind to you. Why do you mind what he says?"

"He has not said anything unkind; he has not said anything at all."

"Oh, that's the grief, is it?"

"I don't know what you mean by grief; but if you were situated as I am you would perceive that you were in a false position."

"I am sure he has been saying something unkind to you."

Margaret hardly knew how to tell her thoughts and feelings, and yet she wished to tell them. She had resolved that she would tell the whole to Mrs Mackenzie, having convinced herself that she could not carry out her plan of leaving Cavendish Square without some explanation of the kind. She did not know how to make her speech with propriety, so she jumped at the difficulty boldly. "The truth is, Mrs Mackenzie, that he has no more idea of marrying me than he has of marrying you."

"Margaret, how can you talk such nonsense?"

"It is not nonsense; it is true; and it will be much better that it should all be understood at once. I have nothing to blame him for, nothing; and I don't blame him; but I cannot bear this kind of life any longer. It is killing me. What business have I to be living here in this way, when I have got nothing of my own, and have no one to depend on but myself?"

"Then he must have said something to you; but, whatever it was, you cannot but have misunderstood him."

"No; he has said nothing, and I have not misunderstood him." Then there was a pause. "He has said nothing to me, and I am bound to understand what that means."

"Margaret, I want to put one question to you," said Mrs Mackenzie, speaking with a serious air that was very unusual with her,—"and you will understand, dear, that I only do so because of what you are saying now."

"You may put any question you please to me," said Margaret.

"Has your cousin ever asked you to be his wife, or has he not?"

"Yes, he has. He has asked me twice."

"And what answer did you make him?"

"When I thought all the property was mine, I refused him. Then, when the property became his, he asked me again, and I accepted him. Sometimes, when I think of that, I feel so ashamed of myself, that I hardly dare to hold up my head."

"But you did not accept him simply because you had lost your money."

"No; but it looks so like it; does it not? And of course he must think that I did so."

"I am quite sure he thinks nothing of the kind. But he did ask you, and you did accept him?"

"Oh, yes."

"And since that, has he ever said anything to you to signify that the match should be broken off?"

"The very day after he had asked me, Mr Maguire came to the Cedars and saw me, and Lady Ball was there too. And he was very false, and told my aunt things that were altogether untrue. He said that—that I had promised to marry him, and Lady Ball believed him."

"But did Mr Ball believe him?"

"My aunt said all that she could against me, and when John spoke to me the next day, it was clear that he was very angry with me."

"But did he believe you or Mr Maguire when you told him that Mr Maguire's story was a falsehood from beginning to end?"

"But it was not a falsehood from beginning to end. That's where I have been so very, very unfortunate; and perhaps I ought to say, as I don't want to hide anything from you, so very, very wrong. The man did ask me to marry him, and I had given him no answer."

"Had you thought of accepting him?"

"I had not thought about that at all, when he came to me. So I told him that I would consider it all, and that he must come again."

"And he came again."

"Then my brother's illness occurred, and I went to London. After that Mr Maguire wrote to me two or three times, and I refused him in the plainest language that I could use. I told him that I had lost all my fortune, and then I was sure that there would be an end of any trouble from him; but he came to the Cedars on purpose to do me all this injury; and now he has put all these stories about me into the newspapers, how can I think that any man would like to make me his wife? I have no right to be surprised that Lady Ball should be so eager against it."

"But did Mr Ball believe you when you told him the story?"

"I think he did believe me."

"And what did he say?"

Margaret did not answer at once, but sat with her fingers up among her hair upon her brow:

"I am trying to think what were his words," she said, "but I cannot remember. I spoke more than he did. He said that I should have told him about Mr Maguire, and I tried to explain to him that there had been no time to do so. Then I said that he could leave me if he liked."

"And what did he answer?"

"If I remember rightly, he made no answer. He left me saying that he would see me again the next day. But the next day I went away. I would not remain in the house with Lady Ball after what she had believed about me. She took that other man's part against me, and therefore I went away."

"Did he say anything as to your going?"

"He begged me to stay, but I would not stay. I thought it was all over then. I regarded him as being quite free from any engagement, and myself as being free from any necessity of obeying him. And it was all over. I had no right to think anything else."

"And what came next?"

"Nothing. Nothing else has happened, except that Lady Ball came to me in Arundel Street, asking me to renounce him."

"And you refused?"

"Yes; I would do nothing at her bidding. Why should I? She had been my enemy throughout, since she found that the money belonged to her son and not to me."

"And all this time you have seen him frequently?"

"I have seen him sometimes about the business."

"And he has never said a word to you about your engagement to him?"

"Never a word."

"Nor you to him?"

"Oh, no! how could I speak to him about it?"

"I would have done so. I would not have had my heart crushed within me. But perhaps you were right. Perhaps it was best to be patient."

"I know that I have been wrong to expect anything or to hope for anything," said Margaret. "What right have I to hope for anything when I refused him while I was rich?"

"That has nothing to do with it."

"When he asked me again, he only did it because he pitied me. I don't want to be any man's wife because he pities me."

"But you accepted him."

"Yes; because I loved him."

"And now?" Again Miss Mackenzie sat silent, still moving her fingers among the locks upon her brow. "And now, Margaret?" repeated Mrs Mackenzie.

"What's the use of it now?"

"But you do love him?"

"Of course I love him. How shall it be otherwise? What has he done to change my love? His feelings have changed, and I have no right to blame him. He has changed; and I hate myself, because I feel that in coming here I have, as it were, run after him. I should have put myself in some place where no thought of marrying him should ever have come again to me."

"Margaret, you are wrong throughout."

"Am I? Everybody always says that I am always wrong."

"If I can understand anything of the matter, Sir John Ball has not changed."

"Then, why—why—why?"

"Ah, yes, exactly; why? Why is it that men and women cannot always understand each other; that they will remain for hours in each other's presence without the power of expressing, by a single word, the thoughts that are busy within them? Who can say why it is so? Can you get up and make a clean breast of it all to him?"

"But I am a woman, and am very poor."

"Yes, and he is a man, and, like most men, very dumb when they have anything at heart which requires care in the speaking. He knows no better than to let things be as they are; to leave the words all unspoken till he can say to you, 'Now is the time for us to go and get ourselves married;' just as he might tell you that now was the time to go and dine."

"But will he ever say that?"

"Of course he will. If he does not say so when all this business is off his mind, when Mr Maguire and his charges are put at rest, when the lawyers have finished their work, then come to me and tell me that I have deceived you. Say to me then, 'Clara Mackenzie, you have put me wrong, and I look to you to put me right.' You will find I will put you right."

In answer to this, Margaret was able to say nothing further. She sat for a while with her face buried in her hands thinking of it all, asking herself whether she might dare to believe it all. At last, however, she went up to dress for dinner; and when she came down to the drawing-room there was a smile upon her face.

After that a month or six weeks passed in Cavendish Square, and there was, during all that time, no further special reference to Sir John Ball or his affairs. Twice he was asked to dine with the Mackenzies, and on both occasions he did so. On neither of those evenings did he say very much to Margaret; but, on both of them he said some few words, and it was manifestly his desire that they should be regarded as friends.

And as the spring came on, Margaret's patience returned to her, and her spirits were higher than they had been at any time since she first discovered that success among the Stumfoldians at Littlebath did not make her happy.



CHAPTER XXVII

The Negro Soldiers' Orphan Bazaar

In the spring days of the early May there came up in London that year a great bazaar,—a great charity bazaar on behalf of the orphan children of negro soldiers who had fallen in the American war. Tidings had come to this country that all slaves taken in the revolted States had been made free by the Northern invaders, and that these free men had been called upon to show their immediate gratitude by becoming soldiers in the Northern ranks. As soldiers they were killed in battle, or died, and as dead men they left orphans behind them. Information had come that many of these orphans were starving, and hence had arisen the cause for the Negro Soldiers' Orphan Bazaar. There was still in existence at that time, down at South Kensington, some remaining court or outstanding building which had belonged to the Great International Exhibition, and here the bazaar was to be held. I do not know that I can trace the way in which the idea grew and became great, or that anyone at the time was able to attribute the honour to the proper founder. Some gave it all to the Prince of Wales, declaring that his royal highness had done it out of his own head; and others were sure that the whole business had originated with a certain philanthropical Mr Manfred Smith who had lately come up in the world, and was supposed to have a great deal to do with most things. Be that as it may, this thing did grow and become great, and there was a list of lady patronesses which included some duchesses, one marchioness, and half the countesses in London. It was soon manifest to the eyes of those who understood such things, that the Negro Soldiers' Orphan Bazaar was to be a success, and therefore there was no difficulty whatsoever in putting the custody of the stalls into the hands of proper persons. The difficulty consisted in rejecting offers from persons who undoubtedly were quite proper for such an occasion. There came to be interest made for permission to serve, and boastings were heard of unparalleled success in the bazaar line. The Duchess of St Bungay had a happy bevy of young ladies who were to act as counter attendants under her grace; and who so happy as any young lady who could get herself put upon the duchess's staff? It was even rumoured that a certain very distinguished person would have shown herself behind a stall, had not a certain other more distinguished person expressed an objection; and while the rumour was afloat as to the junior of those two distinguished persons, the young-ladydom of London was frantic in its eagerness to officiate. Now at that time there had become attached to the name of our poor Griselda a romance with which the west-end of London had become wonderfully well acquainted. The story of the Lion and the Lamb was very popular. Mr Maguire may be said to have made himself odious to the fashionable world at large, and the fate of poor Margaret Mackenzie with her lost fortune, and the additional misfortune of her clerical pledged protector, had recommended itself as being truly interesting to all the feeling hearts of the season. Before May was over, gentlemen were enticed to dinner parties by being told—and untruly told—that the Lamb had been "secured;" as on the previous year they had been enticed by a singular assurance as to Bishop Colenso; and when Margaret on one occasion allowed herself to be taken to Covent Garden Theatre, every face from the stalls was turned towards her between the acts.

Who then was more fit to take a stall, or part of a stall at the Negro Soldiers' Orphan Bazaar, than our Griselda? When the thing loomed so large, lady patronesses began to be aware that mere nobodies would hardly be fit for the work. There would have been little or no difficulty in carrying out a law that nobody should take a part in the business who had not some handle to her name, but it was felt that such an arrangement as that might lead to failure rather than glory. The commoner world must be represented but it should be represented only by ladies who had made great names for themselves. Mrs Conway Sparkes, the spiteful poetess, though she was old and ugly as well as spiteful, was to have a stall and a bevy, because there was thought to be no doubt about her poetry. Mrs Chaucer Munro had a stall and a bevy; but I cannot clearly tell her claim to distinction, unless it was that she had all but lost her character four times, but had so saved it on each of those occasions that she was just not put into the Index Expurgatorius of fashionable society in London. It was generally said by those young men who discussed the subject, that among Mrs Chaucer Munro's bevy would be found the most lucrative fascination of the day. And then Mrs Mackenzie was asked to take a stall, or part of a stall, and to bring Griselda with her as her assistant. By this time the Lamb was most generally known as "Griselda" among fashionable people.

Now Mrs Mackenzie was herself a woman of fashion, and quite open to the distinction of having a part assigned to her at the great bazaar of the season. She did not at all object to a booth on the left hand of the Duchess of St Bungay, although it was just opposite to Mrs Chaucer Munro. She assented at once.

"But you must positively bring Griselda," said Lady Glencora Palliser, by whom the business of this mission was conducted.

"Of course, I understand that," said Mrs Mackenzie. "But what if she won't come?"

"Griseldas are made to do anything," said Lady Glencora, "and of course she must come."

Having settled the difficulty in this way, Lady Glencora went her way, and Mrs Mackenzie did not allow Griselda to go to her rest that night till she had extracted from her a promise of acquiescence, which, I think, never would have been given had Miss Mackenzie understood anything of the circumstances under which her presence was desired.

But the promise was given, and Margaret knew little or nothing of what was expected from her till there came up, about a fortnight before the day of the bazaar, the great question of her dress for the occasion. Previous to that she would fain have been energetic in collecting and making things for sale at her stall, for she really taught herself to be anxious that the negro soldiers' orphans should have provision made for them; but, alas! her energy was all repressed, and she found that she was not to be allowed to do anything in that direction.

"Things of that sort would not go down at all now-a-days, Margaret," said Mrs Mackenzie. "Nobody would trouble themselves to carry them away. There are tradesmen who furnish the stalls, and mark their own prices, and take back what is not sold. You charge double the tradesman's price, that's all."

Margaret, when her eyes were thus opened, of course ceased to make little pincushions, but she felt that her interest in the thing was very much lowered. But a word must be said as to that question of the dress. Miss Mackenzie, when she was first interrogated as to her intentions, declared her purpose of wearing a certain black silk dress which had seen every party at Mrs Stumfold's during Margaret's Littlebath season. To this her cousin demurred, and from demurring proceeded to the enunciation of a positive order. The black silk dress in question should not be worn. Now Miss Mackenzie chose to be still in mourning on the second of June, the day of the bazaar, her brother having died in September, and had no fitting garment, so she said, other than the black silk in question. Whereupon Mrs Mackenzie, without further speech to her cousin on the subject, went out and purchased a muslin covered all over with the prettiest little frecks of black, and sent a milliner to Margaret, and provided a bonnet of much the same pattern, the gayest, lightest, jauntiest, falsest, most make-belief-mourning bonnet that ever sprang from the art of a designer in bonnets—and thus nearly broke poor Margaret's heart.

"People should never have things given them, who can't buy for themselves," she said, with tears in her eyes, "because of course they know what it means."

"But, my dearest," said Mrs Mackenzie, "young ladies who never have any money of their own at all always accept presents from all their relations. It is their special privilege."

"Oh, yes, young ladies; but not women like me who are waiting to find out whether they are ruined or not."

The difficulty, however, was at last overcome, and Margaret, with many inward upbraidings of her conscience, consented to wear the black-freckled dress.

"I never saw anybody look so altered in my life," said Mrs Mackenzie, when Margaret, apparelled, appeared in the Cavendish Square drawing-room on the morning in question. "Oh, dear, I hope Sir John Ball will come to look at you."

"Nonsense! he won't be such a fool as to do anything of the kind."

"I took care to let him know that you would be there;" said Mrs Mackenzie.

"You didn't?"

"But I did, my dear."

"Oh, dear, what will he think of me?" ejaculated Margaret; but nevertheless I fancy that there must have been some elation in her bosom when she regarded herself and the freckled muslin in the glass.

Both Mrs Mackenzie and Miss Mackenzie had more than once gone down to the place to inspect the ground and make themselves familiar with the position they were to take. There were great stalls and little stalls, which came alternately; and the Mackenzie stall stood next to a huge centre booth at which the duchess was to preside. On their other hand was the stall of old Lady Ware, and opposite to them, as has been before said, the doubtful Mrs Chaucer Munro was to hold difficult sway over her bevy of loud nymphs. Together with Mrs Mackenzie were two other Miss Mackenzies, sisters of her husband, handsome, middle-aged women, with high cheek-bones and fine brave-looking eyes. All the Mackenzies, except our Griselda, were dressed in the tartan of their clan; and over the stall there was some motto in Gaelic, "Dhu dhaith donald dhuth," which nobody could understand, but which was not the less expressive. Indeed, the Mackenzie stall was got up very well; but then was it not known and understood that Mrs Mackenzie did get up things very well? It was acknowledged on all sides that the Lamb, Griselda, was uncommonly well got up on this occasion.

It was understood that the ladies were to be assembled in the bazaar at half-past two, and that the doors were to be thrown open to the public at three o'clock. Soon after half-past two Mrs Mackenzie's carriage was at the door, and the other Mackenzies having come up at the same time, the Mackenzie phalanx entered the building together. There were many others with them, but as they walked up they found the Countess of Ware standing alone in the centre of the building, with her four daughters behind her. She had on her head a wonderful tiara, which gave to her appearance a ferocity almost greater than was natural to her. She was a woman with square jaws, and a big face, and stout shoulders: but she was not, of her own unassisted height, very tall. But of that tiara and its altitude she was proud, and as she stood in the midst of the stalls, brandishing her umbrella-sized parasol in her anger, the ladies, as they entered, might well be cowed by her presence.

"When ladies say half-past two," said she, "they ought to come at half-past two. Where is the Duchess of St Bungay? I shall not wait for her."

But there was a lady there who had come in behind the Mackenzies, whom nothing ever cowed. This was the Lady Glencora Palliser, the great heiress who had married the heir of a great duke, pretty, saucy, and occasionally intemperate, in whose eyes Lady Ware with her ferocious tiara was simply an old woman in a ridiculous head-gear. The countess had apparently addressed herself to Mrs Mackenzie, who had been the foremost to enter the building, and our Margaret had already begun to tremble. But Lady Glencora stepped forward, and took the brunt of the battle upon herself.

"Nobody ever yet was so punctual as my Lady Ware," said Lady Glencora.

"It is very annoying to be kept waiting on such occasions," said the countess.

"But my dear Lady Ware, who keeps you waiting? There is your stall, and why on earth should you stand here and call us all over as we come in, like naughty schoolboys?"

"The duchess said expressly that she would be here at half-past two."

"Who ever expects the dear duchess to keep her word?" said Lady Glencora.

"Or whoever cared whether she does or does not?" said Mrs Chaucer Munro, who, with her peculiar bevy, had now made her way up among the front rank.

Then to have seen the tiara of Lady Ware, as it wagged and nodded while she looked at Mrs Munro, and to have witnessed the high moral tone of the ferocity with which she stalked away to her own stall with her daughters behind her,—a tragi-comedy which it was given to no male eyes to behold,—would have been worth the whole after-performance of the bazaar. No male eyes beheld that scene, as Mr Manfred Smith, the manager, had gone out to look for his duchess, and missing her carriage in the crowd, did not return till the bazaar had been opened. That Mrs Chaucer Munro did not sink, collapsed, among her bevy, must have been owing altogether to that callousness which a long habit of endurance produces. Probably she did feel something as at the moment there came no titter from any other bevy corresponding to the titter which was raised by her own. She and her bevy retired to their allotted place, conscious that their time for glory could not come till the male world should appear upon the scene. But Lady Ware's tiara still wagged and nodded behind her counter, and Margaret, looking at her, thought that she must have come there as the grand duenna of the occasion.

Just at three o'clock the poor duchess hurried into the building in a terrible flurry, and went hither and thither among the stalls, not knowing at first where was her throne. Unkind chance threw her at first almost into the booth of Mrs Conway Sparkes, the woman whom of all women she hated the most; and from thence she recoiled into the arms of Lady Hartletop who was sitting serene, placid, and contented in her appointed place.

"Opposite, I think, duchess," Mrs Conway Sparkes had said. "We are only the small fry here."

"Oh, ah; I beg pardon. They told me the middle, to the left."

"And this is the middle to the right," said Mrs Conway Sparkes. But the duchess had turned round since she came in, and could not at all understand where she was.

"Under the canopy, duchess," just whispered Lady Hartletop. Lady Hartletop was a young woman who knew her right hand from her left under all circumstances of life, and who never made any mistakes. The duchess looked up in her confusion to the centre of the ceiling, but could see no canopy. Lady Hartletop had done all that could be required of her, and if the duchess were to die amidst her difficulties it would not be her fault. Then came forth the Lady Glencora, and with true charity conducted the lady-president to her chair, just in time to avoid the crush, which ensued upon the opening of the doors.

The doors were opened, and very speedily the space of the bazaar between the stalls became too crowded to have admitted the safe passage of such a woman as the Duchess of St Bungay; but Lady Glencora, who was less majestic in her size and gait, did not find herself embarrassed. And now there arose, before the general work of fleecing the wether lambs had well commenced, a terrible discord, as of a brass band with broken bassoons, and trumpets all out of order, from the further end of the building,—a terrible noise of most unmusical music, such as Bartholomew Fair in its loudest days could hardly have known. At such a diapason one would have thought that the tender ears of May Fair and Belgravia would have been crushed and cracked and riven asunder; that female voices would have shrieked, and the intensity of fashionable female agony would have displayed itself in all its best recognised forms. But the crash of brass was borne by them as though they had been rough schoolboys delighting in a din. The duchess gave one jump, and then remained quiet and undismayed. If Lady Hartletop heard it, she did not betray the hearing. Lady Glencora for a moment put her hands to her ears as she laughed, but she did it as though the prettiness of the motion were its only one cause. The fine nerves of Mrs Conway Sparkes, the poetess, bore it all without flinching; and Mrs Chaucer Munro with her bevy rushed forward so that they might lose nothing of what was coming.

"What are they going to do?" said Margaret to her cousin, in alarm.

"It's the play part of the thing. Have you not seen the bills?" Then Margaret looked at a great placard which was exhibited near to her, which, though by no means intelligible to her, gave her to understand that there was a show in progress. The wit of the thing seemed to consist chiefly in the wonderful names chosen. The King of the Cannibal Islands was to appear on a white charger. King Chrononhotonthologos was to be led in chains by Tom Thumb. Achilles would drag Hector thrice round the walls of Troy; and Queen Godiva would ride through Coventry, accompanied by Lord Burghley and the ambassador from Japan. It was also signified that in some back part of the premises a theatrical entertainment would be carried on throughout the afternoon, the King of the Cannibal Islands, with his royal brother and sister Chrononhotonthologos and Godiva, taking principal parts; but as nobody seemed to go to the theatre the performers spent their time chiefly in making processions through and amidst the stalls, when, as the day waxed hot, and the work became heavy, they seemed to be taken much in dudgeon by the various bevies with whose business they interfered materially.

On this, their opening march, they rushed into the bazaar with great energy, and though they bore no resemblance to the characters named in the playbill, and though there was among them neither a Godiva, a Hector, a Tom Thumb, or a Japanese, nevertheless, as they were dressed in paint and armour after the manner of the late Mr Richardson's heroes, and as most of the ladies had probably been without previous opportunity of seeing such delights, they had their effect. When they had made their twenty-first procession the thing certainly grew stale, and as they brought with them an infinity of dirt, they were no doubt a nuisance. But no one would have been inclined to judge these amateur actors with harshness who knew how much they themselves were called on to endure, who could appreciate the disgusting misery of a hot summer afternoon spent beneath dust and paint and tin-plate armour, and who would remember that the performers received payment neither in eclat nor in thanks, nor even in the smiles of beauty.

"Can't somebody tell them not to come any more?" said the duchess, almost crying with vexation towards the end of the afternoon.

Then Mr Manfred Smith, who managed everything, went to the rear, and the king and warriors were sent away to get beer or cooling drinks at their respective clubs.

Poor Mr Manfred Smith! He had not been present at the moment in which he was wanted to lead the duchess to her stall, and the duchess never forgave him. Instead of calling him by his name from time to time, and enabling him to shine in public as he deserved to shine,—for he had worked at the bazaar for the last six weeks as no professional man ever worked at his profession,—the duchess always asked for "somebody" when she wanted Mr Smith, and treated him when he came as though he had been a servant hired for the occasion. One very difficult job of work was given to him before the day was done; "I wish you'd go over to those young women," said the duchess, "and say that if they make so much noise, I must go away."

The young women in question were Mrs Chaucer Munro and her bevy, and the commission was one which poor Manfred Smith found it difficult to execute.

"Mrs Munro," said he, "you'll be sorry to hear—that the duchess—has got—a headache, and she thinks we all might be a little quieter."

The shouts of the loud nymphs were by this time high. "Pooh!" said one of them. "Headache indeed!" said another. "Bother her head!" said a third. "If the duchess is ill, perhaps she had better retire," said Mrs Chaucer Munro. Then Mr Manfred Smith walked off sorrowfully towards the door, and seating himself on the stool of the money-taker by the entrance, wiped off the perspiration from his brow. He had already put on his third pair of yellow kid gloves for the occasion, and they were soiled and torn and disreputable; his polished boots were brown with dust; the magenta ribbon round his neck had become a moist rope; his hat had been thrown down and rumpled; a drop of oil had made a spot upon his trousers; his whiskers were draggled and out of order, and his mouth was full of dirt. I doubt if Mr Manfred Smith will ever undertake to manage another bazaar.

The duchess I think was right in her endeavour to mitigate the riot among Mrs Munro's nymphs. Indeed there was rioting among other nymphs than hers, though her noise and their noise was the loudest; and it was difficult to say how there should not be riot, seeing what was to be the recognised manner of transacting business. At first there was something of prettiness in the rioting. The girls, who went about among the crowd, begging men to put their hands into lucky bags, trading in rose-buds, and asking for half-crowns for cigar lighters, were fresh in their muslins, pretty with their braided locks, and perhaps not impudently over-pressing in their solicitations to male strangers. While they were not as yet either aweary or habituated to the necessity of importunity, they remembered their girlhood and their ladyhood, their youth and their modesty, and still carried with them something of the bashfulness of maidenhood; and the young men, the wether lambs, were as yet flush with their half-crowns, and the elder sheep had not quite dispensed the last of their sovereigns or buttoned up their trousers pockets. But as the work went on, and the dust arose, and the prettinesses were destroyed, and money became scarce, and weariness was felt, and the heat showed itself, and the muslins sank into limpness, and the ribbons lost their freshness, and braids of hair grew rough and loose, and sidelocks displaced themselves—as girls became used to soliciting and forgetful of their usual reticences in their anxiety for money, the charm of the thing went, and all was ugliness and rapacity. Young ladies no longer moved about, doing works of charity; but harpies and unclean birds were greedy in quest of their prey.

"Put a letter in my post-office," said one of Mrs Munro's bevy, who officiated in a postal capacity behind a little square hole, to a young man on whom she pounced out and had caught him and brought up, almost with violence.

The young man tendered some scrap of paper and a sixpence.

"Only sixpence!" said the girl.

A cabman could not have made the complaint with a more finished accent of rapacious disgust.

"Never mind," said the girl, "I'll give you an answer."

Then, with inky fingers and dirty hands, she tendered him some scrawl, and demanded five shillings postage. "Five shillings!" said the young man. "Oh, I'm d——"

Then he gave her a shilling and walked away. She ventured to give one little halloa after him, but she caught the duchess's eye looking at her, and was quiet.

I don't think there was much real flirting done. Men won't flirt with draggled girls, smirched with dust, weary with work, and soiled with heat; and especially they will not do so at the rate of a shilling a word. When the whole thing was over, Mrs Chaucer Munro's bevy, lying about on the benches in fatigue before they went away, declared that, as far as they were concerned, the thing was a mistake. The expenditure in gloves and muslin had been considerable, and the returns to them had been very small. It is not only that men will not flirt with draggled girls, but they will carry away with them unfortunate remembrances of what they have seen and heard. Upon the whole it may be doubted whether any of the bevies were altogether contented with the operations on the occasion of the Negro Soldiers' Orphan Bazaar.

Miss Mackenzie had been, perhaps, more fortunate than some of the others. It must, however, be remembered that there are two modes of conducting business at these bazaars. There is the travelling merchant, who roams about, and there is the stationary merchant, who remains always behind her counter. It is not to be supposed that the Duchess of St Bungay spent the afternoon rushing about with a lucky bag. The duchess was a stationary trader, and so were all the ladies who belonged to the Mackenzie booth. Miss Mackenzie, the lamb, had been much regarded, and consequently the things at her disposal had been quickly sold. It had all seemed to her to be very wonderful, and as the fun grew fast and furious, as the young girls became eager in their attacks, she made up her mind that she would never occupy another stall at a bazaar. One incident, and but one, occurred to her during the day; and one person came to her that she knew, and but one. It was nearly six, and she was beginning to think that the weary work must soon be over, when, on a sudden, she found Sir John Ball standing beside her.

"Oh, John!" she said, startled by his presence, "who would have thought of seeing you here?"

"And why not me as well as any other fool of my age?"

"Because you think it is foolish," she answered, "and I suppose the others don't."

"Why should you say that I think it foolish? At any rate, I'm glad to see you looking so nice and happy."

"I don't know about being happy," said Margaret,—"or nice either for the matter of that."

But there was a smile on her face as she spoke, and Sir John smiled also when he saw it.

"Doesn't she look well in that bonnet?" said Mrs Mackenzie, turning round to the side of the counter at which he was standing. "It was my choice, and I absolutely made her wear it. If you knew the trouble I had!"

"It is very pretty," said Sir John.

"Is it not? And are you not very much obliged to me? I'm sure you ought to be, for nobody before has ever taken the trouble of finding out what becomes her most. As for herself, she's much too well-behaved a young woman to think of such vanities."

"Not at present, certainly," said Margaret.

"And why not at present? She looks on those lawyers and their work as though there was something funereal about them. You ought to teach her better, Sir John."

"All that will be over in a day or two now," said he.

"And then she will shake off her dowdiness and her gloom together," said Mrs Mackenzie. "Do you know I fancy she has a liking for pretty things at heart as well as another woman."

"I hope she has," said he.

"Of course you do. What is a woman worth without it? Don't be angry, Margaret, but I say a woman is worth nothing without it, and Sir John will agree with me if he knows anything about the matter. But, Margaret, why don't you make him buy something? He can't refuse you if you ask him."

If Miss Mackenzie could thereby have provided for all the negro soldiers' orphans in existence, I do not think that she could at that moment have solicited him to make a purchase.

"Come, Sir John," continued Mrs Mackenzie, "you must buy something of her. What do you say to this paper-knife?"

"How much does the paper-knife cost?" said he, still smiling. It was a large, elaborate, and perhaps, I may say, unwieldy affair, with a great elephant at the end of it.

"Oh! that is terribly dear," said Margaret, "it costs two pounds ten."

Thereupon he put his hand into his pocket, and taking out his purse, gave her a five-pound note.

"We never give change," said Mrs Mackenzie: "do we, Margaret?"

"I'll give him change," said Margaret.

"I'll be extravagant for once," said Sir John, "and let you keep the whole."

"Oh, John!" said Margaret.

"You have no right to scold him yet," said Mrs Mackenzie.

Margaret, when she heard this, blushed up to her forehead, and in her confusion forgot all about the paper-knife and the money. Sir John, I fancy, was almost as much confused himself, and was quite unable to make any fitting reply. But, just at that moment, there came across two harpies from the realms of Mrs Chaucer Munro, eagerly intent upon their prey.

"Here are the lion and the lamb together," said one harpy. "The lion must buy a rose to give to the lamb. Sir Lion, the rose is but a poor half-crown." And she tendered him a battered flower, leering at him from beneath her draggled, dusty bonnet as she put forth her untempting hand for the money.

"Sir Lion, Sir Lion," said the other harpy, "I want your name for a raffle."

But the lion was off, having pushed the first harpy aside somewhat rudely. That tale of the Lion and the Lamb had been very terrible to him; but never till this occasion had any one dared to speak of it directly to his face. But what will not a harpy do who has become wild and dirty and disgusting in the pursuit of half-crowns?

"Now he is angry," said Margaret. "Oh, Mrs Mackenzie, why did you say that?"

"Yes; he is angry," said Mrs Mackenzie, "but not with you or me. Upon my word, I thought he would have pushed that girl over; and if he had, he would only have served her right."

"But why did you say that? You shouldn't have said it."

"About your not scolding him yet? I said it, my dear, because I wanted to make myself certain. I was almost certain before, but now I am quite certain."

"Certain of what, Mrs Mackenzie?"

"That you'll be a baronet's wife before me, and entitled to be taken out of a room first as long as dear old Sir Walter is alive."

Soon after that the bazaar was brought to an end, and it was supposed to have been the most successful thing of the kind ever done in London. Loud boasts were made that more than eight hundred pounds had been cleared; but whether any orphans of any negro soldiers were ever the better for the money I am not able to say.



CHAPTER XXVIII

Showing How the Lion Was Stung by the Wasp

It may be remembered that Mr Maguire, when he first made public that pretty story of the Lion and the Lamb, declared that he would give the lion no peace till that beast had disgorged his prey, and that he had pledged himself to continue the fight till he should have succeeded in bringing the lamb back to the pleasant pastures of Littlebath. But Mr Maguire found some difficulty in carrying out his pledge. He was willing enough to fight, but the weapons with which to do battle were wanting to him. The Christian Examiner, having got so far into the mess, and finding that a ready sale did in truth result from any special article as to the lion and the lamb, was indeed ready to go on with the libel. The Christian Examiner probably had not much to lose. But there arose a question whether fighting simply through the columns of the Christian Examiner was not almost tantamount to no fight at all. He wanted to bring an action against Sir John Ball, to have Sir John Ball summoned into court and examined about the money, to hear some truculent barrister tell Sir John Ball that he could not conceal himself from the scorn of an indignant public behind the spangles of his parvenu baronetcy. He had a feeling that the lion would be torn to pieces, if only a properly truculent barrister could be got to fix his claws into him. But, unfortunately, no lawyer,—not even Solomon Walker, the Low Church attorney at Littlebath,—would advise him that he had any ground for an action. If indeed he chose to proceed against the lady for a breach of promise of marriage, then the result would depend on the evidence. In such case as that the Low Church attorney at Littlebath was willing to take the matter up. "But Mr Maguire was, of course, aware," said Solomon Walker, "that there was a prejudice in the public mind against gentlemen appearing as parties to such suits." Mr Maguire was also aware that he could adduce no evidence of the fact beyond his own unsupported, and, in such case, untrue word, and declared therefore to the attorney, in a very high tone indeed, that on no account would he take any step to harass the lady. It was simply against Sir John Ball that he wished to proceed. "Things would come out in that trial, Mr Walker," he said, "which would astonish you and all the legal world. A rapacious scheme of villainy has been conceived and brought to bear, through the stupidity of some people and the iniquity of others, which would unroll itself fold by fold as certainly as I stand here, if it were properly handled by a competent barrister in one of our courts of law." And I think that Mr Maguire believed what he was saying, and that he believed, moreover, that he was speaking the truth when he told Mr Walker that the lady had promised to marry him. Men who can succeed in deceiving no one else will succeed at last in deceiving themselves. But the lawyer told him, repeating the fact over and over again, that the thing was impracticable; that there was no means of carrying the matter so far that Sir John Ball should be made to appear in a witness box. Everything that Sir John had done he had done legally; and even at that moment of the discussion between Mr Walker and Mr Maguire, the question of the ownership of the property was being tried before a proper tribunal in London. Mr Maguire still thought Mr Walker to be wrong,—thought that his attorney was a weak and ignorant man; but he acknowledged to himself the fact that he in his unhappy position was unable to get any more cunning attorney to take the matter in hand.

But the Christian Examiner still remained to him, and that he used with diligence. From week to week there appeared in it articles attacking the lion, stating that the lion was still being watched, that his prey would be snatched from him at last, that the lamb should even yet have her rights, and the like. And as the thing went on, the periodical itself and the writer of the article became courageous by habit, till things were printed which Sir John Ball found it almost impossible to bear. It was declared that he was going to desert the lamb, now that he had taken all the lamb's property; and that the Iamb, shorn of all her fleece, was to be condemned to earn her bread as a common nurse in the wards of a common hospital,—all which information came readily enough to Mr Maguire by the hands of Miss Colza. The papers containing these articles were always sent to Sir John Ball and to Miss Mackenzie, and the articles were always headed, "The Lion and the Lamb." Miss Mackenzie, in accordance with an arrangement made to that purpose, sent the papers as soon as they came to Mr Slow, but Sir John Ball had no such ready way of freeing himself from their burden. He groaned and toiled under them, going to his lawyer with them, and imploring permission to bring an action for libel against Mr Maguire. The venom of the unclean animal's sting had gone so deep into him, that, fond as he was of money, he had told his lawyer that he would not begrudge the expense if he could only punish the man who was hurting him. But the attorney, who understood something of feeling as well as something of money, begged him to be quiet at any rate till the fate of the property should be settled. "And if you'll take my advice, Sir John, you will not notice him at all. You may be sure that he has not a shilling in the world, and that he wants you to prosecute him. When you have got damages against him, he will be off out of the country."

"But I shall have stopped his impudent ribaldry," said Sir John Ball. Then the lawyer tried to explain to him that no one read the ribaldry. It was of no use. Sir John read it himself, and that was enough to make him wretched.

The little fable which made Sir John so unhappy had not, for some months past, appeared in any of the metropolitan newspapers; but when the legal inquiry into the proper disposition of Mr Jonathan Ball's property was over, and when it was known that, as the result of that inquiry, the will in favour of the Mackenzies was to be set aside and the remains of the property handed over to Sir John, then that very influential newspaper, which in the early days of the question had told the story of the Lion and the Lamb, told it all again, tearing, indeed, the Littlebath Christian Examiner into shreds for its iniquity, but speaking of the romantic misfortune of the lamb in terms which made Sir John Ball very unhappy. The fame which accrued to him from being so publicly pointed out as a lion, was not fame of which he was proud. And when the writer in this very influential newspaper went on to say that the world was now looking for a termination of this wonderful story, which would make it pleasant to all parties, he was nearly beside himself in his misery. He, a man of fifty, of slow habits, with none of the buoyancy of youth left in him, apt to regard himself as older than his age, who had lived with his father and mother almost on an equality in regard to habits of life, the father of a large family, of which the eldest was now himself a man! Could it be endured that such a one as he should enter upon matrimony amidst the din of public trumpets and under a halo of romance? The idea of it was frightful to him. On the very day on which the result of the legal investigation was officially communicated to him, he sat in the old study at the Cedars with two newspapers before him. In one of these there was a description of his love, which he knew was intended as furtive ridicule, and an assurance to the public that the lamb's misfortunes would all be remedied by the sweet music of the marriage bell. What right had any one to assert publicly that he intended to marry any one? In his wretchedness and anger he would have indicted this newspaper also for a libel, had not his lawyer assured him that, according to law, there was no libel in stating that a man was going to be married. The other paper accused him of rapacity and dishonesty in that he would not marry the lamb, now that he had secured the lamb's fleece; so that, in truth, he had no escape on either side; for Mr Maguire, having at last ascertained that the lamb had, in very truth, lost all her fleece, was no longer desirous of any personal connection, and felt that he could best carry out his pledge by attacking the possessor of the fleece on that side. Under such circumstances, what was such a man as Sir John Ball to do? Could he marry his cousin amidst the trumpets, and the halo, and the doggrel poetry which would abound? Was it right that he should be made a mark for the finger of scorn? Had he done anything to deserve this punishment?

And it must be remembered that from day to day his own mother, who lived with him, who sat with him late every night talking on this one subject, was always instigating him to abandon his cousin. It had been admitted between them that he was no longer bound by his offer. Margaret herself had admitted it,—"does not attempt to deny it," as Lady Ball repeated over and over again. When he had made his offer he had known nothing of Mr Maguire's offer, nor had Margaret then told him of it. Such reticence on her part of course released him from his bond. So Lady Ball argued, and against this argument her son made no demur. Indeed it was hardly possible that he should comprehend exactly what had taken place between his cousin and Mr Maguire. His mother did not scruple to assure him that she must undoubtedly at one time have accepted the man's proposal. In answer to this John Ball would always assert his entire reliance on his cousin's word.

"She did it without knowing that she did so," Lady Ball would answer; "but in some language she must have assented."

But the mother was never able to extract from the son any intimation of his intention to give up the marriage, though she used threats and tears, ridicule and argument,—appeals to his pride and appeals to his pocket. He never said that he certainly would marry her; he never said so at least after that night on which Margaret in her bedroom had told him her story with reference to Mr Maguire; but neither did he ever say that he certainly would not marry her. Lady Ball gathered from all his words a conviction that he would be glad to be released, if he could be released by any act on Margaret's behalf, and therefore she had made her attempt on Margaret. With what success the reader will, I hope, remember. Margaret, when she accepted her cousin's offer, had been specially bidden by him to be firm. This bidding she obeyed, and on that side there was no hope at all for Lady Ball.

I fear there was much of cowardice on Sir John's part. He had, in truth, forgiven Margaret any offence that she had committed in reference to Mr Maguire. She had accepted his offer while another offer was still dragging on an existence after a sort, and she had not herself been the first to tell him of these circumstances. There had been offence to him in this, but that offence he had, in truth, forgiven. Had there been no Littlebath Christian Examiner, no tale of the Lion and the Lamb, no publicity and no ridicule, he would quietly have walked off with his cousin to some church, having gone through all preliminary ceremonies in the most silent manner possible for them, and would have quietly got himself married and have carried Margaret home with him. Now that his father was dead and that his uncle Jonathan's money had come to him, his pecuniary cares were comparatively light, and he believed that he could be very happy with Margaret and his children. But then to be pointed at daily as a lion, and to be asked by all his acquaintances after the lamb! It must be owned that he was a coward; but are not most men cowards in such matters as that?

But now the trial was over, the money was his own, Margaret was left without a shilling in the world, and it was quite necessary that he should make up his mind. He had once told his lawyer, in his premature joy, on that very day on which Mr Maguire had come to the Cedars, that everything was to be made smooth by a marriage between himself and the disinherited heiress. He had since told the lawyer that something had occurred which might, perhaps, alter this arrangement. After that the lawyer had asked no question about the marriage; but when he communicated to his client the final intelligence that Jonathan Ball's money was at his client's disposal, he said that it would be well to arrange what should be done on Miss Mackenzie's behalf. Sir John Ball had assumed very plainly a look of vexation when the question was put to him.

"I promised Mr Slow that I would ask you," said the lawyer. "Mr Slow is of course anxious for his client."

"It is my business and not Mr Slow's," said Sir John Ball, "and you may tell him that I say so."

Then there had been a moment's silence, and Sir John had felt himself to be wrong.

"Pray tell him also," said Sir John, "that I am very grateful to him for his solicitude about my cousin, and that I fully appreciate his admirable conduct both to her and me throughout all this affair. When I have made up my mind what shall be done, I will let him know at once."

As he walked down from his lawyer's chambers in Bedford Row to the railway station he thought of all this, and thought also of those words which Mrs Mackenzie had spoken to him in the bazaar. "You have no right to scold him yet," she had said to Margaret. Of course he had understood what they meant, and of course Margaret had understood them also. And he had not been at all angry when they were spoken. Margaret had been so prettily dressed, and had looked so fresh and nice, that at that moment he had forgotten all his annoyances in his admiration, and had listened to Mrs Mackenzie's cunning speech, not without confusion, but without any immediate desire to contradict its necessary inference. A moment or two afterwards the harpies had been upon him, and then he had gone off in his anger. Poor Margaret had been unable to distinguish between the effects produced by the speech and by the harpies; but Mrs Mackenzie had been more clever, and had consequently predicted her cousin's speedy promotion in the world's rank.

Sir John, as he went home, made up his mind to one of two alternatives. He would either marry his cousin or halve Jonathan Ball's money with her. He wanted to marry her, and he wanted to keep the money. He wanted to marry her especially since he had seen how nice she looked in black-freckled muslin; but he wanted to marry her in silence, without any clash of absurd trumpets, without ridicule-moving leading articles, and fingers pointed at the triumphant lion. He made up his mind to one of those alternatives, and resolved that he would settle which on that very night. His mind should be made up and told to his mother before he went to bed. Nevertheless, when the girls and Jack were gone, and he was left alone with Lady Ball, his mind had as yet been made up to nothing!

His mother gave him no peace on this subject. It was she who began the conversation on this occasion.

"John," she said, "the time has come for me to settle the question of my residence."

Now the house at Twickenham was the property of the present baronet, but Lady Ball had a jointure of five hundred a year out of her late husband's estate. It had always been intended that the mother should continue to live with her son and grandchildren in the very probable event of her being left a widow; and it was felt by them all that their means were not large enough to permit, with discretion, separate households; but Lady Ball had declared more than once with extreme vehemence that nothing should induce her to live at the Cedars if Margaret Mackenzie should be made mistress of the house.

"Has the time come especially to-day?" he asked in reply.

"I think we may say it has come especially to-day. We know now that you have got this increase to your income, and nothing is any longer in doubt that we cannot ourselves settle. I need not say that my dearest wish is to remain here, but you know my mind upon that subject."

"I cannot see any possible reason for your going."

"Nor can I—except the one. I suppose you know yourself what you mean to do about your cousin. Everybody knows what you ought to do after the disgraceful things that have been put into all the newspapers."

"That has not been Margaret's fault."

"I am by no means so sure of that. Indeed, I think it has been her fault; and now she has made herself notorious by being at this bazaar, and by having herself called a ridiculous name by everybody. Nothing will make me believe but what she likes it."

"You are ready to believe any evil of her, mother; and yet it is not two years since you yourself wished me to marry her."

"Things are very different since that; very different indeed. And I did not know her then as I do now, or I should never have thought of such a thing, let her have had all the money in the world. She had not misbehaved herself then with that horrible curate."

"She has not misbehaved herself now," said the son, in an angry voice.

"Yes, she has, John," said the mother, in a voice still more angry.

"That's a matter for me to judge. She has not misbehaved herself in my eyes. It is a great misfortune,—a great misfortune for us both,—the conduct of this man; but I won't allow it to be said that it was her fault."

"Very well. Then I suppose I may arrange to go. I did not think, John, that I should be turned out of your father's house so soon after your father's death. I did not indeed."

Thereupon Lady Ball got out her handkerchief, and her son perceived that real tears were running down her face.

"Nobody has ever spoken of your going except yourself, mother."

"I won't live in the house with her."

"And what would you have me do? Would you wish me to let her go her way and starve by herself?"

"No, John; certainly not. I think you should see that she wants for nothing. She could live with her sister-in-law, and have the interest of the money that the Rubbs took from her. It was your money."

"I have explained to you over and over again, mother, that that has already been made over to Mrs Tom Mackenzie; and that would not have been at all sufficient. Indeed, I have altogether made up my mind upon that. When the lawyers and all the expenses are paid, there will still be about eight hundred a year. I shall share it with her."

"John!"

"That is my intention; and therefore if I were to marry her I should get an additional income of four hundred a year for myself and my children."

"You don't mean it, John?"

"Indeed I do, mother. I'm sure the world would expect me to do as much as that."

"The world expect you! And are you to rob your children, John, because the world expects it? I never heard of such a thing. Give away four hundred a year merely because you are afraid of those wretched newspapers! I did expect you would have more courage."

"If I do not do one, mother, I shall do the other certainly."

"Then I must beg you to tell me which you mean to do. If you gave her half of all that is coming to you, of course I must remain here because you could not live here without me. Your income would be quite insufficient. But you do owe it to me to tell me at once what I am to do."

To this her son made no immediate answer, but sat with his elbow on the table, and his head upon his hand looking moodily at the fire-place. He did not wish to commit himself if he could possibly avoid it.

"John, I must insist upon an answer," said his mother. "I have a right to expect an answer."

"You must do what you like, mother, independently of me. If you think you can live here on your income, I will go away, and you shall have the place."

"That's nonsense, John. Of course you want a large house for the children, and I, if I must be alone, shall only want one room for myself. What should I do with the house?" Then there was silence again for a while.

"I will give you a final answer on Saturday," he said at last. "I shall see Margaret before Saturday."

After that he took his candle and went to bed. It was then Tuesday, and Lady Ball was obliged to be contented with the promise thus made to her.

On Wednesday he did nothing. On the Thursday morning he received a letter which nearly drove him mad. It was addressed to him at the office of the Shadrach Fire Insurance Company, and it reached him there. It was as follows—

Littlebath, — June, 186—.

SIR,

You are no doubt fully aware of all the efforts which I have made during the last six months to secure from your grasp the fortune which did belong to my dear—my dearest friend, Margaret Mackenzie. For as my dearest friend I shall ever regard her, though she and I have been separated by machinations of the nature of which she, as I am fully sure, has never been aware. I now ascertain that some of the inferior law courts have, under what pressure I know not, set aside the will which was made twenty years ago in favour of the Mackenzie family, and given to you the property which did belong to them. That a superior court would reverse the judgment, I believe there is little doubt; but whether or no the means exist for me to bring the matter before the higher tribunals of the country I am not yet aware. Very probably I may have no such power, and in such case, Margaret Mackenzie is, to-day, through your means, a beggar.

Since this matter has been before the public you have ingeniously contrived to mitigate the wrath of public opinion by letting it be supposed that you purposed to marry the lady whose wealth you were seeking to obtain by legal quibbles. You have made your generous intentions very public, and have created a romance that has been, I must say, but little becoming to your age. If all be true that I heard when I last saw Miss Mackenzie at Twickenham, you have gone through some ceremony of proposing to her. But, as I understand, that joke is now thought to have been carried far enough; and as the money is your own, you intend to enjoy yourself as a lion, leaving the lamb to perish in the wilderness.

Now I call upon you to assert, under your own name and with your own signature, what are your intentions with reference to Margaret Mackenzie. Her property, at any rate for the present, is yours. Do you intend to make her your wife, or do you not? And if such be your intention, when do you purpose that the marriage shall take place, and where?

I reserve to myself the right to publish this letter and your answer to it; and of course shall publish the fact if your cowardice prevents you from answering it. Indeed nothing shall induce me to rest in this matter till I know that I have been the means of restoring to Margaret Mackenzie the means of decent livelihood.

I have the honour to be, Sir, Your very humble servant,

JEREMIAH MAGUIRE.

Sir John Ball, Bart., &c., &c, Shadrach Fire Office.

Sir John, when he had read this, was almost wild with agony and anger. He threw up his hands with dismay as he walked along the passages of the Shadrach Office, and fulminated mental curses against the wasp that was able to sting him so deeply. What should he do to the man? As for answering the letter, that was of course out of the question; but the reptile would carry out his threat of publishing the letter, and then the whole question of his marriage would be discussed in the public prints. An idea came across him that a free press was bad and rotten from the beginning to the end. This creature was doing him a terrible injury, was goading him almost to death, and yet he could not punish him. He was a clergyman, and could not be beaten and kicked, or even fired at with a pistol. As for prosecuting the miscreant, had not his own lawyer told him over and over again that such a prosecution was the very thing which the miscreant desired. And then the additional publicity of such a prosecution, and the twang of false romance which would follow and the horrid alliteration of the story of the two beasts, and all the ridicule of the incidents, crowded upon his mind, and he walked forth from the Shadrach office among the throngs of the city a wretched and almost despairing man.



CHAPTER XXIX

A Friend in Need Is a Friend Indeed

When the work of the bazaar was finished all the four Mackenzie ladies went home to Mrs Mackenzie's house in Cavendish Square, very tired, eager for tea, and resolved that nothing more should be done that evening. There should be no dressing for dinner, no going out, nothing but idleness, tea, lamb chops, and gossip about the day's work. Mr Mackenzie was down at the House, and there was no occasion for any domestic energy. And thus the evening was passed. How Mrs Chaucer Munro and the loud bevy fared among them, or how old Lady Ware and her daughters, or the poor, dear, bothered duchess or Mr Manfred Smith, or the kings and heroes who had appeared in paint and armour, cannot be told. I fear that the Mackenzie verdict about the bazaar in general was not favourable and that they agreed among themselves to abstain from such enterprises of charity in future. It concerns us now chiefly to know that our Griselda held up her head well throughout that evening, and made herself comfortable and at her ease among her cousins, although it was already known to her that the legal decision had gone against her in the great case of Ball v. Mackenzie. But had that decision been altogether in her favour the result would not have been so favourable to her spirits, as had been that little speech made by Mrs Mackenzie as to her having no right as yet to scold Sir John for his extravagance,—that little speech made in good humour, and apparently accepted in good humour even by him. But on that evening Mrs Mackenzie was not able to speak to Margaret about her prospects, or to lecture her on the expediency of regarding the nicenesses of her dress in Sir John's presence, because of the two other cousins. The two other cousins, no doubt, knew all the story of the Lion and the Lamb, and talked to their sister-in-law, Clara, of their other cousin, Griselda, behind Griselda's back; and were no doubt very anxious that Griselda should become a baronet's wife; but among so large a party there was no opportunity for confidential advice.

On the next morning Mrs Mackenzie and Margaret were together, and then Mrs Mackenzie began:

"Margaret, my dear," said she, "that bonnet I gave you has been worth its weight in gold."

"It cost nearly as much," said Margaret, "for it was very expensive and very light."

"Or in bank-notes either, because it has shown him and me and everybody else that you needn't be a dowdy unless you please. No man wishes to marry a dowdy, you know."

"I suppose I was a dowdy when he asked me."

"I wasn't there, and didn't know you then, and can't say. But I do know that he liked the way you looked yesterday. Now, of course, he'll be coming here before long."

"I dare say he won't come here again the whole summer."

"If he did not, I should send for him."

"Oh, Mrs Mackenzie!"

"And oh, Griselda! Why should I not send for him? You don't suppose I'm going to let this kind of thing go on from month to month, till that old woman at the Cedars has contrived to carry her point. Certainly not."

"Now that the matter is settled, of course, I shall not go on staying here."

"Not after you're married, my dear. We couldn't well take in Sir John and all the children. Besides, we shall be going down to Scotland for the grouse. But I mean you shall be married out of this house. Don't look so astonished. Why not? There's plenty of time before the end of July."

"I don't think he means anything of the kind; I don't indeed."

"Then he must be the queerest man that ever I met; and I should say about the falsest and most heartless also. But whether he means to do that or does not, he must mean to do something. You don't suppose he'll take all your fortune away from you, and then leave you without coming to say a word to you about it? If you had disputed the matter, and put him to all manner of expense; if, in short, you had been enemies through it all, that might have been possible. But you have been such a veritable lamb, giving your fleece to the shearer so meekly,—such a true Griselda, that if he were to leave you in that way, no one would ever speak to him again."

"But you forget Lady Ball."

"No, I don't. He'll have a disagreeable scene with his mother, and I don't pretend to guess what will be the end of that; but when he has done with his mother, he'll come here. He must do it. He has no alternative. And when he does come, I want you to look your best. Believe me, my dear, there would be no muslins in the world and no starch, if it was not intended that people should make themselves look as nice as possible."

"Young people," suggested Margaret.

"Young people, as you call them, can look well without muslin and without starch. Such things were intended for just such persons as you and me; and as for me, I make it a rule to take the goods the gods provide me."

Mrs Mackenzie's philosophy was not without its result, and her prophecy certainly came true. A few days passed by and no lover came, but early on the Friday morning after the bazaar, Margaret, who at the moment was in her own room, was told that Sir John was below in the drawing-room with Mrs Mackenzie. He had already been there some little time, the servant said, and Mrs Mackenzie had sent up with her love to know if Miss Mackenzie would come down. Would she go down? Of course she would go to her cousin. She was no coward. Indeed, a true Griselda can hardly be a coward. So she made up her mind to go to her cousin and hear her fate.

The last four-and-twenty hours had been very bitter with Sir John Ball. What was he to do, walking about with that man's letter in his pocket—with that reptile's venom still curdling through his veins? On that Thursday morning, as he went towards his office, he had made up his mind, as he thought, to go to Margaret and bid her choose her own destiny. She should become his wife, or have half of Jonathan Ball's remaining fortune, as she might herself elect. "She refused me," he said to himself, "when the money was all hers. Why should she wish to come to such a house as mine, to marry a dull husband and undertake the charge of a lot of children? She shall choose herself." And then he thought of her as he had seen her at the bazaar, and began to flatter himself that, in spite of his dullness and his children, she would choose to become his wife. He was making some scheme as to his mother's life, proposing that two of his girls should live with her, and that she should be near to him, when the letter from Mr Maguire was put into his hands.

How was he to marry his cousin after that? If he were to do so, would not that wretch at Littlebath declare, through all the provincial and metropolitan newspapers, that he had compelled the marriage? That letter would be published in the very column that told of the wedding. But yet he must decide. He must do something. They who read this will probably declare that he was a weak fool to regard anything that such a one as Mr Maguire could say of him. He was not a fool, but he was so far weak and foolish; and in such matters such men are weak and foolish, and often cowardly.

It was, however, absolutely necessary that he should do something. He was as well aware as was Mrs Mackenzie that it was essentially his duty to see his cousin, now that the question of law between them had been settled. Even if he had no thought of again asking her to be his wife, he could not confide to any one else the task of telling her what was to be her fate. Her conduct to him in the matter of the property had been exemplary, and it was incumbent on him to thank her for her generous forbearance. He had pledged himself also to give his mother a final answer on Saturday.

On the Friday morning, therefore, he knocked at the Mackenzies' house door in Cavendish Square, and soon found himself alone with Mrs Mackenzie. I do not know that even then he had come to any fixed purpose. What he would himself have preferred would have been permission to postpone any action as regards his cousin for another six months, and to have been empowered to use that time in crushing Mr Maguire out of existence. But this might not be so, and therefore he went to Cavendish Square that he might there decide his fate.

"You want to see Margaret, no doubt," said Mrs Mackenzie, "that you may tell her that her ruin is finally completed;" and as she thus spoke of her cousin's ruin, she smiled her sweetest smile and put on her pleasantest look.

"Yes, I do want to see her presently," he said.

Mrs Mackenzie had stood up as though she were about to go in quest of her cousin, but had sat down again when the word presently was spoken. She was by no means averse to having a few words of conversation about Margaret, if Sir John should wish it. Sir John, I fear, had merely used the word through some instinctive idea that he might thereby stave off the difficulty for a while.

"Don't you think she looked very well at the Bazaar?" said Mrs Mackenzie.

"Very well, indeed," he answered; "very well. I can't say I liked the place."

"Nor any of us, I can assure you. Only one must do that sort of thing sometimes, you know. Margaret was very much admired there. So much has been said of this singular story about her fortune, that people have, of course, talked more of her than they would otherwise have done."

"That has been a great misfortune," said Sir John, frowning.

"It has been a misfortune, but it has been one of those things that can't be helped. I don't think you have any cause to complain, for Margaret has behaved as no other woman ever did behave, I think. Her conduct has been perfect."

"I don't complain of her."

"As for the rest, you must settle that with the world yourself. I don't care for any one beyond her. But, for my part, I think it is the best to let those things die away of themselves. After all, what does it matter as long as one does nothing to be ashamed of oneself? People can't break any bones by their talking."

"Wouldn't you think it very unpleasant, Mrs Mackenzie, to have your name brought up in the newspapers?"

"Upon my word I don't think I should care about it as long as my husband stood by me. What is it after all? People say that you and Margaret are the Lion and the Lamb. What's the harm of being called a lamb or a lion either? As long as people are not made to believe that you have behaved badly, that you have been false or cruel, I can't see that it comes to much. One does not, of course, wish to have newspaper articles written about one."

"No, indeed."

"But they can't break your bones, nor can they make the world think you dishonest, as long as you take care that you are honest. Now, in this matter, I take it for granted that you and Margaret are going to make a match of it—"

"Has she told you so?"

Mrs Mackenzie paused a moment to collect her thoughts before she answered; but it was only for a moment, and Sir John Ball hardly perceived that she had ceased to speak.

"No," she said; "she has not told me so. But I have told her that it must be so."

"And she does not wish it?"

"Do you want me to tell a lady's secret? But in such a case as this the truth is always the best. She does wish it, with all her heart,—as much as any woman ever wished for anything. You need have no doubt about her loving you."

"Of course, Mrs Mackenzie, I should take care in any case that she were provided for amply. If a single life will suit her best, she shall have half of all that she ever thought to be her own."

"And do you wish it to be so?"

"I have not said that, Mrs Mackenzie. But it may be that I should wish her to have the choice fairly in her own power."

"Then I can tell you at once which she would choose. Your offer is very generous. It is more than generous. But, Sir John, a single life will not suit her; and my belief is, that were you to offer her the money without your hand, she would not take a farthing of it."

"She must have some provision."

"She will take none from you but the one, and you need be under no doubt whatsoever that she will take that without a moment's doubt as to her own future happiness. And, Sir John, I think you would have the best wife that I know anywhere among my acquaintance." Then she stopped, and he sat silent, making no reply. "Shall I send to her now?" said Mrs Mackenzie.

"I suppose you might as well," said Sir John.

Then Mrs Mackenzie got up and left the room, but she did not herself go up to her cousin. She felt that she could not see Margaret without saying something of what had passed between herself and Sir John, and that it would be better that nothing should be said. So she went away to her own room, and dispatched her maid to send the lamb to the lion. Nevertheless, it was not without compunction, some twang of feminine conscience, that Mrs Mackenzie gave up this opportunity of saying some last important word, and perhaps doing some last important little act with regard to those nicenesses of which she thought perhaps too much. Mrs Mackenzie's philosophy was not without its truth; but a man of fifty should not be made to marry a woman by muslin and starch, if he be not prepared to marry her on other considerations.

When the message came, Margaret thought nothing of the muslin and starch. The bonnet that had been worth its weight in gold, and the black-freckled dress, were all forgotten. But she thought of the words which her cousin John had spoken to her as soon as they had got through the little gate into the grounds of the Cedars when they had walked back together from the railway station at Twickenham; and she remembered that she had then pledged herself to be firm. If he alluded to the offer he had then made, and repeated it, she would throw herself into his arms at once, and tell him that she would serve him with all her heart and all her strength as long as God might leave them together. But she was quite as strongly determined to accept from him for herself no other kind of provision. That money which for a short while had been hers was now his; and she could have no claim upon him unless he gave her the claim of a wife. After what had passed between them she would not be the recipient of his charity. Certain words had been written and spoken from which she had gathered the existence, in Mr Slow's mind, of some such plan as this. His client should lose her cause meekly and graciously, and should then have a claim for alms. That had been the idea on which Mr Slow had worked. She had long made up her mind that Mr Slow should be taught to know her better, if the day for such offering of alms should ever come. Perhaps it had come now. She took up a little scarf that she wore ordinarily and folded it tight across her shoulders, quite forgetful of muslin and starch, as she descended to the drawing-room in order that this question might be solved for her.

Sir John met her almost at the door as she entered.

"I'm afraid you've been expecting me to come sooner," he said.

"No, indeed; I was not quite sure that you would come at all."

"Oh, yes; I was certain to come. You have hardly received as yet any official notification that your cause has been lost."

"It was not my cause, John," she said, smiling, "and I received no other notification than what I got through Mrs Mackenzie. Indeed, as you know, I have regarded this law business as nonsense all through. Since what you and Mr Slow told me, I have known that the property was yours."