"But it was quite necessary to have a judgment."

"I suppose so, and there's an end of it. I, for one, am not in the least disappointed,—if it will give you any comfort to know that."

"I don't believe that any other woman in England would have lost her fortune with the equanimity that you have shown."

She could not explain to him that, in the first days of dismay caused by that misfortune, he had given her such consolation as to make her forget her loss, and that her subsequent misery had been caused by the withdrawal of that consolation. She could not tell him that the very memory of her money had been, as it were, drowned by other hopes in life,—by other hopes and by other despair. But when he praised her for her equanimity, she thought of this. She still smiled as she heard his praise.

"I suppose I ought to return the compliment," she said, "and declare that no cousin who had been kept so long out of his own money ever behaved so well as you have done. I can assure you that I have thought of it very often,—of the injustice that has been involuntarily done to you."

"It has been unjust, has it not?" said he, piteously, thinking of his injuries. "So much of it has gone in that oilcloth business, and all for nothing!"

"I'm glad at any rate that Walter's share did not go."

He knew that this was not the kind of conversation which he had desired to commence, and that it must be changed before anything could be settled. So he shook himself and began again.

"And now, Margaret, as the lawyers have finished their part of the business, ours must begin."

She had been standing hitherto and had felt herself to be strong enough to stand, but at the sound of these words her knees had become weak under her, and she found a retreat upon the sofa. Of course she said nothing as he came and stood over her.

"I hope you have understood," he continued, "that while all this was going on I could propose no arrangement of any kind."

"I know you have been very much troubled."

"Indeed I have. It seems that any blackguard has a right to publish any lies that he likes about any one in any of the newspapers, and that nobody can do anything to protect himself! Sometimes I have thought that it would drive me mad!"

But he again perceived that he was getting out of the right course in thus dwelling upon his own injuries. He had come there to alleviate her misfortunes, not to talk about his own.

"It is no good, however, talking about all that; is it, Margaret?"

"It will cease now, will it not?"

"I cannot say. I fear not. Whichever way I turn, they abuse me for what I do. What business is it of theirs?"

"You mean their absurd story—calling you a lion."

"Don't talk of it, Margaret."

Then Margaret was again silent. She by no means wished to talk of the story, if he would only leave it alone.

"And now about you."

Then he came and sat beside her, and she put her hand back behind the cushion on the sofa so as to save herself from trembling in his presence. She need not have cared much, for, let her tremble ever so much, he had then no capacity for perceiving it.

"Come, Margaret; I want to do what is best for us both. How shall it be?"

"John, you have children, and you should do what is best for them."

Then there was a pause again, and when he spoke after a while, he was looking down at the floor and poking among the pattern on the carpet with his stick.

"Margaret, when I first asked you to marry me, you refused me."

"I did," said she; "and then all the property was mine."

"But afterwards you said you would have me."

"Yes; and when you asked me the second time I had nothing. I know all that."

"I thought nothing about the money then. I mean that I never thought you refused me because you were rich and took me because you were poor. I was not at all unhappy about that when we were walking round the shrubbery. But when I thought you had cared for that man—"

"I had never cared for him," said Margaret, withdrawing her hand from behind the pillow in her energy, and fearing no longer that she might tremble. "I had never cared for him. He is a false man, and told untruths to my aunt."

"Yes, he is, a liar,—a damnable liar. That is true at any rate."

"He is beneath your notice, John, and beneath mine. I will not speak of him."

Sir John, however, had an idea that when he felt the wasp's venom through all his blood, the wasp could not be altogether beneath his notice.

"The question is," said he, speaking between his teeth, and hardly pronouncing his words, "the question is whether you care for me."

"I do," said she turning round upon him; and as she did so our Griselda took both his hands in hers. "I do, John. I do care for you. I love you better than all the world besides. Whom else have I to love at all? If you choose to think it mean of me, now that I am so poor, I cannot help it. But who was it told me to be firm? Who was it told me? Who was it told me?"

Lady Ball had lost her game, and Mrs Mackenzie had been a true prophet. Mrs Mackenzie had been one of those prophets who knew how to assist the accomplishment of their own prophecies, and Lady Ball had played her game with very indifferent skill. Sir John endeavoured to say a word as to that other alternative that he had to offer, but the lamb was not lamb-like enough to listen to it. I doubt even whether Margaret knew, when at night she thought over the affairs of the day, that any such offer had been made to her. During the rest of the interview she was by far the greatest talker, and she would not rest till she had made him swear that he believed her when she said, that both in rejecting him and accepting him, she had been guided simply by her affection. "You know, John," she said, "a woman can't love a man all at once."

They had been together for the best part of two hours, when Mrs Mackenzie knocked at the door. "May I come in?"

"Oh, yes," said Margaret.

"And may I ask a question?" She knew by the tone of her cousin's voice that no question could come amiss.

"You must ask him," said Margaret, coming to her and kissing her.

"But, first of all," said Mrs Mackenzie, shutting the door and assuming a very serious countenance, "I have news of my own to tell. There is a gentleman downstairs in the dining-room who has sent up word that he wants to see me. He says he is a clergyman."

Then Sir John Ball ceased to smile, and look foolish, but doubled his fist, and went towards the door.

"Who is it?" said Margaret, whispering.

"I have not heard his name, but from the servant's account of him I have not much doubt myself; I suppose he comes from Littlebath. You can go down to him, if you like, Sir John; but I would not advise it."

"No," said Margaret, clinging to his arm, "you shall not go down. What good can you do? He is beneath you. If you beat him he will have the law of you—and he is a clergyman. If you do not, he will only revile you, and make you wretched." Thus between the two ladies the baronet was restrained.

It was Mr Maguire. Having learned from his ally, Miss Colza, that Margaret was staying with her cousins in Cavendish Square, he had resolved upon calling on Mrs Mackenzie, and forcing his way, if possible, into Margaret's presence. Things were not going well with him at Littlebath, and in his despair he had thought that the best chance to him of carrying on the fight lay in this direction. Then there was a course of embassies between the dining-room and drawing-room in the Mackenzie mansion. The servant was sent to ask the gentleman his name, and the gentleman sent up to say that he was a clergyman,—that his name was not known to Mrs Mackenzie, but that he wanted to see her most particularly for a few minutes on very special business. Then the servant was despatched to ask him whether or no he was the Rev. Jeremiah Maguire, of Littlebath, and under this compulsion he sent back word that such was his designation. He was then told to go. Upon that he wrote a note to Mrs Mackenzie, setting forth that he had a private communication to make, much to the advantage of her cousin, Miss Margaret Mackenzie. He was again told to go; and then told again, that if he did not leave the house at once, the assistance of the police would be obtained. Then he went. "And it was frightful to behold him," said the servant, coming up for the tenth time. But the servant no doubt enjoyed the play, and on one occasion presumed to remark that he did not think any reference to the police was necessary. "Such a game as we've had up!" he said to the coachman that afternoon in the kitchen.

And the game that they had in the drawing-room was not a bad game either. When Mr Maguire would not go, the two women joined in laughing, till at last the tears ran down Mrs Mackenzie's face.

"Only think of our being kept prisoners here by a one-eyed clergyman."

"He has got two eyes," said Margaret. "If he had ten he shan't see us."

And at last Sir John laughed; and as he laughed he came and stood near Margaret; and once he got his arm round her waist, and Griselda was very happy. At the present moment she was quite indifferent to Mr Maguire and any mode of fighting that he might adopt.



CHAPTER XXX

Conclusion

Things had not been going well with Mr Maguire when, as a last chance, he attempted to force an entrance into Mrs Mackenzie's drawing-room. Things, indeed, had been going very badly with him. Mr Stumfold at Littlebath had had an interview with the editor of the Christian Examiner, and had made that provincial Jupiter understand that he must drop the story of the Lion and the Lamb. There had been more than enough of it, Mr Stumfold thought; and if it were continued, Mr Stumfold would—would make Littlebath too hot to hold the Christian Examiner. That was the full meaning of Mr Stumfold's threat; and, as the editor knew Mr Stumfold's power, the editor wisely turned a cold shoulder upon Mr Maguire. When Mr Maguire came to the editor with his letter for publication, the editor declared that he should be happy to insert it—as an advertisement. Then there had been a little scene between Mr Maguire and the editor, and Mr Maguire had left the editorial office shaking the dust from off his feet. But he was a persistent man, and, having ascertained that Miss Colza was possessed of some small share in her brother's business in the city, he thought it expedient to betake himself again to London. He did so, as we have seen; and with some very faint hope of obtaining collateral advantage for himself, and some stronger hope that he might still be able to do an injury to Sir John Ball, he went to the Mackenzies' house in Cavendish Square. There his success was not great; and from that time forward the wasp had no further power of inflicting stings upon the lion whom he had persecuted.

But some further annoyance he did give to Griselda. He managed to induce Mrs Tom Mackenzie to take him in as a lodger in Gower Street, and Margaret very nearly ran into his way in her anxiety to befriend her sister-in-law. Luckily she heard from Mr Rubb that he was there on the very day on which she had intended to visit Gower Street. Poor Mrs Mackenzie got the worst of it; for of course Mr Maguire did not pay for his lodgings. But he did marry Miss Colza, and in some way got himself instituted to a chapel at Islington. There we will leave him, not trusting much in his connubial bliss, but faintly hoping that his teaching may be favourable to the faith and morals of his new flock.

Of Mr Samuel Rubb, junior, we must say a few words. His first acquaintance with our heroine was not made under circumstances favourable to him. In that matter of the loan, he departed very widely from the precept which teaches us that honesty is the best policy. And when I feel that our Margaret was at one time really in danger of becoming Mrs Rubb,—that in her ignorance of the world, in the dark gropings of her social philosophy, amidst the difficulties of her solitude, she had not known whether she could do better with herself and her future years, than give herself, and them, and her money to Mr Samuel Rubb, I tremble as I look back upon her danger. It has been said of women that they have an insane desire for matrimony. I believe that the desire, even if it be as general as is here described, is no insanity. But when I see such a woman as Margaret Mackenzie in danger from such a man as Samuel Rubb, junior, I am driven to fear that there may sometimes be a maniacal tendency. But Samuel Rubb was by no means a bad man. He first hankered after the woman's money, but afterwards he had loved the woman; and my female reader, if she agrees with me, will feel that that virtue covers a multitude of sins.

And he was true to the promise that he made about the loan. He did pay the interest of the money regularly to Mrs Mackenzie in Gower Street, and after a while was known in that house as the recognised lover of Mary Jane, the eldest daughter. It this way it came to pass that he occasionally saw the lady to whose hand he had aspired; for Margaret, when she was assured that Mr Maguire and his bride were never likely to be seen in that locality, did not desert her nephews and nieces in Gower Street.

But we must go back to Sir John Ball. As soon as the coast was clear in Cavendish Square, he took his leave of Margaret. Mrs Mackenzie had left the room, desiring to speak a word to him alone as he came down.

"I shall tell my mother to-night," he said to Margaret. "You know that all this is not exactly as she wishes it."

"John," she said, "if it is as you wish it, I have no right to think of anything beyond that."

"It is as I wish it," said he.

"Then tell my aunt, with my love, that I shall hope that she will receive me as her daughter."

Then they parted, and Margaret was left alone to congratulate herself over her success.

"Sir John," said Mrs Mackenzie, calling him into the drawing-room; "you must hear my congratulations; you must, indeed."

"Thank you," said he, looking foolish; "you are very good."

"And so is she. She is what you may really call good. She is as good as gold. I know a woman when I see her; and I know that for one like her there are fifty not fit to hold a candle to her. She has nothing mean or little about her—nothing. They may call her a lamb, but she can be a lioness too when there is an occasion."

"I know that she is steadfast," said he.

"That she is, and honest, and warm hearted; and—and Oh! Sir John, I am so happy that it is all to be made right, and nice, and comfortable. It would have been very sad if she hadn't gone with the money; would it not?"

"I should not have taken the money—not all of it."

"And she would not have taken any. She would not have taken a penny of it, though we need not mind that now; need we? But there is one thing I want to say; you must not think I am interfering."

"I shan't think that after all that you have done."

"I want her to be married from here. It would be quite proper; wouldn't it? Mr Mackenzie is a little particular about the grouse, because there is to be a large party at Incharrow; but up to the 10th of August you and she should fix any day you like."

Sir John showed by his countenance that he was somewhat taken aback. The 10th of August, and here they were far advanced into June! When he had left home this morning he had not fully made up his mind whether he meant to marry his cousin or not; and now, within a few hours, he was being confined to weeks and days! Mrs Mackenzie saw what was passing in his mind; but she was not a woman to be driven easily from her purpose.

"You see," she said, "there is so much to think of. What is Margaret to do, if we leave her in London when we go down? And it would really be better for her to be married from her cousin's house; it would, indeed. Lady Ball would like it better—I'm sure she would—than if she were to be living alone in the town in lodgings. There is always a way of doing things; isn't there? And Walter's sisters, her own cousins, could be her bridesmaids, you know."

Sir John said that he would think about it.

"I haven't spoken to her, of course," said Mrs Mackenzie; "but I shall now."

Sir John, as he went eastwards into the city, did think about it; and before he had reached his own house that evening, he had brought himself to regard Mrs Mackenzie's scheme in a favourable light. He was not blind to the advantage of taking his wife from a house in Cavendish Square, instead of from lodgings in Arundel Street; and he was aware that his mother would not be blind to that advantage either. He did not hope to be able to reconcile her to his marriage at once; and perhaps he entertained some faint idea that for the first six months of his new married life the Cedars would be quite as pleasant without his mother as with her; but a final reconciliation would be more easy if he and his wife had the Mackenzies of Incharrow to back them, than it could be without such influence. And as for the London gossip of the thing, the finale to the romance of the Lion and the Lamb, it would be sure to come sooner or later. Let them have their odious joke and have done with it!

"Mother," he said, as soon as he could find himself alone with Lady Ball that day, not waiting for the midnight conference; "mother, I may as well tell you at once. I have proposed to Margaret Mackenzie again to-day."

"Oh! very well."

"And she has accepted me."

"Accepted you! of course she has; jumped at the chance, no doubt. What else should a pauper do?"

"Mother, that is ungenerous."

"She did not accept you when she had got anything."

"If I can reconcile myself to that, surely you can do so. The matter is settled now, and I think I have done the best in my power for myself and my children."

"And as for your mother, she may go and die anywhere."

"Mother, that is unfair. As long as I have a house over my head, you shall share it, if you please to do so. If it suits you to go elsewhere, I will be with you as often as may be possible. I hope, however, you will not leave us."

"That I shall certainly do."

"Then I hope you will not go far from me."

"And when is it to be?" said his mother, after a pause.

"I cannot name any day; but some time before the 10th of August."

"Before the 10th of August! Why, that is at once. Oh! John; and your father not dead a year!"

"Margaret has a home now with her cousins in Cavendish Square; but she cannot stay there after they go to Scotland. It will be for her welfare that she should be married from their house. And as for my father's death, I know that you do not suspect me of disrespect to his memory."

And in this way it was settled at the Cedars; and his mother's question about the time drove him to the resolution which he himself had not reached. When next he was in Cavendish Square he asked Margaret whether she could be ready so soon, and she replied that she would be ready on any day that he told her to be ready.

Thus it was settled, and with a moderate amount of nuptial festivity the marriage feast was prepared in Mrs Mackenzie's house. Margaret was surprised to find how many dear friends she had who were interested in her welfare. Miss Baker wrote to her most affectionately; and Miss Todd was warm in her congratulations. But the attention which perhaps surprised her most was a warm letter of sisterly affection from Mrs Stumfold, in which that lady rejoiced with an exceeding joy in that the machinations of a certain wolf in sheep's clothing had been unsuccessful. "My anxiety that you should not be sacrificed I once before evinced to you," said Mrs Stumfold; "and within the last two months Mr Stumfold has been at work to put an end to the scurrilous writings which that wolf in sheep's clothing has been putting into the newspapers." Then Mrs Stumfold very particularly desired to be remembered to Sir John Ball, and expressed a hope that, at some future time, she might have the honour of being made acquainted with "the worthy baronet."

They were married in the first week in August, and our modern Griselda went through the ceremony with much grace. That there was much grace about Sir John Ball, I cannot say; but gentlemen, when they get married at fifty, are not expected to be graceful.

"There, my Lady Ball," said Mrs Mackenzie, whispering into her cousin's ear before they left the church; "now my prophecy has come true; and when we meet in London next spring, you will reward me for all I have done for you by walking out of a room before me."

But all these honours, and, what was better, all the happiness that came in her way, Lady Ball accepted thankfully, quietly, and with an enduring satisfaction, as it became such a woman to do.

THE END