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.