"He is a man, and knows what he is about, and it does not signify to him. But, aunt, I won't talk about it, and there's an end of it."
"I hope he does know what he is about," said Lady Ball. "I hope he does. But you, as you say, are a woman, and therefore it specially behoves you to know what you are about."
"I am not doing anything to anybody," said Margaret.
Lady Ball had now refolded the offensive newspaper, and restored it to her pocket. Perhaps she had done as much with it as she had from the first intended. At any rate, she brought it forth no more, and made no further intentionally direct allusion to it. "I don't suppose you really wish to do any injury to anybody," she said.
"Does anybody accuse me of doing them an injury?" Margaret asked.
"Well, my dear, if I were to say that I accused you, perhaps you would misunderstand me. I hope—I thoroughly expect, that before I leave you, I may be able to say that I do not accuse you. If you will only listen to me patiently for a few minutes, Margaret—which I couldn't get you to do, you know, before you went away from the Cedars in that very extraordinary manner—I think I can explain to you something which—" Here Lady Ball became embarrassed, and paused; but Margaret gave her no assistance, and therefore she began a new sentence. "In point of fact, I want you to listen to what I say, and then, I think—I do think—you will do as we would have you."
Whom did she include in that word "we"? Margaret had still sufficient vitality not to let the word pass by unquestioned. "You mean yourself and John?" said she.
"I mean the family," said Lady Ball rather sharply. "I mean the whole family, including those dear girls to whom I have been in the position of a mother since my son's wife died. It is in the name of the Ball family that I now speak, and surely I have a right."
Margaret thought that Lady Ball had no such right, but she would not say so at that moment.
"Well, Margaret, to come to the point at once, the fact is this. You must renounce any idea that you may still have of becoming my son's wife." Then she paused.
"Has John sent you here to say this?" demanded Margaret.
"I don't wish you to ask any such question as that. If you had any real regard for him I don't think you would ask it. Consider his difficulties, and consider the position of those poor children! If he were your brother, would you advise him, at his age, to marry a woman without a farthing, and also to incur the certain disgrace which would attach to his name after—after all that has been said about it in this newspaper?"—then, Lady Ball put her hand upon her pocket—"in this newspaper, and in others?"
This was more than Margaret could bear. "There would be no disgrace," said she, jumping to her feet.
"Margaret, if you put yourself into a passion, how can you understand reason? You ought to know, yourself, by the very fact of your being in a passion, that you are wrong. Would there be no disgrace, after all that has come out about Mr Maguire?"
"No, none—none!" almost shouted this modern Griselda. "There could be no disgrace. I won't admit it. As for his marrying me, I don't expect it. There is nothing to bind him to me. If he doesn't come to me I certainly shall not go to him. I have looked upon it as all over between him and me; and as I have not troubled him with any importunities, nor yet you, it is cruel in you to come to me in this way. He is free to do what he likes—why don't you go to him? But there would be no disgrace."
"Of course he is free. Of course such a marriage never can take place now. It is quite out of the question. You say that it is all over, and you are quite right. Why not let this be settled in a friendly way between you and me, so that we might be friends again? I should be so glad to help you in your difficulties if you would agree with me about this."
"I want no help."
"Margaret, that is nonsense. In your position you are very wrong to set your natural friends at defiance. If you will only authorise me to say that you renounce thismarriage—"
"I will not renounce it," said Margaret, who was still standing up. "I will not renounce it. I would sooner lose my tongue than let it say such a word. You may tell him, if you choose to tell him anything, that I demand nothing from him; nothing. All that I once thought mine is now his, and I demand nothing from him. But when he asked me to be his wife he told me to be firm, and in that I will obey him. He may renounce me, and I shall have nothing with which to reproach him; but I will never renounce him—never." And then the modern Griselda, who had been thus galvanised into vitality, stood over her aunt in a mood that was almost triumphant.
"Margaret, I am astonished at you," said Lady Ball, when she had recovered herself.
"I can't help that, aunt."
"And now let me tell you this. My son is, of course, old enough to do as he pleases. If he chooses to ruin himself and his children by marrying, anybody—even if it were out of the streets—I can't help it. Stop a moment and hear me to the end." This she said, as her niece had made a movement as though towards the door. "I say, even if it were out of the streets, I couldn't help it. But nothing shall induce me to live in the same house with him if he marries you. It will be on your conscience for ever that you have brought ruin on the whole family, and that will be your punishment. As for me, I shall take myself off to some solitude, and—there—I—shall—die." Then Lady Ball put her handkerchief up to her face and wept copiously.
Margaret stood still, leaning upon the table, but she spoke no word, either in answer to the threat or to the tears. Her immediate object was to take herself out of the room, but this she did not know how to achieve. At last her aunt spoke again: "If you please, I will get you to ask your landlady to send for a cab." Then the cab was procured, and Buggins, who had come home for his dinner, handed her ladyship in. Not a word had been spoken during the time that the cab was being fetched, and when Lady Ball went down the passage, she merely said, "I wish you good-bye, Margaret."
"Good-bye," said Margaret, and then she escaped to her own bedroom.
Lady Ball had not done her work well. It was not within her power to induce Margaret to renounce her engagement, and had she known her niece better, I do not think that she would have made the attempt. She did succeed in learning that Margaret had received no renewal of an offer from her son,—that there was, in fact, no positive engagement now existing between them; and with this, I think, she should have been satisfied. Margaret had declared that she demanded nothing from her cousin, and with this assurance Lady Ball should have been contented. But she had thought to carry her point, to obtain the full swing of her will, by means of a threat, and had forgotten that in the very words of her own menace she conveyed to Margaret some intimation that her son was still desirous of doing that very thing which she was so anxious to prevent. There was no chance that her threat should have any effect on Margaret. She ought to have known that the tone of the woman's mind was much too firm for that. Margaret knew—was as sure of it as any woman could be sure—that her cousin was bound to her by all ties of honour. She believed, too, that he was bound to her by love, and that if he should finally desert it, he would be moved to do so by mean motives. It was no anger on the score of Mr Maguire that would bring him to such a course, no suspicion that she was personally unworthy of being his wife. Our Griselda, with all her power of suffering and willingness to suffer, understood all that, and was by no means disposed to give way to any threat from Lady Ball.
When she was upstairs, and once more in solitude, she disgraced herself again by crying. She could be strong enough when attacked by others, but could not be strong when alone. She cried and sobbed upon her bed, and then, rising, looked at herself in the glass, and told herself that she was old and ugly, and fitted only for that hospital nursing of which she had been thinking. But still there was something about her heart that bore her up. Lady Ball would not have come to her, would not have exercised her eloquence upon her, would not have called upon her to renounce this engagement, had she not found all similar attempts upon her own son to be ineffectual. Could it then be so, that, after all, her cousin would be true to her? If it were so, if it could be so, what would she not do for him and for his children? If it were so, how blessed would have been all these troubles that had brought her to such a haven at last! Then she tried to reconcile his coldness to her with that which she so longed to believe might be the fact. She was not to expect him to be a lover such as are young men. Was she young herself, or would she like him better if he were to assume anything of youth in his manners? She understood that life with him was a serious thing, and that it was his duty to be serious and grave in what he did. It might be that it was essential to his character, after all that had passed, that the question of the property should be settled finally, before he could come to her, and declare his wishes. Thus flattering herself, she put away from her her tears, and dressed herself, smoothing her hair, and washing away the traces of her weeping; and then again she looked at herself in the glass to see if it were possible that she might be comely in his eyes.
The months of January and February slowly wore themselves away, and during the whole of that time Margaret saw her cousin but once, and then she met him at Mr Slow's chambers. She had gone there to sign some document, and there she had found him. She had then been told that she would certainly lose her cause. No one who had looked into the matter had any doubt of that. It certainly was the case that Jonathan Ball had bequeathed property which was not his at the time he made the will, but which at the time of his death, in fact, absolutely belonged to his nephew, John Ball. Old Mr Slow, as he explained this now for the seventh or eighth time, did it without a tone of regret in his voice, or a sign of sorrow in his eye. Margaret had become so used to the story now, that it excited no strong feelings within her. Her wish, she said, was, that the matter should be settled. The lawyer, with almost a smile on his face, but still shaking his head, said that he feared it could not be settled before the end of April. John Ball sat by, leaning his face, as usual, upon his umbrella, and saying nothing. It did, for a moment, strike Miss Mackenzie as singular, that she should be reduced from affluence to absolute nothingness in the way of property, in so very placid a manner. Mr Slow seemed to be thinking that he was, upon the whole, doing rather well for his client.
"Of course you understand, Miss Mackenzie, that you can have any money you require for your present personal wants."
This had been said to her so often, that she took it as one of Mr Slow's legal formulas, which meant nothing to the laity.
On that occasion also Mr Ball walked home with her, and was very eloquent about the law's delays. He also seemed to speak as though there was nothing to be regretted by anybody, except the fact that he could not get possession of the property as quick as he wished. He said not a word of anything else, and Margaret, of course, submitted to be talked to by him rather than to talk herself. Of Lady Ball's visit he said not a word, nor did she. She asked after the children, and especially after Jack. One word she did say:
"I had hoped Jack would have come to see me at my lodgings."
"Perhaps he had better not," said Jack's father, "till all is settled. We have had much to trouble us at home since my father's death."
Then of course she dropped that subject. She had been greatly startled on that day on hearing her cousin called Sir John by Mr Slow. Up to that moment it had never occurred to her that the man of whom she was so constantly thinking as her possible husband was a baronet. To have been Mrs Ball seemed to her to have been possible; but that she should become Lady Ball was hardly possible. She wished that he had not been called Sir John. It seemed to her to be almost natural that people should be convinced of the impropriety of such a one as her becoming the wife of a baronet.
During this period she saw her sister-in-law once or twice, who on those occasions came down to Arundel Street. She herself would not go to Gower Street, because of the presence of Miss Colza. Miss Colza still continued to live there, and still continued very much in arrear in her contributions to the household fund. Mrs Mackenzie did not turn her out, because she would,—so she said,—in such case get nothing. Mrs Tom was by this time quite convinced that the property would, either justly or unjustly, go into the hands of John Ball, and she was therefore less anxious to make any sacrifice to please her sister-in-law.
"I'm sure I don't see why you should be so bitter against her," said Mrs Tom. "I don't suppose she told the clergyman a word that wasn't true."
Miss Mackenzie declined to discuss the subject, and assured Mrs Tom that she only recommended the banishment of Miss Colza because of her apparent unwillingness to pay.
"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.
"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, MrsMackenzie—"
"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 inScotland—"
"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 theInverary 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.
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 inéclatnor 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'md——"
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."