Miss Mackenzie Part 37

Then Miss Mackenzie told her wretched story to Mr Rubb,--telling it for the third time. He was awe-struck as he listened, but did not once attempt to deny the facts, as had been done by Mrs Mackenzie.

"And is it sure?" he asked, when her story was over.

"I don't suppose it is quite sure yet. Indeed, Mr Slow said it was not quite sure. But I have not allowed myself to doubt it, and I do not doubt it."

"If he himself had not felt himself sure, he would not have told you."

"Just so, Mr Rubb. That is what I think; and therefore I have given my sister-in-law no hint that there is a chance left. I think you had better not do so either."

"Perhaps not," said he. He spoke in a low voice, almost whispering, as though he were half scared by the tidings he had heard.

"It is very dreadful," she said; "very dreadful for Sarah and the children."

"And for you too, Miss Mackenzie."

"But about them, Mr Rubb. What can you do for them out of the business?"

He looked very blank, and made no immediate answer.

"I know you will feel for their position," she said. "You do; do you not?"

"Indeed I do, Miss Mackenzie."

"And you will do what you can. You can at any rate ensure them the interest of the money--of the money you know that came from me."

Still Mr Rubb sat in silence, and she thought that he must be stonyhearted. Surely he might undertake to do that, knowing, as he so well knew, the way in which the money had been obtained, and knowing also that he had already said that so much should be forthcoming out of the firm to make up a general income for the family of his late partner.

"Surely there will be no doubt about that, Mr Rubb."

"The b.a.l.l.s will claim the debt," said he hoa.r.s.ely; and then, in answer to her inquiries, he explained that the sum she had lent had not, in truth, been hers to lend. It had formed part of the money that John Ball could claim, and Mr Slow held in his hands an acknowledgement of the debt from Rubb and Mackenzie. Of course, Mr Ball would claim that the interest should be paid to him; and he would claim the princ.i.p.al too, if, on inquiry, he should find that the firm would be able to raise it. "I don't know that he wouldn't be able to come upon the firm for the money your brother put into the business," said he gloomily. "But I don't think he'll be such a fool as that. He'd get nothing by it."

"Then may G.o.d help them!" said Miss Mackenzie.

"And what will you do?" he asked.

She shook her head, but made him no answer. As for herself she had not begun to form a plan. Her own condition did not seem to her to be nearly so dreadful as that of all these young children.

"I wish I knew how to help you," said Samuel Rubb.

"There are some positions, Mr Rubb, in which no one but G.o.d can help one. But, perhaps--perhaps you may still do something for the children."

"I will try, Miss Mackenzie."

"Thank you, and may G.o.d bless you; and He will bless you if you try.

'Who giveth a drop of water to one of them in my name, giveth it also to me.' You will think of that, will you not?"

"I will think of you, and do the best that I can."

"I had hoped to have made them so comfortable! But G.o.d's will be done; G.o.d's will be done. I think I had better go now, Mr Rubb. There will be no use in my going to her upstairs again. Tell her from me, with my love, that she shall hear from me when I have seen the lawyer. I will try to come to her, but perhaps I may not be able.

Good-bye, Mr Rubb."

"Good-bye, Miss Mackenzie. I hope we shall see each other sometimes."

"Perhaps so. Do what you can to support her. She will want all that her friends can do for her." So saying she went out of the room, and let herself out of the front door into the street, and began her walk back to the Waterloo Station.

She had not broken bread in her sister-in-law's house, and it was now nearly six o'clock. She had taken nothing since she had breakfasted at Twickenham, and the affairs of the day had been such as to give her but little time to think of such wants. But now as she made her weary way through the streets she became sick with hunger, and went into a baker's shop for a bun. As she ate it she felt that it was almost wrong in her to buy even that. At the present moment nothing that she possessed seemed to her to be, by right, her own. Every s.h.i.+lling in her purse was the property of John Ball, if Mr Slow's statement were true. Then, when the bun was finished, as she went down by Bloomsbury church and the region of St Giles's back to the Strand, she did begin to think of her own position. What should she do, and how should she commence to do it? She had declared to herself but lately that the work for which she was fittest was that of nursing the sick. Was it not possible that she might earn her bread in this way? Could she not find such employment in some quarter where her labour would be worth the food she must eat and the raiment she would require? There was a hospital somewhere in London with which she thought she had heard that John Ball was connected. Might not he obtain for her a situation such as that?

It was past eight when she reached the Cedars, and then she was very tired,--very tired and nearly sick also with want. She went first of all up to her room, and then crept down into the drawing-room, knowing that she should find them at tea. When she entered there was a large party round the table, consisting of the girls and children and Lady Ball. John Ball, who never took tea, was sitting in his accustomed place near the lamp, and the old baronet was half asleep in his arm-chair.

"If you were going to dine in Gower Street, Margaret, why didn't you say so?" said Lady Ball.

In answer to this, Margaret burst out into tears. It was not the unkindness of her aunt's voice that upset her so much as her own weakness, and the terrible struggle of the long day.

"What on earth is the matter?" said Sir John.

One of the girls brought her a cup of tea, but she felt herself to be too weak to take it in her hand, and made a sign that it should be put on the table. She was not aware that she had ever fainted, but a fear came upon her that she might do so now. She rallied herself and struggled, striving to collect her strength.

"Do you know what is the matter with her, John?" said Lady Ball.

Then John Ball asked her if she had had dinner, and when she did not answer him he saw how it was.

"Mother," he said, "she has had no food all day; I will get it for her."

"If she wants anything, the servants can bring it to her, John," said the mother.

But he would not trust the servants in this matter, but went out himself and fetched her meat and wine, and pressed her to take it, and sat himself beside her, and spoke kind words into her ear, and at last, in some sort, she was comforted.

CHAPTER XIX

Showing How Two of Miss Mackenzie's Lovers Behaved

Mr Ball, on his return home to the Cedars, had given no definite answer to his mother's inquiries as to the day's work in London, and had found it difficult to make any reply to her that would for the moment suffice. She was not a woman easily satisfied with evasive answers; but, nevertheless, he told her nothing of what had occurred, and left her simply in a bad humour. This conversation had taken place before dinner, but after dinner she asked him another question.

"John, you might as well tell me this; are you engaged to Margaret Mackenzie?"

"No, I am not," said her son, angrily.

After that his mother's humour had become worse than before, and in that state her niece had found her when she returned home in the evening, and had suffered in consequence.

On the next morning Miss Mackenzie sent down word to say she was not well, and would not come down to breakfast. It so happened that John Ball was going into town on this day also, the Abednego Life Office holding its board day immediately after that of the Shadrach Fire Office, and therefore he was not able to see her before she encountered his mother. Lady Ball went up to her in her bedroom immediately after breakfast, and there remained with her for some time. Her aunt at first was tender with her, giving her tea and only asking her gentle little questions at intervals; but as the old lady became impatient at learning nothing, she began a system of cross-questions, and at last grew to be angry and disagreeable. Her son had distinctly told her that he was not engaged to his cousin, and had in fact told her nothing else distinctly; but she, when she had seen how careful he had been in supplying Margaret's wants himself, with what anxious solicitude he had pressed wine on her; how he had sat by her saying soft words to her--Lady Ball, when she remembered this, could not but think that her son had deceived her.

And if so, why had he wished to deceive her? Could it be that he had allowed her to give away half her money, and had promised to marry her with the other half? There were moments in which her dear son John could be very foolish, in spite of that life-long devotion to the price of stocks, for which he was conspicuous. She still remembered, as though it were but the other day, how he had persisted in marrying Rachel, though Rachel brought nothing with her but a sweet face, a light figure, a happy temper, and the clothes on her back. To all mothers their sons are ever young, and to old Lady Ball John Ball was still young, and still, possibly, capable of some such folly as that of which she was thinking. If it were not so, if there were not something of that kind in the wind why should he--why should she--be so hard and uncommunicative in all their answers? There lay her niece, however, sick with the headache, and therefore weak, and very much in Lady Ball's power. The evil to be done was great, and the necessity for preventing it might be immediate. And Lady Ball was a lady who did not like to be kept in the dark in reference to anything concerning her family. Having gone downstairs, therefore, for an hour or so to look after her servants, or, as she had said, to allow Margaret to have a little sleep, she returned again to the charge, and sitting close to Margaret's pillow, did her best to find out the truth.

If she could only have known the whole truth; how her son's thoughts were running throughout the day, even as he sat at the Abednego board, not on Margaret with half her fortune, but on Margaret with none! how he was recalling the sweetness of her face as she looked up to him in the square, and took him by his coat, and her tears as she spoke of the orphan children, and the grace of her figure as she had walked away from him, and the persistency of her courage in doing what she thought to be right! how he was struggling within himself with an endeavour, a vain endeavour, at a resolution that such a marriage as that must be out of the question! Had Lady Ball known all that, I think she would have flown to the offices of the Abednego after her son, and never have left him till she had conquered his heart and trampled his folly under her feet.

But she did not conquer Margaret Mackenzie. The poor creature lying there, racked, in truth, with pain and sorrow, altogether incapable of any escape from her aunt's gripe, would not say a word that might tend to ease Lady Ball's mind. If she had told all that she knew, all that she surmised, how would her aunt have rejoiced? That the money should come without the wife would indeed have been a triumph! And Margaret in telling all would have had nothing to tell of those terribly foolish thoughts which were then at work in the City. To her such a state of things as that which I have hinted would have seemed quite as improbable, quite as unaccountable, as it would have done to her aunt. But she did not tell all, nor in truth did she tell anything.