She had often told herself, in those days of her philosophy at Littlebath, that she did not care to be a lady; and she told herself now the same thing very often when she was thinking of the hospital.
She cosseted herself with no false ideas as to the nature of the work which she proposed to undertake. She knew very well that she might have to keep rougher company than that of Buggins if she put her shoulder to that wheel. She was willing enough to do this, and had been willing to encounter such company ever since she left the Cedars. She was prepared for the roughness. But she would not put herself beyond the pale, as it were, of her cousin"s hearth, moved simply by a temptation to relieve the monotony of her life. When the work came within her reach she would go to it, but till then she would bear the wretchedness of her dull room upstairs. She wondered whether he ever thought how wretched she must be in her solitude.
On New Year"s Day she heard that her uncle was dead. She was already in mourning for her brother, and was therefore called upon to make no change in that respect. She wrote a note of condolence to her aunt, in which she strove much, and vainly, to be cautious and sympathetic at the same time, and in return received a note, in which Lady Ball declared her purpose of coming to Arundel Street to see her niece as soon as she found herself able to leave the house. She would, she said, give Margaret warning the day beforehand, as it would be very sad if she had her journey all for nothing.
Her aunt, Lady Ball, was coming to see her in Arundel Street! What could be the purpose of such a visit after all that had pa.s.sed between them? And why should her aunt trouble herself to make it at a period of such great distress? Lady Ball must have some very important plan to propose, and poor Margaret"s heart was in a flutter. It was ten days after this before the second promised note arrived, and then Margaret was asked to say whether she would be at home and able to receive her aunt"s visit at ten minutes past two on the day but one following. Margaret wrote back to say that she would be at home at ten minutes past two on the day named.
Her aunt was old, and she again borrowed the parlour, though she was not now well inclined to ask favours from Mrs Buggins. Mrs Buggins had taken to heart the slight put upon her husband, and sometimes made nasty little speeches.
"Oh dear, yes, in course, Miss Margaret; not that I ever did think much of them b.a.l.l.ses, and less than ever now, since the gentleman was kind enough to send me the newspaper. But she"s welcome to the room, seeing as how Mr Tiddy will be in the City, of course; and you"re welcome to it, too, though you do keep yourself so close to yourself, which won"t ever bring you round to have your money again; that it won"t."
Lady Ball came and was shown into the parlour, and her niece went down to receive her.
"I would have been here before you came, aunt, only the room is not mine."
In answer to this, Lady Ball said that it did very well. Any room would answer the present purpose. Then she sat down on the sofa from which she had risen. She was dressed, of course, in the full weeds of her widowhood, and the wide extent of her black c.r.a.pe was almost awful in Margaret"s eyes. She did not look to be so savage as her niece had sometimes seen her, but there was about her a ponderous acc.u.mulation of c.r.a.pe, which made her even more formidable than she used to be. It would be almost impossible to refuse anything to a person so black, so grave, so heavy, and so big.
"I have come to you, my dear," she said, "as soon as I possibly could after the sad event which we have had at home."
In answer to this, Margaret said that she was much obliged, but she hoped that her aunt had put herself to no trouble. Then she said a word or two about her uncle,--a word or two that was very difficult, as of course it could mean nothing.
"Yes," said the widow, "he has been taken from us after a long and useful life. I hope his son will always show himself to be worthy of such a father."
After that there was silence in the room for a minute or two, during which Margaret waited for her aunt to begin; but Lady Ball sat there solid, grave, and black, as though she thought that her very presence, without any words, might be effective upon Margaret as a preliminary mode of attack. Margaret herself could find nothing to say to her aunt, and she, therefore, also remained silent. Lady Ball was so far successful in this, that when three minutes were over her niece had certainly been weakened by the oppressive nature of the meeting. She had about her less of vivacity, and perhaps also less of vitality, than when she first entered the room.
"Well, my dear," said her aunt at last, "there are things, you know, which must be talked about, though they are ever so disagreeable;"
and then she pulled out of her pocket that abominable number of the Littlebath _Christian Examiner_.
"Oh, aunt, I hope you are not going to talk about that."
"My dear, that is cowardly; it is, indeed. How am I to help talking about it? I have come here, from Twickenham, on purpose to talk about it."
"Then, aunt, I must decline; I must, indeed."
"My dear!"
"I must, indeed, aunt."
Let a man or a woman"s vitality be ever so thoroughly crushed and quenched by fatigue or oppression--or even by black c.r.a.pe--there will always be some mode of galvanising which will restore it for a time, some specific either of joy or torture which will produce a return of temporary energy. This Littlebath newspaper was a battery of sufficient power to put Margaret on her legs again, though she perhaps might not be long able to keep them.
"It is a vile, lying paper, and it was written by a vile, lying man, and I hope you will put it up and say nothing about it."
"It is a vile, lying paper, Margaret; but the lies are against my son, and not against you."
"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 embarra.s.sed, and paused; but Margaret gave her no a.s.sistance, 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sion, how can you understand reason? You ought to know, yourself, by the very fact of your being in a pa.s.sion, 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 this marriage--"
"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 pa.s.sage, 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 a.s.surance 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 gla.s.s, 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 a.s.sume 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 pa.s.sed, 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 gla.s.s to see if it were possible that she might be comely in his eyes.