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Miss Mackenzie

<h3>CHAPTER XIII</h3> <h3>Mr Maguire's Courtship  </h3> After the scene between Miss Mackenzie and Miss Baker more than a week passed by before Miss Mackenzie saw any of her Littlebath friends; or, as she called them with much sadness when speaking of them to herself, her Littlebath acquaintances. Friends, or friend, she had none. It was a slow, heavy week with her, and it is hardly too much to say that every hour in it was spent in thinking of the attack which Mrs Stumfold had made upon her. When the first Sunday came, she went to church, and saw there Miss Baker, and Mrs Stumfold, and Mr Stumfold and Mr Maguire. She saw, indeed, many Stumfoldians, but it seemed that their eyes looked at her harshly, and she was quite sure that the coachmaker's wife treated her with marked incivility as they left the porch together. Miss Baker had frequently waited for her on Sunday mornings, and walked the length of two streets with her; but she encountered no Miss Baker near the church gate on this morning, and she was sure that Mrs Stumfold had prevailed against her. If it was to be thus with her, had she not better leave Littlebath as soon as possible? In the same solitude she lived the whole of the next week; with the same feelings did she go to church on the next Sunday; and then again was she maltreated by the upturned nose and half-averted eyes of the coachmaker's wife. Life such as this would be impossible to her. Let any of my readers think of it, and then tell themselves whether it could be possible. Mariana's solitude in the moated grange was as nothing to hers. In granges, and such like rural retreats, people expect solitude; but Miss Mackenzie had gone to Littlebath to find companionship. Had she been utterly disappointed, and found none, that would have been bad; but she had found it and then lost it. Mariana, in her desolateness, was still waiting for the coming of some one; and so was Miss Mackenzie waiting, though she hardly knew for whom. For me, if I am to live in a moated grange, let it be in the country. Moated granges in the midst of populous towns are very terrible. But on the Monday morning,—the morning of the second Monday after the Stumfoldian attack,—Mr Maguire came, and Mariana's weariness was, for the time, at an end. Susanna had hardly gone, and the breakfast things were still on the table, when the maid brought her up word that Mr Maguire was below, and would see her if she would allow him to come up. She had heard no ring at the bell, and having settled herself with a novel in the arm-chair, had almost ceased for the moment to think of Mr Maguire or of Mrs Stumfold. There was something so sudden in the request now made to her, that it took away her breath. "Mr Maguire, Miss, the clergyman from Mr Stumfold's church," said the girl again. It was necessary that she should give an answer, though she was ever so breathless. "Ask Mr Maguire to walk up," she said; and then she began to bethink herself how she would behave to him. He was there, however, before her thoughts were of much service to her, and she began by apologising for the breakfast things. "It is I that ought to beg your pardon for coming so early," said he; "but my time at present is so occupied that I hardly know how to find half an hour for myself; and I thought you would excuse me." "Oh, certainly," said she; and then sitting down she waited for him to begin. It would have been clear to any observer, had there been one present, that Mr Maguire had practised his lesson. He could not rid himself of those unmistakable signs of preparation which every speaker shows when he has been guilty of them. But this probably did not matter with Miss Mackenzie, who was too intent on the part she herself had to play to notice his imperfections. "I saw that you observed, Miss Mackenzie," he said, "that I kept aloof from you on the two last evenings on which I met you at Mrs Stumfold's." "That's a long time ago, Mr Maguire," she answered. "It's nearly a month since I went to Mrs Stumfold's house." "I know that you were not there on the last Thursday. I noticed it. I could not fail to notice it. Thinking so much of you as I do, of course I did notice it. Might I ask you why you did not go?" "I'd rather not say anything about it," she replied, after a pause. "Then there has been some reason? Dear Miss Mackenzie, I can assure you I do not ask you without a cause." "If you please, I will not speak upon that subject. I had much rather not, indeed, Mr Maguire." "And shall I not have the pleasure of seeing you there on next Thursday?" "Certainly not." "Then you have quarrelled with her, Miss Mackenzie?" He said nothing now of the perfections of that excellent woman, of whom not long since he had spoken in terms almost too strong for any simple human virtues. "I'd rather not speak of it. It can't do any good. I don't know why you should ask me whether I intend to go there any more, but as you have, I have answered you." Then Mr Maguire got up from his chair, and walked about the room, and Miss Mackenzie, watching him closely, could see that he was much moved. But, nevertheless, I think he had made up his mind to walk about the room beforehand. After a while he paused, and, still standing, spoke to her again across the table. "May I ask you this question? Has Mrs Stumfold said anything to you about me?" "I'd rather not talk about Mrs Stumfold." "But, surely, I may ask that. I don't think you are the woman to allow anything said behind a person's back to be received to his detriment." "Whatever one does hear about people one always hears behind their backs." "Then she has told you something, and you have believed it?" She felt herself to be so driven by him that she did not know how to protect herself. It seemed to her that these clerical people of Littlebath had very little regard for the feelings of others in their modes of following their own pursuits. "She has told you something of me, and you have believed her?" repeated Mr Maguire. "Have I not a right to ask you what she has said?" "You have no right to ask me anything." "Have I not, Miss Mackenzie? Surely that is hard. Is it not hard that I should be stabbed in the dark, and have no means of redressing myself? I did not expect such an answer from you;—indeed I did not." "And is not it hard that I should be troubled in this way? You talk of stabbing. Who has stabbed you? Is it not your own particular friend, whom you described to me as the best person in all the world? If you and she fall out why should I be brought into it? Once for all, Mr Maguire, I won't be brought into it." Now he sat down and again paused before he went on with his talk. "Miss Mackenzie," he said, when he did speak. "I had not intended to be so abrupt as I fear you will think me in that which I am about to say; but I believe you will like plain measures best." "Certainly I shall, Mr Maguire." "They are the best, always. If, then, I am plain with you, will you be plain with me also? I think you must guess what it is I have to say to you." "I hate guessing anything, Mr Maguire." "Very well; then I will be plain. We have now known each other for nearly a year, Miss Mackenzie." "A year, is it? No, not a year. This is the beginning of June, and I did not come here till the end of last August. It's about nine months, Mr Maguire." "Very well; nine months. Nine months may be as nothing in an acquaintance, or it may lead to the closest friendship." "I don't know that we have met so very often. You have the parish to attend to, Mr Maguire." "Of course I have—or rather I had, for I have left Mr Stumfold." "Left Mr Stumfold! Why, I heard you preach yesterday." "I did preach yesterday, and shall till he has got another assistant. But he and I are parted as regards all friendly connection." "But isn't that a pity?" "Miss Mackenzie, I don't mind telling you that I have found it impossible to put up with the impertinence of that woman"—and now, as he spoke, there came a distorted fire out of his imperfect eye—"impossible! If you knew what I have gone through in attempting it! But that's over. I have the greatest respect for him in the world; a very thorough esteem. He is a hard-working man, and though I do not always approve the style of his wit,—of which, by-the-bye, he thinks too much himself,—still I acknowledge him to be a good spiritual pastor. But he has been unfortunate in his marriage. No doubt he has got money, but money is not everything." "Indeed, it is not, Mr Maguire." "How he can live in the same house with that Mr Peters, I can never understand. The quarrels between him and his daughter are so incessant that poor Mr Stumfold is unable to conceal them from the public." "But you have spoken so highly of her." "I have endeavoured, Miss Mackenzie—I have endeavoured to think well of her. I have striven to believe that it was all gold that I saw. But let that pass. I was forced to tell you that I am going to leave Mr Stumfold's church, or I should not now have spoken about her or him. And now comes the question, Miss Mackenzie." "What is the question, Mr Maguire?" "Miss Mackenzie—Margaret, will you share your lot with mine? It is true that you have money. It is true that I have none,—not even a curacy now. But I don't think that any such consideration as that would weigh with you for a moment, if you can find it in your heart to love me." Miss Mackenzie sat thinking for some minutes before she gave her answer—or striving to think; but she was so completely under the terrible fire of his eye, that any thought was very difficult. "I am not quite sure about that," she said after a while. "I think, Mr Maguire, that there should be a little money on both sides. You would hardly wish to live altogether on your wife's fortune." "I have my profession," he replied, quickly. "Yes, certainly; and a noble profession it is,—the most noble," said she. "Yes, indeed; the most noble." "But somehow—" "You mean the clergymen are not paid as they should be. No, they are not, Miss Mackenzie. And is it not a shame for a Christian country like this that it should be so? But still, as a profession, it has its value. Look at Mrs Stumfold; where would she be if she were not a clergyman's wife? The position has its value. A clergyman's wife is received everywhere, you know." "A man before he talks of marriage ought to have something of his own, Mr Maguire, besides—" "Besides what?" "Well, I'll tell you. As you have done me this honour, I think that I am now bound to tell you what Mrs Stumfold said to me. She had no right to connect my name with yours or with that of any other gentleman, and my quarrel with her is about that. As to what she said about you, that is your affair and not mine." Then she told him the whole of that conversation which was given in the last chapter, not indeed repeating the hint about the three or four wives, but recapitulating as clearly as she could all that had been said about the suitable young lady. "I knew it," said he; "I knew it. I knew it as well as though I had heard it. Now what am I to think of that woman, Miss Mackenzie?" "Of which woman?" "Of Mrs Stumfold, of course. It's all jealousy: every bit of it jealousy." "Jealousy! Do you mean that she—that she—" "Not jealousy of that kind, Miss Mackenzie. Oh dear, no. She's as pure as the undriven snow, I should say, as far as that goes. But she can't bear to think that I should rise in the world." "I thought she wanted to marry you to a suitable lady, and young, with a fair provision." "Pshaw! The lady has about seventy pounds a-year! But that would signify nothing if I loved her, Miss Mackenzie." "There has been something, then?" "Yes; there has been something. That is, nothing of my doing,—nothing on earth. Miss Mackenzie, I am as innocent as the babe unborn." As he said this she could not help looking into the horrors of his eyes, and thinking that innocent was not the word for him. "I'm as innocent as the babe unborn. Why should I be expected to marry a lady merely because Mrs Stumfold tells me that there she is? And it's my belief that old Peters has got their money somewhere, and won't give it up, and that that's the reason of it." "But did you ever say you would marry her?" "What! Miss Floss, never! I'll tell you the whole story, Miss Mackenzie; and if you want to ask any one else, you can ask Mrs Perch." Mrs Perch was the coachbuilder's wife. "You've seen Miss Floss at Mrs Stumfold's, and must know yourself whether I ever noticed her any more than to be decently civil." "Is she the lady that's so thin and tall?" "Yes." "With the red hair?" "Well, it's sandy, certainly. I shouldn't call it just red myself." "Some people like red hair, you know," said Miss Mackenzie, thinking of the suitable lady. Miss Mackenzie was willing at that moment to forfeit all her fortune if Miss Floss was not older than she was! "And that is Miss Floss, is it?" "Yes, and I don't blame Mrs Stumfold for wishing to get a husband for her friend, but it is hard upon me." "Really, Mr Maguire, I think that perhaps you couldn't do better." "Better than what?" "Better than take Miss Floss. As you say, some people like red hair. And she is very suitable, certainly. And, Mr Maguire, I really shouldn't like to interfere;—I shouldn't indeed." "Miss Mackenzie, you're joking, I know." "Not in the least, Mr Maguire. You see there has been something about it." "There has been nothing." "There's never smoke without fire; and I don't think a lady like Mrs Stumfold would come here and tell me all that she did, if it hadn't gone some way. And you owned just now that you admired her." "I never owned anything of the kind. I don't admire her a bit. Admire her! Oh, Miss Mackenzie, what do you think of me?" Miss Mackenzie said that she really didn't know what to think. Then, having as he thought altogether disposed of Miss Floss, he began again to press his suit. And she was weak; for though she gave him no positive encouragement, neither did she give him any positive denial. Her mind was by no means made up, and she did not know whether she wished to take him or to leave him. Now that the thing had come so near, what guarantee had she that he would be good to her if she gave him everything that she possessed? As to her cousin John Ball, she would have had many guarantees. Of him she could say that she knew what sort of a man he was; but what did she know of Mr Maguire? At that moment, as he sat there pleading his own cause with all the eloquence at his command, she remembered that she did not even know his Christian name. He had always in her presence been called Mr Maguire. How could she say that she loved a man whose very name she had not as yet heard? But still, if she left all her chances to run from her, what other fate would she have but that of being friendless all her life? Of course she must risk much if she was ever minded to change her mode of life. She had said something to him as to the expediency of there being money on both sides, but as she said it she knew that she would willingly have given up her money could she only have been sure of her man. Was not her income enough for both? What she wanted was companionship, and love if it might be possible; but if not love, then friendship. This, had she known where she could purchase it with certainty, she would willingly have purchased with all her wealth. "If I have surprised you, will you say that you will take time to think of it?" pleaded Mr Maguire. Miss Mackenzie, speaking in the lowest possible voice, said that she would take time to think of it. When a lady says that she will take time to think of such a proposition, the gentleman is generally justified in supposing that he has carried his cause. When a lady rejects a suitor, she should reject him peremptorily. Anything short of such peremptory reaction is taken for acquiescence. Mr Maguire consequently was elated, called her Margaret, and swore that he loved her as he had never loved woman yet. "And when may I come again?" he asked. Miss Mackenzie begged that she might be allowed a fortnight to think of it. "Certainly," said the happy man. "And you must not be surprised," said Miss Mackenzie, "if I make some inquiry about Miss Floss." "Any inquiry you please," said Mr Maguire. "It is all in that woman's brain; it is indeed. Miss Floss, perhaps, has thought of it; but I can't help that, can I? I can't help what has been said to her. But if you mean anything as to a promise from me, Margaret, on my word as a Christian minister of the Gospel, there has been nothing of the kind." She did not much mind his calling her Margaret; it was in itself such a trifle; but when he made a fuss about kissing her hand it annoyed her. "Only your hand," he said, beseeching the privilege. "Pshaw," she said, "what's the good?" She had sense enough to feel that with such lovemaking as that between her and her lover there should be no kissing till after marriage; or at any rate, no kissing of hands, as is done between handsome young men of twenty-three and beautiful young ladies of eighteen, when they sit in balconies on moonlight nights. A good honest kiss, mouth to mouth, might not be amiss when matters were altogether settled; but when she thought of this, she thought also of his eye and shuddered. His eye was not his fault, and a man should not be left all his days without a wife because he squints; but still, was it possible? could she bring herself to endure it? He did kiss her hand, however, and then went. As he stood at the door he looked back fondly and exclaimed— "On Monday fortnight, Margaret; on Monday fortnight." "Goodness gracious, Mr Maguire," she answered, "do shut the door;" and then he vanished. As soon as he was gone she remembered that his name was Jeremiah. She did not know how she had learned it, but she knew that such was the fact. If it did come to pass how was she to call him? She tried the entire word Jeremiah, but it did not seem to answer. She tried Jerry also, but that was worse. Jerry might have been very well had they come together fifteen years earlier in life, but she did not think that she could call him Jerry now. She supposed it must be Mr Maguire; but if so, half the romance of the thing would be gone at once! She felt herself to be very much at sea, and almost wished that she might be like Mariana again, waiting and aweary, so grievous was the necessity of having to make up her mind on such a subject. To whom should she go for advice? She had told him that she would make further inquiries about Miss Floss, but of whom was she to make them? The only person to whom she could apply was Miss Baker, and she was almost sure that Miss Baker would despise her for thinking of marrying Mr Maguire. But after a day or two she did tell Miss Baker, and she saw at once that Miss Baker did despise her. But Miss Baker, though she manifestly did despise her, promised her some little aid. Miss Todd knew everything and everybody. Might Miss Baker tell Miss Todd? If there was anything wrong, Miss Todd would ferret it out to a certainty. Miss Mackenzie, hanging down her head, said that Miss Baker might tell Miss Todd. Miss Baker, when she left Miss Mackenzie, turned at once into Miss Todd's house, and found her friend at home. "It surprises me that any woman should be so foolish," said Miss Baker. "Come, come, my dear, don't you be hard upon her. We have all been foolish in our days. Do you remember, when Sir Lionel used to be here, how foolish you and I were?" "It's not the same thing at all," said Miss Baker. "Did you ever see a man with such an eye as he has got?" "I shouldn't mind his eye, my dear; only I'm afraid he's got no money." Miss Todd, however, promised to make inquiries, and declared her intention of communicating what intelligence she might obtain direct to Miss Mackenzie. Miss Baker resisted this for a little while, but ultimately submitted, as she was wont to do, to the stronger character of her friend. Miss Mackenzie had declared that she must have a fortnight to think about it, and Miss Todd therefore knew that she had nearly a fortnight for her inquiries. The reader may be sure that she did not allow the grass to grow under her feet. With Miss Mackenzie the time passed slowly enough, for she could only sit on her sofa and doubt, resolving first one way and then another; but Miss Todd went about Littlebath, here and there, among friends and enemies, filling up all her time; and before the end of the fortnight she certainly knew more about Mr Maguire than did anybody else in Littlebath. She did not see Miss Mackenzie till the Saturday, the last Saturday before the all-important Monday; but on that day she went to her. "I suppose you know what I'm come about, my dear," she said. Miss Mackenzie blushed, and muttered something about Miss Baker. "Yes, my dear; Miss Baker was speaking to me about Mr Maguire. You needn't mind speaking out to me, Miss Mackenzie. I can understand all about it; and if I can be of any assistance, I shall be very happy. No doubt you feel a little shy, but you needn't mind with me." "I'm sure you're very good." "I don't know about that, but I hope I'm not very bad. The long and the short of it is, I suppose, that you think you might as well—might as well take Mr Maguire." Miss Mackenzie felt thoroughly ashamed of herself. She could not explain to Miss Todd all her best motives; and then, those motives which were not the best were made to seem so very weak and mean by the way in which Miss Todd approached them. When she thought of the matter alone, it seemed to her that she was perfectly reasonable in wishing to be married, in order that she might escape the monotony of a lonely life; and she thought that if she could talk to Miss Todd about the subject gently, for a quarter of an hour at a time every day for two or three months, it was possible that she might explain her views with credit to herself; but how could she do this to anyone so very abruptly? She could only confess that she did want to marry the man, as the child confesses her longing for a tart. "I have thought about it, certainly," she said. "Quite right," said Miss Todd; "quite right if you like him. Now for me, I'm so fond of my own money and my own independence, that I've never had a fancy that way,—not since I was a girl." "But you're so different, Miss Todd; you've got such a position of your own." And Miss Mackenzie, who was at present desirous of marrying a very strict evangelical clergyman, thought with envy of the social advantages and pleasant iniquities of her wicked neighbour. "Oh, I don't know. I've a few friends, but that comes of being here so long. And then, you see, I ain't particular as you are. I always see that when a lady goes in to be evangelical, she soon finds a husband to take care of her; that is, if she has got any money. It all goes on very well, and I've no doubt they're right. There's my friend Mary Baker, she's single still; but then she began very late in life. Now about Mr Maguire." "Well, Miss Todd." "In the first place, I really don't think he has got much that he can call his own." "He hasn't got anything, Miss Todd; he told me so himself." "Did he, indeed?" said Miss Todd; "then let me tell you he is a deal honester than they are in general." "Oh, he told me that. I know he's got no income in the world besides his curacy, and that he has thrown up." "And therefore you are going to give him yours." "I don't know about that, Miss Todd; but it wasn't about money that I was doubting. What I've got is enough for both of us, if his wants are not greater than mine. What is the use of money if people cannot be happy together with it? I don't care a bit for money, Miss Todd; that is, not for itself. I shouldn't like to be dependent on a stranger; I don't know that I would like to be dependent again even on a brother; but I should take no shame to be dependent on a husband if he was good to me." "That's just it; isn't it?" "There's quite enough for him and me." "I must say you look at the matter in the most disinterested way. I couldn't bring myself to take it up like that." "You haven't lived the life that I have, Miss Todd, and I don't suppose you ever feel solitary as I do." "Well, I don't know. We single women have to be solitary sometimes—and sometimes sad." "But you're never sad, Miss Todd." "Have you never heard there are some animals, that, when they're sick, crawl into holes, and don't ever show themselves among the other animals? Though it is only the animals that do it, there's a pride in that which I like. What's the good of complaining if one's down in the mouth? When one gets old and heavy and stupid, one can't go about as one did when one was young; and other people won't care to come to you as they did then." "But I had none of that when I was young, Miss Todd." "Hadn't you? Then I won't say but what you may be right to try and begin now. But, law! what am I talking of? I am old enough to be your mother." "I think it so kind of you to talk to me at all." "Well, now about Mr Maguire. I don't think he's possessed of much of the fat of the land; but that you say you know already?" "Oh yes, I know all that." "And it seems he has lost his curacy?" "He threw that up himself." "I shouldn't be surprised—but mind I don't say this for certain—but I shouldn't be surprised if he owed a little money." Miss Mackenzie's face became rather long. "What do you call a little, Miss Todd?" "Two or three hundred pounds. I don't call that a great deal." "Oh dear, no!" and Miss Mackenzie's face again became cheerful. "That could be settled without any trouble." "Upon my word you are the most generous woman I ever saw." "No, I'm not that." "Or else you must be very much in love?" "I don't think I am that either, Miss Todd; only I don't care much about money if other things are suitable. What I chiefly wanted to know was—" "About that Miss Floss?" "Yes, Miss Todd." "My belief is there never was a greater calumny, or what I should call a stronger attempt at a do. Mind I don't think much of your St Stumfolda, and never did. I believe the poor man has never said a word to the woman. Mrs Stumfold has put it into her head that she could have Mr Maguire if she chose to set her cap at him, and, I dare say, Miss Floss has been dutiful to her saint. But, Miss Mackenzie, if nothing else hinders you, don't let that hinder you." Then Miss Todd, having done her business and made her report, took her leave. This was on Saturday. The next day would be Sunday, and then on the following morning she must make her answer. All that she had heard about Mr Maguire was, to her thinking, in his favour. As to his poverty, that he had declared himself, and that she did not mind. As to a few hundred pounds of debt, how was a poor man to have helped such a misfortune? In that matter of Miss Floss he had been basely maligned,—so much maligned, that Miss Mackenzie owed him all her sympathy. What excuse could she now have for refusing him? When she went to bed on the Sunday night such were her thoughts and her feelings. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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