The last four-and-twenty hours had been very bitter with Sir John Ball. What was he to do, walking about with that man’s letter in his pocket—with that reptile’s venom still curdling through his veins? On that Thursday morning, as he went towards his office, he had made up his mind, as he thought, to go to Margaret and bid her choose her own destiny. She should become his wife, or have half of Jonathan Ball’s remaining fortune, as she might herself elect. “She refused me,” he said to himself, “when the money was all hers. Why should she wish to come to such a house as mine, to marry a dull husband and undertake the charge of a lot of children? She shall choose herself.” And then he thought of her as he had seen her at the bazaar, and began to flatter himself that, in spite of his dullness and his children, she would choose to become his wife. He was making some scheme as to his mother’s life, proposing that two of his girls should live with her, and that she should be near to him, when the letter from Mr Maguire was put into his hands.

How was he to marry his cousin after that? If he were to do so, would not that wretch at Littlebath declare, through all the provincial and metropolitan newspapers, that he had compelled the marriage? That letter would be published in the very column that told of the wedding. But yet he must decide. He must do something. They who read this will probably declare that he was a weak fool to regard anything that such a one as Mr Maguire could say of him. He was not a fool, but he was so far weak and foolish; and in such matters such men are weak and foolish, and often cowardly.

It was, however, absolutely necessary that he should do something. He was as well aware as was Mrs Mackenzie that it was essentially his duty to see his cousin, now that the question of law between them had been settled. Even if he had no thought of again asking her to be his wife, he could not confide to any one else the task of telling her what was to be her fate. Her conduct to him in the matter of the property had been exemplary, and it was incumbent on him to thank her for her generous forbearance. He had pledged himself also to give his mother a final answer on Saturday.

On the Friday morning, therefore, he knocked at the Mackenzies’ house door in Cavendish Square, and soon found himself alone with Mrs Mackenzie. I do not know that even then he had come to any fixed purpose. What he would himself have preferred would have been permission to postpone any action as regards his cousin for another six months, and to have been empowered to use that time in crushing Mr Maguire out of existence. But this might not be so, and therefore he went to Cavendish Square that he might there decide his fate.