North and South
purchasing part, and even in that I rather obeyed the men’s orders,
conveyed through the housekeeper, than went by my own judgment. At one
time, the beef was too large, at another the mutton was not fat enough.
I think they saw how careful I was to leave them free, and not to
intrude my own ideas upon them; so, one day, two or three of the men—my
friend Higgins among them—asked me if I would not come in and take a
snack. It was a very busy day, but I saw that the men would be hurt if,
after making the advance, I didn’t meet them half-way, so I went in, and
I never made a better dinner in my life. I told them (my next neighbours
I mean, for I’m no speech-maker) how much I enjoyed it; and for some
time, whenever that especial dinner recurred in their dietary, I was
sure to be met by these men, with a ‘Master, there’s hot-pot for dinner
to-day, win yo’ come in?’ If they had not asked me, I would no more have
intruded on them than I’d have gone to the mess at the barracks without
invitation.”
“I should think you were rather a restraint on your hosts’ conversation.
They can’t abuse the masters while you’re there. I expect they take it
out on non-hot-pot days.”
“Well! hitherto we’ve steered clear of all vexed questions. But if any
of the old disputes came up again, I would certainly speak out my mind
next hot-pot day. But you are hardly acquainted with our Darkshire
fellows, for all you’re a Darkshire man yourself. They have such a sense
of humour, and such a racy mode of expression! I am getting really to
know some of them now, and they talk pretty freely before me.”
“Nothing like the act of eating for equalising men. Dying is nothing to
it. The philosopher dies sententiously—the pharisee ostentatiously—the
simple-hearted humbly—the poor idiot blindly, as the sparrow falls to
the ground; the philosopher and idiot, publican and pharisee, all eat
after the same fashion—given an equally good digestion. There’s theory
for theory for you!”
“Indeed I have no theory; I hate theories.”
“I beg your pardon. To show my penitence, will you accept a ten pound
note towards your marketing, and give the poor fellows a feast?”
“Thank you; but I’d rather not. They pay me rent for the oven and
cooking-places at the back of the mill: and will have to pay more for
the new dining-room. I don’t want it to fall into a charity. I don’t
want donations. Once let in the principle, and I should have people
going and talking, and spoiling the simplicity of the whole thing.”
“People will talk about any new plan. You can’t help that.”
“My enemies, if I have any, may make a philanthropic fuss about this
dinner-scheme; but you are a friend, and I expect that you will now pay
my experiment the respect of silence. It is but a new broom at present,
and sweeps clean enough. But by-an-bye we shall meet with plenty of
stumbling-blocks, no doubt.”
CHAPTER XLIII.
MARGARET’S FLITTIN’.
“The meanest thing to which we bid adieu,
Loses its meanness in the parting hour.”
ELLIOTT.
Mrs. Shaw took as vehement a dislike as it was possible for one of her
gentle nature to do, against Milton. It was noisy, and smoky, and the
poor people whom she saw in the streets were dirty, and the rich ladies
over-dressed, and not a man that she saw, high or low, had his clothes
made to fit him. She was sure Margaret would never regain her lost
strength while she stayed in Milton; and she herself was afraid of one
of her old attacks of the nerves. Margaret must return with her, and
that quickly. This, if not the exact force of her words, was at any rate
the spirit of what she urged on Margaret, till the latter, weak, weary,
and broken-spirited, yielded a reluctant promise that, as soon as
Wednesday was over, she would prepare to accompany her aunt back to
town, leaving Dixon in charge of all the arrangements for paying bills,
disposing of furniture, and shutting up the house. Before that
Wednesday—that mournful Wednesday, when Mr. Hale was to be interred,
far away from either of the homes he had known in life, and far away
from the wife who lay lonely among strangers (and this last was
Margaret’s great trouble, for she thought that if she had not given way
to that overwhelming stupor during the first sad days, she could have
arranged things otherwise)—before that Wednesday, Margaret received a
letter from Mr. Bell.
“MY DEAR MARGARET:—I did mean to have returned to Milton on
Thursday, but unluckily it turns out to be one of the rare
occasions when we, Plymouth Fellows, are called upon to perform any
kind of duty, and I must not be absent from my post. Captain Lennox
and Mr. Thornton are here. The former seems a smart, well-meaning
man; and has proposed to go over to Milton, and assist you in any
search for the will; of course there is none, or you would have
found it by this time, if you followed my directions. Then the
Captain declares he must take you and his mother-in-law home; and,
in his wife’s present state, I don’t see how you can expect him to
remain away longer than Friday. However, that Dixon of yours is
trusty; and can hold her, or your own, till I come. I will put
matters into the hands of my Milton attorney if there is no will;
for I doubt this smart Captain is no great man of business.
Nevertheless, his moustachios are splendid. There will have to be a
sale, so select what things you wish to be reserved. Or you can
send a list afterwards. Now two things more, and I have done. You
know, or if you don’t, your poor father did, that you are to have
my money and goods when I die. Not that I mean to die yet; but I
name this just to explain what is coming. These Lennoxes seem very
fond of you now; and perhaps may continue to be; perhaps not. So it
is best to start with a formal agreement; namely, that you are to
pay to them two hundred and fifty pounds a year, as long as you and
they find it pleasant to live together. (This, of course, includes
Dixon; mind you don’t be cajoled into paying more for her.) Then
you won’t be thrown adrift, if some day the captain wishes to have
his house to himself, but you can carry yourself and your two
hundred and fifty pounds off somewhere else; if, indeed, I have
not claimed you to come and keep house for me first. Then as to
dress, and Dixon, and personal expenses, and confectionery (all
young ladies eat confectionery till wisdom comes by age), I shall
consult some lady of my acquaintance, and see how much you will
have from your father before fixing this. Now, Margaret, have you
flown out before you have read this far, and wondered what right
the old man has to settle your affairs for you so cavalierly? I
make no doubt you have. Yet the old man has a right. He has loved
your father for five and thirty years; he stood beside him on his
wedding-day; he closed his eyes in death. Moreover, he is your
godfather; and as he cannot do you much good spiritually, having a
hidden consciousness of your superiority in such things, he would
fain do you the poor good of endowing you materially. And the old
man has not a known relation on earth; ‘who is there to mourn for
Adam Bell?’ and his whole heart is set and bent upon this one
thing, and Margaret Hale is not the girl to say him nay. Write by
return if only two lines, to tell me your answer. But _no thanks_.”
Margaret took up a pen and scrawled with trembling hand, “Margaret Hale
is not the girl to say him nay.” In her weak state she could not think
of any other words, and yet, she was vexed to use these. But she was so
much fatigued even by this slight exertion, that if she could have
thought of another form of acceptance, she could not have sate up to
write a syllable of it. She was obliged to lie down again and try not to
think.
“My dearest child! Has that letter vexed or troubled you?”
“No!” said Margaret feebly. “I shall be better when to-morrow is over.”
“I feel sure, darling, you won’t be better till I get you out of this
horrid air. How you can have borne it these two years I can’t imagine.”
“Where could I go to? I could not leave papa and mamma.”
“Well, don’t distress yourself, my dear. I dare say it was all for the
best, only I had no conception of how you were living. Our butler’s wife
lives in a better house than this.”
“It is sometimes very pretty—in summer; you can’t judge by what it is
now. I have been very happy here,” and Margaret closed her eyes by way
of stopping the conversation.
The house teemed with comfort now, compared to what it had been. The
evenings were chilly, and by Mrs. Shaw’s directions fires were lighted
in every bedroom. She petted Margaret in every possible way, and bought
every delicacy, or soft luxury in which she herself would have burrowed
and sought comfort. But Margaret was indifferent to all these things;
or, if they forced themselves upon her attention, it was simply as
causes for gratitude to her aunt, who was putting herself so much out of
the way to think of her. She was restless, though so weak. All the day
long, she kept herself from thinking of the ceremony which was going on
at Oxford, by wandering from room to room, and languidly setting aside
such articles as she wished to retain. Dixon followed her by Mrs. Shaw’s
desire, ostensibly to receive instructions, but with a private
injunction to soothe her into repose as soon as might be.
“These books, Dixon, I will keep. All the rest will you send to Mr.
Bell? They are of a kind that he will value for themselves, as well as
for papa’s sake. This—— I should like you to take this to Mr.
Thornton, after I am gone. Stay; I will write a note with it.” And she
sate down hastily, as if afraid of thinking, and wrote:
“DEAR SIR,—The accompanying book I am sure will be valued by you
for the sake of my father, to whom it belonged.
“Yours sincerely,
MARGARET HALE.”
She set out again upon her travels through the house, turning over
articles, known to her from her childhood, with a sort of caressing
reluctance to leave them—old-fashioned, worn and shabby, as they might
be. But she hardly spoke again; and Dixon’s report to Mrs. Shaw was,
that “she doubted whether Miss Hale heard a word of what she said,
though she talked the whole time, in order to divert her intention.” The
consequence of her being on her feet all day was excessive bodily
weariness in the evening, and a better night’s rest than she had had
since she heard of Mr. Hale’s death.
At breakfast time the next day, she expressed her wish to go and bid one
or two friends good-bye. Mrs. Shaw objected:
“I am sure, my dear, you can have no friends here with whom you are
sufficiently intimate to justify you in calling upon them so soon;
before you have been at church.”
“But to-day is my only day; if Captain Lennox comes this afternoon, and
if we must—if I must really go to-morrow——”
“Oh, yes, we shall go to-morrow. I am more and more convinced that this
air is bad for you, and makes you look so pale and ill; besides, Edith
expects us; and she may be waiting for me; and you cannot be left alone,
my dear, at your age. No; if you must make these calls, I will go with
you. Dixon can get us a coach, I suppose?”
So Mrs. Shaw went to take care of Margaret and took her maid with her to
take care of the shawls and air-cushions. Margaret’s face was too sad to
lighten up into a smile at all this preparation for paying two visits,
that she had often made by herself at all hours of the day. She was half