'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 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 lust 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 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 any 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 .'




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