North and South

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 halfway, 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 speechmaker) 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 hotpot for dinner today, 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-hotpot 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 hotpot 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.”

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 overdressed, 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