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.'
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 this 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 done.
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 her 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.'