She sat to-night revolving, as she was wont, the scenes of the day,her lips often curling with amusement at the oddities to which her fancyadded fresh drollery: people were so ridiculous with their illusions,carrying their fool's caps unawares, thinking their own lies opaque whileeverybody else's were transparent, making themselves exceptions toeverything, as if when all the world looked yellow under a lamp theyalone were rosy. Yet there were some illusions under Mary's eyes whichwere not quite comic to her. She was secretly convinced, though she hadno other grounds than her close observation of old Featherstone's nature,that in spite of his fondness for having the Vincys about him, they wereas likely to be disappointed as any of the relations whom he kept at adistance. She had a good deal of disdain for Mrs. Vincy's evident alarmlest she and Fred should be alone together, but it did not hinder her fromthinking anxiously of the way in which Fred would be affected, if itshould turn out that his uncle had left him as poor as ever. She couldmake a butt of Fred when he was present, but she did not enjoy hisfollies when he was absent.
Yet she liked her thoughts: a vigorous young mind not overbalancedby passion, finds a good in making acquaintance with life, and watchesits own powers with interest. Mary had plenty of merriment within.
Her thought was not veined by any solemnity or pathos about the oldman on the bed: such sentiments are easier to affect than to feel aboutan aged creature whose life is not visibly anything but a remnant ofvices. She had always seen the most disagreeable side of Mr.Featherstone: he was not proud of her, and she was only useful to him.To be anxious about a soul that is always snapping at you must be left tothe saints of the earth; and Mary was not one of them. She had neverreturned him a harsh word, and had waited on him faithfully: that washer utmost. Old Featherstone himself was not in the least anxious abouthis soul, and had declined to see Mr. Tucker on the subject.
To-night he had not snapped, and for the first hour or two he layremarkably still, until at last Mary heard him rattling his bunch of keysagainst the tin box which he always kept in the bed beside him. Aboutthree o'clock he said, with remarkable distinctness, "Missy, come here!"
Mary obeyed, and found that he had already drawn the tin box fromunder the clothes, though he usually asked to have this done for him;and he had selected the key. He now unlocked the box, and, drawingfrom it another key, looked straight at her with eyes that seemed to haverecovered all their sharpness and said, "How many of 'em are in thehouse?"
"You mean of your own relations, sir," said Mary, well used to theold man's way of speech. He nodded slightly and she went on.
"Mr. Jonah Featherstone and young Cranch are sleeping here."
"Oh ay, they stick, do they? and the rest—they come every day, I'llwarrant—Solomon and Jane, and all the young uns? They come peeping,and counting and casting up?"
"Not all of them every day. Mr. Solomon and Mrs. Waule are hereevery day, and the others come often."
The old man listened with a grimace while she spoke, and then said,relaxing his face, "The more fools they. You hearken, missy. It's threeo'clock in the morning, and I've got all my faculties as well as ever I hadin my life. I know all my property, and where the money's put out, andeverything. And I've made everything ready to change my mind, and doas I like at the last. Do you hear, missy? I've got my faculties."
"Well, sir?" said Mary, quietly.
He now lowered his tone with an air of deeper cunning. "I've madetwo wills, and I'm going to burn one. Now you do as I tell you. This isthe key of my iron chest, in the closet there. You push well at the side ofthe brass plate at the top, till it goes like a bolt: then you can put the keyin the front lock and turn it. See and do that; and take out the topmostpaper—Last Will and Testament—big printed."
"No, sir," said Mary, in a firm voice, "I cannot do that."
"Not do it? I tell you, you must," said the old man, his voicebeginning to shake under the shock of this resistance.
"I cannot touch your iron chest or your will. I must refuse to doanything that might lay me open to suspicion."
"I tell you, I'm in my right mind. Shan't I do as I like at the last? Imade two wills on purpose. Take the key, I say."
"No, sir, I will not," said Mary, more resolutely still. Her repulsionwas getting stronger.
"I tell you, there's no time to lose."
"I cannot help that, sir. I will not let the close of your life soil thebeginning of mine. I will not touch your iron chest or your will." Shemoved to a little distance from the bedside.
The old man paused with a blank stare for a little while, holding theone key erect on the ring; then with an agitated jerk he began to workwith his bony left hand at emptying the tin box before him.
"Missy," he began to say, hurriedly, "look here! take the money—thenotes and gold—look here—take it—you shall have it all—do as I tellyou."
He made an effort to stretch out the key towards her as far aspossible, and Mary again retreated.
"I will not touch your key or your money, sir. Pray don't ask me todo it again. If you do, I must go and call your brother."
He let his hand fall, and for the first time in her life Mary saw oldPeter Featherstone begin to cry childishly. She said, in as gentle a tone asshe could command, "Pray put up your money, sir;" and then went awayto her seat by the fire, hoping this would help to convince him that itwas useless to say more. Presently he rallied and said eagerly—
"Look here, then. Call the young chap. Call Fred Vincy."
Mary's heart began to beat more quickly. Various ideas rushedthrough her mind as to what the burning of a second will might imply.She had to make a difficult decision in a hurry.
"I will call him, if you will let me call Mr. Jonah and others withhim."
"Nobody else, I say. The young chap. I shall do as I like."
"Wait till broad daylight, sir, when every one is stirring. Or let mecall Simmons now, to go and fetch the lawyer? He can be here in lessthan two hours."
"Lawyer? What do I want with the lawyer? Nobody shall know—Isay, nobody shall know. I shall do as I like."
"Let me call some one else, sir," said Mary, persuasively. She did notlike her position—alone with the old man, who seemed to show a strangeflaring of nervous energy which enabled him to speak again and againwithout falling into his usual cough; yet she desired not to pushunnecessarily the contradiction which agitated him. "Let me, pray, callsome one else."
"You let me alone, I say. Look here, missy. Take the money. You'llnever have the chance again. It's pretty nigh two hundred—there's morein the box, and nobody knows how much there was. Take it and do as Itell you."
Mary, standing by the fire, saw its red light falling on the old man,propped up on his pillows and bed-rest, with his bony hand holding outthe key, and the money lying on the quilt before him. She never forgotthat vision of a man wanting to do as he liked at the last. But the way inwhich he had put the offer of the money urged her to speak with harderresolution than ever.
"It is of no use, sir. I will not do it. Put up your money. I will nottouch your money. I will do anything else I can to comfort you; but I willnot touch your keys or your money."
"Anything else anything else!" said old Featherstone, with hoarserage, which, as if in a nightmare, tried to be loud, and yet was only justaudible. "I want nothing else. You come here—you come here."
Mary approached him cautiously, knowing him too well. She sawhim dropping his keys and trying to grasp his stick, while he looked ather like an aged hyena, the muscles of his face getting distorted with theeffort of his hand. She paused at a safe distance.
"Let me give you some cordial," she said, quietly, "and try tocompose yourself. You will perhaps go to sleep. And to-morrow bydaylight you can do as you like."
He lifted the stick, in spite of her being beyond his reach, and threwit with a hard effort which was but impotence. It fell, slipping over thefoot of the bed. Mary let it lie, and retreated to her chair by the fire. By-and-by she would go to him with the cordial. Fatigue would make himpassive. It was getting towards the chillest moment of the morning, thefire had got low, and she could see through the chink between themoreen window-curtains the light whitened by the blind. Having putsome wood on the fire and thrown a shawl over her, she sat down,hoping that Mr. Featherstone might now fall asleep. If she went near himthe irritation might be kept up. He had said nothing after throwing thestick, but she had seen him taking his keys again and laying his righthand on the money. He did not put it up, however, and she thought thathe was dropping off to sleep.
But Mary herself began to be more agitated by the remembrance ofwhat she had gone through, than she had been by the reality—questioning those acts of hers which had come imperatively and excludedall question in the critical moment.
Presently the dry wood sent out a flame which illuminated everycrevice, and Mary saw that the old man was lying quietly with his headturned a little on one side. She went towards him with inaudible steps,and thought that his face looked strangely motionless; but the nextmoment the movement of the flame communicating itself to all objectsmade her uncertain. The violent beating of her heart rendered herperceptions so doubtful that even when she touched him and listened forhis breathing, she could not trust her conclusions. She went to thewindow and gently propped aside the curtain and blind, so that the stilllight of the sky fell on the bed.
The next moment she ran to the bell and rang it energetically. In avery little while there was no longer any doubt that Peter Featherstonewas dead, with his right hand clasping the keys, and his left hand lyingon the heap of notes and gold.
BOOK IV. THREE LOVE PROBLEMS.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
1st Gent. Such men as this are feathers, chips, and straws. Carry no
weight, no force. 2d Gent. But levity Is causal too, and makes the sum
of weight. For power finds its place in lack of power; Advance is
cession, and the driven ship May run aground because the helmsman's
thought Lacked force to balance opposites."
It was on a morning of May that Peter Featherstone was buried. Inthe prosaic neighborhood of Middlemarch, May was not always warmand sunny, and on this particular morning a chill wind was blowing theblossoms from the surrounding gardens on to the green mounds ofLowick churchyard. Swiftly moving clouds only now and then allowed agleam to light up any object, whether ugly or beautiful, that happened tostand within its golden shower. In the churchyard the objects wereremarkably various, for there was a little country crowd waiting to seethe funeral. The news had spread that it was to be a "big burying;" theold gentleman had left written directions about everything and meant tohave a funeral "beyond his betters." This was true; for old Featherstonehad not been a Harpagon whose passions had all been devoured by theever-lean and ever-hungry passion of saving, and who would drive abargain with his undertaker beforehand. He loved money, but he alsoloved to spend it in gratifying his peculiar tastes, and perhaps he loved itbest of all as a means of making others feel his power more or lessuncomfortably. If any one will here contend that there must have beentraits of goodness in old Featherstone, I will not presume to deny this;but I must observe that goodness is of a modest nature, easilydiscouraged, and when much privacy, elbowed in early life by unabashedvices, is apt to retire into extreme privacy, so that it is more easilybelieved in by those who construct a selfish old gentleman theoretically,than by those who form the narrower judgments based on his personalacquaintance. In any case, he had been bent on having a handsomefuneral, and on having persons "bid" to it who would rather have stayedat home. He had even desired that female relatives should follow him tothe grave, and poor sister Martha had taken a difficult journey for thispurpose from the Chalky Flats. She and Jane would have been altogethercheered (in a tearful manner) by this sign that a brother who dislikedseeing them while he was living had been prospectively fond of theirpresence when he should have become a testator, if the sign had notbeen made equivocal by being extended to Mrs. Vincy, whose expense inhandsome crape seemed to imply the most presumptuous hopes,aggravated by a bloom of complexion which told pretty plainly that shewas not a blood-relation, but of that generally objectionable class calledwife's kin.
We are all of us imaginative in some form or other, for images arethe brood of desire; and poor old Featherstone, who laughed much at theway in which others cajoled themselves, did not escape the fellowship ofillusion. In writing the programme for his burial he certainly did notmake clear to himself that his pleasure in the little drama of which itformed a part was confined to anticipation. In chuckling over thevexations he could inflict by the rigid clutch of his dead hand, heinevitably mingled his consciousness with that livid stagnant presence,and so far as he was preoccupied with a future life, it was with one ofgratification inside his coffin. Thus old Featherstone was imaginative,after his fashion.
However, the three mourning-coaches were filled according to thewritten orders of the deceased. There were pall-bearers on horseback,with the richest scarfs and hatbands, and even the under-bearers hadtrappings of woe which were of a good well-priced quality. The blackprocession, when dismounted, looked the larger for the smallness of thechurchyard; the heavy human faces and the black draperies shivering inthe wind seemed to tell of a world strangely incongruous with the lightlydropping blossoms and the gleams of sunshine on the daisies. Theclergyman who met the procession was Mr. Cadwallader—also accordingto the request of Peter Featherstone, prompted as usual by peculiarreasons. Having a contempt for curates, whom he always calledunderstrappers, he was resolved to be buried by a beneficed clergyman.Mr. Casaubon was out of the question, not merely because he declinedduty of this sort, but because Featherstone had an especial dislike to himas the rector of his own parish, who had a lien on the land in the shapeof tithe, also as the deliverer of morning sermons, which the old man,being in his pew and not at all sleepy, had been obliged to sit throughwith an inward snarl. He had an objection to a parson stuck up abovehis head preaching to him. But his relations with Mr. Cadwallader hadbeen of a different kind: the trout-stream which ran through Mr.Casaubon's land took its course through Featherstone's also, so that Mr.Cadwallader was a parson who had had to ask a favor instead ofpreaching. Moreover, he was one of the high gentry living four milesaway from Lowick, and was thus exalted to an equal sky with the sheriffof the county and other dignities vaguely regarded as necessary to thesystem of things. There would be a satisfaction in being buried by Mr.Cadwallader, whose very name offered a fine opportunity forpronouncing wrongly if you liked.
