Middlemarch

CHAPTER XXXII.

The triumphant confidence of the Mayor founded on Mr. Featherstone’s insistent demand that Fred and his mother should not leave him was a feeble emotion compared with all that was agitating the breasts of the old man’s blood-relations. Brother Jonah, Sister Martha, and the rest held that since Peter had done nothing for them in his life, he would remember them at the last. They felt in a handsome sort of way that there was a family interest to be attended to, and that Stone Court was a place which it would be nothing but right for them to visit.

Thus Stone Court continually saw one or other blood-relation alighting or departing, and Mary Garth had the unpleasant task of carrying their messages to Mr. Featherstone. As manager of the household she felt bound to ask them to stay and eat. Mrs. Vincy advised handsomely: “Have some stuffed veal always, and a fine cheese in cut. You must expect to keep open house in these last illnesses.”

Brother Jonah, having come down in the world, chose the kitchen-corner, partly because he liked it best, and partly because he did not want to sit with Solomon. He informed Mary Garth he should not go out of reach of his brother Peter while that poor fellow was above ground. He considered Miss Garth a suspicious character and followed her with cold eyes.

Mary would have borne this one pair of eyes with comparative ease, but unfortunately there was young Cranch, who squinted so as to leave everything in doubt about his sentiments. When Mary Garth entered the kitchen, Mr. Jonah Featherstone began to follow her with his cold detective eyes, young Cranch turning his head in the same direction seemed to insist on it that she should remark how he was squinting. One day she could not resist describing the scene to Fred, who would not be hindered from immediately going to see it. But no sooner did he face the four eyes than he had to rush through the nearest door which happened to lead to the dairy, and there he gave way to laughter which made a hollow resonance perfectly audible in the kitchen.

In the large wainscoted parlor there were constantly pairs of eyes on the watch. Brother Solomon and Mrs. Waule found it good to be there every day for hours, observing the cunning Mary Garth. Not fully believing the message sent through Mary, they had presented themselves together within the door of the bedroom, both in black, while Mrs. Vincy with her pink cheeks and pink ribbons flying was actually administering a cordial to their own brother. Old Featherstone seized his gold-headed stick and swept it backwards and forwards, crying in a hoarse screech—“Back, back, Mrs. Waule! Back, Solomon!”

“Brother Peter,” said Solomon, in a wheedling yet gravely official tone, “It’s nothing but right I should speak to you about the Three Crofts and the Manganese.” But Peter laid down his stick with a show of truce. “I shall take my own time—you needn’t offer me yours,” he said. Mrs. Waule wept; Solomon relied on the reflection that he was the eldest after Peter; but their exit was hastened by their seeing old Featherstone pull his wig on each side and shut his eyes with his mouth-widening grimace.

Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, the distinguished auctioneer, treated Mary Garth to an amateur display of superior phrases. He pressed his lips together, frowned meditatively, and walked patrolling with his fore-finger round the inside of his stock. “I should be happy to lend you any work you like to mention, Miss Garth,” he said. “I am a great bookman myself.” When Mary escaped, Solomon observed to his sister, “You may depend, Jane, my brother has left that girl a lumping sum.” “Auctioneers talk wild,” said Solomon. “Not but what Trumbull has made money.”

CHAPTER XXXIII.

That night after twelve o’clock Mary Garth relieved the watch in Mr. Featherstone’s room, and sat there alone through the small hours. She often chose this task, in which she found some pleasure, notwithstanding the old man’s testiness. About three o’clock he said, with remarkable distinctness, “Missy, come here!” He had drawn the tin box from under the clothes, and selected a key. “How many of ’em are in the house?” Mary told him of Jonah and young Cranch sleeping there, and that Solomon and Mrs. Waule came every day.

“I’ve made two wills, and I’m going to burn one,” said the old man, lowering his tone. “This is the key of my iron chest. You push well at the side of the brass plate at the top, till it goes like a bolt: then you can put the key in the front lock and turn it. Take out the topmost paper—Last Will and Testament—big printed.”

“No, sir,” said Mary, in a firm voice, “I cannot do that. I cannot touch your iron chest or your will. I must refuse to do anything that might lay me open to suspicion.”

“I tell you, there’s no time to lose.”

“I cannot help that, sir. I will not let the close of your life soil the beginning of mine. I will not touch your iron chest or your will.”

He let his hand fall, and for the first time in her life Mary saw old Peter Featherstone begin to cry childishly. Then he rallied. “Call the young chap. Call Fred Vincy.” Mary’s heart began to beat more quickly. She had to make a difficult decision in a hurry.

“I will call him, if you will let me call Mr. Jonah and others with him.”

“Nobody else, I say. The young chap. I shall do as I like.”

He then urged her to take the money. “It is of no use, sir. I will not do it. Put up your money. I will not touch your money.” He seized his stick and threw it, but it fell, slipping over the foot 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.

Presently the dry wood sent out a flame, and Mary saw that the old man was lying quietly. She went towards him with inaudible steps, and thought his face looked strangely motionless; but the movement of the flame made her uncertain. The violent beating of her heart rendered her perceptions so doubtful that even when she touched him and listened for his breathing she could not trust her conclusions. She went to the window and gently propped aside the curtain. The next moment she ran to the bell and rang it energetically. In a very little while there was no longer any doubt that Peter Featherstone was dead, with his right hand clasping the keys, and his left hand lying on the heap of notes and gold.