Kabanata Kabanata 33 · Chapter XXXIII

“Close up his eyes and draw the curtain close;

And let us all to meditation.”

—2 _Henry VI_.

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 whenever he demanded her

attentions. There were intervals in which she could sit perfectly

still, enjoying the outer stillness and the subdued light. The red fire

with its gently audible movement seemed like a solemn existence calmly

independent of the petty passions, the imbecile desires, the straining

after worthless uncertainties, which were daily moving her contempt.

Mary was fond of her own thoughts, and could amuse herself well sitting

in twilight with her hands in her lap; for, having early had strong

reason to believe that things were not likely to be arranged for her

peculiar satisfaction, she wasted no time in astonishment and annoyance

at that fact. And she had already come to take life very much as a

comedy in which she had a proud, nay, a generous resolution not to act

the mean or treacherous part. Mary might have become cynical if she had

not had parents whom she honored, and a well of affectionate gratitude

within her, which was all the fuller because she had learned to make no

unreasonable claims.

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 fancy

added fresh drollery: people were so ridiculous with their illusions,

carrying their fool’s caps unawares, thinking their own lies opaque

while everybody else’s were transparent, making themselves exceptions

to everything, as if when all the world looked yellow under a lamp they

alone were rosy. Yet there were some illusions under Mary’s eyes which

were not quite comic to her. She was secretly convinced, though she had

no other grounds than her close observation of old Featherstone’s

nature, that in spite of his fondness for having the Vincys about him,

they were as likely to be disappointed as any of the relations whom he

kept at a distance. She had a good deal of disdain for Mrs. Vincy’s

evident alarm lest she and Fred should be alone together, but it did

not hinder her from thinking anxiously of the way in which Fred would

be affected, if it should turn out that his uncle had left him as poor

as ever. She could make a butt of Fred when he was present, but she did

not enjoy his follies when he was absent.

Yet she liked her thoughts: a vigorous young mind not overbalanced by

passion, finds a good in making acquaintance with life, and watches its

own powers with interest. Mary had plenty of merriment within.

Her thought was not veined by any solemnity or pathos about the old man

on the bed: such sentiments are easier to affect than to feel about an

aged creature whose life is not visibly anything but a remnant of

vices. 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

to the saints of the earth; and Mary was not one of them. She had never

returned him a harsh word, and had waited on him faithfully: that was

her utmost. Old Featherstone himself was not in the least anxious about

his 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 lay

remarkably still, until at last Mary heard him rattling his bunch of

keys against the tin box which he always kept in the bed beside him.

About three o’clock he said, with remarkable distinctness, “Missy, come

here!”

Mary obeyed, and found that he had already drawn the tin box from under

the clothes, though he usually asked to have this done for him; and he

had selected the key. He now unlocked the box, and, drawing from it

another key, looked straight at her with eyes that seemed to have

recovered all their sharpness and said, “How many of ’em are in the

house?”

“You mean of your own relations, sir,” said Mary, well used to the old

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’ll

warrant—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 here every

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 three

o’clock in the morning, and I’ve got all my faculties as well as ever I

had in my life. I know all my property, and where the money’s put out,

and everything. And I’ve made everything ready to change my mind, and

do as 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 made two

wills, and I’m going to burn one. Now you do as I tell you. This is the

key of my iron chest, in the closet there. 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. See and do that; and take out

the topmost paper—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 voice

beginning to shake under the shock of this resistance.

“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, I’m in my right mind. Shan’t I do as I like at the last? I

made two wills on purpose. Take the key, I say.”

“No, sir, I will not,” said Mary, more resolutely still. Her repulsion

was 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

the beginning of mine. I will not touch your iron chest or your will.”

She moved to a little distance from the bedside.

The old man paused with a blank stare for a little while, holding the

one key erect on the ring; then with an agitated jerk he began to work

with his bony left hand at emptying the tin box before him.

“Missy,” he began to say, hurriedly, “look here! take the money—the

notes and gold—look here—take it—you shall have it all—do as I tell

you.”

He made an effort to stretch out the key towards her as far as

possible, and Mary again retreated.

“I will not touch your key or your money, sir. Pray don’t ask me to do

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 old

Peter Featherstone begin to cry childishly. She said, in as gentle a

tone as she could command, “Pray put up your money, sir;” and then went

away to her seat by the fire, hoping this would help to convince him

that it was 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 rushed through

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 with

him.”

“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 me

call Simmons now, to go and fetch the lawyer? He can be here in less

than two hours.”

“Lawyer? What do I want with the lawyer? Nobody shall know—I say,

nobody shall know. I shall do as I like.”

“Let me call some one else, sir,” said Mary, persuasively. She did not

like her position—alone with the old man, who seemed to show a strange

flaring of nervous energy which enabled him to speak again and again

without falling into his usual cough; yet she desired not to push

unnecessarily the contradiction which agitated him. “Let me, pray, call

some one else.”

“You let me alone, I say. Look here, missy. Take the money. You’ll

never have the chance again. It’s pretty nigh two hundred—there’s more

in the box, and nobody knows how much there was. Take it and do as I

tell 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 out

the key, and the money lying on the quilt before him. She never forgot

that vision of a man wanting to do as he liked at the last. But the way

in which he had put the offer of the money urged her to speak with

harder resolution than ever.

“It is of no use, sir. I will not do it. Put up your money. I will not

touch your money. I will do anything else I can to comfort you; but I

will not touch your keys or your money.”

“Anything else—anything else!” said old Featherstone, with hoarse rage,

which, as if in a nightmare, tried to be loud, and yet was only just

audible. “I want nothing else. You come here—you come here.”

Mary approached him cautiously, knowing him too well. She saw him

dropping his keys and trying to grasp his stick, while he looked at her

like an aged hyena, the muscles of his face getting distorted with the

effort of his hand. She paused at a safe distance.

“Let me give you some cordial,” she said, quietly, “and try to compose

yourself. You will perhaps go to sleep. And to-morrow by daylight you

can do as you like.”

He lifted the stick, in spite of her being beyond his reach, and threw

it with a hard effort which was but impotence. 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. Fatigue would

make him passive. It was getting towards the chillest moment of the

morning, the fire had got low, and she could see through the chink

between the moreen window-curtains the light whitened by the blind.

Having put some 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 him the irritation might be kept up. He had said nothing after

throwing the stick, but she had seen him taking his keys again and

laying his right hand on the money. He did not put it up, however, and

she thought that he was dropping off to sleep.

But Mary herself began to be more agitated by the remembrance of what

she had gone through, than she had been by the reality—questioning

those acts of hers which had come imperatively and excluded all

question in the critical moment.

Presently the dry wood sent out a flame which illuminated every

crevice, and Mary saw that the old man was lying quietly with his head

turned a little on one side. She went towards him with inaudible steps,

and thought that his face looked strangely motionless; but the next

moment the movement of the flame communicating itself to all objects

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 and blind, so that the

still light of the sky fell on the bed.

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.

BOOK IV.

THREE LOVE PROBLEMS.