Chapter XXXII
They'll take suggestion as a cat laps milk.
SHAKESPEARE: Tempest.
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, who naturally manifested more their sense
of the family tie and were more visibly numerous now that he
had become bed
ridden. Naturally: for when " poor Peter
" had occupied his arm-chair in the wainscoted parlor, no
assiduous beetles for whom the cook prepares boiling water
could have been less welcome on a hearth which they had
reasons for preferring, than those persons whose
Featherstone blood was ill-nourished, not from penuriousness
on their part, but from poverty. Brother Solomon and Sister
Jane were rich, and the family candor and total abstinence
from false politeness with which they were always received
seemed to them no argument that their brother in the solemn
act of making his will would overlook the superior claims of
wealth. Themselves at least he had never been unnatural
enough to banish from his house, and it seemed hardly
eccentric that he should hare kept away Brother Jonah,
Sister Martha, and the rest, who had no shadow of such
claims. They knew Peter's maxim, that money was a good egg,
and should be laid in a warm nest.
But Brother Jonah, Sister Martha, and all the needy
exiles, held a different point of view. Probabilities are
as various as the faces to be seen at will in fretwork or
paper-hangings: every form is there, from Jupiter to Judy,
if you only look with creative inclination. To the poorer
and least favored it seemed likely that since Peter had done
nothing for them in his life, he would remember them at the
last. Jonah argued that men liked to make a surprise of
their wills, while Martha said that nobody need be surprised
if he left the best part of his money to those who least
expected it. Also it was not to be thought but that an own
brother " lying there " with dropsy in his legs must come to
feel that blood was thicker than water, and if he didn't
alter his will, he might have money by him. At any rate
some blood-relations should be on the premises and on the
watch against those who were hardly relations at all. Such
things had been known as forged wills and disputed wills,
which seemed to have the golden-hazy advantage of somehow
enabling non-legatees to live out of them. Again, those who
were no blood-relations might be caught making away with
things — and poor Peter "lying there " helpless! Somebody
should be on the watch. But in this conclusion they were at
one with Solomon and Jane; also, some nephews,
nieces,
and cousins, arguing with still greater subtilty as to what
might be done by a man able to " will away " his property
and give himself large treats of oddity, felt in a handsome
sort of way that there was a family interest to be attended
to, and thought of Stone Court as a place which it would be
nothing but right for them to visit. Sister Martha,
otherwise Mrs. Cranch, living with some wheeziness in the
Chalky Flats, could not undertake the journey; but her son,
as being poor Peter's own nephew, could represent her
advantageously, and watch lest his uncle Jonah should make
an unfair use of the improbable things which seemed likely
to happen. In fact there was a general sense running in the
Featherstone blood that everybody must watch everybody else,
and that it would be well for everybody else to reflect that
the Almighty was watching him.
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, who would see none of them, and sent her down
with the still more unpleasant task of telling them so. As
manager of the household she felt bound to ask them in good
provincial fashion to stay and eat; but she chose to consult
Mrs. Vincy on the point of extra down-stairs consumption now
that Mr. Featherstone was laid up.
"Oh, my dear, you must do things handsomely where
there's last illness and a property. God knows, I don't
grudge them every ham in the house — only, save the best for
the funeral. Have some stuffed veal always, and a fine
cheese in cut. You must expect to keep open house in these
last illnesses," said liberal Mrs. Vincy, once more of
cheerful note and bright plumage.
But some of the visitors alighted and did not depart
after the handsome treating to veal and ham. Brother Jonah,
for example (there are such unpleasant people in most
families; perhaps even in the highest aristocracy there are
Brobdingnag specimens, gigantically in debt and bloated at
greater expense) — Brother Jonah, I say, having come down in
the world, was mainly supported by a calling which he was
modest enough
not to boast of, though it was much
better than swindling either on exchange or turf, but which
did not require his presence at Brassing so long as he had a
good corner to sit in and a supply of food. He chose the
kitchen-corner, partly because he liked it best, and partly
because he did not want to sit with Solomon, concerning whom
he had a strong brotherly opinion. Seated in a famous
arm-chair and in his best suit, constantly within sight of
good cheer, he had a comfortable consciousness of being on
the premises, mingled with fleeting suggestions of Sunday
and the bar at the Green Man; and he informed Mary Garth
that he should not go out of reach of his brother Peter
while that poor fellow was above ground. The troublesome
ones in a family are usually either the wits or the idiots.
Jonah was the wit among the Featherstones, and joked with
the maid-servants when they came about the hearth, but
seemed to consider 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, having come all the way from the Chalky Flats to
represent his mother and watch his uncle Jonah, also felt it
his duty to stay and to sit chiefly in the kitchen to give
his uncle company. Young Cranch was not exactly the
balancing point between the wit and the idiot, — verging
slightly towards the latter type, and squinting so as to
leave everything in doubt about his sentiments except that
they were not of a forcible character. When Mary Garth
entered the kitchen and 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, as if he did
it with design, like the gypsies when Borrow read the New
Testament to them. This was rather too much for poor Mary;
sometimes it made her bilious, sometimes it upset her
gravity. One day that she had an opportunity she could not
resist describing the kitchen scene to Fred, who would not
be hindered from immediately going to see it, affecting
simply to pass through. 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 under the high roof
and among the pans he gave way to laughter which made a
hollow resonance perfectly audible in the kitchen. He fled
by another doorway, but Mr. Jonah, who had not before seen
Fred's white complexion, long legs, and pinched delicacy of
face, prepared many sarcasms in which these points of
appearance were wittily combined with the lowest moral
attributes.
"Why, Tom, you don't wear such gentlemanly
trousers — you haven't got half such fine long legs," said
Jonah to his nephew, winking at the same time, to imply that
there was something more in these statements than their
undeniableness. Tom looked at his legs, but left it
uncertain whether he preferred his moral advantages to a
more vicious length of limb and reprehensible gentility of
trouser.
In the large wainscoted parlor too there were constantly
pairs of eyes on the watch, and own relatives eager to be "
sitters-up." Many came, lunched, and departed, but Brother
Solomon and the lady who had been Jane Featherstone for
twenty-five years before she was Mrs. Waule found it good to
be there every day for hoars, without other calculable
occupation than that of observing the cunning Mary Garth
(who was so deep that she could be found out in nothing) and
giving occasional dry wrinkly indications of crying — as if
capable of torrents in a wetter season — at the thought that
they were not allowed to go into Mr. Featherstone's room.
For the old man's dislike of his own family seemed to get
stronger as he got less able to amuse himself by saying
biting things to them. Too languid to sting, he had the
more venom refluent in his blood.
Not fully believing the message sent through Mary Garth,
they had presented themselves together within the door of
the bedroom, both in black — Mrs. Waule having a white
handkerchief partially unfolded in her hand — and both with
faces in a sort of half-mourning purple; while Mrs. Vincy
with her pink cheeks and pink ribbons flying was actually
administering a cordial to their own brother, and the light-complexioned Fred, his short hair curling as might be
expected in a gambler's, was lolling at his ease in a large
chair.
Old Featherstone no sooner caught sight of these
funereal figures appearing in spite of his orders than rage
came to strengthen him more successfully than the cordial.
He was propped up on a bed-rest, and always had his
gold-headed stick lying by him. He seized it now and swept
it backwards and forwards in as large an area as he could,
apparently to ban these ugly spectres, crying in a hoarse
sort of screech —
"Back, back, Mrs. Waule! Back, Solomon!"
"Oh, Brother. Peter," Mrs. Waule began — but Solomon put
his hand before her repressingly. He was a large-cheeked
man, nearly seventy, with small furtive eyes, and was not
only of much blander temper but thought himself much deeper
than his brother Peter; indeed not likely to be deceived in
any of his fellow-men, inasmuch as they could not well be
more greedy and deceitful than he suspected them of being.
Even the invisible powers, he thought, were likely to be
soothed by a bland parenthesis here and there — coming from a
man of property, who might have been as impious as others.
"Brother Peter," he said, in a wheedling yet gravely
official tone, " It's nothing but right I should speak to
you about the Three Crofts and the Manganese. The Almighty
knows what I've got on my mind — "
"Then he knows more than I want to know," said Peter,
laying down his stick with a show of truce which had a
threat in it too, for he reversed the stick so as to make
the gold handle a club in ease of closer fighting, and
looked hard at Solomon's bald head.
"There's things you might repent of, Brother, for want
of speaking to me," said Solomon, not advancing, however. "
I could sit up with you to-night, and Jane with me,
willingly, and you might take your own time to speak, or let
me speak."
"Yes, I shall take my own time — you needn't offer me
yours," said Peter.
"But you can't take your own time to die in, Brother, '
began Mrs. Waule, with her usual woolly tone. " And when
you lie speechless you may be tired of having strangers
about you, and you may think of me and my children" — but
here her voice broke under the touching thought which she
was
attributing to her speechless brother; the mention
of ourselves being naturally affecting.
"No, I shan't," said old Featherstone, contradictiously.
"I shan't think of any of you. I've made my will, I tell
you, I've made my will." Here he turned his head towards
Mrs. Vincy, and swallowed some more of his cordial.
"Some people would be ashamed to fill up a place
belonging by rights to others," said Mrs. Waule, turning her
narrow eyes in the same direction.
"Oh, sister," said Solomon, with ironical softness, "
you and me are not fine, and handsome, and clever enough: we
must be humble and let smart people push themselves before
us."
Fred's spirit could not bear this: rising and looking at
Mr. Featherstone, he said, " Shall my mother and I leave the
room, sir, that you may be alone with your friends?"
"Sit down, I tell you," said old Featherstone,
snappishly. "Stop where you are. Good-by, Solomon," he
added, trying to wield his stick again, but failing now that
he had reversed the handle. " Good-by, Mrs. Waule. Don't
you come again."
"I shall be down-stairs, Brother, whether or no," said
Solomon. "I shall do my duty, and it remains to be seen
what the Almighty will allow."
"' Yes, in property going out of families," said Mrs.
Waule, in continuation, — "and where there's steady young men
to carry on. But I pity them who are not such, and I pity
their mothers. Good-by, Brother Peter."
"Remember, I'm the eldest after you, Brother, and
prospered from the first, just as you did, and have got land
already by the name of Featherstone," said Solomon, relying
much on that reflection, as one which might be suggested in
the watches of the night. " But I bid you good-by for the
present."
Their exit was hastened by their seeing old Mr.
Featherstone pull his wig on each side and shut his eyes
with his mouth-widening grimace, as if he were determined to
be deaf and blind.
None the less they came to Stone Court daily and sat
below at the post of duty, sometimes carrying on a slow
dialogue in an undertone in which the observation and
response were so
far apart, that any one hearing them
might have imagined himself listening to speaking automata,
in some doubt whether the ingenious mechanism would really
work, or wind itself up for a long time in order to stick
and be silent. Solomon and Jane would have been sorry to be
quick: what that led to might be seen on the other side of
the wall in the person of Brother Jonah.
But their watch in the wainscoted parlor was sometimes
varied by the presence of other guests from far or near.
Now that Peter Featherstone was up-stairs, his property
could be discussed with all that local enlightenment to be
found on the spot: some rural and Middlemarch neighbors
expressed much agreement with the family and sympathy with
their interest against the Vincys, and feminine visitors
were even moved to tears, in conversation with Mrs. Waule,
when they recalled the fact that they themselves had been
disappointed in times past by codicils and marriages for
spite on the part of ungrateful elderly gentlemen, who, it
might have been supposed, had been spared for something
better. Such conversation paused suddenly, like an organ
when the bellows are let drop, if Mary Garth came into the
room; and all eyes were turned on her as a possible legatee,
or one who might get access to iron chests.
But the younger men who were relatives or connections of
the family, were disposed to admire her in this problematic
light, as a girl who showed much conduct, and who among all
the chances that were flying might turn out to be at least a
moderate prize. Hence she had her share of compliments and
polite attentions.
Especially from Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, a distinguished
bachelor and auctioneer of those parts, much concerned in
the sale of land and cattle: a public character, indeed,
whose name was seen on widely distributed placards, and who
might reasonably be sorry for those who did not know of him.
He was second cousin to Peter Featherstone, and had been
treated by him with more amenity than any other relative,
being useful in matters of business; and in that programme
of his funeral which the old man had himself dictated, he
had been named as a Bearer. There was no odious cupidity in
Mr. Borthrop
Trumbull — nothing more than a sincere
sense of his own merit, which, he was aware, in ease of
rivalry might tell against competitors; so that if Peter
Featherstone, who so far as he, Trumbull, was concerned, had
behaved like as good a soul as ever breathed, should have
done anything handsome by him, all he could say was, that he
had never fished and fawned, but had advised him to the best
of his experience, which now estended over twenty years from
the time of his apprenticeship at fifteen, and was likely to
yield a knowledge of no surreptitious kind. His admiration
was far from being confined to himself, but was accustomed
professionally as well as privately to delight in estimating
things at a high rate. He was an amateur of superior
phrases, and never used poor language without immediately
correcting himself — which was fortunate, as he was rather
loud, and given to predominate, standing or walking about
frequently, pulling down his waistcoat with the air of a man
who is very much of his own opinion, trimming himself
rapidly with his fore-finger, and marking each new series in
these movements by a busy play with his large seals. There
was occasionally a little fierceness in his demeanor, but it
was directed chiefly against false opinion, of which there
is so much to correct in the world that a man of some
reading and experience necessarily has his patience tried.
He felt that the Featherstone family generally was of
limited understanding, but being a man of the world and a
public character, took everything as a matter of course, and
even went to converse with Mr. Jonah and young Cranch in the
kitchen, not doubting that he had impressed the latter
greatly by his leading questions concerning the Chalky
Flats. If anybody had observed that Mr. Borthrop Trumbull,
being an auctioneer, was bound to know the nature of
everything, he would have smiled and trimmed himself
silently with the sense that he came pretty near that. On
the whole, in an auctioneering way, he was an honorable man,
not ashamed of his business, and feeling that " the
celebrated Peel, now Sir Robert," if introduced to him,
would not fail to recognize his importance.
"I don't mind if I have a slice of that ham, and a glass
of that ale, Miss Garth, if you will allow me," he said,
coming
into the parlor at half-past eleven, after
having had the exceptional privilege of seeing old
Featherstone, and standing with his back to the fire between
Mrs. Waule and Solomon.
"It's not necessary for you to go out; — let me ring the
bell."
"Thank you," said Mary, "I have an errand."
"Well, Mr. Trumbull, you're highly favored," said Mrs.
Waule.
"What! seeing the old man?" said the auctioneer, playing
with his seals dispassionately. "Ah, you see he has relied
on me considerably." Here he pressed his lips together, and
frowned meditatively.
"Might anybody ask what their brother has been saying?"
said Solomon, in a soft tone of humility, in which he had a
sense of luxurious cunning, he being a rich man and not in
need of it.
"Oh yes, anybody may ask," said Mr. Trumbull, with loud
and good-humored though cutting sarcasm. "Anybody may
interrogate. Any one may give their remarks an
interrogative turn," he continued, his sonorousness rising
with his style. "This is constantly done by good speakers,
even when they anticipate no answer. It is what we call a
figure of speech — speech at a high figure, as one may say."
The eloquent auctioneer smiled at his own ingenuity.
"I shouldn't be sorry to hear he'd remembered you, Mr.
Trumbull," said Solomon. " I never was against the
deserving. It's the undeserving I'm against."
"Ah, there it is, you see, there it is," said Mr.
Trumbull, significantly. " It can't be denied that
undeserving people have been legatees, and even residuary
legatees. It is so, with testamentary dispositions." Again
he pursed up his lips and frowned a little.
"Do you mean to say for certain, Mr. Trumbull, that my
brother has left his land away from our family?" said Mrs.
Waule, on whom, as an unhopeful woman, those long words had
a depressing effect.
"A man might as well turn his land into charity land at
once as leave it to some people," observed Solomon, his
sister's question having drawn no answer.
"What, Blue-Coat land?" said Mrs. Waule, again. "Oh,
Mr. Trumbull, you never can mean to say that. It would be
flying in the face of the Almighty that's prospered him."
While Mrs. Waule was speaking, Mr. Borthrop Trumbull
walked away from the fireplace towards the window,
patrolling with his fore-finger round the inside of his
stock, then along his whiskers and the curves of his hair.
He now walked to Miss Garth's work-table, opened a book
which lay there and read the title aloud with pompous
emphasis as if he were offering it for sale:
"`Anne of Geierstein' (pronounced Jeersteen) 'or the
Maiden of the Mist, by the author of Waverley."' Then turn
ing the page, he began sonorously — " The course of four
centuries has well-nigh elapsed since the series of events
which are related in the following chapters took place on
the Continent." He pronounced the last truly admirable word
with the accent on the last syllable, not as unaware of
vulgar usage, but feeling that this novel delivery enhanced
the sonorous beauty which his reading had given to the
whole.
And now the servant came in with the tray, so that the
moments for answering Mrs. Waule's question had gone by
safely, while she and Solomon, watching Mr. Trumbull's
movements, were thinking that high learning interfered sadly
with serious affairs. Mr. Borthrop Trumbull really knew
nothing about old Featherstone's will; but he could hardly
have been brought to declare any ignorance unless he had
been arrested for misprision of treason.
"I shall take a mere mouthful of ham and a glass
of-ale," he said, reassuringly. " As a man with public
business, I take a snack when I can. I will back this ham,"
he added, after swallowing some morsels with alarming haste,
"against any ham in the three kingdoms. In my opinion it is
better than the hams at Freshitt Hall — and I think I am a
tolerable judge."
"Some don't like so much sugar in their hams," said Mrs.
Waule. "But my poor brother would always have sugar."
"If any person demands better, he is at liberty to do
so; but, God bless me, what an aroma! I should be glad to
buy
in that quality, I know. There is some
gratification to a gentleman" — here Mr. Trumbull's voice
conveyed an emotional remonstrance — "in having this kind of
ham set on his table."
He pushed aside his plate, poured out his glass of ale
and drew his chair a little forward, profiting by the
occasion to look at the inner side of his legs, which he
stroked approvingly — Mr. Trumbull having all those less
frivolous airs and gestures which distinguish the
predominant races of the north.
"You have an interesting work there, I see, Miss Garth,"
he observed, when Mary re-entered. " It is by the author of
`Waverley ': that is Sir Walter Scott. I have bought one of
his works myself — a very nice thing, a very superior
publication, entitled `Ivanhoe.' You will not get any writer
to beat him in a hurry, I think — he will not, in my opinion,
be speedily surpassed. I have just been reading a portion
at the commencement of ' Anne of Jeersteen.' It commences
well." (Things never began with Mr. Borthrop Trumbull: they
al ways commenced, both in private life and on his
handbills.) " You are a reader, I see. Do you subscribe to
our Middlemarch library?"
"No," said Mary. " Mr. Fred Vincy brought this book."
"I am a great bookman myself," returned Mr. Trumbull.
"I have no less than two hundred volumes in calf, and I
flatter myself they are well selected. Also pictures by
Murillo, Rubens, Teniers, Titian, Vandyck, and others. I
shall be happy to lend you any work you like to mention,
Miss Garth."
"I am much obliged," said Mary, hastening away again,
"but I have little time for reading."
"I should say my brother has done something for her
in his will," said Mr. Solomon, in a very low undertone,
when she had shut the door behind her, pointing with his
head towards the absent Mary.
"His first wife was a poor match for him, though," said
Mrs. Waule. " She brought him nothing: and this young woman
is only her niece, — and very proud. And my brother has
always paid her wage."
"A sensible girl though, in my opinion," said Mr.
Trumbull, finishing his ale and starting up with an emphatic
adjustment of his waistcoat. " I have observed her when she
has been mixing medicine in drops. She minds what she is
doing, sir. That is a great point in a woman, and a great
point-for our friend up-stairs, poor dear old soul. A man
whose life is of any value should think of his wife as a
nurse: that is what I should do, if I married; and I believe
I have lived single long enough not to make a mistake in
that line. Some men must marry to elevate themselves a
little, but when I am in need of that, I hope some one will
tell me so — I hope some individual will apprise me of the
fact. I wish you good morning, Mrs. Waule. Good morning,
Mr. Solomon. I trust we shall meet under less melancholy
auspices."
When Mr. Trumbull had departed with a fine bow, Solomon,
leaning forward, observed to his sister, "You may depend,
Jane, my brother has left that girl a lumping sum."
"Anybody would think so, from the way Mr. Trumbull
talks," said Jane. Then, after a pause, " He talks as if my
daughters wasn't to be trusted to give drops."
"Auctioneers talk wild," said Solomon. "Not but what
Trumbull has made money."