Middlemarch

hey’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
bedridden. 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
have 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 hours, 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 case 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
case 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
extended 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 turning 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 always 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.”