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."
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.