Middlemarch by George Eliot (ebook and pdf reader TXT) 📕

“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 everyone 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 someone 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 someone 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 tomorrow 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