Middlemarch
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.”
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.