“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.”
“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.
