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 the bed.
The next moment she ran to the bell and rang it energetically.
In a very little while there was no longer any doubt
that Peter Featherstone was dead, with his right hand
clasping the keys, and his left hand lying on the
heap of notes and gold.
THREE LOVE PROBLEMS.
1st Gent. Such men as this
are feathers, chips, and straws.
Carry no weight, no force.
2d Gent.
But levity
Is causal too, and makes the sum
of weight.
For power finds its place in lack
of power;
Advance is cession, and the driven
ship
May run aground because the helmsman’s
thought
Lacked force to balance opposites.”
It was on a morning of May that Peter Featherstone
was buried. In the prosaic neighborhood of Middlemarch,
May was not always warm and sunny, and on this particular
morning a chill wind was blowing the blossoms from
the surrounding gardens on to the green mounds of
Lowick churchyard. Swiftly moving clouds only
now and then allowed a gleam to light up any object,
whether ugly or beautiful, that happened to stand
within its golden shower. In the churchyard
the objects were remarkably various, for there was
a little country crowd waiting to see the funeral.
The news had spread that it was to be a “big
burying;” the old gentleman had left written
directions about everything and meant to have a funeral
“beyond his betters.” This was true;
for old Featherstone had not been a Harpagon whose
passions had all been devoured by the ever-lean and
ever-hungry passion of saving, and who would drive
a bargain with his undertaker beforehand. He
loved money, but he also loved to spend it in gratifying
his peculiar tastes, and perhaps he loved it best
of all as a means of making others feel his power
more or less uncomfortably. If any one will here
contend that there must have been traits of goodness
in old Featherstone, I will not presume to deny this;
