Middlemarch

After midnight, Mary Garth takes the watch alone in Featherstone's room. She often chose this task, finding a certain pleasure in the outer stillness and the subdued red firelight. She had early come to take life as a comedy, with a "proud, nay, a generous resolution not to act the mean or treacherous part." Her thoughts were not solemnly affectionate about the old man: he was not proud of her, and she was only useful to him. She had never returned him a harsh word; that was her utmost. Old Featherstone himself was not anxious about his soul and had declined to see Mr. Tucker on the subject. She sat reviewing the day's comic scenes and wondering privately whether the Vincys would be as disappointed as the blood-relations when the will was read — for Featherstone, she felt sure, cared for nobody and would act to the last on his own satisfaction. At three o'clock he becomes suddenly alert. He draws out his tin box himself — which he usually asks her to fetch — selects a key, and looks straight at her with recovered sharpness. He tells her he has all his faculties. He has made two wills on purpose. She is to take the key of his iron chest, open it, and bring out the topmost document: Last Will and Testament. "No, sir," said Mary, in a firm voice. "I cannot touch your iron chest or your will. I must refuse to do anything that might lay me open to suspicion." He insists. She refuses. He raises the money — nearly two hundred pounds, heaped on the quilt — and pushes it toward her. She retreats. "I will not let the close of your life soil the beginning of mine." He begins to cry childishly — the first time in her life she has seen it. He rallies and asks for Fred Vincy alone. She says she will call Fred only if she may call Mr. Jonah and others with him. He refuses. He asks for the lawyer; Featherstone refuses that too. He reaches for his stick with distorted effort, looking at her "like an aged hyena," and throws it. It falls short. She retreats to her chair by the fire. Mary never forgot that vision: "a man wanting to do as he liked at the last." By-and-by he would tire himself into passivity. She added wood to the fire, threw a shawl over herself, and waited. Then in the new flame she saw him lying very still, his head turned a little to one side. She approached with inaudible steps. His face looked strangely motionless. 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. Then she ran to the bell and rang it energetically. Peter Featherstone was dead, his right hand clasping his keys, his left hand lying on the heap of notes and gold.