“Yes, I shall take my own time—you needn’t offer me yours,” said Peter.
“But you can’t take your own time to die in, Brother,” began Mrs. Waule, with her usual woolly tone. “And when you lie speechless you may be tired of having strangers about you, and you may think of me and my children”—but here her voice broke under the touching thought which she was attributing to her speechless brother; the mention of ourselves being naturally affecting.
“No, I shan’t,” said old Featherstone, contradictiously. “I shan’t think of any of you. I’ve made my will, I tell you, I’ve made my will.”
Here he turned his head towards Mrs. Vincy, and swallowed some more of his cordial.
“Some people would be ashamed to fill up a place belonging by rights to others,” said Mrs. Waule, turning her narrow eyes in the same direction.
“Oh, sister,” said Solomon, with ironical softness, “you and me are not fine, and handsome, and clever enough: we must be humble and let smart people push themselves before us.”
Fred’s spirit could not bear this: rising and looking at Mr. Featherstone, he said, “Shall my mother and I leave the room, sir, that you may be alone with your friends?”
“Sit down, I tell you,” said old Featherstone, snappishly.
“Stop where you are. Goodbye, Solomon,” he added, trying to wield his stick again, but failing now that he had reversed the handle.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Waule. Don’t you come again.”
“I shall be downstairs, Brother, whether or no,” said Solomon. “I shall do my duty, and it remains to be seen what the Almighty will allow.”