Felix Holt | Page 6

scagliola pillars, the
marble statues, and the broad stone staircase, with its matting worn into
large holes. And, stronger sign of expectation than all, from one of the
doors which surrounded the entrance-hall, there came forth from time
to time a lady, who walked lightly over the polished stone floor, and
stood on the doorsteps and watched and listened. She walked lightly,
for her figure was slim and finely formed, though she was between fifty
and sixty. She was a tall, proud-looking woman, with abundant grey
hair, dark eyes and eyebrows, and a somewhat eagle-like yet not
unfeminine face. Her tight-fitting black dress was much worn; the fine
lace of her cuffs and collar, and of the small veil which fell backwards
over her high comb, was visibly mended; but rare jewels flashed on her

hands, which lay on her folded black-clad arms like finely cut onyx
cameos.
Many times Mrs Transome went to the doorsteps, watching and
listening in vain. Each time she returned to the same room: it was a
moderate-sized comfortable room, with low ebony bookshelves round
it, and it formed an anteroom to a large library, of which a glimpse
could be seen through an open doorway, partly obstructed by a heavy
tapestry curtain drawn on one side. There was a great deal of tarnished
gilding and dinginess on the walls and furniture of this smaller room,
but the pictures above the bookcases were all of a cheerful kind:
portraits in pastel of pearly-skinned ladies with hair-powder; blue
ribbons, and low-bodices; a splendid portrait in oils of a Transome in
the gorgeous dress of the Restoration; another of a Transome in his
boyhood, with his hand on the neck of a small pony; and a large
Flemish battle-piece, where war seemed only a picturesque
blue-and-red accident in a vast sunny expanse of plain and sky.
Probably such cheerful pictures had been chosen because this was Mrs
Transome's usual sitting-room: it was certainly for this reason that, near
the chair in which she seated herself each time she re-entered, there
hung a picture of a youthful face which bore a strong resemblance to
her own: a beardless but masculine face, with rich brown hair hanging
low on the forehead, and undulating beside each cheek down to the
loose white cravat. Near this same chair were her writing-table, with
vellum-covered account-books on it, the cabinet in which she kept her
neatly-arranged drugs, her basket for her embroidery, a folio volume of
architectural engravings from which she took her embroidery patterns,
a number of the North Loamshire Herald, and the cushion for her fat
Blenheim, which was too old and sleepy to notice its mistress's
restlessness. For, just now, Mrs Transome could not abridge the sunny
tedium of the day by the feeble interest of her usual indoor occupations.
Her consciousness was absorbed by memories and prospects, and
except when she walked to the entrance-door to look out, she sat
motionless with folded arms, involuntarily from time to time turning
towards the portrait close by her, and as often, when its young brown
eyes met hers, turning away again with self-checking resolution.

At last, prompted by some sudden thought or by some sound, she rose
and went hastily beyond the tapestry curtain into the library. She
paused near the door without speaking: apparently she only wished to
see that no harm was being done. A man nearer seventy than sixty was
in the act of ranging on a large library-table a series of shallow drawers,
some of them containing dried insects, others mineralogical specimens.
His pale mild eyes, receding lower jaw, and slight frame, could never
have expressed much vigour, either bodily or mental; but he had now
the unevenness of gait and feebleness of gesture which tell of a past
paralytic seizure. His threadbare clothes were thoroughly brushed; his
soft white hair was carefully parted and arranged: he was not a
neglected-looking old man; and at his side a fine black retriever, also
old, sat on its haunches, and watched him as he went to and fro. But
when Mrs Transome appeared within the doorway, her husband paused
in his work and shrank like a timid animal looked at in a cage where
flight is impossible. He was conscious of a troublesome intention, for
which he had been rebuked before - that of disturbing all his specimens
with a view to a new arrangement.
After an interval, in which his wife stood perfectly still, observing him,
he began to put back the drawers in their places in the row of cabinets
which extended under the bookshelves at one end of the library. When
they were all put back and closed, Mrs Transome turned away, and the
frightened old man seated himself with Nimrod the retriever on an
ottoman. Peeping at