Andwhere was Gervase? His mother lay in the same condition all the next day. There was little hope that she would ever come out of it. The doctor said calmly that it was what he had looked for, for a long time. There had been “a stroke” before, though it was slight and had not been talked about; but Parsons knew very well what he was afraid of, and should have kept her mistress from excitement. Parsons, too, allowed that she knew it might come at any time. But Lord! a thing that may come at any time, you don’t ever think it’s going to come now, Parsons said; and who was she to control her lady as was the head of everything? It was allowed on all sides that to control Lady Piercey would have been a difficult thing indeed, especially where anything about Gervase was concerned.
“Spoiled the boy from the beginning, that was what she always did,” said Sir Giles, mumbling. “I’d have kept a stronger hand over him, Gerald; but what could I do, with his mother making it all up to him, as soon as my back was turned?”
Colonel Piercey heard a great deal about Gervase that he had never been intended to hear. Lady Piercey’s fiction, which she had made up so elaborately about the young man of fashion, crumbled all to pieces, poor lady; while one after another made their confidences to him. The only one who said nothing was Margaret. She was overwhelmed with occupation; all the charge of the house, which Lady Piercey had kept in her own hands, falling suddenly upon her shoulders, and without any co-operation from the much-indulged old servants, who were all servile to their imperious mistress, but very insubordinate to any government but hers. It became a serious matter, however, as the days passed by, and the old lady remained like a soul in prison, unable to move or to speak, yet staring with ever watchful eyes at the door, looking, they all felt, for some one who did not come. Where was Gervase? There was more telegraphing at Greyshott than there ever had been since such a thing was possible. Mr. Gregson replied to say that he had not found Gervase at the train, and had not seen him, news which brought everything to a standstill. Where, then, had he gone? They had no address to send to, no clue by which he might be traced out. He had disappeared altogether, nobody could tell where. Colonel Piercey’s first impulse had been to leave the distracted family, thus thrown into the depths of domestic distress, but Sir Giles clung to him with piteous helplessness, imploring him not to go.
“After my boy Gervase, there’s nobody but you,” he cried, “and he’s away, God knows where, and whom should I have to hold on by if you were to go too? There’s Meg, to be sure: but she’s got enough to do with my lady. Stay, Gerald, stay, for goodness’ sake. I’ve nobody, nobody, on my side of the house but you; and if anything were to happen,” cried the poor old gentleman, breaking down, “who have I to give orders, or to see to things? I don’t know what is to become of me if you won’t stay.”
“I’ll stay, of course, Uncle Giles, if I can be of any use,” said Colonel Piercey.
“God bless you, my lad!” cried Sir Giles, now ready to sob for satisfaction, as he had before been for trouble. “Now I can face things, if I’ve you to stand by me.”
The household in general took heart when it was known he was to stay.
“Oh! Colonel Piercey, if you’d but look up Mr. Gervase for my lady?—she can’t neither die nor get better till she sees her boy,” said the weeping Parsons; and “Colonel Piercey, Sir,” said Dunning, “Sir Giles do look to you so, as he never looked to any gentleman before. I’ll get him to do whatever’s right and good for him if so be as he knows you’re here.” Thus, both master and servants seized upon him. And yet what could he do? He could not go out and search for Gervase whom he had never seen, knowing absolutely nothing of his cousin’s haunts, nor of the people among whom he was likely to be. And he could not consult the servants on this point. There was but one person who could give him information, and she kept out of his way.
On the evening of the second day, however, Margaret came into the library after Sir Giles had been wheeled off to bed. It happened that Colonel Piercey was standing before the writing-table, examining that very photograph which he had discovered with such surprise, and which had made him break off so quickly in his story on the night when Lady Piercey was taken ill. She came suddenly up to him where he stood with the photograph, and laid her hand on his arm. He had not heard her step, and started, almost dropping it in his surprise. “Mrs. Osborne!” he exclaimed.
“You are looking at Gervase’s picture? Cousin Gerald, help us if you can. I don’t know how much or how little she feels, but it is Gervase my aunt is lying looking for—Gervase, who doesn’t know she is ill even if he had the thought. Was it him you saw with—with the woman? I have not liked to ask you, but I can’t put it off any longer. Was it Gervase? Oh! for pity’s sake, speak!”
“How should I know,” he said, “if you don’t know?”
“Know? I! What way have I of knowing? You saw him, or you seemed to think you did.”
“It was only for a moment. I had never seen him before; I might be mistaken. It seemed to me that it was the same kind of face. But how can I speak on the glimpse of a moment? I might be quite wrong.”
“You are very cautious,” she cried at last, “oh, very cautious!—though it is a matter of life and death. Won’t you help us, then, or can’t you help us? If this is so, it might give a clue. There is a girl—who has disappeared also, I have just found out. Oh! Cousin Gerald, you know what he is?—you must have heard enough to know: not a madman, nor even an imbecile, yet not like other people. He might be imposed upon—he might be carried away. There was something strange about him before he went. He said things which I could not understand. But they suspected nothing.”
“Was it not your duty,” said Gerald Piercey, almost sternly, “to tell them—if they suspected nothing, as you say?”
“You speak to me very strangely,” she said with a forced smile; “as if I were in the wrong, anyhow. What could I tell them? That I was uneasy, and not satisfied? My aunt would have asked what did it matter if I were satisfied or not?—and Uncle Giles!” She stopped, and resumed in a different tone, “And the girl has gone up to London from the Seven Thorns—so far as I can make out, on the same day.”
“What sort of a girl?”
Margaret described her as well as she was able.
“I cannot give you many details. I think she is pretty: brown hair and eyes, very neat and nice in her dress, though my aunt thinks it beyond her station. I think, on the whole, a nice-looking girl—not tall.”
“The description would answer most young women that one sees.”
“It is possible—there is nothing remarkable. She looks clever and watchful, and a little defiant. But I did not mean you to go into the streets to look for Patty. I thought you might see whether my description agreed.”
“Mrs. Osborne, perhaps you will tell me what you suppose to have happened, and what there is that I can do.”
“If we are to be on such formal terms,” said Margaret, colouring deeply, “yes, Colonel Piercey, I will tell you. I suppose, or rather, I fear, that Gervase may have gone away with Patty Hewitt. She is quite a respectable girl. She would not compromise herself; therefore——”
“You think he has married her?”
“I think most likely she must have married him—or intends to do it. But that takes time. They could not have banns called, or other arrangements made——”
“They could have a special licence.”
“Ah! but that costs money. They would not have money, either of them. I have been trying to make inquiries quietly. But time is passing, and his poor mother! It would be better to consent to anything,” said Margaret, “than to have her die without seeing him; and perhaps if he were found, the pressure on the brain might relax. No, I don’t know if that is possible; I am no doctor. I only want to satisfy her. She is his mother! Whatever he is, he is more to her than any one else in the world.”
“She does not seem very kind to you, that you should think so much of that.”
“Who said she was not kind to me? You take a great deal upon yourself, Colonel Piercey, to be a distant cousin!”
“I am the next-of-kin,” he said. “I’d like to protect these poor old people—and it is my duty—from any plot there may be against them.”
“Plot—against them?” She stared at him for a moment with eyes that dilated with astonishment. Then she shook her head.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “If you will not help, I must do what I can by myself. And you are free on your side to inquire, and I hope will do it, and take such steps as may seem to you good. The thing now is to find Gervase for his mother. At another moment,” said Margaret, raising her head, “you will perhaps explain to me what you mean by this tone—towards me.”
She turned her back upon him without another word, and walked away, leaving Colonel Piercey not very comfortable. He asked himself uneasily what right he had to suspect her?—what he suspected her of?—as he stood and watched her crossing the hall. It was a sign of the agitation in the house, that all the doors seemed to stand open, the centre of the family existence having shifted somehow from the principal rooms downstairs to some unseen room above, where the mistress of the house lay. What did he suspect Meg Piercey of? What had he against her? When he asked himself this, it appeared that all he had against her was that she was a dependent, a widow, a middle-aged person—one of those wrecks which encumber the shores of life, which ought to have gone down, or to be broken up, not to strew the margins of existence with unnecessary and incapable things, making demands upon feeling and sympathy which might be much better expended elsewhere. Colonel Piercey was not a hard man by nature: he was, in fact, rather too open to the claims of charity, and had expended too much, not too little, upon widows and orphans in his day. But it had stirred up all the angry elements in his nature to see Meg Piercey in that condition which was not natural to her. She ought to have died long ago along with her husband, or she ought to have a position of her own: to see her here in that posture of dependence, in that black gown, with that child, living, as he said to himself harshly, upon charity, and accepting all the penalties, was more than he could bear. There is a great deal to be said for the Suttee, though a humanitarian government has put an end to it. It is so much more dignified for a woman. To a man of fine feelings, it is a painful thing to see how a person whose natural rôle is that of a princess, a dispenser of help to others, should come down herself into the rank of the beggar, because of the death of, probably, a very inferior being to whom she was married. It degraded her altogether in the scale of being. A princess has noble qualities, large aims, and stands above the crowd—a dependant does quite the reverse. Scheming and plotting are the natural breath of the latter; and that a woman should let herself come down to that wilfully, rather than die and be done with it, which would be so much more natural and dignified! Colonel Piercey was aware that his thoughts were very fantastic, and yet this is how they were—he could not help himself. He was angry with Margaret. It was not the place she was born to; a sort of Abigail about the backstairs, existing by the caprice of a disagreeable old woman. Oh, no! it was not a thing that a man could put up with. And, of course, she must have sunk to the level of her kind.
This was why he suspected her. The question remained, What did he suspect her of? And this was still more difficult to answer. Such a woman, of course, would live by sowing mischief in a family; by hurting in the most effectual way the superiors who kept her down, and were so little considerate of her. And their son was the way in which she could most effectively do this. Gerald Piercey had various thoughts rising in his mind about this young man, who probably was not at all fit to hold the family property and succeed Sir Giles in its honours. There was one point of view from which Colonel Piercey could not forget that he himself was the next-of-kin—that which made him, in his own eyes, the champion of Gervase—his determined defender against every assault. Perhaps the very strength of this feeling might push him beyond what was right and just; but it would be in the way of supporting and protecting his weak-minded cousin. That was a point upon which, naturally, he could have no doubt. If Meg Piercey was against him, it was Gerald Piercey’s part to defend him. But the means were a little doubtful. He was not clear whether Meg was helping Gervase to marry unsuitably, to spite his parents, or whether her intention was to prevent this marriage, in order to deprive him of his happiness and the natural protection which the support of a clever wife might afford to the half-witted young man. Thus, he had a difficult part to play; having first to find out what Margaret’s scope and meaning was, and then to set himself to defeat it. He had been but three days in the house, and what a tangled web he was involved in!—to be the Providence of all these people, old and young, whom he knew so little, yet was so closely connected with; and to defeat the evil genius, the enemy in the guise of a friend, whom he alone was clear-sighted enough to divine. But she puzzled him all the same. She had looks that were not those of a deceiver; and when she had raised her head and told him that at another moment she would demand an explanation of what his tone meant, something like a shade of alarm passed through the soldier’s mind. He would not have been alarmed, you may be sure, if Margaret had threatened him with a champion, as in the older days. Bois-Guilbert was not afraid of Ivanhoe. But, when it is the woman herself who asks an explanation, and his objections have to be stated in full words, to her alone, facing him for herself, that is a different matter. It may well make a man look pale.
Thenext morning after this, Gerald Piercey found himself in the front of the Seven Thorns. He had not known what it was: whether a hamlet, or a farm, or what he actually found it to be, a roadside inn. The aspect of the place was more attractive than usual. It was lying full in the morning sunshine; a great country waggon, with its white covering, and fine, heavily-built, but well-groomed horses, standing before the door, concentrating the light in its great hood. One of the horses was white, which made it a still more shining object in the midst of the red-brown road. The old thorns were full in the sunshine, which softened their shabby antiquity, and made the gnarled roots and twisted branches picturesque. The long, low fabric of the house was bathed in the same light, which pervaded the whole atmosphere with a purifying and embellishing touch. The west side, looking over the walled garden, which extended for some distance along the road, though in the shade, showed a row of open windows, at which white curtains fluttered, giving an air of inhabitation to that usually-closed-up portion of the place. The visitor felt, as he looked at it, that it was not a mere village public-house, that its decadence might have a story, and that it was possible that the daughter of such a house might not, after all, be a mere rustic coquette, or, perhaps, so bad a match for the half-witted Gervase. Colonel Piercey had never once thought of himself as the possible heir of Greyshott; he did not feel that he had any interest in keeping Gervase from marrying, and though it was intolerable that the heir of the Pierceys should marry a barmaid, his feelings softened as he looked at the old country inn, with its look of long-establishment. Probably there was a farm connected with it; perhaps there was a certain pride of family here, too, and the daughter of the house was kept apart from the drinking and the wayside guests. Meg Piercey might have divined that the young woman was really the best match that Gervase could hope for, and this might be the cause of her opposition. (He forgot that he had supposed it likely that Meg might be bringing the match about for her own private ends, one hypothesis being just as likely as another.) With this idea he approached slowly, and took his seat upon the bench that stood under the window of the parlour. The roads between Greyshott and the Seven Thorns were dry and dusty, and his boots were white enough to warrant the idea that he was a pedestrian reposing himself, naturally, at the place of refreshment on the roadside.
The landlord came to the door with the waggoner, when Colonel Piercey had established himself there, and his aspect could not be said to be quite equal to that of his house. Hewitt had a red nose and a watery eye. His appearance did not inspire respect. He was holding the waggoner by the breast of his smock, and holding forth, duly emphasising his discourse by the gesture of the other hand, in which he held a pipe.
“You just ’old by me,” he was saying, “look’ee, Jack; and I’ll ’old by you, I will. The ’ay’s a good crop; nobody can’t say nothing again that. But there’s rain a-coming, and Providence, ’e knows what’ll come of it all in the end. It ain’t what’s grow’d in the fields as is to be trusted to, but what’s safe in the stacks; and there’s a deal o’ difference between one and the other. Look’ee here! you ’old by me, and I’ll ’old by you. And I can’t speak no fairer. I’ve calcilated all round, I ’ave—me and Patty, my girl, as is that good at figures; and if it’s got in safe, all as I’ve got to say is, that this ’ere will be a dashed uncommon yeer.”
“It’s mostly the way,” said the waggoner, “I’ll allow, with them dry Junes. The weather can’t ’old up not for ever.”
“Nor won’t,” said old Hewitt, with assurance; “it stands to reason. Ain’t this a variable climate or ain’t it not? And a drop o’ rain we ’aven’t seen not for three weeks and more. Then we’ll ’ave a wet July. You see yourself when I knocked the glass ’ow it went down. And that,” he added, triumphantly, waving his pipe in the air, “is what settles the price of the ’ay.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if you was right, master,” said the waggoner, getting under weigh.
Gerald Piercey sat and watched the big horses straining their great flanks to the work, setting the heavy waggon in motion, with pleasure in the sight which diverted him for a moment from his chief object of interest. Coming straight from India and the fine and slender-limbed creatures which are the patricians of their kind, the great, patient, phlegmatic English cart-horse filled him with admiration. The big feathered hoofs, the immense strain of those gigantic hind-quarters, the steady calm of the rustic, reflected with a greater and more dignified impassiveness in the face of his beast, was very attractive and interesting to him.
“Fine horses, these,” he said, half to Hewitt at the door, half to the waggoner, who grinned with a slow shamefacedness, as if it were himself who was being praised.
“Ay, sir,” said Hewitt, “and well took care of, as ever beasts was. Jack Mason there—though I say it as shouldn’t—is awfull good to his team.”
“And why shouldn’t you say it?” said Colonel Piercey. “It’s clear enough.”
“He’s a relation, that young man is, and it’s a country saying, sir, as you shouldn’t speak up for your own. But I ain’t one as pays much ’eed to that, for, says I, you knows them that belong to you better nor any one else does. There’s my girl Patty, now; there ain’t one like her betwixt Guildford and Portsmouth, and who knows it as well as me?”
“That’s a very satisfactory state of things,” said the visitor, “and, of course, you must know best. But I fear you won’t be able to keep Miss Patty long to yourself if she’s like that.”
At this Patty’s father began to laugh a slow, inward laugh. “There’s ’eaps o’ fellows after ’er, like bees after a ’oney ’ive. But, Lord bless you! she don’t think nothing o’ them. She’s not one as would take up with a country ’Odge. She’s blood in her veins, has my girl. We’ve been at the Seven Thorns, off and on, for I don’t know ’ow many ’undred years: more time,” said Hewitt, waving his pipe vaguely towards Greyshott, “than them folks ’as been at the ’All.”
“Ah, indeed! That’s the Pierceys, I suppose?”
“And a proud set they be. But ’Ewitts was ’ere before ’em, only they won’t acknowledge it. I’ve ’eard my sister Patience, ’as ’ad a terrible tongue of ’er own, tell Sir Giles so to his face. ’E was young then, and father couldn’t keep ’im out o’ this ’ouse. After Patience, to be sure; but he was a terrible cautious one, was Sir Giles, and it never come to nought.” The landlord laughed with a sharp hee-hee-hee. “I reckon,” he said, “it runs in the blood.”
“What runs in the blood?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said the innkeeper, pausing suddenly, “if you’ve called for anything? I can’t trust neither to maid nor man to attend to the customers now Patty’s away.”
“If you have cider, I should like a bottle, and perhaps you’ll help me to drink it,” said Colonel Piercey. “I’m sorry to hear that Miss Patty’s away.”
“In London,” said Hewitt; “but only for a bit. She ’as a ’ead, that chit ’as! Them rooms along there, end o’ the ’ouse, ’asn’t been lived in not for years and years. She says to me, she does, ‘Father, let’s clear ’em out, and maybe we’ll find a lodger.’ I was agin it at first. ‘What’ll you do with a lodger? There ain’t but very little to be made o’ that,’ I says. ‘They don’t come down to the parlour to drink, that sort doesn’t, and they’re more trouble nor they’re worth.’ ‘You leave it to me, father,’ she says. And, if you’ll believe it, she’s found folks for them rooms already! New-married folks, she says, as will spend their money free. And coming in a week, for the rest of the summer or more. That’s Patty’s way!” cried the landlord, smiting his thigh. “Strike while it’s ’ot, that’s ’er way! Your good ’ealth, sir, and many of ’em. It ain’t my brewing, that cider. I gets it from Devonshire, and I think, begging your pardon, sir, as it’s ’eady stuff.”
“But how,” said Colonel Piercey, “will you manage with your visitors, when your daughter is away?”
“Oh, bless you, sir, she’s a-coming with ’em, she says in her letter, if not before. Patty knows well I ain’t the one for lodgers. I sits in my own parlour, and I don’t mind a drop to drink friendly-like with e’er a man as is thirsty, or to see a set of ’orses put up in my stables, or that; but Richard ’Ewitt of the Seven Thorns ain’t one to beck and bow afore folks as thinks themselves gentry, and maybe ain’t not ’alf as good as ’er and me. No, sir; I wasn’t made, nor was my father afore me made, for the likes of that.”
“It is very good of you, I’m sure, Mr. Hewitt, to sit for half an hour with me, who may be nobody, as you say.”
“Don’t mention it, sir,” said Hewitt, with a wave of the pipe which he still carried like a banner in his hand: “I ’ope I knows a gentleman when I sees one; and as I said, I sits at my own door and I takes a friendly drop with any man as is thirsty. That ain’t the same as bowing and scraping, and taking folks’s orders, as is nothing to me.”
“And Miss Patty, you say, is in London? London’s a big word: is she east or west, or——”
“It’s funny,” said Hewitt, “the interest that’s took in my Patty since she’s been away. There’s been Sally Ferrett, the nurse up at Greyshott, asking and asking, where is she, and when did she go, and when she’s coming back? I caught her getting it all out of ’Lizabeth the girl. What day did she go, and what train, and so forth? ’Lizabeth’s a gaby. She just says ‘Yes, Miss,’ and ‘No, Miss,’ to a wench like that, as is only a servant like herself. I give it ’em well, and I give Miss her answer. ‘What’s their concern up at Greyshott with where my Patty is?”
“That’s true,” said Colonel Piercey, “and what is my concern? You are quite right, Mr. Hewitt.”
“Oh, yours, sir? that’s different: you ask out o’ pure idleness, you do, to make conversation; I understand that. But between you and me I couldn’t answer ’em, not if I wanted to. For my Patty is one as can take very good care of ’erself, and she don’t give me no address. She’ll be back with them young folks, or maybe, afore ’em, next week, and that’s all as I want to know. I wants her then, for I’ll not have nothing to do with ’em, and ’Lizabeth, she’s a gaby, and not to be trusted. Lodgers in my opinion is more trouble than they’re any good. So Patty will manage them herself, or they don’t come here.”
“The family at Greyshott takes an interest in your daughter, I presume, from what you say,” said Colonel Piercey.
Upon this Hewitt laughed low and long, and winked over and over again with his watery eye. “There’s one of ’em as does,” he said. “Oh, there’s one of ’em as does! If so be as you know the family, sir, you’ll know the young gentleman. Don’t you know Mr. Gervase?—eh, not the young ’un, sir, as is Sir Giles’s heir? Oh, Lord, if you don’t know him you don’t know Greyshott Manor, nor what’s going on there.”
“I have never seen the young gentleman,” said Gerald; “I believe he is not very often at home.”
“I don’t know about ’ome, but ’e’s ’ere as often as ’e can be. ’E’d be ’ere mornin’, noon, and night if I’d ’a put up with it; but I see ’im, what ’e was after, and I’ll not ’ave my girl talked about, not for the best Piercey as ever trod in shoe-leather. And ’e ain’t the best, oh, not by a long chalk ’e ain’t. Sir Giles is dreadful pulled down with the rheumatics and that, but ’e was a man as was something like a man. Lord bless you, sir, this poor creature, ’e’s a Softy, and ’e’ll never be no more.”
“What do you mean by a Softy?” said Gerald, quickly; then he added with a sensation of shame, “Never mind, I don’t want you to tell me. Don’t you think you should be a little more careful what you say, when a young man like this comes to your house?”
“What should I be careful for?” said Hewitt; “I ain’t noways beholdin’ to the Pierceys. They ain’t my landlords, ain’t the Piercey’s, though they give themselves airs with their Lords o’ the Manor, and all that. Hewitts of the Seven Thorns is as good as the Pierceys, and not beholdin’ to them, not for the worth of a brass fardin—oh, no! And I wouldn’t have the Softy about my house, a fool as opens ’is mouth and laughs in your face if you say a sensible word to ’im; not for me! Richard Hewitt’s not a-going to think twice what he says for a fool like ’im. Softy’s ’is name and Softy’s ’is nature: ask any man in the village who the Softy is, and they’ll soon tell you. Lord, it don’t matter a bit what I say.”
“Still, I suppose,” said Colonel Piercey, feeling a little nettled in spite of himself, “it is, after all, the first family in the neighbourhood.”
“First family be dashed,” cried Hewitt; “I’m as good a family as any of ’em. And I don’t care that, no, not that,” he cried, snapping his fingers, “for the Pierceys, if they was kings and queens, which they ain’t, nor no such big folks after all. Old Sir Giles, he’s most gone off his head with rheumatics and things; and my lady, they do say, she ’ave ’ad a stroke, and serve her right for her pride and her pryin’. And Mr. Gervase, he’s a Softy, and that’s all that’s to be said. They ain’t much for a first family when you knows all the rights and the wrongs of it,” Hewitt said.
Thepoet’s wish that we might see ourselves as others see us was, though he did not so intend it, a cruel wish. It might save us some ridicule to the outside world, but it would turn ourselves and our pretensions into such piteous ridicule to ourselves, that life would be furnished with new pangs. Colonel Piercey went back to Greyshott with a sense of this keen truth piercing through all appearances, which was half ludicrous and half painful, though it was not himself, but his relations, that had been exhibited to him in the light of an old rustic’s observations. He had come upon this visit with a sense of the greatness of the head of his own family, which had, perhaps, a little self-esteem in it; for if the younger branches of the house were what he knew them in his own person, and his father’s, what ought not the head of the house, Sir Giles, the lineal descendant of so many Sir Gileses, and young Gervase, the heir of those long-unbroken honours, to be? He had expected, perhaps a little solemn stupidity, such as the younger is apt to associate with the elder branch. But he had also expected something of greatness—evidence that the house was of that reigning race which is cosmopolitan, and recognises its kind everywhere from English meads to Styrian mountains, and even among the chiefs of the East. It was ludicrous to see, through the eyes of a clown, how poor, after all, these pretences were. Yet he could not help it. Poor old Sir Giles, helpless and querulous, broken down by sickness, and, perhaps, disappointment and trouble; the poor old lady, not much at any time of the rural princess she might have been, lying speechless in that lingering agony of imprisoned consciousness; and the son, the heir, the future head of the house! Was not that a revelation to stir the blood in the veins of Gerald Piercey, the next-of-kin? He was a man of many faults, but he was full both of pride and generosity. The humiliation for his race struck him more than any possible elevation for himself. Indeed, that possible elevation was far enough off, if he had ever thought of it. A half-witted rustic youth, taken hold of by a pert barmaid, with a numerous progeny to follow, worthy of both sides—was that what the Pierceys were to come to in the next generation? He had never thought, having so many other things to occupy him in his life, of that succession, though probably he began to think, his father had, who had so much insisted on this visit. But what a succession it would be now! He was walking along, turning these things over in his mind, going slowly, and not much observant (though this was not at all his habit) of what was about him, when he was sensible of a sudden touch, which was, indeed, only upon his hand, yet which felt as if it had been direct upon his heart, rousing all kinds of strange sensations there. It was a thing which is apt to touch every one susceptible of feeling, with quick and unexpected sensations when it comes unawares. It was a little hand—very small, very soft, very warm, yet with a grasp in it which held fast, suddenly put into his hand. Colonel Piercey stopped, touched, as I have said, on his very heart, which, underneath all kinds of actual and conventional coverings, was soft and open to emotion. He looked down and saw a little figure at his foot, a little glowing face looking up at him. “May I tum and walk with you, Cousin Colonel?” a small voice said. “Sally, do away.”
“Certainly you shall come and walk with me, Osy,” said the Colonel. “What are you doing, little man, so far from home?”
“It’s not far from home. I walks far—far—further than that. Sally, do away! I’m doing to walk home with a gemplemans. I’m a gemplemans myself, but Movver will send a woman wif me wherever I do. Sally, do away!”
“I’ll take care of him,” said Colonel Piercey, with a nod to the maid. “And so you think you’re too big for a nurse, Master Osy. How old are you?”
“Seven,” said the boy; “at least I’m more than six-and-three-quarters, Cousin Colonel. Little Joey at the farm is only five, and he does miles, all by hisself. Joey is better than me many ways,” he added, thoughtfully; “he dets up on the big hay-cart, and he wides on the big horse, and his faver sits him up high! on his so’lder. But I only have a pony and sometimes I does with Jacob in the dog-cart, and sometimes——”
“Would you like to ride on my shoulder, Osy?”
Osy looked up to the high altitude of that shoulder with a look full of deliberation, weighing various things. “I s’ould like it,” he said, “but I felled off once when Cousin Gervase put me up, and I promised Movver: but I tan’t help it when he takes me by my arms behind me. Sometimes I’m fwightened myself. A gemplemans oughtn’t to be fwightened, s’ould he, Cousin Colonel?”
“That depends,” said Gerald. “I am a great deal bigger than you, but sometimes I have been frightened, too.”
Osy looked at the tall figure by his side with certain glimmerings in his eyes of contempt. That size! and afraid!—but he would not make any remark. One does not talk of the deficiencies of others when one is of truly gentle spirit. One passes them over. He apologised like a prince to Gerald for himself. “That would be,” he said, “when it was a big, big giant. There’s giants in India, I know, like Goliath. If I do to India when I’m a man, I’ll be fwightened, too.”
“But David wasn’t, you know, Osy.”
“That’s what I was finking, Cousin Colonel, but he flinged the stone at him before he tummed up to him. Movver says it was quite fair, but——”
“I think it was quite fair. Don’t you see, he had his armour on, and his shield, and all that; if he had had his wits about him, he might have put up his shield to ward off the stone. When you are little you must be very sharp.”
Osy looked at his big cousin again, reflectively. “I don’t fink I could kill you, Cousin Colonel, even if I was very sharp.”
“I hope not, Osy, and I trust you will never want to, my little man.”
“I would if we was fighting,” said Osy, with spirit; “but I’ll do on detting bigger and bigger till I’m a man: and you are a man now, and you tan’t gwow no more.”
“You bloodthirsty little beggar! You’ll go on getting bigger and bigger while I shall grow an old man like Uncle Giles.”
“I never,” cried Osy, flushing very red, “would stwike an old gemplemans like Uncle Giles. Never! I wouldn’t let nobody touch him. When Cousin Gervase runned away with his chair, I helped old Dunning to stop him. You might kill me, but I would fight for Uncle Giles!”
“It appears you are going to be a soldier, anyhow, Osy.”
“My faver was a soldier,” said Osy. “Movver’s got his sword hanging up in our room; all the rest of the fings belongs to Uncle Giles, but the sword, it belongs to Movver and me.”
The Colonel gave the little hand which was in his an involuntary pressure, and a little moisture came into the corner of his eye. “Do you remember your father,” he said, “my little man?”
Osy shook his head. “I don’t remember nobody but Movver,” the child said.
What a curious thing it was! To hear of the dead father and his sword brought that wetness to Colonel Piercey’s eye; but the name of the mother, which filled all the child’s firmament, dried the half-tear like magic. The poor fellow who had died went to the Colonel’s heart. The lonely woman with the little boy, so much more usual an occasion of sentiment, did not touch him at all. He did not want to hear anything of “Movver”: and, indeed, Osy was by no means a sentimental child, and had no inclination to enlarge on the theme. His mother was a matter of course to him, as to most healthy little boys: to enlarge upon her love or her excellencies was not at all in his way.
“You walk very fast, Cousin Colonel,” was the little fellow’s next remark.
“Do I, my little shaver? What a beast I am, forgetting your small legs. Come, jump and get up on my shoulder, Osy.”
Osy looked up with mingled pleasure and alarm. “I promised Movver: but if you holded me very fast——”
“Oh, I’ll hold you. You mustn’t be frightened, Osy.”
“Me fwightened! But I felled down and hurted my side, and fwightened Movver. Huwah! huwah!” shouted the child. “I’m not fwightened a bit, Cousin Colonel! You holds me and I holds you, and you may canter, or gallop, or anyfing. I’ll never be afwaid.”
“Here goes, then,” said the grave soldier. And with shouts and laughter the pair rushed on, Colonel Piercey enjoying the race as much as the child on his shoulder, who urged him with imaginary spurs, very dusty if not very dangerous, holding fast with one hand by the collar of his coat. He had not much experience of children, and the confidence and audacity of this little creature, his glee, his warm grip, in which there was a touch of terror, and his wild enjoyment at once of the movement and the danger, aroused a new sentiment in the heart of the mature man, who had known none of the emotions of paternity. Suddenly, however, a change came over his spirit: he reduced his pace, he ceased to laugh, he sank all at once—though with the child still shouting on his shoulder, endeavouring, with his little kicks upon his breast, to rouse him to further exertions—into the ordinary gravity of his aspect and demeanour. There had appeared suddenly out of the little gate of the beech avenue, a figure, which took all the fun out of Gerald Piercey, though he could not have told why.
“Movver, movver! look here: I’m up upon my horse. But you needn’t be fwightened, for he’s not like Cousin Gervase. He’s holded me fast, fast all the way.”
“Oh! Osy,” cried Margaret, holding her breath—for, indeed, it was a remarkable sight to see the unutterable gravity of Colonel Piercey endeavouring solemnly to take off his hat to her, with the child, flushed and delighted, upon his shoulder. There was something comic in the extreme seriousness which had suddenly fallen upon Osy’s bearer. “You are making yourself a bore to Colonel Piercey,” she said.
“Not at all; we have been enjoying ourselves very much. He is a delightful companion,” said Gerald, but in a tone which suggested a severe despair. “Will you get down, Osy, or would you rather I should carry you home?”
“I would wather——” said the child, and then he paused. “I tan’t see your face,” he said, pettishly, “but you feels twite different, as if you was tired. I fink I’ll get down.”
Colonel Piercey’s comment to himself was that the child was frightened for his mother, but, naturally, he did not express this sentiment. He lifted Osy down and set him on the ground. “Where’s the nurse now?” he said; “a long way behind. You see, Osy, it’s good to have a basis to fall back upon when new operations are ordered by the ruling powers.”
Could the man not refrain from a gibe at her, even to her child, Margaret thought, with wonder? But she was surprised to see that he stood still, as if with the intention of speaking to her.
“You are going out?” he said, in his solemn tones. “Is Lady Piercey better?”
“She is no better; but I must attempt, in some way, to get the news conveyed to Gervase. Her eyes turn constantly to the door. They are still quite living, though not so strong. She must see him, if it is possible. Shemustsee him, if there is any way—her only child.”
“But not, from all I hear, a child that does her much credit,” he said.
“What does that matter? He is all she has,” she added hastily. “Don’t let me detain you, Colonel Piercey. I must not be gone long; and I must try if anything can be done.”
“You mean that I am detaining you,” he said, turning with her. “And I have something to tell you, if I may walk with you. I have been talking to old Hewitt, of the Seven Thorns. He says he has no address to communicate with his daughter; but there is a newly-married couple coming to occupy his rooms, and that she is returning with them next week.”
“A newly-married couple!” cried Margaret, aghast. “Can it be they? Can it be Patty? Is it possible?”
“I thought it might be so, if it was he and she whom I saw.”
“Oh, his mother! his mother! And this was what she was most afraid of. Why, why did she let him go.”
“Yes, why did she let him go, if she were so much afraid to this, as you think? But, perhaps you are alarming yourself unnecessarily? Lady Piercey must have known tolerably well at his age what her son was likely to do?”
“Yes, I am perhaps alarming myself unnecessarily. The chances are she will not live to see it. It is only she who would feel it much. Poor Aunt Piercey! Why should one wish her to live to hear this?” Margaret paused a little, wringing her hands, uncertain whether to turn back or to proceed. At last she said to herself, “Anyhow, she wants him—she wants him. If it is possible, she must see her boy;” and went on again quickly, scarcely noticing the dark figure at her side. But he did not choose to be overlooked.
“I should like,” he said, “to have a few things explained. You say nobody would mind this marriage—if it is a marriage—except Lady Piercey?”
“I said nobody would mind it much. My uncle would get used to it, and he could be talked over: and Patty Hewitt is a clever girl. But Aunt Piercey——!”
“Why should she stand out?”
“If you do not understand,” cried Margaret, “how can I tell you? His mother! and a woman that has always hoped better things, and thought still, if he married well,—— You forget,” she cried vehemently, “that poor Gervase was not to her what he was to us. He was her only child! A mother may see everything even more keenly than others; but you hope, you always hope——”
“I presume, then, you did not think so? You did not object to this marriage.”
“What does it matter whether I objected or not? Of what consequence is my opinion? None of us can like it. A girl like Patty to be at the head of Greyshott! Oh! who could like that? But,” said Margaret more calmly, “my poor aunt deceives herself; for what nice girl, unless she were forced, as girls are sometimes, would marry Gervase? Poor Gervase! It is not his fault. She deceives herself. But I don’t think she will live to see it. I don’t think she will live to hear of it. If she could only have him by her before she dies. Patty could not oppose herself to that. She could not prevent that.”
“Is it supposed, then, that she would wish to do so?”
“Colonel Piercey,” cried Margaret, “you have come among us at a dreadful moment, when all the secrets of the family are laid bare. Oh, don’t ask any more questions! I have said things I did not intend to say.”
“I hope that I am to be trusted,” he said, with his severe tone; “and if I can help, I will. To whom are you going? Is it to this old Hewitt? for nothing, I think, is to be learned from him.”
“I am going to Miss Hewitt, her aunt. It is in despair. For she has a hatred of all of us at Greyshott; but surely, surely, when they hear that his mother is dying——”
“She cannot hate me. I will go,” Gerald Piercey said.
OldMiss Hewitt sat in her parlour, if not like a fat spider watching for the fly, at least like a large cat seated demurely, with an eye upon her natural prey, though her aspect was more decorous and composed than words could tell. She had been made aware by her little servant a few minutes before that “a gentleman” was coming up to the door, and had instantaneously prepared to meet the visitor. A visitor was a very rare thing at Rose Cottage.
“You’re sure it ain’t the curate, a-coming begging?”
“Oh, no,” cried the little maid, “a tall, grand gentleman, like a lord. I think I knows a pa’son when I sees ’un!” she added, with rustic contempt. Miss Hewitt settled herself in her large chair; she gave her cap that twist that every woman who wears a cap supposes to put all aright. She drew to her a footstool for her feet, and then she said, “You may let him in, Jane.” A smile of delight was upon her mouth; but she subdued even that in her sense of propriety, to heighten the effect. She had been waiting for this moment for thirty years. She had not known how it would come about, but she had always felt it must come about somehow. She had paid fifty pounds for it—and she had not grudged her money—and now it had come. She did not even know the shape it would take, or who it was who was coming to place the family of Piercey at her feet, that she might spurn them; but that this was what was about to happen, she felt absolutely sure. It could not be Sir Giles himself, which would have been the sweetest of all, for Sir Giles was too infirm to visit anybody; while she, whom he had scorned once, was hale and strong, and sure to see both of them out! Perhaps it was a solicitor, or something of the kind. What did she care? It was some one from the Pierceys coming to her, abject, with a petition—which she would not grant—no, not if they besought her on their knees.
The room seemed in semi-darkness to Gerald, coming in from the brightness of the summer afternoon. The blind was drawn down to save the carpet, and the curtains hung heavily over the window for gentility’s sake. Miss Hewitt sat with her back to the light, by the side of the fireplace, which was filled up by cut paper. There was no air in the room; and though Colonel Piercey was not a man of humorous perceptions, there occurred even to him the idea of a large cat with her tail curled round her, sitting demure, yet fierce, on the watch for some prey, of which she had scent or sight.
“My name is Piercey,” said the Colonel. “I am a relation of the family at Greyshott, who perhaps, you may have heard, are in great trouble at this moment. I have come to you, Miss Hewitt—and I hope you will pardon me for disturbing you—to know whether, by any chance, you could furnish us with Gervase Piercey’s address.”
“Ah, you’re from the Pierceys,” said Miss Hewitt. “I thought as much—though there ain’t that friendship between me and the Pierceys that should make them send to me in their trouble. And what relation may you be, if a person might ask?”
“I am a cousin; but that is of little importance. The chief thing is that Mr. Gervase Piercey is absent, and his address is not known. His mother is ill——”
“I heard of that,” said the old lady, drawing a long breath as of satisfaction. “She’s a hard one, too, she is. It would be something sharp that made her ill. I suppose as she heard——”
“She heard nothing. There was no mental cause for her illness, if that is what you mean. She had been sitting, talking just as usual——”
“Oh—h!” cried Miss Hewitt, with an air of disappointment; “then it wasn’t from the shock? And what’s their meaning, then, Mister Piercey—if you call yourself Piercey—in sending to me?”
“That is precisely what I can’t tell you,” said Gerald, with much candour. “I confess that it seems absurd, but I supposed, perhaps, that you would know.”
“And why should it seem absurd? I know a deal more about the Pierceys than you think for, or any fine gentleman that comes questioning of me, as if I were an old hag in the village. Oh! I know the way that you, as calls yourselves gentlemen, speak!”
“I hope,” said Gerald, surprised, “that I don’t speak in any unbecoming way, or fail in respect to any woman. It is very likely that you know much more than I do, and the question is one that is easily settled. Could you throw any light upon the question where Gervase Piercey is, and if so, will you tell me his address?”
She looked at him for a moment as if uncertain how to respond—whether to play with the victim any longer, or to make a pounce and end it. Then she said, quickly, “Did he send you himself?”
“Did who send me?”
“Giles—Sir Giles; don’t you understand? Was it him as thought of Patience Hewitt? That’s what I want to know.”
“Miss Hewitt, Lady Piercey is very ill——”
“Ah! he never was in love with her,” cried the old lady; “never! He married her—he was drawn in to do it; but I know as he hated it when he did it. It never was for her, if it was he has sent you. Not for her, but for——”
She stopped and looked at him again, with a glare in her eyes, yet resolved, apparently, not to pounce but to play a little longer. “Ah! so my lady’s ill, is she? She’s an old woman, more like an old hag, I can tell you, than me. She was thirty-five, if she was a day, when she married Sir Giles, and high living and nothing to do has made her dreadful. He never could abear fat women, and it serves him right. Some people never lose their figure, whatever their age may be.”
She sat very upright in her chair, with a smile of self-complacence, nodding her head. “Well,” she said, “and what’s wanted of me? Not to go and nurse my lady, I suppose? They don’t want me to do that?”
“They wish to know,” said Colonel Piercey, restraining himself with an effort, “Mr. Gervase Piercey’s address.”
“Their son’s address?” said Miss Hewitt. “He’s the heir, you know. The village folks calls him the Softy, but there couldn’t nothing be proved against him. He’ll be Sir Gervase after his father, and nobody can’t prevent that. And how is it as they don’t know their own son’s address? and for why should they send you to me? Me, a lady living quiet in her own house, meddling with none of them, how should I know their son’s address?”
“I have told you I have not the slightest light to throw on this question. It appears that your niece is in London, and that she was seen, or it is supposed she was seen, with my cousin.”
“And what then?” cried the old lady. “You think, perhaps, as that Softy led my Patty wrong. Ho, ho! ho, ho!” She laughed a low guttural laugh, prolonging it till Colonel Piercey’s exasperation was almost beyond bearing. “You think as he was the gay Lotharium and she was the young Lavinyar, eh? Oh, I’ve read plenty of books in my time, and I know how gentlemen talk of them sort of things. No, she ain’t, Mister Piercey. My Patty is one that knows very well what she is about.”
“So I have heard, also. I believe it is supposed that as he is such a fool, your niece may have married him, Miss Hewitt.”
“And so she have, just!” cried the old lady, springing from her chair. She waved her arms in the air and uttered a hoarse “Hooray!” “That is just what has happened, mister; exactly true, as if you’d been in all the plans from the first. You tell Sir Giles as there is a Patty Hewitt will be Lady Piercey, after all, and not the Queen herself couldn’t prevent it. Just you tell him that from me; Patience, called for her aunt, and thought to be like me, though smaller—my brother being an ass and marrying a little woman. But that’s just the gospel truth. She’s Mrs. Gervase Piercey, now, and she’ll be Lady Piercey when the time comes. Oh!” cried Miss Hewitt, sinking back in her chair, exhausted, “but I’d like to be there when he hears. And I’d like to tell her, I should,” she added, with a fierce glare in her eyes.
Gerald had risen when she did, and stood holding the back of his chair. Fortunately, he had great command of his temper, though the provocation was strong. He was silent while she settled herself again in her seat, and rearranged her cap-strings and the folds of her gown, though the flowers in her head-dress quivered with excitement and triumph. He said, “I fear you will never have that satisfaction. Lady Piercey is dying, and, happily, knows nothing about this. Perhaps your revenge might be more complete if you would summon her son to see her before she dies.”
Miss Hewitt was too much occupied by what she had herself said to pay much attention to him. It was only after some minutes of murmuring and smiling to herself, that she began to recall that he had made a reply. “What was you saying, Mr. Piercey—eh? If you was counting on succeeding you’re struck all of a heap, and I don’t wonder, for there’s an end of you, my fine gentleman! There’ll be a family and a large family, you take your oath of that. None of your marrying in-and-in cousins and things, but a fine, fresh, new stock. What was you saying? Dying is she, that woman? Well, we’ve all got to die. She’s had her share above most, and taken other folks’s bread out of their mouths, and she must take her share now. Nobody’s a-going to die instead of her. That’s a thing as you’ve got to do when your time comes for yourself.”
“And, happily,” said Gerald, “she knows nothing of all this. Perhaps if she were permitted to see her son——”
“Goodness gracious me!” cried Miss Hewitt, rousing up: “do you hate her like that? I think you must be the devil himself, to put that into a body’s head. It’s a disappointment to me, dreadful, that she should die and not know; but to send him to tell her, and the woman at her last breath—Oh! Lord, what wickedness there is in this world! Man! what makes you hate her like that?”
“Will you allow her to see her son?” Colonel Piercey asked.
The old woman rose up again in her agitation. One of the old Puritan divines describes Satan as putting so big a stone into the sinner’s hand to throw at his enemy, that the bounds of human guilt were over-passed and the almost murderer pitched it at his tempter instead. This suggestion was to Patience Hewitt, in the sense in which she understood it, that too-heavy stone. The desire for revenge had been very strong in her. She had waited and plotted all her life for the opportunity of returning to Sir Giles the reward of his desertion of her, and she had attained her object, and a furious delight was in it. But to seethe the kid in his mother’s milk is a thing about which the most cruel have their prejudices. To bring the Softy back to shout his news into the ear of the dying woman, that was a more fiendish detail than she had dreamed of. She rose up and sat down again, and clasped her hands and unclasped them, and turned over the terrible temptation in her mind. No doubt it would be the very crown of vengeance, to prove to Sir Giles’ wife that she, whom she had supplanted, was the victor at the last. That was what she had hoped for all through. She had hoped that it was some rumour of what had happened that had been the cause of Lady Piercey’s illness. A stroke! it was quite natural she should have a stroke when she heard; it was the vengeance of God long deferred for what she had done unpunished so many years ago. But between this, in which she felt a grim joy, and the other, there was a great gulf. To send for Gervase, in order that he, with his own hand, should give his mother her death-blow, the horrible thought made her head giddy and her heart beat. It was a temptation—the most dreadful of temptations. It seized upon her imagination even while it filled her with horror. It answered every wild desire of poetic justice in the untutored mind: never had been any vengeance like that. It was a thing to be told, and shuddered at, and told again. “Oh! for goodness gracious sake, go along with you, go along with you,” she cried, putting out her hands to push the Colonel away, “for I think you must be the very devil himself.”
It was almost with the same words that Gerald Piercey answered Margaret, who met him eagerly as he returned. Sir Giles was out in the garden with Dunning and Osy, and there was no one to disturb the consultation of these two enemies or friends. “Have you heard anything of him?” cried Margaret. Colonel Piercey answered almost solemnly, “I have seen the devil; if he ever takes a woman’s form.”
“I have heard that she was a dreadful old woman.”
“And I have made a dreadful suggestion to her, which she is turning over in her dreadful mind. She hates poor old Lady Piercey with a virulence which—— perhaps you may understand it, knowing the circumstances; I don’t. She is terribly disappointed that it was not the news which was the cause of the illness. And I have suggested that if the bridegroom could be sent home, the old lady might still hear it before she dies.”
“The news—the bridegroom! Then it is so? They are married!”
“That’s better, I suppose,” said the Colonel, “than if it had been worse.”
Margaret coloured high at this enigmatical speech. “To everybody but Aunt Piercey,” she said. “My uncle will get used to the idea; but his mother! It is better he should not come than come to tell her that.”
“If he comes we can surely keep him silent,” Colonel Piercey said. “I thought that was the one thing to be attained at all risks.”
“And so it was. And I thank you, Cousin Gerald, and we can but do our best.”
Lady Piercey turned her eyes towards the door as Margaret went into the room. A dreadful weariness was in those living eyes, which had not closed, in anything that could be called sleep, since her seizure. She had lain there dead, but for that look, for three days, unable to move a finger. But always her eyes turned to the door whenever it opened, however softly. Sometimes the film of a doze came over them; but no one came in without meeting that look—the look of a soul in prison, with no sense but that one remaining to make existence a fact. How much she knew of what was passing around her, they could not tell; or of her own condition, or of what was before her. All she seemed to know was that Gervase did not come. Sometimes her eyes fell upon Margaret with a look which seemed one of angry appeal. And then they returned to watch the door, which opened, indeed, from time to time, but never to admit her son. Oh, dreadful eyes! Mrs. Osborne shrank from encountering them. It was she, she only of whom they asked that question—she whom they seemed to blame. Where was Gervase? Why did he not come? Was he coming? Speech and hearing were alike gone. Her question was only in her eyes.
And thus the evening and the morning made the fourth day.
Patty’sambitious schemes were crowned with complete success, and the poor Softy was made the happiest and most triumphant man in the world, on the day on which his mother was taken ill. Was it some mysterious impalpable movement in the air that conveyed to Lady Piercey’s brain a troubled impression of what was taking place to her only son? But this is what no one can tell. As for Gervase, his triumph, his rapture, his sense of emancipation, could not be described. He was wild with pleasure and victory. The sharp-witted, clear-headed girl, who had carried out the whole plot, was at last overborne and subjugated by the passion she had roused, and for a time was afraid of Gervase. She had a panic lest his feeble head might give way altogether under such excitement, and she be left in the hands of a madman. Luckily this wild fit did not last long, and Patty gradually brought the savage, which was latent in his undeveloped nature, into control. But she had got a fright, and was still a little afraid of him when the week was over, and her plans were laid for the triumphant return home. She had written to her aunt on the day of her marriage, proclaiming the proud fact, and signing her letter, not with her Christian name, but that of Mrs. Gervase Piercey, in her pride and triumph. Mrs. Gervase Piercey! That she was now, let them rave as they pleased! Nobody could undo what Aunt Patience’s fifty pounds had done. Those whom God had joined together—or was it not rather Miss Hewitt, of Rose Cottage, and ambition and revenge? Patty, however, had no intentions appropriate to such motives in her mind. She was not revolted by the passion of Gervase, as another woman might have been. She felt it to be a compliment more or less; his noise and uproariousness, so that he could scarcely walk along a street without shoutings and loud laughter, did not in the least trouble her. She subdued him by degrees, bidding him look how people stared, and frightening him with the suggestion that the world in general might think him off his head, and carry him off from her, if he did not learn to suppress these vociferous evidences of his happiness: a suggestion which had a great effect upon Gervase, and made him follow her about meekly afterwards to all the sights which she thought it necessary in this wonderful holiday to see. She took him to the Zoological Gardens, which he enjoyed immensely, dragging her about from one cage to another, not letting her off a single particular. They saw the lions fed, they gave buns to the bears, they rode like a couple of children upon the camels and the elephant. Gervase drank deep of every pleasure which the resources of that Garden of Eden permitted. He had not been there since he was a child, and everything was delightful to him. The success was not so great when Patty took him to St Paul’s and the Tower, which she considered to be fashionable resorts, where a bride and her finery ought to be seen, and where Gervase walked about gaping, asking like a child at church when he could get out? Nor at the theatre, where Patty, instructed by the novels she had read, secured a box, and appeared in full costume, with that intoxicating proof that she was now a fine lady and member of the aristocracy, a low dress—and with an opera-glass wherewith to scan the faces and dresses of the other distinguished occupants of boxes. She was herself surprised at various things which she had not learnt from books—the unimpressive character of the ladies’ dresses, and the manner in which they gazed down into what she believed to be the pit, a part of the house which she regarded with scorn. It was not a fashionable house, for to Patty, naturally, a theatre was a theatre, wherever situated; but it was disappointing not to see the flashing of diamonds which she had expected, nor to have other opera-glasses fixed upon herself as a new appearance in the world of fashion, which was what she looked for. And Gervase was very troublesome in the theatre. He kept asking her what those people were doing on the stage, what all that talking was about, and when it would be time to go away. When the merchant of ices and other light refections came round, Gervase was delighted, and even Patty felt that an ice in her box at the theatre was great grandeur; but she was discouraged when she saw that it was not a common indulgence, and that Gervase, peeling and eating oranges, and flinging them about, attracted an attention which was not that sentiment of mingled admiration and envy which Patty hoped to excite. A few experiences of this kind opened her sharp eyes to many things, and reduced the rapture with which she had looked forward to her entry into town as Mrs. Gervase Piercey. But these disenchantments, and scraps of talk which her sharp ears picked up and her still sharper imagination assimilated, suggested to her another kind of operation next time, and left her full of anticipations and the conviction that it only wanted a little preparation, a little guidance, to ensure her perfect triumph.
This strange pair had what seemed to Patty boundless funds for their week in town. Twenty pounds over of Aunt Patience’s gift after paying the expenses of the marriage, had seemed enough for the wildest desires; but when there was added to that twenty pounds more, his mother’s last gift to Gervase, she felt that their wealth was fabulous; far, far too much to expend upon personal pleasure or sightseeing. She permitted herself to buy a dress or two, choosing those which were ready made, and of which she could see the effect at once, both on herself and the elegant young lady who sold them to her; and she put aside a ten-pound note carefully, in case of any emergency. On the whole, however, it was a relief to both parties when they went home, though it took some trouble to convince Gervase that he could not go back to the Manor, leaving his wife at the Seven Thorns. He was not pleased to be told that he too must go and live at the Seven Thorns: “Why, that’s what mother said—and draw the beer!” he cried; “but nothing shall make me draw the beer,” cried Gervase. “Nobody asked you,” Patty said, “you goose. We’re going to live in the west rooms, a beautiful set of rooms that I put all ready, where there’s a nice sofa for you to lie on, and nice windows to look out of and see everything that comes along the road—not like Greyshott, where you never see nothing—the carts and the carriages and the vans going to the fairs, and Punch and Judy, and I can’t tell you all what.” “Well,” said Gervase, “you can stay there, and I’ll come to see you every day; but I must go home.” “What, leave me! and us but a week married!” cried Patty. She made him falter in his resolution, confused with the idea of an arrangement of affairs unfamiliar to him, and at last induced him to consent to go to the Seven Thorns with her on conditions, strenuously insisted upon, that he was not to be made to draw beer. But Gervase did not feel easy on this subject, even when he was taken by the new side-door into the separate suite of apartments which Patty had prepared with so much trouble. When old Hewitt appeared he took care to entrench himself behind his wife.
“I’ll have nothing to do with the beer or the customers, mind you,” he cried nervously. Nobody, however, made any account of Gervase in that wonderful moment of Patty’s return.
“What! it’s you as is the new married couple? and you’ve gone and married’im?” cried Hewitt, with a tone of indescribable contempt.
“Yes, father! and I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head; I’ve married him, and I mean to take care of him,” Patty cried, tossing her head.
Old Hewitt laughed a low, long laugh. His mental processes were slow, and the sight of the Softy with his daughter had startled him much; for notwithstanding all that had been said on this subject he had not believed in it seriously. Now, however, that it dawned upon him what had really happened, that his child, his daughter, was actually Mrs. Gervase Piercey, a slow sensation of pride and victory arose in his bosom too. His girl to be Lady Piercey in her time, and drive in a grand carriage, and live in a grand house! The Hewitts were a fine old family, but they had never kept their carriage and pair. A one-horse shay had been the utmost length to which they had gone. Now Patty—Patty, the child! who had always done his accounts and kept his customers in order—Patty, his own girl, was destined to the glory of riding behind two horses and being called “my lady.” The thought made him burst into a long, rumbling subterraneous laugh. Our Patty! it did not seem possible that it could be true.
“That reminds me,” he said a moment after, turning suddenly grave. He called his daughter apart, beckoning with his finger.
Gervase by this time was lolling half out of the open window, delightedly counting the vehicles in sight. “Farmer Golightly’s tax cart, and Jim Mason’s big waggon, and the parson’s pony chaise, and a fly up from the station,” he cried: “it’s livelier than London. Patty, Patty, come and look here.” Gervase turned round, and saw his wife and her father with grave faces consulting together, and relapsed into absolute quiet, effacing himself behind the fluttering curtains with the intention of stealing out of the room as soon as he could and getting away. His mother’s threat about drawing the beer haunted him. Could not she, who could do most things, make that threat come true?
“Patty,” said old Hewitt, “you’ve done it, and you can’t undo it; but there’ll be ever such a rumpus upthere.”
“Of course, I know that,” she said calmly; “I’m ready for them. Let them try all they can, there’s nothing they can do.”
“Patty,” said the old innkeeper again, “I’ve something to tell you as you ain’t a-thinking of. About ’Er,” he said, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder.
“What about her? I know she’s my enemy; but you needn’t be frightened, father. I’ve seen to everything, and there’s nothing she can do.”
“It ain’t that as I want you to think of. It’s more dreadful than that. It’s ‘in the midst of life as we are in death,’ ” said Hewitt. “That sort of thing; and they’ve been a-’unting for’imfar and wide.”
“Lord, father, what do you mean?” Patty caught at a confused idea of Sir Giles’ death, and her heart began to thump against her breast.
Hewitt pointed with his thumb, jerking it again and again over his shoulder. “She’s—she’s—dead,” he said.
“Dead!” said Patty, with a shriek, “who’s dead?”
Hewitt, less aware than she of Gervase’s wandering and unimpressionable mind, shook his head at her, jerking his thumb this time in front of him at the young man lolling out of the window. “Usht, can’t ye? Why, ’Er, ’is mother,” he said, under his breath.
A quick reflection passed through Patty’s mind. “Then, I’m her,” she said to herself, but then remembered that this was not the case that Sir Giles’ death alone could make her Lady Piercey. As this flashed upon her thoughts, a bitter regret came into Patty’s mind—regret, keen as if she had loved her, that Lady Piercey was dead, that she should have been allowed to die. Oh, if she had but known! How quickly would she have brought Gervase back to see his mother! Her triumph, whenever it should come, would be shorn of one of its most poignant pleasures. Lady Piercey would not be there to see it! She could never now be made to come down from her place, made to give up all her privileges to the girl whom she despised. Patty felt so genuine a pang of disappointment that it brought the tears to her eyes. “I must tell him,” she said quickly,—the tears were not without their use, too, and it is not always easy to call them up at will.
“I wouldn’t to-night. Let ’im have ’is first night in peace,” said the innkeeper, “and take ’is beer, and get the good of it like any other man.”
“Go down, perhaps you think, to your men in the parlour, and smoke with them, and drink with them, and give you the chance to say as he’s your son-in-law? and his mother lying dead all the time. No, father, not if I know it,” cried Patty, and she gave her head a very decided nod. “I know what I’m about,” she added; “I know exactly what he’s going to do. So, father, you may go, and you can tell ’Liza that we’ll now have tea.”
“I tell ’Liza! I’ll do none of your dirty errands,” said old Hewitt; but his indignation answered Patty’s purpose, who was glad to get rid of him, in order that her own duty might be performed. She went forward to the window where Gervase was sitting, and linked her arm in his, not without some resistance on the part of the Softy, who was wholly occupied with his new pleasure.
“Let alone, I tell you, Pat! One white horse on the off side, that counts five for me; and a whole team of black ’uns for the other fellow. Where’s all those black horses come from, I should like to know?”
“Gervase dear, don’t you do it; don’t make a game with the black horses. It’s dreadful unlucky. They’re for a funeral, come from town on purpose. And oh! Gervase dear, do listen to me! for whose funeral do you suppose?”
“Is it a riddle?” said Gervase, showing his teeth from ear to ear.
“Oh hush, hush, there’s a good boy! It’s not like you to make a joke of such dreadful things.”
“Why can’t you say then what it is, and have done with it?” Gervase said.
“That’s just one of the sensible things you say when you please. Gervase—you remember your mother?”
“I remember my mother? I should think I remembered my mother. You know it’s only a week to-day—or was it yesterday?”