What was it that went out of the evening with him, when Patty, venturing to glance round, saw the landscape empty of the man who had offended her so deeply, who had ventured to blame her—her a lady so far above him—Mrs. Piercey of Greyshott, while he was only a cricketer, an idle fellow about the country, no good, as even the village people said? But yet a dreariness settled down upon the world; night came on and that loneliness which seemed now Patty’s fate. Well, she said to herself, what did she care? She had her fine estate, her name that was as good as the best, her grand house, as much money to spend as she chose, and nobody to dictate to her what she should do—no, nobody to dictate to her—nobody even to advise, to say, “That’s right, Patty!” Her Aunt Patience did that, it was true, but then Aunt Patience’s approval, save in the very extremity of having nobody else, did not count for much. She hurried in; but it was lonely, lonelier even than the moor—nobody to speak to, nobody to break the long row of chairs and sofas which were there with the intention of accommodating half the county, but now had nobody to sit down upon them but Patty’s self, moving from one to another with a futile feeling of breaking the solitude. But nothing was to be had to break that solitude except Aunt Patience. Mrs. Piercey of Greyshott rang the bell, and ordered the carriage to be sent at once to the village to fetch Miss Hewitt immediately, without a minute’s delay! That she could do—send out her carriage, and her horses, and hersecretly-swearing servants for any caprice at any moment. For Miss Hewitt! It was what might be called an anti-climax, if Patty had known what that meant. She did know what it meant deeply to the bottom of her heart, though she was not acquainted with the word. To go through all that she had gone through, to do all she had done, for the sake of having the company of Miss Hewitt and her sympathy and encouragement! could there be a greater drop of deepest downfall from the highest heights than this?
But the trial was coming on, and soon all England would be ringing with Patty’s name and story and fortunes. She would have crowds of people to admire and wonder at her. She would win her cause in the sight of all England. She would be the heroine of the day, in everybody’s mouth. Surely there would be some compensation in that.
I refrainfrom attempting to describe the great trial Piercey v. Piercey, which made the whole country ring. It was, indeed, acause célèbre, and may be found, no doubt, by every one who wishes to trace it, in the history of such notable romances which exists in the legal records. It was so managed by the exceedingly clever advocates whom Patty had been fortunate enough to secure, as to entertain the country, morning after morning in the columns of theTimes, by a living piece of family history, a household opened up and laid bare to every curious eye, which is, perhaps, the thing of all others which delights the British public (and all other publics) the most. Poor old Sir Giles, in his wheeled chair, with his backgammon board and all his weaknesses, became as familiar a figure to the reader of the newspapers as anything in Dickens or Thackeray—more familiar even than Sir Pitt Crawley, because he reached a still larger circle of readers and was a real person, incontestable fact, and only buried the other day. England for the moment became as intimately acquainted with the Softy, as even the oldlabourers in the parlour at the Seven Thorns. The story, as it was unfolded by the prosecution, was one not favourable to the heroine—a girl out of a roadside tavern, who had married the half-witted son of the squire, who had almost forced her way into the house on the death of its mistress, who had contrived so to cajole the poor old gentleman that he gave himself up entirely to her influence, and finally left her his estates and everything of which he was possessed—leaving out even his old servants whom he had provided for in his previous will, and giving absolute power to the little adventuress. This was a story which did not conciliate the favour of the public. But when it came to the pleadings on the other side, and Patty was revealed as a ministering angel, both to her husband and father-in-law, as having worked the greatest improvement in the one, so that it was hoped he would soon take his place among his country neighbours; and as having protected and solaced the failing days of the other, and been his only companion and consoler, a great change took place in the popular sentiment. It soon became apparent to the world that this little adventuress was one of those rare women who are never out of place in whatever class they may appear in, the lowest or the highest, and are always in their sphere doing good to everybody. The drama was unfolded with the greatest skill: even those “hopes” which it was not denied Sir Giles had greatly built upon, and the disappointment of which, when the young widow found herself deceived in her fond anticipations, was thecrudest blow of all. The women who were present shed tears almost without exception over poor Patty’s delusion; and that she should have implored the lawyer not to dispel that delusion, to let poor Sir Giles die happy, still believing it, was made to appear the most beautiful trait of character. And indeed, as a matter of fact, Patty had meant well in this particular, and it would have been highly to her credit had it been separated from all that came after. Dunning’s testimony, which had been much built upon by the prosecution, was very much weakened by the account given of his various negligences; especially of the fact proved by the lady herself that he had accompanied his master to Lady Piercey’s funeral, without providing himself with any restorative to administer to the old gentleman on an occasion of so much excitement and distress, and of such unusual fatigue. “I would not permit it even to be thought of, that he should attend my husband’s funeral. It would have been too much for him,” Patty said, with all the eloquence of her crape and her widow’s cap to enhance what she said. But, indeed, I am here doing precisely what I said I would not attempt to do—and I was not present at the trial to give the details with the confidence of an eye-witness. The consequence, however, was, as all the world knows, that the verdict was for the defendant, and that Patty came out triumphantly mistress of the field, and of Greyshott, and of all that old Sir Giles had committed to her hands.
A romance of real life! It was, indeed, a disappointment and loss to the whole country when the great Piercey case was over. Even old gentlemen who were supposed to care for nothing but politics and the price of stocks, threw down theTimeswith an angry exclamation that there was nothing in it, the first dull morning or two after that case was concluded. Thus Patty was a benefactor to her kind without any intention of being so. People were generally sorry for the Pierceys, who, there was no doubt, had a right to be disappointed and even angry to see their ancient patrimony thus swept away into the hands of a stranger. For nobody entertained the slightest doubt that Patty would marry and set up a new family out of the ashes of the old. And why shouldn’t she? the people cried who knew nothing about it. Was it not the very principle of the British constitution to be always taking in new blood to revive the old? Was not the very peerage constantly leavened by this process; new lords being made out of cotton and coals and beer and all the industries to give solidity to the lessening phalanx of the sons of the Crusaders? Old Sir Francis Piercey, who was the plaintiff, was well enough off to pay his costs, and he ought to be able at his age to reconcile himself to the loss! To be sure, there was his son, a very distinguished soldier. Well! he had better marry the young widow, everybody said, and settle the matter so.
The county people did not, however, take this view. They were wroth beyond expression on the subject of this intruder into their midst. Nobody had called uponher but Lady Hartmore, whose indignation knew no bounds; who had never forgiven her husband, and never would forgive him, she declared, for having betrayed her into that visit. “But to be sure I never should have known what the minx was if I had not seen her!” that lady said. Patty was completely tabooed on every side. Even the rector turned off the highroad when he saw her carriage approaching, and ran by an improvised path over the fields not to meet her. Wherever she might find companions or friends it was evidently not to be in her own district. Her old friends were servants in one great house or another, or the wives of cottagers and labourers; and Patty was altogether unaware of their existence. When she drove about the county, as she did very much and often in the impulse of her triumph, her eyes met only faces which were very familiar but which she would not know, or faces glimpsed at afar off which would not know her. She was undisputed mistress of Greyshott, and all its revenues and privileges. All the neighbouring land belonged to her, and almost every house in the village; but except to Miss Hewitt, her aunt, and the servants of the house, and, occasionally, some much-mistaken woman from one of the cottages, who felt emboldened to make a petition to the lady of Greyshott on the score of having been at school with her, Patty spoke to nobody, or rather had nobody to speak to, which is a better statement of the case.
With one large exception, however, so long as thetrial lasted, when lawyers and lawyers’ clerks had constant missions to Greyshott, and the distinguished barrister who won her cause for her, came over on a few days’ visit. That visit was, in fact, though it was the greatest triumph and glory to Patty, one of the most terrible ordeals she had to go through. He was a most amusing visitor, with endless stories to tell and compliments to pay, and would have made almost any party, in any country house which had the good fortune to receive him, “go off,” by his own unaided exertions. But it is to be doubted if this brilliant orator and special pleader had ever in his life formed the whole of a country-house party, with a little, smart, under-bred person and a village spinster for his sole hosts. He was appalled, it must be allowed, and felt that a curious new light was thrown upon the story which he made into a romance of real life; but all the same, it need not be said, this gentleman exerted himself to make the three days “go off” as if the house had been full, and the Prime Minister among the guests. But to describe what this was to Patty would require something more than the modest store of words I have at my disposal. She was not so ignorant as Miss Hewitt, who enjoyed the good the gods had provided for her withoutarrière pensée, and began to laugh before the delighted guest had opened his lips. Patty knew that there should be people invited “to meet” a man so well known. She knew that there ought to have been a party in the house, or, at least, distinguished company to dinner. And she had nobody, not even therector! She did her best to invent reasons why So-and-so and So-and-so could not come, and made free use of the name of Lord Hartmore, who, she thought, with the instinct of her kind, had been made to give her up by his wife. She even made use of the fact that most people in the county were displeased with her on account of the trial, and because they wished the Pierceys to be still at Greyshott. “And so they are, in the person of much the most attractive member of the family,” the great man said, who would have been still more amused by his position between these two ladies if he had not been in his own person something of a black sheep, and a little on the alert to see himself avoided and neglected. Patty was not aware that he would not have ventured to pay these compliments to another kind of hostess; but she suffered intently from the fact that she had nobody to invite to meet him, nobody who would come to her even for a night, to keep her guest in countenance. She demeaned herself so far as to write to the rector begging of him to come. But the rector had another engagement and would not, or could not, consent. Poor Patty! She suffered in many ways from being thus, as it were, out of the bonds of all human society, but never so much as in that dreadful three days. He was (as she thought) old, and he was fat, and not at all well-looking, though he was so amusing; but he gave her to understand before he went away that he would not mind marrying Mrs. Piercey of Greyshott. And so did one of the solicitors who instructed him, theyounger one, who was unmarried; and there was a head clerk, nothing more than a head clerk, who looked very much as if a similar proposal was on his lips. “Like his impudence!” Patty said, though she really knew nothing of the young man. Three proposals, or almost proposals of marriage, within a week or two! This pleased the natural mind of Patty of the Seven Thorns, but it gave Mrs. Piercey occasion to think. They were all concerned with securing property for her, and assuring her in its possession, and they thought naturally that nobody had so good a right to help her take care of it. But this reasoning was not by any means agreeable to Patty, who, flattered at first, became exceedingly angry afterwards when she found herself treated so frankly as an appendage to her property.
“Of course I knew it was always like that as soon as you had a little money!” she said, indignantly.
“Not with ’im, Patty, not with ’im,” said Miss Hewitt, upon whom the brilliant barrister had made a great impression.
“Him!” cried Patty, “a fat old man!”
“You can’t have everything,” said her aunt. “For my part I’d rather ’ave a man like that, that’s such fine company, and as you never could be dull as long as ’e was there, than a bit of a cock robin with an ’andsome face, and nothing behind it!”
“If you are meaning my Gervase, Aunt Patience, I——”
“Lord, I never thought o’ your Gervase! Blessus, ’e ’ad no ’andsome face, whatever else!” the old lady cried. She was sent home that evening in the carriage, and Patty, angry, indignant, desolate, remained altogether alone. It was hard to say which was worst, the dreadful consciousness of having “nobody to meet” a guest, or being without guests altogether. She walked up and down her solitary house, entering one room after another; all deserted and empty. The servants, as well-bred servants should, got out of the way when they heard her approaching, so that not even in the corridor upstairs did she see a housemaid, or in the hall below a shadow of butler or footman to break the sensation of solitude. To be sure, she knew where to find Jerningham seated in her light and pleasant chamber sewing; but Jerningham was somewhat unapproachable, occupied with her work, quite above idle gossip, and indisposed to entertain her mistress; for Jerningham flattered herself that she knew her place. What was Patty to do? The under-housemaid was a Greyshott girl who had been at school with her; therefore it may be perceived how great was the necessity for remembering always who she was, and never relaxing her dignity. She might have gone abroad, which she was aware was a thing that was done with great success sometimes by ladies who could travel about with maid and footman, and no need to think of expense. But Patty felt that she could not consent to descend among the common herd in search of acquaintances, and that her grandeur was nothing to her unless it was acknowledged and enjoyed at home. Andthen the winter was coming on, Patty was not yet sufficiently educated to know that winter was precisely the time to go abroad. She knew nothing in the world but Greyshott, and it was only for applause and admiration at Greyshott that she really cared.
It was in these circumstances that the winter passed, the second winter only since Patty’s marriage, which had lifted her so far above all her antecedents and old companions. It was a long and dreary winter, with much rain, and that dull and depressing atmosphere of cloud, when heaven and earth is of the same colour, and there is not even the variety of frost and thaws to break the monotonous languor of the long dead dark weeks. Patty did not bate an inch of her grandeur either for her loneliness or for the aggravation of that loneliness which was in the great rooms, untenanted as they were. She did not take to the little cheerful morning-room in which Lady Piercey had been glad to spend the greater part of her life in such wintry weather. Patty dined alone in the great dining-room, which it was so difficult to light up, and she sat alone all the evening through in the great drawing-room, with all its white and gold, where her little figure, still all black from head to foot, was almost lost in a corner, and formed but a speck upon the brightness of the large vacant carpet, and lights that seemed to shine for their own pleasure. Poor Patty! She sat and thought of the last winter, which was melancholy enough, but not so bad as this: of old Sir Giles and his backgammon board, and Dunning standing behind backs.It was not exciting, but it was “company” at least. She thought of herself sitting there, flattering the old gentleman about his play, smiling and beaming upon him, yet feeling so sick of it all; and of that night—that night! when Roger Pearson had been at the dance, and brought Gervase in from the moor, to be laid on the bed from which he was never to rise. Her mind did not dwell upon Gervase, but it is astonishing how often she thought upon that dance at which her rejected lover had been enjoying himself, while she sat playing backgammon with her father-in-law, and listening for her husband. What a contrast! The picture had been burned in upon her mind by the event connected with it, and now had much more effect than that event. She could almost see the rustic couples with their arms entwined, and the romping flirtations of the barn, and the smoky lamps hung about, so different, so different from the steady soft waxen lights which threw an unbroken illumination upon her solitary head! It was bad then, but it was almost worse now, when she had no company at all, except Aunt Patience from time to time, as long as Mrs. Piercey could put up with her. And this was all—all! that her rise in the world had brought her! She had done nothing very bad to procure that rise. If Gervase had lived it would have been good for him that she had married him, she still felt sure, notwithstanding that in actual fact it had not done him much good; and it was good for Sir Giles to have had her society and ministrations in the end of his life. Everybody allowed that—eventhe hostile lawyer at the trial, even the sullen Dunning, who had occasion to dislike her if anybody had, who had lost his legacy and almost his character by her means. Even he had been instrumental in proving to the world how she had cheered and comforted the old man. And she had got her reward—everything but that title, which it was grievous to her to think of; which, perhaps, if she had got it—if Gervase had only had the sense to live six months longer—would have made all the difference! She had got her reward, and this was what it had come to—a quietness in which you could hear a pin drop; a loneliness never broken by any voice except those of her servants, of whom she must not, and dared not, make friends. Poor Patty! once so cheerful, so admired and considered at the Seven Thorns, with her life so full of bustle and liveliness—this was all she had come to after her romance in real life.
I cannot help thinking that if there had been a lady at the rectory, this state of affairs would have been mended, and that a good mother, with her family to set out in the world, would have seen the advantage for her own children of doing her best to attract acquaintances and company to Greyshott. But the rector was only a man, and a timid one, fearing to break the bonds of convention, and his daughters were too young to take the matter into their own hands. They might have done it had Mrs. Piercey waited for a few years; but then Patty had no inclination to wait.
Mrs. Pierceywent to town after Easter, as she was aware everybody who respected themselves, who were in Society, or who had any money to spend, did. But, alas! she did not know how to manage this any more than to find the usual solace in country life. She was, indeed, still more helpless in town; for no doubt in the country, if she had been patient, there would at last have been found somebody who would have had courage to break the embargo, to defy Lord and Lady Hartmore and all the partisans of the old family, and to call upon the lady of Greyshott. But in town what could Patty do? She knew nobody but the distant cousins somewhere in the depths of Islington, to whom she had gone at the time of her marriage, but whom she had taken care to forget the very existence of as soon as her need for them was over. Mrs. Piercey went to a fashionable hotel, and engaged a handsome set of rooms, and sat down and waited for happiness to come to her. She had her maid with her, the irreproachable Jerningham, who would not allow her mistress to demean herself by making a companion of her; and she had Robert, the footman, and her own coachman from Greyshott, and a new victoria in which to drive about—all the elements of happiness—poor Patty! and yet it would not come. She had permitted herself, by this time, to drop the weight of her mourning, and to blossom forth in grey and white; and she drove in the Park in the most beautiful costumes, with the old fat Greyshott horses, who were in themselves a certificate that she was somebody, no mushroom of aparvenue. So was the coachman, who was the real old Greyshott coachman, and (evidently) had been in the family for generations. She drove steadily every day along the sacred promenade, and was seen of everybody, and discussed among various bands of onlookers, whose only occupation, like the Athenians, was that of seeing or hearing some new thing. Who was she? That she was not of the style of her horses and her coachman was apparent at a glance. Where had she got them? Was it an attempt on the part of some visitor from the ends of the earth to pose as a lady of established family? Was it, perhaps, a daringcoupon the part of some person, not at allcomme il faut, to attract the observation and curiosity of the world? Patty’s little face, with its somewhat fast prettiness, half abashed, half impudent, shone out of its surroundings with a contradiction to all those suppositions. The Person would not have been at all abashed, but wholly impudent, or else quite assured and satisfied with herself; and in any case she would not have been alone. A stranger,above all, would not have been alone. There would have been a bevy of other women with her, making merry over all the novelty about them, and this, probably, would have been the case had the other idea been correct. But who was this, with the face of a pretty housemaid and the horses of a respectable dowager? Some of the gentlemen in the park, who amused themselves with these speculations, would, no doubt, have managed to resolve their doubts on the subject had not Patty been, as much as Una, though she was so different a character, enveloped in an atmosphere of such unquestionable good behaviour and modesty as no instructed eye could mistake. Women, who are less instructed on such matters, may mistake; but not men, who have better means of knowing. Thus Patty did make a little commotion; but as she had no means of knowing of it, and no one to tell her, it did her no good in the world.
And she went a good many times to the theatre, and to the opera, though it bored her. But this was a great ordeal: to go into a box all alone, and subject herself to the opera-glasses of the multitude. Patty did not mind it at first. She liked to be seen, and had no objection that people should look at her, and her diamonds; and there was a hope that it might lead to something in her mind. But how could it lead to anything? for she knew nobody who was likely to be seen at the opera. When she went home in the evening she could have cried for disappointment and mortification. Was this all? Was there never to be anything more than this? Was all her life to be spent thus in luxury and splendour; always alone?
At first she had dined in solitary state in her rooms, as she thought it right, in her position, to do. But when Patty heard that other people of equal pretensions—one of them the baronet’s lady, whom it was her despair not to be—went down to the general dining-room for their meals, she was too happy to go there too, thinking she must, at least, make some acquaintance with the other dwellers in the hotel. But things were not much better there, for Mrs. Piercey was established at a little table by herself in great state, but unutterable solitude, watching with a sick heart the groups about her—the people who were going to the theatre, or to such delights of balls and evening parties as Patty had never known. There was but one solitary person beside herself, and that was an old gentleman, with his napkin tucked into his buttonhole, who was absorbed by themenuand evidently thought of nothing else. Patty watched the groups with hungry eyes—the men in their evening coats, with wide expanses of white; the ladies, who evidently intended to dress after this semi-public dinner. Oh, how she longed to belong to some one, to have some one belonging to her! And such a little thing, she thought, would do it: nothing more than an introduction, nothing beyond the advent of some one who knew her, who would say, “Mrs. Piercey of Greyshott,” and the ice would be broken. But then that some one who knew her, where was he or she to be found?
Alas! there came a moment when both he and she were found, and that was the worst of all. She was seated listlessly in her usual solitude, when she saw a pair of people who were taking their seats at a table not far off. They had their backs turned towards her, and yet they seemed familiar to Patty. They were both tall, the gentleman with a military air, the lady with a little bend in her head which Patty thought she knew. There was about them that indefinable air of being lately married which it is so very difficult to obliterate, though they did not look very young. The lady was quietly dressed, or rather she was in a dress which was the symbol of quiet—quakerly, or motherly, to our grandmothers: grey satin, but with such reflections and shadows in it, as has made it in our better instructed age one of the most perfectly decorative of fabrics. Patty, experienced by this time in the habits and customs of the people she watched so wistfully, was of opinion that they were going to the opera. Who were they? She knew them—oh, certainly she knew them; and they evidently knew several of the groups about; and now at last Patty’s opportunity had surely come.
I think by this time Mrs. Piercey of Greyshott had acquired a forlorn look, the consequence of her many disappointments. It is not pleasant to sit and watch people who are better off than we are, however philosophical and high-minded we may be; and Patty, it need not be said, was neither. Her mouth had got a little droop at the corners, her eyes a little fixity,as of staring and weariness in staring. She was too much dressed for the dining-room of a hotel, and she had very manifestly the air of being alone, and of being accustomed to be alone. I think that, as so often happens, Patty was on the eve of finding the acquaintance for whom her soul longed, at these very moments when her burden was about to become too much for her to bear; and she certainly had attained recognition in the world outside, as was to be proved to her no later than to-night. Such coincidences are of frequent occurrence in human affairs. It had become known in the hotel to some kind people, who had watched her solitude as she watched their cheerful company, who she was; and the matron of the party had remembered how much that was good had been said of Patty on the trial, and how kind she had been to the old man who had left her all his money without any doing of hers. “Poor little thing! I shall certainly take an opportunity of speaking to her to-morrow,” this lady was saying, as Patty watched with absorbed attention the other people. Indeed, the compassion of this good woman might have hastened her purpose and made her “speak” that very night, had not Patty been so bent upon those other people whom she was more and more sure she knew; and what a difference—what a difference in her life might that have made! But she never knew—which was, perhaps, in the circumstances, a good thing.
It was while Patty’s attention was called away perforce by the waiter who attended to her, that the otherpeople at whom she had been gazing became aware of her presence. The gentleman had turned a bronzed face, full of the glow of warmer suns than ours, in her direction, and started visibly. He was a man whom the reader has seen habitually with another expression—that of perplexity and general discontent; a man with a temper, and with little patience, though capable of better things. He had apparently got to these better things now. His face was lighted up with happiness; he was bending over the little table, which, small as it was, seemed too much to separate them, to talk to his wife, with the air of a man who has so much and so many things to say, that he has not a minute to lose in the outpouring of his heart. She was full of response, if not perhaps so overflowing; but on her aspect, too, there had come a wonderful change. Her beautiful grey satin gown was not more unlike the unfailing black which Mrs. Osborne always wore, than the poor relation of Greyshott was to Gerald Piercey’s wife, Meg Piercey once again. It would be vain to enter upon all the preliminaries which brought about this happy conclusion. Margaret had many difficulties to get over, which to everybody else appeared fantastical enough. A second marriage is a thing which, in theory, few women like; and to cease to belong solely to Osy, and to bear another name than his, though it was her own, was very painful to her. Yet these difficulties had all been got over, even if I had space to enter into them; which, seeing that Patty is all this time waiting, dallying with her undesired dinner,and wondering who these people are whom she seems to know, would be uncalled for in the highest degree.
When the waiter came up to the solitary lady at the table, and Colonel Piercey turned his face in that direction, he started and swore under his breath, “By Jove!” though he was not a man addicted to expletives. Then he said, “Meg! Meg!” under his breath; “who do you think is sitting behind you at that table? Don’t turn round. Mrs. Piercey, as sure as life!”
“Mrs. Piercey?” She was bewildered for a moment. “There are so many Mrs. Pierceys. Whom do you mean?”
“One more than there used to be, for my salvation,” the bridegroom said; and then added, with a laugh, “but no other like this one, Meg—Mrs. Piercey of Greyshott——”
“Patty!” cried Margaret, under her breath.
“If you dare to be so familiar with so great a lady—the heroine of the trial, poor Uncle Giles’ good angel——”
“Oh, don’t be bitter, Gerald! It is all over and done with; and who knows, if it had been otherwise——”
“Whether we should ever have come together?” he said: “you know best, so far as that goes, my love; and if it might have been so, good luck to Greyshott, and I am glad we have not got it. Yes, there she is, the identical Patty; and none the better for her success, I should say, looking very much bored and rather pale.”
“Who is with her?” asked Margaret.
“There is nobody with her that I can see. No, she is quite alone, and bored, as I told you; and in a diamond necklace,” he said with a laugh.
“Alone, and with a diamond necklace, in the dining-room of a hotel!”
“Well, why not? To show it and herself, of course; and probably a much better way than any other in her power to show them.”
“Oh, Gerald, don’t be so merciless. She has got your inheritance; but still, it was really Uncle Giles’ will, and she was kind to him—even old Dunning could not deny that. And if Gervase had lived——”
“It was as well he did not live, poor fellow, for her as well as for himself, though I should certainly, myself, have preferred it; for then we should have had none of this fuss, either of anticipation or disappointment—and no trial, and no costs; and no useless baronetcy that brings in nothing.”
“Don’t say that; your father likes it, and so will you in your day.”
“My father likes to be head of the family, and so shall I. We’ll have our first quarrel, Meg, over that little hussy, then.”
“Not our first quarrel by a great many,” she said, letting her hand rest for a moment on his arm. “But don’t call her names, Gerald: all alone in a hotel in London, in the middle of the season, without a creature to speak a word to her! And I heard she was perfectly alone all the winter at home. Lady Hartmoregoes too far. She has made it a personal matter that nobody should call. Poor little Patty! Gerald——”
“Poor little Patty, indeed! who has cost us not only Greyshott, but how many thousand pounds; who has made you poor, Meg.”
“There is poor and poor. Poor in your way is not poor in mine. I am rich, whatever you may be. Is she still there—alone—Gerald, with that white little face?” Margaret had managed, furtively, to turn her head, still under shadow of the waiter, and get a glimpse of their supplanter.
“What does it matter if her face is white or not? She has chalked it, perhaps, as she might rouge it on another occasion, to play her part.”
“You have no pity,” said Margaret; “to me it is very sad to see a poor woman like that alone, trying to enjoy herself. I think, Gerald, I will——”
“Will what? You are capable of anything, Meg. I shall not be surprised at whatever you propose.”
“Well, since you have so poor an opinion of me,” she said with a smile, “I think I’ll speak to her, Gerald.”
“Do you remember that she turned you out of your home? that she insulted you so that it was with difficulty I kept my temper?”
“You never did keep your temper, dear,” said Margaret with gentle impartiality, shaking her head; “and,” she added with a smile, “you insulted me far worse than ever Patty did. Should I bear malice? I will say a word to her before we go.”
When they rose, and when Patty saw who they were, the chalk which Colonel Piercey thought she was capable of using to play her part, yielded to a crimson so hot and vivid that its truth and reality were thoroughly proved. She half rose, too, then sat down again more determinedly than before.
“Mrs. Piercey,” said Margaret, “we saw you, and I could not pass you without a word.”
“You are very kind, I am sure, Margaret Osborne; but you could have left your table very well without coming near me.”
“Yes, perhaps,” said Margaret; “I should have said that, seeing you alone——”
“Oh, if I am alone it is my own fault!” cried Patty, with a heat of angry despair which almost took away her voice. Then it occurred to her that to show this passion was to lessen herself in the eyes of those to whom she most wished to appear happy and great. She forced her cry of rage into a little affected laugh. “I don’t often come here,” she said; “I dine generally in my own apartments. But to-day I expected friends who could not come, and so I thought I’d amuse myself by coming down here to see the wild beasts feed.”
As she said this, her eyes fell accidentally upon the kind lady who had made up her mind to make the acquaintance of this forlorn little woman, and startled that amiable person so that she sat gazing open-mouthed and open-eyed.
“In that case I am afraid I am only intruding,” said Margaret; “but I thought perhaps—if you arealone here, I—or my husband,” she added this with a sudden blush and smile, “might have been of some use——”
“Oh, your husband! I wish him joy, I am sure. So you stuck to him, though he hasn’t got Greyshott? Well, he’ll have the baronetcy, to be sure, when the old man dies—I hadn’t thought of that—without a penny! You must have been dead set on him, to be sure.”
And Patty, bursting with fury and despite, jumped up, almost oversetting the table, and with a wave of her hand as if dismissing a supplicant, but with none of her usual regard for her dignity and her dress in threading a crowd, hurried away.
“You got rather more than you looked for,” cried Colonel Piercey, triumphant, as Margaret came back to him and hastily took his arm. He had not heard what passed.
“I suppose there was nothing else to be expected,” Margaret said in a subdued voice.
Patty went to the opera that night, as she had intended, her heart almost bursting; for that she should have hoped to meet somebody who would introduce and help her, and then to find that somebody was Margaret Osborne, was almost more than she could bear; but soon she was soothed by perceiving that more opera-glasses were fixed on her than ever, and that the people in the boxes opposite, and in the stalls, were pointing her out to one another. She caught the sound of her own name as she sat well forward inher box, that her diamonds might be well seen and her own charms appreciated; and she almost forgot the indignity to which she had been, as she thought, subjected. But as she went out, poor Patty could not but hear some remarks which were not intended for her ear. “That was the woman,” somebody said, “the heroine of the great case, PierceyversusPiercey; don’t you remember? the woman who married an idiot, and then got his father to leave her all the property.” “What a horror!” said the lady addressed: “a barmaid, wasn’t she? and the poor creature she married quite imbecile—and now to come and plant herself there in the front of a box. Does she think anybody will take any notice of her, I wonder?” “Impudent little face, but rather broken down—begins to see it won’t pay,” said another man.
Patty caught Robert, her footman, by the arm, and shrieked to him to take her out of this, or she should faint, which the crowd around took for an exclamation of real despair, and made way for the lady, to let her get to the air. And Patty left town next day.
Sheleft town next day in a tempest of wrath and indignation, and something like despair. She said to herself that she would go home, where no one would dare to insult her. Home! where, indeed, there would be nobody to insult her, but nobody to care for her; to remark upon her even in that contemptuous way; to say a word even of reprobation. A strong sense of injustice was in her soul. I am strongly of opinion that when any of us commits a great sin, it immediately becomes the most natural, even normal thing in our own eyes; that we are convinced that most people have done the same, only have not been found out; and that the opinion of the world against it is either purely fictitious, a pretence of superior virtue, or else the result of prejudice or personal hostility. Patty had not committed any great sin. She had sought her own aggrandisement, as most people do, but she had gained wealth and grandeur far above her hopes by nothing that could be called wrong; indeed, she had done her duty in the position in which Providence and her own exertions had placed her. It was nother business to look after the interests of the Piercey family, but to take gratefully what was given her, which she had the best of right to, because it had been given her. This was Patty’s argument, and it would be difficult to find fault with it. And to think that the whole cruel world should turn upon her for that; all those gentlefolks whom she despised with the full force of democratic rage against people who supposed themselves her betters, yet felt to the bottom of her heart to be the only arbiters of social elevation and happiness, the only people about whose opinion she cared! She came back to Greyshott in a subdued transport of almost tragic passion. She would seek them no more, neither their approval nor their company. She would go back to her own class, to the class from which she had sprung, who would neither scorn her nor patronise her, but fill Greyshott with admiring voices and adulation, and make her feel herself the greatest lady and the most beneficent. She called for Aunt Patience on her way from the station and carried her back to Greyshott. “You’re going to stay this time,” she said; “I mean to live in my own way, and have my old friends about me; and I don’t care that,” and Patty snapped her fingers, “for what the county may say.”
“The county couldn’t say nothing against your having me with you, Patty—only right, everybody would say, and you so young, and men coming and going.”
“Where are the men coming and going?” saidPatty; “I see none of them. I dare say there would be plenty, though, if it wasn’t for the women,” she added, with a self-delusion dear to every woman upon whom society does not smile.
“You take your oath of that!” said Miss Hewitt, who was naturally of the same mind.
“But I mean to think of them no more,” cried Patty; “the servants shall say ‘not at home’ to any of those ladies as shows their face here! I’ll bear it no longer! If they don’t like to call they can stay away,—what is it to me? But I’m going to see my old friends and give dinners and dances to them that will really enjoy it!” Patty cried.
Miss Hewitt looked very grave. “Who do you mean, Patty, by your old friends?” she said.
“Who should I mean but the Fletchers and the Simmonses and the Pearsons and the Smiths and the Higginbothams?” said Patty, running on till she was out of breath.
“Lord, Patty! you’d never think of that!” cried Miss Hewitt, horrified.
“Why shouldn’t I?—they’d be thankful and they’d enjoy themselves; and I’d have folks of my own kind about me as good as anybody.”
“Oh, Patty, Patty, has it come to that? But you’re in a temper and don’t mean it,” Aunt Patience cried.
It would, perhaps, have been better for this disinterested relation had she supported Patty in her new fancy, as undoubtedly it would have been glorious and delightful to herself to have posed before her own villageassociates as one of the mistresses of Greyshott. But Miss Hewitt had been influenced all her life by that desire for the society of the ladies and gentlemen which is so strong in the bosom of the democrat everywhere. She could not bear that Patty should demean herself by falling back upon “the rabble”; and many discussions ensued, in which the elder lady had the better of the argument. Patty’s passionate desire to be revenged upon the people who had slighted her resolved itself at last into the heroic conception of such a fête for the tenants and peasantry as had never been known in the county before. Indeed, the county was not very forward in such matters; it was an old-fashioned, easy-going district, and new ways and new education had made but small progress in it as yet. The squires and the gentry generally had not begun to feel that necessity for conciliating their poorer neighbours, with whom at present they dwelt in great amity—which has now become a habit of society. And the fame of the great proceedings at Greyshott travelled like fire and flame across the county. No expense was spared upon that wonderful fête. Patty knew exactly what her old friends and companions liked in the way of entertainment. She made a little speech at the dinner, which began the proceedings, to the effect that she had not invited any of the fine folks to walk about and watch them as if they were wild beasts feeding (using over again in a reverse sense the metaphor which she had already found so effectual), but preferred that they should feel that she was trusting them like friends and wishedthem to enjoy themselves. And to see Patty and Miss Hewitt walking about, sweeping the long trains of their dresses over the turf in the midst of these revellers, with a graciousness and patronage which would have made Lady Hartmore open her eyes, was a sight indeed. No Princess Royal could have been more certain of her superior place than Patty on this supreme occasion, when, flying from the hateful aristocrats, who would not call upon her, she had intended to throw herself back again into the bosom of her own class. And Miss Hewitt looked a Grand Duchess at the least, and showed a benign interest in the villagers which no reigning lady could have surpassed. “Seven? have you really? and such fine children; and is this the youngest?” she said, pausing before a family group; to the awe of the parents, who had known old Patience Hewitt all their lives, and knew that she knew every detail of their little history; but this will show with what gusto and fine histrionic power she was able, though really almost an old woman, to take up and play her part. But had it not been the ideal and hope of her life?
There was, however, one person at the Greyshott fête whom it was difficult to identify with the heroes of the village. When Patty saw approaching her across the greensward a well-knit manly figure in irreproachable flannels, with a striped cap of red and white on his head, a tie of the same colour, a fine white flannel shirt encircling with its spotless folded-down collar a throat burnt to a brilliant red-brown by the sun, herheart gave a jump with the sudden conviction that “a gentleman” had come, even though uninvited, to see her in her glory. It gave another jump, however, still more excited and tremulous, when this figure turned out to be Roger Pearson—not a gentleman indeed, but a famous personage all over England, the pride of the county, whose rise in the world was now fully known to her. She had seen him before, indeed, in this costume, but only in the dusk, when it was not so clearly apparent. How well it became him, and what a fine fellow he looked! handsome, free, independent, as different from all his rustic friends as Patty was from her old school-fellows in their cotton dresses, but in how different a way; for Roger, it was well known, was hand-and-glove with many of the greatest people of England, and yet quite at home in the village eleven which he had come to lead in the match which was one of the features of the day. Patty, though she was the lady of Greyshott, could not but feel a pang of delight and pride when he walked by her side through the crowd. He was the only one whom she could not patronise. She thought furtively that any one who saw them would think he was the young squire; that was what he looked like—the master, as she was the lady. He had no need to put on those airs which Patty assumed. Nobody disputed his superiority, or even looked as if they felt themselves as good as him. And it seemed to be natural, as the afternoon went on, that he should find himself again and again by Patty’s side, sometimes suggesting something new, sometimes offering his services to carry out her plans, sometimes begging that she would rest and not wear herself out. “Go and sit down quiet a bit, and I’ll look after ’em; I can see you’re doing too much,” he said. It was taking a great deal upon him, Miss Hewitt thought, but Patty liked it! She gave him commissions to do this and that for her, and looked on with the most unaccustomed warmth at her heart while he fulfilled them. Just like the young master! always traceable wherever he moved in the whiteness of his dress, that dress which the gentlemen wore and looked their best in; and nobody could have imagined that Roger Pearson was not a gentleman, to see him. “Well! and weren’t there ways of making him one?” Patty thought to herself.
But, notwithstanding her indignant determination to throw herself back into the bosom of her own class, it was to Roger alone that she made any overtures of further intercourse. He stayed behind all the others when the troops of guests went away, and told her it was a real plucky thing to do, and had been a first-rate success. He looked, indeed, like a gentleman, but he had not adopted the phraseology of the Vere de Veres; and perhaps Patty liked him all the better. She said, “Come and see me any day; come when you like,” when he held her hand to say good-night; and she said it in an undertone, so that Aunt Patience might not hear.
“I will indeed,” he said in the same tone, “the first vacant day I have——” Her breast swelled tosee that he was a man much sought after, though this had not been her own fate.
But either he did not have a vacant day, or, what Patty’s judgment quite approved, he did not mean to make himself cheap. And Patty fell into a worse depth of solitude than ever, notwithstanding the presence of Aunt Patience, to whom she had said in the rashness of her passion that she should henceforth stay always at Greyshott, but whom now she felt to be an additional burden when perpetually by her side. There had been a little quarrel between them after luncheon one day in July, for they were both irritable by reason of that unbrokentête-à-tête, and of the fact that they had said ten or twelve times over everything they had to say; and Miss Hewitt had flounced off upstairs to her room, where, after her passion blew off, she had lain down on the sofa to take a nap, leaving Patty to unmitigated solitude. It was raining, and that made it more dreary than ever: rain in July, quiet, persistent, downpouring; bursting the flowers to pieces; scattering the leaves of the last roses on the ground; and injuring even those sturdy uninteresting geraniums which are the gardener’s stand-by—is the dreariest of all rains. It is out of season, even when it is wanted for the country, as there is always some philosopher to tell us; and it is pitiless, pattering upon the trees, soaking the grass, spreading about us a remorseless curtain of grey. Patty, all alone, walked from window to window and saw nothing but the trees under the rain, and a little yellow river pouring across the path. She sat down and took upthe work with which Aunt Patience solaced the weary hours. It was the old-fashioned Berlin woolwork, which only old ladies do nowadays. She contrived to put it all wrong, and then she threw it down and went to the window again. And then she was aware of a figure coming up the avenue, a figure clothed in a glistening white mackintosh and under an umbrella. She could not see who it was, but something in the walk struck her as familiar. It looked like a gentleman, she said to herself; though to be sure, in these days of equality, it might be only the draper’s young man with patterns, or the lawyer’s clerk. Patty felt that she would have been glad to see even the lawyer’s clerk.
But when it was Roger Pearson that came into the room, what a difference that made at once! It was almost as if the sun had come out from behind the clouds for a moment, although he was not a gentleman, but only a professional cricketer. He was not dressed this time in his flannels, which suited him best, but in a grey suit, which, however, was very presentable. Patty felt that if the first lady in the county was to choose this particular wet day to call, which was not likely, she would not need to blush for her visitor. And she was unfeignedly glad to see him in the desolation of her solitude. She could tell from the manner in which he looked at her that he was admiring her, and he could tell that she was admiring him, and what could two young people require more of each other? Roger told her quite frankly a great deal about himself. He acknowledged that he hadbeen “a bit idle” in his earlier days, and liked play better than work; but that had all come in very useful, for such play was now his work, and he had a very pleasant life, going all over the country to cricket matches, and seeing everything that was going. “And all among the swells, too,” he said, “which would please you.”
“Indeed, you’re mistaken altogether,” said Patty. “Swells! I loathe the very name of them. Since I’ve lived among ’em I know what they are; and a poorer, more cold, stuck-up, self-seeking set——”
“I don’t make no such objections,” said Roger, who, it has been said, took no trouble to use the language of gentlemen. “They’re good fellows enough. I don’t want no more of them than they’re willing to give me—so we gets on first rate.”
“They try to crush your spirit,” cried Patty, flaming, “and then, perhaps, when they’ve got you well under their fist, they’ll condescend to take a little notice. But none of that sort of thing for me!”
“Well!” said Roger, looking round him, “this is a fine sort of a place, with all these mirrors and gilt things; but I should have said you would have been more comfortable with a smaller house, and things more in our own way, like what we’ve been used to, both you and me.”
“I have been used to this for a long time now,” said Patty, with spirit, “and it’s my own house.”
“Yes, I know,” he said, “and it ain’t for me to say anything, for I’m not a swell like these as you have such a high opinion of.”
“I have no high opinion of them. I hate them!” cried Patty, with set teeth.
“Well, I’ve often thought,” said Roger, “though I know I’ve no right to—but just in fancy don’t you know—as Patty Hewitt of the Seven Thorns would have been a happier woman in the nice little ’ouse as I could give her now, and never harming nobody, than a grand lady like Mrs. Piercey, with so much trouble as you have had, and no real friends.”
“How do you know,” cried Patty, “that I have no friends?” and then, after a moment’s struggle to keep her self-command, she burst into a violent storm of tears. “Oh, don’t say anything to me!” she cried, “don’t say anything to me! I haven’t had a kind word from a soul, nor known what it was to have an easy heart or a bit of pleasure, not since the night you came to the little door, Roger Pearson—no, nor long before.”
There was a silence, broken only by her passionate sobs and the sound of the weeping which she could not control, until Roger moved from his chair and went up to the sofa on which she had thrown herself, hiding her tears and flushed face upon the cushions. He laid his hand upon her shoulder with a caressing touch, and said, softly, “Don’t now, don’t now, Patty dear. Don’t cry, there’s a love.”
“And when you think all I’ve gone through,” said Patty, among her sobs, “and how I’ve given up everything to do my duty! When you said to me that night you had been at a dance—Oh! and me neverseeing a soul, never anything but waiting on them, and serving them, and nursing them, or playing nonsense games from morning to night! And then when the old gentleman died and left me what I never asked him for, then everybody taking up against me as if I had committed a sin; and never one coming near me, never, never one, but Meg in London coming to speak out of charity, because I was alone. Yes, and I was alone,” said Patty, raising herself up, drying her eyes hastily, with a nervous hand, “and I’ll be alone all my life; but I’ll never take charity as if I was some poor creature, from her or from him!”
“You needn’t be alone a moment more than you like, Patty,” said Roger. “I was always fond of you, you well know. You jilted me to marry'im, poor fellow, but I’ll not say a word about that. You’re not ’appy in this great ’ouse, and you know it, nor you’ll never be. I’m not saying anything one way or another about them ladies and swells: maybe they might have been a little kinder and done no ’arm. But you’re an interloper among them, you know you are; and I’m not one as ’olds with putting another man’s nose out of joint, or taking his ’ouse over ’is ’ead. I wouldn’t, if it was a bit of a cottage, or your father’s old place at the Seven Thorns; and no more would I here. There ain’t no blessing on it, that’s my opinion.”
“I don’t know, Roger Pearson, that your opinion was ever asked,” Patty said.
“It wasn’t asked; but you wouldn’t cry like that before anybody but me, nor own as you were in trouble.Now, ’ere’s my ’and, if you’ll have it, Patty; I’ll not come ’ere to sit down at another man’s fireside, but I’ll stand by you through thick and thin; and I’m making a pretty bit of money myself, and neither me nor you—we don’t need to be beholdin’ to nobody. Let’s just set up a snug place of our own, and I’d like to see the man—the biggest swell in the world—or woman either, that would put a slight upon my wife.”
“What!” said Patty, with a smile that was meant to be satirical, “give up Greyshott and my position and all as I’ve struggled so hard for, for you, Roger Pearson? Why, who are you? nobody! a man as is a good cricketer; and that’s the whole when all’s said.”
“Well,” said Roger, good-humouredly, “it’s not a great deal, perhaps, but it’s always something; and it’s still me if I never touched a bat. You wouldn’t marry my cricketing any more than you’d marry his parliamenteering, or sporting, or what not, if you did get a swell; and you take my word, Patty, you’ll never get on with a swell like you would do with me. We’ve been brought up the same, and we understand each other. I know how you’re feeling, just exactly, my poor little girl: you’d like to be ’appy, and then pride comes in. You say, ‘I’ve worked hard for it and I’ll never give it up.’ ”
“If you mean I’ll not give up being Mrs. Piercey of Greyshott, with the finest house in the county, to go to a cottage with you——”
“Don’t now, don’t,” said Roger, protesting, yet without excitement; “I never said a cottage, did I? What I said was a ’andsome ’ouse, with all the modern improvements and furnished to your fancy, instead of this old barrack of a place, and a spanking pair of ’osses, a deal better than them old fat beasts, as goes along like snails; and some more in the stable, a brougham, and a victoria, and a dogcart for me; that’s my style. I don’t call that love in a cottage. I call it love very well to do, with everything comfortable. Lord! if you like this better, this old place—full of ghosts and dead folks’ pictures, I don’t agree with your taste, my dear, and that’s all I’ve got to say.”
Patty looked at her matter-of-fact lover, raising her head high, preparing the sharpest speeches. She sat very upright, all the tears over, ready, quite ready, to give him his answer. But then there suddenly came over Patty a vision of the winter which was coming, the winter that would be just like the last—the monotonous, dreadful days, the long, lingering, mortal nights, with Aunt Patience for her sole companion. And her thoughts leapt on before to the ’andsome ’ouse; for being, as Roger said, of his kind, and understanding by nature what he meant, her imagination represented to her in a flash as of sunshine, that shining, brilliant, high-coloured house—with all the last improvements and the newest fashions, plate-glass windows, shining fresh paint which it would be a delight to keep like a new pin, everything new, clean, delightful; carpets and curtains of her own choosing, costing a great dealof money, and of which she could say to every guest, “It’s the best that money could buy,” or “I gave so much a yard for it,” or “Every window stands me in fifty pounds there as you see it.” All this appeared to Patty in a flash of roseate colour. And the pair of spanking horses at the door, and a crowd of cricketing men, yes, and cricketing ladies; and meetings in her own grounds, and great luncheon parties, and quantities of other young couples thinking of nothing but their fun and their pleasure, the wives dressing against each other, the young men competing in their batting and bowling, and in their horses and turn-outs, but all in the easiest, noisiest, friendly way, and all surrounding herself, Patty, with admiration and homage as the richest among them. Oh, what a contrast to grey old Greyshott, with its empty, echoing rooms and its dark solitude, and the pictures of dead people, as Roger said, and not a lively sight or sound, nothing but Jerningham and the other servants and Aunt Patience. To think of all that, and Roger added to it,—Roger, who sat looking at her so kindly, with his handsome good-humoured face, not hurrying her in her decision, looking as if he knew beforehand that she could not resist him and his offer of everything she liked best in the world.
All this came to Patty in a moment, as she sat with her sharp speeches all arrested on her lips. The pause she made was not long, but it was long enough to show him that she had begun to think, and we all know that the woman who deliberates is lost; and itwas in the nature of the practical-minded lover, who was not given to the sentimental, as it was also in Patty’s nature, to carry things by acoup de main. He sprang up from the seat he had taken opposite to her, and suddenly, before she was aware, gave Patty a hearty kiss which seemed to sound through all the silent house.
“Don’t you think any more about it,” he said, holding her fast; “you jilted me before, but you’re not going to jilt me again. I ’ave the ’ouse in my eye, and I know the jolly life we’ll live in it: lots of company and lots of fun, and two folks that is fond of one another; that’s better than living all alone—a little more grand, but no fun at all.”
And to such a triumphant and convincing argument, which her heart and every faculty acknowledged, what could Patty reply?
Itwas only a few weeks after this that there appeared in the newspapers, which had all reported at such length the great trial of PierceyversusPiercey, a paragraph which perhaps caused as much commotion through the county as the news of any great public event for many years. Parliament had risen, and the papers were very thankful for a new sensation of any kind. The paragraph was to this effect:—
“Our readers have not forgotten the trial of Pierceyv.Piercey, which unfolded so curious a page of family history, and roused so many comments through the whole English-speaking world. It is seldom that so many elements of human interest are collected in a single case, and the effect it produced on the immense audience which followed its developments day by day was extraordinary. The public took sides, as on an affair of imperial importance, for and against the heroine, who, from the bar-room of a roadside inn, found herself elevated in a single year to the position of a considerable landowner, with an ancient historical house and a name well known in the annals of the country. Howshe attained these honours, whether by the most worthy and admirable means, by unquestionable self-devotion to her husband and father-in-law, or by undue influence, exercised first on a young man of feeble intellect, and afterwards on an old gentleman in his dotage, was the question debated in almost every sociable assembly.
“The partisans and opponents of this lady will have a new problem offered to them in the new and startling incident which is now announced as the climax of this story. Those who have all along believed in the disinterestedness of the young and charming Mrs. Piercey will be delighted to hear that she has now presented herself again before the public, in the most romantic and attractive light by freely and of her own will resigning the Manor of Greyshott, to which a jury of her countrymen had decided her to be fully entitled, to the heirs-at-law of the late Sir Giles Piercey, together with all the old furniture, pictures, family plate, etc., contained in the manor house—a gift equally magnificent and unexpected. It is now stated that this has all along been Mrs. Piercey’s intention, and that but for the trial, which put her at once on her defence, she would have made this magnanimous renunciation immediately after coming into the property. Her rights having been assailed, however, it is natural that a high-spirited young woman should have felt it her first duty to vindicate her character; and that she should now carry out her high-minded intention, after all the obloquy which it has been attempted to throw on her, and the base motives imputed to her, is a remarkable instance ofmagnanimity which, indeed, we know nothing to equal. It is, indeed, heaping coals of fire on the heads of her accusers, for whom, however, it must be said that their irritation in finding themselves so unexpectedly deprived of the inheritance they had confidently expected, was natural and justifiable. It must be a satisfaction to all that acause célèbrewhich attracted so much attention should end in such a fine act of restitution, and that an ancient family should thus be restored to their ancestral place. We are delighted to add that Mrs. Piercey, who still retains a fine fortune bequeathed to her by the love and gratitude of her father-in-law, whom she nursed with the greatest devotion till his death, is about to contract a second marriage with a gentleman very well known in the cricketing world.”
“In the name of Heaven, what is the meaning of that?” cried old Sir Francis Piercey, who was a choleric old gentleman, flinging down the newspaper (which only arrived in the evening), and turning a crimson countenance, flushed with astonishment and offence, to his son Gerald and his daughter-in-law Margaret, who had returned to their home in the north only a few days before. Sir Francis was a very peppery old man, and constantly thought, as do many heads of houses conscious of having grown a little hard of hearing, that nothing was told him, and that even in respect to the events most interesting to the family he was systematically kept in the dark.
“The meaning of what?” Margaret asked, without excitement. She had no newspaper, being quite contentto wait for the news until the gentlemen had read everything and contemptuously flung down each his journal with the remark that there was nothing in it. Mrs. Gerald Piercey did not imagine there could ever be anything in the paper which could concern her or her belongings; and it was a quiet time in politics, when Parliament was up, and nothing very stirring to be expected. She rose to put down by her father-in-law’s side his cup of tea; for though he was so fiery an old gentleman, he loved the little feminine attentions of which he had been for many years deprived.
“Let me see, Grandpapa,” said Osy, coming to the front with the air of a man who could put all straight.
“By Jove!” cried Colonel Piercey, who had come to the same startling announcement in his paper. And the father and son for a moment sat bolt upright, staring at each other as if each supposed the other to be to blame.
“What is it?” said Margaret, beginning to be alarmed.
She was answered by the sudden opening of the door, and the entrance, announced by a servant quite unacquainted with him, who conferred upon him an incomprehensible name, of Mr. Pownceby, pale with excitement and tired with a journey. He scarcely took time for the ceremonious salutations which Sir Francis Piercey thought needful, and omitted altogether the “how-d’ye-do’s” owing to his old friends, Margaret and Gerald, but burst at once into the subject that possessedhim. “Well, I can see you’ve seen it! Sharp work putting it in so soon; but it’s all true.”
“What is all true? We have something to do with its being false or true, I suppose?” cried Colonel Piercey, placing himself in a somewhat defiant attitude, in an Englishman’s usual position of defence before the fire.
“What are you saying, sir? what are you saying? I am a little hard of hearing. I desire that all this should be explained to me immediately. You seem all to understand, but not a syllable has reached my ears.”
“I assure you, Sir Francis,” said Mr. Pownceby, “I started the first thing this morning. I have not let the grass grow under my feet. Her solicitors communicated with me only yesterday. It is sharp work getting it into the papers at once, very sharp work, but I suppose she wanted to get the honour and glory; and it is quite true. I have the deed in my pocket in full form; for those solicitors of hers, if not endowed with just the best fame in the profession, are——”
“But you’re going a great deal too fast, Pownceby,” cried Colonel Gerald. “I don’t see that either my father or I can accept anything from that woman’s hand.”
“The deed in full form, Sir Francis,” said the lawyer, too wise to take any notice of so hotheaded a person, “restoring Greyshott and all that is in it to the lawful heir—yourself. I don’t pretend to know what is her motive; but there it is all in black and white: and for once in a way I can’t but say that I admire the woman,Sir Francis, and that she’s got perception of what is right in her, after all.”
“God bless my soul!” was all Sir Francis said.
“But we can’t take it from that woman, Pownceby! Why, what are you thinking of? Receive from her, a person we all despise, a gift like this! Why, the thing is impossible! It is like her impertinence to offer it; and how you could think for a moment——”
Margaret, who had hastily taken up the paper and read the paragraph, here put it down again and laid her hand on her husband’s arm. “You must wait,” she said, “you must wait, Gerald, for what your father says.”
“The woman of the trial?” said Sir Francis, getting it with difficulty into his head, “the baggage that married poor Gervase, and made a fool of his father—that woman!” He added briskly, turning to his son: “I was always against that trial, you know I was. Don’t throw away good money after bad, I always said: let be; if we don’t get it in the course of nature we’ll never get it, was what I always said. You know I always said it. Those costs which you ran up in spite of me, almost broke my heart.”
There was a pause, and then Colonel Piercey said with a half laugh, “We all know, father, that you did not like the costs.”
“I said so!” said Sir Francis, “I was always against it. I thought the woman might turn out better than you supposed. A very remarkable thing, Mr. Pownceby, don’t you think it’s a very remarkable thing? after shehad won her cause and had everything her own way. Do you recall to memory ever having heard of a similar incident? I never did in all my experience; a very extraordinary thing indeed!”