Itwas with nothing less than consternation that the county received the intelligence of Gervase Piercey’s death, which flew from house to house nobody could tell how; told by the early postman on his rounds, conveyed with the morning’s rolls from the villages, brought up at a pace much accelerated by the importance of the news by grooms with letter-bags, and every kind of messenger. Gervase Piercey was dead: the Softy of the village—poor Sir Giles’ only son. Though he was a fool, he was Sir Giles’ only child! There were ladies in the county who had wondered wistfully whether, if he were “taken up” by some capable woman, he might not have been so licked into shape as to have justified that capable woman in marrying him to her daughter. Nobody had been so brave as to do it, but several had speculated on the subject, thinking that, after all, to preserve a good old family from the dust, and hand on Greyshott to better heirs, might be worthy the sacrifice of a few years of a girl’s life. These ladies, though none of them had been brave enough to take the necessary steps, feltdoubly outraged by his marriage when it took place; and the consternation in their minds at the receipt of this last piece of news was tinged with something like remorse. Oh, if they had but had the courage! Maud or Mabel, if she had been forced to marry that unfortunate simpleton, would, as they now saw, have been so swiftly released! but it is needless to go back upon what might have been, after the contrary events. And now what a conjunction was this—what a terrible position for the poor old father! his only son taken from him; left alone with that woman in the house! Nobody knew anything about Patty; it was enough that she was Patty, and that she had married that poor half-witted young man. And then the question arose in a great many houses—What were they to do? They had not called upon Mrs. Gervase—nobody had called upon Mrs. Gervase—but how were they to approach Sir Giles now, with that woman there? Poor old Sir Giles! he had allowed her to take possession of his house for his son’s sake, no doubt, and for peace, not being strong enough for any struggle, and what would he do now? Would he send her away, and thus be accessible again to his old friends, or what would he do? This question occupied the mind of the neighbourhood very much for the day or two after the news was received, and it became apparent that something must be done. The old man could not be left alone in his trouble, unsolaced by any friendly word; the details must be inquired into—the time of the funeral, so that proper respect might be paid. Many peoplesent cards, and servants to make the necessary inquiries, but one or two gentlemen went themselves, Lord Hartmore in particular, who as virtually the head of the county, and actually a very old friend, felt it incumbent upon him to carry his sympathy and condolence in person. Lord Hartmore was received by a young lady in very deep mourning, already covered in crape from top to toe, and crowned with the most orthodox of widows’ caps. She was very quiet, but very firm.
“I cannot allow any one to disturb Sir Giles,” she said; “he is very much broken down. Absolute quiet, and as little reference as possible to the details of our great trouble, are indispensable, the doctor says.”
Lord Hartmore was much surprised at the self-possession of the young woman, and at her language.
“The tone of the voice was of course a little uneducated,” he said, “but she talked, my dear, she talked as well as you or I, and made use of the same expressions!”
“Why, what other expressions could any one make use of?” cried Lady Hartmore.
“I said an old friend like myself should surely be made an exception; but she didn’t give in. ‘My father-in-law has seen none of his old friends for a long time,’ she said quite pointedly; ‘he is not accustomed to seeing them. It would be a great agitation to him, and I am charged to see that he is not disturbed.’ I assure you,” said Lord Hartmore, “I didn’t know what to say. We have all deserted him in the most horridway. The young woman was right: to put in an appearance just at this moment, not having shown since poor Lady Piercey’s funeral, might quite probably be very discomposing to the old man!”
“And what about the funeral?” was the next question that was asked.
“There, again,” said Lord Hartmore, “I can’t blame her. She’s met with no attention from us, and why should she take any trouble about us? The funeral is to be on Thursday; but she said, ‘My father-in-law will not go. I can’t put him to such a trial. I will follow my husband to his grave myself, and I don’t know that I wish anybody else to take the trouble.’ She carries things with a very high hand, but I can’t blame her, I can’t blame her,” Lord Hartmore said. It must be added that the consternation of the county neighbours was increased by this report. Their consternation was increased, and so were their doubts as to what they should do; but at the same time their curiosity was piqued, and a certain sense of compunction rose in their bosoms. If it was merely the recklessness of disappointment and despair which moved Patty, or if it was severe and subtle calculation, at least her policy was wonderfully successful. There was a large attendance at poor Gervase’s funeral, at which she appeared alone, occupying by herself the blackest of mourning coaches, and in such a depth of crape as never widow had worn before. But Mrs. Gervase was exceedinglydignein her woe. She made no hysterical demonstration. She had none of her own people inattendance upon her, as had been expected, though Richard Hewitt occupied a conspicuous position in the crowd, thrusting himself in among the county gentlemen in the procession. Patty stood by the grave all alone, and saw her hopes buried with real anguish. She fulfilled the part so well that Lord Hartmore (a candid man, as has been seen) could not contain himself for pity, and stepped quietly forward to her side and offered his arm. She took it silently, but with a trembling and evident need of support which went to the good gentleman’s heart. Poor thing, poor thing! then she had been really fond of him after all. Lord Hartmore reflected silently that to a girl in her position the defects of the poor half-witted fellow might not be so apparent, and if she loved him, strange as that seemed! He led her back to her carriage with an almost fatherly friendliness, the whole village looking on, all the other gentlemen a little ashamed of themselves, and Richard Hewitt’s red face blazing through the crowd. “My wife will call to inquire for you,” he said, as he put her in, “and I hope that I may be admitted soon to see my dear old friend, Sir Giles.” Patty answered only by a bow. It was all that could be expected of the poor young new-made widow, who had fulfilled this sad duty alone with no one to stand by her. The spectators were all impressed, and even overawed, by Patty’s loneliness and her crape and her youth.
And she did in reality feel her downfall too much to get the good of Lord Hartmore’s civility, or indulgethe elation which sprang up in her mind, instinctively accompanying the consciousness that everybody saw her leaning upon Lord Hartmore’s arm. Ah! what a thing that would have been a month ago! but now was it only a tantalising flutter before her eyes of what might have been, at present when all the reality was over? It would be unkind to Patty to say that no regret for poor Gervase in his own person was in her heart. She had not been without affection for Gervase, and the thought of his early death had been very sad to her at the moment. Poor Gervase, so young, and just when better things might have been in store for him! But the mind very soon familiarises itself with such an event when there is no very strong sentiment in question. It was not Gervase, but herself, whom Patty chiefly mourned. After all she had done and all she had gone through, to think that this was what was left to her—a position as insecure as that of any governess or companion, at the mercy of an old and ailing man, with one of her enemies at his ear. Oh, that it should be that old man, that useless, ailing old man, that should live and Gervase die! There seemed no justice in it, no equity, no sense of right. Sir Giles had lived his life and had all its good things, and there was no advantage to him or to any one in his continuance; whereas Gervase, Gervase! He, poor fellow, had it in his power to make his wife Lady Piercey, to secure her position so that nobody could touch it. And it was he that had gone, and not his father! Patty wept very real tears as she drove slowlyhome alone—real! they were tears of fire, and made her eyelids burn. Oh, how different from the last time when she drove along that same road, thrust in anyhow, clambering up without a hand to help her, sitting by Dunning’s side—but with all the world before her, and the sense of a coming triumph in her veins! Patty did not deceive herself about her position now. A son’s widow is a very different thing from a son’s wife. The latter must be received, and has her certain place; the other is a mere dependant, to be neglected at pleasure. And it all rested with Sir Giles what was to become of her. He might keep her there as the mistress of his house, or he might make her a little allowance and send her away, desiring to see no more of her. Patty was altogether dependent, she felt, on the caprice of the old man. She had as good as nobody but he in the world, for she said to herself that nothing would induce her ever to speak to her father again, who had murdered Gervase and all her hopes. She would never look at him with her free will, never speak to him. That he should have dared to come to the funeral was a sin the more. Never, never! Patty said to herself she would rather go out to service, rather starve! These five months had placed a gulf between her and the Seven Thorns which nothing could ever bridge over. If it was suggested to her that she should return home, as young widows often do, she would say that she had no home, and it would be true. She would rather be a servant, rather starve!
And then her mind went back to Sir Giles. Whatwould he do with her? The old man liked her, she felt sure. And she had been good to him. Whatever her motives had been, whether they would bear scrutiny or not, she had been good to him. She had kept pain away from him as far as she could. She had taken care of all his comforts. She had not permitted him to be disturbed. Dunning and all the rest would have thought it essential that he should go to the funeral and undergo all the misery and excitement of that ceremony. But Patty had prevented that. He had reason to be grateful to her; but would he be grateful? This was the tremendous question. Would he keep her there as the mistress of his house, or would he send her away? Patty had in her jewel-case, carefully locked up, a letter from Margaret Osborne to her uncle, which she thought it wisest to keep back. If Sir Giles received it, it might make him think that Mrs. Osborne was the best mistress for his house, which she was not, Patty felt sure. She put it aside, saying to herself that some time, when the excitement was over and everything had settled down, she would give it—but not now: to what purpose now? Poor Sir Giles wanted to forget his trouble, not to have it forced upon him by condolences. Margaret had written to Patty also a short note full of sorrow for poor Gervase, and asking whether it would be desirable that she should come to Greyshott for his funeral; to which Patty had replied explaining that everything was to be very quiet in consequence of the condition of “dear papa.” “It is he that must be considered in everything,” Patty wrote; “I have the doctor’s orders to keep him as much as possible from all emotion. I will bury my dear husband myself. Nobody else, as you know, has ever been very fond of him, and I shall not ask anybody to come for the form’s sake. If possible, dear papa is not to be told even the day. He is very broken and miserable, but when he is let alone and not reminded, he forgets.” Margaret had accepted this as a refusal of her visit, and she had asked no more. It would have been a painful visit in any case. Colonel Piercey was abroad. There were, therefore, no relations to come to make the occasion more difficult for Patty, and yet there had been no want of “respect.” The county magnates had all attended the melancholy funeral—where the young wife alone was chief mourner. “Why did not Margaret come?” they all asked, and blamed her. But a feeling of sympathy arose for Patty all over the neighbourhood. The doctor spoke with enthusiasm of her devotion as a nurse, and her intelligence and understanding. Poor thing! Poor thing! Whatever her antecedents had been, and however she had acquired that place, she had certainly behaved very well; and now what was to become of her? people asked with pity. It was assumed that she would return to her friends, as other young widows did—though not in this case to her father’s house.
If they had but known how anxiously she was herself debating that question as she drove along in her crape and her woe, with the blinds down, and every symptom of desolation! Dunning had not allowed hismaster to dine out of his own rooms, or to indulge in any diversion in the evening, since the death of his son. If other people did not know or care what was right, Dunning did, and at all events poor Mr. Gervase should be respected in his own house as long as he lay there. Above all, on the evening of the funeral day, Dunning was determined there should be no relaxation of that rule. He was disposed to think, as were the rest of the servants, that Patty’s reign was over; but the others were more wary than Dunning, and did not show any signs of emancipation as yet. He did so with premature exultation, rejecting almost roughly her suggestion that Sir Giles should dine as usual on that gloomy evening. “Master’s not equal to it,” said Dunning, “and if he was he didn’t ought to be. I don’t hold with folks that dance and sing the day they’ve put their belongings in the grave—or eat and drink, it’s just the same.”
“You forget what the doctor says, that nothing must be allowed to upset him. I hope you don’t talk to Sir Giles on—melancholy subjects,” Patty said, with all the dignity of her widow’s cap.
“I don’t know what subjects there can be but melancholic subjects in this ’ouse of mournin’,” Dunning said.
“Then I will come and see him myself,” said Patty. She went to Sir Giles’ room accordingly, after his too simple dinner had been swallowed, and devoted herself to him.
“I think we’ll send Dunning away for a little, dearpapa,” she said. “We have things to talk of, haven’t we?—and Dunning has been on duty a long time, and a little society will make him more cheerful.”
“I beg your pardon, Sir Giles,” said Dunning, “but whatever some folks may think I don’t ’old with being cheerful, not on the day of a funeral.”
“What does he say, my dear? what does he say?” said Sir Giles. “But look you here, Dunning, whatever it is I won’t have Mrs. Piercey contradicted. Do you hear, sir? Do as Mrs. Piercey tells you,” and he struck his stick upon the floor.
Dunning in consternation withdrew, for when Sir Giles was roused he was not to be trifled with.
“She’s found out some d——d trick to come over the old man,” he said in the housekeeper’s room to which he retired. But this was a mistake; for it was Sir Giles himself who had invented the trick. He turned to Patty with great tenderness when the man disappeared, and took her by both hands and drew her to a chair beside him.
“My dear,” he said, “I’ve forgotten, like an old sinner, what Meg Osborne told me. I’ve been allowing you to do all sorts of things and wear yourself out. But it sha’n’t happen again, it sha’n’t happen again. Now that my poor dear boy is gone we must be more careful than ever—for it’s our last hope both for you and for me to have an heir for the old house.”
Itwas Sir Giles himself who had found this charm which had so great an effect on the after-history of Greyshott. Patty, among other qualities which were not so praiseworthy, had the almost fierce modesty of the young Englishwoman, and would not have spoken on such a subject to a man, even so harmless a person as an old man like Sir Giles, for any inducement. She did not even understand what he meant at first, and the same impulse offarouchemodesty made her ashamed to explain, or do more than blush deeply and remonstrate, “Oh, dear papa!” as she would have done probably in any case, whether his supposition had been false or true. The old gentleman in his melancholy and confused musings over Gervase, had suddenly remembered, the thought being recalled by some merest trifle of association, the hurrahs of little Osy which had mingled with his own feeble cheer on some forgotten occasion. He remembered it suddenly as the strangest contrast to his feelings now. What had the old father, desolate and childless, to cheer about? What had he heard that could have produced that cheer? It waswhen Meg was going away—when she had told him she was going to take Osy away from him. That was nothing to cheer about. What was it that had made him forget Osy, but which the dear little fellow had caught up and shouted over, though it was an unkindness to himself? and then he recollected all at once. What Mrs. Osborne had said had been the most common and ordinary wish that children might arise in the old house, which was the most natural thing, the most certainly to be expected. She had meant no more: but Sir Giles had at once attributed to Meg a knowledge which was at the moment impossible, without reflecting either that she was the last person to receive the confidence of Patty. He forgot now that it was months since this had been said, and only remembered that it had been said, and that the prospect was like life from death. Life from death! That was what it would be—from his dead son an heir, in whom the old house might blossom and grow glad again. He took up the idea where he had dropped it with a sudden exhilaration which drove away all sorrow. An heir to the old house, a thing all made of hope, with none of poor Gervase’s deficiencies, a being whom the old man fondly hoped to “make a man of” even yet before he died.
And it would not be too much to say that the first feeling of Patty, when she understood what the old gentleman meant, was one of consternation. She did not know how to answer him, how to tell him that she had no such hope. Her lips were closedpartly by the tradition of silence on such subjects which an unsophisticated Englishwoman seldom surmounts, and partly because she was so utterly astonished and taken aback by the suggestion. She did not even see the advantage in it, nor how it placed this feeble old man whose life hung on a thread in her hands. It was not till after she had left him and was alone, and could think, that these advantages occurred to Patty; and there was probably no suggestion of a treacherous kind which it would have seemed to her so impossible to make use of. The scruples of life are very much things of circumstance, that seeming quite legitimate and right to one which is the height of immodesty and indelicacy to another. Patty had one distinct object in her mind, now that all her hopes were over, which was to induce her father-in-law, by whatever means were possible, to make a provision for her. He was really, she felt, the only one to whom she could now cling, her sole support and protection, and she meant to be also his protector, to take care of him as he had never been taken care of before. All this she steadfastly intended, meaning nothing but good to the ailing and desolate old man; but she also intended that he should provide for her, as was her right as his son’s wife. Should Sir Giles die at the present moment, Patty was strongly and painfully aware that she would be in no way the better for having taken that step which had seemed so prodigious a one, which had raised her so high above all her antecedents and belongings, by becoming GervasePiercey’s wife. She was Mrs. Piercey, but she was without a penny, poorer by the burden of that name than Patty Hewitt could ever have been. Her first duty, her first determination was to be provided for, in whatever manner it might be most possible to do that. But it is only just to her to say that this way of influencing her father-in-law, and of moving him to do what she wished, had never occurred to her, and even when thus suggested it was very repugnant to her—the last thing she desired to do. But Patty, shut up in her room of widowhood and mourning, with her cap with its long, white streamers visible upon the table, and everything black about her, even the dressing-gown which she had put on to sit by the fire, and her mind so alert and unfatigued going over everything, speculating how best to pluck from the nettle danger the flower of safety, could not shut out the suggestion from her thoughts. It might even yet prove to be so, she said to herself, blushing hotly, even though she was alone. And if not, why shouldn’t she permit Sir Giles to think so? It would give him a great deal of pleasure, poor old gentleman. It would tide him over the worst time, the immediate crisis of his son’s death, and it would double her every claim upon him, and make it more than ever necessary that he should put her at once beyond the reach of want or suffering of any kind. Still, it was with reluctance that she accepted this weapon which had been thrust into her hand.
Sir Giles could not get his new discovery out ofhis head. He told Dunning of it before he went to bed. It was whispered all through the house in the morning; and though some of the women scoffed and declared it to be an invention, yet it was, of course, the most natural idea in the world. From Patty not a word came, either in assertion or denial. She said nothing; she understood no hints; she never allowed herself to be betrayed into reference to her supposed hopes. Sir Giles alone talked to her on the subject with joyous laughter and chuckles, and a loudly expressed determination that she should be obeyed and not contradicted, which was of priceless value to Patty, at the moment when her sway was a little uncertain, and when expectation was strong in the household that she should be displaced and Mrs. Osborne sent for in her place. The household by no means desired Mrs. Osborne in Patty’s place. Margaret had been too much and too long a dependant to be popular among the servants; and Patty, who was so peremptory, who had acted upon her convictions, and managed to turn out everybody whom she feared or disliked, had powerful recommendations in her imperious authority. She meant what she said, and could not be driven or persuaded out of it; and she knew when work was well done, and gave the capable housemaid or cleaner of plate the praise which was his or her due. And she was not unjust, save in the case of personal disrespect to herself, which she never pardoned—a quality which the servants’ hall entirely approved. Mrs. Osborne could be got to “look over” anything by judicious entreatyor representation, especially if it was a mere offence against herself, and was less respected and considered in consequence. It was not, therefore, in any way desired that she should take up the reins; yet, all the same, it made a great difference to Patty that Sir Giles had taken it into his head that she must not be contradicted. It established her once more firmly in her seat.
And the little group in the great drawing-room in the evening was all the more cheerful in consequence. It was, to look at, a forlorn group enough: the old gentleman, more feeble than ever, with Dunning behind his chair, ready to move it according to his caprice, and the young widow in her deep crape, a black spot upon the white and gold of the room. Patty had been requested by Sir Giles to “take that thing off her head,” and did so obediently in her father-in-law’s presence, though she was far too determined to do her duty by her dead husband to dispense with that symbol of grief on any other occasion. They sat with the backgammon-board between them, playing game after game. There was in Patty’s mind unutterable relief from the misery and suspense which she had suffered in Gervase’s lifetime; but other thoughts, scarcely less anxious, occupied her fully. Yet she talked to the old gentleman with an endeavour to please and amuse him which was heroic. It was a great strain upon Patty. She could talk of herself without difficulty; she could have talked, had she thought it expedient, of her father and aunt, and their sins against her; she could havetalked of Gervase; but these subjects being all tabooed, it was very hard upon Patty to find anything to say. She knew nobody whom Sir Giles knew. She could not tell him the news, for she knew none, except the affairs of the village, which interested herself, and which she seized on greedily from every possible channel. But Patty could not talk on any other subject. She had to talk about the backgammon, to remind him of the wonderful stroke he had played last night, and the wonderful luck he had always; and how it was such an amazing chance for her to play, a poor ignorant thing as she was, with such an accomplished player as dear papa. This was but a scanty thread to spin through night after night, and had it not been made up so much of applause it is very doubtful how long it would have sufficed. But there is nothing of which the ordinary mind can swallow so much as praise; and when the interest of life is reduced to a game, the player thinks as much of his lucky chances and his skilful movements as if it were something of the highest importance; so that, on the whole, this talk did very well and kept them going. But still Patty had not ventured to introduce her great subject—that provision for herself which she felt became more and more important every day; for who could tell whether any morning Sir Giles might not be found to have passed away from this life altogether, or to be enclosed in the living tomb of paralysis, unable to act or devise anything more.
Lady Hartmore did not call next day as her lordhad promised, but she did call, and was received by Patty in full panoply of mourning and with a heart that beat loudly with suppressed excitement. Lady Hartmore was neither so much touched by the sight of the young widow, nor so sympathetic as her husband had been. She examined Patty curiously, with searching eyes, full not only of the superciliousness of rank, but of the experience of a much older woman, which Mrs. Gervase would have opposed with defiance, but for the false pretence which, though she had never put it forth, and though it had arisen most innocently, gave her something of a sensation of guilt. This, however, though Patty was not aware of it, did her service with the great lady. It subdued her natural determination, and gave an apparent softness to her aspect which did not belong to it by nature. Lady Hartmore put a great many questions to the young widow: did she think of remaining at Greyshott, which must be so melancholy a place nowadays? did she think this last shock had very much shaken Sir Giles? did she not feel it a great responsibility to be left in charge of him? and many other such questions. To these Patty replied very properly that she could not possibly leave Sir Giles alone; that he had been very kind to her, like a father, and that nothing would induce her to desert him; that he was very well on the whole, “quite himself,” and that she tried to be as cheerful as she could on his account. She took no notice of the question about leaving Greyshott. It was not indeed necessary to reply to it, when she had alreadymade that answer about the impossibility of leaving Sir Giles.
“But you must want somebody to speak to,—somebody to take care of you, too,” said the great lady, meaning more than she said.
“Oh, no,” said Patty; “I have always had very good health, I have never been delicate. I am very fond of my dear father-in-law. He does not want very much—he is very easily amused, and so kind, always so kind. We do very well all by ourselves—as well,” Patty added, with a sigh, “as in the circumstances we could possibly do.”
What could any one say to such perfect sentiments? Lady Hartmore was baffled in her inquisitions. “Still,” she said, “I should have thought that some one who was a relation—some one of your own family—a woman to speak to——”
“I am sure,” said Patty, “that Lady Hartmore knows my family are not likely to be welcome at Greyshott; and I have but an old aunt who was never married, and therefore has no experience.” She blushed as she said this, and Lady Hartmore was very quick to take up the inference for which she was prepared. But Patty was too wise to be led into any further disclosures or to answer any of the searching questions which her ladyship proceeded to put.
“How did you find the poor thing?” her husband asked when he joined her in the carriage—for Lord Hartmore had visited Sir Giles while Lady Hartmore thus did her duty by Patty.
“I found the poor thing very well and extremely well able to take care of herself,” said the lady. “I don’t think you need waste so much sympathy upon her.” But Lord Hartmore was full of feeling, and could not be persuaded to take this view.
“The poor old fellow is quite exultant,” he said. “It is a wonderful blessing for him, whatever you may think of it in any other connection. It has given him a new lease.”
“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Lady Hartmore.
“Oh, come!” cried her husband. “It is one thing to trust your own judgment, which is an excellent one, I don’t gainsay it—but quite another to set it up against those who must know the facts best. By the way, he bewildered me by saying Meg told him. Has Meg been here?”
“Not that I know of; but she may have made a hurried run to see her uncle. If Meg told him——” said Lady Hartmore, in subdued tones. She added after a pause, “I shall think more of her if Meg is herconfidante.”
Thus on the whole the impression was favourable to Patty, even though the grounds upon which it was formed were false.
After this visit Patty took her first active step towards the accomplishment of her desires. Sir Giles, who had been pleased with the Hartmore visit and augured great things from it, opened the way by asking if she had not liked Lady Hartmore and foundher kind? “A nice woman, a good-hearted woman,” he said.
“Yes, dear papa; but one thing she said gave me a great deal of pain; for she seemed to think I should go back to my family, and leave you,” she said, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.
“Leave me? nonsense!” said Sir Giles, “I sha’n’t let you leave me, my dear. I shouldn’t have sent you away, anyhow, you may be sure; no, no, I shouldn’t have sent you away; but in present circumstances, my dear—Why, you’re all our hope at Greyshott, you’re all our stand-by, you’re—you’re our sheet-anchor.”
“How kind, how kind you are, dear papa! I try to do my best to keep everything straight, though I never could pretend to be of so much consequence as that. But people feel free to speak,” said Patty, with a sigh, “because they know I have no ground to stand on. I wasn’t dear Gervase’s equal when he married me, and there were no settlements or anything, you know; and I am quite dependent, quite dependent, as much as a servant—but without any wages,” Patty added, with a faint laugh.
It was at one of the rare moments when Dunning was absent, intervals of which Patty eagerly took advantage. Dunning was, indeed, a thorn in her flesh, though after mature deliberation she had decided that it was wiser to retain him, that he might take the responsibility of Sir Giles’ health.
“Dependent!” cried Sir Giles, “nonsense, nonsense! A servant, my dear? Don’t let me hear such a wordagain. No, no; no, no; never could have been so, for you’ve been quite a daughter, quite a daughter. But, in the present circumstances——”
“Ah, dear papa, don’t let us think of that. I love to be with you—it’s the only comfort I have; but still I can’t forget that I have no provision. I might have to go away and work for my living, if somebody were to over-persuade you, or if you were—ill or anything. A Mrs. Piercey having to work for her living—or perhaps take a situation! I shouldn’t mind it for myself, but when I think, dear papa, of your name.”
“Good Lord!” cried Sir Giles, “you must be out of your mind, my dear, to think of such a thing. My poor boy’s wife, and a good wife to him, too, if he had but lived to profit by it. That’s all nonsense, all nonsense, my dear.”
“Ah, dear papa! but it would not be nonsense if I had not you to trust to,” cried Patty, laying her hand upon his arm. “It is you who are my sheet-anchor. I have not a penny of my own, not even to pay for my mourning; and I can’t earn any for myself, don’t you know, because of dear Gervase and your name—the first in the county. I couldn’t take in needlework, could I, in Greyshott? and a woman, you know, has always little expenses——”
“My dear,” said Sir Giles, “have all the fal-lals you can set your face to, and send in the bills to me; you’ve nothing to do but send in the bills to me.”
“Dear papa! as if I ever doubted your kindness. It is not fal-lals I am thinking of; this,” cried Patty,holding up her crape, “is not much of a fal-lal, is it? But what I am thinking of is the time to come, when I shall require to have a little provision or income or salary of my own.”
“Do you mean,” cried the old man, in the half-sobbing tone into which he was betrayed by any emotion, “when—when—I’m no more; when I’m dead? Is that what you mean?”
Patty stooped down and laid her face against the large old limp hand, which reposed on the arm of Sir Giles’ chair. “I hope I’ll be dead, too, before that,” she said; “for what should I have to live for then?”
This, it need not be pointed out, was no answer to his question; but it seemed so, and Sir Giles was much affected and sobbed, which Patty echoed with a deep sigh or two which seemed to give a more refined expression to his feeling. He put his other hand upon her head.
“Please God, we’ll see better days before that,” he said.
And then Dunning came back, and a new game was begun.
Itwas not till some days after this, that Sir Giles referred to the subject again. Patty thought it had entirely failed to make any impression on his mind, and that she must herself renew the conversation, when he surprised her by saying suddenly, as if there had been no interval, “It won’t be necessary, my dear, it won’t be necessary. As his mother, everything will be in your hands.”
“Dear papa!” she cried, with a quite natural start; “how you frightened me!”
“I don’t want to frighten you, my dear; anything but that—anything but that! But you must see that any little arrangements we might make would be all needless, quite needless. Of course, everything will go to the natural heir. There will probably be a long minority, for you know, my dear, with the best intentions in the world, an old fellow like me—— though I would give half my kingdom to see him come of age—half my kingdom! But no, no, that’s a selfish thought; for I should wish him to have the property unimpaired, if not added to—if not added to. You’lltake great care of it, I am sure. You’re quite a woman of brains.” Sir Giles spoke very fast, to get through this long effort of thought and consideration before Dunning came back. Then he added, with his usual mingled outburst of laughing and sobbing, patting her arm with his large old nerveless hand, “So you see it’s needless, needless, my dear, for everything will be in your hands.”
“Dear papa!” cried Patty. She was silent for some time in confusion and embarrassment. Then, “There’s nothing certain in this world,” she said.
“What, what?” cried Sir Giles. “Nothing’s happened—nothing’s happened, my dear? I hope you don’t mean to tell me that?”
“Nothing has happened, dear papa,” cried Patty, with a painful flush upon her face. She had not meant to deceive him, and certainly not in this way. It was indeed hard upon her that she had, without any fault of hers, this fiction to keep up. “But there’s nothing certain in this world,” she said. “Who would have thought five months ago that I should need to be thinking of a little provision for myself—I, that was Gervase’s wife, and had no need to think of anything? I married him without a thought of having anything settled on me, or even wanting a penny but what he gave me.” Patty put her handkerchief to her eyes to absorb some real tears, for though her grief for poor Gervase could scarcely be expected to be very profound, her pity for herself was sincere and lasting. “Dearest papa! I can’t bear to ask for myself. I’vealways been used to work, and I could get my own living at any time. It is just that I can’t bear, being Mrs. Piercey, that I should have to do it in that way—Gervase’s widow, withyourname.”
“Don’t, my dear, don’t! For goodness’ sake don’t agitate yourself! Don’t cry, my dear, don’t cry!” said Sir Giles, anxiously.
“Oh, I wouldn’t cry if—if I could help it. I would do nothing to vex you, dear papa. But when I think of all that has happened—oh, who should know so well as I that there’s nothing certain in this world!”
“My dear, my dear, I’ll send for Pownceby to-morrow. You must not upset yourself—you mustn’t, indeed. What should I do, and everybody, if—if anything was to happen?” Sir Giles cried. And he became so excited in his anxiety to calm her, that Patty was compelled to conquer herself and regain her self-command. She looked up with a mournful smile from her pocket-handkerchief. “Dear papa,” she said, “we are two of us that mustn’t do that. If you get upset it will upset me, and that will upset you still more; so we must each hold up for the sake of the other. Suppose we have another game?”
“You always know exactly what I want,” said the old gentleman, his sob turning into a laugh, as his laugh so often turned into a sob. There was not, in fact, much difference between the two; and the rest of the evening was passed as usual in admiring exclamations on Patty’s part as to his wonderful play andwonderful luck, so that even Dunning did not suspect that there had been anything more.
Patty reminded her father-in-law next morning when she went to him, as she had begun to make a practice of doing, to see if he wanted any letters written, that he had spoken of some Mr. Pownceby who was to be written to. “I don’t know who Mr. Pownceby is, but you said something about him, dear papa!” And the result was that in a day or two Mr. Pownceby came, the family solicitor, whom Patty indeed did not know, but of whose faculties and position in the matter she had a shrewd guess. She had to entertain the little gentleman to luncheon after he had been closeted with Sir Giles all the morning; and Mr. Pownceby was much impressed by Mrs. Piercey’s dignified air, and her crape and her widow’s cap. “I suppose it’s within the range of possibilities that a girl in that position might be fond even of a poor fellow like Gervase Piercey,” he said to himself doubtfully; and he made himself very agreeable to the young widow. He informed her that he had received instructions to charge the estate with an annuity of a thousand pounds a year for her, of which the payments were to begin at once. “A very proper arrangement,” he said, and he was impressed by the composure with which Patty received the information. She was not indeed at all elated by it. A thousand pounds a year was a great thing for Patty Hewitt of the Seven Thorns. She would have thought it a princely revenue when she became Gervase Piercey’s wife; but a few months’ familiarity with the expenditureof Greyshott had made a great change in Patty’s views. To descend into a small house like the Rectory, for instance (she had once thought the Rectory a palace), and to do without a carriage, was far from an agreeable prospect. “How shall I ever do without a carriage?” Patty said to herself, and she thought with scorn of the little basket-work pony-chaise which was all the rector could afford. Was it possible that she should ever come down to that? Mr. Pownceby, when he went away, held her hand for a moment, and asked whether a very old friend of the family, who had known poor dear Gervase from his birth, might be permitted to say how pleased and thankful he was that there were hopes——? which made Sir Giles so very happy, poor old gentleman? “And I fear, I fear, my dear old friend has not many days before him,” the lawyer said; “he’s quite clear in his mind, but it was not to be expected that a worn-out constitution could bear all those shocks one after another. We’ll not have him long, Mrs. Piercey, we’ll not have him long!”
“Does the doctor say so?” asked Patty.
“My dear lady, the doctor says he has the best of nursing; and everything so much the better for a lady in the house.” It was with thisdouceurthat the solicitor took his leave, being a man that liked to please everybody. And there can be no doubt that a softened feeling arose in the whole neighbourhood about Patty, who was said to be such a good daughter to Sir Giles. “Thrown over her own people altogether—no crowd of barbarians about the house, as one used to fear;and quite gives herself up to her father-in-law; plays backgammon with him half the day, which can’t be lively for a young woman; and expects——” These last were the most potent words of all.
Patty was, indeed, very good to her father-in-law, and that not altogether for policy, but partly from feeling; for he had been kind to her, and she was grateful. The winter was dreary and long, and there were sometimes weeks together when Sir Giles could not get out, even into the garden, for that forlorn little drive of his in the wheeled chair. Patty gave herself up to his service with a devotion which was above all praise. She bore his fretfulness when weakness and suffering made the old man querulous. She was always at hand, whatever he wanted. She looked after his food and his comfort, often in despite of Dunning and to the great offence of the cook, but both these functionaries had to submit to Patty’s will. Had she not carried everything with a very high hand, it is possible that her footing might not have been so sure; for the women soon penetrated the fiction, which was not indeed of Patty’s creation, and Dunning even ventured upon hints to Sir Giles that all was not as he thought. The old gentleman, however, got weaker day by day; one little indulgence after another dropped from him. March was unusually blustery, and April very wet. These were good reasons why he should not go out; that he was more comfortable in his chair by the fire. Then he got indifferent to the paper, which Dunning always read to him in the morning, andonly took an interest in the scraps of news which Patty repeated to him later on.
“Why did not Dunning read me that, if it is in the paper? The fellow gets lazier and lazier; he never reads the paper to me now! He thinks I forget!” When Dunning would have remonstrated Patty checked him with a look.
“You must never contradict Sir Giles!” she said to him aside.
“And he says I’m never to contradicther!” Dunning said indignantly in the housekeeper’s room, where he went for consolation; “between them a man ain’t allowed to say a word!”
The women all cried out with scorn that Sir Giles would find out different fromthatone o’ these days.
“Then he’ll just die,” said Dunning. Things had come to a very mournful pass in the old melancholy house.
By degrees the backgammon, too, fell out of use. Patty sat with him still in the evening, but it was in his own room, often by his bedside, and many, many conversations took place between them, unheard by any one. Dunning would catch a word now and then, as he went and came, and gathered that Sir Giles was sometimes telling her of things he would like to have done, and that sometimes she was telling him of things she would wish to be done.
“As if she had aught to do with it!” Dunning said with indignation. Dunning, observing everything, imagined, too, that Sir Giles began to grow anxious aboutthose expectations which were so long delayed. His attendant sometimes heard mutterings of calculation and broken questioning with himself from the old gentleman.
“It’s a long time to wait—a long time—a long time!” he said.
“What is a long time, Sir Giles?” Dunning ventured to ask—but was told to hold his tongue for a fool.
One day, towards the end of April, he suddenly roused from a long muse or doze by the fire, and called to Dunning to send a telegram for Pownceby.
“Tell him to come directly. I mayn’t be here to-morrow,” Sir Giles said.
“Are you thinking of changing the air, Sir Giles?” said the astonished servant.
The rain was pouring in a white blast across the park, bending all the young trees one way, and pattering among the foliage.
“Air!” said the old man; “it’s nothing but water; but I’m soon going to move, Dunning, as you say.”
“Well, it might do you good, Sir Giles, a little later—when the weather’s better.”
Sir Giles made no reply, but Dunning heard him muttering: “She always says there’s nothing certain in this world.”
Mr. Pownceby came as quick as the railway could bring him.
“Is there anything wrong?” he asked of Mrs. Piercey, who met him at the door.
“Oh, I am afraid he’s very bad,” said Patty; “I am afraid he’s not long for this world.”
“Why does he want me? Does he want to change his will?”
“I don’t know—I don’t know. Oh, Mr. Pownceby, I don’t know how to say it. I am afraid he is disappointed: that—that you said to me last time——”
“Was not true, I suppose?” said the father of a family, who was not without his experiences, and he looked somewhat sternly at Patty, who was trembling.
“I never said it was,” she said. “It was not I. He took it into his head, and I did not know how to contradict him. Oh, don’t say to him it’s not true! rather, rather let him believe it now. Let him die happy, Mr. Pownceby! Oh, he has been so good to me! Say anything to make him die happy!” Patty cried.
The lawyer was angry and disappointed, too; but Patty’s feeling was evidently genuine, and he could not help feeling a certain sympathy with her. Sir Giles was sitting up in bed, ashy white with that pallor of old age which is scarcely increased by death.
“I’m glad you’re come in time, Pownceby—very glad you’re come in time. I’m—I’m going to make a move; for change of air, don’t you know, as Dunning says. Poor Dunning! he won’t get such an easy berth again. My will—that’s it. I want to change—my will. Clear it all away, Pownceby—all away, except the little legacies—the servants and that——”
“But not Mrs. Piercey, Sir Giles? If—if she’s been the cause of any—disappointment; it isn’t her fault.”
“Disappointment!” said the old man. “Quite the contrary. She’s been just the reverse. It was a good day for me when she came to the house. No, I don’t mean that it was a good day, for it was my poor wife’s funeral; but if anybody could have made a man of Gervase she would have done it. She would have done it, Pownceby. Yes, yes; sweep her away! sweep everybody away! I give and bequeath Greyshott and all I have—all I have, don’t you know? Gerald Piercey can have the pictures if he likes; she won’t care for them to——”
The old man was seized with a fit of coughing, which interrupted him at this interesting moment. Mr. Pownceby sat with his pen in his hand and many speculations in his mind. To cut off his daughter-in-law’s little income even while he praised her so! And who was the person to whom it was all to be left without regard for the rest? Meg Piercey, perhaps, who was one of the nearest, though she had never been supposed to have any chance. The lawyer sat with his eyes under his spectacles intently fixed upon Sir Giles, and with many remonstrances in his mind. Mrs. Gervase might be wrong to have filled the poor man with false hopes; but to leave her to the tender mercies of Meg Piercey, whom she had virtually turned out of the house, would be cruel. Sir Giles began to speak before his coughing fit was over.
“She says, poor thing,” and here he coughed,“she s—says that there’s nothing—nothing certain in this world. She’s right, Pownceby—she’s right. She—generally is.”
“There’s not much risk in saying that, Sir Giles.”
“No, it’s true enough—it’s true enough. It might grow up like its father. God grant it otherwise. You remember our first boy, Pownceby? Wasn’t that a fellow! as bold as a lion and yet so sweet. His poor mother never got over it—never; nor I neither, nor I neither—though I never made any fuss.”
Was the old man wandering in his mind?
“I hoped it would have been like him,” said Sir Giles, with a sob. “I had set my heart on that. But none of us can tell. There’s nothing certain, as she says. It might grow up like its father. I’ll make all safe, anyhow, Pownceby. Put it down, put it down—everything to——”
“Sir Giles! to whom? Everything to——?”
“Why, Pownceby, old fellow! Ah, to be sure he doesn’t know the first name. Sounds droll a little, those two names together. Quick! I want it signed and done with, in case I should, as Dunning says—don’t you know, change the air.”
“But, Sir Giles!” cried the lawyer, in consternation: “Sir Giles!” he added, “you don’t mean, I hope, to leave the property away from the family and the natural heir?”
“What a muddlehead you are, Pownceby!” said Sir Giles, radiant. “Why, It will be the natural heir. It will be the head of the family. And it will growup like our first boy, please God. But nothing is certain; and supposing it was to turn out like its father? My poor boy, my poor Gervase! It wasn’t as if we weren’t fond of him, you know, Pownceby. His poor mother worshipped the very ground he trod on. But one can’t help hoping everything that’s good for It, and none of the drawbacks—none of the drawbacks. Make haste, Pownceby; draw it out quick! You’re quicker than any clerk you have, when you’ll take trouble. Nothing’s certain in this world; let’s make it all safe, Pownceby, however things may turn out.”
“I’ll take your instructions, Sir Giles—though I don’t like the job. But it’s a serious matter, you know, a very serious matter. Hadn’t you better think it over again? I’ll have the will drawn out in proper form, and come back to-morrow to have it signed.”
“And how can you tell that you’ll find me to-morrow? I may have moved on and got a change of air, as Dunning says. No, Pownceby, draw up something as simple as you like, and I’ll sign it to-day.”
The solicitor met Mrs. Piercey again in the hall as he went out. He had not been so kind on his arrival as she had found him before; but now he had a gloomy countenance, almost a scowl on his face, and would have pushed past her without speaking, with a murmur about the train which would wait for no man. Patty, however, was not the woman to be pushed aside. She insisted upon hearing his opinion how Sir Giles was.
“I think with you that he is very ill,” he replied, gloomily, “and in mind as well as in body——”
“Oh no,” cried Patty, “not that, not that! as clear in his head, Mr. Pownceby, as you or me.”
He gave her a dark look, which Patty did not understand. “Anyhow,” he said, “he’s an old man, Mrs. Piercey, and I don’t think life has many charms for him. We have no right to repine.”
Mr. Pownceby had known Sir Giles Piercey all his life, and liked him perhaps as well as he liked any one out of his own family. But to repine—why should he repine, or Patty any more, who stood anxiously reading his face, and only more anxious not to betray her anxiety than she was to hear what, perhaps, he might tell? But he did not do this. Nor would he continue the conversation, nor be persuaded to sit down. He asked that he might be sent for, at any moment, if Sir Giles expressed a wish to see him again. “I will come at a moment’s notice—by telegraph,” he said, with a gloomy face, that intended no jest. And he added still more gloomily, “I believe it will be for your advantage, too.”
“I am thinking of my father-in-law and not of my advantage,” Patty said with indignation. The anxiety in her mind was great, and she could not divine what he meant.
Margaret Osbornehad lost no time in settling down in a cottage proportioned to her means, with her little boy and the one maid, who did all that was necessary, yet as little of everything as was practicable, for the small household. The place she had chosen was not very far from Greyshott, yet in the impracticability of country roads, especially during the winter, to those who are out of railway range, almost as far apart as if it had been at the other end of England. The district altogether had not attained the popularity it now enjoys, and the village was very rural indeed, with nobody in it above the rank of the rustic tradesmen and traffickers, except the inevitable parson and the doctor. The vicar’s wife seized with enthusiasm upon the new inhabitant as a representative of society, and various others of the neighbouring clergywomen made haste to call upon a woman so well connected, as did also the squire of the place, or, at least, the ladies belonging to him. But Mrs. Osborne had no such thirst for society as to trudge along the muddy roads to return their visits, and her income did not permiteven the indulgence of the jogging pony and homely clothes-basket of a little carriage, in which many of the clerical neighbours found great comfort. She had to stay at home perforce, knowing no enlivenment of her solitude, except tea at the vicarage on rare occasions. Tea at the vicarage in earlier and homelier days would have meant a quiet share of the cheerful evening refreshments and amusements, when the guest was made one of the family party, and all its natural interests and occupations placed before her. But tea, which is an afternoon performance and means a crowd of visitors collected from all quarters, in which the natural household is altogether swamped, and the guest sees not her friends, but their friends or distant acquaintances, of whom she neither has nor wishes to have any knowledge—is a very different matter. At Greyshott there had been occasional heavy dinner-parties, in which it was Margaret’s part to exert herself for the satisfaction, at all events, of old friends, most of whom called her Meg, and had known her from her girlhood. These were not, perhaps, very entertaining evenings, but they were better than the modern fashion. She lived, accordingly, very much alone with Osy, and the maid-of-all-work, whom, knowing so little as she did of the practical arrangements of a household, she had to train, with many misadventures, which would have been amusing had there been anybody with whom she could have laughed over her own blunders and Jane’s ignorance. But alas! there was no one. Osy was too young to be amused when hispudding was burned or his potatoes like stones. He was more likely to cry, and his mother’s anxiety for his health and comfort took the fun out of the ludicrous, yet painful, errors of her unaccustomed house-keeping. It depends so much on one’s surroundings whether these failures are ludicrous or tragical. In some cases they are an enlivenment of life, in others an exaggeration of all its troubles. These, however, were but temporary; for Mrs. Osborne, though she knew nothing to begin with, and did not even know whether she was capable of learning, was, in fact, too capable a woman, though she was not aware of it, to be long overcome by troubles of this kind; and it soon became a pleasure to her and enlivenment of her life to look after her own little domestic arrangements, and carry forward the education of her little maid-servant. There was not, after all, very much to do—plenty of time after all was done for Osy’s lessons, and for what was equally important, Margaret’s own lessons, self-conducted, to fit her for teaching her boy. At seven years old a little pupil does not make any very serious call upon his teachers, and though Margaret was aware of having no education herself, she was still capable of as much as the little fellow wanted, except in one particular. Osy had, as many children have in the first stage, a precocious capacity for what his mother called “figures,” knowing no better; for I doubt whether Margaret knew what was the difference between arithmetic and mathematics, or where one ends and the other begins. Osy did in his own little head sums which made his mother’s hair stand erect on hers. She was naturally all the more proud of this achievement that she did not understand it in the least. She was even delighted when Osy found her all wrong in an answer she had carefully boggled out to one of those alarming sums, and laughed till the tears came into her eyes at the pitying looks and apologetic speeches of her little boy. “It isn’t nofing wrong, Movver,” Osy said. “Ladies never, never do sums.” He stroked her hand in his childish compassion, anxious to restore her to her own esteem. “You can wead evwyfing you sees in any book, and write bof big hand and small hand, and understand evwyfing; but ladies never does sums,” said Osy, climbing up to put his arms round her neck and console her. These excuses for her incapacity were sweeter to Margaret than any applause could have been, and such incidents soon gave pleasure and interest to her life. It is well for women that few things in life are more delightful than the constant companionship of an intelligent child, and Margaret was, fortunately, capable of taking, not only the comfort, but the amusement, too, of Osy’s new views of life. These, however, we have not, alas! space to give; and as she was obliged to engage the instructions of the village schoolmaster for him in the one point which was utterly beyond her, Osy’s mathematical genius and his peculiar phraseology soon died away together. He learned to pronounce the “th,” which is so difficult a sound in English, and his condition of infant prodigy in respect to “figures” and all the wonders of his mental arithmetic came toan end under the prosaic rules of Mr. Jones, as such precocities usually do.
Margaret’s life, however, had thus fallen into a tolerably happy vein, full of cheerful occupation and boundless hope and love—for what eminence or delight was there in the world which that wonderful child might not reach? and to be his mother was such a position, she felt, as queens might have envied—when the news of her cousin’s death broke upon her solitude with a sudden shock and horror. She had heard scarcely anything about him in the interval. One or two letters dictated to Dunning had come from her uncle in answer to her dutiful epistles, but naturally there was no communication between her and Patty, and Gervase had scarcely ever written a letter in his life. Sometimes at long intervals Lady Hartmore had taken a long drive to see her, but that great lady knew nothing about a household which nobody now ever visited. “I might give you scraps I hear from the servants,” Lady Hartmore said,—“one can’t help picking up things from the servants, though I am always ashamed of it,”—but these scraps chiefly concerned the “ways” of Mrs. Piercey, which Margaret was too loyal to her family to like to hear laughed at. Gervase dead! it seemed one of those impossibilities which the mind feels less power of accustoming itself to than much greater losses. Those whom our minds can attend with longing and awe into the eternal silence, who are of kin to all the great thoughts that fill it, and for whom every heavenly development is possible, conveyno sense of incongruity, however overwhelming may be the sorrow, when they are removed from us. But Gervase! How hard it was to think of him gaping, incapable of understanding, on the verge of that new world. Who could associate with him its heavenly progress, its high communion? Gervase! why should he have died? it seemed harder to understand of him whose departure would leave so slight a void, whose trace afar would be followed by no longing eyes, than of one whose end would have shaken the whole world. The news had a great and painful effect upon Margaret, first for itself, and afterwards for what must follow. She wrote, as has been said, to her uncle, asking if she might go to him, if a visit from her would be of any comfort to him; and she wrote to Patty with her heart full, forgetting everything in the pity with which she could not but think of hopes overthrown. Patty replied with great propriety, not concealing that she had kept back Margaret’s letter to Sir Giles, explaining how little able he was for any further excitement, and that all that could be done was to keep him perfectly quiet. “He might wish to see you, but he is not equal to it,” Patty said; and she ended by saying that her whole life should be devoted to Sir Giles as long as he lived, “for I have nothing now upon Earth,” Patty said, with a big capital. All that Margaret could do was to accept the situation, thinking many a wistful thought of her poor old uncle, from whom everything had been taken. Poor Gervase, indeed, had not been much to his father, but yet he was his son.
The winter was long and dreary—dreary enough at Greyshott, where the old gentleman was going daily a step farther down the hill, and often dreary, too, to Margaret, looking out from the window of her little drawing-room upon the little row of laurels glistening in the wet, with now and then a passer-by and his umbrella going heavily by. There are some people who have an invincible inclination to look out, whatever is outside the windows, were it only chimney-pots; and Margaret was one of these. She got to know every twig of those glistening laurels shining in the rain, and to recognise even the footsteps that went wading past. There was not much refreshment nor amusement in it, but it was her nature to look out wherever she was. And one afternoon, in the lingering spring, she suddenly saw a figure coming up the village road which had never been seen there before, which seemed to have fallen down from the sky, or risen up from the depths, so little connection had it with anything there. Mrs. Osborne owned the strangeness of the apparition with a jump of the heart that had been beating so tranquilly in her bosom. Gerald Piercey here! He had been for a long time abroad, travelling in the East, far out of the usual tracks of travellers, and had written to her three or four times from desert and distant places, whose names recalled the Arabian Nights to her, but nothing nearer home. The letters had always been curt, and not always amiable: “I note what you say about having settled down. If you think the stagnant life of a village thebest thing for you, and your own instructions the best thing for a boy who will have a part to play in the world, of course it is needless for me to make any remark on the subject.” Margaret received these missives with a little excitement, it must be allowed, if not with pleasure. She confessed to herself that they amused her: “a boy who will have a part to play in the world!” Did he think, she asked herself with a smile, that Osy was seventeen instead of seven? At seven what did he want beyond his mother’s instructions? But it cannot be denied that letters, with curious Turkish hieroglyphics on the address, dated from Damascus, Baghdad, and other dwellings of the unknown, had an effect upon her. To receive them at Chillfold, in Surrey, was a sensation. The Vicarage children, who collected stamps, were much excited by the Turkish specimens, and she could not help a pleasurable sensation as she bestowed them. Even Osy’s babble about Cousin Colonel was not unpleasing to his mother’s ears. Gerald was far away, unable to take any steps, or even to say much about Osy. She liked at that distance to have such a man more or less belonging to her. The feeling of opposition had died away. He had been fond of Osy, wanted to have him for his own—as who would not wish to have her beautiful boy?—and what could be more ingratiating to his mother than that sentiment, so long as it was entertained by a man at Baghdad, who certainly could not take any steps to steal the boy from his mother? Into this amicable, and even vaguely pleased state of mindshe had fallen—when suddenly, without any warning, without even having seen him come round the corner, Gerald Piercey stood before her eyes.
Margaret went away from the window and sat down in the corner by the fire, which was the corner most in the shade and safe from observation. That her heart should beat so was absurd. What was Gerald Piercey to her, or she to Gerald Piercey? He might make what propositions he pleased, but he could not force her to give up her boy. At seven it was ridiculous—out of the question! At seventeen it might be different, but that was ten long years off. If this was what his object was, was not her answer plain?
He came in very gravely, not at all belligerent, though he looked round with an air of criticism, remarking the smallness of the place, which recalled to some extent Mrs. Osborne’s old feelings towards him. He had no right to find the cottage small. She thought him looking old, worn, and with care in his face. He, on the other hand, was astonished to see her so young. The air of Chillfold, the tranquillity and freedom, had been good for Margaret. The desert sun and wind had baked him black and brown. The quiet of the cottage, the life of a child which she had been living, had brought all her early roses back.
“I have come,” he said, taking her hand in his, “on a sad errand.” And then he paused and cried hurriedly, “What have you done to yourself? Why, you are Meg Piercey again.”
“Margaret Osborne at your service,” she said, asshe had said before; but with a very different feeling from that which had moved her on the previous occasion: to be recognised with surprise as young and fair, is a very different thing from being accused angrily of having lost your freshness and your youth,—“but what is it, what is it?”
“Uncle Giles is dying, Cousin Meg.”
“Uncle Giles!” She drew her hand from him and dropped back into her chair. For a moment she did not speak. “But I am not surprised,” she said. “I looked for it: how could he go on living with nobody—not one of his own?”
“He might have had you. Poor old man! it is not the time to blame him.”
“Me?” said Margaret. “I was not his child; nothing, and nobody, can make up for the loss of what is your very own.”
“Even when it is—Gervase Piercey?”
“Poor Gervase!” said Margaret. “Oh, Gerald Piercey, you are a man with whom things have always gone well. What does it matter what our children are? they are our children all the same. And if it were nothing but to think that it was Gervase—and what poor Gervase was.”
Though she was perhaps a little incoherent, Gerald did not object. He said: “At all events, I am very sorry for my poor old uncle. Mrs. Gervase wrote to me to say that he was sinking fast, should I like to come? and that she was writing to you in the same sense. I had only just arrived when I got her letter,and I thought that the best thing was to come to you at once, in case you were going to see him.”
“Of course, I should wish to go and see him; but I have had no letter. I must see him if she will let me. Dear old Uncle Giles, he was always good and fatherly to me.”
“And yet he let you leave your home—for this.”
“Cousin Gerald,” said Margaret, “don’t let us begin to quarrel again. This is very well—it suits me perfectly—and I am very happy here. It is my own. My dear old uncle was not strong enough to struggle in my favour, but he was always kind. I must go to see him, whether she wishes it or not.”
“I have a carriage ready. I thought that would be your decision. We shall get there before dark.”
“We?” she said, startled; then added, almost with timidity, “you are going——?”
“Certainly I am going. You don’t, perhaps, think what this may be to me. My father will be the head of the house——”
“And you after him. I fully understand what it is to you,” she said.
He gave her a singular look, which she did not at all understand, except that it might mean that with this increased power and authority he would have more to say about Osy. “And to you too,” he said.