For a few days after Patty’s visit to her aunt, that young lady looked
out with some eagerness for the reappearance of Gervase at the Seven
Thorns, but looked in vain. At first she scarcely remarked his absence,
having many things to think of, for it was not without excitement that
she planned out the steps by which she was to enter into a new life. The
first evening was filled, indeed, with the events of the day; the mental
commotion called forth by the visit of Lady Piercey, and the excitement,
almost overwhelming, of her unexpected, enthusiastic reception by Miss
Hewitt, and the sudden supply so much above her most daring hopes. Fifty
pounds! it was more to Patty than as many thousands would have been to
minds more accustomed--much more. For the possession of a great deal of
money means only income, and an unknown treasure in somebody else’s
hands, whereas fifty pounds is absolute money, which you can change, and
spend, and realise, and enjoy down to the last farthing. It gave her a
great deal of anxiety how to dispose of it at first. The Seven Thorns
was not a place where any thief was likely to come for money; it was not
a house worth robbing, which was a point, as Patty with her excellent
sense was aware, on which burglars are very particular, taking every
care to obtain accurate information. But then, again, money is a thing
that betrays itself--a secret that is carried by the birds of the air.
Had there been any of these gentry about, he might have divined from the
way in which she carried herself, that she had fifty pounds in her
pocket. There was a little faint lightness about it, she thought, when
she put it in her drawer--a sort of undeveloped halo, showing that
something precious was in the old pocketbook which she had found to
enshrine it in. Then she took it out of that formal receptacle, and
placed it with scientific carelessness in an old envelope. But,
immediately, that torn paper covering seemed to become important, too,
among the pocket-handkerchiefs and cherished trumpery, beads and
brooches in her “locked drawer.” The “girl,” who was the only servant,
except the ostler, at the Seven Thorns, had always manifested a great
curiosity (taken rather as a compliment to her treasures than as an
offence by Patty) concerning the contents of that locked drawer. She had
often asked to be shown the “jewellery,” which Patty, indeed, had no
objection to show. What if she would be tempted this night of all others
to break open the drawer, to refresh her soul with gazing at them, and
perhaps to throw the old dirty envelope away? It was highly improbable
that poor Ellen, an honest creature, would break open the drawer. But
still, everything is possible when you have fifty pounds to take care
of. Patty took it out again and placed it first in her pocket--but she
soon felt that to be quite too insecure--and then in her bosom under her
trim little bodice. She felt it there, while she went about her usual
occupations, carrying beer to her father’s customers. Fancy carrying
pots of beer to labourers that were not worth so much as the price of
them, and thanking the clowns for twopence--a girl who had fifty pounds
under the bodice of her cotton frock! She was glad to see that Gervase
had obeyed her orders, and did not appear in the parlour among the dull
drinkers there.
Next day Patty was much occupied in rummaging out the empty part of the
house, the best rooms, once occupied by important guests, when the Seven
Thorns was a great coaching establishment, but now vacant, tapestried
with dust and cobwebs, rarely opened from one year’s end to the other,
except at the spring-cleaning, when it is the duty of every housekeeper
to clear out all the corners. She got up very early in the summer
mornings, before any one was stirring (and it may be imagined how early
that was, for the Seven Thorns was all alert and in movement by six
o’clock), and went in to make an inspection while she was secure from
any disturbance. The best rooms were in the western end of the long
house, quite removed from the bar and the parlour, the chief windows
looking out upon the garden, and at a distance upon the retreating line
of the high road, and the slope of the heathery downs. Patty’s heart
swelled with pleasure as she carefully opened the shutters and looked
round at the old faded furniture. There was a good-sized sitting-room,
and two or three other rooms communicating with each other, and
separated by a long passage from the other part of the house. “A suite
of apartments,” she said to herself! for Patty had read novels, and was
acquainted with many fine terms of expression. The early sunshine
flooded all the silent country, showing a dewy glimmer in the neglected
garden, and sweeping along the broad and vacant road, where as yet there
was nothing stirring. A few cows in a field, one of which got slowly up
to crop a morsel before breakfast, as fine ladies (and fine gentlemen,
too) have a cup of tea in bed, startled Patty as by the movement of some
one spying upon her unusual operations and wondering what they meant.
But there was no other spectator, nothing else awake, except the early
birds who were chattering about their own businesses in every tree,
talking over their own suites of apartments, and the repairs wanted,
before the professional occupations of the day began, and the pipes were
tuned up. They were far too busy to pay any attention to Patty, nor did
she mind them. Besides, they were all sober, married folks, with the
care of their families upon their heads; while she was a young person
all thrilling with the excitement of the unknown, and making a secret
survey of the possible future nest.
Patty inspected these rooms with a careful and a practised eye. Any
young couple in the land, she felt, might be proud to possess this suite
of apartments. She examined the carpets to see whether they would do,
whether they would bear a thorough beating, which they required, and
whether by judicious application of gall, or other restoring fluid, the
colour might be brought back to the part which had been most trodden; or
whether it would be better to buy one of those new-fashioned rugs which
were spread upon the matting in the Rectory--a poor sort of substitute
for a carpet, Patty had always thought--but as it was the fashion, it
might be adopted to cover deficiencies; or a nice round table with a
cover might be placed upon that weak spot. Curtains would be necessary,
but thin white muslin is cheap and could be easily supplied. Patty
pulled the old furniture about, as the rector’s wife had done on her
first arrival, to give it a careless look, which does not suit the stern
angles of early Victorian mahogany and haircloth; but Patty had great
confidence in crochet and frilled muslin to cover a multitude of sins.
She stood at the window and looked out upon the garden which was quite
retired and genteel--as refined a view as could have been had in the
Manor itself. The cow in the field had lain down again to finish her
night’s rest after that early cup of tea. It was so quiet: the morning’s
sunshine almost level in long rays on the grass, the sleek coat of the
brown cow glistening, nobody stirring. It almost overawed Patty to look
out upon that wonderful silence before the world was awake. There was no
telling what might happen in that new day; there was no telling what
might come to her in the new life upon the margin of which she stood.
She did not, I need scarcely say, think of the ideal excellencies of her
future husband, or of love, or any of the usual enchantments that
brighten the beginning of life. She thought of the Manor; of the old
people who would soon die and be out of the way; of Lady Piercey’s
carriage, which would be hers; of the coachman and John on the box, whom
she had been at school with (John at least), and whom she would make to
tremble before her when her turn came to be my lady. My lady! Patty’s
head turned round and round. She put her head upon the window-frame to
support herself, turning giddy with the thought. Your ladyship! She
could hear people say it reverentially who had called, as if she had
been their servant, for Patty at the Seven Thorns.
This was the thought that filled her mind with something of that
ineffable elation and delight in her own happiness which is supposed to
be peculiar to people who are in love. Patty was in love; but it would
be putting a scorn upon her intelligence to suppose that she was in love
with Gervase. Poor Gervase, the Softy! Patty was resolved to be very
good to him--she had even a kind of affection for him as being her own
to do what she pleased with. He should never have any reason to regret
her ownership. She would be good to him in every way, deny him nothing,
consider all his silly tastes as well as his serious interests. But what
Patty was in love with was the Manor, and the carriage, and the rents,
and the ladyship. Lady Piercey! The thought of that tingled to her very
feet; it turned her head like wine. The old people, of course, would
make themselves very disagreeable. It would be their part to do so.
Patty felt that she would think no worse of them for fighting against
her, tooth and nail. But they would have to give in at the end; or still
better, they would die and get out of her way, which was the most
probable thing. Young people generally think of the death of old people
without compunction; it is their business to die, just as it is the
business of their successors to live. It is the course of nature. Patty
no more doubted they would die than that Christmas would come in six
months, whatever happened. What she would have chosen for pleasure and
to enhance her triumph to the utmost, was that old Sir Giles should die,
and the old lady survive to be called the Dowager, and to see Patty
bearing the title of Lady Piercey. This was what would be most sweet;
and it was very likely to come to pass, for everybody knew that Sir
Giles was a great invalid, whereas nobody knew that Lady Piercey had
been attacked last year by a little, very little premonitory
“stroke”--nobody, at least, except Parsons and Margaret Osborne and the
doctor, with none of whom Patty had any communication. The greatest
triumph she could think of was to see the Dowager bundled off to her
dower-house, while she, Patty, the regnant Lady Piercey, took her place.
She was not an ill-natured person on the whole, but she felt that there
was here awaiting her a poignant joy.
In the meantime, however, this glory was still at a distance, and the
first thing to do was to prepare a shelter for the young couple who
would have to inhabit, for lack of other habitation, these rooms in the
west end of the Seven Thorns. Patty interviewed her father on the
subject as soon as he had eaten his breakfast. She told him that to
leave these beautiful rooms unoccupied was a sin and shame, and that it
was his plain duty to do them up and look out for a lodger for next
summer. “Indeed, I’m not sure but we might hear of somebody this season
still, if they were ready,” she said. She showed him all the
capabilities of the place, and how a disused garden door might be
arranged so as to form a separate entrance, “for gentry won’t come in by
a public-house door. It ain’t likely,” she explained. “What do I care
about gentry, and what do you know about ’em?” said her father. “I’ll
never spend my money on such nonsense.” “But you like to see the colour
of theirs,” said Patty, “and it would be good for trade, too. For
suppose you gave them their board for a fixed rate, there would always
be a good profit. It would keep us going and them, too, so as we should
pay nothing for our living, and that in addition to the rent: don’t you
see, father?” “I don’t believe in them profits,” said the old man;
“gentry, as you call ’em, don’t eat the same things as I likes.” “But
they’d have to, father,” said Patty, softly, “if they couldn’t get
nothing else.” This struck Mr. Hewitt’s sense of humour, and he allowed
that it might be possible so, with a chuckle of democratic enjoyment.
“I’d like to see ’em sit down with their mincin’ ways to beans and fat
bacon,” he confessed. Patty was very sure that it was not on beans and
fat bacon that she would feed the future Sir Gervase and Lady Piercey;
but she made no remark on this point, and ere the week was over, she had
all her plans in operation--the new entrance by the garden, the rods put
up for the new muslin curtains, the old rooms scrubbed and polished, and
dusted till they shone again. “I think I’ll take a run up to London, and
buy two or three little things out of my own little bit of money,” she
said cautiously. And though her father demanded what little bit of money
she had to spend, he made no objection to the expedition. Patty was very
well to be trusted to look after herself, as well as the interests of
the family. And thus she prepared, in every respect, the way.
But Gervase never appeared. Morning and night she looked out for him,
pleased and half-amused, at first, with the faithfulness with which he
obeyed her. But after a time Patty became a little anxious. She had,
indeed, forbidden him to come to the Seven Thorns. But she had not
intended this self-sacrifice to be of such long duration. What if his
mother had got hold of him? What if he had been frightened into giving
up his love? The old lady had looked very masterful, very full of power
to do mischief. What if they had shut him up? Patty grew more and more
anxious as day followed day. The fifty pounds which she had sewn up in a
little bag, and wore suspended by a ribbon round her neck, began to lie
like a blister upon her pretty white skin underneath her bodice. What
would Aunt Patience say if all her plans came to nothing, if no licence
was necessary, and no bridegroom forthcoming? Patty felt her heart sink,
sink into unimaginable depths. The old woman would reclaim her money
with a sneer enough to drive any girl mad. She would laugh out at the
fool that had fancied the Softy was in love with her. His father, as had
all his wits about him, might take a person in; but Lord bless us, the
Softy! Patty knew exactly what her aunt would say. Miss Hewitt had given
her the money, not for love of her, but that she might triumph over the
great people, and avenge the wrongs of the other Patty who had gone
before her. Patty grew hot and grew cold, as she stood at the door
looking out along the road, and seeing nobody; her heart sickened at
every footstep, and leaped at every shadow on the way. One night, when
she stood there with her face turned persistently in one direction, just
as the soft summer twilight was stealing over the landscape, and
everything was growing indistinct, a voice close to her made Patty jump.
She had not even observed--so great was her preoccupation--another
figure coming round the other corner. Roger Pearson had seated himself
on the bench under the parlour window, and yet she had taken no notice.
He broke the silence by a laugh of mockery, that seemed to Patty the
beginning of the ridicule and scorn of the whole parish. “Looking out
for some one, eh?” said the voice; “but he ain’t coming, not to-night.”
“Who is not coming, Mr. Pearson?” said Patty, commanding herself with a
great effort; “some one you were expecting to meet?”
“You can’t come over me like that, Patty,” said Roger. “Lord,
a nice lass like you that might have the best fellow in the
village--a-straining and a-wearing your eyes looking after a Softy! and
him not coming neither--not a step! They knows better than that.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Pearson,” said Patty, feeling herself
enveloped from head to foot in a flush of rage and shame. “I don’t know
as I ever was known as one that looked after Softies--meaning poor folks
that have lost their wits, I suppose. You’re one of them, anyhow, that
speaks like that to me.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said the young man, in his deep voice--“a
fellow that’s not fit to tie your shoe, though he may be the squire’s
son. Don’t you think that’ll ever come to any good. They’ll never let
you be my lady; don’t you think it. They’ll turn him out o’ doors, and
they’ll cut him off with a shilling; and then you’ll find yourself
without a penny and a fool on your hands instead of a man.”
“Is this something out of a story book, or is it out of his own head?”
said Patty looking round her as if consulting an impartial
audience,--“anyway, it has nothing to say to me. I’ll send Ellen to you
for your orders, Mr. Pearson, for I’ve got a lot to do to-night, and I
can’t stand here to listen to your romancing. Ellen,” she cried, “just
see to that gentleman.” She went off with all the honours of war, but
Patty’s heart was likely to burst. She marched upstairs with a candle to
the rooms she had been arranging so carefully, and locked the door, and
sat down upon the sofa and gave way to a torrent of tears. Was it all to
come to nothing, after all her splendid dreams? She knew as well as any
one that he was a fool and could be persuaded into anything. How did she
know that his mother, if she tried, could not turn him round her little
finger, as she, Patty, had been certain she could do? How could she
tell, in the battle between Lady Piercey of Greyshott and Patty of the
Seven Thorns, that it was she who would triumph and not the great lady?
It was all Patty could do not to shriek out her exasperation, her misery
and rage; not to pull down the curtains and dash the furniture to
pieces. She caught her handkerchief with her teeth and tore it to keep
herself quiet--and the fifty pounds in the bag burnt her breast like a
blister. What if it was to come to nothing, after all?