Colonel Piercey arrived next day in the afternoon, Gervase having gone
away in a state of the most uproarious spirits in the morning. Margaret
had been made to accompany him to the railway, to see that his ticket
was taken properly, and that he got the right train, and was not too
late so as to miss it, or too early so as to be lingering about the
station; in which latter circumstance it seemed quite possible to his
mother that “that girl” might become aware that her prey was slipping
from her fingers, and appear upon the scene to recover him. She might
save herself the trouble, Lady Piercey thought, for the boy’s brain was
full of London, and a country lass was not likely to get much hold of
him; but still, it’s best to be on the safe side. No suggestion of
Patty’s real intentions had occurred to any one; not even in the Seven
Thorns, where they suspected much less than at Greyshott. In the little
inn it was supposed that the Softy had been, after all, too clever for
her, and had got clean away; and in the Manor it was also believed that
he had escaped from her vulgar attractions. He had got London in his
blood, he was thinking of how to enjoy himself as much as he was capable
of thinking of anything, and the Rev. Gregson would take care of that,
his mother reflected with a grim smile. And to have him safely away,
transferred to some one else’s responsibility, no longer for the moment
a trouble to any one belonging to him, filled Greyshott in general, and
his parents in particular, with a heavenly calm. The only one who was
not perfectly at ease was Mrs. Osborne, who endeavoured in vain to make
out what he meant by many of his broken expressions. Margaret was sure
that Gervase meant something which was not suspected by his family: but
she, too, believed that he had somehow cut himself adrift from Patty,
and that whatever his meaning was, in that quarter he was safe; which
showed that though she was very different from the rest of the
household, her mind, even when awakened into some anxiety and alarm, had
little more insight than theirs.
She was met upon the road by Osy and his nurse, and the little boy was
delighted to be lifted into the carriage, an unusual privilege. His
chatter was sweet to his mother’s ears. It delivered her for the moment
from those anxieties which were not hers, which she was compelled to
share without any right to them; without being permitted any real
interest. Osy was her refuge, the safeguard of her individuality as a
living woman with concerns and sentiments of her own. To put her arms
round him, to hear the sound of his little babbling voice, was enough at
first; and then she awoke with a start to the consciousness that Osy was
saying something in which there was not only meaning, but a
significance of a most alarming kind--“Movver, Movver!” the little boy
had been saying, calling her attention, which was so satisfied with him,
that it was scarcely open to what he said. He beat upon her knee with
his little fist, then climbed up on the seat and seized her by the
chin--a favourite mode he had of demanding to be listened to: “Movver!
has Cousin Gervase don to be marrwed? Where has he don to be
marrwed--tell me; tell me, Movver!”
Mrs. Osborne started with a sudden perception of what he meant at last.
“Osy, you must not be so silly; Gervase has gone to London to see all
the fine things--the shops, don’t you remember? and the theatres, and
the beautiful horses, and the beautiful ladies in the park.”
“Yes, I wemember; there was one beau’ful lady with an organ, that singed
in the street. But you said I couldn’t marrwey her, I was too little.
Will Cousin Gervase marrwey a lady like that?”
“Hush, child! he is not going to marry at all.”
“Oh yes, yes, Movver! for he telled me. He made me dive him my big
silver penny that Uncle Giles dave me, and he said, ‘I’m doing to be
marrwed, Osy.’ I dave it to him for a wedding present, like you dave
Miss Dohnson your silver bells.”
“Osy, don’t say such things! It is nurse that has put this nonsense into
your head.”
“’Tisn’t nurse, and ’tisn’t nonsense, Movver!” cried the child with
indignation. “Will he bring home the beau’ful lady, or will he do away
with her, and live in another place? I hope he will go and live in
another place.”
“Osy, this is all an invention, my little boy. You must be dreaming.
Don’t say such things before any one, or you will make Uncle Giles and
Aunt Piercey very unhappy. It is one of your little stories that you
make up.”
“It isn’t no story, Movver! I never make up stories about Cousin
Gervase; and he tooked my big silver penny, and then I dave it him for a
wedding present; for he said ‘I’m doing to be marrwed.’ He did; he
did--Movver! I hope he’ll do away and live in another house. I dave it
to him,” said Osy, with a little moisture on his eyelashes. “But he
tooked it first. It was my big, big, silver penny, that is worth a
great lot. I hope----”
“Hush, Osy: don’t you know, my little boy, that Cousin Gervase is to his
mother what you are to me? She would not like him to go away.”
“I heard Uncle Giles say, ‘T’ank God, we’ve dot a little time to
breathe,’ and Aunt Piercey dave a great, great, big puff, and sat down
as if she was t’ankful, too. It is only you, Movver, that looks sad.”
“Osy, did you ever hear of the little pitchers that have long ears?”
“I know what it means, too,” said the child. “It means me; but I tan’t
help it when people say fings. Movver, are you fond of Cousin Gervase,
that you looks like that? like you were doing to cry?”
Was she fond of Gervase, poor boy? Margaret could not even claim that
excuse for being sad. Was she fond of any of the people by whom she was
surrounded, who held her in subjection? At least, she was terribly
perturbed by the cloud that hung over them--the possible trouble that
was about to befall them. Poor Gervase was not very much to build hopes
or wishes upon, but he was all they had; and if it were possible that he
was meditating any such steps, what a terrible blow for his father and
mother!--a stroke which they would feel to the bottom of their hearts.
For himself, was it, indeed, so sad? Was it not, perhaps, the best thing
he could do? Her mind went over the possibilities as by a lightning
flash. Patty--if it was Patty--if there was anything in it--was probably
the best wife he could get. She was energetic and determined; she would
take care of him for her own sake. And who else would marry the Softy?
Margaret’s mind leapt on further to possible results, and to a sudden
perception that little Osy, had he ever had any chance of succession,
would be hopelessly set aside by this step, and the only possible reward
of her own slavery be swept from her horizon. This forced itself upon
her, through the crowd of other thoughts, with a chill to her heart. But
what chance had Osy ever had? And who could put any confidence in the
statement of Gervase to the child? Perhaps it was only “his fun.” The
little theft of the money was nothing remarkable; for Gervase, who never
had any money, was always on the look-out for unconsidered trifles,
which he borrowed eagerly. Perhaps this was all. Perhaps the half-witted
young man meant nothing but a joke--one of his kind of jokes--for why
should he have betrayed himself to little Osy? On the other hand, there
were those allusions to some one who was to meet him, which he had
laughed at so boisterously, and which she could not imagine referred to
Dr. Gregson. Margaret’s bewilderment grew greater the more she thought.
“Osy,” she said, as they turned up the avenue, “you must forget all
this, for it is nonsense.”
“About my big, big, silver penny?” said the child, the water now
standing in his eyes; for the more he thought of his loss, which he had
carried off in childish pride with a high hand at first, the more Osy
felt it. “It is not nonsense, Movver,” he said, “for it is true.”
“About what Cousin Gervase said? It was very wrong of him, but that is
not true, Osy. He must have said it for a joke. Don’t say anything.
Promise me, dear! Not a word.”
“Not to you, Movver?” said the little boy, two big tears dropping from
his eyes; “for I tan’t, tan’t bear to lose my silver penny, and I would
not mind if it was a wedding present. I want my silver penny back!”
“We’ll find you another one, dear, that will be just as good.”
“But it won’t be my own one, and I want my own one,” Osy said. He was
still sobbing with long-drawn childish reverberation of woe when they
got to the door; but there he took a great resolution. “I’ll fink it was
a wedding present,” he cried, “and then I sha’n’t mind. I’ll fink he is
going to be marrwed, and I’ll never say a word, because nobody knows but
me.”
This valorous resolve exercised a great control, and yet was very hard
to keep up during the long afternoon which followed. It rained in the
later part of the day, and Sir Giles could not go out, so that Osy,
restored to all the privileges which had been a little curtailed during
Gervase’s temporary reign, became once more a leading member of the
party. And how often that important secret came bursting to the little
fellow’s lips! But he kept his word, like a gentleman. Margaret heard
him singing it to himself as he capered about the room on Sir Giles’
stick, “Doing to be marrwed, doing to be marrwed,” which relieved his
mind without betraying his knowledge. It even attracted Sir Giles’
attention, who called to him to know what he was singing.
“It’s a silly rhyme he has just picked up,” said Margaret, interposing,
which was a thing the old people did not like.
“He can tell me himself,” said Sir Giles; “he’s quite clever enough.”
“No, it isn’t a silly rhyme,” said little Osy; “it’s me myself, that am
a gweat prince riding upon a noble steed, and I’m doing to be
marrwed--I’m doing to be marrwed!”
“And who’s the bride, Osy; who’s the bride?” said Sir Giles, in high
good humour.
“It is a beau’ful lady in London that singed in the streets, with a big
napkin on her head. But Movver said I was too little to marrwey her. I’m
a man now, and a soldier and a gweat, gweat knight; and I can marrwey
any one I please.”
“That’s the thing!” said old Sir Giles; “don’t you be tied to your
mother’s apron-strings, my boy. The ladies always want to rule over us
men, don’t they? and some of us must make a stand, you know.” The old
gentleman laughed at his joke till he cried, the old lady sitting grimly
by. But she, too, smiled upon the little rebel: “You’ll not find him
such an easy one to guide when he grows up, Meg,” she said, nodding her
head. “He’s got the Piercey temper, for all it’s so amusing now. It
ain’t amusing when they grow up,” said Lady Piercey, shaking her head.
But she, too, encouraged Osy to defy his mother. He was a pretty sight
careering round the dim library like a stray sunbeam, his little
laughing face flushed with play and praise. Had the child been clever
enough to invent that little fiction, innocent baby as he looked?--or
had he really forgotten, as children will, and believed himself the hero
of his little song? But this was one of the mysteries that seven years
can hide from everybody as well as seventy, and Margaret could not tell.
Now that Gervase was gone the boy seemed to fall into his place again,
the darling of everybody, the centre of all their thoughts. And who
could tell what might happen? Osy was not the next in succession, but he
was not far out of the line. Margaret tried to put all such thoughts out
of her mind, but it was difficult to do so, with the sight of Osy’s
triumph and sway over them--two old people who were so fond of him and
could do so much for him--before their eyes.
There came a moment, however, no further off than that evening, when
every furtive hope of this description died at a blow out of Margaret
Osborne’s heart. It was not that Osy was less admired and petted, or
that he had offended or transgressed in any way. It was simply the
arrival at Greyshott of Colonel Gerald Piercey that had this effect. It
was she who met him first as he came into the hall, springing down from
the dogcart that had brought him from the station, and at the first
glance her heart had died within her. Not that there was anything
alarming in his aspect. He had attained, with his forty years, to an air
of distinction which Margaret did not remember in him; and a look of
command, of easy superiority, of the habit of being obeyed. This habit
is curiously impressive to those who do not possess it. The very sound
of his step as he came in was enough. Not a man to lose anything on
which his hand had once closed, not one to risk or relinquish his
rights, whatever they might be. Osy, by the side of this man! Her hopes,
which had never ventured to put themselves into words, died on the
moment a natural death. She advanced to meet the stranger, as in duty
bound, being the only valid member of the family, and said, holding out
her hand with a smile which she felt to be apologetic: “You are welcome
to Greyshott, Cousin Gerald. My uncle and aunt are neither of them very
well, and Gervase is from home. You don’t remember me. I am Margaret
Osborne, your cousin, too.”
“I remember you,” he said, “very well; but pardon me if I did not
remember your face. I fear that is a bad compliment for a lady.”
“Not at all,” she said; “a good compliment: for I am more, I hope, than
my face.”
He did not understand the look she gave him, a wondering look with an
appeal in it. Would he be good to Osy? Margaret felt as if this man were
coming in like a conqueror--sweeping all the old, and feeble, and
foolish of the house away before him, that he might step in and reign.
He, on his side, had no such thought. He had come to pay a duty visit,
moved thereto by his father. He had not been at Greyshott for many
years; he remembered little, and thought less, of Gervase, who had been
a child on his previous visit. That he should ever be master of the
place, or sweep anybody away, was far from his thoughts. He followed
into the library the slim, serious figure of this middle-aged woman in a
black gown, horrified to think that this was Meg Piercey, the lively
girl of his recollection. This Meg Piercey! It was true that he
remembered her very well, a madcap of a girl, ready for any mischief;
but this was certainly not the face he remembered, the young, daring,
buoyant figure. It might have wounded Margaret, accustomed as she was to
be considered as nobody, if she had been aware of the consternation with
which he regarded her. A middle-aged woman! though not so old by a good
many years as himself, who was still conscious of being young.
The visit, however, began very successfully. As he had no _arrière
pensée_, he was quite at his ease with the old people whom he neither
meant to sweep away nor to succeed. He received, quite naturally, the
long and elaborate apologies of Lady Piercey in respect to her son.
“Gervase will be very sorry to miss you, Gerald,--he’s in town; there is
not much to amuse a young man in the country at this season of the year.
He’s not fond of garden parties and so forth, the only things that are
going on, and not many of them yet. He prefers town. Perhaps it isn’t to
be wondered at. We have all liked to see a little life in our day.”
What “life” could it have been that Lady Piercey in her day had liked to
see? the new-comer asked himself, with an involuntary smile. But he took
the explanation with the easiest good humour, thinking no evil.
“Lucky fellow!” he said; “he has the best of it. I was out in India all
my young time, and saw only a very different kind of life.”
“Come,” said Sir Giles, “you amuse yourselves pretty well out there.
Don’t give yourself airs, Gerald.”
“Oh, yes; we amuse ourselves more or less,” he said, with a pleasant
laugh. “Enough to make us envy a young swell like Gervase, who, I
suppose, has all the world at his feet and nothing to do.”
There was a strange pause in the room; a sort of furtive look between
the ladies; a sound--he could not tell what--from Sir Giles. Colonel
Piercey had a faint comprehension that he had, as he said to himself,
put his foot in it. What had he said that was not the right thing to
say? He caught Margaret’s eye, and there was a warning in it, a sort of
appeal; but he had not an idea what its meaning was.
“I am sure,” said Lady Piercey, with a voice out of which she vainly
endeavoured to keep the little break and whimper which was habitual to
her when she was moved, “my boy might have all the world at his feet--if
he was that kind, Gerald. But he’s not that kind; he’s of a different
sort. He takes things in a---- in a kind of philosophical way.”
“Humph!” said Sir Giles, pushing back his chair. “Meg, Gerald will not
mind if I have my backgammon. I’m an old fogey, you see, my boy, with
long days to get through, and not able to get out. I’m past amusement. I
only kill the time as well as I can now.”
“I’m very fond of a game of backgammon, too, Uncle Giles.”
“Are you, boy? why, that’s something like. Meg, I’ll give you a holiday.
Ladies are very nice, but they never know the rules of a game,” the
ungrateful old gentleman said.