Patty’s ambitious schemes were crowned with complete success, and the
poor Softy was made the happiest and most triumphant man in the world,
on the day on which his mother was taken ill. Was it some mysterious
impalpable movement in the air that conveyed to Lady Piercey’s brain a
troubled impression of what was taking place to her only son? But this
is what no one can tell. As for Gervase, his triumph, his rapture, his
sense of emancipation, could not be described. He was wild with pleasure
and victory. The sharp-witted, clear-headed girl, who had carried out
the whole plot, was at last overborne and subjugated by the passion she
had roused, and for a time was afraid of Gervase. She had a panic lest
his feeble head might give way altogether under such excitement, and she
be left in the hands of a madman. Luckily this wild fit did not last
long, and Patty gradually brought the savage, which was latent in his
undeveloped nature, into control. But she had got a fright, and was
still a little afraid of him when the week was over, and her plans were
laid for the triumphant return home. She had written to her aunt on the
day of her marriage, proclaiming the proud fact, and signing her letter,
not with her Christian name, but that of Mrs. Gervase Piercey, in her
pride and triumph. Mrs. Gervase Piercey! That she was now, let them
rave as they pleased! Nobody could undo what Aunt Patience’s fifty
pounds had done. Those whom God had joined together--or was it not
rather Miss Hewitt, of Rose Cottage, and ambition and revenge? Patty,
however, had no intentions appropriate to such motives in her mind. She
was not revolted by the passion of Gervase, as another woman might have
been. She felt it to be a compliment more or less; his noise and
uproariousness, so that he could scarcely walk along a street without
shoutings and loud laughter, did not in the least trouble her. She
subdued him by degrees, bidding him look how people stared, and
frightening him with the suggestion that the world in general might
think him off his head, and carry him off from her, if he did not learn
to suppress these vociferous evidences of his happiness: a suggestion
which had a great effect upon Gervase, and made him follow her about
meekly afterwards to all the sights which she thought it necessary in
this wonderful holiday to see. She took him to the Zoological Gardens,
which he enjoyed immensely, dragging her about from one cage to another,
not letting her off a single particular. They saw the lions fed, they
gave buns to the bears, they rode like a couple of children upon the
camels and the elephant. Gervase drank deep of every pleasure which the
resources of that Garden of Eden permitted. He had not been there since
he was a child, and everything was delightful to him. The success was
not so great when Patty took him to St Paul’s and the Tower, which she
considered to be fashionable resorts, where a bride and her finery ought
to be seen, and where Gervase walked about gaping, asking like a child
at church when he could get out? Nor at the theatre, where Patty,
instructed by the novels she had read, secured a box, and appeared in
full costume, with that intoxicating proof that she was now a fine lady
and member of the aristocracy, a low dress--and with an opera-glass
wherewith to scan the faces and dresses of the other distinguished
occupants of boxes. She was herself surprised at various things which
she had not learnt from books--the unimpressive character of the ladies’
dresses, and the manner in which they gazed down into what she believed
to be the pit, a part of the house which she regarded with scorn. It was
not a fashionable house, for to Patty, naturally, a theatre was a
theatre, wherever situated; but it was disappointing not to see the
flashing of diamonds which she had expected, nor to have other
opera-glasses fixed upon herself as a new appearance in the world of
fashion, which was what she looked for. And Gervase was very troublesome
in the theatre. He kept asking her what those people were doing on the
stage, what all that talking was about, and when it would be time to go
away. When the merchant of ices and other light refections came round,
Gervase was delighted, and even Patty felt that an ice in her box at the
theatre was great grandeur; but she was discouraged when she saw that it
was not a common indulgence, and that Gervase, peeling and eating
oranges, and flinging them about, attracted an attention which was not
that sentiment of mingled admiration and envy which Patty hoped to
excite. A few experiences of this kind opened her sharp eyes to many
things, and reduced the rapture with which she had looked forward to her
entry into town as Mrs. Gervase Piercey. But these disenchantments, and
scraps of talk which her sharp ears picked up and her still sharper
imagination assimilated, suggested to her another kind of operation next
time, and left her full of anticipations and the conviction that it only
wanted a little preparation, a little guidance, to ensure her perfect
triumph.
This strange pair had what seemed to Patty boundless funds for their
week in town. Twenty pounds over of Aunt Patience’s gift after paying
the expenses of the marriage, had seemed enough for the wildest desires;
but when there was added to that twenty pounds more, his mother’s last
gift to Gervase, she felt that their wealth was fabulous; far, far too
much to expend upon personal pleasure or sightseeing. She permitted
herself to buy a dress or two, choosing those which were ready made, and
of which she could see the effect at once, both on herself and the
elegant young lady who sold them to her; and she put aside a ten-pound
note carefully, in case of any emergency. On the whole, however, it was
a relief to both parties when they went home, though it took some
trouble to convince Gervase that he could not go back to the Manor,
leaving his wife at the Seven Thorns. He was not pleased to be told that
he too must go and live at the Seven Thorns: “Why, that’s what mother
said--and draw the beer!” he cried; “but nothing shall make me draw the
beer,” cried Gervase. “Nobody asked you,” Patty said, “you goose. We’re
going to live in the west rooms, a beautiful set of rooms that I put all
ready, where there’s a nice sofa for you to lie on, and nice windows to
look out of and see everything that comes along the road--not like
Greyshott, where you never see nothing--the carts and the carriages and
the vans going to the fairs, and Punch and Judy, and I can’t tell you
all what.” “Well,” said Gervase, “you can stay there, and I’ll come to
see you every day; but I must go home.” “What, leave me! and us but a
week married!” cried Patty. She made him falter in his resolution,
confused with the idea of an arrangement of affairs unfamiliar to him,
and at last induced him to consent to go to the Seven Thorns with her on
conditions, strenuously insisted upon, that he was not to be made to
draw beer. But Gervase did not feel easy on this subject, even when he
was taken by the new side-door into the separate suite of apartments
which Patty had prepared with so much trouble. When old Hewitt appeared
he took care to entrench himself behind his wife.
“I’ll have nothing to do with the beer or the customers, mind you,” he
cried nervously. Nobody, however, made any account of Gervase in that
wonderful moment of Patty’s return.
“What! it’s you as is the new married couple? and you’ve gone and
married _’im_?” cried Hewitt, with a tone of indescribable contempt.
“Yes, father! and I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head;
I’ve married him, and I mean to take care of him,” Patty cried, tossing
her head.
Old Hewitt laughed a low, long laugh. His mental processes were slow,
and the sight of the Softy with his daughter had startled him much; for
notwithstanding all that had been said on this subject he had not
believed in it seriously. Now, however, that it dawned upon him what had
really happened, that his child, his daughter, was actually Mrs. Gervase
Piercey, a slow sensation of pride and victory arose in his bosom too.
His girl to be Lady Piercey in her time, and drive in a grand carriage,
and live in a grand house! The Hewitts were a fine old family, but they
had never kept their carriage and pair. A one-horse shay had been the
utmost length to which they had gone. Now Patty--Patty, the child! who
had always done his accounts and kept his customers in order--Patty, his
own girl, was destined to the glory of riding behind two horses and
being called “my lady.” The thought made him burst into a long, rumbling
subterraneous laugh. Our Patty! it did not seem possible that it could
be true.
“That reminds me,” he said a moment after, turning suddenly grave. He
called his daughter apart, beckoning with his finger.
Gervase by this time was lolling half out of the open window,
delightedly counting the vehicles in sight. “Farmer Golightly’s tax
cart, and Jim Mason’s big waggon, and the parson’s pony chaise, and a
fly up from the station,” he cried: “it’s livelier than London. Patty,
Patty, come and look here.” Gervase turned round, and saw his wife and
her father with grave faces consulting together, and relapsed into
absolute quiet, effacing himself behind the fluttering curtains with the
intention of stealing out of the room as soon as he could and getting
away. His mother’s threat about drawing the beer haunted him. Could not
she, who could do most things, make that threat come true?
“Patty,” said old Hewitt, “you’ve done it, and you can’t undo it; but
there’ll be ever such a rumpus up _there_.”
“Of course, I know that,” she said calmly; “I’m ready for them. Let them
try all they can, there’s nothing they can do.”
“Patty,” said the old innkeeper again, “I’ve something to tell you as
you ain’t a-thinking of. About ’Er,” he said, pointing with his thumb
over his shoulder.
“What about her? I know she’s my enemy; but you needn’t be frightened,
father. I’ve seen to everything, and there’s nothing she can do.”
“It ain’t that as I want you to think of. It’s more dreadful than that.
It’s ‘in the midst of life as we are in death,’” said Hewitt. “That sort
of thing; and they’ve been a-’unting for _’im_ far and wide.”
“Lord, father, what do you mean?” Patty caught at a confused idea of Sir
Giles’ death, and her heart began to thump against her breast.
Hewitt pointed with his thumb, jerking it again and again over his
shoulder. “She’s--she’s--dead,” he said.
“Dead!” said Patty, with a shriek, “who’s dead?”
Hewitt, less aware than she of Gervase’s wandering and unimpressionable
mind, shook his head at her, jerking his thumb this time in front of him
at the young man lolling out of the window. “Usht, can’t ye? Why, ’Er,
’is mother,” he said, under his breath.
A quick reflection passed through Patty’s mind. “Then, I’m her,” she
said to herself, but then remembered that this was not the case that Sir
Giles’ death alone could make her Lady Piercey. As this flashed upon her
thoughts, a bitter regret came into Patty’s mind--regret, keen as if she
had loved her, that Lady Piercey was dead, that she should have been
allowed to die. Oh, if she had but known! How quickly would she have
brought Gervase back to see his mother! Her triumph, whenever it should
come, would be shorn of one of its most poignant pleasures. Lady Piercey
would not be there to see it! She could never now be made to come down
from her place, made to give up all her privileges to the girl whom she
despised. Patty felt so genuine a pang of disappointment that it brought
the tears to her eyes. “I must tell him,” she said quickly,--the tears
were not without their use, too, and it is not always easy to call them
up at will.
“I wouldn’t to-night. Let ’im have ’is first night in peace,” said the
innkeeper, “and take ’is beer, and get the good of it like any other
man.”
“Go down, perhaps you think, to your men in the parlour, and smoke with
them, and drink with them, and give you the chance to say as he’s your
son-in-law? and his mother lying dead all the time. No, father, not if I
know it,” cried Patty, and she gave her head a very decided nod. “I know
what I’m about,” she added; “I know exactly what he’s going to do. So,
father, you may go, and you can tell ’Liza that we’ll now have tea.”
“I tell ’Liza! I’ll do none of your dirty errands,” said old Hewitt; but
his indignation answered Patty’s purpose, who was glad to get rid of
him, in order that her own duty might be performed. She went forward to
the window where Gervase was sitting, and linked her arm in his, not
without some resistance on the part of the Softy, who was wholly
occupied with his new pleasure.
“Let alone, I tell you, Pat! One white horse on the off side, that
counts five for me; and a whole team of black ’uns for the other fellow.
Where’s all those black horses come from, I should like to know?”
“Gervase dear, don’t you do it; don’t make a game with the black horses.
It’s dreadful unlucky. They’re for a funeral, come from town on purpose.
And oh! Gervase dear, do listen to me! for whose funeral do you
suppose?”
“Is it a riddle?” said Gervase, showing his teeth from ear to ear.
“Oh hush, hush, there’s a good boy! It’s not like you to make a joke of
such dreadful things.”
“Why can’t you say then what it is, and have done with it?” Gervase
said.
“That’s just one of the sensible things you say when you please.
Gervase--you remember your mother?”
“I remember my mother? I should think I remembered my mother. You know
it’s only a week to-day--or was it yesterday?”
“It was yesterday. You might remember the day you were married, I think,
without asking me,” said Patty, with spirit. “Well, then, you parted
from her that day. She wasn’t ill then, was she, dear?”
Upon which Gervase laughed. “Mother’s always ill,” he said. “She has
such health you never know when she’s well, or, at least, so she says.
It’s in her head, or her liver, or her big toe. No!” he cried, with
another great laugh, “it’s father as has the devil in his big toe.”
“Gervase, do be serious for a moment. Your mother has been very ill,
dreadful bad, and we never knew----”
“I told you,” he said calmly, “she’s always bad; and you can never tell
from one day to another, trust herself, when she mayn’t die.”
“Oh, Gervase,” cried Patty, holding his arm with both her hands: “you
are fond of her a little bit, ain’t you, dear? She’s your mother, though
she hasn’t been very nice to me.”
“Lord,” cried Gervase, “how she will jump when she knows that I’m here,
and on my own hook, and have got a wife of my own! Mind, it is you that
have got to tell her, and not me.”
“A wife that will always try to be a comfort to you,” said Patty. “Oh,
my poor dear boy! Gervase, your poor mother (remember that I’m here to
take care of you whatever happens),--Gervase, your mother will never
need to be told. She’s dead and gone, poor lady, she’s dead and gone!”
Gervase stared at her, and again opened his mouth in a great laugh.
“That’s one of your dashed stories,” he said.
“It isn’t a story at all, it’s quite true. She had a stroke that very
day. Fancy, just the very day when we---- And we never heard a word. If
we had heard I should have been the very first to bring you home.”
“What good would that have done?” Gervase said sullenly, “we were better
where we were.”
“Not and her dying, and wanting her son.”
Gervase was cowed and troubled by the news, which gave him a shock which
he could not understand. It made him sullen and difficult to manage.
“You’re playing off one of your jokes upon me,” he said.
“I playing a joke! I’d have found something better than a funeral to
joke about. Gervase, we have just come back in time. The funeral’s
to-morrow, and oh! I’m so thankful we came home. I’m going to send for
Sally Fletcher to make me up some nice deep mourning with crape, like a
lady wears for her own mother.”
“She was no mother of yours,” said Gervase, with a frown.
“No; nor she didn’t behave like one: but being her son’s wife and one
that is to succeed her, I must get my mourning deep; and you and me,
we’ll go. We’ll walk next to Sir Giles, as chief mourners,” she said.
Gervase gave a lowering look at her, and then he turned away to the open
window, to count as he had been doing before, but in changing tones, the
white horses and the brown.