It was 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, felt doubly 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 people sent 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 horrid way. 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 exceedingly _digne_ in her woe. She made no
hysterical demonstration. She had none of her own people in attendance
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 indulge the 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 slowly home
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. What would 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 his
master 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, dear papa,” 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.”