Patty received her two visitors without effusion, but with civility. Her
demeanour was very different from all they had known of her before. She
had been defiant and impertinent, anxious to offend and disgust, rather
than to attract, with the most anxious desire to get rid of both, and to
make them feel that they had no place nor standing in Greyshott. She
had, indeed, been so frightened lest she herself should be overthrown,
that all the “manners” in which Patty had been brought up deserted her,
and she behaved like the barmaid dressed in a little brief and stolen
authority, which they believed her to be. Indeed, the “manners” which
Patty had been taught chiefly consisted in the inculcation of extreme
respect to her “betters;” and her revolt from this, and conviction that
she had now no betters in the world, carried her further in the opposite
direction than if she had had no training at all. But in her calm tenure
of authority for nearly a year, Patty had learned many things. She had
learned that the mistress of a house does not need to stand upon her
authority, and that a right, acknowledged and evident, does not require
to be loudly asserted. It might have been supposed, however, that a
certain awe of the heir-at-law--a humility more or less towards the man
to whom shortly she must cede her keys, her place, and all the rights
upon which she now stood, would have shown themselves in her. But this
was not at all the case. She was quite civil to Colonel Piercey, but she
treated him solely as a guest--her guest--without any relationship of
his own towards the house in which she received him. To Margaret she was
more friendly, but more careless in her civility. “I ordered them to get
ready for you the room you used to have. I thought you would probably
like that best,” she said. Colonel Piercey was lodged quite humbly in
one of the “bachelor’s rooms,” no special attention of any kind being
paid to him, which was a thing very surprising to him, though he could
scarcely have told why. To be aware that you are very near being the
head of the house, and to be treated as if you were a very ordinary and
distant relation, is startling in a house which is full of the presence
of death. That presence, when it brings with it no deep family sorrow,
brings a sombre business and activity, a sense of suppressed
preparations and watchfulness for the end, which is very painful to the
sensitive mind, even when moved by no special feeling. Waiting for an
old man to die, it is often difficult not to be impatient for that
event, as for any other event which involves long waiting. Patty went
about the house with this air of much business held back and suspended
until something should happen. She was called away to have interviews
with this person and that. She spoke of the “arrangements” she had to
attend to. “Would it not be better that Colonel Piercey should relieve
you of some part of the trouble?” said Margaret. “Oh, no; one should
always do one’s own business. Outsiders never understand,” said Patty,
with what would have been, had she been less dignified, a toss of her
head in her widow’s cap.
Was Gerald Piercey an outsider in the house that must so soon be his
own? He had given Margaret to understand during their long drive that
his father would not change his home or his life, and that it was he,
Gerald, who would occupy Greyshott. I think Colonel Piercey was of
opinion that he had made something else clear, though it had not been
spoken of in words--namely, that there was but one mistress possible for
Greyshott in its new life; but Mrs. Osborne did not by any means clearly
understand him, having her mind preoccupied by the belief that his
feelings to her were not of an affectionate kind, and that his first
object was to deprive her of her child. She felt, however, that he was
kind--bewilderingly kind, and that there was something in him which
wanted explanation; but all the more, Margaret was anxious and disturbed
by this attitude of “outsider” attributed to him. If Gerald Piercey was
an outsider in Greyshott on the eve of his uncle’s death, to whom he was
natural heir, who else could have any right there? He did not remark
this, as was natural. He was not surprised that Patty should hold him at
arm’s length. It was quite to be expected that she should feel deeply
the mere fact that he was the heir. Poor girl! He wondered what
provision had been made for her--if any; and if there should be none,
promised himself that his father’s first act, as Sir Francis, should be
to set this right. He was, in fact, very sorry for Mrs. Patty, whose
ambitions and schemes had come to so summary an end. She should never
require to go back to the alehouse, but should be fitly provided for as
the wife of the once heir of Greyshott ought to be. He confided these
intentions to Margaret at the very moment when Mrs. Osborne’s mind was
full of Patty’s speech about the outsider. “You mean if Uncle Giles has
not done so already,” Margaret said.
“It is very unlikely he should have done so. Of course there could be no
settlement; and who was there to point out to him that such a thing was
necessary?” Colonel Piercey was so strong in his conviction that
Margaret did not like to suggest even that Patty might herself have
pointed it out. But her own mind was full of vague suspicion and alarm.
An outsider! Gerald Piercey, the natural heir of the house?
Late that night the two visitors were called to Sir Giles’ room. “He is
awake and seems to know everybody; I should like you to see him now,”
Patty said, going herself to Mrs. Osborne’s room to call her. Colonel
Piercey was walking up and down in the hall, with an air of examining
the old family pictures, which Patty had not thought it necessary to
meddle with, though she had removed those that had been in the library.
He was not really looking at them, except as accessories to the
scene--silent witnesses of the one that was passing away, and the other
that was about to come. Gerald Piercey had a deep sadness in his heart,
though he could not keep his thoughts from the new life that was before
him. The very warmth of the rising of that new life and all its hopes
made him feel all the more the deep disappointment and loss in which the
other was ending. Poor Gervase would never have been a fit
representative of the Pierceys, but as Margaret said, as she had always
said, he was his father’s son, and the object of all the hopes of the
old pair who had reigned so long in Greyshott. And now this branch was
cut off, their line ended, and the old tree falling that had flourished
so long. He wondered if it would really be any comfort to poor old Sir
Giles, dying alone in his desolate house, that there were still Pierceys
to come after him: the same blood and race, though not drawn from his
source. It seemed questionable how far he would be comforted by this;
perhaps not at all, perhaps rather embittered by the fact that it was a
cousin’s son and not his own, who should now be the head of the house.
“Come now, come now,” cried Patty eagerly, “as long as he is so
conscious and awake. He sleeps most of his time, and it’s quite a
chance--quite a chance. I want you to see with your own eyes that he’s
all himself, and has his faculties still.” She had an air of excitement
about her perhaps not quite appropriate to the moment, as if her nerves
were all in motion, and she could scarcely keep her fingers still or
subdue the quiver in her head and over all her frame. She led the way
hurriedly, opening the doors one after another in an excited way, and
pushing into the sick room with a “Look, dear papa, who I’ve brought to
see you.” Sir Giles was sitting up in his bed, his large ashy face
turned towards the door, his dim sunken eyes looking out from fold upon
fold of heavy eyelid, his under-lip hanging as that of poor Gervase had
done. “Ah,” he stammered, “let ’em come in--to the light, my dear. I’m
not in a state--to see strangers; but to please you--my dear.”
“Uncle Giles,” said Margaret, with an exclamation of pain, “surely you
know me?”
“Eh? let her stand--in the light--in the light; why, why, why--Meg: it’s
Meg,--that’s Meg.” She kissed him, and he made an effort to turn his
feeble head, and with his large moist lips he gave a tremulous kiss in
the air. “I’m--I’m glad to see you, Meg. You were the first to--tell
me--to tell me: I’ll be always grateful to you--for that.”
“For what, dear uncle? It is I who owe everything to you. Oh, Uncle
Giles, if I could only tell you how much and how often I think of it!
you were always kind, always kind; and dear Aunt Piercey; you gave me my
home, the only home I ever had.”
“Eh! eh! What is she saying, my dear? You’ll--you’ll look after
Meg--never let her come to want. She was the first to tell me. The
greatest news that has come--to Greyshott. You remember, Meg--and Osy,
bless him, how he cheered! There’s--there’s something for Osy. He
cheered like a little trump, and he gave--he gave my boy his only
wedding present, the--the only one. Dunning, where is my purse? Osy must
have a tip--two tips for that.”
“Dear papa,” cried Patty, “don’t disturb yourself; oh, don’t disturb
yourself! I’ll see to it.”
“My--my purse, Dunning!” The purse was procured while they all stood by,
and the old man fumbling, got with difficulty, one after another, two
sovereigns, which fell out of his trembling fingers upon the bed. “One
for--for cheering; and one for--for the other thing. Give ’em to Osy,
Meg, bless him; and my blessing. When It comes and all’s right, that’ll
be a friend for Osy--always a friend, better than an old man.”
“Dear papa,” cried Patty, pushing forward again, “here is some one else
to see you--Colonel Piercey, dear, don’t you remember? Colonel
Piercey--Gerald--that once paid you a long visit; I know you’ll remember
if you try. Here,” she said, seizing his arm, pulling him forward,
“stand in the light that he may see you.”
She was vibrating with excitement like a creature on wires. The touch of
her hand on Gerald’s arm was like an electric cord; and to be pushed
forward thus, and accounted for as if he had been an absolute stranger,
to be brought with difficulty to the mind of the dying man, was to
Gerald Piercey, as may well be supposed, an insupportable sensation. He
drew back, saying hastily, “I cannot disturb him. I will not have him
disturbed for me--let him alone, let him alone.”
“Eh? what? who’s that? somebody else? Gerald?” said Sir Giles. He held
out his hand vaguely into the air, not seeing where his attention was
called, the large old limp grey hand, with so little volition or power
left in it. “Ah, Gerald, come to see the end of the old man? that’s
kind! that’s kind! My poor wife and I used to think if our first boy had
lived, don’t you know, he might have been a man like you. Well, Gerald,
I’ve nothing to give you, but my blessing--but my blessing. You won’t
mind if your nose is put out of joint, you know, as the old folks say.
And you’ll stand by It, Gerald, a--a good fellow like you.”
“Dear papa, I think they’ll go now; it’s late, and you ought to go to
sleep.”
“Not yet,” said Sir Giles, who had fallen into the old strain of faint
sobbing and laughing; “plenty--plenty of time for sleep. Thousands of
years, don’t you know, till it’s all--all over. Where are they? eh, Meg.
I scarcely see you; eh!” he kissed the air again with his hanging,
lifeless lips, “good-night; and t’other man. Gerald, be kind to her, my
boy; a good girl, Meg, a good girl. She’s been married, which some might
think a drawback; but if you’re fond of her, and she’s fond of you. Eh,
Dunning? well I’m not tired, not tired a bit--let him be the god-father,
my dear; and good-night to you, good-night to you--all.”
He died in the night.
The third funeral within a year from Greyshott! What a melancholy record
was that--father and mother, and the only child! Sir Giles was the only
one of the three who could be said to have been beloved. His wife had
always been an imperious woman, his son had been a fool; but the old man
was full of gentleness and kindness, and had been a model country
gentleman in his day, known to everybody, and always genial to rich and
poor. Once more the avenue was full of carriages, and the house of
mourners, and there were some tears, and many kind recollections, and a
great deal of talk about him as they carried him away. “It will be a
long time before we see the like of him again,” the country folk and
tenants said, while the gentlemen of the county congratulated themselves
that the old name was not to be extinct nor the land transferred to
other hands. The new baronet was not there; he was also an old man, and
not fond of much movement, but Colonel Piercey was his representative,
and an excellent representative, a man of whom the whole district might
be proud. He was looked to by every one, pointed out to those who did
not know him, and surrounded by a subtle atmosphere of suspended
congratulation and welcome, notwithstanding the universal grief for Sir
Giles. The old man’s dying words had not made a very deep impression on
Colonel Piercey, except those which concerned Margaret. He had not
understood the allusions, nor indeed thought of them, save as the
wanderings of weakness. It seemed all of a piece to him--the thought
that Sir Giles’ firstborn, the boy dead some thirty years ago, might
have grown such a man as he, and his nose being put out of joint, and
the petition that he should be good to some one, and stand by it. All
these wild and wandering words Gerald Piercey put out of his head as
meaning nothing. It was, perhaps, the “first boy,” whom he had never
heard of before, whom he was to be good to, yet who would put his nose
out of joint. It was all a muddle, and Gerald did not attempt to grope
his way through it. He was deeply impressed and touched by the image of
the old man dying; but he had no doubt as to his own prospects, and
thought of no disaster. How could there be any doubt? If there had been
a new will made since the death of Gervase, no doubt the estate had been
charged with an adequate provision for Gervase’s wife; if there had been
no will made, his father and he, as the next-of-kin and heir-at-law,
would of course take that into their own hands, and secure it at once.
Beyond this and the natural legacies, Gerald suspected no new thing.
Margaret, on the other hand, had been deeply alarmed and startled by
what she heard. She did not remember what she had said on the occasion
to which her uncle referred, but she remembered his outburst of
cheering, and Osy, with his legs wide apart and his hat waving in his
hand, giving forth his hip, hip, hurrah. Was it possible that the old
man had made out to himself some fiction of what might be going to
happen, some illusion which buoyed him up with false hopes? Was it
possible that Patty----? Margaret did not know what to think. She would
fain have confided her alarm to Gerald, and taken counsel with him; but
those other words of Sir Giles had been too broadly significant, and he
was the last person in the world to whom she could talk on any subject
that would recall them. She had avoided Gerald, indeed, since that
scene, and it had not been referred to again between them. But her mind
was full of perplexity and doubt. The bearing of Patty (always _digne_,
always just what a daughter-in-law’s chastened grief should be,--not too
demonstrative), so confident, so authoritative, so determined to do
everything herself, without assistance from an “outsider,” increased
this sensation of alarm and uncertainty in Margaret’s mind. She did not
know in the least what was coming. But it seemed to her certain that
something was coming which was not in the course of nature, or according
to the common expectation. Her mind grew more and more confused, yet
more and more certain of this as the crisis approached; for Patty never
had been so independent, so confident, so sure of being the head of
everything, as on the funeral day.
Yet Patty had her troubles, too, which she had to bear alone, and
without any aid at this crisis of her career. Miss Hewitt, whose
indignation at her reception on her first visit had been so great that
she had made a vow never to see her ungrateful niece again, had, by the
time that Sir Giles’ dangerous condition had become publicly known, got
over her fury. She had been paid her fifty pounds, and she had begun to
believe in Patty’s continued success and in her cleverness and power.
There had been a pause of alarm in the family after the death of
Gervase, when they had all feared (little knowing her spirit) that Patty
would be sent back on their hands. But when that alarm was well over and
Patty was found to hold her own, the admiration of her relations was
doubled. Her father was the first to claim a renewal of friendship; but
his reception was so alarming, and his daughter poured forth upon his
head such torrents of wrath, telling him that, but for the exposure of
family affairs, she would have him tried for manslaughter, that the
landlord of the Seven Thorns slunk off completely cowed and without a
word to say. This added to Miss Hewitt’s regard for her brave and
victorious niece, who feared no one, and she had in the meantime made
many attempts to obtain a footing at Greyshott. Partly to impress still
more sensibly upon her father her utter and unchangeable hostility, and
partly because some one to speak to became a necessity, Patty had
admitted her aunt on various occasions; and now Miss Hewitt demanded,
with a persistence which all Patty’s spare moments had been spent in
resisting, first an interview with Sir Giles, and then a place in the
carriage which conveyed her niece to his funeral. Patty had not yielded
in respect to the first, but in the extreme state of mental excitement
in which she was, her resolution gave way before the second prayer. It
had not been her intention to “mix herself up with any of the Hewitts,”
but in face of the scene which she anticipated at the reading of the
will, it gradually came to appear more and more desirable to her to have
some one to stand by her, some one to be dazzled by her position and
good fortune, and to take her part whatever opposition she might meet
with. Patty did not know what might happen at the reading of the will.
She had a prevision, but not even now any absolute certainty, what the
will was. And if it were as she believed, she did not know what powers
might be brought into action against her, or what might be done. She
decided at last that to have her aunt, who at bottom was a thoroughly
congenial spirit, to defend and stand by her, would be an advantage. And
this was how it was that Miss Hewitt attained the lugubrious triumph of
her life, the satisfaction of following her former lover in his old
carriage, his wife’s carriage, whom she considered her triumphant rival,
to his grave.