Mrs. Piercey went to town after Easter, as she was aware everybody who
respected themselves, who were in Society, or who had any money to
spend, did. But, alas! she did not know how to manage this any more than
to find the usual solace in country life. She was, indeed, still more
helpless in town; for no doubt in the country, if she had been patient,
there would at last have been found somebody who would have had courage
to break the embargo, to defy Lord and Lady Hartmore and all the
partisans of the old family, and to call upon the lady of Greyshott. But
in town what could Patty do? She knew nobody but the distant cousins
somewhere in the depths of Islington, to whom she had gone at the time
of her marriage, but whom she had taken care to forget the very
existence of as soon as her need for them was over. Mrs. Piercey went to
a fashionable hotel, and engaged a handsome set of rooms, and sat down
and waited for happiness to come to her. She had her maid with her, the
irreproachable Jerningham, who would not allow her mistress to demean
herself by making a companion of her; and she had Robert, the footman,
and her own coachman from Greyshott, and a new victoria in which to
drive about--all the elements of happiness--poor Patty! and yet it would
not come. She had permitted herself, by this time, to drop the weight of
her mourning, and to blossom forth in grey and white; and she drove in
the Park in the most beautiful costumes, with the old fat Greyshott
horses, who were in themselves a certificate that she was somebody, no
mushroom of a _parvenue_. So was the coachman, who was the real old
Greyshott coachman, and (evidently) had been in the family for
generations. She drove steadily every day along the sacred promenade,
and was seen of everybody, and discussed among various bands of
onlookers, whose only occupation, like the Athenians, was that of seeing
or hearing some new thing. Who was she? That she was not of the style of
her horses and her coachman was apparent at a glance. Where had she got
them? Was it an attempt on the part of some visitor from the ends of the
earth to pose as a lady of established family? Was it, perhaps, a daring
_coup_ on the part of some person, not at all _comme il faut_, to
attract the observation and curiosity of the world? Patty’s little face,
with its somewhat fast prettiness, half abashed, half impudent, shone
out of its surroundings with a contradiction to all those suppositions.
The Person would not have been at all abashed, but wholly impudent, or
else quite assured and satisfied with herself; and in any case she would
not have been alone. A stranger, above all, would not have been alone.
There would have been a bevy of other women with her, making merry over
all the novelty about them, and this, probably, would have been the case
had the other idea been correct. But who was this, with the face of a
pretty housemaid and the horses of a respectable dowager? Some of the
gentlemen in the park, who amused themselves with these speculations,
would, no doubt, have managed to resolve their doubts on the subject had
not Patty been, as much as Una, though she was so different a character,
enveloped in an atmosphere of such unquestionable good behaviour and
modesty as no instructed eye could mistake. Women, who are less
instructed on such matters, may mistake; but not men, who have better
means of knowing. Thus Patty did make a little commotion; but as she had
no means of knowing of it, and no one to tell her, it did her no good in
the world.
And she went a good many times to the theatre, and to the opera, though
it bored her. But this was a great ordeal: to go into a box all alone,
and subject herself to the opera-glasses of the multitude. Patty did not
mind it at first. She liked to be seen, and had no objection that people
should look at her, and her diamonds; and there was a hope that it might
lead to something in her mind. But how could it lead to anything? for
she knew nobody who was likely to be seen at the opera. When she went
home in the evening she could have cried for disappointment and
mortification. Was this all? Was there never to be anything more than
this? Was all her life to be spent thus in luxury and splendour; always
alone?
At first she had dined in solitary state in her rooms, as she thought it
right, in her position, to do. But when Patty heard that other people of
equal pretensions--one of them the baronet’s lady, whom it was her
despair not to be--went down to the general dining-room for their meals,
she was too happy to go there too, thinking she must, at least, make
some acquaintance with the other dwellers in the hotel. But things were
not much better there, for Mrs. Piercey was established at a little
table by herself in great state, but unutterable solitude, watching with
a sick heart the groups about her--the people who were going to the
theatre, or to such delights of balls and evening parties as Patty had
never known. There was but one solitary person beside herself, and that
was an old gentleman, with his napkin tucked into his buttonhole, who
was absorbed by the _menu_ and evidently thought of nothing else. Patty
watched the groups with hungry eyes--the men in their evening coats,
with wide expanses of white; the ladies, who evidently intended to dress
after this semi-public dinner. Oh, how she longed to belong to some one,
to have some one belonging to her! And such a little thing, she thought,
would do it: nothing more than an introduction, nothing beyond the
advent of some one who knew her, who would say, “Mrs. Piercey of
Greyshott,” and the ice would be broken. But then that some one who knew
her, where was he or she to be found?
Alas! there came a moment when both he and she were found, and that was
the worst of all. She was seated listlessly in her usual solitude, when
she saw a pair of people who were taking their seats at a table not far
off. They had their backs turned towards her, and yet they seemed
familiar to Patty. They were both tall, the gentleman with a military
air, the lady with a little bend in her head which Patty thought she
knew. There was about them that indefinable air of being lately married
which it is so very difficult to obliterate, though they did not look
very young. The lady was quietly dressed, or rather she was in a dress
which was the symbol of quiet--quakerly, or motherly, to our
grandmothers: grey satin, but with such reflections and shadows in it,
as has made it in our better instructed age one of the most perfectly
decorative of fabrics. Patty, experienced by this time in the habits and
customs of the people she watched so wistfully, was of opinion that they
were going to the opera. Who were they? She knew them--oh, certainly she
knew them; and they evidently knew several of the groups about; and now
at last Patty’s opportunity had surely come.
I think by this time Mrs. Piercey of Greyshott had acquired a forlorn
look, the consequence of her many disappointments. It is not pleasant to
sit and watch people who are better off than we are, however
philosophical and high-minded we may be; and Patty, it need not be said,
was neither. Her mouth had got a little droop at the corners, her eyes a
little fixity, as of staring and weariness in staring. She was too much
dressed for the dining-room of a hotel, and she had very manifestly the
air of being alone, and of being accustomed to be alone. I think that,
as so often happens, Patty was on the eve of finding the acquaintance
for whom her soul longed, at these very moments when her burden was
about to become too much for her to bear; and she certainly had attained
recognition in the world outside, as was to be proved to her no later
than to-night. Such coincidences are of frequent occurrence in human
affairs. It had become known in the hotel to some kind people, who had
watched her solitude as she watched their cheerful company, who she was;
and the matron of the party had remembered how much that was good had
been said of Patty on the trial, and how kind she had been to the old
man who had left her all his money without any doing of hers. “Poor
little thing! I shall certainly take an opportunity of speaking to her
to-morrow,” this lady was saying, as Patty watched with absorbed
attention the other people. Indeed, the compassion of this good woman
might have hastened her purpose and made her “speak” that very night,
had not Patty been so bent upon those other people whom she was more and
more sure she knew; and what a difference--what a difference in her life
might that have made! But she never knew--which was, perhaps, in the
circumstances, a good thing.
It was while Patty’s attention was called away perforce by the waiter
who attended to her, that the other people at whom she had been gazing
became aware of her presence. The gentleman had turned a bronzed face,
full of the glow of warmer suns than ours, in her direction, and started
visibly. He was a man whom the reader has seen habitually with another
expression--that of perplexity and general discontent; a man with a
temper, and with little patience, though capable of better things. He
had apparently got to these better things now. His face was lighted up
with happiness; he was bending over the little table, which, small as it
was, seemed too much to separate them, to talk to his wife, with the air
of a man who has so much and so many things to say, that he has not a
minute to lose in the outpouring of his heart. She was full of response,
if not perhaps so overflowing; but on her aspect, too, there had come a
wonderful change. Her beautiful grey satin gown was not more unlike the
unfailing black which Mrs. Osborne always wore, than the poor relation
of Greyshott was to Gerald Piercey’s wife, Meg Piercey once again. It
would be vain to enter upon all the preliminaries which brought about
this happy conclusion. Margaret had many difficulties to get over, which
to everybody else appeared fantastical enough. A second marriage is a
thing which, in theory, few women like; and to cease to belong solely to
Osy, and to bear another name than his, though it was her own, was very
painful to her. Yet these difficulties had all been got over, even if I
had space to enter into them; which, seeing that Patty is all this time
waiting, dallying with her undesired dinner, and wondering who these
people are whom she seems to know, would be uncalled for in the highest
degree.
When the waiter came up to the solitary lady at the table, and Colonel
Piercey turned his face in that direction, he started and swore under
his breath, “By Jove!” though he was not a man addicted to expletives.
Then he said, “Meg! Meg!” under his breath; “who do you think is sitting
behind you at that table? Don’t turn round. Mrs. Piercey, as sure as
life!”
“Mrs. Piercey?” She was bewildered for a moment. “There are so many Mrs.
Pierceys. Whom do you mean?”
“One more than there used to be, for my salvation,” the bridegroom said;
and then added, with a laugh, “but no other like this one, Meg--Mrs.
Piercey of Greyshott----”
“Patty!” cried Margaret, under her breath.
“If you dare to be so familiar with so great a lady--the heroine of the
trial, poor Uncle Giles’ good angel----”
“Oh, don’t be bitter, Gerald! It is all over and done with; and who
knows, if it had been otherwise----”
“Whether we should ever have come together?” he said: “you know best, so
far as that goes, my love; and if it might have been so, good luck to
Greyshott, and I am glad we have not got it. Yes, there she is, the
identical Patty; and none the better for her success, I should say,
looking very much bored and rather pale.”
“Who is with her?” asked Margaret.
“There is nobody with her that I can see. No, she is quite alone, and
bored, as I told you; and in a diamond necklace,” he said with a laugh.
“Alone, and with a diamond necklace, in the dining-room of a hotel!”
“Well, why not? To show it and herself, of course; and probably a much
better way than any other in her power to show them.”
“Oh, Gerald, don’t be so merciless. She has got your inheritance; but
still, it was really Uncle Giles’ will, and she was kind to him--even
old Dunning could not deny that. And if Gervase had lived----”
“It was as well he did not live, poor fellow, for her as well as for
himself, though I should certainly, myself, have preferred it; for then
we should have had none of this fuss, either of anticipation or
disappointment--and no trial, and no costs; and no useless baronetcy
that brings in nothing.”
“Don’t say that; your father likes it, and so will you in your day.”
“My father likes to be head of the family, and so shall I. We’ll have
our first quarrel, Meg, over that little hussy, then.”
“Not our first quarrel by a great many,” she said, letting her hand rest
for a moment on his arm. “But don’t call her names, Gerald: all alone in
a hotel in London, in the middle of the season, without a creature to
speak a word to her! And I heard she was perfectly alone all the winter
at home. Lady Hartmore goes too far. She has made it a personal matter
that nobody should call. Poor little Patty! Gerald----”
“Poor little Patty, indeed! who has cost us not only Greyshott, but how
many thousand pounds; who has made you poor, Meg.”
“There is poor and poor. Poor in your way is not poor in mine. I am
rich, whatever you may be. Is she still there--alone--Gerald, with that
white little face?” Margaret had managed, furtively, to turn her head,
still under shadow of the waiter, and get a glimpse of their supplanter.
“What does it matter if her face is white or not? She has chalked it,
perhaps, as she might rouge it on another occasion, to play her part.”
“You have no pity,” said Margaret; “to me it is very sad to see a poor
woman like that alone, trying to enjoy herself. I think, Gerald, I
will----”
“Will what? You are capable of anything, Meg. I shall not be surprised
at whatever you propose.”
“Well, since you have so poor an opinion of me,” she said with a smile,
“I think I’ll speak to her, Gerald.”
“Do you remember that she turned you out of your home? that she insulted
you so that it was with difficulty I kept my temper?”
“You never did keep your temper, dear,” said Margaret with gentle
impartiality, shaking her head; “and,” she added with a smile, “you
insulted me far worse than ever Patty did. Should I bear malice? I will
say a word to her before we go.”
When they rose, and when Patty saw who they were, the chalk which
Colonel Piercey thought she was capable of using to play her part,
yielded to a crimson so hot and vivid that its truth and reality were
thoroughly proved. She half rose, too, then sat down again more
determinedly than before.
“Mrs. Piercey,” said Margaret, “we saw you, and I could not pass you
without a word.”
“You are very kind, I am sure, Margaret Osborne; but you could have left
your table very well without coming near me.”
“Yes, perhaps,” said Margaret; “I should have said that, seeing you
alone----”
“Oh, if I am alone it is my own fault!” cried Patty, with a heat of
angry despair which almost took away her voice. Then it occurred to her
that to show this passion was to lessen herself in the eyes of those to
whom she most wished to appear happy and great. She forced her cry of
rage into a little affected laugh. “I don’t often come here,” she said;
“I dine generally in my own apartments. But to-day I expected friends
who could not come, and so I thought I’d amuse myself by coming down
here to see the wild beasts feed.”
As she said this, her eyes fell accidentally upon the kind lady who had
made up her mind to make the acquaintance of this forlorn little woman,
and startled that amiable person so that she sat gazing open-mouthed and
open-eyed.
“In that case I am afraid I am only intruding,” said Margaret; “but I
thought perhaps--if you are alone here, I--or my husband,” she added
this with a sudden blush and smile, “might have been of some use----”
“Oh, your husband! I wish him joy, I am sure. So you stuck to him,
though he hasn’t got Greyshott? Well, he’ll have the baronetcy, to be
sure, when the old man dies--I hadn’t thought of that--without a penny!
You must have been dead set on him, to be sure.”
And Patty, bursting with fury and despite, jumped up, almost oversetting
the table, and with a wave of her hand as if dismissing a supplicant,
but with none of her usual regard for her dignity and her dress in
threading a crowd, hurried away.
“You got rather more than you looked for,” cried Colonel Piercey,
triumphant, as Margaret came back to him and hastily took his arm. He
had not heard what passed.
“I suppose there was nothing else to be expected,” Margaret said in a
subdued voice.
Patty went to the opera that night, as she had intended, her heart
almost bursting; for that she should have hoped to meet somebody who
would introduce and help her, and then to find that somebody was
Margaret Osborne, was almost more than she could bear; but soon she was
soothed by perceiving that more opera-glasses were fixed on her than
ever, and that the people in the boxes opposite, and in the stalls, were
pointing her out to one another. She caught the sound of her own name as
she sat well forward in her box, that her diamonds might be well seen
and her own charms appreciated; and she almost forgot the indignity to
which she had been, as she thought, subjected. But as she went out, poor
Patty could not but hear some remarks which were not intended for her
ear. “That was the woman,” somebody said, “the heroine of the great
case, Piercey _versus_ Piercey; don’t you remember? the woman who
married an idiot, and then got his father to leave her all the
property.” “What a horror!” said the lady addressed: “a barmaid, wasn’t
she? and the poor creature she married quite imbecile--and now to come
and plant herself there in the front of a box. Does she think anybody
will take any notice of her, I wonder?” “Impudent little face, but
rather broken down--begins to see it won’t pay,” said another man.
Patty caught Robert, her footman, by the arm, and shrieked to him to
take her out of this, or she should faint, which the crowd around took
for an exclamation of real despair, and made way for the lady, to let
her get to the air. And Patty left town next day.