The Cuckoo in the Nest. Volume 1/2

“And I can’t play your game, father, nor take you for a walk, but there’s a fright all round as if I was going to kill you; and old Dunning after me, looking like a stuck pig.”

Here was a chance for Lady Piercey to approve, too, at her husband’s expense; but she was magnanimous, and did not take it. “You’re well meaning enough, Gervase,” she said, “I don’t deny it; but you’re too strong, and you shake poor papa to bits.”

“Well, then,” said Gervase, raising his voice to talk her down, “it’s clear as there is nothing here for me to do; and it’s dreadful dull. Enough to kill a man of my age; and the short and the long of it is that I can’t go on like this any more.”

He had quite thrown Patty’s carefully prepared speech away, and yet it came breathing over him by turns, checking his natural eloquence. She had never meant him to utter that outcry of impatience, and Gervase would have ruined his own cause, and gone on to say, “I am going to be married,” but for the questions that were suddenly showered upon him, driving him back upon his lesson.

“You can’t go on like this? And how are you going on?” cried his mother. “Everything a man can desire, and the best home in England, and considered in every way!” She went on speaking, but her voice was crossed by old Sir Giles’ growl. “What do you want – what do you want?” cried the old man. “Dunning, be off to your supper, and take that woman with you. What do you want – what do you want, you young fool?”

“But I know what you want,” Lady Piercey cried, becoming audible at the end of this interruption; “you want what you shall never have as long as I live, unless it’s somebody of my choosing, and not of yours.”

“I’ll tell you what I want,” said Gervase, the moisture flying from his mouth; “I want to have a – I want to get – I want P – .” Then that long-conned speech of Patty’s flew suddenly, like a cobweb, into his mind, and stopped him on the edge of the abyss. He stopped and stared at them for a moment, his eyes roaming round the room, and then he burst into a loud laugh. “I want to go to London,” he said, “and see all the fine things there. I don’t know what mother’s got in her head – some of her whimseys – I’ve never been let go anywhere or do anything, and I want to go to London to look about and see all the grand things there.”

“To London?” said Sir Giles with surprise. Lady Piercey had been wound up to too great a pitch to go easily down again. She opened her mouth with a gasp like a fish, but no sound came therefrom.

“I’ve never been let go anywhere,” said Gervase, “and up and down from the Manor to the village ain’t enough. I want to go to London and see the fine sights there; I want to see the Queen and all that; I want to see a bit of life. There never was a gentleman like me that was kept so close and never let go to see anything. I’ve not been in London since I was a little kid, and it is a shame that I am never trusted (so it is), and it’s mortal dull here, especially at home, and not seeing anything; and I want to go to London and see a bit of life, and not be buried alive here.”

“My lady,” said Sir Giles, after the pause of awe which followed this long, consequent, and coherent speech, “there’s reason in what the lad says.”

“There’s something underneath,” cried Lady Piercey, “a deal more than what he says.”

“Mother always thinks that,” cried Gervase, with his big laugh; and there could not be any question that what he said was true.

“There’s some plan underneath it all,” repeated Lady Piercey, striking her hand on the table. “He hasn’t the sense to make up a thing like that, that has reason in it; there’s some deep-laid plan underneath it all.”

“Pooh, my lady! Poor lad!” said Sir Giles, shaking his head; “he hasn’t the sense to make up a plan at all. He just says what comes into his head, and what he says has reason in it, and more than that, I’m glad to hear him say it. And it gives me a bit of hope,” said poor old Sir Giles, his voice shaking a little, “that when he comes fully to man’s estate, the boy, poor lad, will be more like other boys, Mary Ann, God bless him! and, perhaps, for so little as we think it, a real comfort to you and me.”

The old gentleman leaned back in his chair, and raised with a feeble hand his handkerchief to his eyes. It was not difficult nowadays to make Sir Giles cry. The fierce old lady had no such emotion to subdue. She sat very upright, staring at her son, suspicious, thinking she saw behind him the pert little defiant countenance under the parasol which she had met on the road. But she did not see how they could have met or communicated with each other, and she could not, on the spur of the moment, make out what connection there could be between his desire to go to London, and Patty of the Seven Thorns. Margaret stood behind her uncle’s chair, patting him softly on the shoulder to soothe him and assure him of sympathy. She looked over Sir Giles’ head at the boy who, he was able to flatter himself, might be like other boys when he came to man’s estate. How strangely can love and weakness be deceived! Gervase stood there against the mantelpiece, his foot caught up awkwardly in his hand, his slouching shoulders supported against the shelf, his big, loose bulk filling the place. Man’s estate! The poor Softy was eight-and-twenty and well grown, though he slouched and distorted himself. But still the father, and even the suspicious, less-persuadable mother, saw in him a boy, not beyond the season of growth – never beyond that of hope.

Fortunately for Gervase, he had not time to go on in his flush of triumph and success, for another moment of that elation might have broken down all precautions and betrayed the plan which his mother felt, but could not divine, underneath. In the meantime, however, it was bedtime, and neither Sir Giles nor my lady could bear any more. Lady Piercey sent off Parsons, and discussed the question with her niece in her bedroom for a full hour after. “There’s something underneath, I know there is,” Lady Piercey said, nodding her head in her big nightcap. “But I don’t see what she can have to do with it, for she would never want to send him away. And then, on the other hand, Meg, it would be the best thing in the world to send him away. There’s nothing like absence for blowing a thing like that out of a boy’s head. If there was a man we could trust to go with him, – but all alone, by himself, in a big place like London, and among so many temptations! Oh, Meg, Meg, I wish I knew what was the right thing to do!”

“He is very innocent, Aunt; he would not understand the temptation,” said Margaret.

“Oh, I’m not of that opinion at all,” cried Lady Piercey. “A man always understands that, however silly he may be; and sometimes, the sillier he is, the more he understands. But one nail knocks out another,” she added thoughtfully. Though Lady Piercey was not a woman of the world, but only a very rustic person, she was yet cynic enough for the remorseless calculation that a little backsliding, of which so many people were guilty, would be better than a dreadful marriage which would bring down the family, and corrupt the very race – which was her point of view.

Gervase roamed about the house in high excitement, immensely pleased with himself, while this colloquy was going on. Had he met even Dunning or Parsons, whom he did not love, the possibility was that he might have revealed his meaning to them in sheer elation of spirits. But neither of these persons came in his way, and in this early household most of the other servants were already in bed. Margaret, however, met him as usual when she came out of Lady Piercey’s room with her candle in her hand.

“What’s she been saying to you, Meg?” he asked, but burst out laughing before she could reply. “It’s such a joke,” he said, holding his sides, “such a joke, if you only knew! and I’ve half a mind to tell you, Meg, for you’re a good sort.”

“Don’t tell me anything, Gervase, for Heaven’s sake, that I can’t tell them. For, of course, I shall do so directly,” Margaret cried.

“Wouldn’t you just like to know?” he said, and laughed again, and chucked her under the chin in convulsions of hilarity. She stood at the door of the room, escaping hastily from the possible confidence and the familiarity, and, trembling, saw him slide down the banisters to the half-lighted hall below, with a childish chuckle of triumph. A slip upon that swift descent, and all might have been over – the commotion and the exultation, the trouble and the fear. But Gervase came back again beaming, and kissed his hand to her as he disappeared into his own room. He felt that he had gained the day.

CHAPTER XIII

The household at Greyshott was much disturbed and excited by the new idea thus thrown into the midst of them. Lady Piercey discussed it all next morning, not only with Margaret but with Parsons, whose views on the subject were very decided. She thought, but this within herself, that to get quit of the Softy, even for a few days, would be a great blessing to the house – though what she said was chiefly to agree with her mistress that a change, and to see a little of life, would be the best thing possible for Mr. Gervase.

“ ’Tisn’t good for any young man to be always at home,” said Lady Piercey. “I remember a piece of poetry, or a hymn, or something, which I used to know, that had a line about home-keeping youths, and that they had but poor wits – that is, looked as if they had poor wits, because they had never seen anything, don’t you know?”

“Yes, my lady,” said Parsons; “that’s just how it is.”

“And the dear boy has come to feel it himself,” continued the mother; “he sees all the rest of the young men rushing about from one end of the world to the other, and he’s begun to ask himself, How’s that? Don’t you see, Parsons?”

“Yes, my lady, it’s as plain as the eyes in one’s head,” said Parsons.

“Of course, it is all because of his being so delicate when he was a child,” said the old lady.

“But what a blessing it is, my lady, to see how he’s outgrown it now!”

“Yes, isn’t it a blessing, Parsons! Just as strong as any of them – and well grown – a good height, and large round the chest, and all that.”

“Yes, my lady,” Parsons replied. She did not commit herself, but she chimed in most satisfactorily with all that her lady said.

Margaret was by no means so entirely to be trusted to. She was very doubtful of the proposed expedition, and even when she assented, as it was often necessary to do to what her aunt said, did so with so uncertain and troubled a look that Lady Piercey, by force of the opposition, was more and more rooted in her view.

“It would do him all the good in the world,” she said. “I know you think he’s silly, my poor boy – not that he’s really silly, not a bit; but he does not know how to express himself; and how is he ever to learn, stuck up here at home between you and me and his poor father, Meg?”

Margaret was a little taken aback by this question, and in her confusion laughed inadvertently, which made Lady Piercey very angry.

“You think you are clever enough for anything, and could teach him – as well as the best!”

“No, indeed,” cried Margaret; “not at all. I don’t know how young men learn – to express themselves. I think, so far as I have seen, that there are a great many who know how to express themselves – much worse than Gervase,” she added hastily; for after all, it was not poor Gervase’s fault, whereas it was the fault of many other men.

The mother, in her jealousy for her son, was pacified by this, and shook her head. “Oh, yes,” she said, “there are many of them that are a poor lot. Gervase is – one in ten thousand, Meg. He is a gentleman, my poor boy. He doesn’t know how to bully or make himself disagreeable. You know I am saying no more than the truth. He would do far better in the world if he made more of himself.”

This required from Margaret only a murmur of assent – which she gave without too much strain of conscience; but she was unprepared for the swift following up of this concession. “So it’s your opinion, Meg – if your opinion were asked, which I don’t think likely – that your uncle and I should let him go?”

“Let him go! But as you say, aunt, my opinion is not likely to be asked,” Margaret said quickly, to cover her exclamation of dismay.

“I’m not too fond of asking anybody’s opinion. I like to hear what they say, just to make sure of my own; but since you’ve given yours, as you generally do, without waiting to be asked, – and you’re not so far wrong as usual this time, – he ought to have his freedom. He’s never done anything to make us suppose that he wouldn’t use it rightly. He is a boy in a thousand, Meg! He has no bad ways – he is only too innocent, suspecting nobody.”

“That might be the danger,” said Margaret.

“Yes, my dear, that is just the thing – you have hit it, though you are not so bright as you think. He suspects nobody. He would put his money or whatever he had into anybody’s hands. He thinks every one is as innocent as himself.”

It would have been hard upon the poor mother had Margaret said what she thought: that Gervase did not think at all, which was a danger greater still. Lady Piercey knew all there was to be said on that point, and she kept her eye upon her niece, waiting to surprise that judgment in her face. Oh, she knew very well not only all that could be said, but all the reason there was for saying it! Lady Piercey was not deceived on the subject of her son, nor unaware of any of his deficiencies. It is to be supposed, knowing all these, that she must have known the dangers to which he must be exposed if he were allowed to carry out this proposal; but many other things were working in her mind. She thought it was only just that he should see life; and she thought, cynically, with a woman’s half-knowledge, half-suspicion of what that meant – that life as seen in London would cure him entirely of Patty and of the dangers that were concentrated in her. Finally, there was a dreadful relief in the thought of getting rid of him for a little while, of being exempt, if even for a few days, from his presence, when he was present, which was insupportable – and from the anxiety about his home-coming and where he was, when he was absent. The thought of having him comfortably out of sight for a time, so far off that she should be no longer responsible for him, even to herself; that she should no longer require to watch and wait for him, but could go to bed when she pleased, independent of the question whether Gervase had come home – that prospect attracted her more than words could say. Oh, the rest and refreshment it would be! the exemption from care, the repose of mind! Whatever he might do in London, she, at least, would not see it. Young men, when they were seeing life, did not generally conduct themselves to the satisfaction of their parents. They acted after their kind, and nobody was very hard upon them. Gervase would be just like the others – just like others! which was what he had never been hitherto, what she had always wished and longed for him to be. She sat for a long time at her embroidery, silent, working her mouth as she did when she was turning over any great question in her mind; and Margaret was too glad to respect her aunt’s abstraction, to leave her at full liberty to think. At length Lady Piercey suddenly threw down her needle, and with a gesture more like a man than an old lady, smote her knee with her hand.

“I’ve got it!” she cried. “I’ve found just the right thing to do!”

Parsons stopped and listened at the other end of the room, and Margaret paused in her work too, and raised her eyes. Lady Piercey’s countenance was in a flush of pleasure; she went on drumming on her knee in excitement, swaying a little back and forward in her chair.

“It is the very thing,” she said. “He’ll get his freedom, and yet he’ll be well looked after. You remember Dr. Gregson, him that was at that poor little dingy chapel when we were in town? Oh! you never remember anything, Meg! Parsons, you recollect Dr. Gregson, the clergyman with the family – that was so poor?”

“Yes, my lady,” said Parsons, coming a few steps nearer; her presence made legitimate, even during the discussion of these family matters, by this demand.

“Oh, you needn’t stop work; I am talking to my niece. When I want you I’ll call you,” said Lady Piercey, ruthless, waving her away. “Meg,” she said, after watching the woman’s reluctant withdrawal, “servants are a pretty set, poking their heads into everything; but you always stand up for them. Perhaps you think I’d better have up the cook, and let the whole of ’em know?”

“No; if you ask my opinion, Aunt, I think they are better left out.”