“Oh, you think they are better left out? Perhaps you think I’d better keep it all in my own mind, and not speak of my affairs at all? But it doesn’t matter much, and that’s a satisfaction, what you think,” said Lady Piercey, grimly. Then she resumed the argument. “I see my way; I see how we can do it all! Mr. Gregson is as poor as a church mouse, and he’ll do anything to get a little money. He shall meet Gervase at the station, and he shall look after him and show him life, as the poor boy says.” She laughed a low, reverberating laugh, that seemed to roll round the room; and then she added, giving Mrs. Osborne a push with her elbow, “You don’t seem to see the fun of it, Meg.”
“I don’t think Gervase will; nor, perhaps, the poor clergyman.”
The old lady laughed with deep enjoyment, putting one hand on her side. “Gregson will like anything that puts a little money in his pocket. And as for Gervase – ” It was some utterance of deep contempt that was on Lady Piercey’s lips; but she remembered herself, and repressed it in time. During the rest of the morning she sat almost silent, with her mouth working, and, as if she were turning over an amusing thought, gave vent now and then to a chuckle of laughter. The idea of sending Gervase to see life under the auspices of the poor little Low Church incumbent of Drummond Chapel, Bloomsbury, was delightful. She felt her own cleverness in having thought of it almost as much as she felt the happy relief of being thus rid of her poor Softy without any harm – nay, with perfect safety to him. All the accessories were delightful – the astonishment of Dr. Gregson, the ludicrous disappointment of the weak young man, his probable seduction into tea-parties and Bible-classes, which would be much more wholesome for him than the other way of seeing life. It occurred to Lady Piercey, with a momentary check upon her triumph, that there had been little girls among the Gregsons who might have grown up into dangerous young persons by this time. But that gave her but a temporary alarm, for, to be sure, it would be easy enough to drop any entanglement of that kind, and a young Gregson might, in the most virtuous manner, supplant Patty, as well as the worst – and all would consequently work for good to the only person of any consequence, the only son and heir of Sir Giles Piercey, of Greyshott, for whom alone his mother was concerned.
When this brilliant idea was communicated to Sir Giles, he, too, smote his thigh and burst into such a roar of laughter, that notwithstanding her gratification in the success of this admirable practical joke of hers, Lady Piercey was afraid. He laughed till he was red, or rather crimson, with a tinge of blue in the face; his large, helpless frame heaving with the roar which resounded through the room. She was so frightened that she summoned Dunning hastily, though she had the moment before sent him away, and had entered her husband’s room alone, without any attendant on her own side, to consult him on this all-important subject. When Dunning returned, triumphant in the sense that they could not do without him, and tingling with curiosity, which he never doubted he should now have abundant means of satisfying, he found Sir Giles in a spasmodic condition in his chair, laughing by intervals, while Lady Piercey stood by his side, patting him upon the back with unaccustomed hands, and saying, “Now, my dear; now, now, my dear,” as she might have done to a restive horse. Sir Giles’ exuberance faded away at the sight of Dunning, who knew exactly what to do to make him, as they said, comfortable. And thus it happened that this old pair, who were older than the parents of Gervase had any need to be, and looked, both, much older than they were, from illness and self-indulgence, and all its attendant infirmities – were left to consult upon the fate of their only child with the servant making a third, which was very galling to Lady Piercey’s pride. Sir Giles did not pay any attention. Dunning was to him not a man, but a sort of accessory – a thing that did not count. He calmed down out of his paroxysms of laughter at Dunning’s appearance, but still kept bursting out at intervals. “What if the fellow” – and then he stopped to cough and laugh again – “what if he falls in love with Miss Brown or Miss Jones?” he said. “And then, my lady, you would be out of the frying-pan into the fire.”
“I am not afraid of Miss Smith or Miss Jones,” she cried, making a sign to him over Dunning’s head to be careful what he said. But Sir Giles was in the humour for speech, and cared nothing who was present.
“I think a deal of these ladies,” he said, in his mumbling voice. “It’s a great joke – a great joke. I should like to see old Gregson’s face when he hears of it. By Jove! and the old plotter you are, my lady, to make it all up. But it can’t be; it can’t be.”
“Why can’t it be?” cried Lady Piercey sharply, and much provoked.
“Because it wouldn’t be fair, neither to the one of them nor to the other. Not fair at all, by George. Fair play’s a jewel. What are you after, Dunning? Let my legs alone. There’s nothing the matter with my legs. And you can go and be dashed to you. Can’t I talk to my lady without you here?”
“Don’t send him away,” cried Lady Piercey hurriedly. “I can’t have you get ill, and perhaps do yourself harm, because of me.”
“Do myself fiddlesticks,” cried Sir Giles. “I’m as strong as a horse, ain’t I, Dunning? Be off with you, be off with you; don’t you hear? I’ll throw my stick at you if you don’t scuttle, you son of a – . Hey! you can tell my lady I’m as well as either you or she.”
“Yes, Sir Giles,” said Dunning, stolid and calm. But he did not go away.
“It wouldn’t be fair,” Sir Giles went on, forgetting what he had said. “I say fair play all the world over. Women don’t understand it. It’s a capital joke, and I didn’t think you had so much fun in you. But it wouldn’t be fair.”
“Don’t be a fool, Giles,” said Lady Piercey angrily. “If you don’t see it’s necessary, why, then, you can’t see an inch before your nose; and to argue with you isn’t any good.”
“No,” he said, “perhaps it isn’t. I’m an obstinate old fool, and so are you an obstinate old fool, Mary Ann. And between us both we’ve made a mess of it. It wasn’t altogether our fault, perhaps, for it was Nature that began,” said the old gentleman, with something like a whimper breaking into his voice. “Nature, the worst of all, for you cannot do anything with that. Not a thing! We’ve tried our best. Yes; I believe you tried your best, my lady, watching and worrying; and I’ve tried my best, leaving things alone. But none of us can do anything. We can’t, you know, not if we were to go on till Doomsday; and we’re two old folks, and we can’t go on much longer. It’s not altogether your fault, and neither is it mine; but we’ll go to our graves, by-and-by, and we’ll leave behind us – we’ll leave behind us – ”
Here the old gentleman, probably betrayed by the previous disturbance of his laughter, fell into a kind of nervous crying, half exclamations, half laughing, half tears.
“Don’t you be upset, my lady,” said Dunning; “Sir Giles, he do get like this sometimes when he’s flurried and frightened. But, Lord! a little glassful of water, and a few of his drops, and he’s all right again.”
Lady Piercey sat bolt upright in her chair. She, too, wanted the ministrations to which she was accustomed: the arm of Parsons to help her up, or Margaret to turn to, to upbraid her for her uncle’s state, or to consult her as to what to do. She had not the same tendency to tears, though a few iron drops came from time to time, wrung out by her great trouble. She sat and stared at her husband, and at Dunning’s services to him, till Sir Giles was quite restored. And then she rose with some stiffness and difficulty, and hobbled away. Parsons met her at the door, and took her mistress to her room; but, though Lady Piercey clung to her, the maid was not at all well received. “What were you doing at Sir Giles’ door? What do you want in this part of the house?” she cried, though she had seized and clung to the ready arm. “I’ll not have you spying about, seeing what you can pick up in the way of news, or listening at a door.”
“I never listened at a door in my life,” cried Parsons, indignant. “And nobody ever named such a thing to me, my lady, but you!”
“Oh, hold your tongue, do!” cried Lady Piercey. And she, too, like Sir Giles, was obliged to have a restorative when she had been safely conveyed to her room. She was the ruler upstairs, and he below. She had the advantage of him in being able to move about, notwithstanding her rheumatism, and the large share she had of those ills which flesh is heir to – all those which were not appropriated first by her husband – in which she took a certain satisfaction, not tempered, rather enhanced, by the attendant pain.
The letters came in at the hour of luncheon, and were taken to Lady Piercey as they are usually taken to the master of the house. She opened all the family-letters, her husband’s as well as her own, and even the occasional bill or note that came very rarely for Gervase. Among them that day came a letter stamped with the Piercey crest, at which she gazed for a moment before opening it, with an indignant, yet scared look, as if she had beheld a blasphemy, and which made her, when she opened it, almost jump from her seat. She read it over twice, with her eyes opening wider and wider, and the red flush of surprise and horror rising on her face, then flung it violently across the table to Margaret. “Then he must go, that’s flat! and to-morrow morning, not one hour later,” she cried. Gervase was in the room, paying no attention to this pantomime, and caring nothing for what letters might arrive; but he was roused by what she said. He cried, “That’s me, mother; I’m going to-morrow,” with his loud and vacant laugh.
CHAPTER XIV
The letter which Lady Piercey had received, and which quickened so instantaneously her determination that Gervase should be gratified in his desire to visit London, did not seem at the first glance to have anything to do with that question. It was a letter from Gerald Piercey, asking to be allowed to come on a visit of two or three days to see his relations at Greyshott. Now, Gerald Piercey was, after Gervase, the heir-at-law – or rather he was the son of the old and infirm gentleman who was the heir-at-law. He was a soldier who had distinguished himself in India, and got rapid promotion, so that he had several letters already tacked to his name, and was in every way a contrast to the unfortunate who stood between him and the honours of the house. It was natural, and I think it was excusable, that poor Lady Piercey should hate this successful and highly esteemed person. To be sure, he was much older than Gervase – a man of forty, so that there was, as she said indignantly, no comparison! and she herself was not old enough (or at least, so she said) to have had a son of the Colonel’s age. But these circumstances, which should have lessened the sense of rivalry, only made it greater, for even if Gervase had not been a Softy, he would never have been a man of so much importance as this cousin of the younger branch who had made himself known and noted in the world by his own personal character and deserts. Colonel Piercey had not been at Greyshott since he was a youth setting out in life, when he had paid his relations a hasty and not very agreeable visit. Gervase was then a silly little boy; but there are many silly little boys who grow up into tolerable young men; and his parents, at least, had by no means made up their minds to the fact of his inferiority. But Gerald, a young man who had just joined his regiment and was full of the elation and pleasure in life which is never greater than in these circumstances, who resembled the family portraits and knew all about the family history, and who looked so entirely the part of heir of the house, awoke a causeless enmity even in the jovial breast of Sir Giles, then a robust fox-hunter, master of the hounds, chairman of quarter sessions, and everything that a country gentleman should be. Poor little Gervase was nothing beside him, naturally! for Gervase was but a child, however clever he had been. But this thought did not heal the painful impression, the shock of a sensation too keen almost to be borne. All the neighbours were delighted with Gerald. What a fine young fellow! what a promising young man! what a pity it was – and the visitors gave a glance aside at poor little Gervase, already, poor child, the Softy among all his childish companions. They did not utter that last half-formed regret, but Sir Giles and his wife perceived it on their lips, in their thoughts, and hated Gerald, which was wrong, no doubt, but very natural and almost pardonable, from a parent’s point of view.
And here he was coming back! a guest whom they could not refuse, a credit to the family, a distinguished relation, while Gervase was what he was. But Gerald Piercey should not, Lady Piercey resolved, see Gervase as he was, – not for the world! He was coming, no doubt, to spy out the nakedness of the land – but what he should find would only be an account of her son enjoying himself in London, seeing life, doing as other young men did. If Gerald was a colonel and a C.B., Gervase should bear the aspect of a young man about town – a man of fashion, going everywhere; a man who had no occasion to go to India to distinguish himself, having a good estate and a baronetcy behind him at home. To keep up this fiction would be easy if Gervase were but absent. It would be impossible, alas! to do it in his presence. Lady Piercey exerted herself during that day, in a way she had not been known to do before for years. She wrote a long letter, bending over it, and working all the lines of her mouth like a schoolboy. It was labour dire and weary woe, for a woman who had long given up any exertion of the kind for herself. But in this case she would not trust even Margaret. And then she had Gervase’s drawers emptied, and his clothes brought to her to make a survey. They were not fashionable clothes by any means; Lady Piercey, though she was not much used to men of fashion, and knew nothing of what “was worn” at the time, yet knew and remembered enough to feel that Gervase in these garments would by no means bear the aspect of a young man about town. But he would do very well in the Gregson world in Bloomsbury; everybody who saw him there would know that he was young Mr. Piercey of Greyshott, Sir Giles’ only son. This is the sort of fact that covers a multitude of sins, even in clothes. And in Bloomsbury the first fashions were not likely to be worn. He would pass muster very well there, but not – not before the eyes of Gerald Piercey, the colonel, the C.B., the cousin and heir. “You don’t see why I should be in such a hurry,” said Lady Piercey, with one of those glances which only want the power, not the desire, to kill. “I know, then, and that’s enough, Gervase, my boy. You’ll remember to be very good and please your poor father and me, now we’ve consented to give you this great treat, and let you go.”
“Oh, yes,” said Gervase, with a laugh; “I’ll remember, mother. I sha’n’t be let go wrong, you take your oath of that.”
“What does he mean by not being let? You’ve told him about Gregson, Meg! Well, my dear, you know that is the only comfort I have. You’ll be met at the station, and you’ll find your nice rooms ready; and very lucky you are, Gervase, to find so good a person to take care of you. Do everything he tells you; mind, he knows all about you; and he’ll always lead you the right road, as you say.”
Gervase, staring open-mouthed at his mother, burst into a great laugh. He was astonished at her apparent knowledge of the companion who would not let him go wrong, but the confusion of the pronoun daunted him a little. Did she think it was old Hewitt that was going with him? He had enough of cunning to ask no questions, but laughed with a great roar of satisfaction mingled with wonderment. Lady Piercey put up her hands to her ears.
“Don’t make such a noise,” she said. “You laugh like your father, Gervase, and you’re too young to roar like that. You must try to behave very nicely, too, and don’t roar the roof off a London house with your laughing. And don’t make a noise in company, Gervase. We put up with everything here because we’re so fond of you; but in town, though they’ll be fond of you, it makes a difference, not being used to you from your cradle. You must remember all I taught you about manners when you were a little boy.”
“Oh, mother, don’t you be afraid; my manners will be well looked after, too. I sha’n’t dare to open my mouth,” said Gervase, with another laugh.
“Well, I believe they are very particular,” said Lady Piercey, with a still more bewildering change of pronouns. “And, Gervase, there’s young ladies there: mind that you are very nice and civil to them, but don’t go any further than you can draw back.”
“Oh, I’ll be kept safe from the young ladies, you take your oath of that!” he cried, with another shout of a laugh.
“For goodness gracious sake,” cried Lady Piercey, “take him away! – Meg, can’t you take him away and give him a good talking to? You have no nerves, and I’m nothing but a bundle of ’em. That laugh of his goes up to the crown of my head and down to the soles of my feet. Take him off, and let me look over his things in peace. And mind, Gervase, you’ve to listen to what Meg says to you, just the same as if I were speaking myself; for she knows about men, having married one, and she can give you a deal of good advice. Go out to the beech avenue, and then I can see you from my window, and make sure that you are paying attention to what she says.”
When Gervase was safely outside with his patient cousin, whose part in all these proceedings was so laborious and uninterrupted, though she was not permitted to do much more than look on – he plucked off his hat and flung it up into the air in triumph, executing at the same time a sort of dance upon the gravel.
“Does she mean what she says, Meg? and how has she heard of it? and what has made her give in? Lord! what will some folks say when they know that it’s all with her will?”
“What is it you are going to do, Gervase? and what do you mean by ‘some folks’?” Margaret cried.
The Softy looked at her for a moment irresolute, doubtful, it would seem, what he should reply; and then he laughed again, more loudly than ever, and said: “Shouldn’t you like to know?”
“Yes, I should like to know. I do not believe that they know at all what you mean. You are too cunning for them. You are going to take some step – ”
“More than one – many steps. I’m going to London to see all that’s going on – to see life. I told ’em so; and instead of looking curious like you, mother, don’t you see, she knows all about it, and wants me to do it. Mother’s a trump! She is that fond of me, she will do whatever I say.”
“The thing is, what are you going to do, Gervase? What do you mean by seeing life?”
He laughed longer than ever, and gave her a nudge with his arm. “Oh, get along, Meg!” he said, – “you know.”
“No, Gervase; tell me. You have always been a good boy – you are not going to do any harm?”
“I never heard it was any harm; it’s what everybody does, and rejoicings about it, and bells ringing, and all that. Don’t you tell – I’m going – No; I said I wouldn’t say a word, and I won’t. You’ll know when I come back.”
“Gervase, you frighten me very much – you wouldn’t deceive your father and mother that love you so.” She drew a long breath of alarm; then added with relief: “But if he is met at the station and taken care of – ”
“That’s it,” said Gervase. “I’m going to be met at the station, and everything done for me. I’ll never be left to myself any more. I’m not very good at taking care of myself, Meg.”
“No,” she cried; “that is quite true. I am so glad you feel that, Gervase. Then you won’t be rebellious, but do what your mother wishes, and what her friend tells you. It will make her so happy.”
“Her friend! Who’s her friend?” said Gervase; and then the peal of his laughter arose once more. “I like my own friend best; but my friend and my mother’s friend being just the same, don’t you see?”
“Are they the same?” said Mrs. Osborne, thoroughly perplexed.
“There ain’t two of them that are going to meet me at the station? No? then there’s only one. And mother’s a trump, and I’ll do everything I’m told, and never be without some one to guide me all my life. And to stand up for me – for I am put upon, Meg, though you don’t seem to see it. I am; and made a jest of; and no money in my pocket; never given my proper place. Meg, how much is mamma going to give me for my pocket-money while I’m away?”
“I can’t tell you, Gervase. There will be your travelling money, and probably she will send the rest to – to be given you when you are in town.”
“I ought to have it now in my own pocket,” said Gervase, with a cloud upon his brow. “Do you think a man can go like a man to London town, and no money? They are mad if they think that. Lend us something, Meg – you’ve got a little, and no need to spend it; with everything given you that heart can wish. Why, you never spend a penny! And I’ll pay it all back when I come to my own.”
“I have nothing,” she said, faltering. To tell what was not strictly true, and to refuse what her cousin asked, were things equally dreadful to Margaret – and it was a relief to her when Lady Piercey’s window was jerked open by a rapid hand, and the old lady’s head appeared suddenly thrust out.