The Cuckoo in the Nest. Volume 1/2

“I’ll find them, father,” cried Gervase cheerfully, plunging down upon the carpet on his hands and knees, and pushing the old gentleman’s stick back into his face.

“For goodness’ sake, Meg, find something for him to do! and take that boy off his father, or Sir Giles will have a fit,” cried Lady Piercey in Mrs. Osborne’s ear.

“Get out o’ my way, you young ass!” Sir Giles thundered, raising the stick and bestowing an angry blow upon his son’s shoulders. Gervase sat up on his knees like a dog, and stared for a moment angrily, with his hand lifted as if he would have returned the blow. Then he opened his mouth wide and gave forth a great laugh. Poor old Sir Giles caught at Dunning’s arm, clutching him in an ecstasy of exasperation. “Get me off, man, can’t you? Get me out of sight of him; take me to bed,” the old father cried, in that wretchedness of miserable perception which only parents know. His son – his only son! His heir, the last of the Piercey’s! – this Softy sitting up like a dog upon the floor!

Lady Piercey fell back also in her chair, and whimpered a little piteously, like the poor old woman she was, as Sir Giles was wheeled out of the room. The backgammon board, overturned, lay on the floor, with the pieces scattered over the carpet, and Gervase scrambling after them, for Dunning had been too tremulous and frightened to pick more than half of them up. “Oh! my poor, silly boy! oh! you dreadful, dreadful fool!” the old lady cried. “Will you never learn any better? Can’t you wake up and be a man?” She cried over this, for a little, very bitterly, with that terrible sense of the incurable which turns the poor soul back upon itself – and then she flung round in her big chair towards her niece, who stood silent and troubled, not knowing what part to take. “It’s all your fault,” she cried in a fierce whisper, “for not finding something for him to do. Why didn’t you find something for him to do? You might have played something to him, or sung something with him, or got him to look at pictures, or – anything! And now you’ve let your poor uncle go off in a rage, which may bring on a fit as likely as not, and me worse, for I can’t give in like him. Oh, Meg, what an ungrateful, selfish thing you are to stand there and never interfere when you might have found him something to do!”

When Lady Piercey’s procession streamed off afterwards to bed, my lady leaning heavily on Parsons’ arm and Margaret following with the work, Gervase was left still picking up the pieces, sprawling over the carpet and laughing as he followed the little round pieces of ivory and wood into the corners where they had rolled. Margaret went back to the library after being released by her aunt, and found him still there making a childish game of this for his own amusement, and chuckling to himself as he raced them over the carpet. He scrambled up, however, a little ashamed when he heard her voice asking, “What are you doing, Gervase?” “Oh, nothing,” he said with his foolish laugh, stuffing the “men” into his pockets. She put her hand upon his shoulder kindly.

“Gervase, dear, you’re quite grown up, don’t you know; quite a man now. You mustn’t be so mischievous, just like a boy. Poor Uncle Giles, you must not play tricks upon him; he likes a quiet game.”

“Don’t you be a fool, Meg. Why, that was what I was doing all the night, playing his quiet game. Poor old father, he got into a temper, but bless you ’twasn’t my fault. It’s that old ass, Dunning, that’s always getting in everybody’s way.”

“Of course he would like you best, Gervase, – but Dunning knows all his ways. Your game might be better fun – ”

“I should think so,” said the poor Softy. “My game is the game, and Dunning spoils everything. It ain’t my fault, though every one of you gets into a wax with me,” – Gervase’s lip quivered a little as if he might have cried, – “and me giving up everything only to please them!” he said.

“I am sure they are pleased to see you always indoors and not spending your time in that dreadful place.”

“What dreadful place? That is all you know – I’d never have come home any more but for them that’s there. It was she that sent me to please the old folks. But I shan’t go on much longer if you all treat me like this. I’ve tried my best to make the time pass for them, Meg, to give them a laugh and that. And they huff me and cuff me as if I was a fool. Why do they always call me a fool,” cried the poor fellow with a passing cloud of trouble, “whatever I do?”

“Oh, Gervase!” cried Margaret, full of pity. “But why did she want you so particularly to please them just now?”

He stared at her for a moment, then laughed and nodded his head. “You’d just like to know!” he said, “but she didn’t mean me to be nice to you, Meg; for she’s always afraid I’ll be driven to marry you – though a man must not marry his grandmother, you know.”

Margaret repented in a moment of the flush of anger that flew over her. “You can make her mind easy on that point,” she said gravely; “but oh, Gervase, I am afraid it will make them very unhappy if you go on with this fancy; they would never let you bring her here.”

“Fancy!” he cried, “I’m going to marry her. You can’t call that a fancy; and if you think you can put me off it, or the whole world! – Get along Meg, I don’t want to talk to you any more.”

“But I want very much to talk to you, Gervase.”

Gervase looked at her with a smile of foolish complacency. “I dare say you think me silly,” he cried, “but here’s two of you after me. Get along, Meg; whatever I do I’m not going to take your way.”

“You must do as you please, then,” said Margaret in despair; “but remember, Gervase,” she said, turning back before she reached the door, “your father is old, and you might drive him into a fit if you go on as you did to-night – and where would you be then?” she added, with an appeal to the better feeling in which she still believed.

“Why, I’d be in his place, and she’d be my lady,” cried the young man, with a gleam of cruel cunning, “and nobody could stop me any more, whatever I liked to do.”

But next evening there seemed to be in his mind some lingering regard for what she had said. Gervase left his father alone, and devoted himself to his mother, who was more able to take care of herself. He offered to wind her silks, and entangled them hopelessly with delighted peals of laughter. He took her scissors to snip off the ends for her, and put the sharp points through the canvas, until Lady Piercey, in her exasperation, gave him a sudden cuff on his cheek.

“You great fool!” she cried – “you malicious wretch! Do you want to spoil my work as well as everything else? I wish you were little enough to be whipped, I do; and I wish I had whipped you when you were little, when it might have done you some good. Margaret, what do you mean sitting quiet there, enjoying yourself with a book and me driven out of my senses? That’s what he wants to do, I believe – to drive us mad and get his own way; to make us crazy, both his poor father and me.”

“No, I don’t,” cried Gervase, “and you oughtn’t to hit me – I’ll hit back again if you do it again. It hurts – you’ve got a fist like a butcher, though you’re such an old lady.” He rubbed his cheek for a moment dolefully, and then again burst out laughing. “You look like old Judy in the show, mamma, when she hits her baby: only you’re so fat you could never get into it, and your voice is gruff like the old showman’s – not squeaky, like Mrs. Punch. I’ve cut all the silks into nice lengths for you to work with – ain’t you obliged to me? Look here,” he said, holding out his work. Poor Lady Piercey clapped her fat hands together loudly in sheer incapacity of expression. It made a loud report like a gun fired off to relieve her feelings, and Sir Giles looked up from his quiet game with Dunning, not without a subdued amusement that she should now be getting her share.

“What’s the matter, what’s the matter, my lady? Is that cub of yours playing some of his pranks? It’s your turn to-night, it appears, and serves you right, for you always back him up.”

“Oh, you fool, you fool, you fool!” cried the old lady in her passion. And then she turned her fiery eyes on her husband with a look of contempt and fury too great for words. “Meg!” she cried, putting out her hand across the table and grasping Mrs. Osborne’s arm, “If you’re ever driven wild like me, never you look for sympathy to a man! when they see you nearly mad with trouble they give you a look, and chuckle! that’s what they always do. Put down the scissors, you, you, you – ”

“Oh, and to think,” she cried wildly, “that that’s my only son! Oh, Giles, how can you play your silly games, and sit and see him – the only one we have between us, and he’s a born fool! And me, that was so thankful to see him stay at home, and give up going out to his low company! And now I can’t abide him. I can’t abide to see him here!”

This happened on the night when Patty, frightened and dejected, shut herself up in the room which she had meant for her bridal bower, and cried her eyes out because of Gervase’s absence. The poor Softy was thus of as much importance as any hero, turning houses and hearts upside down.

CHAPTER XI

A whole week, and nothing had been seen or heard of Gervase at the Seven Thorns. Even old Hewitt remarked it, with a taunt to his daughter. “Where’s your Softy, that was never out of the house, Miss Patty, eh? Don’t seem to be always about at your apron string, my lass, as you thought you was to keep him there. Them gentlemen,” said old Hewitt, “as I’ve told you, Softy or not, they takes their own way, and there’s no trust to be put in them. He’s found some one else as he likes better, or maybe you’ve given him the sack, Patty, eh? And that’s a pity, for he was a good customer,” the landlord said.

“Whether I’ve given him the sack or he’s found some one he likes better, don’t matter much to any one as I can see. I’ll go to my work, father, if you’ve got nothing more sensible than that to say.”

“Sensible or not, he’s gone, and a good riddance,” said her father. “I ain’t a fine Miss, thick with the rector and the gentry, like you; but I declare, to see that gaby laughing and gaping at the other side of the table, turned me sick, it did. And I hopes as we’ll see no more of him, nor none of his kind. If you will have a sweetheart, there’s plenty of good fellows about, ’stead of a fool like that.”

Patty did not stamp her foot as she would have liked to do, or throw out her arms, or scream with rage and disappointment. She went on knocking her broom into all the corners, taking it out more or less in that way, and tingling from the bunch of hair fashionably dressed on the top of her head, to the toe of her high-heeled shoes, with suppressed passion. She would not make an exhibition of herself. She would not give Ellen, the maid-servant, closely observing her through the open door of the back kitchen, nor Bob, the ostler, who had also heard every word old Hewitt said as he bustled about with his pail outside the house, any occasion of remark or of triumph over her as a maiden forsaken, whose love had ridden away. They were all on the very tiptoe of expectation, having already made many comments to each other on the subject. “You’re all alike – every one of you,” Ellen had said to Bob. “You’d go and forsake me just the same, if you saw some one as you liked better.” “It’ll be a long day afore I do that,” said the gallant ostler, preserving, however, the privilege of his sex. They were all ready to throw the responsibility of attraction upon the woman. It was more to her credit to keep her hold on the man by being always delightful to him than by any bond of faithfulness on his part. Patty felt this to the bottom of her heart. It was not so much that she blamed her Softy. She blamed herself bitterly, and felt humiliated and ashamed that she had not been able to hold him; that he had found anything he liked better than her society. She swept out every corner, banging her broom as if she were punishing the unknown rivals who had seduced him away from her, and felt, for all her pride, as if she never could hold up her head again before the parish, which would thus know that she had miscalculated her powers. Roger Pearson knew it already, and triumphed. And then Aunt Patience – but that was the most dreadful of all.

Even old Hewitt himself, the landlord of the Seven Thorns, was a little disappointed, if truth were told. He had liked to say to the fathers of the village, “I can’t get that young Piercey out o’ my house. Morning, noon, and night that young fellow is about. And I can’t kick him out, ye see, old Sir Giles bein’ the Lord o’ the Manor.” “I’d kick him out fast enough,” the blacksmith had replied, who never had any chance that way, “if he come sneakin’ after my gell.” “Oh, as for that, my Patty is one that can take care of herself,” it had been Mr. Hewitt’s boast to say. And when he was congratulated ironically by the party in the parlour with a “Hallo, Hewitt! you’ve been and got shut of your Softy,” the landlord did not like it. Softy as Gervase was, to have got him thus fast in the web, old Sir Giles’ only son, was a kind of triumph to the house.

In the afternoon, however, Patty resolved to take a walk. It was an indulgence which she permitted to herself periodically – that her best things and her hat with the roses, her light gloves and her parasol might not spoil for want of use. She put on all this finery, however, with a sinking at her heart. The last time she had worn them she had been all in a thrill with excitement, bent upon the boldest step she had ever taken in her life. And the high tension of her nerves and passion of her mind had been increased by the unexpected colloquy with Lady Piercey at the carriage-door. But that was a day of triumph all along the line. She had baffled the old lady, and she had roused her own aunt to a fierce enthusiasm of interest, which had reacted upon herself and increased her determination, and the fervour of her own. When she had walked back that evening with the fifty pounds, she had felt herself already my lady, uplifted to a pinnacle of grandeur from which no fathers or mothers could bring her down. But now! Gervase himself had not seemed a very important part of that triumph a little while ago. He had been a chattel of hers, a piece of property as much her own as her parasol. And if he had emancipated himself, if he had escaped out of her net, if his mother had obtained the mastery of him, or sent him away, Patty felt as if she must die of rage and humiliation. To take back that fifty pounds to Aunt Patience and allow that the use she had got it for was no longer possible; to submit to be asked on all sides, by Roger in triumph, by everybody else in scorn, what had become of him? was more than she could bear. She would rather run away and go to service in London. She would rather – there was nothing in the world that Patty did not feel herself capable of doing rather than bear the brunt of this disappointment and shame.

It must be added that the value of Gervase individually was enormously enhanced by this period of doubt and alarm. The prize that is on the point of being lost is very different from that which falls naturally, easily into your hands. Patty thought of the Softy no longer as if he were a piece of still life; no more – indeed, not so much – a part of the proceedings which were to end eventually in making her my lady as the marriage-licence which would cost such a deal of money. All that was changed now. Poor fellow! he who had never been of much importance to anybody had become of the very greatest consequence now. She would never, never be my lady at all, unless he took a principal part in it – the great fool, the goose, the gaby! But though her feelings broke out once or twice in a string of such reproaches under her breath, Gervase was too important a factor now to be thought of or addressed by contemptuous epithets. He could spoil it all; he could make all her preparations useless. He could shame her in the eyes of Aunt Patience, and even before the whole of her little world, although nobody knew how far things had gone. Therefore it was with an anxious heart that Patty made a turn round by the outskirts of the village as if she were going to pay a visit to her Aunt Patience – the last place in the world where she desired to go – and then directed her steps towards the Manor, meaning to make a wide round past the iron gate and the beech-tree avenue, which were visible to any passenger walking across the downs. She gave a long look, as she passed, at the great house, with all its windows twinkling in the afternoon sun, and the two long processions of trees on either side. Her heart rose to her mouth at the thought that all this might, yet might never, be her own. Might be! it had seemed certain a week ago; and yet might never be if that fool – oh, that imbecile, that ridiculous, vacant, gaping Softy – should take it into his foolish head to draw back now.

The road lay close under the wall of the park beyond the iron gate. Patty had got so anxious, so terrified, so horribly convinced that her chances of meeting him were small, and that, except in an accidental way, she could not hope to lay hands on him again, that her stout heart almost failed her as she went on. It was a very warm day, and she was flushed and heated with her walk, as well as with the suspense and alarm of which her mind was full, so that she was aware she was not looking her best, when suddenly, without warning, she came full upon him round the corner, almost striking him with her outstretched parasol in the suddenness of the encounter. Gervase did not see her at all. He was coming on with his head bent, his under-lip hanging, his hands in his pockets, busy with his old game – six white ones all in a heap. What a jump for the right-hand man! and hallo, hallo! a little brown fellow slipping along on the other side, driven by somebody’s foot! He made a mental note of that before looking to see who the somebody was, which was of so much less importance. And then Patty’s little cry of surprise and “Oh! Mr. Gervase!” went through him like a shot at his ear. He gave a shout like the inarticulate delight of a dog, and flew towards her as if he had been Dash or Rover, roused by the ecstatic sound of their master’s voice.

“Patty! Lord, to think of you being here! and me, that hasn’t had a peep of you for a whole week. Patty! Oh, come now, I can’t help it. I’m so happy, I could eat you up. Patty, Patty!” cried the poor fellow, patting her on the shoulder, looking into her face with his dull eyes suddenly inspired, “you’re sure it’s you!”

“And a deal you care whether it’s me or not, Mr. Gervase,” cried Patty, tossing her head. But in that moment Patty had become herself again. Her anxiety was over, her bosom’s lord sat lightly on his throne. The fifty pounds in the little bag no longer felt like a blister. She was the mistress of the situation, and all her troubled thoughts flew before the wind as if they had never been.

“A deal I care? Oh, I do care a deal, Patty, if you only knew! Never you do it again – to make me stay away like this. I’ve made a mull of it, as I knew I should, without you to back me up. Father turns his back on me. He won’t say a word. And even mother, that was always my stand-by, she says she can’t abide to see me there.”

Again Gervase looked as if he would cry; but brightening up suddenly, “I don’t mind a bit as long as I can see you, and you’ll tell me what to do.”

“Well,” said Patty, “I could perhaps tell you if I knew what you wanted to do. But I can’t stand still here, for I’ve come out for a walk, and if you wish to speak to me you must come along with me. I’m going as far as Carter’s Wells, and the afternoon’s wearing on.”

“Oh!” said Gervase, discomfited, “you’re going as far as Carter’s Wells? I thought – I supposed – or I wanted to think, Patty – as you were coming to look for me!”

“What should I do that for, Mr. Gervase?” said Patty, demurely.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said the poor Softy. “I just thought so. You might have had something you wanted to tell me, or – to say I might come back, or – ”

“What should I have to tell you, Mr. Gervase?”

He looked piteously at her, all astray, and took off his cap, and pushed his fingers through his hair. “I’m sure I don’t know; and yet there was something that I wanted badly to hear. Patty, don’t you make a fool of me like all the rest! If I don’t know what it is, having such a dreadful memory, you do.”

“It’s a wonder as you remembered me at all, Mr. Gervase,” said Patty, giving him a little sting in passing.

“You! I’d never forget you if I lived to be a hundred. I’d forget myself sooner, far sooner, than I’d forget you.”

“But it’s a long time since you’ve seen me, and you’ve forgotten all you wanted of me,” Patty said, with a sharp tone of curiosity in her voice.

“No, I don’t forget; I do know what I want – I want to marry you, Patty. I’ve been obeying all your orders, and trying to please the old folks for nothing but that. But it don’t seem to succeed, somehow,” he said, shaking his head; “somehow it don’t seem to succeed.”

“They will never give their consent to that, Mr. Gervase!”