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The Cuckoo in the Nest. Volume 2/2
CHAPTER XXXVII
It was with nothing less than consternation that the county received the intelligence of Gervase Piercey’s death, which flew from house to house nobody could tell how; told by the early postman on his rounds, conveyed with the morning’s rolls from the villages, brought up at a pace much accelerated by the importance of the news by grooms with letter-bags, and every kind of messenger. Gervase Piercey was dead: the Softy of the village – poor Sir Giles’ only son. Though he was a fool, he was Sir Giles’ only child! There were ladies in the county who had wondered wistfully whether, if he were “taken up” by some capable woman, he might not have been so licked into shape as to have justified that capable woman in marrying him to her daughter. Nobody had been so brave as to do it, but several had speculated on the subject, thinking that, after all, to preserve a good old family from the dust, and hand on Greyshott to better heirs, might be worthy the sacrifice of a few years of a girl’s life. These ladies, though none of them had been brave enough to take the necessary steps, felt doubly outraged by his marriage when it took place; and the consternation in their minds at the receipt of this last piece of news was tinged with something like remorse. Oh, if they had but had the courage! Maud or Mabel, if she had been forced to marry that unfortunate simpleton, would, as they now saw, have been so swiftly released! but it is needless to go back upon what might have been, after the contrary events. And now what a conjunction was this – what a terrible position for the poor old father! his only son taken from him; left alone with that woman in the house! Nobody knew anything about Patty; it was enough that she was Patty, and that she had married that poor half-witted young man. And then the question arose in a great many houses – What were they to do? They had not called upon Mrs. Gervase – nobody had called upon Mrs. Gervase – but how were they to approach Sir Giles now, with that woman there? Poor old Sir Giles! he had allowed her to take possession of his house for his son’s sake, no doubt, and for peace, not being strong enough for any struggle, and what would he do now? Would he send her away, and thus be accessible again to his old friends, or what would he do? This question occupied the mind of the neighbourhood very much for the day or two after the news was received, and it became apparent that something must be done. The old man could not be left alone in his trouble, unsolaced by any friendly word; the details must be inquired into – the time of the funeral, so that proper respect might be paid. Many people sent cards, and servants to make the necessary inquiries, but one or two gentlemen went themselves, Lord Hartmore in particular, who as virtually the head of the county, and actually a very old friend, felt it incumbent upon him to carry his sympathy and condolence in person. Lord Hartmore was received by a young lady in very deep mourning, already covered in crape from top to toe, and crowned with the most orthodox of widows’ caps. She was very quiet, but very firm.
“I cannot allow any one to disturb Sir Giles,” she said; “he is very much broken down. Absolute quiet, and as little reference as possible to the details of our great trouble, are indispensable, the doctor says.”
Lord Hartmore was much surprised at the self-possession of the young woman, and at her language.
“The tone of the voice was of course a little uneducated,” he said, “but she talked, my dear, she talked as well as you or I, and made use of the same expressions!”
“Why, what other expressions could any one make use of?” cried Lady Hartmore.
“I said an old friend like myself should surely be made an exception; but she didn’t give in. ‘My father-in-law has seen none of his old friends for a long time,’ she said quite pointedly; ‘he is not accustomed to seeing them. It would be a great agitation to him, and I am charged to see that he is not disturbed.’ I assure you,” said Lord Hartmore, “I didn’t know what to say. We have all deserted him in the most horrid way. The young woman was right: to put in an appearance just at this moment, not having shown since poor Lady Piercey’s funeral, might quite probably be very discomposing to the old man!”
“And what about the funeral?” was the next question that was asked.
“There, again,” said Lord Hartmore, “I can’t blame her. She’s met with no attention from us, and why should she take any trouble about us? The funeral is to be on Thursday; but she said, ‘My father-in-law will not go. I can’t put him to such a trial. I will follow my husband to his grave myself, and I don’t know that I wish anybody else to take the trouble.’ She carries things with a very high hand, but I can’t blame her, I can’t blame her,” Lord Hartmore said. It must be added that the consternation of the county neighbours was increased by this report. Their consternation was increased, and so were their doubts as to what they should do; but at the same time their curiosity was piqued, and a certain sense of compunction rose in their bosoms. If it was merely the recklessness of disappointment and despair which moved Patty, or if it was severe and subtle calculation, at least her policy was wonderfully successful. There was a large attendance at poor Gervase’s funeral, at which she appeared alone, occupying by herself the blackest of mourning coaches, and in such a depth of crape as never widow had worn before. But Mrs. Gervase was exceedingly digne in her woe. She made no hysterical demonstration. She had none of her own people in attendance upon her, as had been expected, though Richard Hewitt occupied a conspicuous position in the crowd, thrusting himself in among the county gentlemen in the procession. Patty stood by the grave all alone, and saw her hopes buried with real anguish. She fulfilled the part so well that Lord Hartmore (a candid man, as has been seen) could not contain himself for pity, and stepped quietly forward to her side and offered his arm. She took it silently, but with a trembling and evident need of support which went to the good gentleman’s heart. Poor thing, poor thing! then she had been really fond of him after all. Lord Hartmore reflected silently that to a girl in her position the defects of the poor half-witted fellow might not be so apparent, and if she loved him, strange as that seemed! He led her back to her carriage with an almost fatherly friendliness, the whole village looking on, all the other gentlemen a little ashamed of themselves, and Richard Hewitt’s red face blazing through the crowd. “My wife will call to inquire for you,” he said, as he put her in, “and I hope that I may be admitted soon to see my dear old friend, Sir Giles.” Patty answered only by a bow. It was all that could be expected of the poor young new-made widow, who had fulfilled this sad duty alone with no one to stand by her. The spectators were all impressed, and even overawed, by Patty’s loneliness and her crape and her youth.
And she did in reality feel her downfall too much to get the good of Lord Hartmore’s civility, or indulge the elation which sprang up in her mind, instinctively accompanying the consciousness that everybody saw her leaning upon Lord Hartmore’s arm. Ah! what a thing that would have been a month ago! but now was it only a tantalising flutter before her eyes of what might have been, at present when all the reality was over? It would be unkind to Patty to say that no regret for poor Gervase in his own person was in her heart. She had not been without affection for Gervase, and the thought of his early death had been very sad to her at the moment. Poor Gervase, so young, and just when better things might have been in store for him! But the mind very soon familiarises itself with such an event when there is no very strong sentiment in question. It was not Gervase, but herself, whom Patty chiefly mourned. After all she had done and all she had gone through, to think that this was what was left to her – a position as insecure as that of any governess or companion, at the mercy of an old and ailing man, with one of her enemies at his ear. Oh, that it should be that old man, that useless, ailing old man, that should live and Gervase die! There seemed no justice in it, no equity, no sense of right. Sir Giles had lived his life and had all its good things, and there was no advantage to him or to any one in his continuance; whereas Gervase, Gervase! He, poor fellow, had it in his power to make his wife Lady Piercey, to secure her position so that nobody could touch it. And it was he that had gone, and not his father! Patty wept very real tears as she drove slowly home alone – real! they were tears of fire, and made her eyelids burn. Oh, how different from the last time when she drove along that same road, thrust in anyhow, clambering up without a hand to help her, sitting by Dunning’s side – but with all the world before her, and the sense of a coming triumph in her veins! Patty did not deceive herself about her position now. A son’s widow is a very different thing from a son’s wife. The latter must be received, and has her certain place; the other is a mere dependant, to be neglected at pleasure. And it all rested with Sir Giles what was to become of her. He might keep her there as the mistress of his house, or he might make her a little allowance and send her away, desiring to see no more of her. Patty was altogether dependent, she felt, on the caprice of the old man. She had as good as nobody but he in the world, for she said to herself that nothing would induce her ever to speak to her father again, who had murdered Gervase and all her hopes. She would never look at him with her free will, never speak to him. That he should have dared to come to the funeral was a sin the more. Never, never! Patty said to herself she would rather go out to service, rather starve! These five months had placed a gulf between her and the Seven Thorns which nothing could ever bridge over. If it was suggested to her that she should return home, as young widows often do, she would say that she had no home, and it would be true. She would rather be a servant, rather starve!
And then her mind went back to Sir Giles. What would he do with her? The old man liked her, she felt sure. And she had been good to him. Whatever her motives had been, whether they would bear scrutiny or not, she had been good to him. She had kept pain away from him as far as she could. She had taken care of all his comforts. She had not permitted him to be disturbed. Dunning and all the rest would have thought it essential that he should go to the funeral and undergo all the misery and excitement of that ceremony. But Patty had prevented that. He had reason to be grateful to her; but would he be grateful? This was the tremendous question. Would he keep her there as the mistress of his house, or would he send her away? Patty had in her jewel-case, carefully locked up, a letter from Margaret Osborne to her uncle, which she thought it wisest to keep back. If Sir Giles received it, it might make him think that Mrs. Osborne was the best mistress for his house, which she was not, Patty felt sure. She put it aside, saying to herself that some time, when the excitement was over and everything had settled down, she would give it – but not now: to what purpose now? Poor Sir Giles wanted to forget his trouble, not to have it forced upon him by condolences. Margaret had written to Patty also a short note full of sorrow for poor Gervase, and asking whether it would be desirable that she should come to Greyshott for his funeral; to which Patty had replied explaining that everything was to be very quiet in consequence of the condition of “dear papa.” “It is he that must be considered in everything,” Patty wrote; “I have the doctor’s orders to keep him as much as possible from all emotion. I will bury my dear husband myself. Nobody else, as you know, has ever been very fond of him, and I shall not ask anybody to come for the form’s sake. If possible, dear papa is not to be told even the day. He is very broken and miserable, but when he is let alone and not reminded, he forgets.” Margaret had accepted this as a refusal of her visit, and she had asked no more. It would have been a painful visit in any case. Colonel Piercey was abroad. There were, therefore, no relations to come to make the occasion more difficult for Patty, and yet there had been no want of “respect.” The county magnates had all attended the melancholy funeral – where the young wife alone was chief mourner. “Why did not Margaret come?” they all asked, and blamed her. But a feeling of sympathy arose for Patty all over the neighbourhood. The doctor spoke with enthusiasm of her devotion as a nurse, and her intelligence and understanding. Poor thing! Poor thing! Whatever her antecedents had been, and however she had acquired that place, she had certainly behaved very well; and now what was to become of her? people asked with pity. It was assumed that she would return to her friends, as other young widows did – though not in this case to her father’s house.
If they had but known how anxiously she was herself debating that question as she drove along in her crape and her woe, with the blinds down, and every symptom of desolation! Dunning had not allowed his master to dine out of his own rooms, or to indulge in any diversion in the evening, since the death of his son. If other people did not know or care what was right, Dunning did, and at all events poor Mr. Gervase should be respected in his own house as long as he lay there. Above all, on the evening of the funeral day, Dunning was determined there should be no relaxation of that rule. He was disposed to think, as were the rest of the servants, that Patty’s reign was over; but the others were more wary than Dunning, and did not show any signs of emancipation as yet. He did so with premature exultation, rejecting almost roughly her suggestion that Sir Giles should dine as usual on that gloomy evening. “Master’s not equal to it,” said Dunning, “and if he was he didn’t ought to be. I don’t hold with folks that dance and sing the day they’ve put their belongings in the grave – or eat and drink, it’s just the same.”
“You forget what the doctor says, that nothing must be allowed to upset him. I hope you don’t talk to Sir Giles on – melancholy subjects,” Patty said, with all the dignity of her widow’s cap.
“I don’t know what subjects there can be but melancholic subjects in this ’ouse of mournin’,” Dunning said.
“Then I will come and see him myself,” said Patty. She went to Sir Giles’ room accordingly, after his too simple dinner had been swallowed, and devoted herself to him.
“I think we’ll send Dunning away for a little, dear papa,” she said. “We have things to talk of, haven’t we? – and Dunning has been on duty a long time, and a little society will make him more cheerful.”
“I beg your pardon, Sir Giles,” said Dunning, “but whatever some folks may think I don’t ’old with being cheerful, not on the day of a funeral.”
“What does he say, my dear? what does he say?” said Sir Giles. “But look you here, Dunning, whatever it is I won’t have Mrs. Piercey contradicted. Do you hear, sir? Do as Mrs. Piercey tells you,” and he struck his stick upon the floor.
Dunning in consternation withdrew, for when Sir Giles was roused he was not to be trifled with.
“She’s found out some d – d trick to come over the old man,” he said in the housekeeper’s room to which he retired. But this was a mistake; for it was Sir Giles himself who had invented the trick. He turned to Patty with great tenderness when the man disappeared, and took her by both hands and drew her to a chair beside him.
“My dear,” he said, “I’ve forgotten, like an old sinner, what Meg Osborne told me. I’ve been allowing you to do all sorts of things and wear yourself out. But it sha’n’t happen again, it sha’n’t happen again. Now that my poor dear boy is gone we must be more careful than ever – for it’s our last hope both for you and for me to have an heir for the old house.”
CHAPTER XXXVIII
It was Sir Giles himself who had found this charm which had so great an effect on the after-history of Greyshott. Patty, among other qualities which were not so praiseworthy, had the almost fierce modesty of the young Englishwoman, and would not have spoken on such a subject to a man, even so harmless a person as an old man like Sir Giles, for any inducement. She did not even understand what he meant at first, and the same impulse of farouche modesty made her ashamed to explain, or do more than blush deeply and remonstrate, “Oh, dear papa!” as she would have done probably in any case, whether his supposition had been false or true. The old gentleman in his melancholy and confused musings over Gervase, had suddenly remembered, the thought being recalled by some merest trifle of association, the hurrahs of little Osy which had mingled with his own feeble cheer on some forgotten occasion. He remembered it suddenly as the strangest contrast to his feelings now. What had the old father, desolate and childless, to cheer about? What had he heard that could have produced that cheer? It was when Meg was going away – when she had told him she was going to take Osy away from him. That was nothing to cheer about. What was it that had made him forget Osy, but which the dear little fellow had caught up and shouted over, though it was an unkindness to himself? and then he recollected all at once. What Mrs. Osborne had said had been the most common and ordinary wish that children might arise in the old house, which was the most natural thing, the most certainly to be expected. She had meant no more: but Sir Giles had at once attributed to Meg a knowledge which was at the moment impossible, without reflecting either that she was the last person to receive the confidence of Patty. He forgot now that it was months since this had been said, and only remembered that it had been said, and that the prospect was like life from death. Life from death! That was what it would be – from his dead son an heir, in whom the old house might blossom and grow glad again. He took up the idea where he had dropped it with a sudden exhilaration which drove away all sorrow. An heir to the old house, a thing all made of hope, with none of poor Gervase’s deficiencies, a being whom the old man fondly hoped to “make a man of” even yet before he died.
And it would not be too much to say that the first feeling of Patty, when she understood what the old gentleman meant, was one of consternation. She did not know how to answer him, how to tell him that she had no such hope. Her lips were closed partly by the tradition of silence on such subjects which an unsophisticated Englishwoman seldom surmounts, and partly because she was so utterly astonished and taken aback by the suggestion. She did not even see the advantage in it, nor how it placed this feeble old man whose life hung on a thread in her hands. It was not till after she had left him and was alone, and could think, that these advantages occurred to Patty; and there was probably no suggestion of a treacherous kind which it would have seemed to her so impossible to make use of. The scruples of life are very much things of circumstance, that seeming quite legitimate and right to one which is the height of immodesty and indelicacy to another. Patty had one distinct object in her mind, now that all her hopes were over, which was to induce her father-in-law, by whatever means were possible, to make a provision for her. He was really, she felt, the only one to whom she could now cling, her sole support and protection, and she meant to be also his protector, to take care of him as he had never been taken care of before. All this she steadfastly intended, meaning nothing but good to the ailing and desolate old man; but she also intended that he should provide for her, as was her right as his son’s wife. Should Sir Giles die at the present moment, Patty was strongly and painfully aware that she would be in no way the better for having taken that step which had seemed so prodigious a one, which had raised her so high above all her antecedents and belongings, by becoming Gervase Piercey’s wife. She was Mrs. Piercey, but she was without a penny, poorer by the burden of that name than Patty Hewitt could ever have been. Her first duty, her first determination was to be provided for, in whatever manner it might be most possible to do that. But it is only just to her to say that this way of influencing her father-in-law, and of moving him to do what she wished, had never occurred to her, and even when thus suggested it was very repugnant to her – the last thing she desired to do. But Patty, shut up in her room of widowhood and mourning, with her cap with its long, white streamers visible upon the table, and everything black about her, even the dressing-gown which she had put on to sit by the fire, and her mind so alert and unfatigued going over everything, speculating how best to pluck from the nettle danger the flower of safety, could not shut out the suggestion from her thoughts. It might even yet prove to be so, she said to herself, blushing hotly, even though she was alone. And if not, why shouldn’t she permit Sir Giles to think so? It would give him a great deal of pleasure, poor old gentleman. It would tide him over the worst time, the immediate crisis of his son’s death, and it would double her every claim upon him, and make it more than ever necessary that he should put her at once beyond the reach of want or suffering of any kind. Still, it was with reluctance that she accepted this weapon which had been thrust into her hand.
Sir Giles could not get his new discovery out of his head. He told Dunning of it before he went to bed. It was whispered all through the house in the morning; and though some of the women scoffed and declared it to be an invention, yet it was, of course, the most natural idea in the world. From Patty not a word came, either in assertion or denial. She said nothing; she understood no hints; she never allowed herself to be betrayed into reference to her supposed hopes. Sir Giles alone talked to her on the subject with joyous laughter and chuckles, and a loudly expressed determination that she should be obeyed and not contradicted, which was of priceless value to Patty, at the moment when her sway was a little uncertain, and when expectation was strong in the household that she should be displaced and Mrs. Osborne sent for in her place. The household by no means desired Mrs. Osborne in Patty’s place. Margaret had been too much and too long a dependant to be popular among the servants; and Patty, who was so peremptory, who had acted upon her convictions, and managed to turn out everybody whom she feared or disliked, had powerful recommendations in her imperious authority. She meant what she said, and could not be driven or persuaded out of it; and she knew when work was well done, and gave the capable housemaid or cleaner of plate the praise which was his or her due. And she was not unjust, save in the case of personal disrespect to herself, which she never pardoned – a quality which the servants’ hall entirely approved. Mrs. Osborne could be got to “look over” anything by judicious entreaty or representation, especially if it was a mere offence against herself, and was less respected and considered in consequence. It was not, therefore, in any way desired that she should take up the reins; yet, all the same, it made a great difference to Patty that Sir Giles had taken it into his head that she must not be contradicted. It established her once more firmly in her seat.
And the little group in the great drawing-room in the evening was all the more cheerful in consequence. It was, to look at, a forlorn group enough: the old gentleman, more feeble than ever, with Dunning behind his chair, ready to move it according to his caprice, and the young widow in her deep crape, a black spot upon the white and gold of the room. Patty had been requested by Sir Giles to “take that thing off her head,” and did so obediently in her father-in-law’s presence, though she was far too determined to do her duty by her dead husband to dispense with that symbol of grief on any other occasion. They sat with the backgammon-board between them, playing game after game. There was in Patty’s mind unutterable relief from the misery and suspense which she had suffered in Gervase’s lifetime; but other thoughts, scarcely less anxious, occupied her fully. Yet she talked to the old gentleman with an endeavour to please and amuse him which was heroic. It was a great strain upon Patty. She could talk of herself without difficulty; she could have talked, had she thought it expedient, of her father and aunt, and their sins against her; she could have talked of Gervase; but these subjects being all tabooed, it was very hard upon Patty to find anything to say. She knew nobody whom Sir Giles knew. She could not tell him the news, for she knew none, except the affairs of the village, which interested herself, and which she seized on greedily from every possible channel. But Patty could not talk on any other subject. She had to talk about the backgammon, to remind him of the wonderful stroke he had played last night, and the wonderful luck he had always; and how it was such an amazing chance for her to play, a poor ignorant thing as she was, with such an accomplished player as dear papa. This was but a scanty thread to spin through night after night, and had it not been made up so much of applause it is very doubtful how long it would have sufficed. But there is nothing of which the ordinary mind can swallow so much as praise; and when the interest of life is reduced to a game, the player thinks as much of his lucky chances and his skilful movements as if it were something of the highest importance; so that, on the whole, this talk did very well and kept them going. But still Patty had not ventured to introduce her great subject – that provision for herself which she felt became more and more important every day; for who could tell whether any morning Sir Giles might not be found to have passed away from this life altogether, or to be enclosed in the living tomb of paralysis, unable to act or devise anything more.
Lady Hartmore did not call next day as her lord had promised, but she did call, and was received by Patty in full panoply of mourning and with a heart that beat loudly with suppressed excitement. Lady Hartmore was neither so much touched by the sight of the young widow, nor so sympathetic as her husband had been. She examined Patty curiously, with searching eyes, full not only of the superciliousness of rank, but of the experience of a much older woman, which Mrs. Gervase would have opposed with defiance, but for the false pretence which, though she had never put it forth, and though it had arisen most innocently, gave her something of a sensation of guilt. This, however, though Patty was not aware of it, did her service with the great lady. It subdued her natural determination, and gave an apparent softness to her aspect which did not belong to it by nature. Lady Hartmore put a great many questions to the young widow: did she think of remaining at Greyshott, which must be so melancholy a place nowadays? did she think this last shock had very much shaken Sir Giles? did she not feel it a great responsibility to be left in charge of him? and many other such questions. To these Patty replied very properly that she could not possibly leave Sir Giles alone; that he had been very kind to her, like a father, and that nothing would induce her to desert him; that he was very well on the whole, “quite himself,” and that she tried to be as cheerful as she could on his account. She took no notice of the question about leaving Greyshott. It was not indeed necessary to reply to it, when she had already made that answer about the impossibility of leaving Sir Giles.
“But you must want somebody to speak to, – somebody to take care of you, too,” said the great lady, meaning more than she said.
“Oh, no,” said Patty; “I have always had very good health, I have never been delicate. I am very fond of my dear father-in-law. He does not want very much – he is very easily amused, and so kind, always so kind. We do very well all by ourselves – as well,” Patty added, with a sigh, “as in the circumstances we could possibly do.”
What could any one say to such perfect sentiments? Lady Hartmore was baffled in her inquisitions. “Still,” she said, “I should have thought that some one who was a relation – some one of your own family – a woman to speak to – ”
“I am sure,” said Patty, “that Lady Hartmore knows my family are not likely to be welcome at Greyshott; and I have but an old aunt who was never married, and therefore has no experience.” She blushed as she said this, and Lady Hartmore was very quick to take up the inference for which she was prepared. But Patty was too wise to be led into any further disclosures or to answer any of the searching questions which her ladyship proceeded to put.
“How did you find the poor thing?” her husband asked when he joined her in the carriage – for Lord Hartmore had visited Sir Giles while Lady Hartmore thus did her duty by Patty.
“I found the poor thing very well and extremely well able to take care of herself,” said the lady. “I don’t think you need waste so much sympathy upon her.” But Lord Hartmore was full of feeling, and could not be persuaded to take this view.
“The poor old fellow is quite exultant,” he said. “It is a wonderful blessing for him, whatever you may think of it in any other connection. It has given him a new lease.”
“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Lady Hartmore.
“Oh, come!” cried her husband. “It is one thing to trust your own judgment, which is an excellent one, I don’t gainsay it – but quite another to set it up against those who must know the facts best. By the way, he bewildered me by saying Meg told him. Has Meg been here?”
