COLONEL PIERCEY arrived next day in the afternoon, Gervase having gone away in a state of the most uproarious spirits in the morning. Margaret had been made to accompany him to the railway, to see that his ticket was taken properly, and that he got the right train, and was not too late so as to miss it, or too early so as to be lingering about the station; in which latter circumstance it seemed quite possible to his mother that “that girl” might become aware that her prey was slipping from her fingers, and appear upon the scene to recover him. She might save herself the trouble, Lady Piercey thought, for the boy’s brain was full of London, and a country lass was not likely to get much hold of him; but still, it’s best to be on the safe side. No suggestion of Patty’s real intentions had occurred to any one; not even in the Seven Thorns, where they suspected much less than at Greyshott. In the little inn it was supposed that the Softy had been, after all, too clever for her, and had got clean away; and in the Manor it was also believed that he had escaped from her vulgar attractions. He had got London in his blood, he was thinking of how to enjoy himself as much as he was capable of thinking of anything, and the Rev. Gregson would take care of that, his mother reflected with a grim smile. And to have him safely away, transferred to some one else’s responsibility, no longer for the moment a trouble to any one belonging to him, filled Greyshott in general, and his parents in particular, with a heavenly calm. The only one who was not perfectly at ease was Mrs. Osborne, who endeavoured in vain to make out what he meant by many of his broken expressions. Margaret was sure that Gervase meant something which was not suspected by his family: but she, too, believed that he had somehow cut himself adrift from Patty, and that whatever his meaning was, in that quarter he was safe; which showed that though she was very different from the rest of the household, her mind, even when awakened into some anxiety and alarm, had little more insight than theirs.
She was met upon the road by Osy and his nurse, and the little boy was delighted to be lifted into the carriage, an unusual privilege. His chatter was sweet to his mother’s ears. It delivered her for the moment from those anxieties which were not hers, which she was compelled to share without any right to them; without being permitted any real interest. Osy was her refuge, the safeguard of her individuality as a living woman with concerns and sentiments of her own. To put her arms round him, to hear the sound of his little babbling voice, was enough at first; and then she awoke with a start to the consciousness that Osy was saying something in which there was not only meaning, but a significance of a most alarming kind—“Movver, Movver!” the little boy had been saying, calling her attention, which was so satisfied with him, that it was scarcely open to what he said. He beat upon her knee with his little fist, then climbed up on the seat and seized her by the chin—a favourite mode he had of demanding to be listened to: “Movver! has Cousin Gervase don to be marrwed? Where has he don to be marrwed—tell me; tell me, Movver!”
Mrs. Osborne started with a sudden perception of what he meant at last. “Osy, you must not be so silly; Gervase has gone to London to see all the fine things—the shops, don’t you remember? and the theatres, and the beautiful horses, and the beautiful ladies in the park.”
“Yes, I wemember; there was one beau’ful lady with an organ, that singed in the street. But you said I couldn’t marrwey her, I was too little. Will Cousin Gervase marrwey a lady like that?”
“Hush, child! he is not going to marry at all.”
“Oh yes, yes, Movver! for he telled me. He made me dive him my big silver penny that Uncle Giles dave me, and he said, ‘I’m doing to be marrwed, Osy.’ I dave it to him for a wedding present, like you dave Miss Dohnson your silver bells.”
“Osy, don’t say such things! It is nurse that has put this nonsense into your head.”
“ ’Tisn’t nurse, and ’tisn’t nonsense, Movver!” cried the child with indignation. “Will he bring home the beau’ful lady, or will he do away with her, and live in another place? I hope he will go and live in another place.”
“Osy, this is all an invention, my little boy. You must be dreaming. Don’t say such things before any one, or you will make Uncle Giles and Aunt Piercey very unhappy. It is one of your little stories that you make up.”
“It isn’t no story, Movver! I never make up stories about Cousin Gervase; and he tooked my big silver penny, and then I dave it him for a wedding present; for he said ‘I’m doing to be marrwed.’ He did; he did—Movver! I hope he’ll do away and live in another house. I dave it to him,” said Osy, with a little moisture on his eyelashes. “But he tooked it first. It was my big, big, silver penny, that is worth a great lot. I hope——”
“Hush, Osy: don’t you know, my little boy, that Cousin Gervase is to his mother what you are to me? She would not like him to go away.”
“I heard Uncle Giles say, ‘T’ank God, we’ve dot a little time to breathe,’ and Aunt Piercey dave a great, great, big puff, and sat down as if she was t’ankful, too. It is only you, Movver, that looks sad.”
“Osy, did you ever hear of the little pitchers that have long ears?”
“I know what it means, too,” said the child. “It means me; but I tan’t help it when people say fings. Movver, are you fond of Cousin Gervase, that you looks like that? like you were doing to cry?”
Was she fond of Gervase, poor boy? Margaret could not even claim that excuse for being sad. Was she fond of any of the people by whom she was surrounded, who held her in subjection? At least, she was terribly perturbed by the cloud that hung over them—the possible trouble that was about to befall them. Poor Gervase was not very much to build hopes or wishes upon, but he was all they had; and if it were possible that he was meditating any such steps, what a terrible blow for his father and mother!—a stroke which they would feel to the bottom of their hearts. For himself, was it, indeed, so sad? Was it not, perhaps, the best thing he could do? Her mind went over the possibilities as by a lightning flash. Patty—if it was Patty—if there was anything in it—was probably the best wife he could get. She was energetic and determined; she would take care of him for her own sake. And who else would marry the Softy? Margaret’s mind leapt on further to possible results, and to a sudden perception that little Osy, had he ever had any chance of succession, would be hopelessly set aside by this step, and the only possible reward of her own slavery be swept from her horizon. This forced itself upon her, through the crowd of other thoughts, with a chill to her heart. But what chance had Osy ever had? And who could put any confidence in the statement of Gervase to the child? Perhaps it was only “his fun.” The little theft of the money was nothing remarkable; for Gervase, who never had any money, was always on the look-out for unconsidered trifles, which he borrowed eagerly. Perhaps this was all. Perhaps the half-witted young man meant nothing but a joke—one of his kind of jokes—for why should he have betrayed himself to little Osy? On the other hand, there were those allusions to some one who was to meet him, which he had laughed at so boisterously, and which she could not imagine referred to Dr. Gregson. Margaret’s bewilderment grew greater the more she thought.
“Osy,” she said, as they turned up the avenue, “you must forget all this, for it is nonsense.”
“About my big, big, silver penny?” said the child, the water now standing in his eyes; for the more he thought of his loss, which he had carried off in childish pride with a high hand at first, the more Osy felt it. “It is not nonsense, Movver,” he said, “for it is true.”
“About what Cousin Gervase said? It was very wrong of him, but that is not true, Osy. He must have said it for a joke. Don’t say anything. Promise me, dear! Not a word.”
“Not to you, Movver?” said the little boy, two big tears dropping from his eyes; “for I tan’t, tan’t bear to lose my silver penny, and I would not mind if it was a wedding present. I want my silver penny back!”
“We’ll find you another one, dear, that will be just as good.”
“But it won’t be my own one, and I want my own one,” Osy said. He was still sobbing with long-drawn childish reverberation of woe when they got to the door; but there he took a great resolution. “I’ll fink it was a wedding present,” he cried, “and then I sha’n’t mind. I’ll fink he is going to be marrwed, and I’ll never say a word, because nobody knows but me.”
This valorous resolve exercised a great control, and yet was very hard to keep up during the long afternoon which followed. It rained in the later part of the day, and Sir Giles could not go out, so that Osy, restored to all the privileges which had been a little curtailed during Gervase’s temporary reign, became once more a leading member of the party. And how often that important secret came bursting to the little fellow’s lips! But he kept his word, like a gentleman. Margaret heard him singing it to himself as he capered about the room on Sir Giles’ stick, “Doing to be marrwed, doing to be marrwed,” which relieved his mind without betraying his knowledge. It even attracted Sir Giles’ attention, who called to him to know what he was singing.
“It’s a silly rhyme he has just picked up,” said Margaret, interposing, which was a thing the old people did not like.
“He can tell me himself,” said Sir Giles; “he’s quite clever enough.”
“No, it isn’t a silly rhyme,” said little Osy; “it’s me myself, that am a gweat prince riding upon a noble steed, and I’m doing to be marrwed—I’m doing to be marrwed!”
“And who’s the bride, Osy; who’s the bride?” said Sir Giles, in high good humour.
“It is a beau’ful lady in London that singed in the streets, with a big napkin on her head. But Movver said I was too little to marrwey her. I’m a man now, and a soldier and a gweat, gweat knight; and I can marrwey any one I please.”
“That’s the thing!” said old Sir Giles; “don’t you be tied to your mother’s apron-strings, my boy. The ladies always want to rule over us men, don’t they? and some of us must make a stand, you know.” The old gentleman laughed at his joke till he cried, the old lady sitting grimly by. But she, too, smiled upon the little rebel: “You’ll not find him such an easy one to guide when he grows up, Meg,” she said, nodding her head. “He’s got the Piercey temper, for all it’s so amusing now. It ain’t amusing when they grow up,” said Lady Piercey, shaking her head. But she, too, encouraged Osy to defy his mother. He was a pretty sight careering round the dim library like a stray sunbeam, his little laughing face flushed with play and praise. Had the child been clever enough to invent that little fiction, innocent baby as he looked?—or had he really forgotten, as children will, and believed himself the hero of his little song? But this was one of the mysteries that seven years can hide from everybody as well as seventy, and Margaret could not tell. Now that Gervase was gone the boy seemed to fall into his place again, the darling of everybody, the centre of all their thoughts. And who could tell what might happen? Osy was not the next in succession, but he was not far out of the line. Margaret tried to put all such thoughts out of her mind, but it was difficult to do so, with the sight of Osy’s triumph and sway over them—two old people who were so fond of him and could do so much for him—before their eyes.
There came a moment, however, no further off than that evening, when every furtive hope of this description died at a blow out of Margaret Osborne’s heart. It was not that Osy was less admired and petted, or that he had offended or transgressed in any way. It was simply the arrival at Greyshott of Colonel Gerald Piercey that had this effect. It was she who met him first as he came into the hall, springing down from the dogcart that had brought him from the station, and at the first glance her heart had died within her. Not that there was anything alarming in his aspect. He had attained, with his forty years, to an air of distinction which Margaret did not remember in him; and a look of command, of easy superiority, of the habit of being obeyed. This habit is curiously impressive to those who do not possess it. The very sound of his step as he came in was enough. Not a man to lose anything on which his hand had once closed, not one to risk or relinquish his rights, whatever they might be. Osy, by the side of this man! Her hopes, which had never ventured to put themselves into words, died on the moment a natural death. She advanced to meet the stranger, as in duty bound, being the only valid member of the family, and said, holding out her hand with a smile which she felt to be apologetic: “You are welcome to Greyshott, Cousin Gerald. My uncle and aunt are neither of them very well, and Gervase is from home. You don’t remember me. I am Margaret Osborne, your cousin, too.”
“I remember you,” he said, “very well; but pardon me if I did not remember your face. I fear that is a bad compliment for a lady.”
“Not at all,” she said; “a good compliment: for I am more, I hope, than my face.”
He did not understand the look she gave him, a wondering look with an appeal in it. Would he be good to Osy? Margaret felt as if this man were coming in like a conqueror—sweeping all the old, and feeble, and foolish of the house away before him, that he might step in and reign. He, on his side, had no such thought. He had come to pay a duty visit, moved thereto by his father. He had not been at Greyshott for many years; he remembered little, and thought less, of Gervase, who had been a child on his previous visit. That he should ever be master of the place, or sweep anybody away, was far from his thoughts. He followed into the library the slim, serious figure of this middle-aged woman in a black gown, horrified to think that this was Meg Piercey, the lively girl of his recollection. This Meg Piercey! It was true that he remembered her very well, a madcap of a girl, ready for any mischief; but this was certainly not the face he remembered, the young, daring, buoyant figure. It might have wounded Margaret, accustomed as she was to be considered as nobody, if she had been aware of the consternation with which he regarded her. A middle-aged woman! though not so old by a good many years as himself, who was still conscious of being young.
The visit, however, began very successfully. As he had no arrière pensée, he was quite at his ease with the old people whom he neither meant to sweep away nor to succeed. He received, quite naturally, the long and elaborate apologies of Lady Piercey in respect to her son.
“Gervase will be very sorry to miss you, Gerald,—he’s in town; there is not much to amuse a young man in the country at this season of the year. He’s not fond of garden parties and so forth, the only things that are going on, and not many of them yet. He prefers town. Perhaps it isn’t to be wondered at. We have all liked to see a little life in our day.”
What “life” could it have been that Lady Piercey in her day had liked to see? the new-comer asked himself, with an involuntary smile. But he took the explanation with the easiest good humour, thinking no evil.
“Lucky fellow!” he said; “he has the best of it. I was out in India all my young time, and saw only a very different kind of life.”
“Come,” said Sir Giles, “you amuse yourselves pretty well out there. Don’t give yourself airs, Gerald.”
“Oh, yes; we amuse ourselves more or less,” he said, with a pleasant laugh. “Enough to make us envy a young swell like Gervase, who, I suppose, has all the world at his feet and nothing to do.”
There was a strange pause in the room; a sort of furtive look between the ladies; a sound—he could not tell what—from Sir Giles. Colonel Piercey had a faint comprehension that he had, as he said to himself, put his foot in it. What had he said that was not the right thing to say? He caught Margaret’s eye, and there was a warning in it, a sort of appeal; but he had not an idea what its meaning was.
“I am sure,” said Lady Piercey, with a voice out of which she vainly endeavoured to keep the little break and whimper which was habitual to her when she was moved, “my boy might have all the world at his feet—if he was that kind, Gerald. But he’s not that kind; he’s of a different sort. He takes things in a—— in a kind of philosophical way.”
“Humph!” said Sir Giles, pushing back his chair. “Meg, Gerald will not mind if I have my backgammon. I’m an old fogey, you see, my boy, with long days to get through, and not able to get out. I’m past amusement. I only kill the time as well as I can now.”
“I’m very fond of a game of backgammon, too, Uncle Giles.”
“Are you, boy? why, that’s something like. Meg, I’ll give you a holiday. Ladies are very nice, but they never know the rules of a game,” the ungrateful old gentleman said.