PATTY’S ambitious schemes were crowned with complete success, and the poor Softy was made the happiest and most triumphant man in the world, on the day on which his mother was taken ill. Was it some mysterious impalpable movement in the air that conveyed to Lady Piercey’s brain a troubled impression of what was taking place to her only son? But this is what no one can tell. As for Gervase, his triumph, his rapture, his sense of emancipation, could not be described. He was wild with pleasure and victory. The sharp-witted, clear-headed girl, who had carried out the whole plot, was at last overborne and subjugated by the passion she had roused, and for a time was afraid of Gervase. She had a panic lest his feeble head might give way altogether under such excitement, and she be left in the hands of a madman. Luckily this wild fit did not last long, and Patty gradually brought the savage, which was latent in his undeveloped nature, into control. But she had got a fright, and was still a little afraid of him when the week was over, and her plans were laid for the triumphant return home. She had written to her aunt on the day of her marriage, proclaiming the proud fact, and signing her letter, not with her Christian name, but that of Mrs. Gervase Piercey, in her pride and triumph. Mrs. Gervase Piercey! That she was now, let them rave as they pleased! Nobody could undo what Aunt Patience’s fifty pounds had done. Those whom God had joined together—or was it not rather Miss Hewitt, of Rose Cottage, and ambition and revenge? Patty, however, had no intentions appropriate to such motives in her mind. She was not revolted by the passion of Gervase, as another woman might have been. She felt it to be a compliment more or less; his noise and uproariousness, so that he could scarcely walk along a street without shoutings and loud laughter, did not in the least trouble her. She subdued him by degrees, bidding him look how people stared, and frightening him with the suggestion that the world in general might think him off his head, and carry him off from her, if he did not learn to suppress these vociferous evidences of his happiness: a suggestion which had a great effect upon Gervase, and made him follow her about meekly afterwards to all the sights which she thought it necessary in this wonderful holiday to see. She took him to the Zoological Gardens, which he enjoyed immensely, dragging her about from one cage to another, not letting her off a single particular. They saw the lions fed, they gave buns to the bears, they rode like a couple of children upon the camels and the elephant. Gervase drank deep of every pleasure which the resources of that Garden of Eden permitted. He had not been there since he was a child, and everything was delightful to him. The success was not so great when Patty took him to St Paul’s and the Tower, which she considered to be fashionable resorts, where a bride and her finery ought to be seen, and where Gervase walked about gaping, asking like a child at church when he could get out? Nor at the theatre, where Patty, instructed by the novels she had read, secured a box, and appeared in full costume, with that intoxicating proof that she was now a fine lady and member of the aristocracy, a low dress—and with an opera-glass wherewith to scan the faces and dresses of the other distinguished occupants of boxes. She was herself surprised at various things which she had not learnt from books—the unimpressive character of the ladies’ dresses, and the manner in which they gazed down into what she believed to be the pit, a part of the house which she regarded with scorn. It was not a fashionable house, for to Patty, naturally, a theatre was a theatre, wherever situated; but it was disappointing not to see the flashing of diamonds which she had expected, nor to have other opera-glasses fixed upon herself as a new appearance in the world of fashion, which was what she looked for. And Gervase was very troublesome in the theatre. He kept asking her what those people were doing on the stage, what all that talking was about, and when it would be time to go away. When the merchant of ices and other light refections came round, Gervase was delighted, and even Patty felt that an ice in her box at the theatre was great grandeur; but she was discouraged when she saw that it was not a common indulgence, and that Gervase, peeling and eating oranges, and flinging them about, attracted an attention which was not that sentiment of mingled admiration and envy which Patty hoped to excite. A few experiences of this kind opened her sharp eyes to many things, and reduced the rapture with which she had looked forward to her entry into town as Mrs. Gervase Piercey. But these disenchantments, and scraps of talk which her sharp ears picked up and her still sharper imagination assimilated, suggested to her another kind of operation next time, and left her full of anticipations and the conviction that it only wanted a little preparation, a little guidance, to ensure her perfect triumph.
This strange pair had what seemed to Patty boundless funds for their week in town. Twenty pounds over of Aunt Patience’s gift after paying the expenses of the marriage, had seemed enough for the wildest desires; but when there was added to that twenty pounds more, his mother’s last gift to Gervase, she felt that their wealth was fabulous; far, far too much to expend upon personal pleasure or sightseeing. She permitted herself to buy a dress or two, choosing those which were ready made, and of which she could see the effect at once, both on herself and the elegant young lady who sold them to her; and she put aside a ten-pound note carefully, in case of any emergency. On the whole, however, it was a relief to both parties when they went home, though it took some trouble to convince Gervase that he could not go back to the Manor, leaving his wife at the Seven Thorns. He was not pleased to be told that he too must go and live at the Seven Thorns: “Why, that’s what mother said—and draw the beer!” he cried; “but nothing shall make me draw the beer,” cried Gervase. “Nobody asked you,” Patty said, “you goose. We’re going to live in the west rooms, a beautiful set of rooms that I put all ready, where there’s a nice sofa for you to lie on, and nice windows to look out of and see everything that comes along the road—not like Greyshott, where you never see nothing—the carts and the carriages and the vans going to the fairs, and Punch and Judy, and I can’t tell you all what.” “Well,” said Gervase, “you can stay there, and I’ll come to see you every day; but I must go home.” “What, leave me! and us but a week married!” cried Patty. She made him falter in his resolution, confused with the idea of an arrangement of affairs unfamiliar to him, and at last induced him to consent to go to the Seven Thorns with her on conditions, strenuously insisted upon, that he was not to be made to draw beer. But Gervase did not feel easy on this subject, even when he was taken by the new side-door into the separate suite of apartments which Patty had prepared with so much trouble. When old Hewitt appeared he took care to entrench himself behind his wife.
“I’ll have nothing to do with the beer or the customers, mind you,” he cried nervously. Nobody, however, made any account of Gervase in that wonderful moment of Patty’s return.
“What! it’s you as is the new married couple? and you’ve gone and married ’im?” cried Hewitt, with a tone of indescribable contempt.
“Yes, father! and I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head; I’ve married him, and I mean to take care of him,” Patty cried, tossing her head.
Old Hewitt laughed a low, long laugh. His mental processes were slow, and the sight of the Softy with his daughter had startled him much; for notwithstanding all that had been said on this subject he had not believed in it seriously. Now, however, that it dawned upon him what had really happened, that his child, his daughter, was actually Mrs. Gervase Piercey, a slow sensation of pride and victory arose in his bosom too. His girl to be Lady Piercey in her time, and drive in a grand carriage, and live in a grand house! The Hewitts were a fine old family, but they had never kept their carriage and pair. A one-horse shay had been the utmost length to which they had gone. Now Patty—Patty, the child! who had always done his accounts and kept his customers in order—Patty, his own girl, was destined to the glory of riding behind two horses and being called “my lady.” The thought made him burst into a long, rumbling subterraneous laugh. Our Patty! it did not seem possible that it could be true.
“That reminds me,” he said a moment after, turning suddenly grave. He called his daughter apart, beckoning with his finger.
Gervase by this time was lolling half out of the open window, delightedly counting the vehicles in sight. “Farmer Golightly’s tax cart, and Jim Mason’s big waggon, and the parson’s pony chaise, and a fly up from the station,” he cried: “it’s livelier than London. Patty, Patty, come and look here.” Gervase turned round, and saw his wife and her father with grave faces consulting together, and relapsed into absolute quiet, effacing himself behind the fluttering curtains with the intention of stealing out of the room as soon as he could and getting away. His mother’s threat about drawing the beer haunted him. Could not she, who could do most things, make that threat come true?
“Patty,” said old Hewitt, “you’ve done it, and you can’t undo it; but there’ll be ever such a rumpus up there.”
“Of course, I know that,” she said calmly; “I’m ready for them. Let them try all they can, there’s nothing they can do.”
“Patty,” said the old innkeeper again, “I’ve something to tell you as you ain’t a-thinking of. About ’Er,” he said, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder.
“What about her? I know she’s my enemy; but you needn’t be frightened, father. I’ve seen to everything, and there’s nothing she can do.”
“It ain’t that as I want you to think of. It’s more dreadful than that. It’s ‘in the midst of life as we are in death,’ ” said Hewitt. “That sort of thing; and they’ve been a-’unting for ’im far and wide.”
“Lord, father, what do you mean?” Patty caught at a confused idea of Sir Giles’ death, and her heart began to thump against her breast.
Hewitt pointed with his thumb, jerking it again and again over his shoulder. “She’s—she’s—dead,” he said.
“Dead!” said Patty, with a shriek, “who’s dead?”
Hewitt, less aware than she of Gervase’s wandering and unimpressionable mind, shook his head at her, jerking his thumb this time in front of him at the young man lolling out of the window. “Usht, can’t ye? Why, ’Er, ’is mother,” he said, under his breath.
A quick reflection passed through Patty’s mind. “Then, I’m her,” she said to herself, but then remembered that this was not the case that Sir Giles’ death alone could make her Lady Piercey. As this flashed upon her thoughts, a bitter regret came into Patty’s mind—regret, keen as if she had loved her, that Lady Piercey was dead, that she should have been allowed to die. Oh, if she had but known! How quickly would she have brought Gervase back to see his mother! Her triumph, whenever it should come, would be shorn of one of its most poignant pleasures. Lady Piercey would not be there to see it! She could never now be made to come down from her place, made to give up all her privileges to the girl whom she despised. Patty felt so genuine a pang of disappointment that it brought the tears to her eyes. “I must tell him,” she said quickly,—the tears were not without their use, too, and it is not always easy to call them up at will.
“I wouldn’t to-night. Let ’im have ’is first night in peace,” said the innkeeper, “and take ’is beer, and get the good of it like any other man.”
“Go down, perhaps you think, to your men in the parlour, and smoke with them, and drink with them, and give you the chance to say as he’s your son-in-law? and his mother lying dead all the time. No, father, not if I know it,” cried Patty, and she gave her head a very decided nod. “I know what I’m about,” she added; “I know exactly what he’s going to do. So, father, you may go, and you can tell ’Liza that we’ll now have tea.”
“I tell ’Liza! I’ll do none of your dirty errands,” said old Hewitt; but his indignation answered Patty’s purpose, who was glad to get rid of him, in order that her own duty might be performed. She went forward to the window where Gervase was sitting, and linked her arm in his, not without some resistance on the part of the Softy, who was wholly occupied with his new pleasure.
“Let alone, I tell you, Pat! One white horse on the off side, that counts five for me; and a whole team of black ’uns for the other fellow. Where’s all those black horses come from, I should like to know?”
“Gervase dear, don’t you do it; don’t make a game with the black horses. It’s dreadful unlucky. They’re for a funeral, come from town on purpose. And oh! Gervase dear, do listen to me! for whose funeral do you suppose?”
“Is it a riddle?” said Gervase, showing his teeth from ear to ear.
“Oh hush, hush, there’s a good boy! It’s not like you to make a joke of such dreadful things.”
“Why can’t you say then what it is, and have done with it?” Gervase said.
“That’s just one of the sensible things you say when you please. Gervase—you remember your mother?”
“I remember my mother? I should think I remembered my mother. You know it’s only a week to-day—or was it yesterday?”
“It was yesterday. You might remember the day you were married, I think, without asking me,” said Patty, with spirit. “Well, then, you parted from her that day. She wasn’t ill then, was she, dear?”
Upon which Gervase laughed. “Mother’s always ill,” he said. “She has such health you never know when she’s well, or, at least, so she says. It’s in her head, or her liver, or her big toe. No!” he cried, with another great laugh, “it’s father as has the devil in his big toe.”
“Gervase, do be serious for a moment. Your mother has been very ill, dreadful bad, and we never knew——”
“I told you,” he said calmly, “she’s always bad; and you can never tell from one day to another, trust herself, when she mayn’t die.”
“Oh, Gervase,” cried Patty, holding his arm with both her hands: “you are fond of her a little bit, ain’t you, dear? She’s your mother, though she hasn’t been very nice to me.”
“Lord,” cried Gervase, “how she will jump when she knows that I’m here, and on my own hook, and have got a wife of my own! Mind, it is you that have got to tell her, and not me.”
“A wife that will always try to be a comfort to you,” said Patty. “Oh, my poor dear boy! Gervase, your poor mother (remember that I’m here to take care of you whatever happens),—Gervase, your mother will never need to be told. She’s dead and gone, poor lady, she’s dead and gone!”
Gervase stared at her, and again opened his mouth in a great laugh. “That’s one of your dashed stories,” he said.
“It isn’t a story at all, it’s quite true. She had a stroke that very day. Fancy, just the very day when we—— And we never heard a word. If we had heard I should have been the very first to bring you home.”
“What good would that have done?” Gervase said sullenly, “we were better where we were.”
“Not and her dying, and wanting her son.”
Gervase was cowed and troubled by the news, which gave him a shock which he could not understand. It made him sullen and difficult to manage. “You’re playing off one of your jokes upon me,” he said.
“I playing a joke! I’d have found something better than a funeral to joke about. Gervase, we have just come back in time. The funeral’s to-morrow, and oh! I’m so thankful we came home. I’m going to send for Sally Fletcher to make me up some nice deep mourning with crape, like a lady wears for her own mother.”
“She was no mother of yours,” said Gervase, with a frown.
“No; nor she didn’t behave like one: but being her son’s wife and one that is to succeed her, I must get my mourning deep; and you and me, we’ll go. We’ll walk next to Sir Giles, as chief mourners,” she said.
Gervase gave a lowering look at her, and then he turned away to the open window, to count as he had been doing before, but in changing tones, the white horses and the brown.