Margaret Oliphant - The Cuckoo in the Nest. Volume 1/2

“Yes, Sir Giles,” said Dunning. (“And I’d just like to take it out of him with a cart whip,” he murmured, between his closed teeth.)

Lady Piercey was weeping a little, too, at her window, calming down from her excitement. “How strong he is, bless him, and well-made when he holds himself straight; and wouldn’t harm the child not for the world, or any one that trusts him. Oh, Parsons, what a joyful family we’d be if Master Osy had been my son’s boy!”

“Bless you, my lady, he’s too young to have a boy as big as that.”

“So he is, the dear. If I could live to see him with an heir, Parsons!”

“And why not, my lady? You’re not to call old, and with proper care and taking your medicines regular – one of these days he’ll be bringing home some nice young lady.” (“Some poor creature as will be forced to take ’im, or else Patty of the Seven Thorns,” was Parsons’ comment within herself.)

“And then that poor little darling!” said Lady Piercey, regretfully. “But,” she added with a firmer tone, “Meg spoils the boy to such a degree that he’ll be ruined before he’s a man. Look at her petting him as if he’d been in any danger; but she never had an ounce of sense. Get me my things, Parsons; I’ll go down and sit in the air a bit and talk to my boy.”

Gervase had fallen out of his unusual liveliness before his mother succeeded in reaching the beech avenue, but he came forward at her call, and permitted her to take his arm. “I like to see you in spirits,” the old lady said, “but you mustn’t shake about your father like that. Dunning’s safest for an old man.”

“I’ll drive you out in the phaeton, mother, if you like, this afternoon.”

“No, my dear; I feel safest in the big carriage with the cobs, and old Andrews; but it’s a pleasure to see you in such spirits, Gervase; you’re like my own old boy.”

“You see,” said Gervase, with his imbecile, good-humoured smile, “I’ve promised to do all I can to please you at home.”

“Ah!” cried the old lady, “and who might it be that made you promise that? and why?”

Gervase broke into a laugh. “Wouldn’t you just like to know?” he said.

“Osy,” said Mrs. Osborne, “you mustn’t let cousin Gervase get hold of you like that again.”

“He’s a dood horse,” said the little boy, “when I sit tight. I have to sit vewey tight; but next time I’ll get on him’s both shoulders, and hold him like a real horse. He’s dot a too narrow back, and too far up from the ground.”

“But listen to me, Osy. It makes me too frightened. You mustn’t ride him again.”

“I’ll not wide him if I can help it,” said Osy, reddening with mingled daring and terror, “but he takes me up before I can det far enough off, and I tan’t run away, mamma.”

“But you must run away, Osy, when I tell you.”

The child looked up at her doubtfully. “It was you that told me gemplemens don’t run away.”

“Not before an enemy, or that,” said Margaret, taking refuge in the vague, “but when it’s only for fun, Osy.”

“Fun isn’t never serous, is it, mamma?”

“It would be very serious if you fell from that fo – , from Cousin Gervase’s shoulder, Osy. Go out for a walk this afternoon, dear, with nurse.”

“I don’t like nurse. I like Uncle Giles best. And I’m the outwider, telling all the people he’s toming.”

“You see Uncle Giles has got something else to do.”

Gervase was still in the foreground of the picture, carrying out his consigne . The servant had brought out upon the terrace at the other side of the house a box containing a game of which, in former days, Sir Giles had been fond. It was Gervase who had proposed this diversion to-day. “I’ll play father a game at that spinner thing,” he had said, after the large heavy luncheon, which was Sir Giles’ dinner. “I’d like that, lad,” the old man cried with delight. It was a beautiful afternoon, and nothing could be more charming than the shady terrace on the east side of the house which in these hot July days was always cool. The sunshine played on the roof of the tall house, and fell full on the turf and the shrubs, and the flower garden at the south corner, but on the terrace all was grateful shade. The game was brought out, and many experiments were made to see at what angle Sir Giles could best throw the ball with which it was played – an experiment in which Dunning took more or less interest, seeing it saved him another weary promenade through the grounds, pushing his master’s chair. The carriage was waiting round the corner, and Lady Piercey came sailing downstairs with Parsons behind her carrying a large cloak. “Meg! do you know I’m ready to go out?” cried Lady Piercey, in the tone of that king who had once almost been made to wait. “May I bring Osy, aunt?” cried Margaret. “No,” was the peremptory answer. “I’ll go without you if you don’t be quick.”

“And I don’t want to go, mover,” said Osy. “I’m doing to play with Uncle Giles.”

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