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

“This,” she said, in a low voice, “is the most terrible demonstration of my poverty and helplessness that has ever been made to me – and the most awful suggestion, as of suicide and destruction.”

“Meg!”

“Don’t, don’t interrupt me! It is: I have never known how little good I was before. I don’t know now if it will kill me, or sting me to life; but all the same,” she cried, her lip quivering, “you are kind, and I thank you with all my heart! and I will promise you this: If I find, as you think, that, whatever I may do, I cannot give my Osy the education he ought to have, I will send and remind you of your offer. I hope you will have children of your own by that time, and perhaps you will have forgotten it.”

“I shall not forget it; and I am very unlikely to have children of my own.”

“Anyhow, I will trust you,” she said, “and I thank you with all my heart, though you are my enemy. And that is a bargain,” she said, holding out her hand.

Her enemy! Was he her enemy? And yet it seemed something else beside.

While these scenes were going on, Mr. and Mrs. Gervase Piercey were very differently employed upstairs. When Patty had finished her tea, and when she had made the survey of the library, concerning which her conclusion was that these horrid bookcases must be cleared away, and that a full-length portrait of herself in the white satin which had not, yet ought to have been, her wedding-dress, would do a great deal for the cheerfulness of the room, she took her husband’s arm, and desired him to conduct her over the house. When Patty saw the drawing-room, which was very large, cold, and light in colour, with chairs and chandeliers in brown holland, she changed her mind about the library. She had not been aware of the existence of this drawing-room.

“This is where we shall sit, of course,” she said.

“Father can’t abide it,” said Gervase.

“Oh, your father is a very nice old gentleman. He will have to put up with it,” said the new lady of the house.

In imagination she saw herself seated there, receiving the county, and the spirit of Patty was uplifted. She felt, for the first time, without any admixture of disappointment, that here was her sphere. When she was taken upstairs, however, to Gervase’s room, she regarded it by no means with the same satisfaction. It was a large room, but sparsely furnished, in no respect like the luxurious bower she had imagined for herself.

“Take off my bonnet here!” she said: “no, indeed I sha’n’t. Why, there is not even a drapery to the toilet table. I have not come to Greyshott, I hope, to have less comfort than I had at home. There must be spare rooms. Take me to the best of the spare rooms.”

“There’s the prince’s room,” said Gervase, “but nobody sleeps there since some fellow of a prince – I can’t tell you what prince – And I haven’t got the keys; it’s Parsons that has got the keys.”

“You can call Parsons, I suppose. Ring the bell,” said Patty, seizing the opportunity to look at herself in the glass, though she surveyed the room with contempt.

“Lord!” cried Gervase. “Parsons, mother’s own woman – .” Then he threw himself down in his favourite chair with his hands in his pockets. “You can do it yourself. I’m not going to catch a scolding for you.”

“A scolding!” said Patty; “and who is going to scold you, you silly fellow, except me? I should like to see them try – Mrs. Parsons or Sir Giles, or any one. You can just say, ‘Speak to my wife.’”

“There’s mother, that you daren’t set up your face to. I say,” said Gervase; “Patty, what’s all this about mother? Mother’s – dead? She’ll never have a word to say about anything any more?”

“Dear mother!” said Patty. “You must always say dear mother, Gervase, now: I’m sure I should have loved her – but, you see, Providence never gave me the opportunity. No, she’ll never have a word to say: it’s me that will have everything to say. – Oh, you have answered the bell at last! Send Mrs. Parsons here.”

“Mrs. Parsons, ma’am – my lady?” the frightened little under-housemaid, who had been made to answer, said.

Patty gave her a gracious smile, feeling that at last she had found some one who understood what her claims were.

“What’s your name?” she said.

“Ellen.”

“Well, Ellen, I like your looks, and I’ve no doubt we shall get on; but you needn’t call me my lady, not now, – for the present I am only Mrs. Gervase. Now, go and send Parsons here.”

“Oh, my lady, Mrs. Parsons! she’s in my old lady’s room. I daren’t disturb her, not for anything in the world; it would be as much as my place was worth.”

“I see you are only a little fool after all,” said Patty, with a frown. “Your place is just worth this much – whether you please me or not. Mrs. Parsons has as much power as – as that table. Goodness,” cried Patty, “what a state this house has been in, to be sure, when one servant is afraid of another! but I shall soon put an end to that. Call Parsons! let her come at once.”

The little housemaid came back while Patty still stood before the glass straightening the edge of her bonnet and arranging her veil.

“If you please, my lady, Mrs. Parsons is doing out my old lady’s drawers – and she has her head bent down, and I can’t make her hear.”

“I’ll make her hear,” cried Patty, with an impulse which belonged rather to her previous condition than to her present dignity; and she rushed along the corridor like a whirlwind, with her draperies flying. It was, doubtless, instinct or inspiration that directed her to the right door, while Gervase followed on her steps to see the fun, with a grin upon his face. He remembered only now and then, when something recalled it to him, that his mother was gone. He was not thinking of her now; nevertheless, when Patty burst into that room, he stood in the doorway dumb, the grin dying out from his face, and gave a scared look round as if looking for the familiar presence he had so often encountered there.

“You perhaps have not heard, Mrs. Parsons,” said Patty, with her sharp, decisive voice, “that I sent for you?”

Parsons had her head bent over the drawers. She said, without turning round, “That gaby, Ellen, said something about somebody wanting me”; and then began to count, – “Eight, nine, ten. Three dozen here and three dozen in the walnut wardrobe,” said Parsons; “that makes it just right.”

Patty’s curiosity overcame her resentment. She came forward and looked over Parsons’ shoulder. “Six dozen silk stockings,” she cried; “is that what you are counting? What a number for an old lady! and fine, too, and in good condition,” she said, putting her hand over the woman’s shoulder and bringing forth a handful. They were mingled white and black, and Patty looked upon them with covetous eyes.

“Who are you as takes such a liberty?” cried Parsons, springing to her feet. She found herself confronted by Patty’s very alert, firm figure and resolute countenance. Patty drew Lady Piercey’s silk stockings through her hands, looking at the size of them. She held them up by the toes to mark her sense of their enormous dimensions.

“I could put both my feet into one of them,” she said, reflectively, “so that they are no use to me. Oh, you are Parsons! Open the door, please, at once, of the best rooms. I want to settle down.”

The woman looked at the intruder with a mixture of defiance and fear. She turned to Gervase, appealing against the stranger. Many a time had Parsons put the Softy out of his mother’s room, bidding him be off and not aggravate my lady. But my lady was gone, and Gervase was the master, to do what he would; or, what was worse, it was Patty who was the mistress. Patty of the ale-house! Parsons looked at Gervase with an agonised appeal. “They’re your mother’s things,” she said; “Mr. Gervase, will you see them knock about your mother’s things?”