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

Patty had listened to this discussion till her patience was quite worn out. She had waited for a favourable moment to introduce herself, but she could not stand and hear this description, so far beneath her merits as she felt it to be. She came in with a little rush of her skirts, not disagreeable to the old man, who looked up vaguely expectant, to see her sweep round the corner of the large screen that shielded him from the draught. “I must come and tell you myself who I am, Sir Giles,” she said. “I’m Patience; and though, perhaps, I shouldn’t say it, I’m one that will take care of that , and take care of the house, and see that you are not put upon by your servants, nor made to wait for anything, but have whatever you wish. And I’ll be a very good daughter to you, if you’ll let me, Sir Giles,” she said.

The old gentleman had passed a miserable week. First his wife’s illness, so dreadful and beyond all human commiseration, and then her death, and the gloom of the house, and the excitement of the funeral, and the neglect of everything that made life bearable to him. It is true, that his soup and his wine and whatever food was allowed to him were supplied regularly, and no actual breach of his comforts had occurred. But his room had been darkened, and his backgammon had been stopped, and there had been no cheerful faces round him. Even little Osy’s company had been taken away. The child had been stated to be “too much” for him. Parsons and Dunning had held him in their hands and administered him, and they were both determined that he should do and say nothing that was not appropriate to his bereaved condition. The old man was not insensible to his wife’s death. It brought into his mind that sense of utter desolation, that chill sensation of an approaching end, which is, alas! not more palatable in many cases to an old man than to a young one. And Parsons and Dunning both thought it the most appropriate thing for him to sit alone and think of his latter end. But Sir Giles was not of that opinion. His old life was strong in him, though it was hampered with so many troubles. He wanted, rather, to forget that death was waiting for him, too, round the next corner. Who could tell how far off that next corner might be? He wanted to forget, not to be shut up helplessly with that thought alone. And Mrs. Osborne, with all the prejudices and bonds of the household upon her, had not had courage to break through the lines which had been formed around her uncle. She had believed, as it was the law of the family to believe, that Sir Giles’ faithful attendant knew best. And thus it was, that when the young woman who was Gervase’s wife came boldly in – a young person who was not afraid of Dunning, a stranger bringing a little novelty, a little stir of something unaccustomed into his life – he looked up with a kind of light in his dull eye, and relief in his mind. “Oh! you are Patience, are you?” he said. “Patience! it is a queer sort of a name, and I think I remember to have heard it before.”

Oh, poor Miss Hewitt, in her red and yellow bonnet! If she had but known that this faint deposit of recollection was all that remained in her old lover’s mind!

“But I should like you to call me Patty, Sir Giles.” She went down on her knees at his feet, while the old gentleman looked on in wonder, not knowing what was going to happen. “You have not got that bandage quite straight,” she said, “and I’m sure you’re not so comfortable as you ought to be. I can put it on better than that. Look you here, Gervase, hold the candle, and in a minute I’ll settle it all right.”

Sir Giles was so much taken by surprise that he made no opposition; and he was amused and pleased by her silent movements, her soft touch and manipulation. The novelty pleased him, and the young head bent over his suffering foot, the pretty hair, the pleasant shape, were all much more gratifying than Dunning. He thought he was relieved, whether he was really so or not. And he was contented, and the spell of the gloom was broken. “But I’m not to be settled so easy as my foot,” he said. “How dared you to take and marry my boy here, Mrs. Patty, or whatever your name is, without saying a word to me?”

Mrs. Gervase Piercey, or Mrs. Piercey, as she henceforward called herself, walked that night into the great state-room in Greyshott – where Sally Fletcher awaited her, trembling, bringing Patty Hewitt’s small wardrobe roughly packed in one small box – with the air of a conqueror, victorious along all the line.

Colonel Piercey left Greyshott the next morning after these incidents. There was no reason why he should stay. Even old Sir Giles had changed his note when his kinsman took leave of him. Mental trouble does not keep its hold long on a mind which has grown weak with bodily disease and much nursing, that prevailing invalidism and necessity for taking care of one’s self which absorbs every thought; and though the old gentleman was still ready enough to mourn for the loss of his life-long companion, yet he was easily soothed and diverted by the needs of that older companion still, himself. Besides, now that the funeral was over, there was no alarming prospect before him, no terror of being compelled to act for himself. He took leave of the Colonel not uncheerfully. “Going?” he said, when Gerald appeared in his room to say good-bye. “I’m glad you could stay so long; but it’s been a sad visit. Another time, now there’s young people in the house, they’ll make it more cheerful for you, eh? Don’t be long of coming again.”

Colonel Piercey, somewhat stiffly – which was his nature, for he had not the understanding of human weakness which brings indulgence, and he could not forget that a few days before the old man had begged him with tears to stay – answered that he was glad to leave his uncle so much better and more satisfied about his son.

“Oh,” said Sir Giles, “about satisfied I don’t know, I don’t know; I can’t tell you at this moment, Gerald. She speaks fair, but then she’s on her promotion, don’t you see? Anyhow, she’s young, and perhaps she’ll learn; and she’s nice-looking – and speaks not so badly for a girl without education; not so badly, does she, Gerald? We’ll do; oh, I think we’ll do. She’ll look after Gervase, and keep him off me. And that’s a great thing, don’t you see? Though when I think what his mother would have said – Lord bless me, I tremble when I think what his mother would have said. She never would have borne it. She would have turned the house upside down and made everybody miserable; which makes me feel that being as it had to be, it’s perhaps better – better, Gerald, though it’s a hard thing to say, that his mother went first, went without knowing. You will say she suspected; and I believe she did suspect; she was a penetrating woman; but suspecting’s not so bad as knowing; and I’m – I’m almost glad, poor soul, that she’s gone. She would never have put up with it. And now this one may make something of Gervase – who knows? It is a kind of anxiety off my mind. Time for your train?” the old gentleman added cheerfully. “Well, thank you for your visit, my boy; I’ve enjoyed it – and come again, come soon again.”

Sir Giles was as much delighted to be free of his visitor as he had been to welcome him to Greyshott. And it was evident that he was conforming his mind to the new state of affairs. Gerald had meant to appeal to his kindness for Margaret, but he had not patience or self-command enough to say anything. He had no thought of the anxieties that dwelt in the old man’s mind – the dreariness of his conclusion that it was better his old wife was gone: the forlorn endurance of a state of affairs which he had no power to prevent. A little more sympathy might have made Sir Giles’ endurance take a tragic aspect, the last refuge of a sanguine and simple spirit trying to be content with the hope that something might still be made of his only child. But Gerald Piercey only thought with mingled contempt and pity of the facile mind, and the drivel of old age, things entirely beyond his sympathy or thoughts.