Gervase went home as she had told him, not bounding after the stone like a dog who has got its heart’s desire, but steadily, a little heavily, somewhat disappointed, yet full of expectation, and always faithful. Something was going to be done for him that would result in Patty’s standing by him for ever, and helping him to all he wanted. He did not know what it was; he was by no means sure that he would understand what it was were he told; but she did, and that was enough. It was going to be done for him, while he had no trouble and would only reap the results. That was how it was going to be all the rest of the time. Patty would take the responsibility. She would face everything for him. She would stand between him and his mother’s jibes and his father’s occasional roar of passion. Gervase was dimly sensible that his people were ashamed of him, that they thought him of little account. But Patty did not feel like that. She, too, jibed at him, it is true; but then she jibed at everybody, even Roger. It was different, and she would let no one else jibe. She would take all the responsibility; with her beside him, standing by him, or perhaps in front of him, standing between him and all that was disagreeable, he should escape all the ills of life. He should not be afraid of any one any more. He went back to the hall determined to carry out his orders. For her sake he would make a martyr of himself all that evening; he would sit with the old folks and do his best to please them. He would talk about London and how he wished to see it. He would say he was tired of the country—even that, since Patty told him to do so. To be sure, if there was no Patty, he would be tired of it; if the Hall meant the country, yes, indeed, he was tired enough of that. He went home not in the least knowing what to do with himself; but faithful, faithful to his orders. Dash, when commanded to give up the wild delights of a run and watch a coat, or a stick, did it resignedly with noble patience, and so did Gervase now: he had, so to speak, to watch Patty’s coat while she went and did the work; it is the natural division of labour when one of two is the faithful dog rather than the man.

He began, three or four times, as he went along, that game with the white pebbles against the brown, and then remembered that it was silly, and pulled himself up. He would not like Patty to know that he had a habit of doing that. He was aware, instinctively, that it would seem very silly to her. Three, four, and five; and a great big one that ought to count three at least for the right hand man. No; he wouldn’t do it; it was silly; it was like a child, not a man. What, he wondered, was she going to do? Not go to the rector, because she had herself objected to that. Another way—he wondered what other way there could be—that dispensed with both parson and clerk? But that, thank Heaven, was Patty’s affair, and she had promised that she would do it. Seven brown ones in a row; such luck for the left-hand man! But no, no; he would not pay any attention to that. Patty would think him a fool for his pains. What was she doing—she that knew exactly what it was best to do? What a woman she was, up to everything; seeing with one look of her eye what he never would have found out, that it was not the right thing to speak to the rector, nor to the clerk, who was still worse than the rector. How much better it was that it should be all in her hands! How was a man to know, who had never been married himself, who knew nothing about such things, how to put up banns? What were banns? He had heard people asked in church, but he was not sure about the other name. Was it something, perhaps, to hang up like a picture? These thoughts did not pass through Gervase’s mind in so many words, but floated after each other vaguely, swimming in a dumb sort of consciousness. He had, perhaps, never had so many all turning round and crossing each other before. Generally it was only the pebbles he thought of as he walked unless when it was Patty. It gave him a strange sort of bewildering sense of life to feel how many things he was thinking of—such a crowd of different things.

In the beech avenue, going up and down in his chair, pushed by Dunning, and with Osy capering upon a stick before him, Gervase came upon his father taking his morning “turn.” He remembered what Patty said about being agreeable to the old folks, and he also had a certain pleasure in wheeling his father’s chair. So he stopped and pushed the servant away. “You go and take a rest, Dunning. I’ll take Sir Giles along,” he said. “You mustn’t play any tricks, Mr. Gervase,” said the man, resisting a little. “What tricks should I play? I can take care of my father as well as any one, I hope,” cried Gervase, taking with energy the back of the chair. It went along a little more quickly perhaps, but Sir Giles did not mind that. “Young legs go faster than ours, Dunning,” he said to his servant; “but stand you by, old man, in case Mr. Gervase gets tired.” “Oh, I’ll stand by. I’ll not leave that Softy in charge of my master,” Dunning said to himself. “Oh, I’ll not get tired, father,” said Gervase aloud. This was quite a delightful way of uniting obedience to Patty’s commands with pleasure to himself. “I’ll take you all round the grounds, father. Ain’t you tired of this beastly little bit of an avenue? I’ll take you faster, as fast as the carriage if you like.” “No, my boy, this’ll do,” said Sir Giles; “fair and softly goes the furthest.” Dunning came on behind shaking his head.

“You tan’t ride so fast as me, Uncle Giles,” cried little Osy, prancing upon his wooden steed.

“Can’t he, though, you little beggar. He’d soon run you out of breath, if I was to put on steam!”

“Oh, tome on, tome on!” cried Osy, flourishing his whip; and off Gervase tore, sweeping the chair along, with Dunning after him panting and exclaiming, and Sir Giles laughing, but shaking with the wild progress of the vehicle which usually went so quietly. The old gentleman rather liked it than otherwise, though when Gervase stopped with a sudden jerk and jar, he was thrown back upon his pillows, and seized with a fit of coughing. “You see you cannot do everything, little ’un; there’s some that can beat you,” cried Gervase, waving his long arms, and drawing up his sleeves. Osy had been thrown quite behind, and came up panting, his little countenance flushed, and his little legs twisting as he ran, the child no longer making any pretence to be a prancing steed. “Are you game for another run?”

“Yes, I’m dame,” cried little Osy, making a valorous struggle for his breath.

“No, no, that’s enough,” cried Sir Giles, coughing and laughing, “that’s enough, Gervase. No harm done, Dunning—you need not come puffing like a steam engine; but halt, Gervase, no more, no more.”

“Uncle Giles, I’m dame, tome on; Uncle Giles, I’m dame,” shouted Osy flourishing his little cap.

This scene was seen from my lady’s chamber with extremely mingled feelings. Lady Piercey sat in the recess of the window, where, in the evening, that querulous light had burned, waiting till Gervase came home. She had an old-fashioned embroidery frame fixed there, and worked at it for half an hour occasionally, with Margaret Osborne in attendance to thread her needles. Parsons had long since declared that her eyes were not equal to it, but with Mrs. Osborne there could be no such excuse. Lady Piercey had forgotten all about her work in watching. “There is my boy Gervase wheeling his father,” she said; “look out, look out, Meg. Whatever you may say, that boy is full of feeling. Look! He has taken it out of Dunning’s hands. See how pleased your uncle is; and little Osy acting outrider, bless him. Oh!” cried Lady Piercey with a shriek. Her terror made her speechless. She fell back in her chair with passionate gesticulations, grasped Margaret, and pulled her to the window, then thrust her away, pointing to the door. “Go! go!” she cried with a great effort, in a choked voice—which Parsons heard, and came flying from the next room.

“It’s nothing, aunt; see, they’ve stopped. It’s all right, Uncle Giles is laughing.”

“Go! go!” cried the old lady, pointing passionately to the door.

“Go, for goodness gracious sake, Mrs. Osborne. My lady will have a fit.”

“There is nothing—absolutely nothing, aunt. They’ve stopped. Dunning has taken his place again; there’s no need for interfering. Ah!” Margaret gave just such a cry as Lady Piercey had done, and flinging down her little sheaf of silks upon the frame, turned and flew from the room, leaving the old lady and her maid exchanging glances of consternation. And yet the cause of Mrs. Osborne’s sudden change of opinion was not far to seek; it was that Gervase had seized little Osy and swung him up to his shoulder, where the child sat very red and uneasy, but too proud to acknowledge that he was afraid.

“Put down my child this moment!” cried Margaret, descending like a thunderbolt in the midst of the group.

“He’s as right as a trivet. I’m going to give him a ride. I haven’t given him a ride for a long time. Hi! Osy, ain’t you as right as a trivet, and got a good seat?”

“Yes, tousin Gervase,” said the boy with a quaver in his voice, but holding his head high.

“Put him down this moment!” cried Margaret, stamping her foot and seizing Gervase by the arm.

“I’ll put him down when he’s had his ride. Now, old Dunning, here’s for it. We’ll race you for a sovereign to the gate. Sit tight, Osy, or your horse will throw you—he’s as wild as all the wild horses that ever were made.”

“Div me my whip first,” cried the child. He was elated though he was afraid. “And I won’t ride you if you haven’t a bit in your mouff.” Once more the little grimy pocket-handkerchief was brought into service. “Here’s the bit, and I’m holding you in hand. Now, trot!”

Margaret stood like a ghost, while the wild pair darted along the avenue, Gervase prancing with the most violent motion, little Osy sitting very tight, holding on to his handkerchief with the tightness of desperation, his cheeks blazing and throbbing with the tumultuous colour of courage, excitement, and fright. They are things which consist with each other. The child was afraid of nothing, but very conscious that he had once before been thrown from Gervase’s shoulder, and that the prospect was not a pleasant one. As for the spectators, Sir Giles in his chair and his wife at the window, they were in a ferment of mingled feeling, afraid for their pet, but excited by this new development on the part of their son. “Mr. Gervase is really taking great care,” gasped Lady Piercey to her maid. “Don’t you see? He’s got the child quite tight—not like that other time; Master Osy is quite enjoying it.”

“Oh yes, my lady,” said Parsons, doubtfully; “he’s got such a spirit.”

“And his cousin is so kind, so kind. There’s nobody,” said the old lady, with a sob and a gasp, “so good to children as my Gervase. There! thank Heaven, he’s put him down. Miss Meg—I mean Mrs. Osborne is making a ridiculous fuss about it,” said Lady Piercey, now running all her words into one in the relief of her feelings, “as if there was any fear of the child!”

Little Osy had swung down through the air with a sinking whirl as if he had shot Niagara, but once on firm ground, being really none the worse, tingled to his fingers’ ends with pride and triumph. He gave a smack of his little whip with his right hand, while with the other he clutched his mother’s dress, trembling and glowing. “Dood-bye, dood horse; I’ll—I’ll wide you again another time,” he shouted, with a slight quaver in his voice.

Sir Giles was half-weeping, half-laughing, in the excitement of his age and weakness. Now that the child was safe, he, too, was delighted and proud. “Good’un to go, ain’t he, Osy?” he cried. “But I say, lad, you oughtn’t to caper like that; he’s a deal too fresh, Dunning, eh? wants to have it taken out of him.”

“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.