The letter which Lady Piercey had received, and which quickened so instantaneously her determination that Gervase should be gratified in his desire to visit London, did not seem at the first glance to have anything to do with that question. It was a letter from Gerald Piercey, asking to be allowed to come on a visit of two or three days to see his relations at Greyshott. Now, Gerald Piercey was, after Gervase, the heir-at-law—or rather he was the son of the old and infirm gentleman who was the heir-at-law. He was a soldier who had distinguished himself in India, and got rapid promotion, so that he had several letters already tacked to his name, and was in every way a contrast to the unfortunate who stood between him and the honours of the house. It was natural, and I think it was excusable, that poor Lady Piercey should hate this successful and highly esteemed person. To be sure, he was much older than Gervase—a man of forty, so that there was, as she said indignantly, no comparison! and she herself was not old enough (or at least, so she said) to have had a son of the Colonel’s age. But these circumstances, which should have lessened the sense of rivalry, only made it greater, for even if Gervase had not been a Softy, he would never have been a man of so much importance as this cousin of the younger branch who had made himself known and noted in the world by his own personal character and deserts. Colonel Piercey had not been at Greyshott since he was a youth setting out in life, when he had paid his relations a hasty and not very agreeable visit. Gervase was then a silly little boy; but there are many silly little boys who grow up into tolerable young men; and his parents, at least, had by no means made up their minds to the fact of his inferiority. But Gerald, a young man who had just joined his regiment and was full of the elation and pleasure in life which is never greater than in these circumstances, who resembled the family portraits and knew all about the family history, and who looked so entirely the part of heir of the house, awoke a causeless enmity even in the jovial breast of Sir Giles, then a robust fox-hunter, master of the hounds, chairman of quarter sessions, and everything that a country gentleman should be. Poor little Gervase was nothing beside him, naturally! for Gervase was but a child, however clever he had been. But this thought did not heal the painful impression, the shock of a sensation too keen almost to be borne. All the neighbours were delighted with Gerald. What a fine young fellow! what a promising young man! what a pity it was—— and the visitors gave a glance aside at poor little Gervase, already, poor child, the Softy among all his childish companions. They did not utter that last half-formed regret, but Sir Giles and his wife perceived it on their lips, in their thoughts, and hated Gerald, which was wrong, no doubt, but very natural and almost pardonable, from a parent’s point of view.

And here he was coming back! a guest whom they could not refuse, a credit to the family, a distinguished relation, while Gervase was what he was. But Gerald Piercey should not, Lady Piercey resolved, see Gervase as he was,—not for the world! He was coming, no doubt, to spy out the nakedness of the land—but what he should find would only be an account of her son enjoying himself in London, seeing life, doing as other young men did. If Gerald was a colonel and a C.B., Gervase should bear the aspect of a young man about town—a man of fashion, going everywhere; a man who had no occasion to go to India to distinguish himself, having a good estate and a baronetcy behind him at home. To keep up this fiction would be easy if Gervase were but absent. It would be impossible, alas! to do it in his presence. Lady Piercey exerted herself during that day, in a way she had not been known to do before for years. She wrote a long letter, bending over it, and working all the lines of her mouth like a schoolboy. It was labour dire and weary woe, for a woman who had long given up any exertion of the kind for herself. But in this case she would not trust even Margaret. And then she had Gervase’s drawers emptied, and his clothes brought to her to make a survey. They were not fashionable clothes by any means; Lady Piercey, though she was not much used to men of fashion, and knew nothing of what “was worn” at the time, yet knew and remembered enough to feel that Gervase in these garments would by no means bear the aspect of a young man about town. But he would do very well in the Gregson world in Bloomsbury; everybody who saw him there would know that he was young Mr. Piercey of Greyshott, Sir Giles’ only son. This is the sort of fact that covers a multitude of sins, even in clothes. And in Bloomsbury the first fashions were not likely to be worn. He would pass muster very well there, but not—not before the eyes of Gerald Piercey, the colonel, the C.B., the cousin and heir. “You don’t see why I should be in such a hurry,” said Lady Piercey, with one of those glances which only want the power, not the desire, to kill. “I know, then, and that’s enough, Gervase, my boy. You’ll remember to be very good and please your poor father and me, now we’ve consented to give you this great treat, and let you go.”

“Oh, yes,” said Gervase, with a laugh; “I’ll remember, mother. I sha’n’t be let go wrong, you take your oath of that.”

“What does he mean by not being let? You’ve told him about Gregson, Meg! Well, my dear, you know that is the only comfort I have. You’ll be met at the station, and you’ll find your nice rooms ready; and very lucky you are, Gervase, to find so good a person to take care of you. Do everything he tells you; mind, he knows all about you; and he’ll always lead you the right road, as you say.”

Gervase, staring open-mouthed at his mother, burst into a great laugh. He was astonished at her apparent knowledge of the companion who would not let him go wrong, but the confusion of the pronoun daunted him a little. Did she think it was old Hewitt that was going with him? He had enough of cunning to ask no questions, but laughed with a great roar of satisfaction mingled with wonderment. Lady Piercey put up her hands to her ears.

“Don’t make such a noise,” she said. “You laugh like your father, Gervase, and you’re too young to roar like that. You must try to behave very nicely, too, and don’t roar the roof off a London house with your laughing. And don’t make a noise in company, Gervase. We put up with everything here because we’re so fond of you; but in town, though they’ll be fond of you, it makes a difference, not being used to you from your cradle. You must remember all I taught you about manners when you were a little boy.”

“Oh, mother, don’t you be afraid; my manners will be well looked after, too. I sha’n’t dare to open my mouth,” said Gervase, with another laugh.

“Well, I believe they are very particular,” said Lady Piercey, with a still more bewildering change of pronouns. “And, Gervase, there’s young ladies there: mind that you are very nice and civil to them, but don’t go any further than you can draw back.”

“Oh, I’ll be kept safe from the young ladies, you take your oath of that!” he cried, with another shout of a laugh.

“For goodness gracious sake,” cried Lady Piercey, “take him away!—Meg, can’t you take him away and give him a good talking to? You have no nerves, and I’m nothing but a bundle of ’em. That laugh of his goes up to the crown of my head and down to the soles of my feet. Take him off, and let me look over his things in peace. And mind, Gervase, you’ve to listen to what Meg says to you, just the same as if I were speaking myself; for she knows about men, having married one, and she can give you a deal of good advice. Go out to the beech avenue, and then I can see you from my window, and make sure that you are paying attention to what she says.”

When Gervase was safely outside with his patient cousin, whose part in all these proceedings was so laborious and uninterrupted, though she was not permitted to do much more than look on—he plucked off his hat and flung it up into the air in triumph, executing at the same time a sort of dance upon the gravel.

“Does she mean what she says, Meg? and how has she heard of it? and what has made her give in? Lord! what will some folks say when they know that it’s all with her will?”

“What is it you are going to do, Gervase? and what do you mean by ‘some folks’?” Margaret cried.

The Softy looked at her for a moment irresolute, doubtful, it would seem, what he should reply; and then he laughed again, more loudly than ever, and said: “Shouldn’t you like to know?”

“Yes, I should like to know. I do not believe that they know at all what you mean. You are too cunning for them. You are going to take some step——”

“More than one—many steps. I’m going to London to see all that’s going on—to see life. I told ’em so; and instead of looking curious like you, mother, don’t you see, she knows all about it, and wants me to do it. Mother’s a trump! She is that fond of me, she will do whatever I say.”

“The thing is, what are you going to do, Gervase? What do you mean by seeing life?”

He laughed longer than ever, and gave her a nudge with his arm. “Oh, get along, Meg!” he said,—“you know.”

“No, Gervase; tell me. You have always been a good boy—you are not going to do any harm?”

“I never heard it was any harm; it’s what everybody does, and rejoicings about it, and bells ringing, and all that. Don’t you tell—I’m going—— No; I said I wouldn’t say a word, and I won’t. You’ll know when I come back.”

“Gervase, you frighten me very much—you wouldn’t deceive your father and mother that love you so.” She drew a long breath of alarm; then added with relief: “But if he is met at the station and taken care of——”

“That’s it,” said Gervase. “I’m going to be met at the station, and everything done for me. I’ll never be left to myself any more. I’m not very good at taking care of myself, Meg.”

“No,” she cried; “that is quite true. I am so glad you feel that, Gervase. Then you won’t be rebellious, but do what your mother wishes, and what her friend tells you. It will make her so happy.”

“Her friend! Who’s her friend?” said Gervase; and then the peal of his laughter arose once more. “I like my own friend best; but my friend and my mother’s friend being just the same, don’t you see?”

“Are they the same?” said Mrs. Osborne, thoroughly perplexed.

“There ain’t two of them that are going to meet me at the station? No? then there’s only one. And mother’s a trump, and I’ll do everything I’m told, and never be without some one to guide me all my life. And to stand up for me—for I am put upon, Meg, though you don’t seem to see it. I am; and made a jest of; and no money in my pocket; never given my proper place. Meg, how much is mamma going to give me for my pocket-money while I’m away?”

“I can’t tell you, Gervase. There will be your travelling money, and probably she will send the rest to—— to be given you when you are in town.”

“I ought to have it now in my own pocket,” said Gervase, with a cloud upon his brow. “Do you think a man can go like a man to London town, and no money? They are mad if they think that. Lend us something, Meg—you’ve got a little, and no need to spend it; with everything given you that heart can wish. Why, you never spend a penny! And I’ll pay it all back when I come to my own.”

“I have nothing,” she said, faltering. To tell what was not strictly true, and to refuse what her cousin asked, were things equally dreadful to Margaret—and it was a relief to her when Lady Piercey’s window was jerked open by a rapid hand, and the old lady’s head appeared suddenly thrust out.

“You’re not talking to him, Meg; you’re letting him talk to you. Don’t let us have more of that. You’re there to give him good advice, and that’s what we expect of you. Don’t you hear?” And the window was snapt with another emphatic jerk.

“Gervase, I am to advise you,” said Margaret, trembling, though the situation was ludicrous enough, and she might have laughed had the case been other than her own. The watchful eye upon her from the window, the totally unadvisable young man by her side, were not, however, ludicrous but dreadful to Margaret. Her sense of humour was obscured by the piteous facts of the case: the young man entirely insensible to any reason, and his mother, who had never lost her primitive faith that if some one only “talked to him,” Gervase would be just as sensible as other men. “But how can I advise you? I am troubled about what you are going to do. I hope you will not do anything to grieve them, Gervase. They are old people——”

“Yes,” said Gervase, with a nod and a look of wisdom; “they are pretty old.”

“They are old people,” said Margaret, “and they have a great many things to put up with: they have illnesses and weakness—and they have anxiety about you.”

“They needn’t trouble their heads about me. I’ve got some one to look after me. She said it wasn’t I,” cried Gervase with a chuckle.

“That is while you are in London; but they think of you all day long, and are always thinking of you. You will not do anything to grieve them, Gervase, while you are away?”

“How can I when I’m going to be looked after all the time, and somebody to meet me at the station?” cried Gervase, with his loud laugh.

Lady Piercey was very anxious afterwards to know what advice Margaret had given to her son. The “things” had all been looked over and packed; and it took Lady Piercey a long time to consider what money she could trust her son with when he went away. She had intended at first to send some one with him to pay his railway ticket, and to send what he would want in London to Dr. Gregson. But then, what if an accident happened? what if Gregson failed to meet him, or appropriated the money? which was a thing always on the cards with so poor a man, the old lady thought. It could not be that the heir of Greyshott, Sir Giles’ son, should leave his home penniless. She took out her cash-box, for she was the manager of everything, and had all the money interests of Greyshott in her hands—and took from it a five-pound note, over which she mused and pondered long, weighing it in her hand as if that were the way of judging. Then she put it back, and took out a ten-pound note. Ten pounds is a great deal of money. Much good as well as much harm can be done with ten pounds. It is such a large sum of money that, if you trust a man with that, you may trust him with more. She took out another—wavering, hesitating—now disposed to put it back, now laying it with the other, poising them both in her hands. Finally, with a quick sigh, she shut up the cash-box sharply and suddenly, and gave it to Parsons to be put back in the cabinet, where it usually dwelt; and folding up the notes, directed her niece to put them in an envelope. “Twenty pounds!” she said, with a gasp. Her two supporters had been present during all this process, and Parsons was exactly aware how much money was to be trusted in the pockets of the Softy, and thought it excessive. Lady Piercey sat by grimly, and looked on while the money was enclosed in the envelope, and then she turned briskly to her companion. “You had a long talk, Meg,” she said; “and I suppose you gave him a great deal of advice. You ought to know, you that had as husband an officer, for they are always in the heat of everything. What advice did you give to my boy?”