No house could be more agitated and disturbed than was Greyshott on the night of Lady Piercey’s funeral. That event, indeed, was enough to throw a heavy cloud over the dwelling, where the imperious old lady had filled so large a place, that the mere emptiness, where her distinct and imposing figure was withdrawn, touched the imagination, even if it did not touch the heart. The impression, however, on such an occasion is generally one of subdued quiet and gloom—an arrest of life; whereas the great house was quivering with fears and suppositions, with the excitement of a struggle which nobody could see the end of, or divine how it should turn. The servants were in a ferment, some of them expecting dismissal; others agreed that under new sway, such as seemed to threaten, Greyshott would not be a place for them. The scene in the housekeeper’s room, where the heads of the female department sat together dismayed, and exchanged presentiments and resolutions, was tragic in its intensity of alarm and wrath. The cook had not given more than a passing thought to the dinner, which an eager kitchen-maid on her promotion had the charge of; and Parsons sat arranging her lists of linen with a proud but melancholy certainty that all would be found right, however hastily her reign might be brought to an end.

“I never thought as I should have to give them up to the likes of her,” Parsons said, among her tears. “Oh, my lady, my poor lady! She’s been took away from the evil to come.”

“She’d never have let the likes of her step within our doors,” said cook, indignant, “if it had only been poor Sir Giles, as is no better than a baby, that had been took, and my lady left to keep things straight.”

“Oh, don’t say that, cook, don’t say that,” cried Parsons, “for then he’d have been Sir Gervase, and she Lady Piercey, and my lady would have—bursted; that’s what she would have done.”

“Lord!” cried the cook, “Lady Piercey! But the Colonel or somebody would have stopped that.”

“There’s nobody as could have stopped it,” said Parsons, better informed. “They might say as he hadn’t his wits, and couldn’t manage his property, or that—but to stop him from being Sir Gervase, and her Lady Piercey, is what nobody can do; no, not the Queen, nor the Parliament: for he was born to that: Softy or not it don’t make no difference.”

“Lord!” said the cook again: and she took an opportunity shortly after of going into the kitchen and giving a look at the dinner, of which that ambitious, pushing kitchen-maid was making a chef-d’oeuvre. The same information filtering through the house made several persons nervous. Simpson, the footman, for one, gave himself up for lost; and any other member of the household who had ever entered familiarly at the Seven Thorns, or given a careless order for a pot of beer to Patty, now shook in his shoes. The general sentiments at first had been those of indignation and scorn; but a great change soon came over the household—a universal thrill of alarm, a sense of insecurity. No one ventured now to mention the name of Patty. She, they called her with awe—and in the case of some far-seeing persons, like that kitchen-maid, the intruder had already received her proper name of Mrs. Gervase, or even Lady Gervase, from those whose education was less complete.

The sensation of dismay which thus pervaded the house attained, perhaps, its climax in the rooms which Margaret Osborne shared with her boy, and where she had withdrawn after her brief intercourse with Patty. These rooms were little invaded by the rest of the household, the nurse who took care of Osy, doing everything that was needed for her mistress, and the little apartment making a sort of sanctuary for the mother and the child. She was sure of quiet there if nowhere else; and when she had closed the door she seemed for a moment to leave behind her all the agitations which convulsed and changed the course of life. The two rooms, opening into one another, in which Margaret’s life had been spent for years, which were almost the only home that Osy had ever known, were still hers, though she could not tell for how short a time: the sword hanging over the mantelpiece, which Osy had described as the only thing which belonged to his mother and himself, hung there still, their symbol of individual possession. For years past, Margaret had felt herself safe when she closed that door. She held it, as it now appeared, on but a precarious footing; but she had not thought so up to this time. She had felt that she had a right to her shelter, that her place was one which nobody could take from her; not the right of inheritance, it is true, but of nature. It was the home of her fathers, though she was only Sir Giles’ niece, and bore another name. She had been a dependant indeed, but not as a stranger would be. It was the home of her childhood, and it was hers as long as the old rule continued—the natural state of affairs which she had not thought of as coming to an end. Even Lady Piercey’s death had not appeared to her to make an end. Sir Giles would need her more: there would be still more occasion for her presence in the house when the imperious, but not unkind, mistress went away. The old lady had been sharp in speech, and careless of her feelings, but she had never forgotten that Meg Piercey had a right to her shelter as well as duties to discharge there. There had been, indeed, a scare about Gervase, but it was a proof of the slightness of reality in that scare that Margaret had scarcely thought of it as affecting herself. She had been eager to bring back Gervase to his mother, if by no other means, by the help of Patty, thus recognising her position; but after Lady Piercey’s death, when the necessity was no longer pressing, Margaret had thought of it no more. And, certainly, of all days in the world, it was not upon the day of the funeral that she had looked for any disturbance in her life.

But now in a moment—in the time that sufficed to open a door, to ring a bell, to give an order—Mrs. Osborne recognised that this life was over. It had seemed as if it must never come to an end, as all established and settled existence does; and now in a moment it had come to an end. At many moments, when her patience was strained to the utmost, Margaret had come up here and composed herself, and felt herself safe within these walls. As long as she had this refuge she could bear anything, and there had been no likelihood that it would be taken from her. But now, whatever she might have to bear, it seemed certain that it was not here she could retire to reconcile herself to it. It seemed scarcely possible to believe that the old order of affairs was over; and yet she felt convinced that it was over and could return no more. She did not as yet ask herself what she should do. She had never acted for herself, never inquired into the possibilities of life. Captain Osborne’s widow had come back to her home as the only natural thing to do. She had been brought up to do Lady Piercey’s commands, to be the natural, superfluous, yet necessary, person who had no duty save to do duty for everybody; and she had fallen back into that position as if it were the only one in life. Margaret did not enter into any questions with herself even now, much less come to any decision. It was enough for one day to have faced the startling, incomprehensible fact that her life was over, the only life—except that brief episode of her marriage—which she had ever known. Where was she to go with her little pension, her husband’s sword, and her boy? But she could not tell, or even think, as yet, of any step to take. All that she was capable of was to feel that the present existence, the familiar life, was at an end.

Osy had been left in a secluded corner of the garden while the funeral took place, to be out of the way. It had not seemed necessary to his mother to envelop him in mourning, and take him with her through that strange ceremonial, so mysterious to childish thoughts; and while she sat alone, the sound of his little voice and step became audible to her coming up the stairs. Osy, who was willing on ordinary occasions to spend the whole of his time out-of-doors, had been impatient to-day, touched by the prevailing agitation, though he did not know what it meant. He came in, stamping with his little feet, making up for the quiet which had been exacted from him for a few days past, and threw himself against Margaret’s knee.

“Movver,” he said, breathless, “there’s a lady down in the libery.”

“Yes, Osy, I know.”

“Oh, movver knows,” he said, turning to his attendant, “I told you movver alvays knows. Very queer fings,” said Osy, reflectively, “have tummed to pass to-day.”

“What things, Osy?”

“Fings about Aunt Piercey,” said the little boy, counting upon his fingers; “somefing I don’t understand. You said, movver, she had don to heaven, but Parsons, she said you had all don to put her somewhere else, but I believe you best; and then there were all the carriages and the gemplemans, and the horse that runned away. But most strangest of all, the lady in the libery.” He paused to think. “I fought she wasn’t a lady at all, but a dressmaker or somefing.”

“And then? you changed your mind?”

“No,” said the little boy, doubtfully, “not me. But she looked out of the window, and then she called, ‘Gervase! Gervase!’—she touldn’t say, Gervase, Gervase, if she were one of the maids. I fink it’s the lady Cousin Gervase went to London to marrwy. And I’m glad,” Osy said, making another pause. He resumed, “I’m glad, because now I know that my big silver piece was a marrwage present, movver. He tooked it, but I dave it him all the same; and as it was a marrwage present, I don’t mind scarcely at all. But that is not the funniest fing yet,” said Osy, putting up his hand to his mother’s face to secure her attention; “there’s somefing more, movver. She tummed to the window, and she said, ‘Gervase, Gervase, who is that ickle boy?’”

“Well, Osy, there was nothing very wonderful in that,” said Margaret, trying to smile.

“Yes, mower, there was two fings wonderful.” He held out the small dirty forefinger again, and tapped upon it with the forefinger of his other little fat hand. “First—there touldn’t any lady tum to Greyshott and not know me. I’m not an ickle boy, I’m Osy; and another fing, she knows me already quite well; for she isn’t a beau’ful lady from London, like that one that singed songs, you know. She is the woman at the Seven Thorns. Sally, tum here and tell movver. We knowed her quite well, bof Sally and me.”

“It’s quite true, ma’am, as Mr. Osy says, it’s quite, quite——”

“That will do,” said Margaret, “I want no information on the subject. Make haste, Sally, and get Master Osy’s tea.”

Osy stood looking up somewhat anxiously in his mother’s face, leaning against her. He put one hand into hers, and put the other to her chin to make her look at him, with a way he had. “Movver, why don’t you want in—in—formashun?” he said.

“Osy, my little boy, you know you mustn’t talk before Sally of your Cousin Gervase or the family; you must tell me whatever happens, but not any of the servants. That lady is perhaps going to be the lady of the house, now. She is Mrs. Gervase, and she has a better right to be here than you or me. Perhaps we shall have to go away. You must be a very good, very thoughtful little boy; and polite, like a gentleman, to every one.”

“I am never not a gemplemans, movver,” said the child, with an air of offended dignity; then he suddenly grew red, and cried out, “Oh, I fordot! Cousin Colonel met me in the hall, and he said would I tell you to tum, please, and speak to him in the rose-garden, because he touldn’t tum upstairs. Will you do and speak to Cousin Colonel in the garden, movver? He said, wouldn’t I tum with him to his house?”

“Osy! but you wouldn’t go with any one, would you, away from your mother?”

“Oh, not for always,” cried the child, “but for a day, two days, to ride upon his s’oulder. He’s not like Cousin Gervase. He holds fast—fast; and I likes him. Movver, run into the rose-garden; for I fordot, and he is there waiting, and he will fink I’ve broke my word. And I doesn’t want you now,” said Osy, waving his hand, “for I’m doin’ to have my tea.”

Thus dismissed, Margaret rose slowly and with reluctance. She did not run to the rose-garden as her son had bidden her. A cloud had come over her face. It was quite reasonable that Colonel Piercey should ask to speak with her in her changed position of affairs. It would be quite reasonable, indeed, that he should offer her advice, or even help. He was her nearest relation, and though he had not been either just or kind to herself, he had fallen under the charm of her little boy. It might be that, distasteful as it was, for Osy’s sake she would have to accept, even to seek, Gerald Piercey’s advice. Probably it was true kindness on his part to offer it in the first place, to put himself at her disposal. For herself there could be no such question; somehow, so far as she was concerned, she could struggle and live or die: what would it matter? But Osy must grow up, must be educated, must become a man. Margaret had been of opinion that she knew something already of the bitterness of dependence; it seemed to her now, however, that she had not tasted it until this day.

END OF VOL. I.

PRINTED BY F. A. BROCKHAUS, LEIPZIG.