It was only a few weeks after this that there appeared in the newspapers, which had all reported at such length the great trial of Piercey versus Piercey, a paragraph which perhaps caused as much commotion through the county as the news of any great public event for many years. Parliament had risen, and the papers were very thankful for a new sensation of any kind. The paragraph was to this effect:—

“Our readers have not forgotten the trial of Piercey v. Piercey, which unfolded so curious a page of family history, and roused so many comments through the whole English-speaking world. It is seldom that so many elements of human interest are collected in a single case, and the effect it produced on the immense audience which followed its developments day by day was extraordinary. The public took sides, as on an affair of imperial importance, for and against the heroine, who, from the bar-room of a roadside inn, found herself elevated in a single year to the position of a considerable landowner, with an ancient historical house and a name well known in the annals of the country. How she attained these honours, whether by the most worthy and admirable means, by unquestionable self-devotion to her husband and father-in-law, or by undue influence, exercised first on a young man of feeble intellect, and afterwards on an old gentleman in his dotage, was the question debated in almost every sociable assembly.

“The partisans and opponents of this lady will have a new problem offered to them in the new and startling incident which is now announced as the climax of this story. Those who have all along believed in the disinterestedness of the young and charming Mrs. Piercey will be delighted to hear that she has now presented herself again before the public, in the most romantic and attractive light by freely and of her own will resigning the Manor of Greyshott, to which a jury of her countrymen had decided her to be fully entitled, to the heirs-at-law of the late Sir Giles Piercey, together with all the old furniture, pictures, family plate, etc., contained in the manor house—a gift equally magnificent and unexpected. It is now stated that this has all along been Mrs. Piercey’s intention, and that but for the trial, which put her at once on her defence, she would have made this magnanimous renunciation immediately after coming into the property. Her rights having been assailed, however, it is natural that a high-spirited young woman should have felt it her first duty to vindicate her character; and that she should now carry out her high-minded intention, after all the obloquy which it has been attempted to throw on her, and the base motives imputed to her, is a remarkable instance of magnanimity which, indeed, we know nothing to equal. It is, indeed, heaping coals of fire on the heads of her accusers, for whom, however, it must be said that their irritation in finding themselves so unexpectedly deprived of the inheritance they had confidently expected, was natural and justifiable. It must be a satisfaction to all that a cause cÉlÈbre which attracted so much attention should end in such a fine act of restitution, and that an ancient family should thus be restored to their ancestral place. We are delighted to add that Mrs. Piercey, who still retains a fine fortune bequeathed to her by the love and gratitude of her father-in-law, whom she nursed with the greatest devotion till his death, is about to contract a second marriage with a gentleman very well known in the cricketing world.”

“In the name of Heaven, what is the meaning of that?” cried old Sir Francis Piercey, who was a choleric old gentleman, flinging down the newspaper (which only arrived in the evening), and turning a crimson countenance, flushed with astonishment and offence, to his son Gerald and his daughter-in-law Margaret, who had returned to their home in the north only a few days before. Sir Francis was a very peppery old man, and constantly thought, as do many heads of houses conscious of having grown a little hard of hearing, that nothing was told him, and that even in respect to the events most interesting to the family he was systematically kept in the dark.

“The meaning of what?” Margaret asked, without excitement. She had no newspaper, being quite content to wait for the news until the gentlemen had read everything and contemptuously flung down each his journal with the remark that there was nothing in it. Mrs. Gerald Piercey did not imagine there could ever be anything in the paper which could concern her or her belongings; and it was a quiet time in politics, when Parliament was up, and nothing very stirring to be expected. She rose to put down by her father-in-law’s side his cup of tea; for though he was so fiery an old gentleman, he loved the little feminine attentions of which he had been for many years deprived.

“Let me see, Grandpapa,” said Osy, coming to the front with the air of a man who could put all straight.

“By Jove!” cried Colonel Piercey, who had come to the same startling announcement in his paper. And the father and son for a moment sat bolt upright, staring at each other as if each supposed the other to be to blame.

“What is it?” said Margaret, beginning to be alarmed.

She was answered by the sudden opening of the door, and the entrance, announced by a servant quite unacquainted with him, who conferred upon him an incomprehensible name, of Mr. Pownceby, pale with excitement and tired with a journey. He scarcely took time for the ceremonious salutations which Sir Francis Piercey thought needful, and omitted altogether the “how-d’ye-do’s” owing to his old friends, Margaret and Gerald, but burst at once into the subject that possessed him. “Well, I can see you’ve seen it! Sharp work putting it in so soon; but it’s all true.”

“What is all true? We have something to do with its being false or true, I suppose?” cried Colonel Piercey, placing himself in a somewhat defiant attitude, in an Englishman’s usual position of defence before the fire.

“What are you saying, sir? what are you saying? I am a little hard of hearing. I desire that all this should be explained to me immediately. You seem all to understand, but not a syllable has reached my ears.”

“I assure you, Sir Francis,” said Mr. Pownceby, “I started the first thing this morning. I have not let the grass grow under my feet. Her solicitors communicated with me only yesterday. It is sharp work getting it into the papers at once, very sharp work, but I suppose she wanted to get the honour and glory; and it is quite true. I have the deed in my pocket in full form; for those solicitors of hers, if not endowed with just the best fame in the profession, are——”

“But you’re going a great deal too fast, Pownceby,” cried Colonel Gerald. “I don’t see that either my father or I can accept anything from that woman’s hand.”

“The deed in full form, Sir Francis,” said the lawyer, too wise to take any notice of so hotheaded a person, “restoring Greyshott and all that is in it to the lawful heir—yourself. I don’t pretend to know what is her motive; but there it is all in black and white: and for once in a way I can’t but say that I admire the woman, Sir Francis, and that she’s got perception of what is right in her, after all.”

“God bless my soul!” was all Sir Francis said.

“But we can’t take it from that woman, Pownceby! Why, what are you thinking of? Receive from her, a person we all despise, a gift like this! Why, the thing is impossible! It is like her impertinence to offer it; and how you could think for a moment——”

Margaret, who had hastily taken up the paper and read the paragraph, here put it down again and laid her hand on her husband’s arm. “You must wait,” she said, “you must wait, Gerald, for what your father says.”

“The woman of the trial?” said Sir Francis, getting it with difficulty into his head, “the baggage that married poor Gervase, and made a fool of his father—that woman!” He added briskly, turning to his son: “I was always against that trial, you know I was. Don’t throw away good money after bad, I always said: let be; if we don’t get it in the course of nature we’ll never get it, was what I always said. You know I always said it. Those costs which you ran up in spite of me, almost broke my heart.”

There was a pause, and then Colonel Piercey said with a half laugh, “We all know, father, that you did not like the costs.”

“I said so!” said Sir Francis, “I was always against it. I thought the woman might turn out better than you supposed. A very remarkable thing, Mr. Pownceby, don’t you think it’s a very remarkable thing? after she had won her cause and had everything her own way. Do you recall to memory ever having heard of a similar incident? I never did in all my experience; a very extraordinary thing indeed!”

“No,” said Mr. Pownceby, “no; I don’t think I ever did hear anything like it. They generally stick to what they have got like grim death.”

“I think that must be rather a remarkable woman,” said Sir Francis; “I retract anything I may have been induced to say of her in a moment of annoyance. I consider she has acted very creditably, very—very—I may say nobly, Mr. Pownceby. I beg that I may never hear a word in her disparagement from any of you. I hope that we might all be capable of doing anything so—so—magnanimous and high-minded ourselves.”

“But, father,” cried Colonel Piercey, “we can’t surely accept a gift like this from a woman we know nothing of—whom we’ve no esteem for—whom we’ve prosecuted—whom——”

“Not accept it, sir?” cried Sir Francis—“not accept a righteous restitution? I should like to know on what principle we could refuse it? If a man had taken your watch from you, would you refuse to take it if he brought it back? Why, what would that be but to discourage every good impulse? I shall certainly accept it. And I hope, Mr. Pownceby, that you will convey my thanks—yes, my thanks, and very high appreciation to this young lady. I think she is doing a very noble thing. Whether I benefited by it or not, I should think it a very noble thing. Don’t be stingy in your praise, sir! It’s noble to say you’ve been wrong—many haven’t the strength of mind to do it. I’ll drink her very good health at dinner. We’ll have a toast, do you hear?”

“Yes, Grandpapa,” cried Osy, always ready; “and shall it be with what Cousin Colonel calls the honours? You give the name, and I’ll stand up upon a chair and do the ‘Hip, hip, hurrah!’”

Upon what rule it was that old Sir Francis, rather a severe old gentleman to most people, had become grandpapa to Osy, while Colonel Piercey remained only, as of old, Cousin Colonel, is too subtle a question to enter into; but it was so to the perfect satisfaction of the two persons chiefly involved. And thus for the second time Osy cheered for Patty with the delighted readiness of an unbiassed soul.

Mrs. Piercey left Greyshott shortly after this, having left everything in the most perfect good order, and all the servants in the house, without saying a word of any new arrangements, though I need not say they had all read that paragraph in the newspapers. She went to London, where she spent a few weeks very pleasantly, and ordered a great many new dresses. Here she dismissed Jerningham, who carried away with her a number of black and white gowns, and the best recommendations. Patty plunged into pinks and blues with the zest of a person who has long been deprived of such indulgences, and the world learned by the newspapers that, on the 20th of August, Patience, widow of the late Gervase Piercey, Esq., of Greyshott, was married at St. George’s, Hanover Square, to Roger Pearson, Esq., of Canterbury House. The happy pair went abroad for their honeymoon, but did not enjoy the Continent, only entering into full and perfect bliss when they returned to the glistening glories of their new house. There had been various storms between them before the question of Greyshott had been decided, and it had required all Roger’s power and influence to carry his scheme to a successful conclusion. His determination not to sit down by another man’s fireside, and to have nothing to say to the old house, which he declared gave him the shivers to look at, were answered by many a scornful request to take himself off then, if he didn’t like it, and leave it to those who did.

“That’s just what I want—to leave it to those that like it: you don’t, Patty, and never will!” cried the bold lover. “How do I know? Oh, I know! You’ve gone through a lot, and you think you’ll have something for it, anyhow. Well, so you shall have something for it. Wait till you see the ’ouse that is just waiting till you say the word—ten times better an ’ouse, and folks all about us will be delighted to see you, and as much fun as you can set your face to!” Oh, how powerful and how sweet these arguments were! But to give Greyshott back was a bitter pill to Patty.

“I’ll sell it, then,” she said; “it’ll bring in a deal of money;” and this was what Miss Hewitt, who was almost mad with opposition, advised, arguing and beseeching till the foam flew from her mouth.

But Roger was obstinate. He declared that he would not be instrumental in taking any man’s home from him. “Money’s a different thing,” he said. “One sovereign’s just like another, but one ’ouse ain’t like another.” The telling argument, however, was one which Roger had the cleverness to pick up from a cricket reporter on a daily paper, to whom he had confided his romance.

“By George!” cried the journalist, “what a paragraph for my paper!” He said “par,” no doubt, but Patty would not have understood what this meant. When she did take up the idea, and understood that her praises were to be sung and her generosity extolled in every paper, and that the Pierceys would be made to sing small before her, Patty was overcome at last. Her heart swelled as if it would burst with triumph and a sense of greatness when she read that paragraph. She felt it to be altogether just and true. If they had not prosecuted, there was no telling what magnanimity she might not have been equal to, and she accepted the praise as one who had deserved it to the very utmost.

“They’ve been in it hundreds and hundreds of years,” she said to the new friends to whom her bridegroom introduced her in London—among whom were several newspaper men, and one who insisted upon getting her portrait for an illustrated paper—“as we have been in the Seven Thorns. Being of an old family myself, I have always felt for them.” This was reported in the little biographical notice which was appended to Mrs. Piercey’s portrait in the illustrated paper, where it was also told that she had been known far and wide as the Lily of the Seven Thorns, and had been carried off by the Squire’s son from many competitors. It made up for much, even for the fact, still bitter to her, that she had been cheated out of her title, and would never be Lady Piercey,—a loss and delusion which sometimes brought tears into her eyes long after she was Roger Pearson’s wife.

But when Patty settled down in her own ’Andsome ’Ouse, it was soon proved that Roger had not said a word too much. The cricketing world rallied round him. He ceased to be a professional, and became a gentleman cricketer and a member of the M.C.C. The cricket pitch within the grounds of Canterbury House was admirable, and matches were played there, in which not only the honour of the county, but the honour of England, was involved. Patty gave cricket luncheons and even cricket dinners, to which the golden youth of England came gladly, and where even great ladies, watching the cricket for one side or another, were content to be entertained. Patty drove her two spanking horses over the county, calling at the best houses; while even Lady Hartmore, after the restitution as she called it, paid her a visit of ceremony, which Mrs. Roger Pearson, swelling with pride and triumph, never returned. Not to have returned Lady Hartmore’s visit was almost as great a distinction as to have received one from the Queen. And all the lesser ladies in the county envied Patty the strength of mind which made her capable of such a proof of independence.

Colonel Piercey and his wife became shortly afterwards the inhabitants of Greyshott, which suited Sir Francis better than to have his long-accustomed quiet permanently disturbed. “Though I’d like to keep the boy,” he said. It cost a good deal to Colonel Pierce’s pride, but it lay with his father to decide, and there was nothing more to say. They were not rich, for Greyshott was a difficult place to keep up on a limited income; but it was something, no doubt, after the shock of the restoration, to have the old house still.

And Patty flourishes and spreads like a green baytree. She is not so careful of etiquette, so anxious to be always correct and do what other ladies do. She is beginning to grow stout; her colour is high; her nursery is full; and she is, beyond all question, a much happier woman than she ever could have been in Greyshott, even had Lady Hartmore called and all gone well—now that she and her husband live in continual jollity in their own ’Andsome ’Ouse.

THE END.
PRINTED BY F. A. BROCKHAUS, LEIPZIG.

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59.	Soldiers Three. By Rudyard Kipling.	1 vol.
60.	According to St. John. By AmÉlie Rives.	1 vol.
61, 62.	Mr. Chaine’s Sons. By W. E. Norris.	2 vols.
63.	The New Rector. By Stanley J. Weyman.	1 vol.
64, 65.	The Mystery of M. Felix. By B. L. Farjeon.	2 vols.
66.	A Sydney-Side Saxon. By Rolf Boldrewood.	1 vol.
67.	The Story of the Gadsbys. By Rudyard Kipling.	1 vol.
68.	Hedda Gabler. A Drama. By Henrik Ibsen.	1 vol.
69.	The Penance of Portia James. By Tasma.	1 vol.
70, 71.	My Winter on the Nile. By Charles Dudley Warner.	2 vols.
72.	Tuscan Cities. By W. D. Howells.	1 vol.
73.	My Jo, John. By Helen Mathers.	1 vol.
74.	Cecilia de NoËl. By the Author of “Mademoiselle Ixe.”	1 vol.
75, 76.	The Little Minister. By J. M. Barrie.	2 vols.
77, 78.	The Railway Man and his Children. By Mrs. Oliphant.	2 vols.
79.	The Doings of Raffles Haw. By A. Conan Doyle.	1 vol.
80, 81.	Esther Vanhomrigh. By Margaret L. Woods.	2 vols.
82.	Selected Poems. By Austin Dobson.	1 vol.
83.	Stage-Land. By Jerome K. Jerome.	1 vol.
84, 85.	The Baby’s Grandmother. By L. B. Walford.	2 vols.
86, 87.	The Adventures of Harry Richmond. By George Meredith.	2 vols.
88, 89.	The Fair God. By Lew Wallace.	2 vols.
90.	Jupiter Lights. By Constance Fenimore Woolson.	1 vol.
91.	King Billy of Ballarat. By Morley Roberts.	1 vol.
92.	Maisie Derrick. By Katharine S. Macquoid.	1 vol.
93.	Jack’s Father. By W. E. Norris.	1 vol.
94.	A Romance of the Moors. By Mona Caird.	1 vol.
95, 96.	The Marriage of Elinor. By Mrs. Oliphant.	2 vols.
97.	Lady Patty. By Mrs. Hungerford.	1 vol.
98, 99.	Hovenden, V.C. By F. Mabel Robinson.	2 vols.
100.	The Average Woman. By Wolcott Balestier.	1 vol.
101.	He Went for a Soldier. By John Strange Winter.	1 vol.
102.	Denzil Quarrier. By George Gissing.	1 vol.
103, 104.	A Son of Hagar. By Hall Caine.	2 vols.
105.	Mammon. By Mrs. Alexander.	1 vol.
106.	Peter Ibbetson. By George Du Maurier.	1 vol.
107, 108.	A Social Departure. By Sara Jeannette Duncan.	2 vols.
109.	Seamew Abbey. By Florence Warden.	1 vol.
110, 111.	The Shadow of a Crime. By Hall Caine.	2 vols.
112.	The Slave of the Lamp. By Henry Seton Merriman.	1 vol.
113.	Grania. By Hon. Emily Lawless.	1 vol.
114.	There is no Death. By Florence Marryat.	1 vol.

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