But Gervase had turned over a new leaf. He went out to the door and took a few whiffs of his pipe, turning his back to the road which led to the Seven Thorns, that the temptation might not be too much for him, and repeating dully to himself what Patty had said to him. And then he went into the library, where they were all assembled, and pushed Dunning away, who was just arranging the board for Sir Giles’ game. “Here! look out; I’m going to play with you, father,” Gervase said. The old gentleman had been delighted the first night, pleased more or less the second, fretful the third. “You don’t understand my play, Gervase,” he said.
“Oh! yes, I understand your play, father: Dunning lets you win, and that’s why you like Dunning to play with you; but I’m better, for I wake you up, and you’ve got to fight for it when it’s me.”
“Dunning does nothing of the sort,” cried Sir Giles, angrily, “Dunning plays a great deal better than you, you booby. Do you let me win, Dunning? It’s all he knows!”
“I ought to be good, Sir Giles, playin’ with a fine player like you; but I never come up to you, and never will, for I haven’t the eddication you have, Sir Giles, which stands to reason, as I’m only a servant,” Dunning said.
“There! You hear him: go and play something with Meg; you’re never still with those long legs of yours, and I like a quiet game.”
“I’ll keep as quiet as pussy,” said Gervase. “Which’ll you have, father, black or white? and let’s toss for the first move.”
Now, everybody knew that Sir Giles always played with the white men and always had the first move. Once again the old gentleman had to resign himself to the noisy moves and shouts of his son over every new combination, and to the unconscious kicks which the restlessness of Gervase’s long limp legs inflicted right and left. Dunning stood behind his master’s chair, with a stern face of disapproval, yet trying hard by winks and nods to indicate the course which ought to be pursued, until Gervase threw himself back in his chair, almost kicking over the table with the corresponding movement of his legs, and bursting into a loud laugh. “What d’ye mean, ye old fool, making faces at me over father’s shoulder? Do you mean I’m to give him the game, like you do? Come on, father, let’s fight it out.”
“I never said a word, Sir Giles! I hope as I knows my place,” cried Dunning, alarmed.
“Hold your tongue, you big gaby,” cried Sir Giles; but presently the old gentleman thrust the board away, overturning it upon his son’s long legs. “I’ll not play any more,” he said: “I’ve had enough of it. I think I was never so tired in my life. Backgammon’s a fine game, but one can’t go on for ever. Fetch me my drink, Dunning; I think I’ll go to bed.”
“It’s all because he’s losing his game,” cried Gervase, with a loud ha! ha! He had something like the manners of a gentleman at the Seven Thorns, but at home his manners were those of the public-house. “The old man don’t like to be beaten; he likes to have everything his own way. And Dunning’s an old humbug, and lets you have it. But it ain’t good for you to have too much of your own way. I’ve been told that since I was a little kid like Osy; and what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, father, don’t you know.”
“Gervase, how dare you speak so to your papa? Come over here, sir, and leave him a little in peace. Where did you learn to laugh so loud, and make such a noise? Come here, you riotous boy. You always were a noisy fellow, making one’s head ache to hear you. Sit down, for goodness’ sake, and be quiet. Meg, can’t you find something to amuse him? I dare say he’d like a game at cards. How can I tell you what game? If you can’t, at your time of life, find something that will occupy him and keep him quiet——! Here, Gervase, hold this skein of silk while Parsons winds it, and Meg will go and get the cards, and perhaps you’d like a round game.”
“I don’t want a game, mother, not for Meg’s sake, who doesn’t count. I want to be pleasant to you—— and to father, too,” said Gervase, standing up against the fireplace, which, of course, was vacant this summer night.
Sir Giles was so far from appreciating the effort of his son, that he sat fuming in his chair, while Dunning collected the scattered “men,” muttering indistinct thunders, and pettishly putting away with his stick the pieces of the game. “Make haste! can’t you make haste, man?” he mumbled; “I want my drink, and I’m going to bed. And I won’t have my evening spoiled like this again. I won’t, by George, not for anything you can say. Four nights I’ve been a martyr to that cub, and I don’t see that you’ve done much to keep him in order, my lady! It all falls upon me, as everything does, and, by George, I won’t have it again. Can’t you make haste, you old fool, and have done with your groping? You’re losing your eyesight, I believe. Have one of the women in to find them, and get me my drink, for I’m going to bed.”
“I’ll find them, father,” cried Gervase cheerfully, plunging down upon the carpet on his hands and knees, and pushing the old gentleman’s stick back into his face.
“For goodness’ sake, Meg, find something for him to do! and take that boy off his father, or Sir Giles will have a fit,” cried Lady Piercey in Mrs. Osborne’s ear.
“Get out o’ my way, you young ass!” Sir Giles thundered, raising the stick and bestowing an angry blow upon his son’s shoulders. Gervase sat up on his knees like a dog, and stared for a moment angrily, with his hand lifted as if he would have returned the blow. Then he opened his mouth wide and gave forth a great laugh. Poor old Sir Giles caught at Dunning’s arm, clutching him in an ecstasy of exasperation. “Get me off, man, can’t you? Get me out of sight of him; take me to bed,” the old father cried, in that wretchedness of miserable perception which only parents know. His son—his only son! His heir, the last of the Piercey’s!—this Softy sitting up like a dog upon the floor!
Lady Piercey fell back also in her chair, and whimpered a little piteously, like the poor old woman she was, as Sir Giles was wheeled out of the room. The backgammon board, overturned, lay on the floor, with the pieces scattered over the carpet, and Gervase scrambling after them, for Dunning had been too tremulous and frightened to pick more than half of them up. “Oh! my poor, silly boy! oh! you dreadful, dreadful fool!” the old lady cried. “Will you never learn any better? Can’t you wake up and be a man?” She cried over this, for a little, very bitterly, with that terrible sense of the incurable which turns the poor soul back upon itself—and then she flung round in her big chair towards her niece, who stood silent and troubled, not knowing what part to take. “It’s all your fault,” she cried in a fierce whisper, “for not finding something for him to do. Why didn’t you find something for him to do? You might have played something to him, or sung something with him, or got him to look at pictures, or—— anything! And now you’ve let your poor uncle go off in a rage, which may bring on a fit as likely as not, and me worse, for I can’t give in like him. Oh, Meg, what an ungrateful, selfish thing you are to stand there and never interfere when you might have found him something to do!”
When Lady Piercey’s procession streamed off afterwards to bed, my lady leaning heavily on Parsons’ arm and Margaret following