And then Dunning came back, and a new game was begun.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
It was not till some days after this, that Sir Giles referred to the subject again. Patty thought it had entirely failed to make any impression on his mind, and that she must herself renew the conversation, when he surprised her by saying suddenly, as if there had been no interval, “It won’t be necessary, my dear, it won’t be necessary. As his mother, everything will be in your hands.”
“Dear papa!” she cried, with a quite natural start; “how you frightened me!”
“I don’t want to frighten you, my dear; anything but that—anything but that! But you must see that any little arrangements we might make would be all needless, quite needless. Of course, everything will go to the natural heir. There will probably be a long minority, for you know, my dear, with the best intentions in the world, an old fellow like me—— though I would give half my kingdom to see him come of age—half my kingdom! But no, no, that’s a selfish thought; for I should wish him to have the property unimpaired, if not added to—if not added to. You’ll take great care of it, I am sure. You’re quite a woman of brains.” Sir Giles spoke very fast, to get through this long effort of thought and consideration before Dunning came back. Then he added, with his usual mingled outburst of laughing and sobbing, patting her arm with his large old nerveless hand, “So you see it’s needless, needless, my dear, for everything will be in your hands.”
“Dear papa!” cried Patty. She was silent for some time in confusion and embarrassment. Then, “There’s nothing certain in this world,” she said.
“What, what?” cried Sir Giles. “Nothing’s happened—nothing’s happened, my dear? I hope you don’t mean to tell me that?”
“Nothing has happened, dear papa,” cried Patty, with a painful flush upon her face. She had not meant to deceive him, and certainly not in this way. It was indeed hard upon her that she had, without any fault of hers, this fiction to keep up. “But there’s nothing certain in this world,” she said. “Who would have thought five months ago that I should need to be thinking of a little provision for myself—I, that was Gervase’s wife, and had no need to think of anything? I married him without a thought of having anything settled on me, or even wanting a penny but what he gave me.” Patty put her handkerchief to her eyes to absorb some real tears, for though her grief for poor Gervase could scarcely be expected to be very profound, her pity for herself was sincere and lasting. “Dearest papa! I can’t bear to ask for myself. I’ve always been used to work, and I could get my own living at any time. It is just that I can’t bear, being Mrs. Piercey, that I should have to do it in that way—Gervase’s widow, with your name.”
“Don’t, my dear, don’t! For goodness’ sake don’t agitate yourself! Don’t cry, my dear, don’t cry!” said Sir Giles, anxiously.
“Oh, I wouldn’t cry if—if I could help it. I would do nothing to vex you, dear papa. But when I think of all that has happened—oh, who should know so well as I that there’s nothing certain in this world!”